Rays attention was being drawn towards the television where, with the time now approaching 11.55pm, things were winding up with great intensity towards midnight and the traditional appearance of Big Ben.  We were being shown the scene in Trafalgar Square where a huge mass of bodies, eagerly awaiting the countdown, were singing and dancing but obviously missing the chance to frolic in the fountains which had been boarded up and sectioned off.

      This changing from the old to the new year always depressed Ray.  He wasn’t alone apparently; most of the people he knew felt the same when midnight struck; more often then not there could be found a tear or two rolling down the cheek as Auld Lang Syne was being sung.  This remorse was probably caused by the melancholic streak we all have inside us; we are giving up something familiar whilst staring the unknown in the face; given the choice we’d rather stick with familiarity, yet at the same time we secretly yearn for change, and in most cases, the chance of a fresh start.

      Ray was feeling more depressed this year for obvious reasons, and was wondering if Alison was thinking of him as the New Year approached.  He decided he didn’t want to think of Alison right now, if that was at all possible, and turned the television off using the remote control he suddenly realised was in his hand.

      ‘…access to certain areas.’

      Rays concentration was still focused on what he had been watching on the television screen and it took a second or two for him to realise that he had turned it off and the half sentence he had just heard had come from inside his head and not the black box sitting in the corner of the room as he had first thought.

      “I’m sorry I was….”

      ‘Miles away,  I know!’ it was Rays turn to be interrupted and he couldn’t fail to notice the hint of annoyance in the sound of the voice as it went on to repeat what it had been saying, ‘Believe it or not, I wish I could do all those things.  I’d give anything to be able to feel sorrow, pain, love, hate, any kind of emotion.  But I can’t, it’s as simple as that.  All I’m able to do is understand the feeling.  In here I’ve only got access to certain areas.’

      “What do you mean by certain areas?” Ray asked, more confused than puzzled, “I don’t get that bit.”

      ‘Try thinking of the inside of your head as being like a department store; full of different sections, Men’s wear, Ladies Fashions, Toys, etc., etc.  Each section has it’s manager who is responsible for that section only.’

      Ray burst out laughing.  He couldn’t help it, he had suddenly had a vision of the Numbskulls, a cartoon character he remembered from a comic he used to read as a kid.  They lived inside this persons head and controlled his every movement and thought from various areas of the brain, often with calamitous results.  Ray tried to remember the name of the comic but couldn’t decide whether it was the Beezer or Topper, or something like that.     

      ‘If you’ve quite finished, can I carry on?’

      Ray didn’t get the chance to answer because the phone started to ring.  As he reached for the receiver he could feel a charge of questions flood into his mind: Is it her?  What are you going to say?  Will you be able to talk normally?  Are you going to get all emotional and cry?  They kept on coming, crashing around out of control inside his skull, smashing against the walls and rebounding in and out of view with indiscriminate confusion.  Ray likened the feeling to that of having just injected Heroin then being hit by the first rush as it pulses through your veins.

      Hesitating, more to calm himself than for any other reason, he let the phone ring for a couple more seconds and stared at  his hand hovering 3 or 4 inches above it.  As he lifted the receiver and started to raise it to his ear, he could already hear the background noises; music, glasses chinking together, people talking (some a lot louder than others), laughter.  He expected there to be quite an atmosphere which would make the ensuing conversation difficult. 

      What he didn’t expect was the silence.

      Having prepared himself to have to raise his voice to be heard, he suddenly found that he couldn’t even raise a whisper to say hello.

      ‘Don’t just sit there, say something!’

      “I can’t” Ray despaired in the sanctuary of his mind.

      Ray was unexpectedly jolted forward in his seat as if he had been kicked from behind, “What the f…!”

      “Ray?” enquired a woman’s voice from the ear-piece of the telephone.

      “Hello mum,” Ray said as he finally managed to find his voice and, at the same time, succeed in hiding the disappointment of it not being Alison, “sorry about that, I was just turning the tele off and dropped the remote control.”

      He knew she wouldn’t believe him so decided to change the subject quickly, “Happy New Year.”

      “Happy New Year to you too, have you been drinking?”  She asked in that ‘mothers’ voice. How did she manage to ask you a seemingly innocent question whilst at the same time making  you feel like you were three years old again getting told off for pissing your pants?

