‘It’s me. I’m on the train. There’s some sort of hold up. Chelmsford, we just got past Chelmsford. No, no one’s said anything. Well, I can’t say when I’ll be back. Yes, ok. And I’ll ring you as soon as I know any more. Bye.’
‘Is he alright? Not fretting?’
‘No, he’s not a worrier. Heaven knows these things are late so often it’s more or less expected now! He’ll get the kids to bed and send out for a Chinese.’
‘Well, what now. Do you fancy a coffee? We might be stuck here for a while.’
The train suddenly jerked forwards and abruptly stopped again. The bald man on the other side of the aisle swore and began to dab ineffectively at the tea that had spilled on his magazine.
‘You’d think they’d let us know what’s going on,’ Baldman muttered. Abbie looked across at him. ‘It wouldn’t get us home any quicker, though would it?’ She said it pleasantly enough, but the message was still a rebuke at his whingeing. The man opposite the bald guy smirked slightly, but carried on typing into his laptop.
Rice took in her profile. The glasses she’d recently taken to wearing were of a modern design with practically invisible frames so that she still looked much the same as when he first met her, what was it? Eleven years ago, he thought.
Abbie turned back. ‘A coffee would be nice,’ she said.
She watched him negotiate a passage down the carriage and disappear out of sight into the next one. She sat and gazed absent mindedly at the headrest of his seat, stained with years of greasy hair, before flipping through her newspaper again.
Abbie first met Rice a couple of years before she married Mel. His proper name was Richard which had been shortened to Rich during his childhood. He adopted Rice after a clerk at university had misread his signature on his union card. Rice worked as a trouble shooter of some sort. Abbie knew it was something to do with trade union negotiations but she’d never had much interest in politics, so hadn’t bothered to find out much more. She worked in a college in London until the children came along, but just recently they’d asked her if she would come back to teach a 6 week course on British Art in the Age of Cubism and Futurism. So, here she was on the train, week four delivered; next week would be Gaudier-Brzeska and Epstein, followed by the impact of the Great War to round off. She wasn’t the greatest expert, but she had a reputation for enthusiasm that rubbed off on the students.
Apart from Baldman there weren’t many people in the carriage. It was one of the late trains she purposefully chose to avoid the crush. An older couple further down the carriage and a pair of students were just about visible in front of her. Baldman’s companion at his table was still busy doing overtime on his laptop. She thought she had seen one or two others as she went to her seat as well.
‘How was the lecture?’ Rice was nursing his coffee, waiting with genuine interest to hear about Abbie’s day out.
‘Good … yes, it was ok. There was one student who asked some really good questions – obviously read ahead on the subject. He even found something about Bomberg’s training under Walter Sickert.’
‘Ah, Sickert. Wasn’t he Jack the Ripper?’
‘No idea. His art interests me, not his sex life however perverted.’
Rice grinned. He enjoyed talking art with her, though he was more of a fan of the Romantics. ‘So, this student, did he question …’
An announcement at last. ‘This is Gerry, your train manager. I regret to inform you that there is a blockage on the line ahead and we may be stuck here for some time. I’ll let you know when I’ve been told more but in the meantime, please accept coffee, tea or cold non-alcoholic drinks courtesy of the train operator.’
‘Shit! Just my luck!’
‘Never mind. You appreciate it more when you’ve paid for it.’ Abbie smiled. ‘So what have you been up to in town?’
‘Had a meeting with some of the TUC bigwigs and our people. We’ve been accused of poaching members from one of the big hitters. I ask you – poaching? If they looked after their members better they wouldn’t be haemorrhaging people to us. We’ll probably have to concede – they’re bigger than us. Got to keep the Brothers and Sisters happy!’
Abbie laughed at the archaic language of the traditionalists whom Rice called the dinosaurs. He always put on a mock northern accent to emphasise his difference from them.
‘We were up in the General Secretary’s office in Congress House after the dinosaurs had gone back to their caves. Saw something you’d like. Epstein’s war memorial in the atrium. Colossal piece. We just looked down at it; it’s awesome.’
Abbie knew the piece through illustrations. She was a touch envious of Rice, but pleased that he was interested enough to remember to tell her about it.
Baldman got up and wandered off towards the buffet car. As he reached the end of the carriage Abbie noticed a tall man in a long raincoat push him and he came scuttling back to his seat. Rice hadn’t seen this – he was facing Abbie who could now see the tall man more clearly.
‘That was quick. They haven’t run out of tea, have they?’ Rice’s sarcasm could be unnecessarily hurtful, but Baldman was more perturbed by his encounter by the carriage door.
‘Lazenjemmen. Yo tren is awreddy foteyn miniz let. Pleyez coperate en you can be on yo why.’ Rice turned and saw the tall man for the first time. The accent was matched by a swarthy colouring – could be southern European or Middle Eastern. The man spoke again.
‘Awe yo need tuddoo is emtee yo pockets onto dey trays en tebbles sose I can kleckt. En pleyez, no use mobal phone.’ He lifted his arm to show a pistol with a silencer. ‘My fren also he has gun.’ At the other doorway a man was standing menacingly with a holdall in one hand and the automatic in the other. A woman shrieked. Rice thought how strange it sounded – not a scream like in the movies, more a loud whimper.
‘The lie-dee must shaddap or my fren he get afried en shot her. Best all yo not to tok’
Abbie looked quite composed. Rice hoped he did too, but inside he was at a loss. You watch all those movies, he thought, and see the hero get out of a spot like this, but when it comes to it we’re impotent. Abbie was emptying her handbag and pockets. Baldman was sweating profusely and kept dropping stuff onto the floor. Rice reckoned Baldman had probably watched the films too!
‘I av frenz in other carriage also. So if yo quick we can all be on ow why in five miniz, yes?’ As his accomplice said this the man with the holdall was coming towards Rice and Abbie.
Laptopman closed his computer and prepared to sling it into the holdall with his mobile and some cash. His wallet followed but the robber had to ask for it.
Then it was Rice and Abbie’s turn. Rice put his money, wallet, mobile and wrist watch into the bag. Abbie didn’t move.
‘In dey bag mississ,’ said the thief.
Abbie looked away. There were cars parked on the A12 which ran alongside the track here. Getaway cars, she thought.
‘I sey puddit in dey bag.’ The tone was changing. Rice reached over to begin the task and got a kicked shin from Abbie for his trouble. She looked back at the gunman.
‘You want it, you take it. I’m not giving it you.’ She was unbelievably calm, Rice thought. Hey! He was the trouble shooter. Why didn’t he say this? He wondered if a woman stood more chance of getting away with resistance than a man.
‘Pudda focken shit in dey bag!’ The man had lost it. He was visibly twitching at this unforeseen confrontation. Abbie looked out of the window again. More cars had stopped. Inside her she was almost sick at her stupidity or daring. She had her husband and children to think about – why didn’t she just cooperate? She had no idea.
The tall bandit yelled down the carriage. The language was unfamiliar to everyone except his comrade who was clearly unhappy with the order he’d just been given. He scooped Abbie’s property into the bag and moved away. Outside the train Abbie realised that there were yet more cars than there had been. Fuckit! She resented feeling as if she was in a movie and being watched by these morons gawping at her from their cars! Her anger and frustration boiled over and a spasm of fear wracked her body.
The two men stood together now. The spokesman made his final announcement. ‘Yo bin coperative moseley so we happy. We leave yo now en ope rest o yo jonney ok.’ And they were gone.
Abbie started to cry and Rice moved across to hold her and comfort her. Truth was he felt like crying himself. Baldman was sick. Opposite him laptopman’s expression was quite unexpected. More than a shadow of a smile on his lips as he moved across to where Rice had been sitting.
‘Scuse me, I just want to look out the window.’
Abbie and Rice followed his example. By the parked cars there were four or five huddles of people. Three cars now had blue lights revolving and flashing their signal to the motorists on the A12. Some of the people who could be made out in the mix of the coloured lights had their hands raised. Others had clearly been handcuffed. ‘Useful thing email,’ Laptopman said.
An announcement. ‘This is Gerry, your train manager. We are now able to proceed. I think alcoholic drinks courtesy of the train operator are in order – I’d have one if I wasn’t on duty! We should be in Norwich at around 9.45. The police have asked me to tell you that they want statements from everyone, so I will be passing through the train collecting names and addresses. Once again, I apologise for the holdup.’
Tuesday, 12 December 2006
Encounter
Out of the November fog a double-decker emerged and lazily paused to allow the four passengers to board. Philip went upstairs, clutching the unnecessarily large briefcase with its contents of six exercise books, a practically empty pencil case and assorted crumpled bits of paper – probably letters and notices for parents that he had neglected to pass on to his mum. Never mind – he might remember tonight.
As he climbed the steps to the top deck he felt his backside being touched. It wasn’t the pressure of someone hurrying him up; he was being fondled – groped.
‘C’mon, kid. Got to get up quickly’, the man said.
Upstairs the bus was crowded with people going into the city centre for work. Philip was able to find a seat next to someone else, well away from the man. He looked at him, trying to get a better impression of him.
The man was in his middle twenties, Philip reckoned. Dark hair. His face wasn’t properly visible from where they were sitting, however he had seen him before at the bus stop. He found the dark and sullen expression disquieting, and when the man spoke to Philip the boy usually tried to avoid answering. It was tough when your mum said ‘don’t speak to strange men’ one day and ‘speak when you’re spoken to’ another day. If he couldn’t avoid answering he’d mumble something monosyllabic. The man’s Scottish accent sometimes confused the boy too, making it harder for Philip to feel comfortable in his presence. The man was dressed in clothes that had probably seen better days – a suit, but worn and shiny in parts. Philip wondered whether he always dressed up smartly – perhaps he was an office worker. That didn’t pay much, he knew, because his dad had worked in an office and he wore shabby suits.
What to do? Philip felt confused. Was the touching intentional or not? If he mentioned it to anyone they would probably tell him he was imagining it. People always bump into one another on crowded buses, they’d say. And anyway, who was there to tell? His mum was always really busy, what with holding down a job, housework and looking after Philip and his brothers. She had enough to do without taking on some weird fantasy the lad had dreamt up. She often felt irritated by new problems that any of the boys introduced into her life, not because she didn’t care, but because it reduced her capacity to keep her head above water with all the other business she had to cope with.
Philip’s father had died last January. He wished that he could have asked dad for help. Mum had remarried already, but Philip and his brothers didn’t get on with the new husband their mother had found. When he was feeling charitable Philip might think that the only thing wrong with him was the haste with which he’d hitched himself to mum – ‘before your dad’s side of the bed’s gone cold’ his Nan once let slip.
Philip couldn’t talk to his brothers about the groper. They were still at primary school. What understanding, let alone assistance could they offer? So what about school friends. The answer was simply that he had none he could share the problem with. He got on ok with several boys, but since he’d gone to the grammar fifteen months ago there was no one he had invited back home to play with and he’d been invited to no one’s parties or anything. He just didn’t fit into their world. The same with his teachers. They cared about the subjects they taught, not the boys. The groper was a problem he’d have to tackle by himself.
