Half Light

It had been nagging at him all morning, like an itch demanding to be scratched. He busied himself with work, making calls and chasing leads, but the irritation remained. He had been here before, he knew that no matter how much he distracted himself the insistent craving would persist.

He had always thought of it as an itch. Perhaps remembering the childhood summer he spent with his arm in a cast and how he had been driven half crazy by the need to scratch as the plaster of paris irritated the skin beneath. He had experimented with half the kitchen utensils before discovering that a knitting needle was just long and thin enough to reach the spot. Christ, that had felt so good.

What the hell was wrong with him? Long ago he had decided it wasn’t the life he wanted. Wife, kids, nice house; that’s what he’d worked for all these years. So why this gnawing desire? Sure it had been fun when he was young but things that are enjoyable at twenty can be sad at forty. He had moved on, grown up. He would go for months without it even crossing his mind then he’d wake one morning and that old familiar urge would be upon him and in his heart he knew it wouldn’t be gone until he had satisfied it.

No, he thought angrily. Not this time. There was too much at stake. He ate the lunch his wife had prepared that morning. She was a good cook, he thought; a good woman. She kept him healthy, fretted over what he ate and drank, and though he complained this pleased him immensely. He wasn’t afraid to admit that it was thanks to her he had become the man he was today. A successful man, a man people looked up to.

He threw the remnants of his salad in the bin and forced himself to focus. He swept back into the office shattering the afternoon torpor. Bantering with the sales team, shooting off emails to the regional managers and barking orders at his assistant. His wife called and they came close to arguing. Their son had been fighting at school again. He accused her of overreacting, of getting hysterical. Sure he should know better but boys will fight, and he would rather the lad learned to stand up for himself than grow up a pushover.

The Finance Manager came in with the monthly figures and got both barrels. His growing irritability became outright anger as they went through the profit and loss account, the meeting ending with him roaring his disapproval at the results and hurling the cash flow statement across the table at the startled number cruncher.

He did something he hadn’t done for months and cadged a cigarette from the receptionist. He stood out the back smoking. He’d come too far to risk it all for a fleeting thrill. He thought of the kids, his friends, the career and the respect he had earned. He had a life now, he was someone.

The office was quiet when he returned; heads down, everyone studiously avoiding his gaze. It was good to chew one of them out occasionally he decided, remind them who’s boss. Eighteen years he’d been here, starting in the warehouse and working his way up. It had been hard graft but he had got to the top in the end.

He sat staring at his big cluttered desk, at his sales awards and sports trophies and the photos of his children that took pride of place. He imagined the reaction if he was caught. His wife’s tears, the stares and whispers of his staff, his name splashed across the local papers. Fucking hypocrites, he thought. They all had skeletons of their own. He wondered what secrets they were hiding. What shameful deeds they would rather die than have revealed to the cold glare of the world. He cracked his knuckles. Gazed through the office windows at the stark autumn trees. It wasn’t going to happen, he told himself. He was better than that. He was the one in charge.

He knew though. Even as he walked to his car that evening planning to drive straight home and slump in front of the TV he knew. He maintained the self deception as he drove in the opposite direction to his comfortable new house on the nice estate and parked up on the gravel next to a scrubby recreation ground and left his life behind. Just scratching an itch he thought. Just now and again. It doesn't mean anything.

Dusk was beginning to fall as he approached the place. Apprehension, excitement, shame. He felt himself harden as he stepped into the dank half light of the public convenience, slipped into the middle cubicle and waited.