Feel That Moon, Sister, Feel That Moon 28355

Copyright © 2021 by Michael Wilson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

ISBNs:

Paperback: 978-1-80227-162-1

eBook: 978-1-80227-163-8

Contents

About the author

Feel that moon, sister, feel that moon

Love minus zero

The last time I saw God

I must go down to the sea again….

In a country strange my prince lies dreaming

The Sandman

Spider woman

An English Christmas dinner

Car-free, care-free

Happy birthday

The hen house

Jeepers, creepers

Keep on running

The miracle-maker

Oh, how we danced

The Joke

A long time waiting.

Flying south

For Sarah, my love

About the author

Michael Wilson is Emeritus Professor of Microbiology at University College London where he was based for more than 30 years. He has published 337 scientific papers, holds 13 patents and in 1991 was awarded the “Inventor of the Year” prize by Toshiba for inventing a device that produces pure drinking water from sewage. In 2011 he was appointed Chevalier dans l’Ordre des Palmes Académiques by the President of for his services to French culture. He has produced a number of exhibitions for the general public about his research and was Senior Scientific Advisor to the Eden Project for their “Invisible you; the human microbiome” exhibition which opened in 2015. He has published 14 books, mainly in the fields of Microbiology and Infectious Diseases. His most recent books are: “Into the labyrinth; in search of Daidalos” (2020) and “Close encounters of the microbial kind; everything you need to know about common infections” (2021).

Feel that moon, sister, feel that moon

The moon. Such a strange notion, isn’t it? So many different ways of looking at that bright round thing in the sky. Men are supposed to have walked on it, lovers always talk about it, and for some reason it was even thought to be made out of cheese. As a child I used to think it was simply the sun’s reflection. As if the sky was a vast mirror or an immense deep, calm sea. Now, why did I think that? I must have asked an adult why there was a big shiny thing in the sky and been told that it’s illuminated by the sun and doesn’t really shine by itself. Adults rarely listen to the questions of children. Or else they reply to them as if they were simply speaking to smaller versions of themselves. I suppose they’re generally well-intentioned and, since I’m a generous soul, I’ll give that longforgotten grown-up the benefit of the doubt.

Anyway, they’re all wrong. Only I know what the moon is, and what it means, only me.

I’m not a lunatic by the way. How can I be? I’ve a handle to my name. Strings of letters after it. An intellectual giant. A luminary of the academic world. So, you’d better listen and take heed. “Hey! You in the corner. Don’t you want to hear my story? You do? Well then, keep quiet.”

They were my days of wine and roses. I was free, really free. Blown along by the winds of circumstance. Not a care in the world. Life was good, kind, and easy. I was favoured, the Gods smiled on me.

“No! Don’t giggle. It’s true. You’ve forgotten what I once was. I’ve nearly forgotten it all now as well. Please be quiet.”

There was a hill. It was dark……and it was hot. Yes, that’s where I’ll begin. I

was living in a hot country. I had everything I’d ever wanted, and I was young. I was walking up a rocky hill with another lotus-eater, Mary. She’d recently arrived from England and had quickly succumbed to the gentle, easy way of life in those foreign climes.

We ambled slowly upwards, intoxicated with the soft, warm, scent-laden night air. Both of us knew what would happen at the summit - it was that kind of a night. The lovemaking seemed to last for ever, everything was slow and dreamlike. It was too perfect. Even the harsh sandy earth added its own excitement. On and on we went until…. well …..something, a barely perceptible something, tugged at my back. I ignored it. My pace quickened. But again - a gentle tugging. Onward we plunged. The tugging became irresistible. What the hell was going on? I felt as if I was being lifted bodily from my lover – up I floated. I just had to look round. And there it was. The moon. Dragging its immense weight over the horizon. Huge and blood-red. I came. A string of milk-white beads arched across that heavenly body.

“You’ve screwed the moon.” Mary yelled.

I gazed at her, stupidly.

She was laughing. “From here it looked as though you’d screwed the moon. Que hombre! The man who can make love to the moon’s the man for me”.

“At least it won’t be you that’s pregnant then,” I muttered.

