I remember. I’m alone in the house. Daddy’s gone to collect something from the chemist. I’m eight years old.
I like having the house to myself. I like quiet. Daddy always plays records when he’s here. The Monkees’ Daydream Believer is his favourite.
I go to Daddy’s special cupboard. It’s locked but I know where he hides the key. It’s tall and I carry a chair across the room so I can climb up to reach the top shelf.
I have the scent of that closet in my nostrils. A combination of dust, of human sweat and an earthy, fishlike aroma that clings to cheap leather.
The clothes are too big for me. The studded jacket reaches my knees and I don’t even try to get into the trousers. The shiny black peaked cap falls over my ears.
It is the mask that I remember most clearly. It fits the whole head and is soft and supple with holes to breathe through. There are rings and steel that lock around the neck, and there’s a lace tie back and a 12-inch zip.
Even at eight I feel the thrill of the leather on skin, my little heart flutters as I zip up and try to restrict my breathing.
Now, nearly fifty years later, I tell this to Cheryl, a new friend from the scene here in Fazakerley. She laughs delightfully as she turns up the Monkees CD to camouflage the noise of her leather crop thwacking across my unprotected haunches.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 