Robert Simms stepped in from the wind into his tiny flat in south London. The door rattled as he slammed it shut behind him, cutting out the sound of the bustling rush hour traffic from the road below. He wiped his feet on the brown welcome mat before bending down to pick up the post that lay in the middle of it. He chucked the post on the table by the front of the door and took off his scarf and coat, hanging them up on the peg by the door. He kicked his shoes off and tucked them under the table, picking up the post once more as he did so.
He shuffled through the tiny hallway and into the door on his left which led to his tiny kitchen. He flicked the switch on the kettle and the water began to boil. He prepared his cup, with his last tea bag, semi-skimmed milk that was just beginning to turn and icing sugar as he had run out of regular sugar the night before. Then, whilst leaning against the work top he flicked through the post. Most of it was junk, offers for cheap pizzas, discounts for the new curry house down the road that served even more unappealing food than the last curry house. The last piece of post was a speeding ticket. Robert remembered the flash he thought he’d seen last week when he was driving his car on one of those rare moments when he could get out of the endless traffic jams, he’d been going 34 in a 30 MPH. Typical thought Robert, he gets caught doing that but the ones going god knows how fast get off scot free.
The click from the kettle and the bubble of the water against the metal sides snapped Robert out of his silent rant and he turned to pour the boiling water into his mug. He swirled his spoon round the mug watching the water and milk and tea becoming one, in a hypnotic whirlpool. He scooped up the tea bag tapped three times on his mug with his spoon then dumped the tea bag into the bin.
Holding the mug by the handle Robert turned left out of the kitchen straight into his bedroom where he sat down on the bed and switched on his T.V. warming his hands with the mug.
He flicked through the channels, pausing on each one momentarily, and then continuing through. Once he had circled all fifty without finding anything of particular interest he settled on the news channel and took a sip of his tea. He grimaced and made a mental note that icing sugar does not make a suitable substitute for the regular kind.
He stared blindly at the screen. Various news reporters told their stories; a murder of a farmers wife in Yorkshire, a drugs raid in London, new ideas about memory. Robert was barely listening to any of them. He sat on his bed, back against the head rest, feet stretched out in front of him slightly crossed and both hands around his slowly cooling mug, a faint waft of steam rising from the top.
Suddenly without really realising it he stood up and walked to the cupboard size bathroom next to the T.V. He stood starring into the mirror, thinking things through.
He studied his own face as if seeing it for the first time. He still had a thick head of hair, black like his mothers, though the hints of a silver fox were emerging around the sides. He had a slim face but it held no joy. His eyes, blue, also like his mothers held no happiness yet no trouble. Robert turned on the cold tap, cupped his hands and splashed the cold water that filled them over his face. He starred at himself for a very long time, letting the water drip from his stubbly chin into the sink.
He decided that it would have to be now; it would have to be today whilst he was sure of it. Robert L. Simms was going to kill himself, and he’d do it in this very flat. The very flat he had spent the last 8 years of his life, the flat that was meant to be temporary after leaving university would be the flat where he would be found dead. He thought about who would find him. Not many people at his work place really cared all too much. His parents lived in Australia and would expect to hear from him, on average, once a month; any more would often mean bad news. Robert reasoned that the most likely to find his rotting corpse would be the Henderson’s from next door, they would eventually smell the body and find him, hanging from the rail in the wardrobe, long dead. This final thought sealed the deal for Robert, no one would miss him and once he was gone he wouldn’t have any worries left, no money to worry about, no worrying about food shopping, he’d never have to work again. This put a smile on his face as he dabbed it with an old worn out towel.
Robert marched over to the wardrobe a new spring in his step, soon he would be happy, and once it was over he would be ok.
Clothes flew out of the wardrobe still on their hangers as Robert set about clearing a space for him. He took a tie off a hanger before discarding the rest on the floor along side the other clothes. Robert had hoped for a proper rope but found them near impossible to find, perhaps Robert had wondered the hanging ropes were part of the poetic licence that Hollywood films seemed to be able to use on just about anything to make it easier for an audience to follow.
Never mind he thought, a tie would do just as nicely and perhaps it would give the slightly less remorseful of his colleagues a chance to say that he was “all tied up” when they found him. He checked the tie was strong enough then, when he was confidant it wouldn’t break, set about making his final preparations, leaving the tie dangling from the rack, ready for his neck.
