Friday, and sleep, Angela’s oblivious mistress, leaves her aching in the dark, with only the memory of her embrace and the taste of her beautiful oblivion on dry, angry lips.
In the night He calls to her, He pecks out a message on the floorboards and she lies trembling in His pervasive presence, trying to decode His Morse code, and on the third night she thinks she does.
It seems to say, “B….U….R….D…G….U….R....L”
SECRETS AND LIES
It was two in the afternoon when she realised something was wrong. Lunchtime had finished and the familiar clackety clack of keys being tapped resumed after its brief reprise the same way it always did. It was a day like any other, all these days were the same, so when Veronica didn’t come back to her desk at 1.58pm exactly, as she always, always did, Angela knew that something was amiss. An electric dread crept through her bones. Was she dead? Had her hip given way on the metal steps that lead up from the car park? Was she now lying prone in the spiked shrubs, helpless? What if Angela discovered her there, so in need? She’d be so grateful to see her! So beautiful, and vulnerable, and indebted. Angela could save her, lift her up in her short wide arms and carry her home where she could undress her and nurse and nurture her. Of course she would have to silence the birds and move the boxes from the bedroom, and she’d certainly have to take the bones off the walls, but she could always cover her head to get her upstairs, and she could keep her unconscious, if she had to.
At seven minutes past one Angela could take no more. She called Veronica’s mobile. Tap tap tap, tap tap, tap. It was ringing. No one answered but Angela noticed that the arm of her boss’ chair was vibrating. Her jacket was still on the back of it. So had she not gone into town? She said she was going into town... It was cold outside. She wouldn’t go without a jacket... Angela checked the pockets of the little black jacket and sure enough there were her car keys, a hair band, and her phone. She was in the building. Angela flicked through Veronica’s year planner where it lay on her desk. The space between one and two o’clock had been coloured in with a red pen. Something was going on. Someone was hiding something. Someone was lying. The office had been built in the 80s during the boom and the company had expanded with all the gluttony of the period, and when the sequins and shoulder pads and cocaine hangovers faded so did the revenue, leaving vast swathes of the building empty caverns of faded commercial endeavour. There were three unused floors in the building, one above and two below. Angela knew them all, in fact she’d worked in most of them over the years, and further to that, she still had the keys.
“Downstairs” said a voice in her head.
She made her way down the back stairs that led into the corner of the building where HR had once existed, before process had bitten off its own tail and they had outsourced themselves. She got out the keys and unlocked the door as quietly as possible. She shouldn’t be here, she knew it right away. The air down here was different. It was still and cold and... sorry, somehow. The blinds were down as they always were and through them the afternoon sun drew parallel lines over rows of empty filing cabinets. Angela crept between the banks of desks, trying not to disturb the air but failing, motes spinning around her, stars around her barren planet. Silence. There was no one here, just Angela and the flecked dead skin of old employees. She had been wrong, there were no secrets here, just dead dreams, dust bunnies and abandoned venture. She went back over to the stairwell and let her daydream die too. She’d found nobody, so many times. She berated herself for having hope when there was no hope to have. She had been a stupid little girl. Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl…
But wait...
What was that?
Was there a sound
In the night He calls to her, He pecks out a message on the floorboards and she lies trembling in His pervasive presence, trying to decode His Morse code, and on the third night she thinks she does.
It seems to say, “B….U….R….D…G….U….R....L”
SECRETS AND LIES
It was two in the afternoon when she realised something was wrong. Lunchtime had finished and the familiar clackety clack of keys being tapped resumed after its brief reprise the same way it always did. It was a day like any other, all these days were the same, so when Veronica didn’t come back to her desk at 1.58pm exactly, as she always, always did, Angela knew that something was amiss. An electric dread crept through her bones. Was she dead? Had her hip given way on the metal steps that lead up from the car park? Was she now lying prone in the spiked shrubs, helpless? What if Angela discovered her there, so in need? She’d be so grateful to see her! So beautiful, and vulnerable, and indebted. Angela could save her, lift her up in her short wide arms and carry her home where she could undress her and nurse and nurture her. Of course she would have to silence the birds and move the boxes from the bedroom, and she’d certainly have to take the bones off the walls, but she could always cover her head to get her upstairs, and she could keep her unconscious, if she had to.
At seven minutes past one Angela could take no more. She called Veronica’s mobile. Tap tap tap, tap tap, tap. It was ringing. No one answered but Angela noticed that the arm of her boss’ chair was vibrating. Her jacket was still on the back of it. So had she not gone into town? She said she was going into town... It was cold outside. She wouldn’t go without a jacket... Angela checked the pockets of the little black jacket and sure enough there were her car keys, a hair band, and her phone. She was in the building. Angela flicked through Veronica’s year planner where it lay on her desk. The space between one and two o’clock had been coloured in with a red pen. Something was going on. Someone was hiding something. Someone was lying. The office had been built in the 80s during the boom and the company had expanded with all the gluttony of the period, and when the sequins and shoulder pads and cocaine hangovers faded so did the revenue, leaving vast swathes of the building empty caverns of faded commercial endeavour. There were three unused floors in the building, one above and two below. Angela knew them all, in fact she’d worked in most of them over the years, and further to that, she still had the keys.
“Downstairs” said a voice in her head.
She made her way down the back stairs that led into the corner of the building where HR had once existed, before process had bitten off its own tail and they had outsourced themselves. She got out the keys and unlocked the door as quietly as possible. She shouldn’t be here, she knew it right away. The air down here was different. It was still and cold and... sorry, somehow. The blinds were down as they always were and through them the afternoon sun drew parallel lines over rows of empty filing cabinets. Angela crept between the banks of desks, trying not to disturb the air but failing, motes spinning around her, stars around her barren planet. Silence. There was no one here, just Angela and the flecked dead skin of old employees. She had been wrong, there were no secrets here, just dead dreams, dust bunnies and abandoned venture. She went back over to the stairwell and let her daydream die too. She’d found nobody, so many times. She berated herself for having hope when there was no hope to have. She had been a stupid little girl. Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl…
But wait...
What was that?
Was there a sound
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