      “Just tea and coffee,” he answered, “you know I haven’t touched a drop for 8 years now.  Not since I met Alison.”

      “Yes I know but…”

      “I can see what you’re trying to say mum, but don’t worry, what’s happened isn’t going to send me back down that road you can bet on that.”

      Ray hoped that he had eased his mothers fears and prayed that she wouldn’t pursue the matter further as he knew stocks were running low in the lie department.  Although he hadn’t actually lied on this occasion. 

      He had abstained from the consumption of any form of alcohol since meeting Alison who had helped him through the final stages of drying out.  She had mopped his brow and held him as the ‘shakes’ rendered his body useless.  She had carefully steered him away from tempting situations until she knew that he could walk past a pub or off licence on his own without the alcohol homing device that was built into his head and permanently switched to seek and obtain mode dragging him enthusiastically towards another self-destructing binge.

      She had done and given up so much for him then that he was resolutely determined not to let her down.

      “It wouldn’t be fair to her, I’d be taking the piss.”  He told himself every time he felt the old desires raising their ugly heads.

      “She’s done so much for me, what did I give her in return?”  He thought, oblivious again to what was happening around him.

      ‘Shut up, your Mothers talking to you’

      Snapped back into reality, Ray just caught the tail end of his mothers sentence but heard enough to work out that she had been saying that everybody up there sent their regards and she hoped he would visit soon.

      He returned the pleasantries, promised she would see him in the very near future, said his goodbyes and hung up.

      The feeling he’d had all day that Alison was not going to phone was much stronger now.  It bore down on him like an  impending migraine.  He felt remorse, yet at the same time a strange relief; he still hadn’t worked out what he would say to her, but not only that, the nagging, niggling, persistent seed of a thought would not leave him alone; it just kept on feeding and growing, slowly, but defiantly.  The seed had started to grow in his mind a couple of weeks ago, at about the same time as his last drug induced trip. 

      He was by no means an addict, far from it, more of a casual subscriber, used for personal pleasure and ‘medicinal’ purposes.  On average he would decide to ‘get out of his head’ at least once a month; although recently this average had climbed to once a week.  He steered clear of the hard stuff; Heroin, which he’d tried once years ago, Crack, Cocaine, etc., sticking mainly to those regarded as ‘social’ drugs; Cannabis ,Marijuana, even though he didn’t smoke, both of which he thought should be taken off the illegal substances list, speed and occasionally lysergic acid diethylamide, more affectionately known as L.S.D..

      It was during his last encounter with L.S.D., which, incidentally, failed to produce it’s usual customary hallucination much to his displeasure, that he found himself thinking objectively, and without the prejudicial drawbacks of emotion, about Alison, their relationship, and his situation now they had parted.  As he sat waiting in vain for his mind to start scrambling images and make every day objects do things that the most vivid of sane imaginations would have difficulty in dreaming up, he found he could ask himself questions and come up with the answers, without any outside help, and be happy in the knowledge that the answers were not those that he normally gave, manufactured to suit his mood, but the true hard-nosed facts that he tried desperately to disguise in a maniacal scheme at avoiding happiness.  In fact, once the drug had taken control it was the only time where he was free, beyond reach.

      He’d ask the question ‘Do I still love her?’ and instead of answering ‘Of course, I’ll never stop loving her’, which had become his ‘in stock’ response, he’d truthfully reply ‘No, not in the sense to be in love with someone, but yes I love her as a person, probably more as a sister’.

      To the question ‘Do I miss her?’, he came up with the true answer, ‘I miss the company’, but in answering the big question there was no hesitation, no veiling his words in a cryptic shroud or beating about the bush; ‘Would I have her back?’.

      ‘No’.

      It was that one simple word that sowed, watered, fed, and was now nurturing the seed that was growing with insatiable intensity like a weed in a bed of roses deep inside his consciousness.

      So now, instead of wishing the phone would ring and he’d hear the voice he still loved, at least that’s what he wanted to tell himself at this precise moment, he was willing it to remain silent, even thinking of taking the plug out of it’s socket so he wouldn’t have to worry whether it rang or not.

      “I’m going to have a bath,” he announced to the empty, now silent room.

