Roger Morris

Blades

Simon Popplewell lived alone.  Or at least he thought he did.  Sometimes he had the impression that there was a woman in the flat with him.  He would catch a whiff of her scent, or hear her singing to herself in another room.  Or he would come back into a room to find the light he had switched off switched on again.  Occasionally when he was in the bathroom, someone would try the handle of the door.  Fortunately he always locked it. 

Then one morning he looked up from the paper he was reading and saw her sitting opposite him.  Their eyes did not meet.  They said nothing to each other.  Simon went back to his paper, and when next he dared a glance in her direction she was gone.

          He was rather of the opinion that she did not exist.  Possibly she was a ghost or a sprite or some other kind of supernatural being.  He did not think he had imagined her.  He thought that if he was going to imagine a woman to share his flat he would come up with someone more beautiful.

          This woman had straight, dull hair, a slightly puffed-up face and an almost obese figure.  Indeed, the first time he saw her he had to admit to being disappointed.  Her scent and her singing had promised so much more.

          After that first sighting, he did not see her again for a long time, perhaps as long as a year, he could not say.  The other signs of her presence vanished too, as though she sensed that she had been a disappointment and had taken herself away.

          If this was so, Simon regretted it.  The fact was he missed her.  He thought about her a lot now that she was gone.

          One night he was lying awake alone wondering whether he would ever see her again when he noticed a dark shape move across the bottom of his bed.  He closed his eyes.  He felt the air cool and move as the duvet was lifted.  The springs creaked and the mattress dipped under a new weight.  When he opened his eyes again there was a bulky presence beside him in the bed.  He always slept on one particular side of the bed, the right, even though he lived alone.

          Are you there? he said.  But there was no answer.  Even so, Simon felt calmer now and able to go to sleep.  In the morning when he woke she was no longer there, as he had expected, but her scent lingered in the sheets.

          From now on she came and went intermittently, infuriatingly.  Her appearances, though erratic, became more and more frequent.  He put food out for her and she ate it.  Or at least it went without his eating it.  Consequently his household expenses multiplied, especially as she was in the habit of leaving lights and other electrical appliances switched on.

          I really will have to talk to her about that, thought Simon Popplewell.

          But of course, he never did.  She was never there when he was ready to talk to her, and if she was there, she always seemed to vanish as soon as he asked her a direct question.

          He had missed her when she had taken herself away and now that she was here to stay, she was driving him mad.

          It was ever thus with women, thought Simon, though his own experience of them was limited.

          He became increasingly taken over by the desire to touch her.  It seemed the only way to find out if she was real or not.  But he worried that his sense of touch would prove as unreliable as his sense of sight.  There seemed no way round it.  He was also worried that if he touched her something devastating would happen. 

He thought perhaps the thing to do would be to invite someone else in to see if she would appear to them.  But most of the people he knew were men and the danger was that another man would steal her away from him.

He thought she ought to have a name but couldn't for the life of him imagine what it was.  If only he knew her name, she would be more real to him.  He left notes for her.  WOMAN.  WHAT IS YOUR NAME?  ARE YOU REAL?  But she never deigned to answer.  He began to feel she was mocking him.

And so, in time, it seemed the only course of action left.

Simon Popplewell took himself into the bathroom and locked the door behind him.  Force of habit, but especially important now that he could not be sure whether he lived alone or not.  He took the Wilkinson Sword dispenser from the cabinet and carefully removed one of the blades.  He had always used the old fashioned type, the ones that are sharp on two sides.  He imagined shredding his fingers but didn't.  He was fairly certain that he didn't.  He handled the blade like a petal and placed it on his tongue like a consecrated wafer.  He closed his mouth and felt the flood of saliva build.  He pushed the blade against the roof of his mouth to prevent him swallowing.  Then he opened his mouth over the sink and let the blade fall out.  It tinkled on the enamel like a fairy bell.

As he looked down he saw specks of blood from his open mouth drop and spread on top of the blade.

Well at least I know I'm real, he said to himself.

He carefully removed a second blade and concealed it lightly in his fist.  Then he left the bathroom and went into the living room to wait for her to appear.

He sat at the table and waited.  But she did not come.  He waited for a long time, perhaps as long as a year, he couldn't tell.  All the time he waited he kept his fist clenched.  But she did not come back.  It was almost as if she knew what his intention was.  If that's the case, he said to himself, she cannot be real.

At last he unclenched his fist and looked down at the blade on his palm.  There was no blood.

Perhaps I'm not real after all, he thought.

When he looked up, she was there, opposite him at the table.

          He did not hesitate.  He gripped the blade delicately between thumb and forefinger and threw his hand away towards her throat.  Suddenly he was in no doubt.  She did not exist.  All that existed was the horizontal line of crimson that streaked the air.  Then the illusory woman reappeared and her hands were at her neck, and something very like blood was leaking through her fingers.

          Who are you?  Are you real? Simon Popplewell screamed.

          He watched her puffed-up face as though he expected it to deflate.

          Simon.  It's me.  Linda.  Your wife.

          The woman fell forward, banging her head with a loud crack on the table.  A puddle of viscous red spread out slowly around her head and shoulders.  Simon frowned and tried to work out whether this meant she was real or not.  And he tried to remember why the name Linda made him feel so anxious.