Mr Happy; found God on a rainy day
Little Miss Lucky; born the Aryan way
Mr Greedy; heart disease piled on a fork
Little Miss Piggy; Gucci-wrapped pork
Mr Rush; sees everyone as an obstacle
Little Miss Fickle; it’s in vogue or it’s disposable
Mr Quiet; did the deed but will never admit
Little Miss Cute; because she’s totally worth it
Mr Cool; fool yourself that you’re his friend
Little Miss Foolish; stands by her man until the end
Mr Clever; managing director via stealth
Little Miss Shallow; through sickness and in wealth
Mr Crazy; thinks he’s back in the Hacienda
Little Miss Late; drunken fuck proof aborted forever
Mr Fidget; a quitter for years, still craves the hit
Little Miss Fake; hair, suntan, morals and tits
Mr Viagra; not quite the man he used to be
Little Miss Babe; on your arm but not for free
Mr Politik; full of ideals and clichéd rhetoric
Little Miss Skinny; target achieved, model anorexic
Mr Wager; prays his losing streak will finally end
Little Miss Bitch; a different face for all her friends
Mr Deprived; wife’s legs frozen closed out of spite
Little Miss Whore; anything you want for the right price
Friday 15 January 2010
What Would Happen If You Disappeared And Even You Didn't Notice?
A damp Manchester pavement runs like a conveyor belt full of people past the towering sentinels of commerce. Some peer in through glass frescoes that offer the world on sale today, others cling onto vain dreams of themselves draped in the latest disguise instead of the attractive mannequins on display.
Moving slow among the frenzied droves that swing bulging bags of designer gear around their heads - the stench of currency leering heavy in their nostrils – shuffles an old grandmother fighting against the tide, pushing on and making slow gain, counting the paving slabs along Cross Street. People exchange irritant glances at each other as they try to weave and dodge around her; she is an unwelcome obstacle in their strident path, she is ambling like an aging turtle moving to water, not able to keep pace with the rapid white waters that swirl along clasping plastic cups of chain-house coffee all the while.
The lines on her face map out every road walked, every journey made, every day ticked off on the calendar; through weary eyes she sees a world seemingly stuck in a fast-forward montage that has long since accelerated past her speed. She clutches a paper bag containing a sausage roll and a sticky iced bun from a nearby bakery, the pastry hot through the paper. Divine young couples dive in and out of bars and perfume boutiques with matching leather jackets and fancy scarves, they are all tan despite the time of year. Two young men in hooded jackets goosestep through the crowd that parts instantly to let them through. They are the type whose eyes rove across faces like violent searchlights in an attempt to meet the eyes of others. A teenage girl with a nose ring and black dreadlocked hair blows bubblegum and moves past, brushing the old woman with her backpack which is adorned with scruffy patches of various gothic insignia. One such patch – the largest on the bag – declares ‘I wanna fuck you like an animal’. A bunch of over-dressed middle-aged women guffaw and strut down the pavement in a chorus line, their stilettos clattering and scraping against the concrete.
And on the old woman trudges down Cross Street and into Albert’s Square, fountains dwarfed by the imposing spire of the Town Hall that is playing host to a Saturday afternoon wedding; the crowd of smartly-dressed well-wishers congregating around the blushing bride and groom by their horse-drawn carriage. A teary mother, a bored distant relative who doesn’t really know anyone, a horny nephew who can’t wait for the champagne reception. Three Chinese tourists with expensive cameras dangling from necks jabber amongst themselves, all three apparently talking at once as they point and shoot at statues, at trees, at the pigeons that peck at the cobbled square. A harassed mother drags a screaming toddler by the head, her tangled hair windswept and neglected. The siren infant escapes his mother’s grasp and falls upon the floor, kicking and beating his anguished fists against the dirt and cigarette butts. A sad reflection of the inevitable future character of the child being whittled and honed to bastardized perfection thinks the old woman as she sets her weary frame down on a bench.
She unwraps the paper bag with hands ravaged with arthritis; grateful for the warm glow of the sausage roll, a contrast against the cold nip of the winter breeze. As she enjoys the food pigeons start to show an interest, their senses aroused by the scent. A couple of the birds creep up, apprehensive by her feet and she tosses a few crumbs for them to quickly devour. Encouraged by the old lady’s kindness several shier pigeons land from flight and scuttle round the bench. She takes a last bite and scatters the crumbs onto the floor from the lap of her long skirt remembering with fond clarity feeding the ducks in the canal near her home with her young brother and sisters. A mere lifetime ago she thinks with a sad twinkle in her eyes.
She glances across the square at the wedding party as they assemble themselves into order for photographs on the steps of the Town Hall, before taking an indulgent bite out of the iced bun. She is hungry but still has a strange pity for the pigeons bobbing about by the bench and so breaks off a few more crumbs for them which they fight amongst themselves for. Simple pleasures she thinks to herself. All of a sudden, more grey-breasted pigeons begin to appear, swooping down from nearby tree branches, not one wants to miss any of the activity unfolding. One brave bird acting as an example to the others, lands on her bony knee but she is too busy enjoying her iced bun to wave it away. Following the lead, more of the birds wheel down, landing on the bench and on her shoulders, all eager to get involved.
Those on the cobbles scavenge at her dainty feet whilst the more adventurous hop along her legs and perch on her silver head. She barely seems to notice, she just keeps on stuffing the tasty bun into her mouth, icing smeared around her mouth from the urgency of the act, as more and more pigeons cartwheel through the air to cling onto her clothes, digging tight clawed feet into the thick wool of her cardigan and knitted shawl. They are silent in their numbers, just a feeding mass and as she becomes completely covered in the swarming creatures there is no resistance, no screams for help; the old woman just continues lifting the last of the sticky iced bun with an arm laden-heavy with the birds to her waiting open mouth.
Around the square there is no move to offer assistance, to raise the alarm. The mother has long since regained control of her wailing offspring, the Chinese tourists are stood a way off taking fast-paced pictures of the fountains whilst still chatting furiously amongst themselves, and the wedding guests are busy trying to fix even more prominent grins on their happy faces so as not to allow anything to sour the special day. The pulsing mass of pigeons are like bees round a hive, until they disperse and ascend in symmetry back up into the hidden depths of the trees, scattering away like thrown confetti leaving nothing behind, just an empty bench; no trace, no remnant, just a few discarded pastry crumbs ground into the cobbles of the square.
Moving slow among the frenzied droves that swing bulging bags of designer gear around their heads - the stench of currency leering heavy in their nostrils – shuffles an old grandmother fighting against the tide, pushing on and making slow gain, counting the paving slabs along Cross Street. People exchange irritant glances at each other as they try to weave and dodge around her; she is an unwelcome obstacle in their strident path, she is ambling like an aging turtle moving to water, not able to keep pace with the rapid white waters that swirl along clasping plastic cups of chain-house coffee all the while.
