Delly Roche, née Gilmore

Stop.

 It was sometime in the morning, up in the hills. Above us.

Delly Roche pretended to be dead. It comforted her. It relaxed her. She did it in the same way that people trapped on public transport in winter close their eyes and place themselves on a sun hot beach, the water lapping, a drink in the hand, someone to have sex with smearing lotion on their skin. Delly though, in addition, nursed the dim hope that the pretence would bring on the reality. She thought that maybe if she became sufficiently minimal in her living that her major systems would simply give it up. That death would get the hint, would seize his moment and be grateful that there was so little left to do. But death wasn’t playing. Not today. It was as still as she was. It was not interested. It was simply hanging around, waiting, ticking over, unmoving, as patient as Delly. And she thought it ridiculous, and cruel, and childish, and frustrating, damn it to hell, and was put in mind of her youth, of a boy for example, a boy too shy to approach her, when she knew that he wanted to, and he knew that she knew, and she had made it known that she knew that he knew, and had moreover made it clear that she would welcome it, that he had been given the nod, the look, whatever it was, the wink, he had been given it, and still he crouched coyly in the corner, pretending indifference, pretending not to notice, for all the world oblivious, unaware, switched off, lifeless. Death pretending to be dead.

Stop.

From The Parts (c) Keith Ridgway 2003. Not to be copied or reproduced without permission. For rights information email info@keithridgway.com