Short Story: Waiting For God Knows, Watt

Short Story: Waiting For God Knows, Watt

Two tramps, one Lucky the other Knott, both with the air of emaciated crows, rest their posteriors upon an arid rise amongst the brittle flora of Barcelona’s Parc Güell. Gaudi’s meandering ceramic bench, hallucinatory in its splendour, shimmers beneath the glare of an ascending Catalan sun.

Lucky, digesting the knowledge so lately acquired, adopts an upright position, ejecting a cheekful of phlegm from his gummy mouth. His naked toes, nails blackened curls, flesh calloused brown, stroke the earth. His fingers, tipped with yellow talons, tug his tired shirt collar.

‘You were going to tell me?’ he asks, failing stitches snapping.

‘Just have,’ Knott mutters.

‘But-’ tries Lucky, collar coming away in his hands.

‘What?’ Knott snorts, struggling to his feet via knees so lately stiff to blazes every morn.

‘Watt!’ cries Lucky, hands heavenward, investing most of his septuagenarian strength in leaping to his shagged canvas sack.

‘His very name,’ Knott confirms, retreating at his companion’s verve.

‘Traitorous swine,’ says Lucky, recoiling right foot and thrusting it at his shagged sack, which splits seams with a groan and spills innards with a gasp. ‘Bugger,’ he moans, surveying the sartorial detritus, amidst which fester his fetid feet.

‘Buggered,’ Knott corrects, pulling a leather pouch from his greyed dinner jacket and dropping tobacco strands into the miniscule bowl of the pipe growing from his mouth.

Lucky has not seen Knott without protruding pipe since the latter’s entry to his fourth decade, forty years previously. To accommodate said pipe’s permanence, Knott’s speech has, for the period, remained a low mutter, his lips squirming as words endeavour to liberate themselves. Knott eats rarely, but when he does slurps food mashed prior for five minutes, no more no less, chronological exactitude measured by counting one to three hundred, with a child’s silver spoon, from a shallow tin into a corner of his mouth without disturbing the slim ebony pipe stem. When Knott drinks, which is frequently, he exploits any one of the unknown number of drinking straws lodged within his towering meringue of matted grey locks, consuming liberally at his convenience. As and when Knott sleeps, which can be rarely, frequently, and at his convenience, depending upon Knott’s temperament which undulates, the intensity of his bodily itching which, when occurring, is uncompromising, and the heat of the Catalan sun which at this time of year is unrelenting, the pipe remains in situ.

‘But-’ laments Lucky, seeking his footwear.

‘But?’ Knott echoes, sucking his lit pipe.

‘Us?’ insists Lucky, sliding his left foot within a drubbed tan leather shoe, his right into a mephitic aged espadrille.

‘No longer,’ Knott imposes.

‘We’ve been together-’ tries Lucky.

‘Longer than most married couples?’ Knott offers.

‘Yes,’ gasps Lucky, clutching the tender brim of his straw hat.

‘To have and to hold?’ Knott suggests.

‘Till death do us part,’ appends Lucky.

‘How long-’ Knott begins.

‘Have we been together?’ suggests Lucky, hanging from his headwear.

‘Have I been sick of your company?’ Knott revises, which proves too much for Lucky’s hat, the crown of which splits and gathers about its owner’s throat.

‘Bugger,’ laments Lucky, rubbing his palms across his gleaming hairless pate.

‘Ruiner,’ Knott complains, as fiercely as pipe permits.

‘You aren’t a lone victim,’ insists Lucky, struggling to emancipate his throat from the hat’s grasp.

‘The others?’ Knott demands, thrusting hands east and west. ‘They cast no bruise upon the earth.’

‘Unlike your fists,’ sighs Lucky, resigning himself to a throttling.

‘What?’ Knott flares, likely investing as much passion known in the word since being first recorded in the early fourteenth century.

‘If I could wish,’ soothes Lucky.

‘For what?’ Knott challenges.

‘Then,’ admits Lucky, fingering his scalp.

‘When?’

‘We were young.’

‘When we had airs?’ Knott enquires.

‘Some,’ Lucky, mishearing, concurs, caressing a phantom headful.

‘We possessed grace,’ Knott boasts.

‘When we were young,’ reiterates Lucky, waving Knott aside.

‘We remain so,’ Knott scolds, raising knees in turn, his arse popping bolts of gaseous delight.

‘Knees shot,’ says Lucky. ‘Follow-through has become a problem.’

