The man scurried along the emptying street. Eyes low and shoulders hunched, taking care to avoid extended periods of mutually acknowledged existence with passers-by. His grey coat was pulled tight around his abdomen, collar popped, shielding himself from the gaze of the gaping windows that rose up on either side of him. A spot of pink peeked from beneath an unkempt fringe, sniffing out a direct route to his front door.

With eyes fixed firmly on the shuffling feet of his adversaries he failed to notice the heavy clouds swamping the sky overhead which forced the sun into early retirement. Sheets of rain hung in the air and varnished the street with a slick oily film. Murky puddles swelled up at breaks in the curb and the green flecks peeking out between pavement cracks swooned as the light stream tugged wistfully at their mossy foundations.

Despite the weather's deteriorating mood, a sheathed umbrella swung limp and useless in his hand. Better to return home drenched than to be caught fumbling to keep dry.

He meandered down the street, finding cover where he could and pressing himself into the walls where there was none. A section of guttering gave way as he passed beneath it. Murky water splattered against an otherwise dry stretch of brickwork and lashed his back with an icy whip.

The thinning crowd - oblivious to his misfortune - continued its own meandering, an unrelenting torrent of greyscale which, in the pouring rain, gave the street the appearance of tv static. Were it not for the many pink noses sniffing out their own ways home the whole scene would've been rendered indiscernible. As it was, these gave shape to the scene, a story to the street, all these little pink-nosed grey-swabbed bodies racing back to the warm, dry, security of their dwellings.

What singled out this man in particular, what elevated him to the status of 'character', was that he seemed to be running in a different race. The same track, the same rules, but warped by a numberless iteration of the same, but not quite the same, journey. Everyone else was racing the rain, he was negotiating an obstacle course, of which the rain was only one component. It was unclear what the exact parameters of success were beyond arriving at his front door; but whatever they were, he appeared to be failing.

His eyes were shamefully dull and his breath was inconsistent, short gasps as he glanced side to side, transitioning into deep heaves whenever his eyes dared breach street level. Perhaps he was exhausted, his legs did buckle occasionally and presumably he'd been at work all day, but he scurried at an admirable pace so that seemed unlikely. Although what was the alternative?

Analysis of his journey was cut short as he came to an abrupt stop outside a tall red-brick building. It had once been social housing for local workers in the dockyard, but now housed the city's brightest young minds in half the amount of space and for twice the price. The outer shell of the building - for it was little more than a shell, the exterior having been weathered into a hard crust and the interior eaten away by a number of modernist remodellings - was unmistakably British; shoulders back and chest puffed it stood out proud against the neighbouring din of off-white and beige.

The groynes of cement, defiled by time's hammer and chisel, no longer formed a contiguous path connecting the battle-scarred bricks. Patches of moss grew here and there, and a few of the weaker bricks had shed half an inch or so, but the structure as a whole maintained its hearty stability. That its connective tissue was torn, and mossy spawns of necrosis blemished its earthy skin could not hide the beauty of British engineering.

It is surprising, then, that the man stood hesitantly outside, scanning the streets, whipping his head from left to right as if he dreaded being seen to enter the building. He stood on a fissured step, rain still beating at his back, and his hunched posture now presented as a symptom of the weather's evening ills.

His demeanour grew more frantic, like a caged animal fearful of its master's rage, patting down his coat pockets, squirming to reach deep inside the folds. Then he grew still, momentarily, before his shoulders sank and knees eased in an exhibition of relief; and, for a brief second, the rain appeared to hold its fire on the man, allowing him to escape into the building without further punishment.

* * *

For a few minutes the man was out of sight.

I had nearly lost interest before he appeared from behind the foliage that framed his bedroom-kitchen-diner window. It was open plan, gorgeous, the greys shades of the world outside were severed at the threshold of his window into blacks and whites, cut clean into sharp verticals and horizontals, each meticulously placed so as to expand the interior space while still forming functional furnishings. I could see the corner of a low set bed, black frame with white sheets; a small white coffee table flanked by a proportionally sized black bar stool; and an unblemished slab of white, one side cut like Greek marble into the form a sink, the other etched with the markings of an electric hob. Overhead a bright light shone, its luminosity dancing on the pristine surface which sparkled with delight, one could almost run their tongue across that surface and come away with their palate cleansed, ready for the delicacies of another course prepared upon the alabaster altar. The water from the adjoining faucet ran clear, oh so clear, an envious excitement bubbled within me as I regarded a charming little watering can catch the cascade in its gaping mouth. The flow ceased once it had received its fill and the can was put to work casting petite showers upon the luscious leaves, vines and budding shoots of the window's garden.