      Bath being one of her favourite words, Jenny was up like a shot proving the theory that dogs, when asleep, were fully alert to what was going on around them and able to respond instantly should anything happen.  Unfortunately in Jenny’s case, bearing in mind her advanced years, the alliance between awakening, movement and co-ordination had become somewhat detached, causing her to rise, crash into the fire, which, fortunately, wasn’t on, and run half way to the back door before she remembered that the bathroom was upstairs.  She managed to get  halfway up the stairs before Ray fully realised what had happened and began to convulse in fits of laughter.

      He’d never known a dog to be so crazy about having a bath, given half a chance she’d have one every day.

      “I’m having the bath not you,” he called after her from the bottom of the stairs.

      ‘What’s this, your New Years Resolution?’ the voice jokingly said.

      “No, I’m having a quick bath then I’m going out,” Ray replied curtly.  He was still fuming and in no mood to exchange pleasantries.

      ‘What, now!’

      “Yes, I was invited to John Hendries party remember, it’s only just started  so I wont have missed much.”

      ‘Well this is a turn up for the books, I’m not complaining don’t get me wrong, but…’

      “I can be spontaneous when I want to be so just shut up and let me get on with it before I change my mind.”

      Ray’s mood began to simmer down as he watched the water slowly edge it’s way up the sides of the bath.  He poured in more bubble bath and became mesmerised by it’s reaction with the water, watching with fascination the way the bubbles appeared from out of nowhere and multiplied with organised precision to form a floating carpet of foam that steadily worked it’s way to the other end of the bath.

      He awoke from his trance in time to grab Jenny as she was about to dive into the water from the ledge at the tap end of the bath.

      “Stupid bloody dog!”  he said as he carried her out onto the landing and set her carefully down on the floor where she immediately rolled onto her back and waited for him to rub her belly, “I haven’t got time to tickle your fat gut I’ve got to get ready.”

      He did anyway, relishing the look of ecstasy on her face, just long enough to let the bath fill up a bit more.

      Ray was feeling a lot happier as he stepped into the foam.  The temperature of the water was just as he expected it to be; not too hot but comfortable.  He had perfected mixing the amounts of hot and cold after having burnt himself quite badly getting into a bath filled with near boiling water about four years ago whilst on holiday in Wales.  He’d experienced terrifying visions practically every time he came into contact with hot water for eight months after that, and even now was very wary, making sure he tested the temperature before immersing any part of his body.

      He quickly washed, spying Jenny sitting just inside the open door watching him hopefully, before laying back leaving just his head, and part of his belly, above the surface.

      He stayed in that position for 20 minutes listening to the silence; interrupted sporadically by household noises and the distant sound of traffic both automated and human.

      Although he was now totally relaxed, a part of him remained poised ready to reach for the cordless phone he had left just within reach by the bath, in case Alison, or for that matter anyone, should ring.  He knew now though that at 12.45 the chances of her phoning were fading fast, not that that seemed to bother him at the moment.

      Reluctantly,  he decided it was time he should be getting out of the bath and getting ready.  As he dried himself Jenny reappeared, took one look in the near empty bath, and plodded out of the room in disgust, “I wish she could talk at times,” Ray said to himself, “I bet she’d give me a right mouthful.”

      A quick rummage through his wardrobe produced the T-shirt, jeans and trainers that he had chosen to wear. He’d decided to go to the party in casual clothes partly knowing what John’s parties were like; often culminating in food and/or water fights and the compulsory ‘dip’ in the swimming pool, fully clothed of course, and because he couldn’t be bothered to iron what would have been his usual choice of attire.

      Not usually one to dress scruffily, Ray prided himself on always trying to look his best whenever he went out.  He very rarely wore anything without it first having been washed, ironed and hung neatly in the wardrobe, and always washed whatever he had worn before wearing it again, even if he needed it the next day.

      The fact that he would have had to iron something to give him an alternative to the choice of clothes he now stood in in front of the mirror bore testament to the degree to which he had let his normally very high standards slip.  Whilst most people would be happy with one or two sets of clothes ironed and ready to wear available to them, Ray had to have everything ready as and when he wanted it.  It was a habit that had become obsession.