‘Misinterpreted signals,’ Knott returns, a fresh volley buffeting his buttocks.

‘As you wish,’ sighs Lucky.

‘Better shape than you,’ Knott puffs, clapping hands upon head, shoulders, knees, but, alas, not toes.

‘Back shot,’ confirms Lucky, soliciting profanities from Knott who struggles upright.

‘Bugger,’ the latter grimaces.

‘Buggered,’ corrects his companion.

‘What?’ Knott threatens, pipe jiggling furiously.

‘Watt!’ echoes Lucky, sinking upon hams and reeling in lengths of clothing. ‘Describe the fiend who shall replace me at your…’

His sentiment fades.

‘Sorry?’ Knott probes, dropping his backside to earth and tossing a hole-addled sock and dirt-stiff beret to Lucky.

‘Apologies?’ snaps Lucky.

‘Slanderous hound,’ Knott retorts, battling to his feet. ‘You challenge the veracity of-’

‘Have you not dropped me?’ challenges Lucky.

‘Unquestionably.’

‘As you’ve done with your fists?’

‘Your guard’s weak,’ Knott returns, raising his.

‘Replaced by whom exactly?’ presses Lucky, standing. ‘Have you not the decency-’

‘Spare me the tragedian’s performance,’ Knott scoffs.

‘Has friendship become thus?’ asks Lucky, regarding the scattered clothing. ‘Spent costumes from times past?’

‘Friendship as transient as fashion,’ Knott comments, removing the shagged hat from Lucky’s neck.

‘A lifetime?’ chokes Lucky.

‘As is,’ Knott agrees.

‘Is that all I’m worth?’ grinds Lucky, fists clenched. ‘The shameless usurper-’

‘Bitterness is not you,’ Knott, tone softening, informs his companion.

‘You elect to divorce yourself from lifelong fellowship-’

‘Ferme la bouch,’ Knott rails, uplifted hands trembling.

‘Cojones,’ returns Lucky, removing his footwear and launching it at Knott’s meringue-topped nut.

‘Missed,’ Knott taunts, recalling twelve-year old Lucky’s tearful account of sexual initiation. ‘Aim improved little since Rosa Birch.’

‘It was dark,’ cries Lucky, less so than Rosa had that night amongst the scrub behind the tram depot, but the memory smarts. ‘Is my past worthy only of ridicule?’

‘Should failure,’ Knott bawls, ‘be permitted to haunt me as this pipe…’

His voice fades.

‘What?’ whispers Lucky, resting hands upon Knott’s shoulders.

‘I-’

Rattles and scrabbles assault the air above and around where stand the pair. The steep rise to their rear, towards which they turn and stare, curses and grunts. Dirt clouds cloak bushes. Birds fling themselves skywards from shaken trees. Stones bundle down the slope, ping-ponging past and against Lucky and Knott who cling to the other, struggling to motivate docile legs into skippering and jittering to left and right, so divorcing their being from the path of the approaching yahoo. A tsunami of dust bulges from the incline base, blooms upwards and out, consuming the terrified observers, who remain rooted to the spot. Knott’s pipe trembles, Lucky’s bare toes paw the earth.

Time unmeasured elapses.

Dust settles. The returning breath of fauna dilutes rich silence. Four eyes water, a brace of noses blurt, and a lung quartet bellows tunelessly. Powdered white, Lucky and Knott shiver as fresh-born lambs awaiting a secure and comforting teat.

Lucky threads an arm within Knott’s dinner jacket, his hand returning with a flask of pale spirit. The other hand ferrets within his companion’s grey meringue crown and extracts an elaborately twisted pink item.

‘Drink,’ orders Lucky, slotting the straw’s upper orifice between Knott’s lips, beside pipe stem.

‘Gratefully received,’ Knott acknowledges, nodding for Lucky to refresh his own courage.

‘What is it?’ whispers Lucky, eyes strung open by the image presented.

‘Is it Watt?’ Knott enquires, returning the flask to the inner sanctum of his dinner jacket and straw to the grey meringue depths.

Lucky puzzles facially.

A human form, wrapped tightly in a blanket of floral and geological detritus, lies before the pair, lips pressed to mother earth.

‘Are you alive, sir?’ Knott enquires, shuffling forward.

‘You know it to be male?’ Lucky asks.

‘Hairless,’ Knott states, reversing to his side.

‘Not breathing?’ Lucky, mishearing, gasps. ‘Morte?’