The day after the incident Philip left for school fifteen minutes earlier. He’d thought about ‘being ill’ and taking the day off but that would cause all sorts of disruption at home that he couldn’t face. Yet he didn’t want to face the man either, in case it was real and not just his imagination. Perhaps the earlier bus …
The plan worked. For a period of three weeks the man didn’t show up, and then it was the end of term – the Christmas holiday. For Philip and his brothers, as much as for any pre-teens, Christmas was a joyful holiday, the pleasure being in anticipation as well as realisation. The love that their mother failed to exhibit in her hectic life she tried to demonstrate with gifts bought from catalogues that would take half the year to pay back. The three brothers clubbed together to buy a present in return and it never mattered to their mum what the gift might be or cost. She loved them all and she loved their love.
It was late January that Philip’s father had died. On the first anniversary the man returned to Philip’s life. Leaning in a shop doorway on Hattersley Road West, by the bus stop had kept him out of Philip’s sight until the boy reached the bus shelter. Philip’s throat felt tight. He couldn’t escape. They were the only ones at the stop. He looked along the street, willing the bus to arrive early. A stream of cars, headlights breaking the gloom teased his impatience.
‘Hello, kid. Did you have a good holiday?’ There was no response. The boy looked every way rather than make eye contact.
‘What’s up? Cat got your tongue?’ Finally their eyes met.
‘I’ve missed you these last few weeks, kid. I’ve been away, see?’
The final word, phatic, yet almost compelling Philip to respond, hung between them and then pulled the lad down into conversation.
‘Have you?’ He mumbled.
The arrival of the bus brought no respite. Did the man say ‘I’m after you’ as he waved Philip on board ahead of himself, or was it childish paranoia mishearing a simple polite gesture?
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ The man left no option because he had positioned himself on the boarding platform in such a way as to block access to the lower deck. As Philip reached the last few steps a hand was brushing the back of his leg. He cringed and looked ahead for a seat where he could be free of the menace. There was none. This earlier bus attracted so many fewer people and they all seemed to be in pairs. Perhaps the briefcase could form a barrier.
You’re one of them grammar school kids, aren’t you?’ said the man as he sat down next to Philip’s bag. His unpleasant and unwanted presence was making Philip anxious. His breathing quickened and his face flushed. He sweated.
‘What’s your name?’
The relentless questioning demanded an answer and the manners instilled in the boy’s upbringing forced Philip to participate in the cat and mouth conversation.
‘Philip’.
‘Hello, Philip. I’m Ian. Let me get your ticket.’
Philip protested but Ian paid anyway. Philip felt small and overpowered by this man, a child cowed by the confident authority of an adult. He knew the man would win any argument, let alone one so petty. He was defenceless.
Philip hurried to get up as soon as the bus left the penultimate stop before his destination. Never before had he been so eager to get to school and to reach safety from … what? He was still so uncertain. Was Ian a real threat of some sort? Was he just an adult who found it easier to make conversation with children than with other adults? Maybe he hadn’t touched Philip on purpose. Any doubts that the child had were dispelled as he moved away from his seat.
‘See you tomorrow, then’, Ian said as he patted Philip’s backside. Philip slipped on the steps in his hurry to get to the lower deck and leapt off the bus whilst it was still moving – forbidden by byelaws, but Philip wouldn’t have cared even if he knew this.
That day at school was one of his worst. He couldn’t get the morning’s journey out of his head even though the second bus travelled uneventfully from the Apollo to school. The distraction told on his work. Mr Neville, the Latin master, smacked him across the head because he didn’t know where the class was up to when it was his turn to translate. It hadn’t hurt physically, but it brought tears to Philip’s eyes that he should be humiliated this way over some daft task that was so utterly meaningless compared to what he was trying to deal with.
In the lesson between break and dinner he was given a detention for not handing in his homework. He guessed he’d left it at home but remembered doing it. His protests cut no ice with the teacher. And then after dinner it was games. The pitch was mostly mud and he was one of the last to be picked, as usual. He played left back and sometimes got to kick the ball if the other boys were careless enough to let it come his way. This day he got a good chance to kick it but slipped in the mud as his foot made contact with the ball. An own goal. To Philip it mattered little, swamped as he was by real problems, but his team would get him for this. His profound despair was too deep for tears. There was no escape from the gauntlet of towels that whipped him in the changing rooms, and the physical pain made him cry, allowing some release from the pent up emotions of the day.
That night Philip lay awake listening to the light breathing from his brothers’ bunk beds. Downstairs his mum was listening to the Light Programme on the radio. They were playing something by Duane Eddy that Philip liked. His mum hadn’t any idea where the missing homework had got to, but Philip had found it later, folded at the bottom of his briefcase. Another own goal! Maybe if he handed it in tomorrow he’d get let off the detention, but he doubted it. Olly was a bastard of a strict teacher.
Philip thought back to the best part of the day. On his way home he’d gone one stop further than usual. He got off the bus and, yes, there was the stop on the other side of the road for buses going the other way. He might avoid Ian by going from this bus stop tomorrow. If only he knew how to end the nagging feeling that this would be only a temporary respite.
It was two and a half months later and just before the Easter holiday that Philip encountered Ian again. His mum was too ill to go to work that day and Philip had had to help his stepdad, Eddie to get his brothers ready for school. To avoid being late himself he went back to the nearest bus stop that he used to use. He wondered as he walked there whether Ian might have ‘been away’ again, or even if he was away now. The bus came and there was no sign of him. Philip stayed downstairs, and to his pleasant surprise arrived at school eighty minutes later, incident free. At the end of school, however, he was mortified to see the man waiting at his bus stop.
‘Well, if it isn’t my old pal Philip. How’re you getting on? Teachers being nice to you?’
‘Alright I s’pose.’ Philip felt tempted to let Ian know what he thought of E-Type the English teacher with the initials JAG, who had just given him an end of term report that was brutal. ‘His prose writings are badly written, wrongly punctuated, carelessly paragraphed, short and usually uninteresting.’ Very helpful! Not the sort of thing to share with a weird stranger, though.
Philip looked about him. There was no way of avoiding Ian without being rude, and if he was rude the bigger man might get physical. The lad weighed his briefcase to assess whether he might use it as a weapon if that happened. He didn’t think so. It had bulk but not weight. Running wasn’t a solution either; he knew he was rubbish at games and sport. As usual he would have to put up with the unwanted attention.
‘Got something to show you,’ Ian said. ‘Across the road, see?’ He pointed to a car, a Mini Traveller. There was a bleached blonde woman in it who smiled at Philip and waved. It was weird. Why should this stranger make him feel any less uncomfortable than Ian? She looked open and honest, whereas Ian always looked a bit shifty and was often scowling and sullen. But then Philip recognised these characteristics in himself sometimes. Morose his form teacher wrote on his report. He was surprised to find himself waving back at the woman.
‘Do you want to look her over?’ Philip was momentarily caught of guard by Ian’s question until he realised that he’d meant the Mini.
‘Ok, yeah.’ Again he surprised himself. Minis were cool, but the Traveller wasn’t as good as the others. And would he have agreed if the woman wasn’t there smiling at him. He went and looked at the motor and made polite noises about it. Ian was obviously proud of it – although it really belonged to his girlfriend.
Myra introduced herself to Philip. They made light, easy conversation. Philip was still uncomfortable with Ian, but less so. If he had this nice lady as his girlfriend then he couldn’t be all that bad. Philip even began to wonder again whether he had imagined all the problems of the last few months.
Too late Philip saw his bus go past. He was on the wrong side of the road and the traffic was too heavy to get to his stop in time. He swore mildly.
‘Was that your bus, love?’ Asked Myra.
‘Yeah. It’s another half hour before the next one, and I had hoped to get home quickly ‘cos my mum’s not well.’
‘Ian could give you a lift, couldn’t you, Ian?’
‘Aye, I could that. It’s no bother. We’ll get there before the bus.’
Philip sat next to Myra and they chatted and listened to the car radio. Del Shannon was playing. Ian overtook the bus and made good time. As they came into Hyde Myra asked Philip if he wanted to visit that evening – assuming his mum was ok with that. They made a flexible arrangement that Philip would drop in if he could after tea. He took their address in Wardle Brook Avenue, just near his house, and dropped him on Paignton Avenue.
So began one of the happiest times that Philip could remember. It had been so long since he had friends he could visit, and his mum noticed he was happier than he’d been since his dad died. Sometimes they’d just hang around at the Wardle Brook house, playing cards or talking about movies. Ian enjoyed war films, and so did Philip. Ian said it was wrong that the Germans never won in any of them. He told Philip all about the Nazis and Hitler until the boy was quite an expert for his age. Sometimes they’d drive out to the moors and go for walks. They used to take Philip up by Shiny Brook onto Saddleworth Moor for picnics too. On one occasion Philip had said he wanted to swim in Woodhead Reservoir. Myra stopped the car, turned to Philip and slapped him really hard.
‘Never, ever talk about going swimming in these reservoirs again, d’ya hear me?’
Philip nodded, trying hard not to cry. The suddenness of this assault had taken him completely by surprise – the day had been brilliant until then. He noticed that Myra was also almost crying and he didn’t understand. After a couple more miles she turned to Ian and told him that she was going to turn round and go home. It was there that Ian took Philip on one side and told him about a boyfriend of Myra’s who had died swimming in a reservoir.
There were a few occasions that Philip asked his mum if he could sleep over. It was only round the corner and there seemed no harm in it. Ian and Philip and Myra played games, watched television and listened to records. They had similar taste, surprisingly, except that Philip didn’t like Elvis and the two adults did. When it came to bedtime the games changed. Myra came into Philip’s room and they chatted and joked and then she started to tickle him. Ian came in to find out what the noise was and before long they were all trying to tickle one another. Suddenly Ian said,
‘I know one place that I bet you’re ticklish!’ Immediately he reached beneath the bedclothes and started to touch Philip. The boy didn’t know what to do. It was like the bus problem over again. Ian stopped and then started to tickle Myra. She wouldn’t let him and told Ian that they should go down stairs.
There was a lot of shouting downstairs afterwards, and Philip’s curiosity got the better of him. He opened the door to his room and listened. It was difficult to make much out because the radio was blaring out - Roy Orbison’s ‘In Dreams’ and then the Springfields’ ‘Island of Dreams’ seemed curiously juxtaposed as he made out some of the words the couple hurled at one another. He picked out something about ‘knowing too much’, ‘going on too long’ and ‘doing it on the day we pick them up’. None of it made sense. Then Ian said something about ‘and he has to put up with a stepdad just like me’ and there was sympathy in the way he said it. The living room door opened, the music became louder and Philip crept back into his bed. Moments later his door opened and Myra looked in.
‘Everything ok?’ she asked.
‘I’ve never heard you two rowing before. My mum and Eddie are always at it – usually about me and my brothers.’
‘Nothing to worry about, love. Go to sleep now’ Myra said.
Philip didn’t stay over again after that. In fact he wasn’t asked to. He saw less and less of the couple but when he did see them at the local shops or at the bus stop on his way to school it brought back the memory of the fun times they had enjoyed together. The last visit to the Wardle Brook Avenue house was in the first week of July.
Four months afterwards Philip was watching the news on the television about John Kennedy’s assassination. Everyone thought it was a great tragedy. Nothing else seemed to matter. Even the local news had items about it. What Philip noticed, however, at the end of the North West News Bulletin was that same day a boy had gone missing who shared the same initials as the dead President.
