Rhinoceros 20
This time he was some kind of inspector of chimneys. All the houses in a street of council built semis had various tall, asymmetrical, fluted brick chimneys. As he went further down the street he noticed that the chimneys were becoming increasingly outlandish. Some were so tall that they were structurally unsound, with their additional pots sprouting from their sides, leaning out over the roofs. Alan went to knock on one door and a woman, young and attractive, opened it. “It’s your chimney,” he tried to say, “it’s going to hurt somebody.” But she just laughed. He went back to the street. Already the chimneys were wobbling, mortar crumbling and trickling down the roof tiles. “You’ve got to stop making them so tall,” he shouted as more people came out of their houses, all of them laughing. He gesticulated wildly, but his voice was getting weaker, turning to an indistinct croak. Then, in his rage and impotence, he watched a whole chimney come crashing down and he woke with a start.
There was the same ceiling, the cracks and stains seemingly a fixture now of his life. Why did no-one come to him? Why was he here? Perhaps the police or some other saviour would come along and take the whole problem out of his hands, relieve the burden from him. Perhaps even sort the rest of his life out. But he knew, really, that that would never happen. That the pain was all his, and his alone, to deal with. And even when it became a more distant memory, it would still be there, like an object left in his gut after an operation.
