London When it Rains

by C. Sean McGee

  She did it for him. She kissed his cheek first, and when she saw how he smiled and closed his eyes, she lightly kissed his lips. The Old Man could have sworn his heart exploded. He could have sworn that from it was born a hundred trillion particles and that all of them were swarming about in some chaotic and passionate dance. He could have sworn too, that by looking in her eyes, the chaos in his heart started to cool and form, and he could have sworn that from that one kiss, an entire universe was born beneath his frail old skin. He felt, in that instant, as if he had an infinite amount of time. He felt as if his life had only just begun.

  “You sit down and get yourself comfortable. I’ll get you a drink.”

  The Old Man sat down in a quaint rocking chair. It smelt of the very flowers that were patterned on its fabric. Every part of her cabin had its own particular feel. But in its entirety, it felt like home.

  For the first time, The Old Man felt like he was home.

  “Here you go, dear,” she said, handing The Old Man a glass of port.

  For a great while, they didn’t speak. It didn’t feel like they had to. It felt like they learned from one another just by being in each other’s company – just by staring at each other and occasionally, holding each other’s hands.

  “Do you like music?” she asked.

  His first thought was no. Definitely not the kind of music one found on radios or being played in concerts or hummed by strangers on the street. The kind of music he craved was that which his own children had prohibited. It was the only music that ever soothed he urges that - for half of his life - had caused him to do unspeakable things. It was the music that he had loved since he was a boy. It was the only music that truly carried the honesty and the passion of human beings. It was the only music that - even an atheist like himself would say – spoke from the very soul of mankind. It was the only music that he longed for. Outside of his children, it was the good thing in this world that he truly missed. And it too was the only thing to stop his violent urges.

  “Now I haven’t worked this thing in quite a while.”

  The Old Lade came out with a gramophone. She set it up on the side table.

  “Now, I have record or two here somewhere. Geeze it’s been so long since I pulled them out. I know they’re here, though. No silly law is gonna make me give up grandfather’s favourite albums. Now where did I put it?”

  Normally at this point, especially around a stranger, The Old Man would be feeling tingles in his fingertips. He‘d be feeling a rumbling in his belly. And he’d be feeling an itch in the back of his head – somewhere deep inside that his fingers could never reach. He would succumb to the onset of his violent urges, regardless of how amorous he felt about this kind and undeserving stranger. Normally he would, but as he stared at the gramophone, and as he watched The Old Lady fumbling through her drawers and cabinets for an old record, those urges which had become the only constant in his life, they failed to surface. He watched her and instead of feeling dizzy and nauseous, he felt giddy and excited like when his children were four, and he watched them sneaking out of their beds at midnight and tiptoeing their way to the presents under the tree.

  “Here they are,” said The Old Lady. “Not sure about your taste or not, but it’s the only records I have, so if you don’t like it, you can shove it.”

  She said it in a way that was darling.

  “Which do you want to hear first?”

  “My god, I can’t contain myself,” though The Old Man. “I wonder what they’ll be.”

  She held up the two records, and he shivered with excitement.

  “Billie Holiday,” she said, “or Robert Johnston.”

  “You choose,” said The Old Man, incapable of making that choice himself. How could one choose? Why would one choose? This was not something he could ever do by himself.

  The Old Lady put on the first record and instantly as if his veins had been doused in a shower of heroin, a sudden warmth washed over his mind. And it coated too, the back of his throat. He felt every nerve and muscle in his body relax. It was as if he were submerged in lightly flowing river where he himself passed by every one of his thoughts as if they were rocks, boulders, and reeds, that stuck out of the river bed.

  He passed all of his nightmares, and he passed each and every glutinous urge. He passed them all without bidding so much as a farewell. He passed them all without acknowledging that they were actually there. He passed them all, without a thought or a care.

  The Old Lad pulled her chair closer to his, and they say for hours, watching the day close out, without saying a single word. They held their glasses of port in one hand, and themselves in the other. And while the music filled their hearts and souls, both The Old Man and The Old Lady held onto one another as if their lives depended on it, and both swayed gently to the music while the sun set and the night sky filled with glittering stars and bright burning planets.

  The Old Man was about to tell her he loved her. If he had of, it wouldn’t have been a lie. He didn’t get the chance, though. Somewhere between her smiling at him and kissing the back of his hand, and he realising that his life finally had a sense of purpose and belonging; the music stopped.

  “Oh dear,” said The Old Lady.

  It didn’t sound as dire to her as it did to The Old Man.

  “Oh, drats,” she said, almost making a mockery of The Old Man’s sudden fright.

  “What happened?” he said. “Can it be fixed?”

  “Looks like the needle broke,” she said, holding up the splintered end. “I’m not surprised really. This thing is centuries old. Surprised it even worked in the first place. I might have another needle around here. Give me a sec.”

  “Do you think you do? Do you? Whatta you think?”

  The river that he had been gently floating upon was now murky and full thick granular sediment. He was stuck in the one spot while around him, the water got faster and deeper, and filled with horrendous fucking shit. All of his nightmares and burdens, they all rushed towards him at a speed that he had never felt before. All the horrible thoughts, they all flooded back into his mind. All the terrible urges, they quickly presented themselves, and while The Old Lady scourged haplessly and humorously through cabinet after cabinet, The Old Man started to fever, sweat, and shake.

  “You’d swear I’ve never even been through these drawers. I’m finding stuff I didn’t even know I had.”

  She was taking her fucking time.

  Why was she taking so long?

  “Hurry the fuck up. Please. For your own sake, let alone mine.”

  He stood behind her now with an old kettle cord in his hands. His urges made him shake and tremble, but when he held that cord tight, he felt calm, safe and sure. This feeling, though, would not last, not unless that cord was around her neck. Then he would be swimming again. Then all the thoughts and all the bad dreams would be left aside and gently floated down the river.

  “I am so sorry,” he whispered as leant in to tie the cord around her neck.

  “I found it!”

  The Old Man stumbled backwards.

  “Oh thank God,” he said. “I could kiss you. I think I love you.”

  His urges stopped suddenly.

  “No, wait... Just as I thought,” said The Old Lady, befuddled. “Just a regular sewing needle.”