The following year, Philip saw Ian and Myra on television. They had been arrested for killing children. John F Kilbride in November and a girl called Pauline Reade back in mid July. Philip remembered the visits he had made to Wardle Brook Road and the walks on the moors. He remembered the strange man who he had wondered about when he felt himself being touched up on the bus and the nice lady who always seemed to stick up for him and looked after him. He had never spoken to anyone about this.
It’s over forty years ago now. Time my secret came out.
As he climbed the steps to the top deck he felt his backside being touched. It wasn’t the pressure of someone hurrying him up; he was being fondled – groped.
‘C’mon, kid. Got to get up quickly’, the man said.
Upstairs the bus was crowded with people going into the city centre for work. Philip was able to find a seat next to someone else, well away from the man. He looked at him, trying to get a better impression of him.
The man was in his middle twenties, Philip reckoned. Dark hair. His face wasn’t properly visible from where they were sitting, however he had seen him before at the bus stop. He found the dark and sullen expression disquieting, and when the man spoke to Philip the boy usually tried to avoid answering. It was tough when your mum said ‘don’t speak to strange men’ one day and ‘speak when you’re spoken to’ another day. If he couldn’t avoid answering he’d mumble something monosyllabic. The man’s Scottish accent sometimes confused the boy too, making it harder for Philip to feel comfortable in his presence. The man was dressed in clothes that had probably seen better days – a suit, but worn and shiny in parts. Philip wondered whether he always dressed up smartly – perhaps he was an office worker. That didn’t pay much, he knew, because his dad had worked in an office and he wore shabby suits.
What to do? Philip felt confused. Was the touching intentional or not? If he mentioned it to anyone they would probably tell him he was imagining it. People always bump into one another on crowded buses, they’d say. And anyway, who was there to tell? His mum was always really busy, what with holding down a job, housework and looking after Philip and his brothers. She had enough to do without taking on some weird fantasy the lad had dreamt up. She often felt irritated by new problems that any of the boys introduced into her life, not because she didn’t care, but because it reduced her capacity to keep her head above water with all the other business she had to cope with.
Philip’s father had died last January. He wished that he could have asked dad for help. Mum had remarried already, but Philip and his brothers didn’t get on with the new husband their mother had found. When he was feeling charitable Philip might think that the only thing wrong with him was the haste with which he’d hitched himself to mum – ‘before your dad’s side of the bed’s gone cold’ his Nan once let slip.
Philip couldn’t talk to his brothers about the groper. They were still at primary school. What understanding, let alone assistance could they offer? So what about school friends. The answer was simply that he had none he could share the problem with. He got on ok with several boys, but since he’d gone to the grammar fifteen months ago there was no one he had invited back home to play with and he’d been invited to no one’s parties or anything. He just didn’t fit into their world. The same with his teachers. They cared about the subjects they taught, not the boys. The groper was a problem he’d have to tackle by himself.
The day after the incident Philip left for school fifteen minutes earlier. He’d thought about ‘being ill’ and taking the day off but that would cause all sorts of disruption at home that he couldn’t face. Yet he didn’t want to face the man either, in case it was real and not just his imagination. Perhaps the earlier bus …
The plan worked. For a period of three weeks the man didn’t show up, and then it was the end of term – the Christmas holiday. For Philip and his brothers, as much as for any pre-teens, Christmas was a joyful holiday, the pleasure being in anticipation as well as realisation. The love that their mother failed to exhibit in her hectic life she tried to demonstrate with gifts bought from catalogues that would take half the year to pay back. The three brothers clubbed together to buy a present in return and it never mattered to their mum what the gift might be or cost. She loved them all and she loved their love.
It was late January that Philip’s father had died. On the first anniversary the man returned to Philip’s life. Leaning in a shop doorway on Hattersley Road West, by the bus stop had kept him out of Philip’s sight until the boy reached the bus shelter. Philip’s throat felt tight. He couldn’t escape. They were the only ones at the stop. He looked along the street, willing the bus to arrive early. A stream of cars, headlights breaking the gloom teased his impatience.
‘Hello, kid. Did you have a good holiday?’ There was no response. The boy looked every way rather than make eye contact.
‘What’s up? Cat got your tongue?’ Finally their eyes met.
‘I’ve missed you these last few weeks, kid. I’ve been away, see?’
The final word, phatic, yet almost compelling Philip to respond, hung between them and then pulled the lad down into conversation.
‘Have you?’ He mumbled.
The arrival of the bus brought no respite. Did the man say ‘I’m after you’ as he waved Philip on board ahead of himself, or was it childish paranoia mishearing a simple polite gesture?
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ The man left no option because he had positioned himself on the boarding platform in such a way as to block access to the lower deck. As Philip reached the last few steps a hand was brushing the back of his leg. He cringed and looked ahead for a seat where he could be free of the menace. There was none. This earlier bus attracted so many fewer people and they all seemed to be in pairs. Perhaps the briefcase could form a barrier.
You’re one of them grammar school kids, aren’t you?’ said the man as he sat down next to Philip’s bag. His unpleasant and unwanted presence was making Philip anxious. His breathing quickened and his face flushed. He sweated.
‘What’s your name?’
The relentless questioning demanded an answer and the manners instilled in the boy’s upbringing forced Philip to participate in the cat and mouth conversation.
‘Philip’.
‘Hello, Philip. I’m Ian. Let me get your ticket.’
Philip protested but Ian paid anyway. Philip felt small and overpowered by this man, a child cowed by the confident authority of an adult. He knew the man would win any argument, let alone one so petty. He was defenceless.
Philip hurried to get up as soon as the bus left the penultimate stop before his destination. Never before had he been so eager to get to school and to reach safety from … what? He was still so uncertain. Was Ian a real threat of some sort? Was he just an adult who found it easier to make conversation with children than with other adults? Maybe he hadn’t touched Philip on purpose. Any doubts that the child had were dispelled as he moved away from his seat.
‘See you tomorrow, then’, Ian said as he patted Philip’s backside. Philip slipped on the steps in his hurry to get to the lower deck and leapt off the bus whilst it was still moving – forbidden by byelaws, but Philip wouldn’t have cared even if he knew this.
That day at school was one of his worst. He couldn’t get the morning’s journey out of his head even though the second bus travelled uneventfully from the Apollo to school. The distraction told on his work. Mr Neville, the Latin master, smacked him across the head because he didn’t know where the class was up to when it was his turn to translate. It hadn’t hurt physically, but it brought tears to Philip’s eyes that he should be humiliated this way over some daft task that was so utterly meaningless compared to what he was trying to deal with.
In the lesson between break and dinner he was given a detention for not handing in his homework. He guessed he’d left it at home but remembered doing it. His protests cut no ice with the teacher. And then after dinner it was games. The pitch was mostly mud and he was one of the last to be picked, as usual. He played left back and sometimes got to kick the ball if the other boys were careless enough to let it come his way. This day he got a good chance to kick it but slipped in the mud as his foot made contact with the ball. An own goal. To Philip it mattered little, swamped as he was by real problems, but his team would get him for this. His profound despair was too deep for tears. There was no escape from the gauntlet of towels that whipped him in the changing rooms, and the physical pain made him cry, allowing some release from the pent up emotions of the day.
That night Philip lay awake listening to the light breathing from his brothers’ bunk beds. Downstairs his mum was listening to the Light Programme on the radio. They were playing something by Duane Eddy that Philip liked. His mum hadn’t any idea where the missing homework had got to, but Philip had found it later, folded at the bottom of his briefcase. Another own goal! Maybe if he handed it in tomorrow he’d get let off the detention, but he doubted it. Olly was a bastard of a strict teacher.
Philip thought back to the best part of the day. On his way home he’d gone one stop further than usual. He got off the bus and, yes, there was the stop on the other side of the road for buses going the other way. He might avoid Ian by going from this bus stop tomorrow. If only he knew how to end the nagging feeling that this would be only a temporary respite.
It was two and a half months later and just before the Easter holiday that Philip encountered Ian again. His mum was too ill to go to work that day and Philip had had to help his stepdad, Eddie to get his brothers ready for school. To avoid being late himself he went back to the nearest bus stop that he used to use. He wondered as he walked there whether Ian might have ‘been away’ again, or even if he was away now. The bus came and there was no sign of him. Philip stayed downstairs, and to his pleasant surprise arrived at school eighty minutes later, incident free. At the end of school, however, he was mortified to see the man waiting at his bus stop.
‘Well, if it isn’t my old pal Philip. How’re you getting on? Teachers being nice to you?’
‘Alright I s’pose.’ Philip felt tempted to let Ian know what he thought of E-Type the English teacher with the initials JAG, who had just given him an end of term report that was brutal. ‘His prose writings are badly written, wrongly punctuated, carelessly paragraphed, short and usually uninteresting.’ Very helpful! Not the sort of thing to share with a weird stranger, though.
Philip looked about him. There was no way of avoiding Ian without being rude, and if he was rude the bigger man might get physical. The lad weighed his briefcase to assess whether he might use it as a weapon if that happened. He didn’t think so. It had bulk but not weight. Running wasn’t a solution either; he knew he was rubbish at games and sport. As usual he would have to put up with the unwanted attention.
‘Got something to show you,’ Ian said. ‘Across the road, see?’ He pointed to a car, a Mini Traveller. There was a bleached blonde woman in it who smiled at Philip and waved. It was weird. Why should this stranger make him feel any less uncomfortable than Ian? She looked open and honest, whereas Ian always looked a bit shifty and was often scowling and sullen. But then Philip recognised these characteristics in himself sometimes. Morose his form teacher wrote on his report. He was surprised to find himself waving back at the woman.
‘Do you want to look her over?’ Philip was momentarily caught of guard by Ian’s question until he realised that he’d meant the Mini.
‘Ok, yeah.’ Again he surprised himself. Minis were cool, but the Traveller wasn’t as good as the others. And would he have agreed if the woman wasn’t there smiling at him. He went and looked at the motor and made polite noises about it. Ian was obviously proud of it – although it really belonged to his girlfriend.
Myra introduced herself to Philip. They made light, easy conversation. Philip was still uncomfortable with Ian, but less so. If he had this nice lady as his girlfriend then he couldn’t be all that bad. Philip even began to wonder again whether he had imagined all the problems of the last few months.
Too late Philip saw his bus go past. He was on the wrong side of the road and the traffic was too heavy to get to his stop in time. He swore mildly.
‘Was that your bus, love?’ Asked Myra.
‘Yeah. It’s another half hour before the next one, and I had hoped to get home quickly ‘cos my mum’s not well.’
‘Ian could give you a lift, couldn’t you, Ian?’
‘Aye, I could that. It’s no bother. We’ll get there before the bus.’
Philip sat next to Myra and they chatted and listened to the car radio. Del Shannon was playing. Ian overtook the bus and made good time. As they came into Hyde Myra asked Philip if he wanted to visit that evening – assuming his mum was ok with that. They made a flexible arrangement that Philip would drop in if he could after tea. He took their address in Wardle Brook Avenue, just near his house, and dropped him on Paignton Avenue.
