Dylan Federico Pritchard is a short story writer who grew up in Rome but now lives in South East London. He is currently working on a novella about a cafe’ alongside a collection of short stories.

‘Spirit Level’ is from the collection. It’s a short piece of magical realism where an unnamed narrator starts talking to a photo of his dead best friend.

Email: dylanpritchard1@gmail.com 

Spirit Level

There’s a photo hanging on a wall in my house that gets the evening sunlight. We had it blown up as far as the pixels would stretch and put in a nice oak frame. In it, Theo wears an open shirt, his beaded necklaces, and a fedora; he is dancing, with smoke unfurling from his lips.

Often, I’d talk to this photo. It started with stupid things like reports on retreating hairlines and rowdy trips to The Conquering Hero. But then more serious topics came up, and these I’d save for when my daughter W was in bed and my wife S was out, and I’d turn a dining table chair, sit, and talk. Not always, the sitting. If it was a quick thing then fine, I’d say to him as I passed. But for a while there the chair thing was happening a lot.

What surprised me about my best friend dying was that everything got better, after. It was a horrible thing to think or say or write. I was thirty-three and he’d been gone three years and in that time I had had a daughter and got a well-paid job, a new house in a leafy part of London. No more drugs, and drinking became controlled, sparse.

This was bothering me, so one night, I turned the chair and asked him: Why has everything got better without you?

I sat for a time. But then I cocked my head because I thought I heard something. And then it wasn’t that the photo started talking, but I heard him, in my head. He said the gift of him going was that he’d taken our bad luck, terrible inner thoughts, that we were therefore happy and blessed now.

Prove it, I said.

Ok. On the luck thing: were you not trying for W when I was alive? he said.

I nodded.

Exactly. And when it did happen, the chances were tiny. You were worried about being a father, too, but you’ve been good – really good. Because without me, it’s just – better.

I agree – but why?

He coughed. It may be something you have to think about. Then another cough, then he was gone.

I stood up then and put the chair under the dining table. While rinsing a coffee cup, I had this feeling that W might be dead in her bedroom. I took the stairs two at a time and found her splayed out, between her soft toys and blanket, where she was breathing and clearly alive. I curled up on the sofa next to her cot and rested my hand on her back. Her breathing expanded into my palm, and I tried to let her warmth and smell and innocence guide me to sleep, but it didn’t, because I heard coughing from downstairs. I tip-toed back to the photo.

Did you use a spirit level, he said. For me?

No. Why?

I can see it’s wonky, from here.

I looked around. Where are you?

Don’t worry about that. Sort this out, then think about what I said.

He stopped talking, and I knew he was gone.

The next day it was nursery drop-offs and dog-walks and avocado toast. I worked, leaning on the marble dining table, staring at a laptop, taking calls about advertising slots on TV. I drank espressos, the taste of which seemed extra-bitter. I tried ignoring the previous night’s events, but at 1pm, the doorbell rang. It was a DHL man in brown overalls holding a thin parcel, maybe a meter long. I thought it must be for S, something for work. But the guy said my name, snapped a photo of it at my feet and left. I took it into the dining room and cut the tape, extracting it slowly, then pulled a chair opposite the photo.

Are you mocking me?

I knew that he wasn’t going to answer. I could just feel it. Then I looked at the photo frame and I could see it. It was skewed. The frame had two holes that slotted into screws. I used the level to check the screws and they were off kilter, clear as day. I went to the shed where I kept Theo’s tools. He was a builder. It had been a natural career for him as he had always been handy. His dad left his mum when he was two. And amongst her tears and bill-crunching, Theo saw he could be useful, and from then on he’d often be found with the contents of an Ikea flat-pack around him, keeping Sue’s world intact in one small way.

When he died, his dad gave me his tools. Things I’d never use: huge drills to break up concrete, triple length ladders, the whole lot. I found his blue metallic trunk and dusted a cobweb off the lid and cracked it open. I got the drill and filler and filling blade. I removed one of the screws and its plastic plug and filled it and then I drilled a new hole. I checked it and it was correct, level, and I knew Theo was back.

What now?

Nothing. No new tasks. Your boiler will go if you don’t change it, though.

Brilliant.

I’m going to go now, he said. I think you need help with the bigger question. Why things have been better without me. So here it is. Your thirtieth.

An artery in my chest twisted.

What? I said, then fake-laughed. Hilarious. Very funny. Don’t be a dick.

No man – I’m serious. That’s where the answer is. Your thirtieth birthday.

I stood up, started waving my arms and saying: You think it’s cool to come here, ghosting around, when things were going OK? I was saying all those types of things, screaming at the photo.

Well, he said. Maybe they aren’t. And then he was gone.

I packed his tools away, hoovered the dust from the sanding, and shouted: Fuck sake.

