Pink (The final chapter)

Pink (The final chapter)

Irrational numbers, unlike irrational people, cannot be expressed as a fraction. Irrational people are not all there, half-baked or, for the decimally inclined, dotty. There was a lovely expression Rose's mother had used for the fondly eccentric: pink spiders, that was it. It was a term, Rose first remembered her applying to Mr Dunbar, the green-grocer. One evening, after dinner, when Rose was about ten years old, she recalled her mother, suddenly putting down her knitting, removing her spectacles and saying,

"That man is completely pink spiders." when this had gained the attention of those gathered, she had continued, "He totally upset poor old Edna today. She had asked for artichokes. The poor woman didn't know what to do, what with Mr. Dunbar pantomiming around the shop, asking her how her Artie choked. 'Maybe it was all the fancy vegetables you've been feeding him' Mr Dunbar shrieked, and he laughed, fit to burst, " Rose's mother leant forward in a confidential manner, "I was amazed that Mr. Dunbar knew that Edna's poor, dead husband was called Arthur. Pink spiders, that man. I tell you, completely pink spiders."

Rose smiled to herself at the memory of Mr. Dunbar's faux pas as she recapped the previous lesson with her class.

"Who can tell me what the definition of an irrational number is?" to her surprise, at least a quarter of the class raised its hand. She selected a boy who sported an innovative take on the regulation uniform. His tie was slackened off so that the knot hung below the top of his desk, his collar was raised Elvis- style and the neck of his jumper was stretched to encompas one of his his broad shoulders. "Yes, Higgs?" she encouraged.

"An irrational number has no other factors other than one and itself." he proudly recited, incorrectly. Rose nodded in mock solemnity.

"Anyone else help-out here?" she appealed to the class. Fewer hands went up this time. "Yes, Kelly?" she selected a known swot who was bound to get the answer right.

"An irrational number is..." the classroom door swung open. Mr. Williams kept his hand on the handle for a fraction of a moment too long and almost ended up facing the front wall of the room.

"Ah, Miss. Duck." he announced. The class errupted into peals of laughter. Rose winced, closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. "Er, I mean Miss Mallard." spluttered the the unfortunate engineering and technology master.

"Yes, Mr. Williams." Rose replied, raising her voice to be heard above the hilarity.

"I wonderered if I might have a word." suggested the, now, beetroot-coloured visitor.

"Of course. Right, that's enough everyone. I will be standing just outside the door. Please tell everyone what an irrational number is, Kelly, and the rest of you think up some good examples." Rose stepped, smartly out of the room, followed by Tom Williams, who awkwardly changed his hand on the handle to close the door as effortlessly as he could.

"What can I, possibly, do for you?" Rose enquired through tight lips.

"It was just that I have some tickets for the "Think Floyd" concert at the Opera House tonight and I hoped that you might come with me. I couldn't find you at lunch time." Tom looked sheepish and Rose could not help feeling a pang of compassion for the man.

"I can't tonight." She resisted telling him that the reason he could not find her at lunchtime was that she had been marking books in the care-takers sitting room. Mrs. Sanders, the care-taker, was a brittle old stick but she recognised a woman in despair when she saw one. Rose had been desperate to avoid someone and she was quite happy to provide the means.

"I've bought the tickets now. Surely you can do me the courtesy of not wasting them." he regretted it as soon as he had said it.

"Do you the courtesy! What about you doing me the courtesy of not interrupting my lessons with anything less than a fire alarm. In future, ask me if I want to go out with you before committing yourself to the expense of tickets. Now, go away. I do not want to go anywhere with you, let alone, to see some tribute band of saddos pretending to be rock stars." Rose dried the perspiration, produced by her tirade, on her thighs and returned to her class. Tom sloped off, back to his.

Rose was not in the habit of talking about her personal life with anyone. She felt sure that she had finally knocked the Tom Willliams thing on the head, but when Wendy Thompson, of the English department, asked her what the matter was, she found it difficult to keep aloof.

"Oh nothing, Wendy. Just Higgs not working as hard as I know he could." she lied. Rose had to admit to herself that Tom was seriously worrying her. In her mother's vernacular, she was beginning to think he was pink spiders.

"Look," said Wendy, " A few of us are going to the pub tonight to celebrate the good inspectors report. I know you don't normally like sociallising with colleagues, but you might find it fun." Rose was not sure how this woman had devined that she was stressed out. She also did not understand how Wendy knew that she did not like to socialise with workmates. Was it so obvious? She was not purposefully anti-social, it was just that she liked her own company. Her little flat and a good book was all she needed.

"Who's the few?" she asked casually,

"Just, Ronan, Harry, Jane, Flick and Tom, I think. " Wendy replied, she squinted up at the ceiling, as she strained to remember all interested parties.

"Tom Williams?" Rose blurted, the hairs on the back of her neck standing erect.

"No, Tom Bishop." Wendy smiled, she had noted Rose's reaction to the idea of Tom Williams but she did not want to frighten the little minnow, right now.