So began one of the happiest times that Philip could remember. It had been so long since he had friends he could visit, and his mum noticed he was happier than he’d been since his dad died. Sometimes they’d just hang around at the Wardle Brook house, playing cards or talking about movies. Ian enjoyed war films, and so did Philip. Ian said it was wrong that the Germans never won in any of them. He told Philip all about the Nazis and Hitler until the boy was quite an expert for his age. Sometimes they’d drive out to the moors and go for walks. They used to take Philip up by Shiny Brook onto Saddleworth Moor for picnics too. On one occasion Philip had said he wanted to swim in Woodhead Reservoir. Myra stopped the car, turned to Philip and slapped him really hard.
‘Never, ever talk about going swimming in these reservoirs again, d’ya hear me?’
Philip nodded, trying hard not to cry. The suddenness of this assault had taken him completely by surprise – the day had been brilliant until then. He noticed that Myra was also almost crying and he didn’t understand. After a couple more miles she turned to Ian and told him that she was going to turn round and go home. It was there that Ian took Philip on one side and told him about a boyfriend of Myra’s who had died swimming in a reservoir.
There were a few occasions that Philip asked his mum if he could sleep over. It was only round the corner and there seemed no harm in it. Ian and Philip and Myra played games, watched television and listened to records. They had similar taste, surprisingly, except that Philip didn’t like Elvis and the two adults did. When it came to bedtime the games changed. Myra came into Philip’s room and they chatted and joked and then she started to tickle him. Ian came in to find out what the noise was and before long they were all trying to tickle one another. Suddenly Ian said,
‘I know one place that I bet you’re ticklish!’ Immediately he reached beneath the bedclothes and started to touch Philip. The boy didn’t know what to do. It was like the bus problem over again. Ian stopped and then started to tickle Myra. She wouldn’t let him and told Ian that they should go down stairs.
There was a lot of shouting downstairs afterwards, and Philip’s curiosity got the better of him. He opened the door to his room and listened. It was difficult to make much out because the radio was blaring out - Roy Orbison’s ‘In Dreams’ and then the Springfields’ ‘Island of Dreams’ seemed curiously juxtaposed as he made out some of the words the couple hurled at one another. He picked out something about ‘knowing too much’, ‘going on too long’ and ‘doing it on the day we pick them up’. None of it made sense. Then Ian said something about ‘and he has to put up with a stepdad just like me’ and there was sympathy in the way he said it. The living room door opened, the music became louder and Philip crept back into his bed. Moments later his door opened and Myra looked in.
‘Everything ok?’ she asked.
‘I’ve never heard you two rowing before. My mum and Eddie are always at it – usually about me and my brothers.’
‘Nothing to worry about, love. Go to sleep now’ Myra said.
Philip didn’t stay over again after that. In fact he wasn’t asked to. He saw less and less of the couple but when he did see them at the local shops or at the bus stop on his way to school it brought back the memory of the fun times they had enjoyed together. The last visit to the Wardle Brook Avenue house was in the first week of July.
Four months afterwards Philip was watching the news on the television about John Kennedy’s assassination. Everyone thought it was a great tragedy. Nothing else seemed to matter. Even the local news had items about it. What Philip noticed, however, at the end of the North West News Bulletin was that same day a boy had gone missing who shared the same initials as the dead President.
The following year, Philip saw Ian and Myra on television. They had been arrested for killing children. John F Kilbride in November and a girl called Pauline Reade back in mid July. Philip remembered the visits he had made to Wardle Brook Road and the walks on the moors. He remembered the strange man who he had wondered about when he felt himself being touched up on the bus and the nice lady who always seemed to stick up for him and looked after him. He had never spoken to anyone about this.
It’s over forty years ago now. Time my secret came out.
You’ll wonder where the yellow went …
It was dark. If it had a sense of smell the toothbrush might have been overwhelmed by a combination of mint from the toothpaste tube it snuggled against and the mixed stench of cheap eau de cologne and bathroom cleaner.
Suddenly there was a light, and a hand reached in. The toothbrush was raised up, and then dunked headfirst under the cold running water. The man who owned it wouldn’t have dreamed of putting his head under the cold tap seconds after getting up. But, of course, toothbrushes don’t have feelings, do they?
A squeeeeeze of blue chalky paste, warm, and psychologically more warming because of that minty flavour. Fresh and comforting.
And then a sudden change of tone. Such brutality! Smashed against a wall of enamel with the shock waves running through each and every bristle as one enamel brick gave way to another. Then back again, along, over the top, round the back. Slimed with saliva and ground carelessly against the unforgiving surface of his teeth in a battle that the bristles would eventually lose.
The toothbrush had no feelings, or it might momentarily have felt relief as it emerged from the stinking cavern, only to be plunged once again in the cold water. It loosened the remains of the blue gooey toothpaste, along with waste food particles that had sought refuge between the nylon bristles. It cleaned of the vile saliva. A gob of minty spit shot past, and if it had senses the brush could have heard its owner curse and feet some satisfaction that he had dribbled onto his chest.
Once more the brush was lifted mouthwards, like the victim of a manic torturer it was smashed back and forth against the dental wall, its bristles jostling one another as they careened across cavities in the yellowing enamel. The toothbrush was unable to enjoy the way its bristles opened up a weak spot in the gums, making them bleed a little.
Finally the ordeal was being concluded. More cold water and then flung into the cupboard with little care about how long it would last.
Suddenly there was a light, and a hand reached in. The toothbrush was raised up, and then dunked headfirst under the cold running water. The man who owned it wouldn’t have dreamed of putting his head under the cold tap seconds after getting up. But, of course, toothbrushes don’t have feelings, do they?
A squeeeeeze of blue chalky paste, warm, and psychologically more warming because of that minty flavour. Fresh and comforting.
And then a sudden change of tone. Such brutality! Smashed against a wall of enamel with the shock waves running through each and every bristle as one enamel brick gave way to another. Then back again, along, over the top, round the back. Slimed with saliva and ground carelessly against the unforgiving surface of his teeth in a battle that the bristles would eventually lose.
The toothbrush had no feelings, or it might momentarily have felt relief as it emerged from the stinking cavern, only to be plunged once again in the cold water. It loosened the remains of the blue gooey toothpaste, along with waste food particles that had sought refuge between the nylon bristles. It cleaned of the vile saliva. A gob of minty spit shot past, and if it had senses the brush could have heard its owner curse and feet some satisfaction that he had dribbled onto his chest.
Once more the brush was lifted mouthwards, like the victim of a manic torturer it was smashed back and forth against the dental wall, its bristles jostling one another as they careened across cavities in the yellowing enamel. The toothbrush was unable to enjoy the way its bristles opened up a weak spot in the gums, making them bleed a little.
Finally the ordeal was being concluded. More cold water and then flung into the cupboard with little care about how long it would last.
A day in which nothing much happened
I once saw a man die. Correction: I once watched a man die. Many people watch others die. I mean, let’s assume that aging is a degenerative process that leads to death. Who hasn’t seen someone die – grandparents, parents, neighbours? Some of us, less lucky than the others, may have watched other degenerative processes eat away at our loved ones. To hear a relative plead for release from cancer is truly awful. To visit an older person who no longer recognises you – terrible. But these are not the circumstances of which I write.
I once watched a man die. One Sunday morning, after breakfast, I went down to the newsagents to buy the Observer. As I drew near to the shop I noticed an old man trip over on the pavement. He fell almost gracefully, with the slow and deliberate ease of movement that old people often display, but which was so out of place in a fall.
His walking stick landed just out of his reach. His arm reached out towards it, fingers flexing in a futile attempt to grasp it, or, more likely, in a reflex motion, knowing only that he ought to be holding something; yet forgetful of what it was he had lost.
He was not wealthy. His grey gabardine coat was patched and grimy. It was buttoned up on the two remaining buttons and underneath was a shabby dark suit. Perhaps he had been an office worker, maybe even an executive who had fallen on hard times, eking out a less than adequate state pension whilst endeavouring to maintain the dignity he had once, and still felt was his. He had tortoiseshell plastic frame glasses lying by his cheek, one of their arms fractured in the fall. There was blood at his temple.
I rushed into the shop and told the newsagent about the old man, but I wasn’t the first to have done this and an ambulance had already been called for. I returned outside. Two or three others stood around. How many had first aid training or had cared for sick or injured relatives? None stooped to talk to the old man until I did. I told him an ambulance was on its way. He looked straight through me. I know he heard me though because he reacted – a blink and a vague movement of his lips. No sound came out. I stood up again, feeling redundant.
It’s astonishing how useless we can be at such times. Should we search him, find out where his home is? He might have someone waiting for him. The need to know he’s been hurt. No one moved to do this. It would invade his privacy. Maybe this was why no one wanted to get closer, talk with him or make sure he was comfortable. We all enjoy our personal space and try to respect other people’s. The blood had formed a tiny puddle on the pavement.
We waited there in the quiet of that Sunday morning. There was little traffic and no other passers by so we all heard the old man. A sigh or a moan escaping from him; no words discernible, scarcely an emotion. We watched. His eyes no longer blinked and his lips began to change colour, taking on a bluer hue. His face greyed.
The ambulance arrived.
Businesslike ambulance men pronounced him a gonner. They lifted him briskly yet respectfully onto their stretcher, took him into the back of their vehicle and drove off. No sirens. No speeding. No point. The newsagent emerged from his shop with a bucket of water and a yard brush. He swilled and swept away the blood down a drain in the gutter. Nothing remained of the old man that I watched die except our thoughts. It was truly as if nothing had happened.
I once watched a man die. One Sunday morning, after breakfast, I went down to the newsagents to buy the Observer. As I drew near to the shop I noticed an old man trip over on the pavement. He fell almost gracefully, with the slow and deliberate ease of movement that old people often display, but which was so out of place in a fall.
His walking stick landed just out of his reach. His arm reached out towards it, fingers flexing in a futile attempt to grasp it, or, more likely, in a reflex motion, knowing only that he ought to be holding something; yet forgetful of what it was he had lost.
He was not wealthy. His grey gabardine coat was patched and grimy. It was buttoned up on the two remaining buttons and underneath was a shabby dark suit. Perhaps he had been an office worker, maybe even an executive who had fallen on hard times, eking out a less than adequate state pension whilst endeavouring to maintain the dignity he had once, and still felt was his. He had tortoiseshell plastic frame glasses lying by his cheek, one of their arms fractured in the fall. There was blood at his temple.
I rushed into the shop and told the newsagent about the old man, but I wasn’t the first to have done this and an ambulance had already been called for. I returned outside. Two or three others stood around. How many had first aid training or had cared for sick or injured relatives? None stooped to talk to the old man until I did. I told him an ambulance was on its way. He looked straight through me. I know he heard me though because he reacted – a blink and a vague movement of his lips. No sound came out. I stood up again, feeling redundant.
It’s astonishing how useless we can be at such times. Should we search him, find out where his home is? He might have someone waiting for him. The need to know he’s been hurt. No one moved to do this. It would invade his privacy. Maybe this was why no one wanted to get closer, talk with him or make sure he was comfortable. We all enjoy our personal space and try to respect other people’s. The blood had formed a tiny puddle on the pavement.
We waited there in the quiet of that Sunday morning. There was little traffic and no other passers by so we all heard the old man. A sigh or a moan escaping from him; no words discernible, scarcely an emotion. We watched. His eyes no longer blinked and his lips began to change colour, taking on a bluer hue. His face greyed.
The ambulance arrived.