‘Bald as a badger,’ Knott corrects. ‘Nada sur la bonce.’

‘Interesting,’ nods Lucky.

‘Are you injured, sir?’ Knott calls, encouraging projection of voice with bombastic gesticulation.

The neck attaching bald head to prone body labours determinedly. A filth-caked face peers towards the inquisitor, eyes opening briefly.

‘Alive,’ Knott states, hurrying to New Arrival and grasping an arm. ‘Upon your feet.’

‘He appears reluctant?’ says Lucky, wincing, the object of Knott’s interest groaning and flipping weak limbs like a suffocating fish.

‘Assist me,’ Knott grimaces for Lucky’s benefit.

Proving that two pairs of hands are better than one, if not heads, vulnerable verticality of New Arrival is achieved.

‘I’ll check internals,’ Knott warns, patting New Arrival’s chest and limbs. ‘I have no interest in spoiled goods.’

New Arrival’s eyes open. A pinpoint pupil, corona ice blue, regards Knott with hostility, a second Lucky with incredulity.

‘Should they be like that?’ enquiries Lucky. ‘One looking that way.’ He gestures southeastward. ‘And the other…’

‘That?’ offers Knott, indicating southwestward.

‘Brain damage?’ suggests Lucky.

‘Perhaps,’ Knott agrees.

‘Squints,’ gruffles New Arrival, stepping forward and knocking the tramps from his path. ‘From birth. Never corrected. Parents not arsed.’

‘We share a tongue,’ Knott quivers, wishing to embrace New Arrival.

‘Whose tongue?’ demands Lucky.

‘The globe convinced me language would be uncommon,’ Knott elucidates.

‘You speak utter cock,’ complains Lucky.

‘Never – not once – arsed,’ New Arrival mutters, eyes coiling chaotically.

‘Are his faculties sound?’ whispers Lucky.

‘Worry not,’ Knott assures. ‘I’ll seek-’

‘Your name, Sir?’ calls Lucky, hurrying after New Arrival who is in danger of wandering from the stage.

‘What?’ the object of his attention groans, sinking upon his knees.

‘It is he,’ whimpers Lucky, shivering upon the spot.

Grasping a hand-sized stone, Lucky approaches New Arrival’s behind. Lips curled in anticipation of a bloodied cry, he raises the stone.

‘Do you seek blood?’ Knott demands, grasping Lucky’s hand and ridding it of its weapon.

‘Is it not he?’ sobs Lucky.

‘Who?’ Knott asks.

‘Watt!’ chokes Lucky.

‘Who, don’t you mean?’ Knott, annoyance mounting, returns.

‘Your Watt,’ snaps Lucky, sleeve sliding across his teary eyes.

‘My who?’ Knott, uncomprehending, asks.

‘Is this Watt or not?’ Lucky, sobbing afresh, demands.

‘I am Knott,’ Knott, confused, replies.

‘Not Knott,’ cries Lucky. ‘Watt!’

‘I am uncertain,’ Knott admits.

‘What?’ Lucky howls.

‘I refer the you to my previous answer,’ Knott mutters, scrutinising New Arrival who has regained vulnerable verticality.

‘You have known Watt long?’ Lucky posits.

‘Which Watt?’ Knott frowns.

‘This?’ flaps Lucky, hands dallying before New Arrival.

‘I cannot claim to know him,’ Knott says, shaking his head.

‘What?’ shrieks Lucky.

‘Nor him if it suits your need,’ Knott shrugs.

‘What are you saying?’ cries Lucky, thick tears cutting trails across his dusted cheeks.

‘Simply what you ask,’ Knott reasons.

‘I seek sense,’ implores Lucky.

‘A common demand,’ Knott acknowledges.

Sudden movement on the part of New Arrival halts the exchange. Left leg and opposing arm jerk spasmodically. Once, twice, thrice.

‘He wishes to communicate?’ enquires Lucky.

‘How so?’ Knott begs.

‘Semaphore?’ suggests Lucky.

‘Intriguing,’ Knott nods.

Movement returns to New Arrival’s person. Hands shake and feet stamp. A harsh bark sounds within his chest, his mouth opens, and a saliva slick spills to the ground.

‘Charming,’ clips Lucky, nose screwed at the bubbling mess.

New Arrival considers Lucky, his brow curdling with displeasure.

‘Ignore him,’ Knott soothes, placing an arm about New Arrival’s waist and steering him towards the arid rise.