"Oh, the English department, then." Rose confirmed, it was good of Wendy to ask her, "I'd love to come. I can't drink much, mind you. I'm a one-drink-a-night gal." Rose thought it would be good to be amongst friendly people. She felt mildly uneasy about being home, alone, that night.

~~~~~~~~~

The pub was a dark, beer-scented, sticky-carpetted version of the staff room. The huge square room was only disturbed by the bar. A 1960s affair of varnished pine pannelling under a hammered brass top. Dusty, pewter tankards hung from the pelmet and a mirrored back wall was almost totally obscured by pyramids of alcopops and bottles of vermouth, sporting plastic pouring-optics. Rose was worried that her skin would look even more bizarre under the ultra-violet light that beamed down over certain areas of the floor. The gang sat at a table near the bar . It was high enough to eat your dinner from and big enough for all seven of them to sit around. Rose did not have to go to the bar once. In fact, none of the women was expected to brave the harsh light of the bar-zone. When it was a woman's round, she gave the money to the nearest man and he did the honours. This arrangement was taken for granted. Apart from the ocasional visit to the loo, Rose did not have to concern herself with avoiding the lights.

"If I don't get laid soon, I'll dry up. Being single is far more wasteful, seminally, than being hitched." positted Brian. He was a lanky English probationer., who, already, had a reputation for being witty. Rose felt a little as though she was eaves-dropping on someone else's intimate conversation.

"Don't mind Brian. He's always out to shock, Especially when there's a pretty girl to impress." Wendy whispered to Rose. Rose wondered what he would say when he was trying to disgust someone. "It's a shot across the bows." Wendy's metaphor was unfortunate, "He wants to let you know he's single."

"Are all you English teachers the same? Running in-depth commentaries on each other's utterances?" She asked Wendy. They both laughed.

"And what's all the giggles about, ladies?" Rose's blood chilled. She recognised the voice, even though she could not see the speaker. It was Tom Williams.

"Oh hi Tom. Rose was wondering if you might come. Nice to see you." Wendy pulled over a stool and obligingly positioned it between Rose and herself. Patting the top of it, she invited Tom to join them. Rose almost bolted. Her mind raced as she thought about how she could contradict Wendy's claim that she had wanted him to be there, without protesting too much.

"Tom." she greeted him curtly.

"I thought you would want to know that I managed to return the tickets." whispered Tom, but not quietly enough for Wendy to miss.

"What tickets were those, then?" she knew was being nosey but could not help herself.

"Tickets for 'Think Floyd'. " said Ronan. Rose nearly spluttered her drink all over the company. How did Ronan know about the tickets?

"Yeah, Rosie didn't feel up to it. Did you love?" Tom put a firm arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze.

Before she had time to think about it, it was too late. She should have stood up there and then and made a terrific scene. As it was, she did not want to make herself the object of their curiosity. She'd had a lifetime of being a curiosity. She shrugged-off Tom's arm as inconspicuously as she could, then she made her excuses and left. Tom snatched his coat up and followed her.

~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Rose had an almighty headache. She dragged herself out of bed, managed to squeeze five oranges and drink the juice before she was horribly sick, reaching the loo, barely in time. Not being a regular drunk, she did not know that acid, citrus juice on top of a complaining stomach was about the worst remedy for a hang-over. Fortunately it was Saturday. She returned to her soft, comforting bed and fell back to sleep. Her dreams were vivid.

Through a lilac haze she saw a brown, male cat attack a tiny white female. The white cat snarled and hissed but the larger cat dug his claws in more savagely. She squirmed to avoid the vicious onslaught but to no avail. The male, raped her and then, moments later, the female was pinned out on a disection board. An incision in her abdomen peeled back to reveal six beating beans. They were embryos. The embryos grew and burst out of their sacks to become big, brown, male cats. They turned on their helpless mother and devoured her. Rose woke, violently, the screeching of the mother cat in her ears. She shook her head but the screeching would not stop. The fire alarm!

Rose grabbed her dressing gown from the floor beside her bed. Pulling it tightly around her she smelt the air. She could not smell smoke. The alarm continued to pierce the air. She looked at the clock. Eleven a.m. . She pushed her feet into slippers and carefully opened the front door.

He pushed himself in. She struggled to slam the door, but his foot, in a thick-soled boot, was wedged in the way. She turned her back on the door and pushed with all her strength against the door. The boot remained firmly in place. With one powerful thrust, he flung the door open. She fell to her knees. Her hands stopped her falling flat on her face.

"For Godssake, Rose. I'm trying to help you. Get up. We have to leave the building." Tom was shouting at her. He was pulling her arm. His grip was savagely tight through her thick dressing gown.

"Leave me alone, you madman. Get out. Get out. Help! Help!" Rose screamed as loud as her lungs could manage.

"You should think yourself lucky. A freak like you. What other man would want you?" Tom screamed. Saliva coursed out of his mouth and nose and landed on the fluffy dressing gown. It lay there, on top of the cotton pile. Trancelucent and foul. A door banged downstairs. His grip around her arm slackened slightly.

"Anyone up there?" A man's voice called from downstairs.

"Yes. Help me. I'm being..." Rose could not speak anymore. She fell to the floor. Blood spread from her head in a slow creeping pool. Blood red. Rose pink. The terrace doors were thrown open and Tom jumped over the railings onto the soft bed of thrift.

"Get an ambulance." The fireman stood over her. Her translucent skin appeared like cream in a jus of raspberry, as the blood puddled around the marble pineapple. Somewhere, someone was playing "Bike" by Pink Floyd.

~The End~