The rashness of Mr Young

Mr Greaves watched a dying bluebottle struggle on the windowsill of Mr Young’s green, pale office. He waited. Mr Young had caused him to wait on each of their previous three meetings and still they had not reached an agreement on Mr Greaves’ loan application.

Mr Greaves, dressed in a tatty old green jacket and second-hand brown shoes, smiled at the bluebottle. With a fizz and final injection of life the fly buzzed two loop-the-loops before coming to rest under Mr Young’s chair on the opposite side of the desk. Mr Greaves, toying with a piece of thread on his jacket, stared at the fly – and winked.

The door opened and Mr Young walked in. He looked immaculate in his Armani suit, pink tie and natty haircut. He smiled confidently at Mr Greaves, adjusted his tie, and lowered himself into the chair. He made no attempt to shake Mr Greaves’ hand.

“Mr Greaves. Good to see you again,” said Mr Young. His manicured hands shuffled some papers on the desk. “I trust you have your Christmas arrangements in place?”

“If by that you mean ‘Merry Christmas’, then thank-you. And yes, I do. There is just the little matter of…”

“…your loan. Yes.” A grave look came over Mr Young’s clean-shaven face. “Well, I’ve analysed the figures and I must admit they are encouraging.”

Mr Greaves smiled with relief, baring what remained of his stained and yellow teeth. “Thank goodness. I’ve had to borrow from friends and family so I could pay for tomorrow. I don’t know how I would face them all knowing I owed…”

“Yes. Quite. The trouble is, Mr Greaves, despite the encouraging figures, these are dark times. Credit crunch, and all that. So, with regret, I’m going to turn down your loan application.”

Mr Greaves sat grim-faced. His gaze was caught by the bluebottle, one of its legs flailing in a final effort at life.

“There we are,” said Mr Young, leaning back in his chair and glancing at his watch.

“It’s Christmas,” muttered Mr Greaves.

“Hard times affect the banks during the whole year, Mr Greaves, even when it doesn’t suit the customer. There we are.”

Mr Greaves raised his head and smiled with menace. He stared into and beyond Mr Young’s eyes. “That’s a nasty rash you have on your cheek, Mr Young.”

“What?”

The bluebottle suddenly flew up from its pending doom and hit Mr Young hard on the cheek. Mr Young held his face, astonished and confused.

“Good-day, Mr Young. If you need me, you know where to find me. Merry Christmas.” Mr Greaves got up from his seat and left the office.

Mr Young watched Mr Greaves leave the room. He sat and stared at the door, his hand still on his face, as an itch rumbled under his cheek. He took his hand away. A thousand scorpions performed a tap-dance where his hand had been. He dug his fingernails into the skin and scratched with vigour, his eyes shut and his teeth bared. He dug and dug until his fingernails snapped and blood dripped on the floor. But there was no relief.

Mr Young stretched his arms into the air and tried to steal some resolve. He stood, trying to ignore the volcano bubbling away under his cheek. He picked up his coat and packed his briefcase. He looked at his watch again. Four twenty. He had no more appointments – he could make the four-thirty bus and be home in time for dinner.

He screamed in agony, dropped to his knees and rubbed his face against the carpet. He savoured the burns burrowing into the deep cuts. A little light relief from the relentless itching. As he moved to stand he banged his head on the chair and noticed the bluebottle, legs flailing, sat next to one of the wheels. Without thinking he punched the fly and ground its shattered carcass into the carpet.

The itching stopped. Mr Young looked down at the patch of blood and subcutaneous tissue on the normally spotless beige carpet. He didn’t care about the mess. He cared only that the irritation had ceased. What he didn’t notice was the tiny patch of black and blue which amounted to the remains of the bluebottle. Not that it mattered – it wouldn’t be missed.

My Young smiled to himself and stood. He straightened his jacket, picked up his briefcase and walked out into the main part of the bank. Unseen by Mr Young the remains of the bluebottle twitched – one of the little legs kicked out. There was life in the old fly yet…

The customers and staff in the bank took no notice of Mr Young as he locked the door to his office and walked at a brisk pace towards the exit. A small child, bored and mobile, stepped in front of Mr Young and knocked into him.

“Hello,” said Mr Young.

“Hello,” said the child and stared at Mr Young’s face. “I can see your face-bone,” he said.

Mr Young glared at the child.

“You’re going to scream at me, aren’t you?” he asked.

The child nodded.

Mr Young sighed. “Good afternoon.” The child screamed. All eyes turned to Mr Young. Gasps and muffled screams cascaded around the bank. An open, gaping wound on the side of Mr Young’s face oozed blood and serous fluid down his chin and onto his expensive clothes. Mr Young held up his hand to the crowd.

“It’s fine. It’s fine. Just a scratch. Nothing to worry about.”

Ms Barker, the bank manager, rushed over to Mr Young, a look of concern on her face.

“Come on,” she said and ushered him outside.

Mr Young stood on the pavement and looked up at the glass-fronted building of the bank. The winter sunshine reflected from the panes of glass and gave the street an open, brighter feel – as the architect had intended. Mr Young touched his cheek, gingerly. The sharpness of the crisp day intensified the pain. He felt the itch spread into his neck and forehead. He looked down at Ms Barker and fought the urge to scratch.

