Nigel

I'm sure.

With an enthusiastic wink, he passed the concave glass of crimson silt to me, ensuring his hand softly touched mine in the transition. My spine shivered but my lips smiled. I imagined all sorts of scenarios to stop this horrible nightmare; a sudden heart-attack, a case of the runs, a phone call from my partner. After several awkward seconds, I resigned myself to the fact that neither of these would occur.

He smacked his lips together to emulate the taste of whatever poison was in my glass, splashed across his tongue. Smack, smack, smack. Then he did it again, his bulbous eyes locked on mine. Smack. Smack. Smack.

I gazed down into the sea of serendipity, seeing visions of his middle aged body invading my own - a twisted prophecy, should I continue.

'About that room...' I trailed off, feeling nauseous.

'In anticipation, I have coated the walls with my own special paint.' I'm sure he had. 'It's a pale orange.' My favourite colour. Great.

Nervously, I took a sip of the juice drink, forgetting it was fermented. Any moisture, that my mouth had contained, was now lost. My eyes scrunched together as the wine washed down my gullet, infecting me with this man's juices.

'Mmmmm,' I feigned, placing the glass on a sticky book cover, piled atop some dirty clothes.

'Mmmmm,' he murmured to himself, rubbing his fore-finger repeatedly.

Any other noise was suddenly enveloped by a gargle from his stomach area. It was like a damaged washing machine drum was crashing around, spewing out air from its pipes. He acted as if the noise didn't exist, but there it cut through the air, twisting and writhing around my ears like a disgruntled cobra.

Then the noises were replaced by shrill ringing from his house phone. Thank God, if there was one.

I excused myself to the bathroom whilst he talked animatedly on the receiver. I was as slow as possible, each step like a turtle's to the tiny box-roomed lavatory. He'd empty his bag contents into this toilet. My nose wrinkled. He relieved himself in this loo, and all his poo bag contents. Poo bag. That's a good name, like a child trying to insult another.
After an excruciating ten minutes of standing there, I knew it was time to return to the buzzard. Slower than a milk float with a puncture, I descended the staircase and back to the previous floor.

'It'll be difficult keeping my hands to myself,' he chuckled in his whispery voice. I grimaced. 'Anyway, I must go. My afternoon's occupied.'

I entered the room.

'Will there be a lock on my bedroom door, should I stay?' I asked, hopeful, yet still conflicted in whether this really was the last resort or not.

'Why would you need one, my dear fellow?' he asked, pouring himself a glass of his special juice.

'For privacy.'

'Don't you worry, there's no need to keep secrets from one another. A lock won't be necessary.'

That poo bag.

'I see...' I sighed.

'Something's troubling you. Take a seat and we'll discuss our... secrets.'

I took a deep breath as he gently pushed me back into his dying leather chair, wine glass in hand, more for comfort in holding the cool glass than for any desire to drink the contents. My eyes darted away from the bulging package which now stood at eye-level, and I went to my happy place - a thought of actually living somewhere without such a disturbance.
He kept his hand on my shoulder for longer than necessary, after pushing me down, before taking it away.

'Becky's offered me a place to live,' I blurted out, uncomfortably.

His face slowly slumped at the mention of this "Becky", who wasn't really someone I knew, nor did I know if I could live there, but any excuse was decent enough, right now.

'Oh,' he whispered, taking a sip of his treasured wine, his gaze sliding to the window and its dusty crepuscular rays.

I shuffled in the chair, feeling the temperature rise with every passing second. Poo bag grumbles ensued.

'Anyway, uh, Lee's waiting for me, so I'd best be off.' I excused myself from the chair, struggling to escape the sweaty clutches of the dead leather, beneath me.

'The Archers are about to start, anyway. I never miss the Archers. You can see yourself out.'

With that, I stumbled down the stairs in a daze, finally on the path to escape. Opening the door to a much brighter world, I closed the door behind me, his eyes magnified and staring at what was my rear end.

I escaped and never looked back at that sad, lonely man and his best friend, The Archers, and his brother, the poo bag.