I tried to get to sleep but didn’t – I stared at the ceiling, knocking into S, my mind turning all night. The next day when the house was clear, I made coffee and got a pencil and opened a work notepad and started to write out by hand what happened at my thirtieth birthday:

*

Preparations for the party were underway. I had my cookbook open, pages of which were marked with yellow post-its. Outside in the garden, it was sunny, hot. A light gust bent the branches of the fig tree in the northern corner. Birds chirped.

Missing: guests, drugs. Each soon to arrive. I could have a bad party with good decorations and food, but I could not have a good party with bad drugs. Theo had been round that morning doing DIY and offered to buy them for me as my original dealer had fallen through. He didn’t mind, if anything, he’d make a bit of money. I said no. But then he insisted, and as I was in a very real jam, I huffed, then said: fine, as long as you promise not to get weird.

People arrived. Everyone held drinks and conversations and nodded about jobs and flat deposits, but then the first question came: when’s it coming? I made a calming gesture with both hands but was not calm myself.

After a couple of hours, a loud screech from the road came. I walked out, Theo was there. We hugged; he smelled of stale smoke and sweet aftershave; tattoos crept up his neck like ivy.

Nearly missed the steak, I said.

Happy birthday, he passed me a card.

I stuffed it in my pocket. What about the drugs?

Christ. Calm yourself.

He sparked a rollie and peered down the side gate, then walked into the garden. The other guests saw him; there were cheers.

*

I stopped. I couldn’t keep writing for whatever reason and was at the table again pretending to work. Then, I was walking, then talking to the corner shop owner and then smoking for the first time since Theo died. Then, At 10:30 am, I got a call. W was sent back from nursery for being ill. So I picked her up and spent hours slow walking as she looked for danger: putting screws in her mouth, pulling lamp cords; all while I took calls to pacify clients. Odd muscles in my back hurt. S called.

I’ll be late. The fabric’s in the wrong dimension.

No worries, I said.

Is everything OK?

Yeah, why?

W is screaming pretty loudly. And crying.

Oh, I said. Yeah. Better go.

I hung up and didn’t have the energy to stop her, so W cried until bedtime. After coddling and shushing for an hour, she calmed and I placed her down in her cot and when she didn’t stir, I tip-toed out, poured myself a pint-sized can of lager and took it outside. It was cold, windy but the light off the moon was handsome. I looked at it and lit a rollie and drew in the smoke. As I exhaled, a heart-cleaving cry came from above me.

I shut the backdoor and walked to the end of the garden and sat on the floor of the shed, between the lawnmower and pots of paint. I sat there for a long time, watching into W’s room, until a light flicked on and S appeared, soothing W from hysterics to comfort.

To get comfier I moved Theo’s blue toolbox and that got me thinking about him again, why we were even friends. You read loads of corny things about people first meeting their best friends and lovers – from the off, it was obvious, that type of thing. But what I remembered about us was this thing, our thinking faces. We had this furrowed brow look when we walked or thought or conversation was at impasse, and someone mentioned it one day:

You guys always look super-pissed, like someone’s punched your cat.

After that, we knew when the other was thinking a lot. Like when Mum died suddenly because my parents thought it was a good idea to hide her illness for my school exams. Which I sort of understood. But then the effect of not knowing, and her dying during my exams, meant it all came as a shock. And then I was in constant thought, and only he knew something was up. So I told him first because he asked first and then we watched cooking programmes and got high; and in some way, that was how I got over that.

I wanted to stay in the shed and think about Theo. But soon, W’s light went out, then the ground floor lights went on, and then the shed door opened, and S towered over me, large and righteous, and said:

What happened?

It’s crazy, I said, showing her my lit cigarette. I just really fancied one.

Why are you screwing your face like that? she said. Your eyes narrowed and all?

I’m thinking. It’s my thinking face?

What are you talking about? she started pointlessly tidying some screws, then threw them on the floor. Then she said: Second-hand smoke, by the way – meant to be really good for babies.

She wafted her hand, did a fake cough, then walked away. I followed. Inside, S cooked. She opened the fridge and pulled out a portion of fresh penne with pesto.

No dinner for W. I don’t mind you killing yourself, but, honestly? she said. I’d say not your best day.

S turned the tap on and held a yellow sponge under the running water. She cocked her head towards the boiler, but it made no noise.

I don’t want to be the grim reaper, but there’s no hot water.

The boiler.

She sighed: There goes W’s university fund. I’ll call a plumber tomorrow.

S left a plate of dinner for me and tapped me in the crotch as she walked past. I watched as she stopped for a second at Theo’s photo, and I knew what she was thinking then, that he would’ve fixed the boiler and anything else that was wrong and that I was useless, and then she moved on into the living room. We sat and laughed at reality TV programmes and when S went to bed I was meant to do the washing, but I didn’t. I kept drinking. Then, instead of walking upstairs to go to the toilet (scared of the creaky floorboard past W’s room) I took to the garden instead, staring at the moon as I turned a patch of soil by the hydrangea dank and dark.

