right now... No, I’m in the car. There’s a hold up on Church Road... It’s a hybrid, sir, very quiet engine...”
Eric Sarson, the always tardy resident of flat ten, lied to his boss as he walked out his front door and pulled it shut behind him.
Denny waited for a few minutes to make sure he wasn’t going to come back, then smiled and sat at the electric piano in the corner of the living room, opening the lid and pressing the power button. He picked out a music book from the small collection on a bookcase nearby and flicked through it, selecting a piece of music and placing it against the stand on the top of the piano. Sliding the headphones on, he began to play.
Eric had moved in two years ago. Denny was always around when new people came into the building. As long as they weren’t moving into his flat, he enjoyed it. He liked to get to know them, who they were, what they liked to do, when they were usually out. He had been especially excited when he’d seen that Eric had a piano.
Ever since he’d found himself with plenty of time to fill when he died three years earlier, Denny had been wanting to take up playing the piano again. The trouble was, no-one else in the building felt the same way and he’d had nothing to play on. Then, after a year of frustration, a piano had entered his little world. And an electric piano at that, with headphones so no-one would hear him. Plus, Eric was out all day during the week, working. Denny couldn’t believe his luck.
So every day, after Eric left, Denny would play. He loved playing and would often spend whole days doing nothing but. When he was alive, his dedication had been sporadic as other activities competed for attention, work, family, social activities, women. But now he had the time, he was becoming good. Very good. His hands flew across the keys as he played Scott Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag. He liked to play all styles, but he had a fondness for the speed and dexterity and fun of ragtime. He closed his eyes, not missing a note. He didn’t really need the music anymore, but he kept the book open for back up, just in case he got lost. He rarely did nowadays.
After a few hours of playing, he took a break and headed down to flat four where Enid Johnson would be making lunch and hopefully baking some of her amazing cakes and cookies. Enid was sixty-five and had been in her flat since before Denny moved in. She was a retired chef and now spent much of her time indulging her passion for baking sugar laden treats for the local people. She made quite a bit of extra cash doing it. Her delicious baked goods were very popular. Denny had always gone to her when he needed something for a special occasion. She had made him the most spectacular novelty cakes for Jay’s birthdays, always able to produce whatever his nephew’s current obsession was, a truck, a pair of football boots, the Incredible Hulk. Now he just liked to watch her work. He couldn’t eat anything, which he was still struggling to come to terms with after three years, but he could watch and dream.
He stepped through the door to Enid’s flat and was instantly met by the warm, mouth-watering smell of baking cake pervading the room. He leaned back against the door and took a deep breath, closing his eyes in aromatic bliss. A sharp yap snapped him out of his trance and he looked down as Vanilla, Enid’s white Chihuahua bounded up to him, wagging her tail in a frenzy of excitement. He smiled and bent down to tickle her ears and she sat, her tongue hanging from her mouth and her eyes closed in doggy joy.
“Hello, girl,” he said.
He was never quite sure if Vanilla could see him. She was the only dog in the building and she always knew he was there, but he suspected she was responding to some kind of sixth sense animals possessed rather than an actual visual cue or his smell. He liked
Eric Sarson, the always tardy resident of flat ten, lied to his boss as he walked out his front door and pulled it shut behind him.
Denny waited for a few minutes to make sure he wasn’t going to come back, then smiled and sat at the electric piano in the corner of the living room, opening the lid and pressing the power button. He picked out a music book from the small collection on a bookcase nearby and flicked through it, selecting a piece of music and placing it against the stand on the top of the piano. Sliding the headphones on, he began to play.
Eric had moved in two years ago. Denny was always around when new people came into the building. As long as they weren’t moving into his flat, he enjoyed it. He liked to get to know them, who they were, what they liked to do, when they were usually out. He had been especially excited when he’d seen that Eric had a piano.
Ever since he’d found himself with plenty of time to fill when he died three years earlier, Denny had been wanting to take up playing the piano again. The trouble was, no-one else in the building felt the same way and he’d had nothing to play on. Then, after a year of frustration, a piano had entered his little world. And an electric piano at that, with headphones so no-one would hear him. Plus, Eric was out all day during the week, working. Denny couldn’t believe his luck.
So every day, after Eric left, Denny would play. He loved playing and would often spend whole days doing nothing but. When he was alive, his dedication had been sporadic as other activities competed for attention, work, family, social activities, women. But now he had the time, he was becoming good. Very good. His hands flew across the keys as he played Scott Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag. He liked to play all styles, but he had a fondness for the speed and dexterity and fun of ragtime. He closed his eyes, not missing a note. He didn’t really need the music anymore, but he kept the book open for back up, just in case he got lost. He rarely did nowadays.
After a few hours of playing, he took a break and headed down to flat four where Enid Johnson would be making lunch and hopefully baking some of her amazing cakes and cookies. Enid was sixty-five and had been in her flat since before Denny moved in. She was a retired chef and now spent much of her time indulging her passion for baking sugar laden treats for the local people. She made quite a bit of extra cash doing it. Her delicious baked goods were very popular. Denny had always gone to her when he needed something for a special occasion. She had made him the most spectacular novelty cakes for Jay’s birthdays, always able to produce whatever his nephew’s current obsession was, a truck, a pair of football boots, the Incredible Hulk. Now he just liked to watch her work. He couldn’t eat anything, which he was still struggling to come to terms with after three years, but he could watch and dream.
He stepped through the door to Enid’s flat and was instantly met by the warm, mouth-watering smell of baking cake pervading the room. He leaned back against the door and took a deep breath, closing his eyes in aromatic bliss. A sharp yap snapped him out of his trance and he looked down as Vanilla, Enid’s white Chihuahua bounded up to him, wagging her tail in a frenzy of excitement. He smiled and bent down to tickle her ears and she sat, her tongue hanging from her mouth and her eyes closed in doggy joy.
“Hello, girl,” he said.
He was never quite sure if Vanilla could see him. She was the only dog in the building and she always knew he was there, but he suspected she was responding to some kind of sixth sense animals possessed rather than an actual visual cue or his smell. He liked
Similar Books
