seagulls were wheeling about in the orange glow of the overhead sodium lamps. The crows were pacing about the shadows, poking at this and that, using their talented brains and beaks to weed out any scraps of food that might have been discarded in the empty fast-food bags that littered the place.
Wearily he got out, trudged to the store and pushed his way through the doors into the stark, fluorescent lights. He squinted at the sudden brightness, keen to quickly get his milk and bread and get out.
His thoughts kept returning to his hand, lying there on the ground without an arm to move it about.
In his mind's eye he could see Loretta staring at it, annoyed that it would be taking up space and dripping grisly fluids. He shook his head and marched on. The sooner he got home, the sooner he could get to mending his hand, the better.
He picked up a half squashed loaf of bread, checked the use-by date and grunted. His stump couldn't hold the loaf properly. It kept slipping and rolling. He grunted again. Without his other hand he would have a right time getting the milk. He rolled his eyes, turned on his heels and fished about for a basket that hadn't been commandeered by the oafs.
“Hey, mate. That's mine,” called a voice as he bent over to pick up a mangled red basket.
He looked back, seeing a seedy, wire-haired man striding over.
“There's nothing in it,” Henry said, pointing to the basket.
“That's mine.”
“Look, I need a basket. My hand, you see, it fell off.”
“That's mine, mate.”
“I'm not your mate...”
But the man grabbed the basket and yanked it from Henry, who dropped his loaf onto the floor.
“It's mine. Piss off!” he said, turning sharply around and walking away.
Henry watched after him for a bit, then gave up. There was no point arguing. It would only mean that he would have to spend even more time under the cold blaze of the fluorescent tubes and among the rambling hordes of evening grocery shoppers. There would be another basket somewhere. It was only a matter of finding it.
After a bit of scouting he discovered one under a crate of potatoes and dropped his bread in. The slices had all moved to one side of the packet, so he took a few seconds to tidy up the loaf and make it presentable.
He then made his way to get a two litre bottle of milk, ignoring the strategically placed advertisements goading him to purchase the latest energy drink. He zipped around the big display of tinned tuna that was piled up over his head.
He couldn't ignore the Sample Girl, smiling broadly, shoving a tiny tub of tinned spaghetti under his nose.
Inside the tub the mixture looked like a stew of lumpy brains. The scent of tomatoes and herbs did nothing for the appearance. He recoiled a little.
“Huh?”
“Try the new Heinz Max Mix?”
“Ah, no. No thanks,” Henry said.
“It's got whole wheat pasta in it. Give it a try.”
She pushed it further under his nose. His face turned red.
“I can't. Um, you see, I've only got one hand. The other fell off...”
“You'll find the tomato sauce is a different recipe! It's great!”
“Cheers all the same. I got to get home,” he replied, giving her a side step.
“No need to be rude!” she said under her breath, then smiled broadly at the next glossy-eyed shopper, “Try the new Heinz Max Mix?”
Henry hustled to the counters. The attendant had left her post to sell cigarettes on the adjoining counter. He waited impatiently for her to return and start scanning his items.
“Hi, how're you? Just this?” the flighty attendant asked, not even bothering to look up.
“Yeah. Just that.”
Her reply came out mechanically, “Would you like anything from the Mars range from only a dollar?”
He shook his head, “No. No thanks. Just this.”
She scanned his items, “That's seven dollars forty. Do you have a rewards card?”
“A what? Hell. Oh, uh, hang on.”
The person in line behind him rolled her eyes, then, not content with the pace, verbalised her feelings, “Should've had the card ready. Other people are in line. Oh, geez. He's only got one hand. Bloody cripple. I should move to another line.”
Henry fumbled about, trying to work his hand to get his wallet out from the opposite pocket. His stump was throbbing in pain, but he could feel the burning stare of the patrons in line as he tugged at the lump of black leather.
“Sorry about this,” he muttered to the attendant.
“No worries,” she replied.
“Had one hell of a day,” he said, wiggling the top out.
“No worries.”
“My hand came off, even.”
“No worries.”
Eventually he worked the wallet enough for it to slip out and spill onto the counter.
“Sorry. Shit. Sorry,” he murmured.
Cards and coins were everywhere. The attendant blew a hair from her face as she watched the man in front of her scramble to put it all away with one hand.
