by Ricky Fleet
“Do you want me to take that down for you?” Malachi enquired, seeing the heavy bag of rubbish clasped in her other hand.
“Would you mind? That would save these old knees from aching for the next few hours.” She smiled with relief.
“Not at all. I will speak to the supervisor later and find out when the lift will be fixed, until then, you just shout if I can get you anything from the shops, ok?”
“You’re an angel, Mal. If I was sixty years younger I would make an honest man out of you,” she said and handed the bag over.
“I would have been honored,” he laughed and started to walk away.
“When are you going to bring a beautiful young woman home for me to meet anyway?” she persisted, following him down the poorly lit hallway.
“You mean to see if she is good enough for me?” he chuckled.
“That too,” she admitted, “I just hate the thought of you being alone night after night, suffering like you do.”
“What do you mean?” Malachi paused and slowly turned, cheeks flushing red.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy, the walls are so thin here.” She hurried over as fast as her twisted legs would allow to hold his face, stroking the shame from his skin.
“You’ve heard me?” he lowered his eyes with embarrassment. The genuine concern painted on her lined face was nearly enough to drive him to tears.
“I hear the night terrors you go through. The screams carry across the building,” she explained.
“Oh God.” He dropped the bag and rubbed at his temple as the first twinges of a stress migraine blossomed within his skull. The truth of why some of the other tenants regarded him with such disdain and mistrust was revealed.
“No, don’t you fret,” she continued, lifting his face, “I have set them straight. A couple of them asked me how I put up with it, so I gave them a piece of my mind!”
Malachi laughed at the image of the kindly old lady reading the riot act to their neighbors.
“Thanks for fighting my corner, Miss C.” He caressed the gnarled hand at his cheek.
“Nonsense. You are like a grandson to me.” She smiled, “Most people treat me as if I am invisible, but you always have a kind word or a helping hand when I need it.”
“It’s no trouble, honestly.” Malachi felt awkward at the praise.
“You’re a good boy, I want the best for you. You deserve some happiness after all you have been through.”
“I really have to be going now,” he politely dismissed himself. “Would you like me to bring you some fish and chips home for supper? We can eat together.”
Sensing he was withdrawing she didn’t push her concern, “That would be lovely, provided you don’t mind spending time with a boring old woman.”
“You are the most interesting person I know,” he called back, “I will be home around seven so get the candles lit.”
“It’s a date,” she replied with a smile, before hobbling home. It was clear the stairs would have been impossible in her debilitated condition and the knowledge that she would soon need a care home filled her with melancholy. Who would look out for Malachi then? Poor boy.
CHAPTER THREE
The car turned over with a cough of protest and more than a little black smoke from the rattling exhaust pipe. Instead of a gentle purr, the engine was more akin to the noise of an old man. Wheezing and groaning against any attempts at movement, the vehicle was not long for this world and would soon join all the others who had gone before in the great scrapyard in the sky. Repair costs were out of the question and with a looming rent bill, Malachi would be forced back onto the buses or cycling to reach work.
Gearbox crunching, he backed out of the parking space and merged into the passing traffic. A tune about drug use in Ibiza came on the radio and Malachi found himself singing along, tapping cheerfully on the steering wheel. Laughing at the absurdity of the only part of the car that actually worked properly was the stereo, his mood improved mile by mile.
A valiant battle was being fought between the morning sun and the stubborn cloud cover. Breaking through in places the beautiful rays looked like spotlights from heaven, perhaps illuminating people that bore God’s graces on this day. It was unusual for Malachi to apportion religious significance to anything, especially the weather. He wasn’t an atheist by any stretch, but neither was he prone to flights of fancy. If there was an omnipotent being sat on a pearly white throne waiting for him on judgement day, logic would be the backbone of his argument to achieve entry to the promised lands. Would a benevolent God allow the suffering of His subjects? Would He allow Malachi to descend the rabbit hole to insanity, or worse?
“We are going to have words when I get up there!” he growled, looking at the roof of the car and imagining God trembling at the coming confrontation.
Faces passed in a blur, going about their own lives and errands. At the final set of traffic lights before the turning for his gym, a woman was watching him intently from the neighboring car. Upon seeing the scrutiny, Malachi smiled and nodded a greeting. Instead of responding in kind she just scowled, looked away and wound the window up as if she feared he would attack her in broad daylight. Charming! He thought to himself until he looked in the rearview mirror and saw the reflection. Eyes still reddened, with dark bags settling beneath. Coupled with a wide grin it wasn’t hard to imagine himself as a crazy person.
Giving it too much gas, the woman performed a screeching wheel spin before disappearing into the distance. Shaking his head in bewilderment, Malachi moved away and the parking lot of Jim’s Gym was empty at this early hour. No one would be arriving for at least forty-five minutes and this provided an opportunity to have a quiet workout session before the rush of retirees, unemployed, and night workers who could exercise during the day. The blue lettered sign was accompanied by the customary flexing barbell of Olympic powerlifting notoriety. Unlike some poseur gyms, Jim’s prided itself on catering to all markets without alienating certain demographics. The free weights were tucked to the rear for the ‘grunt ‘n groaners’ who loved to watch their muscles flex. Bikes and rowing machines were also laid out against the side walls for warmup and cooldowns. In the main gym, mirrors were banned to spare people the sight of a red, sweaty, gasping image of themselves as they improved their fitness. The shaming culture of some establishments was forbidden by Jim, who had also lost over two hundred pounds before starting up his business. The upper floor was soundproofed and wide open for some of the classes that took place throughout the week; from kickboxing to Zumba dance.