Of course, exactly nine months later she had a baby. We called her Clair. She was beautiful. Silver hair, plump face and a skin as white as ivory. Everybody

loved Clair. I did too, but as she grew, I seemed to be the only one who noticed some odd things about her. Like on Sundays she’d be really miserable, but then on Mondays she’d suddenly cheer up and brighten everyone’s life. Then there was her smile. At times she simply couldn’t smile, no matter how happy she seemed. Then, as the days ed, her smile would get broader and broader until it seemed that she was beaming continually. Then, inexplicably, we’d be back to the grim face and the whole thing would start over again.

Being a methodical person, I started keeping a diary, and then I began to see what was happening. Mary didn’t want to know. I became obsessive. Star charts cluttered the house. Everything Clair did and said was noted down in huge diaries and then astronomical data were added from weighty tomes. I could predict the exact position of the moon at any time of the year together with its appearance, whether it was waxing or waning, and when it would rise and set. What I didn’t predict was that Mary would leave - everyone else could see that coming.

But she didn’t take Clair.

I think she must have started to half-believe in my obsession. Maybe she even began to feel a little afraid of the child. Clair and I became even closer. For a time, we were happy together, very happy. Then she went to school.

Children notice things that adults don’t. Within six months they were calling her moony. I don’t know who started it, or how they managed to make the association. It made Clair utterly miserable. All I could think of doing was to keep her away from school. It didn’t help. The damage was done.

One night I lay in bed unable to sleep. It was another hot summer evening, the windows were wide open, vainly lying in wait for a stray cooling breeze. I gazed

at the moon. It was in Gemini, elevation 4 degrees, and swiftly moving to a conjunction with Mars. At that time of year, it seemed to perch on top of the very hill where Clair had been conceived. It brought back memories of that night six years ago and I couldn’t help smiling. Then I heard sobbing. It was Clair. I wasn’t surprised. I’d been expecting it. It was Mars you see. Mars and the moon. In conjunction they were. Pretty bad alignment. Always means trouble. Poor kid, she’d had a bad day already. I’d tried to keep her in, but you can’t bolt all the doors and windows at this time of year. Anyway, I’d dozed off in the afternoon, and she’d gone out. And who should she meet but Billy? Typical Arian he is, totally ruled by Mars. I suppose he couldn’t help but start a fight with her, but why did he have to go on and on about her mother leaving us? That incessant chant of “You’ve got no mammy.” just broke her heart.

I’d been in to see her half a dozen times already. There was nothing more I could do except let her cry herself to sleep.

I must have dozed off. Fallen straight into a dream. Because all of a sudden, the wall started to glow. As I watched, it became whiter and whiter. It pulsated rhythmically, organically, as if it were the beating heart of a gigantic snowman. I was mesmerised. And through the centre of this throbbing whiteness came Clair. Right through the wall! She stood at the bottom of my bed, radiant, magnificent. She smiled, and I felt a joy which only a child’s unselfish love can bring. But as the smile faded, there lingered traces of a sadness that tore at my heart. And then she was gone. All that remained were dancing motes of a luminous dust which settled slowly to the floor.

A door slammed.

I jumped out of bed and ran to the window. And there she was. Dashing up the hill. Leaving a glittering trail as she headed straight for the moon.

Within seconds I was out of the house racing along after her. Everything had a curious solidity and deadness in that bright moonlight, with moon-shadows so clearly etched that it was hard to distinguish substance from shadow. I stumbled on the loose rocks continually, lacerating my feet.

Clair ran on, swiftly.

She reached the summit and stood there, hands outstretched, starkly outlined by that huge white sphere. She seemed transfixed. But then she turned towards me. She smiled.

I yelled at her and ran on. Faster, faster. She began to fade. I threw myself up that hill.

She was the water-skin on a mirror-smooth pond. I ran right through her. And in that moment, that crystal moment, as I clutched at the air like a demented blindman, trying to hug those fleeting traces, she whispered why. And I understood, I really understood. There was no need to worry. Everything was alright.

They found me the next day. On the hill. Alone.

I was singing that old song, Moon River, over and over.

They wanted to know where Clair was. So, I told them.

“She’s gone back to her mother.” I said. That’s what I told them.

They asked me lots of other things. They don’t anymore.

Mary came once, I think. She doesn’t now.

I think they’ve forgotten about me. In this little room. All by myself.

Still. It’s not so bad.

Once a year, for two weeks, I can see the moon shine through my little window high in the wall.

And I know what the moon is. Shall I tell you?

Shall I tell you about the moon-mother?

“Moon. Moon. Mother moon.

