B~Chapter one proper

It's me again. The narrator. Sorry you don't get rid of me that
easily.

I had to come back. I couldn't leave you witnessing a series of
seemingly pointless actions and conversations. Whether you want my
insights into Jim's brain cognition or not, the story won't really work
without them. It's better, too, than me putting you in Jim's head, the
first person, the optical view (as you will now get to experience
events that Jim is not a party to.) Trust me, my way is the best of
both worlds.

Anyway, back to business...

Through the open front door, out on to the hedge-bordered garden, comes
the shrill ringing of the telephone.

Jim sighs, and puts down the can and the book. It is almost certainly
Kelly or his mum (or, as an outside bet, Stan) because they are the
only people in the world - other than tele-salespeople - who call
him.

The answering machine has just crowned its apology with a couple of
pips, when he picks up the receiver with an intolerant "Yeah?"

Kelly's voice: "Oh sorry babes, didn't mean to put you out, how selfish
of me to want to talk to you."

Jim says, "How did you know I was in?"

"I didn't. Why are you in?"

"Sick."

Sarcastically: "Yeah, you sound like you're on death's door."

"Not flu sick - head sick. Stress."

After a longish silence: "Hmm. I think you're having one of your dark
moods again. Look, I'm sorry if I seem facetious, you know I get like
this after an early start. How about I drive to yours straight after
work and give you a big hug and buy you a pint? She seems nice."

"Who does?"

"What?"

"Who seems nice?"

"What are you going on about?"

"You just said: She seems nice."

"When?"

"Just fucking then."

"I never."

"You did!"

"I said I'd give you a big hug then buy you a pint . . ."

"Yeah that's right. Then straight after that you said, She seems
nice."

"Oh. Maybe I'm going mad."

"You're fucking loopy." Jim presses a thumb and forefinger to his head.
He senses a migraine in the post. A little visual disturbance obscures
his view of the sanded floorboards, as if he's stared into a lit
bulb.

"You want me to come round or what?"

Jim squints. "Whatever."

He looks down at the red light flashing on the white plastic box, and
presses play. At first faintly amused by a replay of the conversation
he has had only seconds before, he soon starts to cringe at his own
stinking attitude.

But then, ". . . How about I drive to yours straight after work and
give you a big hug and buy you a pint?" The recorded voice is muffled
and distorted. It's a cheap machine.

A pause.

Now Jim's voice spits through the feeble speaker. "Who does?"

Contorting his mouth to express disbelief, Jim presses rewind, then
quickly play.

". . . after work and give you a big hug and buy you a pint?"

Jim mouths the words, "She seems nice." But they don't come.

His petulant whine returns - "Who does?" - at which point he presses
stop.

Jim's state of mind: gentle bewilderment.

Okay, so you don't really need me yet. But you will do.