The lines on her face map out every road walked, every journey made, every day ticked off on the calendar; through weary eyes she sees a world seemingly stuck in a fast-forward montage that has long since accelerated past her speed. She clutches a paper bag containing a sausage roll and a sticky iced bun from a nearby bakery, the pastry hot through the paper. Divine young couples dive in and out of bars and perfume boutiques with matching leather jackets and fancy scarves, they are all tan despite the time of year. Two young men in hooded jackets goosestep through the crowd that parts instantly to let them through. They are the type whose eyes rove across faces like violent searchlights in an attempt to meet the eyes of others. A teenage girl with a nose ring and black dreadlocked hair blows bubblegum and moves past, brushing the old woman with her backpack which is adorned with scruffy patches of various gothic insignia. One such patch – the largest on the bag – declares ‘I wanna fuck you like an animal’. A bunch of over-dressed middle-aged women guffaw and strut down the pavement in a chorus line, their stilettos clattering and scraping against the concrete.
And on the old woman trudges down Cross Street and into Albert’s Square, fountains dwarfed by the imposing spire of the Town Hall that is playing host to a Saturday afternoon wedding; the crowd of smartly-dressed well-wishers congregating around the blushing bride and groom by their horse-drawn carriage. A teary mother, a bored distant relative who doesn’t really know anyone, a horny nephew who can’t wait for the champagne reception. Three Chinese tourists with expensive cameras dangling from necks jabber amongst themselves, all three apparently talking at once as they point and shoot at statues, at trees, at the pigeons that peck at the cobbled square. A harassed mother drags a screaming toddler by the head, her tangled hair windswept and neglected. The siren infant escapes his mother’s grasp and falls upon the floor, kicking and beating his anguished fists against the dirt and cigarette butts. A sad reflection of the inevitable future character of the child being whittled and honed to bastardized perfection thinks the old woman as she sets her weary frame down on a bench.
She unwraps the paper bag with hands ravaged with arthritis; grateful for the warm glow of the sausage roll, a contrast against the cold nip of the winter breeze. As she enjoys the food pigeons start to show an interest, their senses aroused by the scent. A couple of the birds creep up, apprehensive by her feet and she tosses a few crumbs for them to quickly devour. Encouraged by the old lady’s kindness several shier pigeons land from flight and scuttle round the bench. She takes a last bite and scatters the crumbs onto the floor from the lap of her long skirt remembering with fond clarity feeding the ducks in the canal near her home with her young brother and sisters. A mere lifetime ago she thinks with a sad twinkle in her eyes.
She glances across the square at the wedding party as they assemble themselves into order for photographs on the steps of the Town Hall, before taking an indulgent bite out of the iced bun. She is hungry but still has a strange pity for the pigeons bobbing about by the bench and so breaks off a few more crumbs for them which they fight amongst themselves for. Simple pleasures she thinks to herself. All of a sudden, more grey-breasted pigeons begin to appear, swooping down from nearby tree branches, not one wants to miss any of the activity unfolding. One brave bird acting as an example to the others, lands on her bony knee but she is too busy enjoying her iced bun to wave it away. Following the lead, more of the birds wheel down, landing on the bench and on her shoulders, all eager to get involved.
Those on the cobbles scavenge at her dainty feet whilst the more adventurous hop along her legs and perch on her silver head. She barely seems to notice, she just keeps on stuffing the tasty bun into her mouth, icing smeared around her mouth from the urgency of the act, as more and more pigeons cartwheel through the air to cling onto her clothes, digging tight clawed feet into the thick wool of her cardigan and knitted shawl. They are silent in their numbers, just a feeding mass and as she becomes completely covered in the swarming creatures there is no resistance, no screams for help; the old woman just continues lifting the last of the sticky iced bun with an arm laden-heavy with the birds to her waiting open mouth.
Around the square there is no move to offer assistance, to raise the alarm. The mother has long since regained control of her wailing offspring, the Chinese tourists are stood a way off taking fast-paced pictures of the fountains whilst still chatting furiously amongst themselves, and the wedding guests are busy trying to fix even more prominent grins on their happy faces so as not to allow anything to sour the special day. The pulsing mass of pigeons are like bees round a hive, until they disperse and ascend in symmetry back up into the hidden depths of the trees, scattering away like thrown confetti leaving nothing behind, just an empty bench; no trace, no remnant, just a few discarded pastry crumbs ground into the cobbles of the square.
Sex, Drugs and Siberius
“Who the fuck has been through my bag?” He floundered around the hotel room ripping towels from chairs and up-turning bed sheets in a greedy drunken rage. “Who the fuck has been through my bag? Cumon you cunts, one of you has.” Although he was addressing all those present – in the physical sense at least – who were laying siege to Room 691 of the Paradise Hotel, no one responded or even reacted to the question being posed rather forcefully by one of their party.
Two from the brass section were slumped at the foot of the king-size bed with a bottle of vodka cradled between them, their tuxedos in disordered array, sodden with many a jostled drink. Every now and then they would take turns to suck the fiery liquid with the avidity of if it were an oxygen mask. On the bed cavorted one of the dirty young flautists - a randy lead violinist licked her out as she in turn sucked on the cock of a sweaty pianist who kept his precious ivory-tickling fingers nestled out of harm’s reach behind his head of thinning hair. She sucked on it with all the animalistic lust of conjuring the high notes of birdsong during an applause-drenched solo.
“Who the fuck has been through my bag? I had some fucking amazing blow in there I’d been saving”. The salivating man cried as he berated each of the various ensembles of wasted creatures on the verge of euphoric inertia on the floor, their high heels wedged into the angel-soft carpet.
“Look in my cello case man. I’ve got some there” mumbled one comatose scoundrel as he propped himself up on the arm of a chair. His tongue was burning from the dousing of tequila indulged in abundance and head reeling from the rough speed ingested in the toilets.
“Well what the fuck is it doing there you fucking cunt?!” screamed the victim as the thief collapsed away from all accusations down beside another from the strings who was lost in a miasma haze of hallucinogens. He would be gone for most of the following day, he’d be lucky to be functioning and conscious for tomorrow night’s concert in the Savoy. A stampede through Siberius ; never pleasant nor remotely achievable when faced with an acid meltdown.
A plastic bag of powder was retrieved from the bulky case and fat lines of numbing freedom stacked up along the rim of the varnished-maple cello. The punch, the recoil, the impact like a boltgun to the brain. More crazy revellers burst in through the door, rabid from the remnants of the hotel club, to flail in perverse symphony on the beds and one percussionist thrust open the balcony window to holler into the cold night sky with a maniacal thirst in his eye.
Whilst on the bed in unspeakable ways a viola-blonde was pleasured with a piccolo. Another naked voyeur, fuelled by a champagne-ketomine cocktail did straddle a nimble and buxom clarinet harlot, her hide whipped by a searing horsehair bow to extract every last ounce of pleasure possible. More corks popped, more loads blown; the diminutive conductor was helpless as he was carried on shoulders to be thrown into an overflowing bathtub, where he promptly pissed himself on impact with the ice-cold body shock. One of the group who had peaked far earlier, turned and regurgitated blood and booze into the porcelain sink and all down the mirror.
Back in the main room the soporific stench of semen-drenched narcotics and sweaty flesh was copious in the air; the cello’s feminine curvature traced with powder again and again and the demented beast who beats the kettle drums was trying with all his might and alcoholic force to prop open the blustery window to the world below with the room’s widescreen plasma TV.