Businesslike ambulance men pronounced him a gonner. They lifted him briskly yet respectfully onto their stretcher, took him into the back of their vehicle and drove off. No sirens. No speeding. No point. The newsagent emerged from his shop with a bucket of water and a yard brush. He swilled and swept away the blood down a drain in the gutter. Nothing remained of the old man that I watched die except our thoughts. It was truly as if nothing had happened.
The Last World War
I don’t know why people were surprised when the Last World War began. Probably because they didn’t notice the emergence of smaller wars in the previous couple of decades and the way that they had destabilised regions and continents. Then the parasitic bystanders had taken advantage of war weary nations and states that lay bloodied and broken from their turmoil. In region after region this happened, producing the Last World War that wasn’t a world war yet has retained this name. In reality, wars across the world had just seemed to merge until there were few countries unaffected in one way or another.
In Africa the country formerly called Zimbabwe had been destabilised internally by a despotic regime that brought famine to the people. Elsewhere in Africa territorial wars were fought between countries keen on garnering for themselves the scarce provisions that the continent offered and the rich raw materials that could be sold for foreign currency. Thus in 2007 Chad was defeated and overrun by its Sudanese neighbours which then took their bloodlust through Niger and further afield to Mauritania and Mali and Burkina Faso. In central Africa the destabilisation had begun with the Rwanda conflict of 1994 which impinged on countries across the central belt from Congo to Tanzania. Elections in the Congo erupted into violence towards the end of 2006. Eventually this was resolved by a military dictatorship that tried to consolidate its power and win hearts and minds of the Congolese by eastward expansion. And finally beginning 3 years later, South Africa intervened in Zimbabwe – and Angola and Namibia. Over a hundred million people are thought to have died in Africa alone between 1994 and 2015 from warfare including civil war.
There will not follow a catalogue of victories and defeats here. You know the score. Let the African example serve to illustrate the emergence of these minor superpowers, the regional champions of the global power game. Concurrent conflicts had brought about the Andean Empire, vying for South American supremacy with the newly enlarged Brazil. In the Middle East the rise of the Irano-Syrian Islamic Coalition had been unwittingly begun by the recently executed war criminal Dick Cheney. Indeed, in this period of new empires the main example of a contrary trend was the now disunited states of America. Only President Schwarzenegger and the independent Commonwealth of California have benefited from the break-up of the US Empire. Interestingly, by the way, the trial of Cheney was not on charges to do with the waging of the Iraq war, but on profiteering from warfare. He had been taking money secretly from his old company Halliburton when they got some extensive reconstruction contracts in Iraq. Not so much a case of conflict of interest, but more an interest in conflict!
Enough of this history lesson. It was a long time ago. The wars are behind us, and thanks to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of United Earth the perpetrators have been sought out and confronted with their criminality. The old United Nations had such trouble with war criminals; not so United Earth. From all over the globe they were brought to the UE headquarters complex in Strasbourg, the capital of the United States of Europe. The accusations were announced and published in those countries which had seen the crimes committed. The perpetrators of crimes volunteered in vast numbers to give evidence and plead for amnesty, and in vast numbers it was granted, though usually with conditions about holding office, or being a member of the armed forces. In some cases the scale of the crimes was too great to forgive, even when, as in the case of President Lt. Gen. Umar Hassan Ahmad al-Bashir of Sudan, he had volunteered to catalogue his doings in great detail and had asked for clemency. He was executed 8 years ago in the second year of the Commission’s work.
I reckon you will want to know why I have outlined all this background information. After all, it’s well known to those of you who are allowed to study advanced history. Should any of you not have been allocated this level of security you may well be surprised by some of the things I have written. Believe me, they are true. The version of the past that you have been allowed to access was sanitised – in the public interest – until only eighteen months ago.
It’s some time since the United Earth organisation was set up now. Its work has been to settle disputes between countries and to better the human condition globally. It has made extraordinary inroads into the so called green issues that tried the consciences of people back in the first years of this century. However, the strangest consequence of its truth and reconciliation programme and of the Peace Council’s approach to conflict avoidance has not been on the international stage – far from it. The division of Africa into three spheres of influence has gone well because there has been recognition that the Last World War should be the war to end all wars. It’s a cliché that owes its origins to World War One, but this time the leaders of the world – all members of United Earth – mean to secure this aim. The nearest to conflict since the end of the war was the dispute over the Aral Sea, locally referred to as the Water War. You will remember the circumstances. Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan both needed the water, even though it was heavily polluted, and were close to engaging in military action over the issue. UE stepped in and arranged a settlement that divided the lake and its water sources between the neighbouring countries. Strangely it also imposed a single sanction – that the Presidents of the two countries, whose wilful pursuit of confrontational politics had created the crisis, should settle their personal differences with a wrestling match. This was duly undertaken and resulted in a draw!
Such has been the fate of many potential conflicts over the last 10 years – a rational compromise and, more often than a wrestling match, shaking hands and making up. There has been a decade of backing down which has not been taken advantage of, as it was in 1938 before the Second World War. And this has translated into ordinary life. In the business world aggressive takeovers have become a thing of the past as cooperative mergers have become the norm. In schools conciliation studies has become one of the most popular option courses at senior high school level despite it having surprisingly low utilitarian applications. The work of law courts has become focussed on mediation. The Last World War has brought real peace, as opposed to lack of conflict.
But in the final analysis the weirdest phenomenon of the change brought about since the opening of the century has been the meteoric rise in the number of divorces and trial separations. It’s not just that, though. The way that churches across the world have accepted the return of polygamy! A social revolution has happened; simply because the world is no longer willing to risk conflict there has been acquiescence in all relationships. When we want a new partner, our former partner either accepts the arrangement, or an amicable separation is concluded. There is no record of major claims on an ex in the last decade because the courts provide the decisions on sensible compromise.
Oh brave new world!
In Africa the country formerly called Zimbabwe had been destabilised internally by a despotic regime that brought famine to the people. Elsewhere in Africa territorial wars were fought between countries keen on garnering for themselves the scarce provisions that the continent offered and the rich raw materials that could be sold for foreign currency. Thus in 2007 Chad was defeated and overrun by its Sudanese neighbours which then took their bloodlust through Niger and further afield to Mauritania and Mali and Burkina Faso. In central Africa the destabilisation had begun with the Rwanda conflict of 1994 which impinged on countries across the central belt from Congo to Tanzania. Elections in the Congo erupted into violence towards the end of 2006. Eventually this was resolved by a military dictatorship that tried to consolidate its power and win hearts and minds of the Congolese by eastward expansion. And finally beginning 3 years later, South Africa intervened in Zimbabwe – and Angola and Namibia. Over a hundred million people are thought to have died in Africa alone between 1994 and 2015 from warfare including civil war.
There will not follow a catalogue of victories and defeats here. You know the score. Let the African example serve to illustrate the emergence of these minor superpowers, the regional champions of the global power game. Concurrent conflicts had brought about the Andean Empire, vying for South American supremacy with the newly enlarged Brazil. In the Middle East the rise of the Irano-Syrian Islamic Coalition had been unwittingly begun by the recently executed war criminal Dick Cheney. Indeed, in this period of new empires the main example of a contrary trend was the now disunited states of America. Only President Schwarzenegger and the independent Commonwealth of California have benefited from the break-up of the US Empire. Interestingly, by the way, the trial of Cheney was not on charges to do with the waging of the Iraq war, but on profiteering from warfare. He had been taking money secretly from his old company Halliburton when they got some extensive reconstruction contracts in Iraq. Not so much a case of conflict of interest, but more an interest in conflict!
Enough of this history lesson. It was a long time ago. The wars are behind us, and thanks to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of United Earth the perpetrators have been sought out and confronted with their criminality. The old United Nations had such trouble with war criminals; not so United Earth. From all over the globe they were brought to the UE headquarters complex in Strasbourg, the capital of the United States of Europe. The accusations were announced and published in those countries which had seen the crimes committed. The perpetrators of crimes volunteered in vast numbers to give evidence and plead for amnesty, and in vast numbers it was granted, though usually with conditions about holding office, or being a member of the armed forces. In some cases the scale of the crimes was too great to forgive, even when, as in the case of President Lt. Gen. Umar Hassan Ahmad al-Bashir of Sudan, he had volunteered to catalogue his doings in great detail and had asked for clemency. He was executed 8 years ago in the second year of the Commission’s work.
I reckon you will want to know why I have outlined all this background information. After all, it’s well known to those of you who are allowed to study advanced history. Should any of you not have been allocated this level of security you may well be surprised by some of the things I have written. Believe me, they are true. The version of the past that you have been allowed to access was sanitised – in the public interest – until only eighteen months ago.
It’s some time since the United Earth organisation was set up now. Its work has been to settle disputes between countries and to better the human condition globally. It has made extraordinary inroads into the so called green issues that tried the consciences of people back in the first years of this century. However, the strangest consequence of its truth and reconciliation programme and of the Peace Council’s approach to conflict avoidance has not been on the international stage – far from it. The division of Africa into three spheres of influence has gone well because there has been recognition that the Last World War should be the war to end all wars. It’s a cliché that owes its origins to World War One, but this time the leaders of the world – all members of United Earth – mean to secure this aim. The nearest to conflict since the end of the war was the dispute over the Aral Sea, locally referred to as the Water War. You will remember the circumstances. Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan both needed the water, even though it was heavily polluted, and were close to engaging in military action over the issue. UE stepped in and arranged a settlement that divided the lake and its water sources between the neighbouring countries. Strangely it also imposed a single sanction – that the Presidents of the two countries, whose wilful pursuit of confrontational politics had created the crisis, should settle their personal differences with a wrestling match. This was duly undertaken and resulted in a draw!
Such has been the fate of many potential conflicts over the last 10 years – a rational compromise and, more often than a wrestling match, shaking hands and making up. There has been a decade of backing down which has not been taken advantage of, as it was in 1938 before the Second World War. And this has translated into ordinary life. In the business world aggressive takeovers have become a thing of the past as cooperative mergers have become the norm. In schools conciliation studies has become one of the most popular option courses at senior high school level despite it having surprisingly low utilitarian applications. The work of law courts has become focussed on mediation. The Last World War has brought real peace, as opposed to lack of conflict.
But in the final analysis the weirdest phenomenon of the change brought about since the opening of the century has been the meteoric rise in the number of divorces and trial separations. It’s not just that, though. The way that churches across the world have accepted the return of polygamy! A social revolution has happened; simply because the world is no longer willing to risk conflict there has been acquiescence in all relationships. When we want a new partner, our former partner either accepts the arrangement, or an amicable separation is concluded. There is no record of major claims on an ex in the last decade because the courts provide the decisions on sensible compromise.
Oh brave new world!
Sunday, 10 December 2006
Mother and Daughter
Always her nose buried in a book. All the time I’m telling her, ‘Get out more while you can and get some excitement in your life! You’re so boring, so frigging dull!’
Why does she speak to me this way? So many of my friends tell me that the mother-daughter relationship for them is like having an extra best friend. My friends don’t go around town with their skirts up to their arse, on heels that defy the laws of physics and covered in cosmetic gunk. ‘You look like a tart’, I tell her.
‘Well at least I’m having fun in my life’. She is so frigging irritating. There’s no understanding between us – she makes no effort to meet me half way. Christ, I might as well be invisible sometimes, but even then she’d find something to moan about. And she waits up for me like I’m a child and spoils the evening saying ‘You come in at all hours, making such a racket and half cut. I don’t know what the neighbours think!’ They’ll probably wonder why she doesn’t go out, get slaughtered and enjoy herself once in a while. She doesn’t even have any hobbies, let alone friends. I can’t remember the last time she had a friend round. She just sits and reads that story book shit.
