Mushy would just have to wait. Static on the moving stairs and his bowels churning three litres of apple cider into hot sugar. He would not repeat the episode that earned him his nickname. He shifted his weight in agitation, the escalator packed with shoppers. The toilets were on the top floor. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of something, anything, else.

Crossing the Electronics Department towards the next set of escalators on the first floor, a moving column of stationary pensioners. His stomach, groaning nosily, reminded him of the need for haste. Ploughing on up, emboldened by drink, hauling at the plastic handrail, elderly tuts and shaking fists. The second floor.

This time, he took the stairs. Stopping to clench his buttocks, jolts of pain stabbing at his stomach. On the third, the fourth, until at last, his sweating, breathless body, reaching the top floor.

And hobbling bandy legged, crabwise into the toilets. A cubicle free; his luck turning. Pulling both pairs of trousers down, collapsing onto the pan.

And closing his eyes in sweet ecstasy as out from his body torrents flew, a gate open on a full to bursting dovecote, white birds tearing up a blue sky. His head rolling back against the wall. Consciousness leaving his empty, sated, body.

*

“Attention shoppers. The store closes in ten minutes.”

Mushy’s water grey eyes opening skywards to squares of polystyrene. Remembering them from school, how easily they could be loosened from their metal frames…

“Attention shoppers. The store will be closing in five minutes. Please bring all final purchases to the front for check out.”

Mushy opened the cubicle door and, seeing the room now empty, closed it. He stood on the toilet, poking a finger at a ceiling panel. It gave way. He slid it to one side. Mushy scrambled up onto the cistern and held the metal frame where the panel had been and hoisted his body inside, replacing the square.

Mushy hesitated and was ready to abandon his idea. Instead, he waited. It was very dark. A grid of soft cold light leaked in around the squares. He thought of Tetris.

“Attention shoppers. The store is now closed. Please make your way to the exit. Thank you.”

How clever he was. And they said he might be locked away. The looney bin. Ha! There was nothing wrong with him. His head was straight. He didn’t need assessed.

Mushy listened, seated awkwardly, metal digging into his backside. He could hear vacuum cleaners, the chatter and gossip of the cleaning staff. Soon, nothing.

The squares of light went out.

Removing the roof panel and lowering himself down, onto the cistern, onto the toilet seat, onto the cubicle floor. He peeked out from the men’s room. The Lingerie Department. He emerged slowly, into violet white emergency lighting.

And silence.

The top floor. Above, the great clock shone its full moon face, the glass sky roof black with night. Wooden balconies on each level, descending ovals to the grand hall, four floors below.

A big smile, and somewhere within him, an ember long dormant rekindled.

*

He stripped off clothes damp and sour. On this floor, he had his pick of fresh clothes. Passing naked through the aisles, he dressed as he went; a pink nightgown, slippers, a blonde wig.

With his bowels happy, his stomach grew jealous, and so he set about finding the means to satisfy it. He noticed the food hall from the balcony, on the floor opposite. On the way, photos of women in their underwear. Standing mannequins leered at him with eyes that could not see, barely dressed in lace and cotton. He was not interested; food for years now had been his main concern. Sex visited his mind rarely, like a lazy ghost.

Approaching the food hall and blinding light from the fridges, whirring treasure chests of fresh smoked salmon, cheese, sliced meat. Roast beef sandwiches with mustard.

Ravenous Mushy ate with relish, his beard spattered with yellow crumbs. He stuffed a handful of olives into his mouth, sucking thick silk olive oil from his fingers. He opened a can of cold coke and drank half. He sat down in the biscuit aisle, and belched loudly, fearing for a moment that someone might have heard.

But he knew that he was alone in this place.

Mushy had not had a drink in a few hours and his body began its familiar trembles in anticipation. It did not take long to find the spirit aisle. There was more alcohol than he could ever consume. And Mushy could drink. Vodka, rum, gin. He ran his fingers along a wall of glass amber bottles and noted their age; 10, 15, 21, years. He selected the oldest and cradled it in his hands: a single malt. He swigged from the bottle and molten bronze fire flowed down his throat into his body.

Ahhh.

The time on the great clock gave him nine.

He peered over the balcony, to the Toy Department opposite, two floors below. He went back through the lingerie to reach the stairs, since power to the escalators had ceased.

And here the red reds, blue blues and bright plastic yellows. The smell of Plasticine. From a child mannequin, Mushy commandeered a white BMX and merrily rode through aisles of teddy bears, jigsaw puzzles, plastic dinosaurs, all the time swigging life from the bottle of malt.

Security Room Monitor 7 studying the empty doll’s aisle. And into frame cycles a figure blonde, high white knees and pink cape flowing behind this manic Barbie. To Monitor 15, Mushy stopping weary, laying down in a red sports car bed, legs dangling from the too short end. Looking around lazily, swigging healthy glugs of liquor. Spotting the rocking horse. Rocking back and forth. Gripping the mane of false hair. Rocking back and forth. And the great clock, nearly midnight, blood swimming whisky waters. Rocking back and forth. His eyes heavy, head swamped. Rocking back and forth. And the great clock midnight…

*

Sunlight warm on Mushy’s face, head throbbing pulses of red pain with each heartbeat. Thirst. A spasm of terror. He had fallen asleep. Fool! The fear of discovery, of going back to prison. He kept his eyes shut. Mushy listened. Locked in, he would plead. Fell asleep on the loo. Nobody checked. When he woke up, the doors were locked. Nobody came for him; he would sue.

