Digital Ischemia

31/10/2019

The Case of the Missing Duvet

A macabre, unexplained and slightly true mystery.
The Case of the Missing Pillow would of course be a witty title, but for reasons that will become obvious, like the tablecloth trick, that didn’t happen.

I wake in the night. After a few moments mentally orienting myself, I realise I feel chilly; I don’t feel my duvet. I spread-eagle and swish my limbs to reach the extents of the mattress, but nothing. I lean over each side of the bed, expecting to glimpse a patch of lighter dark on the floor, but nothing. I haul myself up to sitting and peer over the foot of the bed: nothing.

Bewildered, with no further strategy, I get up and head for the toilet. The corridor zigzags from a skylight outside my bedroom past a loft cupboard, the shower room, along beside the stairwell and under another skylight, to my sister’s bedroom door, at the head of the stairs.

As I approach the sliding door of the shower room, and reach my hand to the light switch, my eyes are still looking ahead, to where the corridor makes its next zig, or zag, beyond the end of the wall. I see that longed for patch of lighter dark protruding around the corner.

My duvet lies in a dragged, crumpled heap at the midpoint of the corridor. What dramatic and cool irony had it been my map of the world duvet cover, but no. Floral number. Pink. With frills.

With no street lights, at night that corridor is lit only by the moon or suspicious cloud glow. Such wispy whiteness is enough to find your way with sleepy eyes and feeling fingers and stubbable toes. But who is the figure wandering abroad, carrying the weight of a duvet?

Perhaps the child frets in her sleep, wrestling with the emotional challenges of yesterday and tomorrow, as translated into virulently coloured and textured blobs which loom and recede uncomfortably in her imagination. The awful weight of unflattering parental authority becomes manifest and externalised. Gratifyingly, it can now be physically discarded.

Perhaps the other child fancies revenge for any of a multitude of mean tricks: “the teeny grapes are the sweetest” and suchlike. That sibling awakes, tormented by the relentless cruelties. She contemplates screwing a Fisher-Price figure into an eye-socket. Kneading Play-Doh into hair. Spooning green poster paint down a manipulative gullet. Fisting nettles up the bum.

Perhaps upon the first sleeping child’s forehead an eldritch circle lights up, like a very small gas hob. Aurora strands dance out through the translucent skin and over the duvet. The fabric quivers then slowly lifts and drifts across the room. At the door it is abruptly arrested by snagging on a doorframe splinter then petulantly yanked onward.

A long time I have waited to resolve this conundrum. I shall know. There must be a perpetrator. There must be retribution. I shall have my glorious rewengay.

One hundred and sixty patient years later I shall approach the bed of my irascible irasibling, stepping carefully around the snoring chicken, wheeling silently my well-greased, domestic-sized crane. I shall arrange the rigging, lock its feet, and attach each of the four grabs to a corner of her moth-eaten, dribble-sodden duvet. I shall resist the exquisite temptation to toss every heavy object in reach upon it, including my dainty self, and said mini crane. I shall not press and press all the guilty air out of her malign lungs.

No. In a trice I shall reel up and float that equivalent quilted smotherance out, out and away. But only so far. I shall carefully, carelessly position it halfway down the corridor, ideally swiping it through some unspeakable filth. I shall melt back into the night. I may shudder considerably with stifled cackling.

Then I shall nip back to retrieve my incriminating hoist. One of the wheels will jam between floorboards or paving stones, and while I skilfully, silently wrestle it back into motion, I shall realise I still haven’t elicited a confession. Drat.

But then, I shall say nothing for millennia.

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