She doesn’t read. Life is just one big party, like there are no responsibilities to worry about. Parties and rows, week after week. Maybe if we’d moved house back then she’d have been calmer and the fresh start would have made her different. Maybe not. Anyway, she met Rod. ‘Rod by name and rod by nature, if you get my drift!’ She smirked. And his visits were more and more frequent, and sometimes he stayed overnight. God, I hope they use condoms!
I wish she’d treat Rod with more respect. He’s a visitor in the house, the least she could do is say hello, pass the time of day. He’s lovely. She should get to know him better, give him a chance ‘stead of judging the book by its cover. Jeez, she reads so many you’d think she knew that by now!
Rodney. Do they still call boys Rodney other than on Only Fools and Horses? She insists that I’ve got to like him. Says ‘He might become a fixture – you never know’. It’s just more housework. By the time he leaves for work on a Monday the house stinks of weed and there’s beer cans all over. Makes it look like a slum.
‘I think you need to tell your Rodney about how to treat other people’s homes when he’s a visitor. He’s so bloody slovenly!’
‘You leave him alone, he’s alright. It’s only a couple of cans …’
‘And the cannabis and the toilet seat wet and …’
‘F’crying out loud! Shut it will you! There’s more important things to worry about than dirty ashtrays. I think I’m pregnant’
‘Oh, Mum!’
Why does she speak to me this way? So many of my friends tell me that the mother-daughter relationship for them is like having an extra best friend. My friends don’t go around town with their skirts up to their arse, on heels that defy the laws of physics and covered in cosmetic gunk. ‘You look like a tart’, I tell her.
‘Well at least I’m having fun in my life’. She is so frigging irritating. There’s no understanding between us – she makes no effort to meet me half way. Christ, I might as well be invisible sometimes, but even then she’d find something to moan about. And she waits up for me like I’m a child and spoils the evening saying ‘You come in at all hours, making such a racket and half cut. I don’t know what the neighbours think!’ They’ll probably wonder why she doesn’t go out, get slaughtered and enjoy herself once in a while. She doesn’t even have any hobbies, let alone friends. I can’t remember the last time she had a friend round. She just sits and reads that story book shit.
She doesn’t read. Life is just one big party, like there are no responsibilities to worry about. Parties and rows, week after week. Maybe if we’d moved house back then she’d have been calmer and the fresh start would have made her different. Maybe not. Anyway, she met Rod. ‘Rod by name and rod by nature, if you get my drift!’ She smirked. And his visits were more and more frequent, and sometimes he stayed overnight. God, I hope they use condoms!
I wish she’d treat Rod with more respect. He’s a visitor in the house, the least she could do is say hello, pass the time of day. He’s lovely. She should get to know him better, give him a chance ‘stead of judging the book by its cover. Jeez, she reads so many you’d think she knew that by now!
Rodney. Do they still call boys Rodney other than on Only Fools and Horses? She insists that I’ve got to like him. Says ‘He might become a fixture – you never know’. It’s just more housework. By the time he leaves for work on a Monday the house stinks of weed and there’s beer cans all over. Makes it look like a slum.
‘I think you need to tell your Rodney about how to treat other people’s homes when he’s a visitor. He’s so bloody slovenly!’
‘You leave him alone, he’s alright. It’s only a couple of cans …’
‘And the cannabis and the toilet seat wet and …’
‘F’crying out loud! Shut it will you! There’s more important things to worry about than dirty ashtrays. I think I’m pregnant’
‘Oh, Mum!’
Monday, 4 December 2006
Guilt and envy
There are some rooms I remember better than others in the various houses I have lived in. These are the rooms that make a home from a house. I scarcely remember the hall and stairway that I ran through to escape on that awful day. In fact I have trouble remembering accurately which house I was in when I was told the news that my father had died.
On the same day the year before, my grandmother had died and it was left to my uncle to tell me and my brothers, in the kitchen of the house we then lived in – my first home. Not long afterwards my Dad had the stroke that forced us from that home to find security in the shop with Uncle and Aunty.
It must have been in the living room behind the shop that Uncle told us about Dad – the poor sod had drawn the short straw again. I still confuse in my mind the places where this task that he performed happened.
I remember that I raced out of the room and up to my bedroom through an unlit hall and up a dusky stairway. It didn’t occur to me that if I had carried on at the top of the stairs, instead of u-turning to the bedroom I shared with both my brothers, that I would have arrived at his bedroom where he had died in the night.
I lay on the bottom bunk and cried. I’ve no idea how long I was there. I remember it as hours and I was on my own. To this day I don’t know where my brothers got to, and I have never asked them.
Dead. Such a short word. Abrupt. Hard. So appropriate for sudden death that it’s almost onomatopoeic. Maybe people who die slowly with chronic illness shouldn’t be allowed to use the word. They don’t deserve to be ‘dead’. They don’t deserve the simple sound which ends their lives like a full stop at the end of a sentence. They take too long about it; they ‘pass away’ or maybe ‘have died’ but ‘dead is just not right. Let them have the triple full stop …
For almost a year, as I remember it, Dad had struggled to adjust to the stroke. He walked awkwardly now, dragging his right leg and using a walking stick which he would have preferred in his right hand which hung limp beneath his limp right arm. He hated his disability and was impatient with it, as he was with those around him who found it hard to cope with an irascible invalid. Still, his pride made him persist in his efforts to overcome the effects, to learn left handed writing and so on. But he never spoke clearly again. His struggle was in vain. A second stroke within a month of Christmas and he was dead.
I lay on the bed. Did I drift off to sleep? Is that why it feels like hours that I was there? Uncle hadn’t helped, or rather he had tried to but he was clumsy. What do you say to people who haven’t yet reached teenage and lose a parent? He told us he would try to be a father to us from now on. I was so angry. How dare he? How could he? But my grief was not the grief of injustice that can’t be righted, nor even at the loss of my father. It was guilt. Regret at not having the chance to say sorry.
Such a small incident the day before when my twin and I had been fighting. Dad called me into his bedroom next door to ours to tell me off. I wonder why I had to listen to the way he said it rather than what he was saying? His speech difficulty made him sound like a wound down gramophone playing a foreign language record. I laughed, not out loud, but a sort of nervous giggle. He lost his temper. It was the last time I saw him, and he had sent me away.
Forty years later I discovered my twin’s guilt – that he had not cried at all. The past cannot be changed – yet still I am haunted by this incident that the lofty arrogance of hindsight that tells me I could have or should have avoided, and I envy his dry eyes.
On the same day the year before, my grandmother had died and it was left to my uncle to tell me and my brothers, in the kitchen of the house we then lived in – my first home. Not long afterwards my Dad had the stroke that forced us from that home to find security in the shop with Uncle and Aunty.
It must have been in the living room behind the shop that Uncle told us about Dad – the poor sod had drawn the short straw again. I still confuse in my mind the places where this task that he performed happened.
I remember that I raced out of the room and up to my bedroom through an unlit hall and up a dusky stairway. It didn’t occur to me that if I had carried on at the top of the stairs, instead of u-turning to the bedroom I shared with both my brothers, that I would have arrived at his bedroom where he had died in the night.
I lay on the bottom bunk and cried. I’ve no idea how long I was there. I remember it as hours and I was on my own. To this day I don’t know where my brothers got to, and I have never asked them.
Dead. Such a short word. Abrupt. Hard. So appropriate for sudden death that it’s almost onomatopoeic. Maybe people who die slowly with chronic illness shouldn’t be allowed to use the word. They don’t deserve to be ‘dead’. They don’t deserve the simple sound which ends their lives like a full stop at the end of a sentence. They take too long about it; they ‘pass away’ or maybe ‘have died’ but ‘dead is just not right. Let them have the triple full stop …
For almost a year, as I remember it, Dad had struggled to adjust to the stroke. He walked awkwardly now, dragging his right leg and using a walking stick which he would have preferred in his right hand which hung limp beneath his limp right arm. He hated his disability and was impatient with it, as he was with those around him who found it hard to cope with an irascible invalid. Still, his pride made him persist in his efforts to overcome the effects, to learn left handed writing and so on. But he never spoke clearly again. His struggle was in vain. A second stroke within a month of Christmas and he was dead.
I lay on the bed. Did I drift off to sleep? Is that why it feels like hours that I was there? Uncle hadn’t helped, or rather he had tried to but he was clumsy. What do you say to people who haven’t yet reached teenage and lose a parent? He told us he would try to be a father to us from now on. I was so angry. How dare he? How could he? But my grief was not the grief of injustice that can’t be righted, nor even at the loss of my father. It was guilt. Regret at not having the chance to say sorry.
Such a small incident the day before when my twin and I had been fighting. Dad called me into his bedroom next door to ours to tell me off. I wonder why I had to listen to the way he said it rather than what he was saying? His speech difficulty made him sound like a wound down gramophone playing a foreign language record. I laughed, not out loud, but a sort of nervous giggle. He lost his temper. It was the last time I saw him, and he had sent me away.
Forty years later I discovered my twin’s guilt – that he had not cried at all. The past cannot be changed – yet still I am haunted by this incident that the lofty arrogance of hindsight that tells me I could have or should have avoided, and I envy his dry eyes.
Friday, 1 December 2006
100 word story
There was a saucer on the table with cigarette butts in it. The armchair was in the middle of the room, and the carpet bore a trail left by its castors. Radio Three could be heard in the otherwise silent room, but it was turned right down. The strange odour that she first noticed four days ago had gone, subdued and overtaken by the smell of the cigarettes.
The body hanging from the light fitting no longer revolved as it had when she discovered her husband. She settled into her chair again and held his hand. She opened another beer.
The body hanging from the light fitting no longer revolved as it had when she discovered her husband. She settled into her chair again and held his hand. She opened another beer.
Tuesday, 28 November 2006
Going Down
Tell you about the last day my job, your honour? Well, I suppose you’d say I resigned with attitude. Yeah, you might call it dismissed, but I like to look on the positive side, y’know? ‘Always look on the bright side of life’? Eric Idle that was. Anyhow, I was working as a lift attendant at Bracegirdle’s, the department store? Been there ‘bout 18 months. It was a rubbish job. I’d gone past the ‘it has its ups and downs’ jokes long ago. I was really pissed off – oh, sorry, I mean fed up. And the thing that made me so fed up was the people. They were so toffee nosed.
So the day I handed my notice in was just like any other. I was humming ‘I will survive’ by Gloria Gaynor along with the lift musak and wondering how I could spend 40 million quid if I won the rollover, which I wouldn’t anyway ‘cos I don’t do the lottery. I was thinkin’ ‘bout these toffee noses and how I would be able to put them in their place, like. The musak changed to Nick Lowe, ‘You’ve got to be cruel to be kind’ and I was there with this lord something or other about to torture him into agreeing that people from our estate were every bit as good as his kind. And then these two rich bitches got in. The older one had a camel coat, buttoned up to her throat. It didn’t suit her. Wrong colour for her complexion and wrong shape for her figure.
‘Well, you can’t expect anything else from these types, can you, Bridie? Rape and murder is just par for the course for them,’ said the older one.