      Finally dressed, he took one more look in the full length mirror that also doubled as a wardrobe door to check that he looked presentable.  As his gaze took in the view of a slightly overweight, casually dressed, average looking,  not ugly but certainly not drop-dead gorgeous either, example of the male of the species, his eyes wandered to the reflection of the bed and the two people lying naked with bodies entwined in the advanced stages of love-making.  He watched, stared, mesmerised by their writhing, fascinated at how they moved in complete unison. He could see the sheen of sweat that covered their flesh and almost hear their heavy, laboured breathing.  As the man turned his head to watch the performance in the mirror, Ray felt an urgent compulsion to look away, try to hide the fact that he was indulging in any form of voyeurism, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t be seen.

      After a few seconds he sneaked a quick look out of the corner of his eye expecting to see the couple hastily covering their nakedness and a very angry man getting ready to confront this ‘pervert’ who had been spying on them.  Of course, he saw just an empty bed with the duvet positioned neatly and evenly and the pillows plumped ready to receive and cushion his head.

      Realisation kicked in and Ray awoke to the fact that he had been watching himself and Alison having sex, or as he preferred to say ‘making love’, and strangely felt more voyeuristic than he did a moment ago when he didn’t know the identities of the couple he was watching.  He felt an element of shame as well at having seen himself doing those things, not that he was ashamed of the sexual act.  To Ray, sex was a thing to be treasured, savoured, the ultimate display of love and affection two people could give to each other.  It wasn’t a two minute quickie in the back of a car or a one night stand fumble induced by flashing lights, thumping music and copious amounts of alcohol which all to often ended in regret and misery.  It had to be right and with the right person.  He freely admitted that he was an old romantic at heart and would always put the pleasure and satisfaction of his partner above that of his own.

      He stared at the beds reflection for a few moments allowing some private memories to dance in and out of view before turning away and heading for the door.  He couldn’t resist one more look as he switched off the light then purposefully emptied his mind of all thoughts of Alison and sex and made his way downstairs closely followed by Jenny.

      He let Jenny out into the garden giving her the opportunity to empty her bladder or bowels, or both as was usually the case, whilst he quickly tidied up, “you never know, I might be bringing someone back” he thought to himself jokingly knowing that he had more chance of being run over by one of Santa’s Reindeer trying to find it’s way home after a boozy night on the town.

      He had already decided to walk to Johns house in preference to taking the car on the pretext that the walk would do him good and also because the Police would be stopping practically everyone on the road by the time he left the party in pursuit of their annual crackdown on drink driving; he wasn’t concerned about that as he knew he wouldn’t be drinking, but couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of explaining where he had been, where he was going and having a plastic bag thrust in his face accompanied with the order to blow until he was told to stop.  The only thing that would please him about the whole charade would be the look of disappointment on the face of the Policeman, or woman, when they had to tell him that there was no trace of alcohol present and the insincere apology he would get for being troubled.

      He could think better when walking anyway, and as it was only about a mile and a half to Johns he reckoned that gave him enough time to clear his head and mull over a few things that needed sorting out

      Jenny wandered in with a contented look upon her face just as he was about to see if she had finished.  She strolled over to her bed and lay down, pushing the blanket with her back legs until she was satisfied that it was where she wanted it and that she was comfortable.  She usually announced the fact that she was settled and comfy by emitting a salutary fart and certainly didn’t let herself down on this occasion prompting a snort of disgust from Ray who was locking the back door and hiding the key in it’s secret hiding place where, he hoped, anyone who broke in wouldn’t dream of looking; this rational act was often opposed by the even more rational thought that, by the time a burglar had entered the house and reached the kitchen, the last thing on his mind would be where the back door key was hidden, so why bother?

      Ray went through the motions of hiding it anyway if only to satisfy the ‘routine’ element of his mind and stop it nagging at him the whole time he was out.

      Secure in the knowledge that every window and outside door was locked and that he had left a light on to give the impression that the house was occupied, as instructed in the crime prevention leaflets that were included with the mail every now and then, Ray patted Jenny on the head, told her to tear to shreds anyone who entered the house apart from him and slipped on his jacket.

      It had turned slightly cooler since he had stood at the back door earlier waiting for Jenny to do her business, there was still a light covering of cloud which threatened, albeit half-heartedly, to release a shower or two, but on the whole it was quite pleasant for January; no biting wind that penetrated every layer of clothing before attempting to peel the skin from your body, no icy, cold rain that tried to do the same but left you feeling damp and miserable instead. 

