2

Kenneth’s feet beat an unsteady rhythm on the glistening pavement. His footfall is heavy, the heavier the better. He wants to leave a trail of his existence. The harshness of his rhythm is pragmatic too. The shudder through his body, the beat in his bones, soothe the voices in his head. Still them, if only briefly.

The mild winter sun pierces his skull, melts his brain. His body is slick with sweat and he reeks of something animal. He stops to mop his wiry eyebrows with the back of his hand and the voice invades. You are a worthless useless piece of shit piece of fruit apples kill you hate onion. Cut. Kenneth balls his fists and swipes the air. The voice is telling him secrets he does not want to hear. He marches onward. His wild grey hair leads the way and long skinny legs follow. His steps pound the path, punctuate the taunts. On—ion     cut     on—ion     cut.

He belts out a grave baritone. ‘The hills are alive with the sound of muuusiiic …’ His fists open, his march becomes a light two-step. He pirouettes. ‘With songs they have sung for a thousand yeeeeears …’ He pauses and listens. His eyes flick from side to side. He checks his back to see if the voice is there. It’s not. He skips along the path and sings. He hurls the finale into the quiet suburban air—a long reverberating note which leaves him breathless and elated.

‘Bra-vo! Brrraaaa-vo!’ He turns to the voice beside him and bows. ‘Genius. Pure gen-i-us,’ says the rusted mouth of a white letterbox.