‘Yes, Lucinda, but that poor little girl! They’re just animals!’ Bridie replied. She was wearin’ a charcoal skirt, knee length with a gold buckled belt. Her triple buttoned black astrakhan coat was open and under it she had a charcoal twinset that matched the skirt. Almost. Charcoal is so difficult! She looked quite sexy in a way.
‘Poor baby nothing. It would only have grown up into another of the animals. Probably better off dead. I think some of these people shouldn’t be allowed to have families. They ought to sterilise them,’ said Lucinda.
I knew what they were discussing. It had been in the paper that mornin’ about the murder in the next street to where I live. It was a nasty business, but the people in the neighbourhood were really supportin’ one another, tryin’ to get through it, y’know? It’s summat we do well, lookin’ after our own. And they are my own. They’re my people. So, I was seethin’. Can’t let it show though. Got to be polite and pleasant to them even if they do tell one another sort of to my face that I don’t count for nothin’. Animals?! The musak had changed to ‘Gypsies, tramps and thieves’ by Cher. It didn’t help, I can tell ya. I got it into my head then and there that if they were gonna get in my lift on the way down I’d have to teach ‘em a lesson. But what? It really gets on my tits when these people come into my lift and behave as if I wasn’t there talking ‘bout my people. The musak was playin’ ‘Just you wait’ from My Fair Lady.
The women got out on the top floor. We don’t call out the floors normally at Bracegirdle’s. Management says our ‘clientele’ – snob word for the customers – know what they want without being disturbed by the lift boys. What they mean is that we talk coarse and it’d be bad for business for us to be heard. I closed the gate and left the floor to go down.
I was on my way back up about half an hour later when I knew what I would do. The musak was playin’ ‘My way’, the Frank Sinatra version, not the Sex Pistols. I think I prefer Paul Anka’s version but you never hear that even though he wrote the English version of it. There’s no justice. I got to the fifth floor and there they were. Bridie was wearin’ the new coat she’d just bought. It was a Vivienne Westwood three quarter length black coat. Eleven hundred quid. Her old one was in a carrier.
‘It looks really nice on you, Bridie, my dear.’ Lucinda was gushing. It was a lie. The coat was entirely wrong. She needed a straighter line to suit her figure and the colour was just too … black. She’d have looked great in light blue.
‘Oh, you are sweet, Lucinda.’ Sweet my arse. She was a toffee nosed, fascist bitch from hell, but I wouldn’t be saying anything like that to her. Bridie looked tasty though. The music played the Beatles ‘I’ll get you in the end’ as the lift began its descent.
‘Floor four,’ I said. ‘Ladies’ underwear.’ They both looked at me. They looked like overdressed gormless tarts. Just like the birds down the pub but with posh clothes. They both looked at me as if they’d just trodden in poodle poop. Lift boys didn’t talk!
Another floor went by. ‘Floor three, women’s underwear’, said I.
‘Bridie, what on earth has got into this young man?’
Bridie didn’t respond. I got in there first.
‘Floor two, women’s underwear’.
They looked at one another. ‘Underwear’s on the ground floor, isn’t it?’ Bridie asked Lucinda.
‘It’s on every floor’, I said. My God – I’d spoken without being spoken to! Such poor etiquette.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the older woman.
‘Well, missus,’ says I – and I punched the stop button. The lift was stranded between the first and ground floors. ‘It’s like this,’ I said. ‘If most shoppers here and most shop assistants here are women then you’ve got ladies’ underwear on all the floors, ain’t ya? You just need to know where to look!’
With that I suddenly took Bridie’s skirt and lifted it. Elle Macpherson culottes in white. It wasn’t a sex attack or nothin’ – just a game. Just to bring them both down from their fuckin’ pedestal a bit. Humiliate ‘em both
They got the lift down to the ground floor pretty quickly when they heard the screamin’.
When the police took me away I remember the lift musak was playin’ ‘I’m a loser’ by the Beatles.
So the day I handed my notice in was just like any other. I was humming ‘I will survive’ by Gloria Gaynor along with the lift musak and wondering how I could spend 40 million quid if I won the rollover, which I wouldn’t anyway ‘cos I don’t do the lottery. I was thinkin’ ‘bout these toffee noses and how I would be able to put them in their place, like. The musak changed to Nick Lowe, ‘You’ve got to be cruel to be kind’ and I was there with this lord something or other about to torture him into agreeing that people from our estate were every bit as good as his kind. And then these two rich bitches got in. The older one had a camel coat, buttoned up to her throat. It didn’t suit her. Wrong colour for her complexion and wrong shape for her figure.
‘Well, you can’t expect anything else from these types, can you, Bridie? Rape and murder is just par for the course for them,’ said the older one.
‘Yes, Lucinda, but that poor little girl! They’re just animals!’ Bridie replied. She was wearin’ a charcoal skirt, knee length with a gold buckled belt. Her triple buttoned black astrakhan coat was open and under it she had a charcoal twinset that matched the skirt. Almost. Charcoal is so difficult! She looked quite sexy in a way.
‘Poor baby nothing. It would only have grown up into another of the animals. Probably better off dead. I think some of these people shouldn’t be allowed to have families. They ought to sterilise them,’ said Lucinda.
I knew what they were discussing. It had been in the paper that mornin’ about the murder in the next street to where I live. It was a nasty business, but the people in the neighbourhood were really supportin’ one another, tryin’ to get through it, y’know? It’s summat we do well, lookin’ after our own. And they are my own. They’re my people. So, I was seethin’. Can’t let it show though. Got to be polite and pleasant to them even if they do tell one another sort of to my face that I don’t count for nothin’. Animals?! The musak had changed to ‘Gypsies, tramps and thieves’ by Cher. It didn’t help, I can tell ya. I got it into my head then and there that if they were gonna get in my lift on the way down I’d have to teach ‘em a lesson. But what? It really gets on my tits when these people come into my lift and behave as if I wasn’t there talking ‘bout my people. The musak was playin’ ‘Just you wait’ from My Fair Lady.
The women got out on the top floor. We don’t call out the floors normally at Bracegirdle’s. Management says our ‘clientele’ – snob word for the customers – know what they want without being disturbed by the lift boys. What they mean is that we talk coarse and it’d be bad for business for us to be heard. I closed the gate and left the floor to go down.
I was on my way back up about half an hour later when I knew what I would do. The musak was playin’ ‘My way’, the Frank Sinatra version, not the Sex Pistols. I think I prefer Paul Anka’s version but you never hear that even though he wrote the English version of it. There’s no justice. I got to the fifth floor and there they were. Bridie was wearin’ the new coat she’d just bought. It was a Vivienne Westwood three quarter length black coat. Eleven hundred quid. Her old one was in a carrier.
‘It looks really nice on you, Bridie, my dear.’ Lucinda was gushing. It was a lie. The coat was entirely wrong. She needed a straighter line to suit her figure and the colour was just too … black. She’d have looked great in light blue.
‘Oh, you are sweet, Lucinda.’ Sweet my arse. She was a toffee nosed, fascist bitch from hell, but I wouldn’t be saying anything like that to her. Bridie looked tasty though. The music played the Beatles ‘I’ll get you in the end’ as the lift began its descent.
‘Floor four,’ I said. ‘Ladies’ underwear.’ They both looked at me. They looked like overdressed gormless tarts. Just like the birds down the pub but with posh clothes. They both looked at me as if they’d just trodden in poodle poop. Lift boys didn’t talk!
Another floor went by. ‘Floor three, women’s underwear’, said I.
‘Bridie, what on earth has got into this young man?’
Bridie didn’t respond. I got in there first.
‘Floor two, women’s underwear’.
They looked at one another. ‘Underwear’s on the ground floor, isn’t it?’ Bridie asked Lucinda.
‘It’s on every floor’, I said. My God – I’d spoken without being spoken to! Such poor etiquette.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the older woman.
‘Well, missus,’ says I – and I punched the stop button. The lift was stranded between the first and ground floors. ‘It’s like this,’ I said. ‘If most shoppers here and most shop assistants here are women then you’ve got ladies’ underwear on all the floors, ain’t ya? You just need to know where to look!’
With that I suddenly took Bridie’s skirt and lifted it. Elle Macpherson culottes in white. It wasn’t a sex attack or nothin’ – just a game. Just to bring them both down from their fuckin’ pedestal a bit. Humiliate ‘em both
They got the lift down to the ground floor pretty quickly when they heard the screamin’.
When the police took me away I remember the lift musak was playin’ ‘I’m a loser’ by the Beatles.
Monday, 27 November 2006
Going Up
‘I feel funny. I’m not used to travelling in a vertical plane,’ said Alfie.
‘It’s not a ‘plane,’ said the Angel. ‘It’s a lift or elevator’.
The Angel and the hedgehog were both called Alfie and when Alfie (the hedgehog, that is) discovered this he decided to keep referring to his new acquaintance as the Angel. Then people wouldn’t think he was talking to himself. Except there weren’t any people in the lift thingy, just a hedgehog and an Angel – or so Alfie thought.
‘How did I get here?’
‘What’s the last thing you can remember, Alfie?’
‘I was on the verge, I think – yes, that’s it – I was on the verge of crossing the A14.’
‘And was the traffic heavy?’
‘It was very busy, and yes, I remember now, it was heavy too when it went over me’
‘Precisely,’ said the Angel. ‘You were squished!’
‘Goodness!’ The hedgehog replied. ‘That’s never happened before.’
‘Well obviously, dunderhead!’
Careful, Angel. That name calling is out of character!
‘Who said that?’ Asked Alfie.
‘Ah. That would be the Storyteller, Alfie. You can’t see him, but he’s here in the lift with us and all around us as well.’
Alfie was curious. ‘You mean like God?’
‘I wouldn’t say that’, the Angel replied, ‘but then I work for God and I don’t work for the storyteller even though he made me.’
‘Did the storyteller know I would be in the lift?’ Alfie asked.
Of course I did. I put you in there. I put you under the wheels of that truck too, if you must know.
‘You bastard!’
‘I wish I was allowed to say things like that,’ the Angel interjected. ‘I get told off for calling a hedgehog ‘dunderhead’. It’s all so unfair.’
Alfie ignored this and continued to interrogate the Storyteller. ‘So where’s the lift going?’
I’m not telling you until you apologise for calling me a bastard.
‘And if I don’t …?’
‘Don’t wind him up, Alfie or he’ll just leave us here and no one will know what happened to us.’
‘Has this happened to you before?’ Alfie asked his companion.
‘If you mean taking the dead up in a lift, yes, all the time. If you mean conversing with the Storyteller – no, only with God.’
‘I wish I wasn’t dead. This is so confusing. A voice from nowhere and an Angel – too many new things all at once. Not to mention my mates back by the A14.’
‘Those would be your flat mates – they got squished trying to rescue you’.
‘Oh no!! If only I’d been more careful. I’m usually so careful when there’s danger, roll up and try to blend in with my environment’.
You blended into the A14 pretty well when the truck squished you
‘That’s not very nice,’ Alfie said.
Nor is being called a bastard.
‘Ok, I’m sorry’.
Hmm. In that case I think I’ll finish by letting Angel here take you …
‘See those pearly gates, Alfie. We’ve arrived’
‘It’s not a ‘plane,’ said the Angel. ‘It’s a lift or elevator’.