Next morning, I woke on the sofa with a bottle of port toppled on the floor. I took a sock off and wiped the sticky crimson mess then smoked in the garden until S and W were gone. I felt jittery and that artery near my chest was twisting again. I went back and got the notepad out – the one with the story of my thirtieth – and I read the last line and started writing again.

*

In the garden, Theo made himself a plate of salad and chicken thighs and sat on the edge of the longest trestle table, where nobody was. He removed his rolling equipment from his pocket. Members of the party advanced, cautiously, to say hi. He nodded while rolling, his paper flapping between his lips. I approached.

Alright, I said. Shall we?

Theo huffed, flicked his cigarette, and walked ahead, towards the flat. Inside, he said:

Here you go. I’ve given you the biggest.

Cheers, T. Appreciate it.

I moved to the sideboard and poured out some of the powder. He lingered for just a second, watched, and then left.

In the garden I gave out all the little bags and they were received with smiles and hugs and kisses. The party moved and I moved with it, and everyone was interesting for those hours, everyone had so much to say, but for one person, sat on his own at the back of the garden.

You alright? I said.

Yes.

Why are you alone, facing the wall?

I am ashamed, he said. Of how much I hate this. And yet, I must be here.

The big green leaves of the fig tree shook and made a rustling sound.

He said: I did coke and have fucked it. A lot of it, and now I am completely inside myself. Self-hate is bursting, but there’s no place for it to go.

I pulled a chair next to him. I was feeling confident and very alive, knowing that I was throwing a good party. I thought I could help. I took out my bag of drugs and cut up two lines on a plate on the table and said:

Well, my friend. We all make mistakes, and with this particular mistake, there’s only one way through it.

The fig tree was still. The drugs sat before him and I waited to see his next move, but Theo just smiled at the wall.

Well…? I said.

I passed him the note. As he bent over and sniffed the line, I could see the six plastic discs for each year he was clean jangling by his thigh.

The following Thursday him and the team were dismantling a factory from top to bottom, starting by unscrewing sheets of steel from the roof and walking them to the edge and lowering them to the ground for disposal. Theo fell.

We said he should’ve been harnessed. They said he carried too many materials and didn’t see the hole where a Velux had been. Then, after years of building a case against the firm, Bristol Crown Court said their charges against them had to be dropped because of a toxicology report that had found recent drug use in his bloodstream.

It was that day that Sue, his mum, was seen leaving court muttering two words on repeat: Liar; Addict.

And I haven’t seen her since.

*

I put the pen down and shut the notepad and put it away in the cupboard. I drove to Perfect Plumb in Catford. The guy in there had webs of purple veins on his cheeks and he told me the boiler he liked – a HotHouse3000 – and I bought that boiler. He helped me load it into the car.

Back in my shed, I rummaged through Theo’s toolbox, I grabbed spanners and screwdrivers and tape. I watched a video where a bald man explained the basics. I turned the gas and water off, detached the pipes, then drained the remaining liquids. I did what he would’ve done. I worked it out as I went, pulling out tools I’d never used before – pipe cutters, descaling pump, meter and calliper – and got on with it.

The old boiler came off. With every task my mind deflated and I felt his presence growing. After a while the new boiler was on and everything was tight and sealed. I turned it on at the wall but left the gas and water off. It said on the manual to wait an hour. I could hear some rumbling from the machine. I pulled out a chair, turned it towards the photo and Theo was back.

I’ll turn the gas on, for you, he said. You need a certificate for that bit.

Thanks, I said. I remember, now. That pipe you fixed, before the thirtieth party.

Good.

In the bathroom. You made a mess; I thought you were making the whole thing worse. What about the drugs? And your mum?

I fell off a roof at work. Mum just needed the case as focus. How is putting my colleagues in jail gonna help? Concentrate. What else happened on the day?

You smashed my wall and it looked like it would never be whole again. I was getting worried. But you found the pipe and cut out the broken section. You patched the wall.

And…?

And it went from not working, to it working and looking better than before and that’s like me, because when you died I felt like I died, but I’ve cut the broken part of me out and I just wish I could’ve loved you then as I could now, and… Theo?

The room was quiet, again, and I thought I understood. All I heard were sounds of distant traffic and birds and the hum of the new boiler. Peaceful, normal sounds.

An hour passed and I was happy. I stood and put the chair away under the table. I turned and held the photo of Theo with both hands and pressed my cheek to his cheek, feeling his grainy beard on my skin, smelling for a moment his scent of burnt tobacco and strawberry gum after a long drive.

I checked the photo, watching the blob of alcohol until it sat snugly between the two lines. I put all the tools back and then saw it was time to get W from nursery. The sun had been bright all day; she’d have played in the garden and would need a bath. I cleared the space and went to the sink and turned on the tap. There were rumbling sounds and I stood, waiting, knowing that the warmth would soon come. ♦