You promised the Missus that this was the last one. She’d given you a right scolding before you left and then pulled you into a fierce hug, holding on so tight, you’d think she was sending you off to war.
She had a bad feeling in her stomach, she said. You’d said that was just dinner yesterday, she’d eaten more than in the past week - the ‘diet’ must be over. So you’d let her hug you, told her to get some rest while she scowled and honestly? She was right, like she always is and you were blind like you always were. Last time, she’d told you she had a bad feeling, you ended up in hospital for a week.
But this was a simple job, innit? Just an evening helping some lads find tent spaces for football - or rugby, the paper gave you a headache whenever you reread it. ‘Glasses’ said the Missus. You ignored that too.
You only know all of this because she wrote it, neatly, for you to find every time you flicked through the notebook. You didn’t want the notebook. You need the notebook. Time gets a little messed up, see? You have to keep checking the notebook, otherwise you forget.
So, you picked up a job, just a little something in case the grandkids needed a little treat. The grandkids never got their treat. The Missus didn’t get the surprise present you’d been planning on. It paid well, it did, only you'd been stumbling for weeks after and pulled some important things down around yourself and you’re not young enough to do the repairs yourself anymore and all that costs some and it just keeps adding up, doesn’t it?
But, anyway, you left with a mind kept sharp by crossword puzzles in the back of the paper and the Missus’ good food and came back worse than a drunken fool. At least they become sober.
Instead, you’ve got nonsensical dreams of sticks and bright lights and sudden screaming terror that sober up everyone in the house but you. You see flashes, sometimes, of men in old ladies’ nightgowns. Kind of like Dave down the pub when he (she?) is being Davina but it’s not your place to say anything, is it? It’s easy enough to pretend you’ve never met Dave with Davina and Davina with Dave. Like a game. You like games.
Then, of course, there were the people who didn’t know what to do with money. Some tried to pay with little lumps of fake gold. This, you do tell the Missus and she tells you you should have taken it, it would look better in your teeth than black does, fake or not. You’d booked an appointment with the dentist after, before she got it in her head to do it for you.
You haven’t told the Missis about the laughter, high and cruel, amidst the screams. You haven’t told her or the kids, any of the kids, and you never will.
You should. You should have.
But you hear it, loud and clear, not under the shadows of sleep, slipping into your dreams, but outside your door. And you know, because your mind was sharp before someone took half of the edge away, that the Missus was right. So were you.
The last one. Just like you promised.