Frank unlocked his front door and stepped out into the porch. Under streetlamps glowing orange, he carried a bundle through the close, toward the rear of the house. In the back garden, he laid the bundle on the dark grass and fetched a shovel from the hut. He looked out along the hedgerows at the neighbouring gardens. Then he began to dig into the soft grass: the damp turf; the tough clay.

A light appeared in a neighbour’s window, reflected yellow in the sweat on Frank’s forehead. Digging made his heart beat faster and his lungs wheezed with the effort. Three times he stopped to rest on the shovel, his hands on the grip, a foot on the blade.

When the hole was deep enough, he bent over the bundle and loosened the worn blankets. A black Alsatian. Frank ran his fingers through the fur, feeling the ribs exposed by illness. For a moment thinking the dog still warm, he scrambled for a pulse, muttering ‘Lady, Lady,’ but he found no heartbeat, her ears remained soft.

Gently he lowered Lady into the hole and covered it with the earth.

Freaky Franky’s killed two dogs now. There was nothing wrong with Cleo. It was Lady that was sick. Stomach cancer. Mind how its ribs stuck out when it couldn’t eat? Used to be able to jump the fence.

Daft bastard had the wrong dog put down. The vet came for Lady and gave the jag to Cleo. It’s a sin.

Do ye know he watches the telly upside down?

Frank lay in bed awake as he did most nights. He tried to cast his mind back to a time when he was happy but could not; happiness seeming like the face of a friend he could no longer remember.

In the dark room there was light enough to see, spilling in around the curtains. He could make out the white radiator, the green walls; a cup of water on the bedside table, bending the light.

Frank closed his eyes, his mind spun. Sleep would not take him. Even with his eyes closed he could see light in red and yellow bursts, against a dark background.

He could remember a perfect dark.

When his mother was alive, he had a friend named Stanley. During the summer holidays, they set out for a stone quarry, the site of an abandoned underground bunker.

Entering a brick hut, they passed through a metal ribbed tunnel, sweeping torchlight along fire blackened concrete; an old telephone exchange; a television studio painted olive. Across a floor of charred mahogany (empty drinks cans, broken clocks), they descended graffiti covered steps to reach the Control Room; three floors underground.

Stanley, his face demented in torchlight, asked, ‘Have you ever known perfect dark?’

Then he switched off the torch. Blinking, Frank watched light die in flashes: greens, orange, red.

Soon there was nothing.

The dark was absolute. Frank was sure that his eyes were open but had to touch his face to make sure. He felt as though his eyes were flooded with octopus’ ink. He could see nothing at all; dark had new meaning.

In the distance, he heard Stanley chuckle. Frank saw the torch come on at the base of the staircase.

Then it was dark again.

Freaky Frankys not right in the head.

That cows lick, ‘thinks he’s Elvis. Kicking about in that suit and tie like he’s going to a funeral.

He tried to fondle his sister down the graveyard one time.

Do you know he sleeps in his cupboard?

His mother had died thirty years ago but her presence lingered in every room. He could hear her in the living room, You’ll never amount to anything Frank: in the hall, What will you do when I kick the bucket? In the kitchen, You better buck up your idea’s son.

Heartbeat was showing on ITV, the character Greengrass was upside down. A sudden thud hit Frank’s living room window; two more in quick succession. Frank righted himself on the couch and peered out from behind the curtains: the glass was spattered with eggshell; yellow smears ran down the glass. He watched two boys running up the hill.

Frank sighed and walked into his kitchen. From the fridge he took a lemon and bit into the wax skin. Then he moved his tongue around the bitter flesh, sucking the lemon juice.

In his bedroom, Frank opened the cupboard and tied an old school tie to the rail, pulling it tight. He thought of his sister then, by the moss-covered gravestones.

Under a sliver of moon, a fox moved in the shadows. Dirt hardened on a metal shovel. A yellow light came on, illuminating a square of grass. Earthworms moved soil through their bodies. Flesh hardened and began to bloat.

March 2019