Red Herring

Robert Whitmore woke up with a dry mouth. His palms were sweaty and his head was pounding. And when he finally dragged himself out of bed, Robert discovered that his legs were trembling just like a newborn lambs.

He took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on the sounds of neighborhood normalcy; the distant yap-yap-yap of the Smiths inbred miniature; the hive-like hum of lawnmowers as they raced against an incoming westerly; the rhythmic swish and crack of Old Man Utes junk-mail trolley being dragged over the sidewalk.

Robert hooked back his bedroom curtain.

“I don’t want any,” he screamed out the window. Old Man Ute gave him a gummy smile and jammed an extra large wad of advertising right into Roberts letterbox. The familiarity of this routine calmed Robert until he thought about what day it was.

His birthday.

Or, more specifically, his 38th birthday.

A small part of him had tried to stop the relentless march of time. He’d refused to have any calendars in his house and threw out the expensive moleskin diary his mother had given him for Christmas even though intellectually he knew the whole thing was crazy.

Ludicrous.

Laughable, even.

But no matter how many times he told himself it was ridiculous, something still resonated in the ancient, instinctual part of Roberts brain.

It all started in Thailand, back when Robert was young and fresh and still full of potential. He’d been drinking at a bar with a young Thai guy and a couple of buddies he’d met on the road. At first there was nothing remotely mystical about the Thai apart from the funny smelling cigarettes he was passing around. He’d even done a tap-dance for them, right there in the bar, and it had been so good they’d bought him more whiskey than was probably wise.

It was at the end of the night that the Thai had started acting weird.

He declared he was a fortune teller and told them sensing their future was easy, just like reading a book from another world. And it had been fun, right up to when the Thai had grabbed Roberts hand and gone pale.

“Oh my god,” the Thai had said. “Thirty eight birthday. Thirty eight birthday is the day-“

“The day I what?” Robert had asked but even as he shot a skeptical look around the table, his heart had been sinking.

“The day you. . . oh my god. Something. . .how do you say? Red! Something red. No! No matter. Don’t worry. Have a drink!” The Thai had released his hand and they’d all clinked glasses with a laugh. Only Robert had noticed the pitying looks the Thai kept shooting him or the way the boy was careful not to touch Roberts bare skin again.

The next morning Robert decided to put the whole thing down to an ingenious attempt at getting free whiskey and thought nothing more of it.

That is, until the fair.

He’d been dating a beautiful girl called Ginny and he would’ve done almost anything to make her happy. Perhaps that’s why he went inside the fortune tellers tent, even though the still stale air made him want to gag, and the way the old hag looked at him had made his hair stand on end.

Ginny sat down and had been told exactly what she wanted to hear. Three kids, all of them smart. A successful creative career . . . as a what? The old hag’s lip had curled and Robert could see her take in Ginny’s beads and twisted, clunky amulet. An artist? No. . . . wait . . .a jewelry designer! And when the fortune teller told her she’d have a long happy marriage and a handsome husband, Ginny had given him a loaded look that made his heart hammer.

When it was Roberts turn, he couldn’t meet the old hags eyes but that didn’t stop her from grabbing his hand and leaning forward so their heads were almost touching.

“Thirty eighth,” she’d said so quietly only he could hear her. “I see a birthday. Yes, a thirty-eighth birthday. I see a great doom. My dear boy, watch out for a woman in a red coat. She has your doom written across her brow.”

“No happy marriage or children. No fulfilling career. No cars or great riches”, Robert had later reported to Ginny. “Just a great doom”. Even though he was faint with terror, he’d tried to make a joke out of it. But they’d left the carnival in a subdued mood and two weeks later they’d broken up.

Richard hadn’t been in a relationship since. Not a serious one, anyway. He’d been on dates but he could never commit because the subconscious, superstitious part of him thought it wouldn’t be fair, not with his 38th birthday looming closer and closer.

At least he was prepared, Robert thought as he watched Old Man Ute shuffle down the street.

His fridge was stocked. He’d blown off the few friends he had. There was wine on the table and DVDs by the television.

There wasn’t one single reason for him to go out into the great unknown.

This wasn’t going to be his last birthday, not if he had anything to do with it.

Robert shrugged on his dressing gown and before he opened the front door, he thoroughly checked the street for women. Particularly women in red coats. But apart from Old Man Ute, the street was empty. Robert tiptoed down to the letterbox, his eyes relentlessly scanning the sidewalks for even the briefest flash of red.

He was 100% focused.

He was the very picture of vigilance.

And he was so distracted he didn’t notice the milk truck that was driving a little too quickly and little too close to the curb, or how he’d gone one step too far at just the wrong moment. .





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