A Man Alone - by Mark O’Flynn
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
Take a house in any land and in it place a man. A man alone: demonstrable, verifiable, did not get there by himself. He must have had progenitors. A carpenter at least. A man like this, who has never lived in any other house. At least not one that he can remember; but then memory is a flippant thing. In any event, there are no other houses nearby, unless you count the lightning-struck ruin next door, whose owner shook his fist at the sky. Just this one house remaining, resisting the gale that blows relentlessly from the south. There, it did not take long to attribute to the gale a motive, an attitude. Relentlessness. Perhaps the man has more than animal instincts to entertain his senses. Courage. Curiosity. Cunning. Who would have taught him such qualities? His progenitors? Long gone. Fled during his years of famine and rebellion. His neighbours? The woman next door? Gone also. Just the man then, standing at the window. At least there is a window, the shutters banging in the gale, seagulls on the wing like plastic bags, dust swirling in the draughty mouseholes. So it would appear the man is not entirely alone. Mice. Perhaps we should not call the man a man. Perhaps he would be better regarded as a fellow, a chap, or bloke, or merely an upright mammal with a business degree. A simulacrum. I suppose we could describe him as a male. His name – no, don’t go down that slippery slope. The seagulls are better rendered as birds. The mice as rodents, a spade a shovel. That freshly dug hole in the yard. To the astute, the seagulls might imply proximity to the seaside. That would explain the thump and crash of the waves in the distance. However, be wary of reading too much into that. Thumps and crashes may have other causes. What is he doing in this house? Surely not building something? Should the house be presented in anything other than cursory detail? A roof. Four walls. A chimney. Cold ashes in the hearth. The windows, of course. The bag of money stuffed up the chimney in a cavity behind a loosened brick. Just what is going on? What exactly is he doing here? Waiting might be a safe bet, but of course this opens more questions. A man alone, even in ignorance, is exercising a political decision. Perhaps a knock at the door would snap him out of his evident bafflement. Who can it be? The tax collector on his horse for his master’s tithe, his hair awry (the gale), his sword ajangle in its scabbard. Or else a barefoot waif, arrived to claim her rightful inheritance. A sob of recognition. Papa. Old bastard. The permutations are many. How likely might these scenarios be? As likely as any other. A long-lost progenitor. Son, it’s you. I have no father. A betrayed accomplice. Everything could change in a moment. As like as not. Let’s give him a voice then, this lone man in a lone house. ‘Who’s there?’ he calls. Tentatively? With gravelly confidence? Any adverb will do. ‘Who’s that knocking at my door?’ Ah, he’s articulate. He can string a question together. Of course – the business degree. And it’s in English. It’s slowly coming together. However, there’s no answer. Just the wind keening in the eaves, rattling at the loose boards in the conservatory. Goodness, a conservatory. That’s a development. From this we can build an entire civilisation. It’s probably dark outside. He can imagine the eyes peering in at him through those windows. He begins to feel something we might ascribe an emotion. Dread. Or maybe some other ordinary confusion. Then a voice, or rather a mood, echoing down the hollow oesophagus of the chimney. ‘It’s me,’ comes a sigh. Ah, some dialogue to pass the time. He was never going to be alone. That would have been too fanciful. Idyllic, even. So, a voice, as after a long journey. It’s becoming a veritable community. There are overdue bills shoved in under the door, uncollected. ‘Me who?’ the man asks the sooty air, for there is no corporeal presence in the house, no ear to which he might address his question. This would seem to qualify as some sort of proof, for you cannot have a question without a questioner, a prime mover. ‘God,’ might come the reply, out of all the many possible. Wow. That is unexpected. On a brutal night like this. Yet more likely than any other. After all: the tax collector, a lost child or rutting progenitors, gallivanting about on the roof? Hardly. ‘God who?’ asks the lone man in the lone house. ‘Show yourself.’ There are no neighbours. He did once have the courage, curiosity, cunning, conscience, to ask about the ruin next door. What happened? Lightning. A storm. All gone now. What had the neighbour done to deserve such wrath? ‘God who?’ asks the man again, cutting to the quick of the matter, but in response there is only silence. He could hazard a guess – Godfrey? Godolphin? Some co-conspirator. Silence, apart from the howling wind. The trees outside crashing to the ground, the waves at the shore summoning their bravado. The ashes of the ruin next door blasted into nothing. ▼
Image: Issy Bailey
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