I hardly recognised its operator at first, so changed was his temperament from the degraded specimen who had all but crawled into the magnificent building. He stood tall, chest wide and raised, his arms sharp, yet held gentle against his torso, which rested with great stability upon his firm legs. His forearms extended out from his body with grace and control and his fingers gripped the handle of the can, binding themselves so tight one would be forgiven for fearing he intended to choke the poor thing. But any such fears were allayed by the soft cradle formed by his other hand, which soothed and guided the can through its menial, though noble, tasks. Once complete the can was dropped haphazardly into the sink to await its next payment. I winced slightly. Such recklessness could've damaged the sink's sculpted skin, fortunately the drained can held no weight and its empty body clattered harmlessly to rest.

Throughout the can's employment the man had maintained a composure that spoke to the success he enjoyed within his own line of work, disciplined and well drilled. There was, however, the slightest hint of anger as he emptied the last of the can's contents onto his greenery. I thought perhaps I had been mistaken, so assuredly had he managed the houseplants' nourishment, but immediately upon completion he stomped backwards and took a number of moments to glare at them. A shudder ran through his body.

Affronted by his indignance I rose to my feet, to wonder at that beautiful verdure, which he himself had cultivated, was a privilege many would kill for, and yet the man continued to glare, fists clenched in an Arthurian manner.

Then he struck.

The initial blow connected at the base of the tallest stem. The rim of its pot chipped, but the plant held firm.

A flurry of blows followed, none quite so forceful as the first, but in their numbers, they made a worthy opponent for the shrubbery. I gasped as the assault began - what a ghastly way to express one's point of view - something must be done.

* * *

I dared not dither, arriving outside his bedroom-kitchen-diner door just in time to catch another violent outburst; "Fucking houseplants. Good for my mental health, are they? HA." The door itself was aesthetically consistent with the interior; clean, simple, functional, and as I neared the threshold it morphed into a great slab of white marble and grew heavier in my mind. The thought that the door may incur some damage, should I need to force my way in, came to occupy my full capacity for thought; a scene of utter devastation projected onto my retina - snapped hinges, scarred paint work, clouds of white smoke exploding from the wounds - I trembled.

Inside, the man's ravings continued, "Get home from work, and I'm greeted by more work; cook, clean, water these fucking plants," another smashing pot was audible from behind the marble barricade, "why do you constantly need feeding? I just want some time to myself." An unintelligible yell followed this last sentiment, succeeded by a bassy thud, which sent a jolt through the entire hallway, returning my resolve. I could not allow this man to riot through his home any longer, door be damned.

In all honesty, I sympathised with him, his demands were arguably very reasonable; but they were expressed in such crude terms, and in such a barbaric manner, that it was hard to look past the damage and violence to consider this at all. A further indignant thud reverberated through my body and any goodwill I held for the man dissipated. I knocked on the door.

No answer. I knocked again.

Still no answer. The man's rampage had ceased the moment my knuckles had rapped upon the bedroom-kitchen-diner door.

The ambient noise of activity from the adjacent rooms had too died, and not a single echo came bounding up the stairwell. The entire building held its breath, outside, I am sure, one or two puffs of brick dust released from the walls in its struggle to contain this moment.

I placed my hand upon the door's argent handle, connected my fingers with its slender curve, and turned my wrist. There was a faint click, and the door yielded. A feeling of confidence washed over me as I strode in and secured the door behind me with parliamentary authority.

I turned back to face the interior and the building's score resumed. While I had hesitated in the corridor the room had received further abuse; vines had been ripped from the walls, the window sill had been cleared of all save one terracotta pot, the rest were strewn across the imitation wooden floorboards and existed in varying degrees of totality, the coffee table and its accompanying barstool had been upended; the stool still rocked but was losing momentum, and the table lay lifeless, legs stretched up towards the sky.

My eyes surveyed the scene, passing last over the dying movements of the stool before being drawn towards a soft panting. The man was hunched over, not unlike he had been on the street, but now stripped down to a matching set of underwear and socks. He dropped to his hands and knees without meeting my gaze.

