Mr. Flood's Last Resort

by Jess Kidd

Away from the confinement of the downstairs cloakroom I remind myself of the following: There are more things in heaven and earth, but rarely are they this direct or comprehensible in their methods. I hardly read Biba Morel’s legal disclaimer, but if I had paid more attention I would have noted the words: council raid, booby traps, ingenious mechanisms, police caution. Quick reflexes and heavy cookware will turn the tide in all but the most desperate situations.

I look back at Bridlemere from the gate. From the street it’s a wall of dark green, a forest of leylandii grown up around Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

In Renata’s eyes there is the creak and pitch of a thousand ships and the moon on the water and the song of a sad drunken deckhand.

I stand in the hallway looking up at the Great Wall of National Geographics most days, like David turning up at Goliath’s with rubber gloves and a risk assessment and wondering where the hell to aim.

Why wouldn’t the dead be found roaming in supermarkets? Death, like life, is probably quite routine. Not unpleasant, just a bit dreary, the best any of us can hope for.