Opening the main doors and disabling the impending alarm, Malachi stepped inside and turned on the lights from the large bank of switches behind the main reception desk. Normally comforted by the familiar surroundings, today the empty gym only reinforced the sense of loneliness he felt. The cavernous building with its rows of silent equipment seemed to mock him, highlighting how little he actually had in life. Close friends he could count on one hand with spare fingers left over, and financially his bank account was in the red more often than his eyeballs.
Finger hovering by the power button on the music system, Malachi opted to work out in silence. It would give him an opportunity to think on the future, about his next steps in combating the growing psychological damage that was destroying him as sure as drugs ravage an addict. Stepping onto the treadmill and placing his towel on the control console, he started out with a brisk walk. The slow rhythm of footfalls echoed back to him over the low hum of the expensive machine. The wall in front of the equipment was adorned with motivational posters that Jim had thought up after his own success. Frowning faces peered out, unhappiness evident at their physical condition. Side by side was their miraculous transformation which Malachi was heavily involved in. The support he provided wasn’t limited to exercise regimes, but delved into personal issues and habits which could be the cause of the overeating. Nutritional plans were also provided for a small fixed fee to help the lifestyle adjustments. It was so rewarding
to see the gradual change in both body and mind of his patrons, but this was quickly replaced by dark thoughts of his own situation.
Increasing the speed to compensate for his growing anger, the rotating belt turned into a blur beneath his feet. Leg muscles bunched and flexed with each stride and the lactic acid started to spread through the limb, burning ferociously. His lungs flared with ragged gasps and despite his own fitness, he was starting to struggle. The machine was at its limit and the motor whined as it tried to keep up with Malachi’s sprinting form. Vision blurring and no longer able to keep up the pace, he pressed the emergency stop button and brought it to a standstill. Clutching his sides, the heat had spread to his lungs as he drew deep breaths in an attempt to alleviate the agonizing stitch.
“What the hell were you running from?” Kevin’s voice came from the entrance and Malachi was too tired to even jump in surprise.
“Life,” he gasped, “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough, buddy,” Kevin admitted. “Shall I put the kettle on?”
Malachi nodded, wiped his brow and started the machine up again to cool down. Walking off the growing cramp and controlling his breathing, he thought about his closest friend. Kevin Boyns had been there for him all through school as a friend and confidante, never judging his strange habits and the fact Malachi often preferred solitude to larger groups.
“Want to talk about it?” Kevin offered as he handed the steaming mug of tea over.
“Maybe later, I need to get my head straight.”
“I’m worried about you, dude,” Kevin admitted, concern evident in his voice.
“Me too,” admitted Malachi quietly.
“So talk to me. You know they say a problem shared is a problem halved,” he pushed.
“Not this one, mate,” Malachi replied.
“I hate seeing you like this. It’s as if you are drifting away from us, becoming more isolated week by week. Have you been sleeping?”
“Not as much as I would like,” he admitted.
“I thought so, your eyes look like you are on all sorts of drugs,” Kevin said, partly serious and questioning.
“No, it’s not drugs, don’t worry.”
“Then what?” Kevin asked with real pain in his voice.
Malachi put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “Can we go for a beer after work? It will take a little while to explain it all.”
“Yeah, of course,” he replied with a smile of relief, “I will tell the missus I will be a bit late, she won’t mind.”
Malachi imitated the sound of a cracking whip and they both laughed, before Malachi enquired, “How is Laura anyway?”
“Oh you know women, always bitching and moaning. Telling me who I can see and can’t see, what to wear, that I’ve gained a few pounds and need to lose weight. I said to her yesterday, bitch, if you don’t get off my back, I’m going to have to use my pimp hand on you!” he answered, raising the back of his hand threateningly.
“Brave man. Did you really say that?” Malachi laughed.
“Fuck no!” Kevin chuckled, “She would wait until I fell asleep and then cut parts of me off that I would rather stay attached.”
Malachi was jealous of their loving relationship; it was uncannily similar to that of his own parents. Lots of joking and laughing with, and at, each other. “She wouldn’t ever try and control you anyway, she is an angel.”
“She’s a treasure,” he agreed. “I fell on my feet when I found her.”
“She’s one in a million that’s for sure.”
An impatient banging came from the front door.
“Mr. Darlington,” Mal and Kevin said in unison, shaking their heads.
The old man was hammering on the glass and attempting entry by pushing with all his might. A wagging finger of annoyance was thrust their way when they approached. Unlocking the front door, the older gentleman nearly fell on top of the pair.
“Listen, old timer,” Malachi growled, grabbing him by the t-shirt, “If you don’t get your watch fixed and stop disturbing us at ten to nine in the morning, I’m going to take you out to the car park and beat the shit out of you!”
