The Parable of the Man with One Left Ear and One Right The next day, as the wind toed the earth and the temperature ebbed and the sun rested an elbow against a crumbling high rise and the rain - with no appetite for the endless, periphrastic grind of transformation - snoozed in distant plumes, Tomas (former head of compliance at Newton Bank) stopped Marcus (erstwhile professor of anomalistic psychology at Twickstone College) and pumping hand weights, told him the latest. "I saw him again, through the window, thrashing that rat dog of his," he said, nodding toward number 62. "Bullshit Tomas, house has been empty for years." "Whipped it till it bled, only stopped when I walked by." 'Look, I need to get home, I need to take my echinacea," said Marcus, letting his dog pull him on. Marcus Delong (57) lived a predominantly irreproachable existence on the sunny side of Tunbridge Street - the best side - the side lined with pearlescent birch and veiled in wisteria. Unemployed or retired - he wasn't sure, but factually, he hadn't taught a single class since a student had stood and, with breathtaking stridency, branded him an eloquent dunce. Marcus had marched straight from the lecture hall into a pub and drunk till he was eloquent no more. He’d never returned and now spent his days - days that passed with no more impact than the thrum of distant traffic - walking his dog (Barney - bichon frise), perfecting his spaghetti sauce and mitigating his anger by re-enacting notable battles on his kitchen table with tiny figurines he bought off eBay. "You remember Dr Johnson?" continued Tomas, now running on the spot, "Only went out for halloumi. Guy just walked up and shot him between the eyes. Police claimed they caught the bugger, but I know better." Tomas Rand (also 'retired') had lived a a life lawned and boardered with veracity until a junior accounts manager spotted him spinning from a Lamborghini dealership in a gleaming lime-green Aventador. A frantic internal audit revealed the beach house in Kimmeridge, the triplex in Pimlico and the sports cruiser moored on a private tributary adjoining the River Dart. Tomas had fallen out the bank's doors with nothing to show for his years of diligent embezzlement save a withered bog plant and a crumpled non-disclosure agreement clamped between his teeth. “You’ve lost it, Tomas." Said Marcus, shaking his head. "You'll see," said Tomas, stretching a leg toward his back, "you'll see." That night, Tomas rang his mother, "I need to get back on the horse," he told her and before she could hang up, asked to borrow 19 grand to fund the R&D of an app that analysed sewage movement and utilised the data to predict fluctuations in commodity markets and corporate bond prices. His mother said no - no - as she poured another navy sour and switched back and forth between Coupon Crazy and Either the Mower Goes or I Do. Tomas waited two days, then marched to Marcus's house and knocked hard on his door. "I need to talk," he said, looking past him to the table where Napoleon’s army had just rounded on the village of Cairo Montenotte. "Saw him dumping rubbish in the garden. Black sacks - filth. More – He’s got a van. Awful. Never road legal: bald tyres, broken mirrors. And even more - he's huge Marcus, fucking enormous - looks like a police composite. " "For the last time, that house is empty. I've seen the foxes come and go like they owned the wretched place." "You remember the family at number 42," continued Tomas barely taking a breadth, "all sound asleep. Never knew a thing. Woke up - every present gone. Christmas cancelled the parents said. Imagine that Marcus. Cancelled!" Marcus slammed the door and returned to the kitchen table. He tried to concentrate, but as he ranged above Savona caressing a pikeman's cabasset between finger and thumb, Tomas's words returned: what if he was right; what if someone - something - had arrived at number 62. Although reluctant to legitimise Tomas's assertions, Marcus felt compelled to investigate. He grabbed his EMF detector and torch, pulled on a grubby Twickstone hoody and hurried away. The evening was muggy and moonful as Marcus crept toward number 62. Keeping low, he tugged at the porch door and the door, so enervated by decay, slumped into his arms. He laid it down and entered, moving slowly along the hallway. As he swung his torch ahead, he felt a material resistance, as if his hand was submerged in water. All wrong, he thought, this is where darkness comes to hang its coat, comes to be alone - I shouldn't be here. He continued on, picking his way across fallen debris until the hallway opened onto a high and cluttered room. Here, squatting beside a paraffin lantern reading a faded copy of the Financial Times, Marcus found Tomas. "I knew you'd come." "Do you live here now?" "If you think I’ve lost everything, you're wrong," said Tomas spreading his fingers across his head as if he feared the roof might topple down. "I just need to get back on the horse." "I know you do. And you will." "Tell me Marcus," said Tomas, holding the newspaper over the lamp's flame, "do you judge someone by who they are or by what they do?" "Are the two exclusive?" "Listen, he's a liability Marcus - selling guns, dealing drugs - and the people Marcus, such people! They can barely stand." Marcus saw Tomas's eyes moisten, saw his mouth - softened by the light from the flickering print - shift into a smile. "I think you might be right," said Marcus, backing slowly from the room, "I think you might be right." Bio: GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, The Airgonaut, The Harpoon Review,, The Jellyfish Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.
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