Two from the brass section were slumped at the foot of the king-size bed with a bottle of vodka cradled between them, their tuxedos in disordered array, sodden with many a jostled drink. Every now and then they would take turns to suck the fiery liquid with the avidity of if it were an oxygen mask. On the bed cavorted one of the dirty young flautists - a randy lead violinist licked her out as she in turn sucked on the cock of a sweaty pianist who kept his precious ivory-tickling fingers nestled out of harm’s reach behind his head of thinning hair. She sucked on it with all the animalistic lust of conjuring the high notes of birdsong during an applause-drenched solo.
“Who the fuck has been through my bag? I had some fucking amazing blow in there I’d been saving”. The salivating man cried as he berated each of the various ensembles of wasted creatures on the verge of euphoric inertia on the floor, their high heels wedged into the angel-soft carpet.
“Look in my cello case man. I’ve got some there” mumbled one comatose scoundrel as he propped himself up on the arm of a chair. His tongue was burning from the dousing of tequila indulged in abundance and head reeling from the rough speed ingested in the toilets.
“Well what the fuck is it doing there you fucking cunt?!” screamed the victim as the thief collapsed away from all accusations down beside another from the strings who was lost in a miasma haze of hallucinogens. He would be gone for most of the following day, he’d be lucky to be functioning and conscious for tomorrow night’s concert in the Savoy. A stampede through Siberius ; never pleasant nor remotely achievable when faced with an acid meltdown.
A plastic bag of powder was retrieved from the bulky case and fat lines of numbing freedom stacked up along the rim of the varnished-maple cello. The punch, the recoil, the impact like a boltgun to the brain. More crazy revellers burst in through the door, rabid from the remnants of the hotel club, to flail in perverse symphony on the beds and one percussionist thrust open the balcony window to holler into the cold night sky with a maniacal thirst in his eye.
Whilst on the bed in unspeakable ways a viola-blonde was pleasured with a piccolo. Another naked voyeur, fuelled by a champagne-ketomine cocktail did straddle a nimble and buxom clarinet harlot, her hide whipped by a searing horsehair bow to extract every last ounce of pleasure possible. More corks popped, more loads blown; the diminutive conductor was helpless as he was carried on shoulders to be thrown into an overflowing bathtub, where he promptly pissed himself on impact with the ice-cold body shock. One of the group who had peaked far earlier, turned and regurgitated blood and booze into the porcelain sink and all down the mirror.
Back in the main room the soporific stench of semen-drenched narcotics and sweaty flesh was copious in the air; the cello’s feminine curvature traced with powder again and again and the demented beast who beats the kettle drums was trying with all his might and alcoholic force to prop open the blustery window to the world below with the room’s widescreen plasma TV.
I Know Its Over?
I take a gulp of stolid air and push my head through the void of the noose. My makeshift gallows laying out the one-way road down which I navigate. Down here it’s dark, so dark the opposite direction has long since dissolved. With my tie pulled taut, a firm polyester hold, my head spins like a mental cyclone, shaking like a thousand snow globes. Breathing comes fast and strained, apple in my throat wrestles against the choking.
Upon this stool I am stood, a hallway statue in my house. A home it is no more; just a cave of angry memories, bitter tears shed in angst, long loveless silences filled to the brim with empty words. Here I shall swing; a throttled host to any guests, trussed and dangling like deceased meat on a butcher’s rack. One hand holds the tie as if on a rush hour tube, the other takes swig after swig of desperate vodka – the old friend who never walks out the door. The poison nectar cascades down my throat causing my eyes to burn and water.
Such vices are wholly justified when all you’ve had is gone. Job replaced by mechanised upstarts; a neglected wife who fled so far from wedding photographs that, like as if in a sepia motif, now look so old. Her grim walls of steel had been fixed in defence for years whilst I tried to melt them to the ground with booze instead of romantic diplomacy. This house soon to be invaded by bright young things full of idle fantasies of domesticity and matching furnishings. And my daughter? She drifted so far that when I tried to reel her in I would see only a reflection of my pathetic patriarchal efforts in the eyes of a young woman eager for the world. Where did she go, and what to do? Mere details that I discarded in an empty bottle and put out in the trash.
And so my time has come to sign out. Chest heaves and I almost gag on the iron grip of the noose. The Smiths are singing ‘I Know It’s Over’ on warm vinyl behind me as I brush away persistent tears now the end has.....
Knock knock knock.
For fucks sake. Quiet I must remain, a shadowy figure shifts through the porch but the front door glass distorts the clarity. Thank God.
Knock knock knock.
“Hello, anybody there?” a man’s voice rings through. Fuck, I left the porch window open; Morrissey’s doleful warbling will have reached him. With my luck it’ll be the police – you can be arrested for attempted suicide can’t you? If so I’d be caught bang to rights.
“Can you go away please?” I shout in strangulated gasps, my words slurred with drunken effort.
“I’m just selling double-glazing mate. Just lemme give you my pitch, only take a couple of minutes.”
I can’t fucking believe this. The second most important moment of my life, after my birth, is about to take place; the climatic act of my Shakespearean tragedy of a life invaded by a double-glazing salesman!
“I’m not interested. Go away.”
“Aw cumon buddy. Only 2....”
“Fuck off alright!” I scream. Blood rushes to my alcohol-scorched face as the absurdity of the situation becomes clear. Even when death’s curtains are encircling me, life has to claim the encore of laughs at my expense.
“Alright if you’re gonna be like that” he says with a sulky tone which suggests that he’s slightly hurt. “I’m leaving you a flyer though, and no mistake” as he begins to turn the front door handle to the porch. Fuck! I didn’t lock the front door; do my failings show no sign of abating?
He half-steps into the porch as he tosses his leaflet down – a skinny man of about 30, wearing navy overalls and a cigarette tucked behind one ear like a carpenter’s pencil. He’s just about to close the door again when he glances up and his eyes collide with mine through the glass porch door.
“Fuck me buddy. What the hell you doing?!”
Like so many times during my life I am quite unsure how to act. Granted there is no socially accepted code to follow in this sort of situation. Since I am stood on a stool with a tie fastened around my neck, Morrissey singing about feeling the soil falling over his head, and my face smeared with alcoholic tears – I decide it’s probably best to tell the truth. For old time’s sake at least.
“I’m about to commit suicide. What the fuck does it look like?!”
“Oh I can see that right enough pal” he says, wiping his nose with a finger and studying me up and down as if I were a potentially difficult window installation. “I mean you ain’t changing a fucking lightbulb up there are ya now!” he says, shoulders beginning to shake with amusement.
“Can you just fuck off and leave me here to carry on in peace?” I shout at him incredulously.
“Carry on?!” he says, eyes full of dumb confusion.
“Yes!”
He looks around as if weighing up his options, contemplating his next move. “Oh no buddy I can’t be doing that! I can’t carry on down the street after seeing you here getting ready to swing. If nothing else, my sales pitch would be severely affected”.
I don’t believe this; so now what?! He sets down his shoulder bag of flyers in a manner that suggests he’s not leaving anytime soon.
“Look mate”, I try a new approach. “I appreciate you trying to act the good Samaritan an’ all but I just want to be left to get on with this.”