“Seven forty,” she repeated, filling the spaces of his grumbles.
“I knew I should've gone in the other line. Damn cripples,” muttered the lady behind, “Got no business in a supermarket. The other line's already done.”
He bit his lip. It would do no good to cause a scene. It was more prudent to simply pay for his goods and go. With a shaking hand he handed a note to the attendant who had the change ready for him before he knew it.
“Two sixty change, have a good night,” she rattled off, putting his bag on to the bench and immediately scanning the next items, “Hi, how're you? Just this?”
Garage
The house was quiet, Loretta was watching her television shows, and the kids were wherever the hell it was they went on a Thursday. Paula would be gas-bagging on her phone to Jackie or Kathy or whoever was the latest BFF, and Tim would be stuck, slack-jawed, in front of the games console.
A quick look back at the various glows from underneath the bedroom doors that lined the hallway confirmed his suspicions.
He tossed the groceries away, checking the pantry and fridge for any sign of his hand. He looked in the freezer. He even checked the oven.
“Where's that hand?” he asked himself, looking over the bench and table.
He sneaked a peek into the bathroom sink and laundry, coming up with nothing.
“Loretta?” he called, looking into the lounge, “Loretta?”
“What, Hon?” she asked, looking up from her phone.
Its stark screen lit up her face with a white glow contrasting with ghastly shadows, as one might do with a torch when telling a scary story. She used to be beautiful, inside and out. She used to do her hair in the morning, and hug him when he came home in the evening.
They would talk about the preceding day together, make plans for the following and then kiss each other goodnight so that they could tuck themselves into bed.
Now the face looking back up at him was a stranger. A stranger with hollow eyes, wispy hair and a second chin from eating too many Tim-Tams. A stranger whose voice no longer held the love for him as it once had.
“What?”
“Where's my hand?”
“Wherever you left it,” she replied and looked back to her phone, “Did you get the milk and bread?”
“Huh? Yeah, I got the stupid milk and bread.”
“Don't get snarky. What type?”
“I don't know. Moo juice. Came from a cow. At least, I hope it did.”
“I meant the bread, Henry. What bread did you get?” she asked, flipping through a Facebook post.
“Pfft. Bread.”
She looked up, her eyes half-open, piercing. She wanted an answer, not sarcasm.
“I don't know. Bread. Had pumpkin seed or something.”
“Timothy can't eat pumpkin seeds.”
“Well, maybe it wasn't the pumpkin seed one.”
“Why did you buy the pumpkin seed
bread? Bloody hell, what brand?”
“Helga's, I think. Is it important?”
“Geez, Henry! Do you have to screw everything up? Timothy doesn't eat pumpkin seeds! Was it on special?”
“I don't know. I didn't check.”
With a heavy breath, Loretta looked back at her phone, filling the air around her with icy annoyance.
Henry smacked his head, “Well. Hell. Whatever. It's bread. So, anyway, where's my hand?”
“Wherever you left it.”
“Where was that?”
“You put it somewhere,” she said with a dismissive wave.
“I didn't, remember? You picked it up and put it somewhere and I went to get the milk and bread.”
She didn't respond.
“Loretta?”
The phone got lowered in anger, “What, Henry?”
He insisted, “My hand?”
“I don't know, Henry. It was in the kitchen sink last time I saw it, OK?”
“Kitchen sink. Right. Thanks. Thanks a bunch.”
Back in the kitchen he looked closely at the metal sink. There was clearly no hand in there. There was, however, a distinct bloody trail that led from the sink, over the bench, down onto the floor and out the cat-flap.
“Bloody cat!” he cursed, opening the door and shooing it away from the pinkish-grey and red lump on the ground.
He picked up his hand, inspected the marks where the cat had evidently nibbled at it, and took it outside to the garage.
With a flick of the switch, there was the plinking sound of the fluorescent tubes starting, a couple of tantalising flashes and then the darkness within was lit by the steady white glow from above.
It was his sanctuary. No matter what happened in the world outside, his garage looked and smelled and felt exactly as a garage should. There was a mixture of turpentine, and kerosene, and wood shavings, and mouse droppings, and engine oil and a faint odour of stale beer.
It was disorderly.
Atlas, Broken Page 5
