Winston awoke at midnight. A light breeze swept in through the window, slowly moving net curtains. On a metal cross hung opposite, the moon lit Jesus magnesium.

It had been six days since the operation. He traced the small scar across his chest, counting six staples. He flattened a palm to the new beats of his heart, battery powered young pumps. He felt stronger, wide awake, he had an erection.

How odd.

As he slid out of bed, he noticed that he was fully dressed. Black cords that were a size too big. A red and white striped shirt in the style of a barber’s pole. Braces.

Leaving his cane, he walked to the en suite toilet. After relieving his bladder, he looked into the mirror and washed his face. He looked fresh. Skin that appeared a thin lilac yesterday, now resembled a sheet of strong copper. He brushed his teeth and smoothed silver strands of hair over his skull.

He heard music.

Winston turned off the tap. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth a little, to listen better. An accordion.

Following the music, he opened his bedroom door leading out into the hall. Fresh air enveloped him. He was confused and a little frightened, for instead of the hall, he had emerged into his back garden. He stepped back through the bedroom door and this time, found himself in the hall. He sat down at the desk chair, to collect his thoughts.

The light on the telephone was blinking red. He had messages. He hit the button and a robotic female voice said,

‘Winston, you have one unread message. Playing message, one-of-one.’

There was a delay of static before his son’s voice,

‘Dad, sorry we couldn’t be there for the operation. I looked at flights and they were pretty expensive. And work is mad right now… Angelica says hello, she tells everyone at school that her grandad is the Tinman with a new heart. Well anyway, call me if you need anything. I’ve got to go…’

Beep- ‘End of message.’

From the silence came again the accordion. Winston sighed. His thoughts were scrambled and yet physically, he felt better than he had felt in a long time. What mischief; who is responsible? He looked into the hall mirror and saw that his wrinkles had almost smoothed out. Yes, he was looking rather good.

He stood up and tried to open his front door, finding it locked. The door to the living room was closed. He opened it slowly, unsure what to expect.

Upon entering, he was back in his bedroom. A figure lay in the bed, perfectly still. In the room a powder blue, he could make out the shape of his dead wife Mildred. He floated towards her and the beatings of his mechanical heart intensified. Perhaps the batteries were poisoning him, sending him mad. Nickel, lithium, lead and acid, seeping out.

He bent over to peer into his wife’s face. In the light of the moon, he could see that her eyes were closed. She was smiling, a little vomit trickled white down the side of her mouth.

She opened her eyes wide, Winston recoiled, she said,

‘You never took me to the sea. You promised.’

Winston ran from the room and was again in his back garden, surrounded by high hedgerow walls. Out in the night time the mist hung in deep webs. A pleasant chill stung at his cheeks. Birds were singing as though it were morning. The thrush repeating chains of melody. The blackbird’s song of liquid gold. The harsh screech of a solitary magpie. And in the sky that silver moon.

The scent of the garden passed him a shard of memory. The more he tried to identify it, the more the details would fall away, like trying to keep hold of a handful of sand. He could only recall that it was a memory from his childhood, when everything was new, when life was full of possibilities.

Music from the accordion grew louder, seeming to emanate from beyond the hedges. He found a gap in the shrubbery and passed through, towards the music. He was on a narrow path through walls of green. He had to feel his away about in the dark, always following the accordion, its music a slow and melancholy lament.

He began to walk faster, emboldened by spurts of fresh blood surging through his veins. He imagined his heart a ruby from which liquid light burst phosphorous to the end of his limbs. Rubicund light from his chest dimly lit labyrinthine paths, until at last he emerged in the centre, into a small square clearing.

Here a chess board was set on a small round table. A large man in a long coat sat on a small stool behind the black pieces. He had the head of a bison and was playing the accordion. The fingers of his left hand pushed at the small buttons, the fingers of his right played the keys. All the time his arms stretching and squeezing metal lungs.

The bison set the accordion down onto the grass and pointed to the empty stool, behind the white pieces. As Winston sat down, cherry light from his chest flashed across the horns of the bison. He studied the board. It was clear to him that the game was in progress, that moves from each side had been made.

‘Check,’ said the bison.

Winston made the only legal move available to him, moving his white king, one square out of danger.

The bison said,

‘What to make of all this.’

‘Well, I’m not half the man I wanted to be,’ said Winston.

The bison sighed and moved his knight,

‘Check.’

Winston looked at the board with concern. His pieces were under enormous pressure, there were present threats from all angles and he could think of no way out. It was growing cold, he wished that he had worn his coat. A wind picked up and whipped up around him. The shelter from the hedges had gone. He glanced at the ground. The grass had changed into wet sand. He looked around at the open space around them. They were on a beach, he could see the sea stretch out over the bison’s shoulder.

Winston moved a pawn to defend his king. A delaying tactic, for defeat was imminent.

The bison smiled, sharp yellow teeth spilled out from thin lips.

On the horizon, he could see the curving of the earth. He was calm now, resigned even. He could see the sun coming up as if from the water, half expecting steam to rise up from its molten birth. On the shore, where the water met the sand, where it lapped in rapid waves back and forth, back and forth, sat his wife Mildred, in her wheelchair. She was splashing bare feet about in the water, her back to them both.

The bison made one final, decisive move. His black queen swept along a white diagonal path, trapping Winston’s white king, for eternity.

‘Mate.’

The sun had risen fully now. Winston thought how beautiful it looked. A vivid boiling orange. Purple peaches and cream bleeding into the clouds so that their colours bled into the sea. The water reflecting this melting of worlds.

Pieces of the sky now began to fall away, into nothing. Then the sea and the sand vanished. His wife had gone and soon the bison. Everything fell away until it was just Winston on a stool, the sun suspended in a sky of black. And when they too died out, he was plunged into eternal night, floating slowly alone in squid like ink, with red light only from his chest, and the soft dull thuds from the ruby heart.

May 2017