“And I appreciate you acting the martyr, but you can’t go like this – there’s things we urgently need to discuss.”
“Like what exactly?!”
“Well, let me just...”
In an instant he produces a long thin file as if concealed in a sleeve, bends it round inside the lock and has the door swinging open in seconds. My mouth hangs open as he brushes himself down and stands there before me with a smile etched across his face as if expecting some sort of applause for his magic trick.
“There we go. I was an expert burglar in another lifetime. Had to y’know, tough upbringing, wrong side of the tracks.”
I don’t quite know what to say or do, my feet are sweaty and shifting on the stool. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I finally manage to ask.
“Calm down son, just thought we’d better have a little chat before you top yourself. You are certain about it yes? No going back?” he enquires to which I fail to answer. “Ah well, suit yourself. Saved by the bell though eh, me turning up like?”
“Well no, I didn’t wish to be saved and I haven’t got a doorbell, you knocked” I stammer. I feel it is vitally important to relay this information to him and let him know exactly where he stands on this matter but I only succeed in feeling substantially immature as a result.
“Aye yes, but if it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead by now, and no mistake” he says, wandering around the hallway, scanning the disarray of furniture and dirty cutlery piled high in the sink.
“And your point is...?”
“Well, that’s quite a scary thought isn’t it?”
“Yes and then you’d have had to carry on your way.”
“Yeh that’s true. I’m good but I can’t sell shit all to a corpse! Is that The Smiths you’ve got on there?” he asks, moving over to the record player to one side of me.
“Yes it is”.
“Good choice buddy, go out in style” he says, examining ‘The Queen Is Dead’ jacket sleeve. “Although you gotta go for the ‘Meat is Murder’ album – far superior in my book. And that’s a nice tie you’ve got there” he gestures with his eyes to my instrument of axsyphiation. It’s hard to tell but it seems he is bluntly sincere with each of his wild-eyed statements. “Although why you’ve gone for sky blue God only knows. It makes you look like you’ve hung yourself with a rosette or something” he chuckles to himself.
I’m getting quite desperate now. “Does it really matter?”
“Of course. You shoulda gone for the dour grey choice. Just the job.” I’m feeling increasingly invaded by his presence but he continues scouring the hallway, then into the living room where he moves over to the bay windows with an exaggerated shake of the head. With a finger he traces a line through the dirt on the glass and shakes his head further and if it has caused him actual offense.
“Excuse me, what are you doing?” I ask as the noose starts to painfully grip my neck.
“Well now. I’ve come to the conclusion that the predicament you now find yourself in can be explained and, if you’ll allow me to say so, be amended.”
“I don’t understand”. Palms continuing to sweat.
“Of course you don’t. Luckily for you, we at Beetham & Sons Windows Specialists understand perfectly well. And that’s why we’re gonna help to sort you right out.”
Within a momentary flash there are 3 hefty overall-wearing men barging through the hallway, giving me a courteous nod but barely even reacting to me balancing on the brink of suicidal intent. My head is flaming with confusion and despair as the men stride through to the living room, produce tape measures and begin to routinely size up the dirty bay windows.
“What...what’s going on?”
The first salesman steps towards me, leaving his colleagues to the work. “No need to worry old chap, just sizing up the target area, we’ll have em brand spanking new in a jiffy and you’ll feel a hundred times better as a result!”
“No...look, I don’t need any work done.”
“Ooo this is gonna be a big job this one boss”, shouts one colleague from the living room as the others take notes and measurements in small notepads.
“Your feelings of sadness now are a reaction to the discontent you harbour at the current state of your environment. Well we can help there right away! You’ll soon be right as rain!”
“No no no” I cry in growing hysteria. “Please go, I don’t need you here!”
“We fear he doth protest too much” grins one of the men to the first as he moves out into the porch to retrieve a large toolbox.
“Now sir” starts the salesman. “We really must get on with our work. We appreciate your concerns really we do, but I can assure you they are most unfounded. This is a family-run business, all fully trained operatives.” There is loud smash as one of the workers puts through one of the windows with a heavy mallet. The others scurry around laying down white sheets and setting out tools.
“Can we change this to something a bit more upbeat?” one of the men shouts to us, gesturing at the record player. Without waiting for an answer he skids the vinyl back to the rockabilly ‘Frankly Mr Shankly’ with a wide smile. “That’s more like it!” as the workers proceed to sing along loudly and whistle in time with Marr’s jangling chords.
“You’ll find we provide the finest double-glazing in the area. Very reputable, all clients happy”, he continues in a bright and airy tone that rises to be heard above the music.
“I...I..don’t doubt that. But you don’t understand me..”
More smashing of glass from the living room. The salesman continues, not even registering my useless protests. “You can rest assured that all our PVCU windows are expertly designed and planned and utilise high quality products and services - always.” My tear-filled eyes can only vaguely take in the carnage that my situation has descended into – a powerdrill shrieks as it tears into the shell of the house, ‘Frankly Mr Shankly’ ends and ‘I Know It’s Over’ comes on, only to be kicked back into ‘Frankly Mr Shankly’ once more by an eager worker.
“If you’ll just bear with me my good man, I shall pop out to the van and get you a quote. You don’t have to pay now, there’s no payment required for 3 months. It’s a pity you didn’t get an advance quote, you could have been eligible for quite a sizable discount. But nevermind all that now, the important thing is that with your wonderful new windows this house will be a home once more, and all your blues will fade clear away.” On his exit he turns once more in the porch and tips me a wink. “All part of the Beetham & Sons service and no mistake.”
The powerdrill ploughs on through paint and timber frame, burly men in navy overalls whistle as they work, The Smiths play on in an incessant loop, the smell of stale vodka in the air, its burning stain on my tongue, clatter of tools and peals of laughter, “do you think we could get a cup of tea please mate?”, take a gulp of stolid air – the previously sombre void now raped by awful surreal cacophony – as my blazing head still fills the ever-present void of the noose, and I step off the stool.
Upon this stool I am stood, a hallway statue in my house. A home it is no more; just a cave of angry memories, bitter tears shed in angst, long loveless silences filled to the brim with empty words. Here I shall swing; a throttled host to any guests, trussed and dangling like deceased meat on a butcher’s rack. One hand holds the tie as if on a rush hour tube, the other takes swig after swig of desperate vodka – the old friend who never walks out the door. The poison nectar cascades down my throat causing my eyes to burn and water.
Such vices are wholly justified when all you’ve had is gone. Job replaced by mechanised upstarts; a neglected wife who fled so far from wedding photographs that, like as if in a sepia motif, now look so old. Her grim walls of steel had been fixed in defence for years whilst I tried to melt them to the ground with booze instead of romantic diplomacy. This house soon to be invaded by bright young things full of idle fantasies of domesticity and matching furnishings. And my daughter? She drifted so far that when I tried to reel her in I would see only a reflection of my pathetic patriarchal efforts in the eyes of a young woman eager for the world. Where did she go, and what to do? Mere details that I discarded in an empty bottle and put out in the trash.
And so my time has come to sign out. Chest heaves and I almost gag on the iron grip of the noose. The Smiths are singing ‘I Know It’s Over’ on warm vinyl behind me as I brush away persistent tears now the end has.....
