Pestilence

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James Saracen carried a loaf of bread in one hand and a carton of milk in the other as he climbed the stairs to his apartment. When he got to the third floor he put the loaf under his left arm leaving his right hand free to search in his trouser pocket for the key. The pocket was empty. “God was it ever different,” he muttered, changing over the groceries. He found the key and opened the door; it swung back like a snowplough, clearing mail behind it. He closed it again with his heel and put down his things before clicking on the hall light and picking up the assorted pile of paper. A card to say that the electricity man had called, a circular from Safeways promising ten pence off washing powder, a brown envelope marked ‘Inland Revenue’ and a white one marked ‘Northampton’ which said it was a Visacard bill. Good, there was nothing to make him change his plans. It was Saturday, it was eight in the evening and he had promised himself something special. He was going to take off his clothes, get into bed and sleep until he woke up.

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