piss crystals

Back in his flat, DI Mark Jones settles Masie.

She has just started to crawl, so the middle of his small appartment above the cycle shop on Barlow Moor Road is taken up by a gaudy play pen. The bars are white, with cheap plastic covering cheaper metal. There is a little gate, which does not open properly, and Jones opens it.

Inside, tender as sleep, he lays Masie down and changes her nappy. The nursery give her cheap ones. He changes it for a fresh Pampers one. On the nappy is a picture of a dancing teddy bear. Di Jones does not know why they bother adding the design to the nappy.

He stands up, shuts the gate and puts the old nappy in the food bin. (Jones is not really a fan of recycling). The nappy is so heavy that the crystals inside it have started to leak. The piss crystals spill on roaches, and blackening soft banana skins and jars of baby food. Jones looks out the back window. The view is not worth the light. He looks back at the sink. This sink used to be so clean. Sighing, he runs the tap.

The water does not remove the stains, it just covers it up. Mark Jones knows all about stains, professionally speaking. Stains on the clothing and stains on the ceiling and stains on the floor. Stains of stains of stains, dirty and sordid and unhidden, spilled over, spurted from exploding secrets. He shuts his eyes and turns the hot tap off. The boiler hisses as it cools, as it calms down from its seething. There is tiny silence in the kitchenette but massive deep silence from Masie. Di Jones walks over, hating the ceaking of the badly fitted fake white oak laminate flooring, kisses Masie on the top of her head and smokes a joint out the bedroom window. He has three kit kats and a beer for lunch, hating the way the lager and kit kat taste when they are mixed. He listens to 'Careless Love' and texts his sister. Then he wakes Masie (taking delight in her disturbance), cursoralily plays with her and feeds her. Her pushchair and equipment is already good to go.

Outside the heat has gone away. As has Mary Smith. She stepped out of her life as expertly as an actor from the stage, but Mark doesn't know about that yet. He doesn't know about her yellow coloured passion, nor her red coloured stains, not yet.

In the kichen the water dries in the sink, and the stain reappears. Mark Jones walks along Barlow Moor Road, slower than the schoolkids but faster than traffic.