Knock knock knock.
For fucks sake. Quiet I must remain, a shadowy figure shifts through the porch but the front door glass distorts the clarity. Thank God.
Knock knock knock.
“Hello, anybody there?” a man’s voice rings through. Fuck, I left the porch window open; Morrissey’s doleful warbling will have reached him. With my luck it’ll be the police – you can be arrested for attempted suicide can’t you? If so I’d be caught bang to rights.
“Can you go away please?” I shout in strangulated gasps, my words slurred with drunken effort.
“I’m just selling double-glazing mate. Just lemme give you my pitch, only take a couple of minutes.”
I can’t fucking believe this. The second most important moment of my life, after my birth, is about to take place; the climatic act of my Shakespearean tragedy of a life invaded by a double-glazing salesman!
“I’m not interested. Go away.”
“Aw cumon buddy. Only 2....”
“Fuck off alright!” I scream. Blood rushes to my alcohol-scorched face as the absurdity of the situation becomes clear. Even when death’s curtains are encircling me, life has to claim the encore of laughs at my expense.
“Alright if you’re gonna be like that” he says with a sulky tone which suggests that he’s slightly hurt. “I’m leaving you a flyer though, and no mistake” as he begins to turn the front door handle to the porch. Fuck! I didn’t lock the front door; do my failings show no sign of abating?
He half-steps into the porch as he tosses his leaflet down – a skinny man of about 30, wearing navy overalls and a cigarette tucked behind one ear like a carpenter’s pencil. He’s just about to close the door again when he glances up and his eyes collide with mine through the glass porch door.
“Fuck me buddy. What the hell you doing?!”
Like so many times during my life I am quite unsure how to act. Granted there is no socially accepted code to follow in this sort of situation. Since I am stood on a stool with a tie fastened around my neck, Morrissey singing about feeling the soil falling over his head, and my face smeared with alcoholic tears – I decide it’s probably best to tell the truth. For old time’s sake at least.
“I’m about to commit suicide. What the fuck does it look like?!”
“Oh I can see that right enough pal” he says, wiping his nose with a finger and studying me up and down as if I were a potentially difficult window installation. “I mean you ain’t changing a fucking lightbulb up there are ya now!” he says, shoulders beginning to shake with amusement.
“Can you just fuck off and leave me here to carry on in peace?” I shout at him incredulously.
“Carry on?!” he says, eyes full of dumb confusion.
“Yes!”
He looks around as if weighing up his options, contemplating his next move. “Oh no buddy I can’t be doing that! I can’t carry on down the street after seeing you here getting ready to swing. If nothing else, my sales pitch would be severely affected”.
I don’t believe this; so now what?! He sets down his shoulder bag of flyers in a manner that suggests he’s not leaving anytime soon.
“Look mate”, I try a new approach. “I appreciate you trying to act the good Samaritan an’ all but I just want to be left to get on with this.”
“And I appreciate you acting the martyr, but you can’t go like this – there’s things we urgently need to discuss.”
“Like what exactly?!”
“Well, let me just...”
In an instant he produces a long thin file as if concealed in a sleeve, bends it round inside the lock and has the door swinging open in seconds. My mouth hangs open as he brushes himself down and stands there before me with a smile etched across his face as if expecting some sort of applause for his magic trick.
“There we go. I was an expert burglar in another lifetime. Had to y’know, tough upbringing, wrong side of the tracks.”
I don’t quite know what to say or do, my feet are sweaty and shifting on the stool. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I finally manage to ask.
“Calm down son, just thought we’d better have a little chat before you top yourself. You are certain about it yes? No going back?” he enquires to which I fail to answer. “Ah well, suit yourself. Saved by the bell though eh, me turning up like?”
“Well no, I didn’t wish to be saved and I haven’t got a doorbell, you knocked” I stammer. I feel it is vitally important to relay this information to him and let him know exactly where he stands on this matter but I only succeed in feeling substantially immature as a result.
“Aye yes, but if it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead by now, and no mistake” he says, wandering around the hallway, scanning the disarray of furniture and dirty cutlery piled high in the sink.
“And your point is...?”
“Well, that’s quite a scary thought isn’t it?”
“Yes and then you’d have had to carry on your way.”
“Yeh that’s true. I’m good but I can’t sell shit all to a corpse! Is that The Smiths you’ve got on there?” he asks, moving over to the record player to one side of me.
“Yes it is”.
“Good choice buddy, go out in style” he says, examining ‘The Queen Is Dead’ jacket sleeve. “Although you gotta go for the ‘Meat is Murder’ album – far superior in my book. And that’s a nice tie you’ve got there” he gestures with his eyes to my instrument of axsyphiation. It’s hard to tell but it seems he is bluntly sincere with each of his wild-eyed statements. “Although why you’ve gone for sky blue God only knows. It makes you look like you’ve hung yourself with a rosette or something” he chuckles to himself.
I’m getting quite desperate now. “Does it really matter?”
“Of course. You shoulda gone for the dour grey choice. Just the job.” I’m feeling increasingly invaded by his presence but he continues scouring the hallway, then into the living room where he moves over to the bay windows with an exaggerated shake of the head. With a finger he traces a line through the dirt on the glass and shakes his head further and if it has caused him actual offense.
“Excuse me, what are you doing?” I ask as the noose starts to painfully grip my neck.
“Well now. I’ve come to the conclusion that the predicament you now find yourself in can be explained and, if you’ll allow me to say so, be amended.”
“I don’t understand”. Palms continuing to sweat.
“Of course you don’t. Luckily for you, we at Beetham & Sons Windows Specialists understand perfectly well. And that’s why we’re gonna help to sort you right out.”
Within a momentary flash there are 3 hefty overall-wearing men barging through the hallway, giving me a courteous nod but barely even reacting to me balancing on the brink of suicidal intent. My head is flaming with confusion and despair as the men stride through to the living room, produce tape measures and begin to routinely size up the dirty bay windows.
“What...what’s going on?”
The first salesman steps towards me, leaving his colleagues to the work. “No need to worry old chap, just sizing up the target area, we’ll have em brand spanking new in a jiffy and you’ll feel a hundred times better as a result!”
“No...look, I don’t need any work done.”
“Ooo this is gonna be a big job this one boss”, shouts one colleague from the living room as the others take notes and measurements in small notepads.
“Your feelings of sadness now are a reaction to the discontent you harbour at the current state of your environment. Well we can help there right away! You’ll soon be right as rain!”
“No no no” I cry in growing hysteria. “Please go, I don’t need you here!”
“We fear he doth protest too much” grins one of the men to the first as he moves out into the porch to retrieve a large toolbox.
“Now sir” starts the salesman. “We really must get on with our work. We appreciate your concerns really we do, but I can assure you they are most unfounded. This is a family-run business, all fully trained operatives.” There is loud smash as one of the workers puts through one of the windows with a heavy mallet. The others scurry around laying down white sheets and setting out tools.
“Can we change this to something a bit more upbeat?” one of the men shouts to us, gesturing at the record player. Without waiting for an answer he skids the vinyl back to the rockabilly ‘Frankly Mr Shankly’ with a wide smile. “That’s more like it!” as the workers proceed to sing along loudly and whistle in time with Marr’s jangling chords.