      He felt the breathe of a breeze on his face but paid no attention to it as he closed the garden gate behind him and set off towards the river which he would have to cross to join the path that led round the small housing estate to where John lived.

      He figured it would probably take him about 30 minutes to walk the mile and a half from his house to John’s, by which time the party would be in full swing.  He had no idea who would be there and had begun to wonder if he really wanted to go, inwardly concerned that amongst relative strangers, and subconsciously terrified of the fact that he would be on public view; his self-confidence had taken too many batterings of late and he was well aware that his defensive shields, what he called ‘people barriers’ and with which he deliberately surrounded himself whenever he was in public to stop anyone encroaching his ‘space’, were working at minimum efficiency.

      He really needed a break away from this place, the house, the town and the relatively close proximity of Alison.  He desperately needed to recharge his near spent batteries and the prospect of spending a few days at his parents was becoming more attractive each time he thought about it.

      “Self-confidence,”  he said disdainfully to himself, looking around to make sure nobody could hear him.  It would be just his luck that an old drunk would suddenly appear and attack him because he thought, in his drunken haze, that Ray had aimed a derisory comment in his direction, “never really been one of my strong points has it?”

      He was approaching the footbridge that spanned the river and connected the old town, in which Ray lived, to it’s brash, modern offspring with it’s monotonous, production line style housing, the shopping centre incorporating forty or so glass and pre-fabricated boxes whose only difference from the outside was their size and the amount of light used to illuminate them; there was a definite war being raged between the store owners to see who could cause the most damage to their customers retinas, and it’s regimental, almost ruler-drawn road system.

      The new town, or blot, as in ‘blot on the landscape’, as it was affectionately known, had started to sprout and expand about 15 years ago, 5 years before Ray was transferred here as part of his employers relocation out of the over-developed inner city industrial estates to the unspoilt, wide-open spaces that were once fields, meadows, and an ancient wood that contained trees two to three hundred years old.  The company closed down it’s offices and moved somewhere else just over a year ago leaving Ray, and a now derelict building,  behind.

      Three bridges joined the old and new towns like umbilical cords that had been left attached to the mother after giving birth to triplets.  They were of the same construction; open plan with wooden framed sides.  These had been encased in a wire mesh cage after a small child had managed to squeeze through the rails and fall into the water 20ft below last October; fortunately she survived the ordeal much to the relief of her grandfather who had offered to take her to the park allowing her mother, his daughter, a single mum struggling to hold down a 7 day a week job as well as run a home and bring up her child in the best way possible, a well deserved break.

      When they were officially opened amid a blaze of pomp and ceremony, the bridges were named not after celebrities or high ranking members of the local council as is the norm when a town names it’s landmarks, new streets, etc., but simply called North and South Bridges for those in the respective positions, and the highly imaginative, Middle Bridge.  It was the South Bridge that Ray now approached.

      He had slowed down significantly from the brisk pace he had started off at and was now just ambling along as if on a Sunday afternoon stroll.  The sound of the river chattering away in it’s watery dialect reach Rays ears as the path neared the wall that acted as a defensive barrier between those that lived in the water and their land based counterparts; effective in preventing either from invading the others domains.

      He tried to imagine the conversations taking place between the water and it’s animal and plant life.  Were they discussing politics or the stresses of everyday life?  Did they have a political system?  Did they vote?

      They didn’t seem  stupid thoughts to Ray who was one of the growing army of people who actively believed that we were not the only living beings in the universe, that we had been visited on many occasions over the centuries and were probably living amongst aliens right now.  Ray believed in the philosophy that what was good for humans applied to all other forms of life on earth and beyond; be it politics, hierarchy, class structure, love or war.  Obviously things happened differently, you would never expect to see two herds of cows, for instance, lined up facing each other mooing noisily and stamping their feet whilst holding a heated debate in their version of the House of Commons at Prime Ministers question time.  Maybe you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, but that’s besides the point.

      Who says it doesn’t happen though?  Next time you pass a field full of cows, or sheep for that matter, pay very close attention to what they ‘might’ be doing instead of dismissing them with nothing more than a cursory glance.