Today the swan sang a strange lament before flying away.
I held a cup to the wall hoping to pick up some residue sounds but could hear nothing.
Others said they could hear a loud hissing noise.
Some said it was nought but tinnitus, I knew better.
The rush of air, the swish of watered wings was quite distinct.
I insisted but everybody laughed at me and flapped their arms about, everyone that is except a small man dressed in a shabby black suit, who sat close up against the wall with a hessian shopping bag held tightly against his chest, as though he was frightened somebody might snatch it away from him.
When he noticed my scrutiny, he hunched his shoulders and pushed in ever closer to the wall as though he might press through it and disappear into the hidden space beyond. It was then I heard the swans singing, and to my delight those around me heard them too.
Somebody shouted ” He’s infected us with his madness” and others took up the refrain.
I thought they were referring to the small man pressed up against the wall, then realized they were all starring at me.
The walls of the ill lit room started to vibrate , emitting a noise I can only liken to that of finger nails being drawn down a wet black board. The small man jumped back as though electrified and squealed ” It’s not my fault!”
“It’s his fault just like before!” Shouted an old lady .
“It’s the swans ” I shouted. “Surely you can hear them?”
“Rubbish!” Screeched the small man.
Plaster rained down from the ceiling and seeing no way of convincing those about me that I was blameless I turned on my heels and walked quickly from the long narrow room.