“You’ll find we provide the finest double-glazing in the area. Very reputable, all clients happy”, he continues in a bright and airy tone that rises to be heard above the music.
“I...I..don’t doubt that. But you don’t understand me..”
More smashing of glass from the living room. The salesman continues, not even registering my useless protests. “You can rest assured that all our PVCU windows are expertly designed and planned and utilise high quality products and services - always.” My tear-filled eyes can only vaguely take in the carnage that my situation has descended into – a powerdrill shrieks as it tears into the shell of the house, ‘Frankly Mr Shankly’ ends and ‘I Know It’s Over’ comes on, only to be kicked back into ‘Frankly Mr Shankly’ once more by an eager worker.
“If you’ll just bear with me my good man, I shall pop out to the van and get you a quote. You don’t have to pay now, there’s no payment required for 3 months. It’s a pity you didn’t get an advance quote, you could have been eligible for quite a sizable discount. But nevermind all that now, the important thing is that with your wonderful new windows this house will be a home once more, and all your blues will fade clear away.” On his exit he turns once more in the porch and tips me a wink. “All part of the Beetham & Sons service and no mistake.”
The powerdrill ploughs on through paint and timber frame, burly men in navy overalls whistle as they work, The Smiths play on in an incessant loop, the smell of stale vodka in the air, its burning stain on my tongue, clatter of tools and peals of laughter, “do you think we could get a cup of tea please mate?”, take a gulp of stolid air – the previously sombre void now raped by awful surreal cacophony – as my blazing head still fills the ever-present void of the noose, and I step off the stool.
Friday 8 January 2010
Neo-Nazis Draped Across The Daily Mail
Under a sky full of media storm,
A mob did gather as clouds
Ripe to protest, disgust and indignation,
Coursing through their blood.
With placards and banners held up high,
And battle cries oscillating with tensile fever
They await a man - a wolf in their eyes
Who is approaching fast despite their siege.
He will venomously spew his vitriolic pleas,
All over the viewing masses who swallow not spit
His twisted history, his minority of demons
The liberal-at-heart wilt and reel into despair.
As the day drags on and the heat does rise,
The mob, hundreds-strong, froth with fury
Burn effigies and bay for bloody crucifixion
They straddle their high horses of morality.
As the wind whips up and the rain comes down,
The sound of an engine burns all ears
The gathered mass grow silent in seconds
The jackal’s motorcade slinks up to the front
From silence to madness, the rabid mob descend
Force the car to halt, drag out the loathsome,
Servile dog, the epicentre of their rage.
His feeble cries go unheeded as they pierce his side,
Entrails hauled around like a wedding dress train
They tear him limb from limb with their bare,
Hands like wings from an insect
They bluntly slice head from neck with their placards
All the while howling and drooling
With a savage and unyielding bloodlust
They gauge out his eyes so that he who,
Could not see, now was blind
And oh how they danced and made merry
In the beast’s guts and rained phlegm
Down upon his dismembered corpse
And when the climax had subsided
The crowd did sit exhausted upon the road
No one said a word, no one shared a glance
They had spent a foe to keep democracy safe
But what now to do?, many of them thought
Onto other injustices, many more protestations await
And so the assembled mass dissipated slowly under the steady rain
Leaving the blood-strewn remnants of their outrage behind them.
A mob did gather as clouds
Ripe to protest, disgust and indignation,
Coursing through their blood.
With placards and banners held up high,
And battle cries oscillating with tensile fever
They await a man - a wolf in their eyes
Who is approaching fast despite their siege.
He will venomously spew his vitriolic pleas,
All over the viewing masses who swallow not spit
His twisted history, his minority of demons
The liberal-at-heart wilt and reel into despair.
As the day drags on and the heat does rise,
The mob, hundreds-strong, froth with fury
Burn effigies and bay for bloody crucifixion
They straddle their high horses of morality.
As the wind whips up and the rain comes down,
The sound of an engine burns all ears
The gathered mass grow silent in seconds
The jackal’s motorcade slinks up to the front
From silence to madness, the rabid mob descend
Force the car to halt, drag out the loathsome,
Servile dog, the epicentre of their rage.
His feeble cries go unheeded as they pierce his side,
Entrails hauled around like a wedding dress train
They tear him limb from limb with their bare,
Hands like wings from an insect
They bluntly slice head from neck with their placards
All the while howling and drooling
With a savage and unyielding bloodlust
They gauge out his eyes so that he who,
Could not see, now was blind
And oh how they danced and made merry
In the beast’s guts and rained phlegm
Down upon his dismembered corpse
And when the climax had subsided
The crowd did sit exhausted upon the road
No one said a word, no one shared a glance
They had spent a foe to keep democracy safe
But what now to do?, many of them thought
Onto other injustices, many more protestations await
And so the assembled mass dissipated slowly under the steady rain
Leaving the blood-strewn remnants of their outrage behind them.
One Dead Soul
I’m going out again. Out to the streets and the heart of the city. My earthly possessions are awake and the very walls of my apartment quiver in deceit of reality. At times like these the only thing to do is to slide on my brown suede shoes and descend to the world outside, hoping that serenity will set upon my home once more. Serenity like virgin snow freshly fallen before I interrupt its purity with feeble fumblings and the blusterings of age.
But first, to the bathroom and the cabinet that contains sturdy pyramids of small blue bones. As a reluctant force of habit I open one and take out two oval pills. Devilish capsules that blind me from the truth that’s always just out of eyeshot. Only recently have the finer details started becoming ever more focussed and the shadowed enemies become eve r more closer to being exposed in the light once and for all.
Outside. Where they live. Yes, where they wait all right. God knows I won’t let them dictate my comings and goings, allowing them a free reign to place an eternal curfew on my very mentality. I can’t hold them at bay now in my twilight years. Not like a few years previous. Well, more than a few. I’ve been keeping them at arm’s length for so long now; always one step ahead, always too shrewd, too smart; calling on all available resources to outwit them day by day. But as I’ve grown older and slower, my defences burnt back like a cigarette, they have made their advances and gained valuable ground. They are truly resourceful in their own way, and it is surely only a matter of time before they engulf me finally and totally.
A quick and urgent surveillance of myself in the hallway mirror before I go. Comb over my reluctant grey hair into place across my brow, adjust my round-framed glasses and sigh deeply and heavily. It is a ritual I must undergo before every venture in to the outside. Trying to reach into the reflection and shake some vigour into the greying shadow of a man staring back. Slide free the safety latch, top and bottom, pull across the chain, cursing my over-zealous security measures and thinking how any escape from this place I needed to take would inevitably be foiled considerably. But I remind myself of the nights I rest easy in my cold and lonely bed because of those measures I ensure I take. Close my door and glance around all furtive and aware. I allow a surreptitious peek into the next flat’s front windows as I stride along the concrete balcony to the stairwell. They arouse my suspicions immensely since I hear and see nothing from them. There are dirty dishes mountainous in the sink which is a fairly conclusive indication of human activity but it could be used as a dirty squat-house for all I know. It’s too quiet, too secretive; they could easily be agents working for them. Watching me, hearing me, like a spying parasite working to bring down its weakened host from within.