“Thank you,” he said.

“What have you done to your face?” said Ms Barker, retching.

“I’m not entirely sure, Ms Barker. Ouch.” A new wave of intense irritation spread across Mr Young’s head. He dropped his briefcase and attacked his scalp and neck with both hands. Ms Barker vomited on the pavement as blood from Mr Young spewed over her clothes.

“Get that sorted before you step foot inside this bank again,” she said. She turned and fled back into the art-deco building.

The full-fronted wave of itchiness had calmed down but Mr Young’s head throbbed as he stepped onto the four-thirty bus. Tufts of hair had begun to drop from his head. He idly scratched himself and sat down next to an elderly lady.

“Merry Christmas,” said the lady. “And what are you getting from Santa?”

Mr Young turned and fixed the lady with a glare. His eyelids were missing. Half of his scalp has been scratched away. Nerves and veins throbbed, exposed amongst the muscle and sinew in his face. He felt the itch spreading to his chest and belly. He scratched himself harder and harder – his blood poured out over the old lady’s Christmas shopping bags.

“I was rather hoping for a new tie,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Oh, that sounds lovely. My husband lost his face in the war you know.”

“Really?” said Mr Young, bouncing in his seat to the motion of the bus. “How did he, you know, get it fixed?”

“He died on the way home,” said the old lady, holding on tight to the seat in front, fighting the motion of the bus. “1943, I think. I never heard from him again. You’re not him, are you?”

“No,” said Mr Young. He pulled off his tie and ripped open his shirt. His exposed chest was raw and bloody.

“Good,” said the lady. “That’s a nasty rash.”

“I know,” said Mr Young. “I think I need to get to a…”

An adolescent girl pointed at Mr Young and screamed. Passengers descended to stare and retch at Mr Young as he scratched and dug at the spreading rash. The bus screeched to a halt.

“Off the bus,” said the bus driver walking through the crowd and up to Mr Young.

“This is my stop anyway, ahhhhhh!” Mr Young pulled his shirt from his trousers and scratched at his groin.

“None of that,” said the bus driver and pulled Mr Young by the arm to drag him from his seat. Mr Young’s arm detached from his body and bled over the floor of the bus. Passengers screamed at the carnage – the bus driver stared at the arm in horror.

Mr Young sighed. “That’s less to scratch with now,” he muttered and grabbed his arm back. He stowed it under his good arm, picked up his briefcase, and walked off the bus.

His home was only a two-minute walk away. By the time he knocked on his front door (using his detached arm as a handy banging device) he was completely naked save for his pants. The rash had spread all over his back, down his legs and to his feet. He looked like a model of a human with its skin taken away. Still he scratched away at the itch now nestled into every corner of his body.

The door opened to reveal Mr Young’s beautiful wife, Mildred. She looked magnificent in her pink silk Viscose Halter dress, Chanel shoes and beehive hair. She screamed and slammed the door on Mr Young.

“I thought that might happen,” he said to himself. He dropped his briefcase, clicked his let hip back into its socket, accidentally knocked his own ear off, and began a long and, what he feared may be, final walk. There was only one place to go.

Twenty minutes later he found himself a couple of feet from Mr Greaves’ doorstep. His legs were gone and he’d abandoned his detached arm long before. His lungs were exposed beneath his chest wall and his skull had been picked almost dry. He had one remaining eyeball, the other having popped out just around the corner. He was using what remained of his good arm to drag himself up to Mr Greaves’ door, a trail of blood and slime left behind him.

Mr Greaves opened the front door as Mr Young lay panting, four inches from the step.

“Oh, hello. Mr Young I presume?” said Mr Greaves.

Mr Young nodded. His left eyeball fell out of the socket and rolled up to Mr Greaves’ second-hand slippers.

“Good to see you,” said Mr Young. “What have you done to me?”

Mr Greaves smiled and leant against his door frame. “I’ve done nothing. I merely commented on the rash on your cheek. It seems to have spread a little.”

“What do I need to do?” said Mr Young. He coughed up a large glob of blood. He tried putting his hand over what remained of his mouth but his arm fell off at the elbow. His face splattered on the concrete. “Please,” he said.

Mr Greaves sighed and looked up to the heavens. “All I wanted was for you to say ‘merry Christmas’.”

“What?” spluttered Mr Young, using the stump of his upper arm to reach a nasty outbreak of itching near what used to be his groin.

“I wanted you to wish me a merry Christmas.”

Snowflakes started to fall. Nearby, a Salvation Army brass-band played God rest ye merry gentlemen. A mother, arms laden with bursting shopping bags, hurried from her car to her front door. Mr Young’s trunk and exposed skull rolled over onto its back – eyeless and raw, an air bubble popped on his lips.

“Merry Christmas Mr Greaves. And to all your family.”

Mr Greaves smiled.

“I say, Mr Young. That rather nasty rash appears to be clearing a little.”

Mr Greaves turned and slammed his front door shut.