The Angel and the hedgehog were both called Alfie and when Alfie (the hedgehog, that is) discovered this he decided to keep referring to his new acquaintance as the Angel. Then people wouldn’t think he was talking to himself. Except there weren’t any people in the lift thingy, just a hedgehog and an Angel – or so Alfie thought.
‘How did I get here?’
‘What’s the last thing you can remember, Alfie?’
‘I was on the verge, I think – yes, that’s it – I was on the verge of crossing the A14.’
‘And was the traffic heavy?’
‘It was very busy, and yes, I remember now, it was heavy too when it went over me’
‘Precisely,’ said the Angel. ‘You were squished!’
‘Goodness!’ The hedgehog replied. ‘That’s never happened before.’
‘Well obviously, dunderhead!’
Careful, Angel. That name calling is out of character!
‘Who said that?’ Asked Alfie.
‘Ah. That would be the Storyteller, Alfie. You can’t see him, but he’s here in the lift with us and all around us as well.’
Alfie was curious. ‘You mean like God?’
‘I wouldn’t say that’, the Angel replied, ‘but then I work for God and I don’t work for the storyteller even though he made me.’
‘Did the storyteller know I would be in the lift?’ Alfie asked.
Of course I did. I put you in there. I put you under the wheels of that truck too, if you must know.
‘You bastard!’
‘I wish I was allowed to say things like that,’ the Angel interjected. ‘I get told off for calling a hedgehog ‘dunderhead’. It’s all so unfair.’
Alfie ignored this and continued to interrogate the Storyteller. ‘So where’s the lift going?’
I’m not telling you until you apologise for calling me a bastard.
‘And if I don’t …?’
‘Don’t wind him up, Alfie or he’ll just leave us here and no one will know what happened to us.’
‘Has this happened to you before?’ Alfie asked his companion.
‘If you mean taking the dead up in a lift, yes, all the time. If you mean conversing with the Storyteller – no, only with God.’
‘I wish I wasn’t dead. This is so confusing. A voice from nowhere and an Angel – too many new things all at once. Not to mention my mates back by the A14.’
‘Those would be your flat mates – they got squished trying to rescue you’.
‘Oh no!! If only I’d been more careful. I’m usually so careful when there’s danger, roll up and try to blend in with my environment’.
You blended into the A14 pretty well when the truck squished you
‘That’s not very nice,’ Alfie said.
Nor is being called a bastard.
‘Ok, I’m sorry’.
Hmm. In that case I think I’ll finish by letting Angel here take you …
‘See those pearly gates, Alfie. We’ve arrived’
Sunday, 26 November 2006
Number One Gerbil Carer
George had escaped. Ricky knew that he would get in trouble and inside him he sensed the beginning of the terror he always felt when the whole class looked at him. They would jeer and sneer at him if Miss Lesslie wasn’t there. Ricky’s saviour wasn’t going to be in the playground, though, was she? He looked up at the wall clock. It nearly looked like it usually looked when the dinner bell went. He could already smell the stench of the over-boiled vegetables. Just a few minutes then, to try to get George and put him back in his cage. Then he would need to brace himself for the torment of the playground.
Miss Lesslie had seen the class gerbil fall to the floor. It was strange because Ricky was always so gentle and caring, yet it looked almost as if he had thrown the animal down on purpose. She had made Ricky the Number One Gerbil Carer to help keep him out of the reach of bullies as much as to develop responsibility in him. It gave him an excuse to use the classroom when the others were out in at play. She held the lid on the reactions of everybody, but already some of the class were staring at Ricky or nudging one another, preparing for their so-called ‘fun’ at dinner time. One or two took sidelong glances towards their teacher, and if they thought she wasn’t looking they gestured or pulled faces at Ricky. Anything to remind him how pathetic they thought he was. Simon held his nose at the supposed stink of his scruffy classmate. Miss Lesslie didn’t see, but Ricky did and his heart sank.
Ricky was pathetic, but not in the sense that his class meant it. He was a ‘child at risk’ according to the school records. Miss Lesslie knew he was clever, though he didn’t like to show it, but he hadn’t had the home background advantages that others enjoyed or took for granted. Sam always went abroad for his holidays. Both Emily’s parents were lawyers of some sort. Two thirds of the parents of the class had degrees and some of the others owned their own small businesses.
Ricky’s home didn’t even have newspapers except for the Thursday freebie which often found itself thrown back at the papergirl with a snarling, powerful oath. Ricky’s stepdad was a builder’s labourer. Always cash in hand when he was paid and a fair proportion of that money went on cigarettes and beer. His stepsister was nine years older than Ricky and would leave school soon. Unofficially it seemed like she already had. Ricky didn’t like her. She was always loud and smelt of stale smoke and cheap scent, and her friends treated him like a no longer wanted doll.
The bell went. Miss Lesslie put down her reading glasses and instructed her class to sit quietly. Ricky had already established that George was under the bookcase, news that was met with rapidly silenced surreptitious sniggers. He was on his grubby hands and knees seeing if George was going to come out. Two at a time the teacher dismissed the class, standing on guard by the door to prevent a further dash for freedom by the gerbil. Finally there were just two people left in the classroom. And George.
Miss Lesslie told Ricky that George might be frightened and hiding. She suggested that Ricky back off a little to see if George would come out by himself. Ricky liked Miss Lesslie. She was really kind, always spoke calmly and kindly to him and she did what she could to stop the others picking on him. Friends are people we play with and share our sweets with so Miss Lesslie wasn’t a friend exactly but she was nearly as good. George was Ricky’s best friend. He often stayed in the classroom with George at break times and told him stories about what he wanted to be when he grew up or where he was going to visit, or maybe just some news about the others or his family. Ricky wasn’t aware of his loneliness and isolation when he was with George.
The door shut behind Miss Lesslie. She’d told Ricky that she’d be back in ten minutes and hoped that George would be back in his cage by then. Ricky could look after the classroom and George while she was gone, she told him. She often left him on his own like this. She knew he was reliable – and anyway, there was too little trust these days. Sometimes he used the time to read the more difficult books that the other children shunned. They didn’t know he read these avidly on his own. He liked the explorers best, astronauts and Columbus, and that Norwegian with the difficult last name. But today he wouldn’t be reading. He was watching George explore the shadowy place under the bookcase.
‘Sorry I dropped you, George,’ said the boy. ‘You can come out now – it’s safe and I’ll look after you properly.’
The gerbil’s eyes glinted as he looked back at the boy. It took a tentative couple of steps forward and stopped to investigate a long lost crisp that had been swept under the bookcase by the cleaners.
‘C’mon, George. I’ve put some nice fresh bedding in your cage and some water and food.’
Again the Gerbil looked up. He scuttled forward and then stood still as Ricky’s familiar small hand reached over to pick him up. Ricky had never dropped George before in all the time he’d been Number One Gerbil Carer. He felt so guilty. He knew the feeling from home because he got blamed for everything. This time was different because he really was responsible for dropping George.
‘Sorry, George. I didn’t mean to drop you when I took you out of the cage.’
‘And I’m sorry that I nipped your finger,’ Ricky thought he heard George reply.
Miss Lesslie had seen the class gerbil fall to the floor. It was strange because Ricky was always so gentle and caring, yet it looked almost as if he had thrown the animal down on purpose. She had made Ricky the Number One Gerbil Carer to help keep him out of the reach of bullies as much as to develop responsibility in him. It gave him an excuse to use the classroom when the others were out in at play. She held the lid on the reactions of everybody, but already some of the class were staring at Ricky or nudging one another, preparing for their so-called ‘fun’ at dinner time. One or two took sidelong glances towards their teacher, and if they thought she wasn’t looking they gestured or pulled faces at Ricky. Anything to remind him how pathetic they thought he was. Simon held his nose at the supposed stink of his scruffy classmate. Miss Lesslie didn’t see, but Ricky did and his heart sank.
Ricky was pathetic, but not in the sense that his class meant it. He was a ‘child at risk’ according to the school records. Miss Lesslie knew he was clever, though he didn’t like to show it, but he hadn’t had the home background advantages that others enjoyed or took for granted. Sam always went abroad for his holidays. Both Emily’s parents were lawyers of some sort. Two thirds of the parents of the class had degrees and some of the others owned their own small businesses.
Ricky’s home didn’t even have newspapers except for the Thursday freebie which often found itself thrown back at the papergirl with a snarling, powerful oath. Ricky’s stepdad was a builder’s labourer. Always cash in hand when he was paid and a fair proportion of that money went on cigarettes and beer. His stepsister was nine years older than Ricky and would leave school soon. Unofficially it seemed like she already had. Ricky didn’t like her. She was always loud and smelt of stale smoke and cheap scent, and her friends treated him like a no longer wanted doll.
The bell went. Miss Lesslie put down her reading glasses and instructed her class to sit quietly. Ricky had already established that George was under the bookcase, news that was met with rapidly silenced surreptitious sniggers. He was on his grubby hands and knees seeing if George was going to come out. Two at a time the teacher dismissed the class, standing on guard by the door to prevent a further dash for freedom by the gerbil. Finally there were just two people left in the classroom. And George.
Miss Lesslie told Ricky that George might be frightened and hiding. She suggested that Ricky back off a little to see if George would come out by himself. Ricky liked Miss Lesslie. She was really kind, always spoke calmly and kindly to him and she did what she could to stop the others picking on him. Friends are people we play with and share our sweets with so Miss Lesslie wasn’t a friend exactly but she was nearly as good. George was Ricky’s best friend. He often stayed in the classroom with George at break times and told him stories about what he wanted to be when he grew up or where he was going to visit, or maybe just some news about the others or his family. Ricky wasn’t aware of his loneliness and isolation when he was with George.
The door shut behind Miss Lesslie. She’d told Ricky that she’d be back in ten minutes and hoped that George would be back in his cage by then. Ricky could look after the classroom and George while she was gone, she told him. She often left him on his own like this. She knew he was reliable – and anyway, there was too little trust these days. Sometimes he used the time to read the more difficult books that the other children shunned. They didn’t know he read these avidly on his own. He liked the explorers best, astronauts and Columbus, and that Norwegian with the difficult last name. But today he wouldn’t be reading. He was watching George explore the shadowy place under the bookcase.
‘Sorry I dropped you, George,’ said the boy. ‘You can come out now – it’s safe and I’ll look after you properly.’
The gerbil’s eyes glinted as he looked back at the boy. It took a tentative couple of steps forward and stopped to investigate a long lost crisp that had been swept under the bookcase by the cleaners.
‘C’mon, George. I’ve put some nice fresh bedding in your cage and some water and food.’
Again the Gerbil looked up. He scuttled forward and then stood still as Ricky’s familiar small hand reached over to pick him up. Ricky had never dropped George before in all the time he’d been Number One Gerbil Carer. He felt so guilty. He knew the feeling from home because he got blamed for everything. This time was different because he really was responsible for dropping George.
‘Sorry, George. I didn’t mean to drop you when I took you out of the cage.’
‘And I’m sorry that I nipped your finger,’ Ricky thought he heard George reply.
In the beginning were the words
I began a creative writing course in October and have been persuaded that a blog would be a good way of getting feedback on the stuff I produce. So here it is. Please respond with comments and advice if you wish, but make it CONSTRUCTIVE.
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