I make it down the grey, piss-stinking stairs without seeing a soul and inhale dramatically upon setting sail down the street. These roads I have walked a million times, flanked by dour offices and lampposts that are re-ignited and re-painted with the ticking over of the years. I’m sure only I notice the change. It’s coming on for midday and yet the streets are close to desolate. Which suits me fine and yet would yield no witnesses to the horror that could befall me at any time should they decide to make their move. A light drizzle develops from the miserable overcast sky and I zip up my snug overcoat, hugging it round my frame. One of the pills I swallowed dry feels like it’s stuck somewhere in my throat slowly melting whilst refusing to slide down.
I’m only taking a short 10-minute trip to the shops, the same I take each and every day as my exercise in mental vitality, but already as I start to pass mothers patrolling with prams and young men striding along dragging heavily on smokes, the rumbling dragon of doubt in the pit of my stomach starts to ignite my nerves. However much I may attempt to silence those concerns in the sanctuary of my home, out here I am exposed to my foes and have only my wits on which to survive. I twitch subconsciously as the trees I pass by shake with sudden wind. Look up into the thick branches but nothing – just dancing leaves. There’s a man in a tight-fitting suit coming strutting down the pavement towards me, his eyes forged into mine. He is set on this collision-course which, if he is one of them, spells my end. But no – at the last moment he answers a call on his mobile phone and looks over his shoulder to cross the road. I continue on my course. Almost at the shops. Nearly there.
I’m here at the shops. The comforting inner bright lights a masquerade for the siren-red danger it presents to me. All eyes appear to revolve around to focus on me as automatic as the doors that part on my approach. I bend in the foyer and stiffly fumble to remove some discarded plastic bags from a carrier basket before moving on down one of the aisles. I take a deep breath and place some apples into my basket, trying to calm myself and slow my beating heart. This is a routine; I walk to the shops every day, buy strictly the same items, and attempt to allay my anxieties. I scan the bright cavernous ceiling to stare right back at the cold robotic eyes that are fixed firmly on my from above. Clinical reflections in aisle mirrors and pale yellow floors. My nerves jangling in time to the muzak of the shop as I throw a tin of tomato soup into my basket.
A small boy dashes round one of the fridge cabinets chasing a sibling and runs straight into my bony knee, banging his head of floppy blonde hair. We stare at each other for a second of mutual surprise before he erupts into volcanic tears as I exclaim “bloody hell!” and the young mother responsible for such tearaway offspring appears, summoned by her baby’s cries. She is dressed in a tatty tracksuit, fat and unkempt from the trials of child-rearing. Taking the boy in her arms she looks me up and down as I growl “keep your little brats under control”. Her mouth distorts into a sour portrait of scorn and says “fuck off you stupid tosser” as she steers her children away down the aisle. I am in considerable distress by this point. A scene has been created with me directly at the heart of the commotion. Whereas before staff and shoppers alike were discreet with their sideways glances at me, now they are openly glaring; not afraid to let me see them doing so. The mother and child, more than likely working for them, provoking a ruckus from which now I wheel around in the centre of the main aisle, lights burning into my weak brain, drop my basket to the ground with a clatter and make a break for the doors and the street beyond.
Several shoppers step from hiding in the aisles out into my way with their trolleys, acting as if by accident, as I spiral in a half-jog past and through them, turning down the pet food aisle and through an empty checkout towards the exits. Two tall and spotty shop assistants in lime green uniforms glance at one another and attempt to move in to block my escape but hold back at the last moment with faces of concern as I tear out of the doors and into the brisk breeze of the day. Behind me I hear an announcement over the tannoy system and whilst I’m unable through the sliding doors to pick it out discernibly, I’m quite sure it will be calling for calm within the shop and a regrouping of forces.
My eyes are darts cast this way and that as I quicken my pace as swiftly as me aged limbs will allow. My body may be withering under the straining of the years but my mind is more alert and acutely aware of their powers than ever before. I am a slave captive inside a weary cage. Back home I retreat, I must now survey my own options for surely I can no longer visit that shop on a daily basis. I had become too complacent in routine. Another notch of solitude for my existence. Solitude stretches far behind in my wake; been alone for so long. Retired for 18 years - at the time I was so desperate to retire early I could hardly wait; within a few weeks I was going out of my mind. What of my family? None to speak of. My sister died of a mystery virus almost a decade ago. I was so sure that it was their doing, their way of drawing me in, luring me closer by extinguishing her. Her only daughter married and emigrated with her family to Australia years ago; she viciously accused me of irrational delusion when I tried to make her understand the reason for her mother’s untimely passing and vowed never to speak to me again. How many years since I went with a woman? Too many to count. Too many nights of cold wasted spasms into tissue paper, so devoid of emotion and soul-destroying. Nowadays I masturbate no longer, the same way someone who is disgusted by their nicotine habit finally kicks it into touch when they can no longer justify it to themselves.
And for what?? Why have I been isolated by this virtual house arrest for so long? It’s all a mistake. All those years ago, I didn’t see a thing. But they thought I did. They still do. Even if I had seen things, they’ve long since been contorted and eroded from my mind by the stress and fear of harbouring them and of them trying to track me down to eradicate them permanently. I saw plenty of things in my job, maybe I was a little too inquisitive, dug my nose in a little further than I should have. But I was bored and unsatisfied in my career and the idea of digging up dirty treasure was too much of a thrill to resist. It took them a lot of time and effort to work out who the troublesome mole was and by that time I’d rushed into retirement and vanished.
I went into hiding and have been hiding ever since. But I’m eternally aware that they could be anywhere at any time. Lurking in the bushes I pass, waiting in dark cars at red lights, waiting, watching, moving in. I got rid of my phone for I was sure my calls were bugged, ignored the little family I had – those that weren’t ignoring me anyway – and mostly tried to ignore the devilish capsules that my doctor prescribed me. More than likely under the orders of them as well; feeding me drugs to wear me down. Well, drugs or not I am slowing and wearing down. I cannot hide forever. For soon they will smoke me out of my hole and strike in a vengeance that is ultimately misguided but there will be no reasoning with them. They will offer no mercy and I shall seek none. But at least I will be ready for them. God knows I have been ready and waiting now for so long.
But first, to the bathroom and the cabinet that contains sturdy pyramids of small blue bones. As a reluctant force of habit I open one and take out two oval pills. Devilish capsules that blind me from the truth that’s always just out of eyeshot. Only recently have the finer details started becoming ever more focussed and the shadowed enemies become eve r more closer to being exposed in the light once and for all.
Outside. Where they live. Yes, where they wait all right. God knows I won’t let them dictate my comings and goings, allowing them a free reign to place an eternal curfew on my very mentality. I can’t hold them at bay now in my twilight years. Not like a few years previous. Well, more than a few. I’ve been keeping them at arm’s length for so long now; always one step ahead, always too shrewd, too smart; calling on all available resources to outwit them day by day. But as I’ve grown older and slower, my defences burnt back like a cigarette, they have made their advances and gained valuable ground. They are truly resourceful in their own way, and it is surely only a matter of time before they engulf me finally and totally.
