JASON & DEMARARA #3

A Saturday morning on the sofa. The tv is on, loud enough to hear, low enough to ignore. Jason, flicking through a miscellaneous book of noir films, thinks to himself, “Hmmm. When will Silverfinger be over?”

Demarara, sliding through the internet on a generic, refurbished Groupon tablet, trying to find a Greek island to flee to for a week, quits her task. Flaps close her tablet. Turns to Jason, lasers readied. Says, “What?”

Jason, shocked to find that he’d actually vocalised his query, along with pondering it, coughs. Slaps close his noir miscellany.

After a second’s thought, he decides to see out his faux pas by deflecting the laser beam boring into his temple by staring at the kitchen door, hoping that from behind its chipped façade, salvation was afoot. Not for the first time, Jason’s hopes for a pardon lay solely with an act of god, or supernatural occurrence. He’s thinking, the rousing foreplay of an imminent hurricane would be sweet music right now. Likewise, the chirpy, scratchy noise of plague of time-erasing marmosets assembling would sound fine, plus an improvement on the Florence and the Machine special that was trickling from Kerrang! channel, its potency enhanced by his gaffe.

Knowing that she herself was not particularly looking forward to Trilby’s visit, Demarara disarms her visual weaponry, but continues to track Jason. His neck trembles a little, but he mains resolute in his help from above, whether it be in the shape of thrashing gales, or tiny little monkey lads with the ability to pull time’s arrow back a minute or so. In a way, she thinks, it’s kind of admirable.

In a way.

She swivelled her eyeballs away from the kitchen,

“If you mean what time is my sister coming over, than three.”

Jason turns to her now. “Ah, okay,” he says brightly. He attempts eye contact, which Demarara accepts, briefly. Then rolls her eyeballs back to the tablet, which she reopens, refreshes, unlocks.

“So, Rhodes or Crete?”

Jason looks to his little row of Blu Rays. He reads through the spines, until he finds Mamma Mia! And thinks of its cover and Streep, Seyfried et al, captured forever in their leg-hitching, flower-thrusting glory, thinks how this has come to define Greece to him, along with its non-negotiable toilet paper policy.

“Is Sicily off the table then,” he enquires, patting her thigh.

“No, but I thought we’d agreed on Greece,” says Demarara, ready to reload her lasers.

“Oh,” says Jason, looking at his Godfather collection. Brosnan singing, he thinks. Jesus.

He looks at the tv, imagines Brosnan collaborating with Florence. He aches for the squall and chatter of many marmosets.

“She hasn’t bought a scratchcard this year,” says Demarara.

Sure, thinks Jason, cleverly keeping this one internalised. It must be a new hobby keeping her fingertips in that hue. Metal smelting maybe, or . . .

“I’ve booked Rhodes,” says Demarara, who then stands, pats his head, and saunters to the kitchen, which is devoid of miracles.

Jason smiles, reopens his noir book. He imagines Pierce Brosnan as his nemesis in a Greek noir thriller - Mea Culpa. He feels clever until he checks to see if Mea culpa is Greek or Latin.

“Yay,” he calls. “Can’t wait.”

JS Harding is a writer of satire, short stories, and novels.

Novelist (writing as LJ Denholm) - Under Rand Farm - available in paperback via Amazon and *FREE* via Kindle Unlimited!

Short story writer - Mr. Threadbare, Farmer Young et al

Humour writer - NewsThump, BBC Comedy.

Kids' writer - TBC!