Click to play SINGLE, YELLOW, MALE
Read by Greg Page
He’d been out walking in the woods and found a door in a tree. That was where the trouble started.
Mr Jolly tried the door; it opened easily. A set of stairs led down. At the bottom of the stairs, behind another small door, he found a round yellow man sitting on a chair. Who knows how long he’d been down there, or how he’d got there. If the neat pile of gnawed rat carcasses in the corner was anything to go by he’d been there for quite a while.
‘Would you like to be happy?’ said Jolly. It sounded idiotic, but down there, what else could he say? Especially when the stranger said his name was Sad. He could barely stand, and Jolly couldn’t leave him there. What if he’d been abducted and his kidnappers came back? Jolly took him by his hands, which were covered in scars, and gently led him home. In Happyland that’s what people do.
*
But after two months, Mr Sad showed no sign of leaving. It had been fun at first; having a housemate was like being a student again, and Mr Jolly took a modest pride in his efforts as a good Samaritan. Once he’d got Sad to turn his mouth up at the corners the place was constantly full of laughter; sometimes they’d both sit there for hours giggling about nothing. But although Mr Jolly was still happy (he couldn’t be anything else) he was also starting to be Mr Maybe You Should Move Out And Get Your Own Place. It certainly wasn’t doing him any favours with Little Miss Sunbeam.
‘I think he’s creepy, the way he stares at me sometimes, and he looks just like you, it’s not normal.’ Jolly just smiled at her; what else could he do?
*
Then Jolly got sick. Sad (well, perhaps, Not Sad Any More) was so helpful, he couldn’t do enough. Jolly felt guilty as well as ill, to think he’d wanted him out of the house.
‘Don’t you worry about work, I gave your boss a call and said how sick you were and he said to take as much time as you need,’ said Mr No Longer Sad. Jolly just smiled.
Jolly didn’t know how long he’d been ill for, drifting in and out of consciousness: a week, perhaps longer. The clock on his wall had stopped, he didn’t know when. All he did was lie in bed growing weaker and weaker. He could barely move; his day only punctuated by the arrival of Not Sad with a bowl of soup and a glass of water, and then later, when it got dark, a mug of warm milk.
‘I really think I should see a doctor,’ Jolly rasped.
‘Really? There’s no need to trouble the doc, just a bit of bedrest, that’s what you need. If you’re still ill by the end of the week I’ll call them. Now finish your soup.’
And he smiled, a smile of compassion and concern, and Jolly did what he always did. He smiled right back.
‘Oh I wanted to tell you,” said Not Sad, “I’ve got a job. Nothing terribly exciting, but when you’re better I think it’s probably time for me to move out. You’ve been a good friend, the best, but it’s time for me to stand on my own two feet.’. Jolly smiled weakly.
*
Had another week passed? Jolly couldn’t tell. He saw no one except Not Sad. He’d heard nothing from Little Miss Sunbeam.
‘Has it been a week?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I just think I should see a doctor, if anything I feel weaker.’
‘I think you look much better actually. Few more days and we’ll have you up and about, you’ll see.’
‘Has Little Miss Sunbeam called or popped round?’ asked Jolly, his voice hopeful.
‘No, though I did see her in the supermarket with Mr Handsome. They were laughing, and holding hands.’
Jolly smiled back automatically at Not Sad, though his heart really wasn’t in it. There was no sympathy in Not Sad’s face, and he knew now there’d be no doctor.
‘Now eat up, before your soup gets cold.’
‘Might I have a glass of water please?’ asked Jolly.
‘Of course,’ said Not Sad. He left the room, closing the door firmly.
Jolly would have to be quick, but where to pour the soup where it wouldn’t be noticed? Under the mattress would be best, Not Sad couldn’t look there without moving Jolly. Just as his bedroom door began to creak open Jolly noisily clattered the spoon into the empty bowl.
‘Thank you, that was delicious.’
Not Sad looked pleased, but then he always did, they both did.
‘Well, here’s your glass of water. You rest up, back to work for me, but I’ll see you later.’
‘I didn’t know you’d started your job.’
Not Sad just smiled and closed the door behind him.
*
It may have been only a few hours later, but Jolly felt better than he had for a long time, and ravenously hungry. He was still weak, though. He tried to stand. His legs were wobbly but he could manage it. Hesitantly, he crept down the stairs. Why am I so nervous in my own home? he thought. There was no sign of Not Sad. The living room was no different; Jolly was surprised at himself for thinking it would be. He went to the kitchen: nothing out of the ordinary. He was ravenous though: maybe just a slice of bread, then a bar of chocolate, then more chocolate. His weak stomach protested, clearly unused to the exercise, but Jolly felt better. Still feeble, but clear-headed.
With solid food in his yellow belly he thought about what had been going on. Had Not Sad been keeping him ill? Jolly felt bad for even thinking it; his friend had been looking after him. But a small voice in his head, made louder by the food, whispered, ‘Don’t trust him.’ Only one way to find out, thought Jolly.