Silence.

And then the great clock chiming. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

Noon?

Eyes opened sticky with sleep.

The clock did read twelve, the hour hand at least; the second hand was spinning around continuously.

Where was everyone. Was it a bank holiday. Christmas. Mushy had no clue what day of the week it was. He didn’t work, he didn’t go to mass. Same shit, different day.

Maybe he would have another night in here, alone.

All right.

Mushy, drinking whisky from a bottle fresh, looked in the mirror with brown cow eyes, at his knotted hair, his food peppered beard, his pink gown. He would clean himself up. He checked the floor plan.

Around the oval balcony, to the Home Department on his BMX, sunlight streaming in through the glass roof. Cycling past designer kitchens and living rooms, to the mock bathrooms in aubergine, clotted cream, baby blue. He selected one in eggshell green. Abandoning his bike, he tried a bath tap finding, astonished, that hot water came spurting out. He mixed liquid soap with the jet of water and white bubbles formed, Mushy inhaling the clementine, the cinnamon. When satisfied with the depth, he added some cold water, disrobed, and gently lowered himself into the bath. Washing his face, his hair, his beard. Bliss, heaven, and bones long cold melting soft. Again, he slept.

The second morning, Mushy was prepared for people. The sky above heavy and grey, no birds, no sun. To the balcony and looking down on empty floors and the grand hall below, all empty. The air calm and still. The escalators jolt into life. Mushy went to investigate. He saw nobody.

He spent that night eating, drinking, and sleeping in a soft king-size bed in the Home Department.

The next morning nobody came. And the morning after that, and the next…

Mushy was not sure how many days had passed. He had slept when it was dark. He had woken when it was light. The great clock still read twelve and the second hand still spun. Had a month passed.

He had food, shelter, toilets, and a bed. Everything, really. Still, a creeping sense of disquiet was building within him. He thought about leaving the store. Had he missed his assessment. Another night came.

*

Monitor 26 on Mushy dancing naked with his harem of mannequins. Paper party crowns, record spinning music from a vintage gramophone. Mushy pouring ruby wine on the women’s greedy red mouths. Fruit filled silver platters on the long table. And then, in the silence between songs, voices.

Mushy looking puzzled at their wet lips. No sound from them. The music starting up again. Shhh his finger on mouth, now taking the needle off the record. Still the voices, the women silent. Coming from below. Mushy towards the balcony, leaning over.

With a three wood golf club, and taking the escalators down into darkness, momentary sheets of violet lightning silhouetting his body. The voices growing louder. Mushy descending.

The Electronics Department. All the widescreen televisions turned on, twenty-one luminous rectangles. On every TV, a chat show, in black and white.

The host said:

“Ladies and gentleman. Our final guest on the show has become something of a local legend. Currently lording it up in Kennington’s Department Store, please give a warm welcome to: Mushy.”

On the TV, emerging from behind a screen, a large dark bull.

Rapturous applause from the audience.

Slowly, Mushy sitting down to watch, on a scarlet armchair draped in animal fur. His eyes round and wide and a mouth of pointed yellow teeth.

The bull majestic, striding over towards the interviewer, stopping beside the empty chair. Licking its lips with a long tongue, the tail swaying.

Canned laughter from the audience.

“Why do they call you Mushy? Can you tell us a bit about that?”

“_”

Canned laughter from the audience.

“Dear, dear, old boy. That couldn’t have been much fun. Tell me, Mushy, how did you end up becoming homeless?”

“_”

Sympathy aahh’s from the audience.

“Mushy, did you know that you have over nine hundred thousand followers- and counting.”

Monitor 21 on Mushy in the armchair, his paper crown, leaning on the golf club like a sceptre. Mouthing the answers along with the bull.

“Mushy, I’d like to ask you. You have spent a long, long, time in Kennington’s. Are you ready to leave?“

The store’s emergency EXIT signs lighting up green and white.

“I think it’s about time now old boy, don’t you? Your assessment…”

Mushy clawing at the armchair, teeth gritted and the manic stare.

The bull’s head down and hooves grinding deep carpet, horns poised. A kinetic burst of power and the interviewer impaled.

The bull shaking a limp body free, black blood pools fast.

Canned laughter from the audience.

The bull running wild, up into and amongst the spectators. Body’s scatter like thrown playing cards.

The televisions die out all at once. A long silence.

Mushy’s large round eyes unblinking, bloodshot. A low moan from his wide mouth and saliva threading down.

Squares of black still glowing plasma. Air of static. The emergency EXIT signs go out.

Darkness.

Mushy marching up to the escalator. Ascending naked, brown sable pelt slung across broad shoulders. Above, his women waiting, a sky of glass, the music resumes, moonlight strikes proud horns.

And the great clock midnight. 

February 2016