A quick and urgent surveillance of myself in the hallway mirror before I go. Comb over my reluctant grey hair into place across my brow, adjust my round-framed glasses and sigh deeply and heavily. It is a ritual I must undergo before every venture in to the outside. Trying to reach into the reflection and shake some vigour into the greying shadow of a man staring back. Slide free the safety latch, top and bottom, pull across the chain, cursing my over-zealous security measures and thinking how any escape from this place I needed to take would inevitably be foiled considerably. But I remind myself of the nights I rest easy in my cold and lonely bed because of those measures I ensure I take. Close my door and glance around all furtive and aware. I allow a surreptitious peek into the next flat’s front windows as I stride along the concrete balcony to the stairwell. They arouse my suspicions immensely since I hear and see nothing from them. There are dirty dishes mountainous in the sink which is a fairly conclusive indication of human activity but it could be used as a dirty squat-house for all I know. It’s too quiet, too secretive; they could easily be agents working for them. Watching me, hearing me, like a spying parasite working to bring down its weakened host from within.
I make it down the grey, piss-stinking stairs without seeing a soul and inhale dramatically upon setting sail down the street. These roads I have walked a million times, flanked by dour offices and lampposts that are re-ignited and re-painted with the ticking over of the years. I’m sure only I notice the change. It’s coming on for midday and yet the streets are close to desolate. Which suits me fine and yet would yield no witnesses to the horror that could befall me at any time should they decide to make their move. A light drizzle develops from the miserable overcast sky and I zip up my snug overcoat, hugging it round my frame. One of the pills I swallowed dry feels like it’s stuck somewhere in my throat slowly melting whilst refusing to slide down.
I’m only taking a short 10-minute trip to the shops, the same I take each and every day as my exercise in mental vitality, but already as I start to pass mothers patrolling with prams and young men striding along dragging heavily on smokes, the rumbling dragon of doubt in the pit of my stomach starts to ignite my nerves. However much I may attempt to silence those concerns in the sanctuary of my home, out here I am exposed to my foes and have only my wits on which to survive. I twitch subconsciously as the trees I pass by shake with sudden wind. Look up into the thick branches but nothing – just dancing leaves. There’s a man in a tight-fitting suit coming strutting down the pavement towards me, his eyes forged into mine. He is set on this collision-course which, if he is one of them, spells my end. But no – at the last moment he answers a call on his mobile phone and looks over his shoulder to cross the road. I continue on my course. Almost at the shops. Nearly there.
I’m here at the shops. The comforting inner bright lights a masquerade for the siren-red danger it presents to me. All eyes appear to revolve around to focus on me as automatic as the doors that part on my approach. I bend in the foyer and stiffly fumble to remove some discarded plastic bags from a carrier basket before moving on down one of the aisles. I take a deep breath and place some apples into my basket, trying to calm myself and slow my beating heart. This is a routine; I walk to the shops every day, buy strictly the same items, and attempt to allay my anxieties. I scan the bright cavernous ceiling to stare right back at the cold robotic eyes that are fixed firmly on my from above. Clinical reflections in aisle mirrors and pale yellow floors. My nerves jangling in time to the muzak of the shop as I throw a tin of tomato soup into my basket.
A small boy dashes round one of the fridge cabinets chasing a sibling and runs straight into my bony knee, banging his head of floppy blonde hair. We stare at each other for a second of mutual surprise before he erupts into volcanic tears as I exclaim “bloody hell!” and the young mother responsible for such tearaway offspring appears, summoned by her baby’s cries. She is dressed in a tatty tracksuit, fat and unkempt from the trials of child-rearing. Taking the boy in her arms she looks me up and down as I growl “keep your little brats under control”. Her mouth distorts into a sour portrait of scorn and says “fuck off you stupid tosser” as she steers her children away down the aisle. I am in considerable distress by this point. A scene has been created with me directly at the heart of the commotion. Whereas before staff and shoppers alike were discreet with their sideways glances at me, now they are openly glaring; not afraid to let me see them doing so. The mother and child, more than likely working for them, provoking a ruckus from which now I wheel around in the centre of the main aisle, lights burning into my weak brain, drop my basket to the ground with a clatter and make a break for the doors and the street beyond.
Several shoppers step from hiding in the aisles out into my way with their trolleys, acting as if by accident, as I spiral in a half-jog past and through them, turning down the pet food aisle and through an empty checkout towards the exits. Two tall and spotty shop assistants in lime green uniforms glance at one another and attempt to move in to block my escape but hold back at the last moment with faces of concern as I tear out of the doors and into the brisk breeze of the day. Behind me I hear an announcement over the tannoy system and whilst I’m unable through the sliding doors to pick it out discernibly, I’m quite sure it will be calling for calm within the shop and a regrouping of forces.
My eyes are darts cast this way and that as I quicken my pace as swiftly as me aged limbs will allow. My body may be withering under the straining of the years but my mind is more alert and acutely aware of their powers than ever before. I am a slave captive inside a weary cage. Back home I retreat, I must now survey my own options for surely I can no longer visit that shop on a daily basis. I had become too complacent in routine. Another notch of solitude for my existence. Solitude stretches far behind in my wake; been alone for so long. Retired for 18 years - at the time I was so desperate to retire early I could hardly wait; within a few weeks I was going out of my mind. What of my family? None to speak of. My sister died of a mystery virus almost a decade ago. I was so sure that it was their doing, their way of drawing me in, luring me closer by extinguishing her. Her only daughter married and emigrated with her family to Australia years ago; she viciously accused me of irrational delusion when I tried to make her understand the reason for her mother’s untimely passing and vowed never to speak to me again. How many years since I went with a woman? Too many to count. Too many nights of cold wasted spasms into tissue paper, so devoid of emotion and soul-destroying. Nowadays I masturbate no longer, the same way someone who is disgusted by their nicotine habit finally kicks it into touch when they can no longer justify it to themselves.
And for what?? Why have I been isolated by this virtual house arrest for so long? It’s all a mistake. All those years ago, I didn’t see a thing. But they thought I did. They still do. Even if I had seen things, they’ve long since been contorted and eroded from my mind by the stress and fear of harbouring them and of them trying to track me down to eradicate them permanently. I saw plenty of things in my job, maybe I was a little too inquisitive, dug my nose in a little further than I should have. But I was bored and unsatisfied in my career and the idea of digging up dirty treasure was too much of a thrill to resist. It took them a lot of time and effort to work out who the troublesome mole was and by that time I’d rushed into retirement and vanished.
I went into hiding and have been hiding ever since. But I’m eternally aware that they could be anywhere at any time. Lurking in the bushes I pass, waiting in dark cars at red lights, waiting, watching, moving in. I got rid of my phone for I was sure my calls were bugged, ignored the little family I had – those that weren’t ignoring me anyway – and mostly tried to ignore the devilish capsules that my doctor prescribed me. More than likely under the orders of them as well; feeding me drugs to wear me down. Well, drugs or not I am slowing and wearing down. I cannot hide forever. For soon they will smoke me out of my hole and strike in a vengeance that is ultimately misguided but there will be no reasoning with them. They will offer no mercy and I shall seek none. But at least I will be ready for them. God knows I have been ready and waiting now for so long.
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