“It’s your fucking clocks that are slow!” he protested.
Kevin had taken the opportunity to phone the talking clock and the computer generated female voice chirped, “The time is now eight fifty-one and thirty-seven seconds.”
The wrinkled face looked at the handset, then at the two young men. “She’s wrong too.”
Malachi burst out laughing and let the old man go, only to be clutched in a bear hug and lifted clean off the floor. It was a routine that played out every morning and each of them found some joy in it. Mr. Darlington knew that he was early but the bus always dropped him off at eight forty-eight and he didn’t want to wait around outside. Mal and Kevin didn’t mind the old gent using the facilities out of hours and they were always offered a crisp ten pound note at the end of each session. Honor meant they refused the kind offer, but every day the money would be pushed at them nonetheless.
“Did you want to step outside for a few rounds?” Mr. Darlington asked, raising his fists and throwing a couple of crisp jabs.
“Heavens no, you would take both our heads off,” Kevin laughed, patting him on the back.
“Nah, you are both younger and more sprightly than this crooked old bastard,” the old man chuckled.
“You’re as old as the woman you feel!” called out Malachi.
“I need to pull myself a twenty-year-old lap dancer then don’t I?” he replied with a roar of laughter, “I will be in with the free weights.”
“Call if you want a spotter, we don’t want you breaking a hip, old timer,” Kevin added.
“Cheeky bastard,” grinned Mr. D as the door closed.
On the CCTV screen that covered every inch of the building, they watched as the man started his warm up. Five minutes of shadow boxing before moving onto the bench press and various other items of equipment.
“Look at him go,” Kevin nodded in approval.
He was over seventy, but the way his feet moved would have bettered a man half his age. The stringy muscles were covered with faded navy tattoos. The obligatory anchors and magpies on the hands told a story of bravery and service for ones’ country. Their respect for the gnarled septuagenarian had grown into a deep fondness and when one of the other patrons had threatened Mr. D, they had raced to intercede before he could get hurt. It hadn’t been necessary.
“Do you remember the time he knocked that wanker out?” Kevin laughed, reading Mal’s mind.
“It was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”
The young man, whose name they couldn’t remember anymore, had tried to bully Mr. D aside from the bench. Being a gentleman, he had replied that as soon as the set of reps were finished it would be free. A born bully with slabs of steroid aided muscle, this hadn’t been good enough, and he had thrown the old man from the machine and onto the, thankfully, soft matting. Unperturbed by the assault, he had calmly stood up and whirled the damp exercise towel, before expertly lashing it out with a crack. The tip of the fabric contacted the taut bottom of the thug and brought an agonizing sting of pain. As the weights room exploded with laughter and derision, the bully roared and tried to seize the man who had humiliated him, desperate to use his strength to rip him to pieces. The first mistake had been to assume that his bulk assured victory, the second had been to try and carry out his violence on a retired naval champion boxer. A lightning quick left hook followed by a right hook had stretched him out.
“Can you believe how we found him?” Kevin was crying with laughter at the memory.
“I don’t think he had been trained in contortionism,” Mal agreed, wiping his own tears away.
The punches had launched the hulk backwards and, as they burst in the room to help, he was already laid over the weight bench, twisted awkwardly and snoring.
“Still got it,” Mr. D had beamed as the rest of the patrons congratulated him.<
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“Huh? Wha?” the thug had whimpered as he came to, eyes glazed from the knockout. His jaw sagged to the left, indicating a fracture, and the deep purple of bruising was already swelling.
“Hold still, you’ve had an accident,” Kevin said, helping him move from his painful location.
“You’re not wrong,” chuckled Mr. D pointing at the dark wet patch on his light grey tracksuit trousers.
Tears of shame had flowed at the incontinence, followed by a ride in an ambulance. The man had cancelled his membership of the gym soon after. Mal had only seen him once on the street since, wearing a full head brace to hold the jaw in position as it healed. Rumor had it that following the humiliation of being sparked out by a pensioner, he had needed to attend a gym many miles outside of the city.
CHAPTER FOUR
The hours passed slowly and Malachi was glad for the constant interruptions from his macabre thoughts. Even the fainting of a gym goer who had overexerted herself had been a welcome distraction. The beams of light moved inexorably across the carpet of the reception, like a huge sundial counting down the moment where he would have to bare his soul to Kevin. Apprehension grew and on more than one occasion Malachi was going to call the drink off to spare his shame. The looks of support and hope that Kevin shot his way through the day were the only thing that held it in abeyance.
“How has the day been?” asked Jim merrily as he arrived.
“Apart from one faint, business as usual. I’ve counted the cash and left the chit in the office for you to check,” Kevin replied.
“A faint?” Jim frowned, “How did that happen?”
“I set her normal routine but after two miles she came over all weak and passed out for a couple of seconds,” Malachi explained.
“What went wrong? I don’t want people thinking this place is unsafe.” Jim had lost the smile and was all business.
“She admitted to drinking last night and had missed breakfast. It was just a case of running on empty,” Kevin said.
“Did you fill out an accident form?”