‘He’s been waiting,’ Lucky, following, advises New Arrival.

‘What in hell are you talking about?’ New Arrival demands, thrusting away Knott’s arm and sinking onto his arse.

‘You are Watt,’ Lucky admonishes. ‘Are you not?’

New Arrival does not answer. He fingers torn black clothing, observes blood seeping from ragged knees and slashed hands. His memory struggles to fathom deliverance upon an arid rise amongst the brittle flora of Barcelona’s Parc Güell. Regarding Gaudi’s meandering ceramic bench, hallucinatory in its splendour, New Arrival judges his luck piss poor, considering all the places in all the world he could be at such a bleak moment in his life and all the people in all the world he could be with at such a bleak moment in his life, to find himself wedged between a pair of stinking tramps.

‘Knott?’ seeks Lucky. ‘Is this Watt?’

‘I am uncertain,’ Knott mumbles.

‘For the love of Father, Son and Holy Spirit,’ bellows Lucky, birds flinging themselves again skywards. ‘On the subject of Watt, what do you know?’

‘Nothing,’ Knott grins, settling beside New Arrival.

‘You spin an impressive yarn with limited thread,’ comments Lucky, tiredly dropping his behind to New Arrivals other side.

‘A talent of mine,’ Knott returns.

‘From whose side?’ asks Lucky.

‘Pappy,’ Knott proudly blows.

‘Whose identity you not know?’ says Lucky.

‘That’s the fellow,’ Knott grins.

‘And your mother?’ asks Lucky. ‘Religious and much time upon her back?’

‘A genuine missionary,’ Knott chuckles.

‘Interesting position,’ giggles Lucky.

‘She advised me of talents adopted from Pappy,’ Knott elaborates.

‘And her donation?’ demands Lucky.

‘Full head of hair and a different Pappy every night,’ Knott replies.

‘Too many to choose from?’ suggests Lucky.

‘To name but a few was her wish,’ Knott sighs.

‘Her memory was poor?’ asks Lucky.

‘A face for every morning,’ Knott says. ‘A coin upon her bedside or a bruised face for backchat.’

‘Remind me what else she gave you,’ encourages Lucky.

‘My skin?’ offers Knott.

‘Let us not forget your clear skin,’ nods Lucky.

‘I was a beautiful youth,’ Knott concurs.

‘Adonis, you turned heads,’ adds Lucky.

‘They loved me,’ Knott sings. ‘The girls and their mothers.’

‘Except one,’ corrects Lucky.

‘Without exception,’ Knott insists. ‘I was adored by one and all.’

‘Except one,’ reiterates Lucky.

‘You dare challenge?’ Knott bristles.

‘You were adored by all-’ hurries Lucky.

‘But one,’ New Arrival grunts. ‘Am I not correct?’

Unquestionably unattractive, spots and pocks landscape his face, and pits and pocks memorialise acne battlefields across exposed neck and arms.

‘One is all man requires,’ New Arrival continues, fingers mauling ear lobes purpling by the second. ‘One shall no longer be mine-’

New Arrival continues in a similar vein.

‘Brain damage?’ suggests Lucky.

‘His complexion reminds me of my youth,’ Knott admits.

‘Your own?’ cries Lucky, aghast.

‘Betrayal was not my intention,’ New Arrival, lips a quiver, implores.

‘Betty,’ Knott reassures, shaking his head with humour Lucky-ward.

‘A sweetheart?’ questions Lucky.

‘Neighbour’s son,’ Knott corrects.

‘That’s no name for a boy,’ asserts Lucky.

‘A tall story for a diminutive character,’ Knott agrees. ‘His pustules inspired lonely dogs-’

‘Did I cheat myself of what should have been most dear?’ New Arrival sobs, now the turn of nostrils to suffer a ham fisting.

‘A colourful character,’ comments Lucky.

‘Betty?’ Knott asks.

‘Both,’ says Lucky, nodding to New Arrival, whose hands battle to fill his chops. ‘Shall we seek the root cause?’

‘Knowledge acquired,’ Knott announces, throwing an arm about New Arrival’s shoulder.

‘How so?’ begs Lucky, as does New Arrival’s countenance.

‘Sadness here’ Knott answers, slapping New Arrival’s knee, ‘is betrothed to My Poor One – given name to be ascertained – who keenly awaits his return in a distant land. Last night, severe inebriation resulted in the blubbering bald one’ – clapping New Arrival’s back – ‘providing pleasurable friction to a female whose name fails him, but whom he recalls having been streets more adventurous in the sack.’