He found himself knocking apprehensively on Not Sad’s door, the door of his spare bedroom. He told himself not to be silly; of course he could go in there. It was his house. He opened the door.
Everything was very neat and tidy. Nothing to worry about. Well, probably nothing, best to have a look around and make certain. Clothes, folded and pressed, all Jolly’s hand-me-downs, but weren’t some of them newer? Jolly couldn’t be sure but some of those clothes looked like ones that he still wore. Not that suspicious in comparison with the scribbled notes scrunched up under the bed. Was that Jolly’s own handwriting? They were all covered in signatures, and then right at the back, underneath the bed next to the radiator, was another scrap of paper; something that looked like it had been printed off the internet.
Rats are particularly difficult to get rid of with poisons due to their very nature as a scavenger; they have become patient in pursuit of food. Often they will eat a tiny amount and wait. They will invariably only continue if they do not get sick. For this reason any effective rat poison needs to have a delay in its effect in addition to being odourless and tasteless.
The principal advantage of anticoagulants over other poisons is that the time it takes for the poison to lead to death ensures that the rodents do not connect the illness with their feeding.
Jolly felt sick, but not in the way he had been feeling up until this morning. He made a run for the spare room’s en suite. Head down, he retched up the bread and chocolate into the bowl. And then looked up. Pasted around the mirror were pictures of Jolly; Jolly with Little Miss Sunbeam, Jolly with colleagues, Jolly and his parents. All of them smiling. Except Jolly didn’t remember being in any of those photographs. He’d never taken Little Miss Sunbeam to the zoo, or gone bowling with his co-workers. Those weren’t pictures of Jolly at all.
Jolly threw up again. Flecks of vomit and bile still around his mouth, Jolly stood and looked at himself in the mirror; his big yellow face smiled guilelessly back. He opened the door of the medicine cabinet, already suspecting what he would find there. Next to the toothpaste were sachets of rat poison. He closed the cabinet, and there reflected in the mirror was another big yellow face in the doorway behind him. Smiling. Always smiling:
‘You’re not well. You shouldn’t have got out of bed.’ There was no compassion in the voice. Sinewy yellow hands, like pincers, shoved him hard against the mirror. His head hit the glass, shattering it. Jolly saw dozens of distorted reflections of himself and his doppelganger in the broken glass as they fought, and there was red against the yellow. Jolly was weak, but his fear lent him strength: he pushed Not Sad with all his might and then, picking up a shard of broken mirror, barely noticing the blood trickling down his fingers, he slashed in a frenzy, and then tried to run. Not Sad tripped him, but Jolly lashed out with his foot and Not Sad lost his grip. Jolly ran for his bedroom: flinging closed the door, he bolted it from the inside. Everything went silent. What to do? Jolly tried to stop the bleeding, but the anti-coagulant in his blood was having its effect. Maybe he could run for help? But he lived alone, in a wood far from anyone else. He pushed the chest of drawers against the door and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. A single, splintering crack resounded as the axe thudded into the door. Then again and again, and in place of an axe head, a yellow face in the narrow opening:
‘Heeeere’s Jolly!’ followed by a maniacal chuckle. Jolly found himself laughing too, hysterically, and then stabbing with the piece of glass.
‘You’re.’ Stab.
‘Not.’Stab.
‘Fucking.’ Stab.
‘Jolly!’ Stab.
Blood poured from the face at the door, and then there was silence.
‘I am,’ said Mr Jolly quietly as he sank to his knees, shaking, his hands covered in blood. The shard of glass clattered to the floor.
It was a long time before Jolly moved, even longer before he looked out of the door. There, lying on the landing, was the body of his houseguest. Jolly watched it. No sign of movement. It was dark before Jolly left the bedroom. Sad looked dead, but Jolly hit him a few times to be sure. Now what to do? Call the police? What would he say to them? Would they believe him? Everyone in Happyland was so cheerful, at least on the surface, but murder was murder.
Weak and frightened, Jolly knew what to do. He had no place here any more. Taking the spare can of petrol from the shed, he doused the downstairs rooms. As he held the lit match he took one last glance at his old life. Had he really been so very happy? Looking back, perhaps not. As the house burned, even the worms in the grass laughed hysterically in the glow of the firelight. Jolly walked away from the bonfire of his old life, not once looking back.
*
Mr Jolly made his way through the woods, until he found the tree. In it he sought the small door. He squeezed through it and went down the stairs until he came to another small door. He went through the door and sat down on the chair to wait. He could hear the scurry of rats all around him in the darkness. His mouth began to turn down at the corners ...
(c) Giles Anderson, 2014
Giles Anderson is a father of daughters. He grew up in a variety of Sussex boarding houses. When not child wrangling, or pretending to work at a press agency he likes to write stories. He has been published in Litro and knows more about Dallas than any man should.
Aged six Greg Page was cast as Joseph in his infant school nativity. Somebody put a tea towel on his head and he became someone else. He hasn't been himself since. He can be contacted through roseberymanagement.com and has no idea what he's done with his keys.
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