He was a wretched sight but befitting a man who would destroy his own property in a fit of misguided rage. I knelt down beside him and placed my hand on the centre of his back with as much sympathy as I could muster. "Got yourself in quite the state there haven't you, tsk, never mind ay? Here let's get you up."

He responded not to my courteous words, nor to what should've been a rather unexpected embrace. Neither did he resist, or even acknowledge, my arms as they moved to coddle his chest and lift him to his feet. The panting persisted, and while steady, he was limp on his feet, and his eyes were fixed on some unobservable point in the far distance, or perhaps the near future - it was difficult to tell.

I guided him back to the crime scene and spread out his etherised body upon the alabaster countertop, its sterile surface now spoiled by spatterings of soil and dirty smudges where the man's body had made contact. I gave it a quick wipe down then lifted the man's head to rest upon the windowsill, his legs swung off the side, but his arms and torso were still supported, and his eyes bore on blankly, through me, towards that indefinite point in space and/or time.

I took up a recently purchased chef's knife from the sink and sunk the blade into his chest. I thought I noticed the slightest twitch of his upper lip, revealing a pained reaction to the insertion of six and a half inches of Japanese stainless steel into a gap in his ribcage. But on closer inspection his face was painted with relief, as if a deeply repressed sigh had escaped his barely parted lips upon the knife's clean entry into his lung.

I held the knife in position for a heartbeat then took it on a medial path until met with resistance in the form of his sternum. Then I removed the knife and repeated these actions on the other side of his body. I pushed down hard on the point where the two incisions almost met and cracked his chest open. Blood gushed from the open wounds, sourcing a pair of red rivers which ran in near symmetrical fashion off his body onto the work surface and over the brink where they dripped rhythmically onto the floor. The freshly opened cavity made it easy to reach inside his body and tear off bite-size segments of organ - heart, lung, liver, etc - and I stood there grazing upon the man's interior until I remembered that I had dinner plans and didn't want to ruin my appetite.

With no further use of the man's body, I cracked the window open and ushered his carcass out of the bedroom-kitchen-diner, letting it drop haphazardly onto the street below. Grey bodies scattered as it clattered harmlessly to rest upon the pavement, but I watched them return in their numbers, chattering away, investigating the disturbance, and perhaps hankering for a nibble of what I'd left on the bones. I closed the window.

I then set about achieving the primary purpose for my presence in the apartment - cleaning up his mess and tending to the fallen plants. It was a swifter process than I had first predicted, which was fortunate as it gave me a few extra moments to marvel at the sculpted slab upon which I had feasted. Even drenched in blood it maintained a rich white glean of clean opulence. I lowered my head, inhaling deeply, and the scent of vanilla with a metallic top note was lifted from its surface and ran through my sinuses, filling me with an impulse to lick it clean. My tongue gave an anticipatory tremor as I extended it into the river closest to the electric hob etching and began to lap gratefully at its waters. From off this decadent dining plate the iron in the blood tasted of gold and warmed my throat like a swig of well-aged whisky. I felt it settle comfortably in my stomach and I then decided against taking another sip, not wishing to tarnish that one perfect mouthful.

I mopped up the remaining blood with a cloth then noticed two plants out on the balcony which I had not yet tended to. They were petunias, and fortunately had not sustained any injuries as the man's protests had been confined to the bedroom-kitchen-diner, but it was clear that they were suffering greatly from neglect, their leaves rough around the edges, and the deep purple of their petals had dulled, and in places wilted to a muddy black. I wrung out the blood-soaked cloth over the balcony, then turned to offer the last few drops to the starving flowers.

A jovial voice arrived from the neighbouring balcony, "You alright mate?"

"Yes, yourself?" I said turning to face the speaker, who nodded and pulled his lips into a flat smile that signalled familiarity.

"Yeah, yeah not bad. Ain't seen you in a while, you should come round for dinner."

"Yes, that'd be nice. Not tonight though, I've got dinner plans already," I flipped the crimson cloth over my shoulder and wiped my brow, "speaking of which I should probably be getting ready about now."

"Ah, no worries, I'll talk to the missus, see if we can't schedule you in sometime next week. Is it a date?"

"Sorry?"

"Is it a date? Your dinner plans I mean."

"Maybe so."

"Good man."