Novel Treatments / All the fun of the fair - prologue
Number Seventy-Three
Alfie Peter Gorman, supine and naked in the bath, lowered himself deeper until the water began to overflow; falling with a slap onto the cracked turquoise linoleum. It wasn’t especially late, perhaps ten thirty, maybe eleven. Alfie looked up from his prone position; his gaunt face framed by water, olive-tinged arms resting on his flat but not muscular abdomen, to the shelf above the bath where stood a two bar electric heater, plugged in via an extension cable in the living room. Attached to the right foot of the heater was a length of cord, nylon twine of the washing line variety, the other end Alfie clutched steadfastly in his right hand. He closed his green eyes and began to draw in the slack.
As he waited for the splash, then the shock, then nothing, Alfie already knew his death would barely register with anybody; he hadn’t made an impression on the world, had done nothing of significance with his life. His passing would warrant a small box of text in a corner of a middle page in the local newspaper, he’d be lucky if they even mentioned his name.
Body found in bath
Verdict: Suicide
No questions asked, no fuss caused, no difference made. It seemed to be a summation of Alfie’s life to press.
His mother would unquestionably be apprized and she’d learn that her son died in Fleysham, a decrepit former seaside resort, now merely a seaside town, and it wasn’t inconceivable that she may remember taking Alfie and his brother Frank there as children. Mrs Gorman might wonder why Alfie hadn’t bothered to contact her or leave a note, speculate how her youngest son, now in his fifth decade, had come to this; living alone with only a cat for company. But any family Alfie had was far away, hundreds of miles. Here and now, that was what mattered. His charred body would be hauled away, the landlord would re-let the flat, his cat would be turfed out onto the street and the world wouldn’t even know Alfie Gorman had been in it.
Below him, Alfie became vaguely aware of a dull thudding noise, from inside the bath it sounded like the beating of a drum in a vast hall. Alfie listened to the thump-thump-thump, like his heart beat, becoming imperative as the moment of reckoning approached. Except, typically, Alfie’s timing, his preparation, even his surroundings, were against him and it seemed now was not a very good time to die.
Of course Alfie had not become suicidal overnight. He did not consider himself unhinged in any way. No, Alfie was miserable. But this was not the type of unhappiness which can be shrugged off, drunk away, talked around or masked by a tan from two weeks in the sun. Alfie felt defeated and had, quite simply, had enough of trying.
The trouble, for want of a more appropriate term to accurately describe Alfie’s mental state, had begun some forty years earlier with the death of his older brother, Frank.
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I think this is well written. You seem to be getting the balance right between creating pictures with specific descriptions, but also subtly moving the story on and filling in the background. // it sounded like the beating of a drum in a vast hall – this analogy doesn’t really go with the context of a grubby bathroom. It’s also like a heart beat, so that is something like a mixed metaphor. // Sometimes the style can be a bit verbose, such as the words ‘quite simply’ in - Alfie felt defeated and had, quite simply, had enough of trying.
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