Lucky and New Arrival – mouth handless – consider Knott’s knowledge.

‘Is there more?’ asks Lucky.

‘Guilt wracked upon awakening,’ Knott obliges, ‘and discovering himself in an unknown quarter of this fair city, the blubbering bald one wandered aimlessly, attempting to reconcile the liberation experienced during said sexual encounter with the moral duty of fidelity towards My Poor One whom, if he is honest, has a sloppy behind, an egg shell chest, and is limp between the sheets.’

‘You stinking shit,’ New Arrival screams, springing to his feet and hobbling in tight circles.

It is the closest Knott has come in forty years to pipelessness, the ebony stem clinging desperately to the rapidly drying bottom lip of his open mouth.

The last time Knott’s mouth hung open so had been forty years previously, when Beatrice, a young woman whose heart he sought, rejected his advance. On the night in question, so convinced had Knott been of success – had not all previous efforts launched against females and floosies, young and old, been successes about which he had boasted to his lifelong friend, a prematurely balding, nervous, talentless individual, whom he loved as only men know how, and whose failure to engage the interest let alone amour of a female, had inspired Knott to rename Lucky – that when he went bended knee to Beatrice, the damp bowling green grass chilling his flesh, and requested her hand, acceptance was the only outcome for which he was prepared. Beatrice’s softly spoken rejection, coupled with her admission that her heart was dedicated to Lucky, knocked Knott upon his posterior, his jaw swinging in the breeze. Sprawled upon the cold grass, wishing for a mother’s embrace available only to nameless men who’d clipped his ears and kicked his behind, Knott discovered he could only close his mouth if his front teeth nibbled a blade of grass. The following morning, jaw again dangling in honour of novel pain, he purchased a pipe, resolving that is should never leave its position. Pipe served as analgesic, dimming that evening when, for the first and last time, Knott sought genuine love in exchange for his own peculiar brand. His intention had been Knot-like bold and brash. Had not Lucky and he elected to seek adventure upon the Continent and beyond? Knott had decided it would be something Beatrice shared with her new husband and his best friend. Had not the two friends, through school and beyond, planned for the day when they would venture upon an alien stage with love upon their arms? Knott’s pipe, the slender stem having long shaped his front teeth to best effect, provided the only respite from not having known Beatrice’s embrace.

‘Shut your stinking mouth,’ New Arrival howls, flailing limbs aplenty. ‘I’ve just buried my mother. A woman I couldn’t stand. Whose expectation that I become the success my father never was, before he put an end to himself, forced me to flee my homeland. The woman I saw three times in the last decade, and on each occasion was more desperate to know what she had done to exile her own son.’

‘That is untrue,’ Knott accuses, vehemently reddening.

‘How dare you?’ New Arrival hollers, launching well-formed fists at Knott’s face.

‘Leave him,’ pleads Lucky, grappling with New Arrival. ‘He is poor-’

‘The deserving poor,’ New Arrival, relenting, snarls.

‘Are you not Watt?’ Knott sobs, raising teared eyes to New Arrival.

‘What?’ New Arrival spits.

‘I’ve waited years for your arrival,’ Knott presses. ‘You suffered like-’

‘What?’ New Arrival laughs.

‘Watt!’ Knott implores.

‘You deserve a hiding,’ New Arrival mutters, flexing his arms.

‘Watt!’ Knott pleads.

‘That’s it,’ New Arrival concludes, preparing for action.

‘Let him be,’ cries Lucky, positioning himself before Knott. ‘Do you not see an old man?’

New Arrival regards Lucky, his limbs stiffening.

‘He is incapable of defending himself,’ accuses Lucky.

‘He said-’ New Arrival commences.

‘Nothing,’ concludes Lucky. ‘Men such as we say nothing.’

‘What are you doing here?’ New Arrival, uncomfortable, demands.

‘Waiting,’ says Lucky.

‘For what?’ New Arrival asks.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ returns Lucky.

New Arrival considers, turns and stumbles, hurrying from the stage.

‘Watt!’ Knott calls, cries and wails, staggering upright. ‘What have you done?’ he blazes, blood bubbling from his nose and lips.

‘For the life of Christ,’ screams Lucky, his hands about Knott’s neck. ‘Forget your phantom.’

