Afternoon Delight
by
Carol Caffrey

In spite of the heat I was shivering. My school skirt was rolled up so short it could have passed for a hankie. As my granny would say. The hairs on my arms were crackling in the sunlight. I was so wired I was almost jumping out of my skin. Static electricity was jumping all around me. The excitement of watching Michael’s house, waiting and planning, was making my flesh tingle till it sizzled. I thought I might explode with it. Today was the day.

Pity that the old dear next door to his house had already gone to her bingo. I could have melted her with one look. Or that the brats on the other side were still at school. I’d seen them over in the juniors’ playground at lunchtime, stuffing their faces with crisps. Latch-key kids, my mother would call them. No-neck-monsters I called them. To their fat faces, as well. I would have liked them in my sights now. Never mind, I’d other fish to fry today. Michael, you don’t know the power I have.

The street was asleep. How smug they all were in their suburban semis, lawnmowers droning away in the distance. They couldn’t see me, even though I was there in plain sight. Enough watching. Michael would be back in an hour for our appointment. Time for action. I was across the street like lightening and snaking my way around the back before you could say wow, she’s fit. I had to squeeze past his overblown honeysuckle bushes. Could do with a little trimming there, Doc, a bit of putting your own house in order. Not so bloody perfect ourselves, are we? The key was where I knew it would be, over the lintel. I mean, how pathetic. I didn’t bother to check whether anyone was looking. I always knew when I had an audience, had an almost telepathic sense of when people’s eyes were on me. Right now, no-one was looking at me. For once, that suited me just fine.

Michael preferred to keep me confined to the office area, so I hadn’t been in the kitchen in a long time. It looked pretty much as I remembered it; clean, orderly, boring, but I thought the table might be new. Or maybe it was the floor. In the consulting room the blinds were almost completely closed as usual. I threw them open. Let’s have some light here, folks. After all, the main event was about to start. None of that half-light and shade for me. I like to work in the spotlight, thank you very much. Sitting in his chair, I thought I could get a whiff of his after shave, or whatever aul’ fellas like him used. The shape of his body was imprinted on the fabric. Jesus, he had a big arse. Or maybe my own tight little one just made it seem so. Oh Michael, who’s been sitting in your chair?

I knew where my file would be, sitting on his desk on top of the ones for the other afternoon appointments. They weren’t even locked away, for God’s sake. How professional was that? Let’s see what you think you know about me, Doc; let’s see just why you want to blow me off. Because I might not be ready to finish therapy, right? “Client manifests blah blah… inability to empathise… exaggerated sense of achievements and talents -” What? You’re the one always telling me how great I am. “Blah, abnormal love of self” – you bastard, Michael, I’m supposed to talk about myself here – “blah fucking blah… requires constant attention and admiration…” Jesus, talk about jealous, the bloody hypocrite. “Sorcha reacts to criticism with feelings of rage and shame.” Get to it you wanker, you bloody Humbert Bumbert, or whatever the perv’s name was in that creepy book. Ah, here we go: “Narcissistic personality fucking disorder blah bloody blah…” Christ, it was unbelievable! This is what my so-called parents were paying him for? How dared the second-rate fraud diss me like that?

I ran into the loo and threw up. The stupid toilet roll wouldn’t unwind properly and I yanked it so hard the whole thing fell off the wall. I was about to sweep his rugby photos off the window sill when I suddenly thought: I can be smarter than that. I stuck the loo roll yoke back on the wall, washed my hands and lips and went back into the room. I was still shaking and my legs wobbled a bit but I was beginning to breathe more normally. Think, Sorcha, think. It was hard to calm myself down, really hard. I had a huge volcano of rage inside me. Normally I have to let it escape and hurl it at whoever’s in the blast zone, but this time I knew I needed to do more than vent. I had about three quarters of an hour, say half an hour to be on the safe side, before he came back. What could I do in that time?

Trashing his home would be too easy, but I wanted to be able to picture myself doing it at the very least. I ran through the rest of the downstairs rooms and began to laugh to myself as I imagined the havoc I could wreak. This was helping, definitely. I fairly flew upstairs and peeked into the spare bedrooms. Boring, boring. Probably used to be the children’s. They looked like something out of those stupid magazines in the dentist’s waiting-room. More rugby photos, too. Jesus, had this guy any other interests? Didn’t burglars shit all over the houses they robbed, or something? But that would be dumb. You could probably get DNA from that sort of thing now. The main bathroom looked like it hadn’t been used in months. The sink and bath were bone dry. I took a deep breath and went into the main bedroom, his bedroom. This was more like it. They obviously used the en suite in this room. It had a much more lived-in look And look, the towels were crooked. Who’s the untidy one, then, Michael? Is it your titless wonder of a wife? Or does she clean up after you? Well here’s something for you to clean up, even if you won’t know you’ve stood in it. I whipped off my shoes and pants and stepped into the shower. I squatted and pissed in his precious shower and watched the stream flow sluggishly towards the drain. I ran the water just enough to dilute it. A little something from me, Doc.

Giggling to myself, I threw myself on the bed. I do some of my best thinking in bed. His was too much on the soft side for me, but what the hell. Hey Michael, who’s been sleeping in your bed? Sometimes my brain floats free and soars high above the rest of the world and I had one of those out-of-body thingummy-jigs now. I saw myself curled up on his bed, smelling the smell of him on the duvet, picking up his glasses from the bedside table, flicking open the book underneath them, and then I saw myself floating up off the bed and alighting downstairs again at his desk. In front of the files. Of course, the files. I gave a quick pull to straighten the duvet and flung myself downstairs for real this time. Twenty minutes to go.

I got out my phone and took photos of all their details; names, addresses, diagnoses and treatment, appointment times, the works. What a bunch of losers; “low self-esteem… food issues… depressive yaddah yaddah… obsessive compulsive crap”. I couldn’t wait to get home and print off this stuff. No cheap revenge or immature hissy fit for me, though I had enjoyed leaving the little message upstairs. I could be more cunning than that. I would plan something much more – permanent. Already I could envisage myself and – what’s-her-face, the silly cow after me, bullying victim, 4.30 pm Tuesdays – I could picture us meeting, oh so casually, after her session and taking it from there. She’d do for a start. Or there was the obsessive, neurotic, spotty guy. He should be easy. The possibilities were endless.

Five minutes. I had a quick look around the place to make sure I hadn’t left any tell-tale signs of my “visit”. Of course I hadn’t. Bed straightened upstairs and files back where they should be. I’d leave the room as it was in the afternoon sun, return the key to his so-called hiding place, and present myself at our usual time. “Oh Michael, I’ve had a real breakthrough since last week.” They love that word, “breakthrough”. “I think you were right about things. Please, can we keep going for a few more sessions? I really do think you’re helping me.” Something like that would play to his vanity; it was bound to. They were all the same, these therapists. So predictable. There wasn’t one I couldn’t wrap around my little finger. Who’s been reading your mind, Michael? See you soon.

© Carol (Caffrey) Witherow 2010
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Carol (Caffrey) Witherow has had some success in askaboutwriting’s poetry competitions. This is the first short story deadline she has managed to make, though hopefully not the last. She is currently combining writing with a return to her acting roots. A Dubliner by birth and inclination, she lives in Shrewsbury.

-----------

For more competitions, see here

home children competition crime drama fiction join now media non-fiction poetry publish romance self-publish short story tutorials forum