It was one of those days that couldn't make its mind up what it wanted to do.
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Morning delivered a mid-summer scorcher while afternoon nose-dived back to winter. In other words it was a typical spring day.
Eddie Curtain's eyes focused on the emptying street below his first-floor office window.
A lone figure propped against a wall near Harrys Boutique Barbershop caught his attention.
His jeans were painted on and his biceps flexed rhythmically beneath a pink t-shirt that was noticeably two sizes too small.
His head shone like a highly polished bowling ball and his overall look was that of an unloved rottweiler.
It was around five and Sophie Smyth, Eddie's office help, had already left for her regular appointment with her local optometrist, a Mr Archie Bannister, who she swore by.
His stomach growled and he reckoned if doggie hunger clocks were similar to humans' the rottweiler would bound off sooner rather than later for a plate of canine cuisine and a bowl of water.
The rottweiler had been sniffing around for the past week and it wasn't hard to figure out why.
He took the opportunity to clean the toilet and handbasin, and check the toilet paper situation.
His throat tightened when he recalled his mother's toilet paper fetish and hated that he'd goaded her about eco-friendly compared to standard brand rolls.
She'd smile and say "But Eddie, they don't come embossed and our tender parts deserve the softest tissue you can buy, now don't they?"
She'd wink and as far as she was concerned the subject was closed.
He ran his fingers through his father's thin hair and his mother's eyes noticed the strain. The mirror showed he looked older than his 30 years.
He locked his office door then buffed his name plate, which read Edward J Curtain, Private Detective, with the sleeve of his preloved jacket. He knew his parents would be proud if they could see it.
Walking to the kerb he looked in both directions like he was about to cross the road while sliding a cautious eye in the direction of Harrys. There was nothing to see, not even a loveless rottweiler.
Ridley Park was menacingly shadowed and damp.
The Regent, resembling an early well-lit Christmas tree, was showing The Charming Mr Johnson featuring the acclaimed British actor, Thomas Turgoose.
A feeling of desolation hung on him like a dark woollen waterlogged overcoat.
Swerving to avoid an ice cream puddle, he began sobbing for he'd only had one bite when it fell from his fingers onto the ground. His mother took a tissue from her bag, wiped his eyes, kissed his forehead then off they marched back to the Bubble O'Bill shop.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his face then moseyed on home through the evening twilight.
He'd only reached the sixth step to his second-floor apartment when a sudden heavy blow to the stomach knocked him off balance. The sickening crack of his skull on the hard vestibule floor sent shockwaves through the whole of his body.
Sprawled and unable to move, part of him wondered what was coming while the rest simply couldn't have cared less.
When finally he opened an eye, he saw teeth that resembled the sharpened keys of a baby grand.
"A warning Mr Private Detective, keep your nose from where it doesn't belong or it will be, er, curtains for Mr Curtain and you will be, er, one deady Eddie."
And with that the rottweiler gave a blood-curdling yelp, jumped to his hind legs, landed a swift kick to Eddie's shin then bounded out the door.
He lay there for what seemed 10 or 15 minutes praying to God that no one would enter the building. Nobody did.
Carefully rolling to the bottom of the stairs, he hauled himself slowly step by agonising step up two flights to his tiny one-bedroom dwelling.
The bridge of time and the waters beneath flow out and into an unknown sea and that sea is named Forever.
The COVID pandemic flung his parents, Brian and Jenny, off that bridge and into the vortex like countless others across the world. That was around 10 years ago now.
Since then he'd joined the force, trained and spent four years at various stations in the city. But when they insisted he carry a Taser, his conscience nagged till finally he felt there was no choice but to resign.
These things and others orbited his brain like unwanted space junk and when he finally fell to sleep he dreamt he shot a man at close range with a gun they'd made him carry.
Sophie answered when he phoned first thing Monday to say he had a migraine.
"Are you sure you're okay Mr Curtain? Don't come in tomorrow either, I'll hold the fort."
And he knew that she could.
Her job application a few years back had stood out for not being the usual AI offering.
She'd even included a poem she wrote: "I'm not a robot, I'm a human being, And stuck in a world that's an ugly scene, You can stick your job if you think this is funny, But I really want it cause I need the money."
She got the job.
2031 became 2032. The world was slowly recovering from economic disaster, violent weather patterns continued to cause havoc, power rationing was about to begin and people were stirring from their social media sleep. More clients began walking through the door too which was definitely a good sign.
Sophie was happier than he'd seen her and keen to chat about the new group she'd joined called Tree Friends. "You should come along Mr Curtain, they're a friendly bunch of tree huggers and they need new members."
He didn't have to think hard. It would make a change from bullies in pink t-shirts and skin-tight jeans.
He ran his fingers through his father's thin hair and his mother's eyes noticed the strain. The mirror showed he looked older than his 30 years.