‘Watt?’ Knott gasps, paled and shrinking groundwards.

‘Kill him,’ pursues Lucky, slapping hands upon and across Knott’s rigid features. ‘And this bastard pipe,’ he spits, ripping it from Knott’s lips and hurling it from view. ‘You believe me ignorant of its purpose?’

‘Pipe!’ Knott wails.

‘For how long must Watt exist?’ pleads Lucky. ‘How many months – years – have I suffered his existence? I’m sick of playing the fool to your insanity for the purposes of vanity.’

‘Watt shall change everything,’ Knott insists.

‘Look at us!’ screams Lucky, gesturing about himself. ‘What is there left to change?’

Knott considers. He shrugs, shakes his head, and wanders to the arid rise upon which he deposits his posterior.

‘That night I took your advice,’ sobs Lucky.

‘When we floated down the black river and the small lights shimmered in the distance,’ Knott calls, remembering.

‘You advised me to travel,’ sniffs Lucky. ‘To return when emotions had settled and choices could be made. She loved me,’ he chokes. ‘I’d known for years but lacked courage.’

‘You made your choice,’ Knott mutters.

‘We were friends,’ accuses Lucky. ‘You knew her feelings. She told me of your proposal.’

‘You never said-’ Knott starts.

‘You were my friend,’ shouts Lucky. ‘Friends don’t hurt each other.’

‘You should have been brave,’ Knott whispers.

‘I knew she was never to be seen again,’ sniffs Lucky. ‘When we boarded the boat and Beatrice… At that moment I was destined to become the person sitting here.’

‘Have we not seen the world?’ Knott enquires. ‘Regarded majesty from high windows and plumbed the depths of experience?’

‘When I watch the setting sun,’ murmurs Lucky, settling his posterior beside Knott, ‘I see the colours fade. When the horizon sheds its wreath of purple and green and red, I sense part of my soul departing, silently, for wherever she is. Those moments,’ he whispers, clutching Knott’s hands in his own, ‘leave me capable of only considering the pleasure and pain, the gladdening and saddening acts, the lessening strength and weakening hold of having once been young and now so old. When I sit within the night, uncertain whether to wish for night or the morning, be it the following or preceding, my heart trembles, shrinking, and I long for what I have forever longed, unaware of its identity, only sure that it shall never be.’

‘Calm yourself,’ Knott begs.

‘I can consider only his life,’ says Lucky. ‘My life, had I chosen her, and all we have said and done.’

‘You’ll over excite yourself,’ Knott warns.

‘The grass of our life is the brightest green,’ continues Lucky, eyes glistening. ‘And flowers, the colour of dreams, enjoy my heart. Our home stands between great aged trees, which, in high winds, link branches above the roof. Most clearly, I see crouched upon the uppermost tier of a staircase a young child, soft tumbledown hair haloed by morning sunlight.’

‘This makes no sense,’ Knott, tearfully, complains.

‘I desire to see,’ cries Lucky, grasping Knott’s face between his palms. ‘To hear the voice of our child.’

‘You made your choice,’ Knott says, ridding himself of Lucky’s hold. ‘You could have returned. It need not have been this-’

‘How else could it have been?’ demands Lucky.

‘Somehow!’ Knott challenges.

‘Things were never going to be different,’ complains Lucky.

‘How do you know that?’ Knott offers.

‘I don’t,’ says Lucky. ‘What is the point in thinking otherwise?’

‘What has been the point of this?’ Knott asks.

‘Symbiosis,’ says Lucky.

‘What?’

‘Mutual existence in the hope of benefiting by association.’

‘Is that what you really think?’ Knott asks.

‘I don’t think,’ confesses Lucky.

‘Is that what we’ve become?’

‘-’

‘Say something.’

‘-’

‘Anything.’

‘-’

‘Please.’

‘Come here, friend,’ Lucky smiles, placing an arm about Knott’s shoulder.

‘Shall we remain so?’ asks Knott.

‘Soon it shall have been another day,’ Lucky sighs. ‘The secrets inside shall be a little worse than they were. Things shall have dragged on, more awful than the day before, but better than things shall be tomorrow.’

‘Perhaps tomorrow shall be better,’ suggests Knott, reaching inside his dinner jacket for the flask of clear spirit.

‘Can it get any worse?’ Lucky asks, chuckling.

Knott fingers his meringue crown for a straw. Recalling the absence of his pipe, he stops searching and raises the bottle to his lips.