Nothing Too Dangerous

OCCUPIED

OCCUPIED

First published in Labyrinth Inhabitants Magazine, 2009

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The message was written on a long piece of loo paper, folded twice and wedged behind the last cistern of the Civic Road Public WC, Gentlemen/Disabled. John knew he only had a few moments before Father grew impatient and stormed in so he read quickly. It was in tiny block letters, like someone had tried to copy the way AUTOMATIC was stamped on the hand driers. It read: "England again! I'm getting to like the word 'lav'. Always reminds me of pubs. Please write back. Hide this in a different 'lav' somewhere. Maybe I'll find it. Cheers!"

Not replying to a message that said please would be rude. So John tucked it in his school blazer and washed his hands. Father was waiting outside the door, chewing a cigarette, tweed jacket buttoned tight. "What took you?"

"Reading a letter."

"Don't go reading anything in the toilets. It's rude. All by crazies and leftists. You hear?"

He nodded.

"Good. Polish your shoes when we get home."

John folded his school pants and hung his blazer on a proper wooden hanger and polished his shoes until they shone. Then he spread the letter on his desk and composed his reply in snatches between sums. He checked it for spelling, signed at the bottom and crept down the hallway past his parent's bedroom. The toilet had come loose from the wall and the message slipped easily into place.

He crossed out a day on his calendar that read 1988, Year of the Dragon! Be Passionate in Life, changed into his pyjamas and pulled up the covers.

* * *

When John went to brush his teeth in the morning there was a stranger scrabbling through the medicine cabinet.

John shrieked and slammed the door shut. Father shouted from downstairs, "Watch it, you'll knock the house down!" He clapped his hands over his mouth to keep the scream inside. The bathroom door stayed closed.

After a while he crept to the door and pressed his ear against the cold wood. There was a creaking of drawers, pills clinking in bottles. Finally, an excited squeal and the crackle of cheap toilet paper unfolding.

"Ah! England again!" The man coughed. "I shall begin. Hello. I found your letter. Only old people call it a lav. Why do you hide your letters in toilets? I am eight years old. Who do you think will win the football? Signed, John." The man coughed again. His voice trembled, as if he was terribly tired. "God, football. Sorry John, don't follow it. Not many tellies in bathrooms these days. You coming in?"

John didn't move. The door was slick against his palms. "Guess not, eh?" The man sounded unsurprised. "Well, I'll just write my little answer here..." There was a scratching of pen on paper. "And I'll tuck it in here, and that's that. Maybe next time!"

The door swung open and John was suddenly staring at dirty hairy knees poking through holes in denim. The man loomed, arms swinging low, skinny like butcher's bones wrapped in greasepaper. Little tufts of brown hair sprouted from his chin. His eyes were dark and sunken. He had a workman's boot on one foot and a sandal on the other, and at first it seemed like he was wearing a shirt of many colours, but John realised he was wearing many shirts, one over the other, with holes so large he could see the layers beneath.

He looked terribly sad.

Then the man stepped through the doorway and John fell back against the banister. He wanted to scream but there was no air in his lungs. The man had vanished.

Downstairs his father was clinking a spoon against his teacup. "Get down here and eat the breakfast your mother made before it gets cold!"

"Just a minute!" He crept into the bathroom. It was empty. He checked behind the door and in the tub. He was about to give up when he saw the paper peeking from underneath the soap. A note, folded twice. He pulled it free with trembling fingers.