Please take me home. Please take me soon.”

Love minus zero

The room seemed vast, and I was alone. Alone, but not afraid. My parents were around somewhere, I must have known that. I crawling through a huge doorway. The door hinges creaked as I squeezed through. The room was empty, silent, and quite gloomy. I stopped and looked around.

Tiny specks floated aimlessly in the still sir.

And then a sunbeam flashed in through a window, bouncing off a bright rectangle on the floor.

I crawled towards it, across what seemed to be an enormous distance. The floorboards were rough. They hurt my hands, and I can almost feel them now, even after all those years.

How many boards did I cross? I don’t know.

I couldn’t count. But they seemed to go on for ever.

Many years later, I crossed the equator on some kind of cruise. ‘Crossing the line’ they called it and the phrase resonated somewhere deep inside.

I crossed many a line that fateful afternoon. I’m sure it was fateful. I’m almost certain it’s what started the whole business off. Why else would I it so clearly? Anyway, there I was, crawling across the floor towards this strange bright shape. At last, I reached its edge.

I peered over it and there I was - me.

Of course, I didn’t know it was me - not then. But I knew it was someone.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. It stared back.

I reached out a hand to touch this…..being - it felt cold, cold and smooth. I saw it reach out to me and I tried harder to touch it. Tried hard to reach something warm, something soft. But all I felt was the smooth unyielding surface. Cold and slippery.

I talked or, rather, gurgled to my new companion. But it never replied, even though its lips moved.

I smiled and it smiled back.

I felt drawn to this creature, this silent friendly being. I crawled on top of it. Its cold, smooth body was so close. Its eyes staring into mine, so friendly, so trusting. I was so happy.

And then a noise.

Huge hands pulled me away, pulled me away from my new-found twin. I

screamed. I was inconsolable. My mother often told me about it - how she found me gurgling happily on top of a mirror. But she didn’t have to remind me - I ed it perfectly. She said we were moving house that day and she’d been loading the car. She said she always felt guilty at leaving me alone for so long. “Anything could have happened to you.” She used to say.

And she was right. Mothers always are, aren’t they? Something certainly did happen. I think that’s how it all started. But you never really know do you? It could have been any of a number of things. Like the fly in amber or the frozen trees by the lake. But, whenever I try to think back to my childhood, I always that episode. Funny isn’t it? Of course, there were other milestones along the way.

I looking out of a window one morning and seeing the crystal growths of frost with their delicate lacey patterns. I the sadness as I watched them slowly disappear when the room got warmer.

My father bought me a microscope for Christmas and my heart leapt when it showed me the beautiful pattern in a snowflake. Its hexagonal symmetry a secret wonder, hidden from all but those few who knew. And then there was the excitement of discovering that each was different. I drew thousands, fascinated by the order, the precision, the sharpness of each and every one. But I could never get used to the horror of each one fading, melting into a shapeless globule before my very eyes.

And then there was amber. Now that was something special. My father took me to the Geological Museum, you see. And among the endless display of crystals of every shape, colour and size, there lay a honey-coloured drop. “Not very impressive.” I thought at first. But as I looked closer, I saw that, trapped inside, was a fly.

“Two million years old.” My father told me.

“Is it dead?” I asked him. He laughed.

“Of course. Perfectly preserved though, poor thing. As good as the day it got trapped. It’ll be like that forever”.

“Forever?”

“Why, yes. Nothing can happen to it now. You see it can’t decay. It’ll always be like that - frozen in time.”

Frozen in time. How those words made me shudder. They still do.

I leaving the calm, ordered silence of the museum where everything was neatly classified and had its place. Out we went into the confusion and chaos. We waited in a bus queue and I looked up at the giants pushing by in all directions, their booming voices carrying snatches of sentences, a thousand images - transient, disappearing. People of all shapes and sizes. They all seemed old, dirty, soiled by the hint of decay. Cars zoomed by, their slipstreams tugging at my coat, trying to take me away with them. Where to? I clung onto my father tightly. We fought our way onto the bus, hot sweaty bodies crushed in on me from all sides. The bus threw me about. I was tossed against strangers who laughed and shouted. The heat, the noise, the smell, the confusion. I fainted.

My father carried me home and I was put to bed between cool, crisp sheets.

Peace amid the reassuring whiteness. I drifted along through expanses of pure, untrodden snow. Until a face loomed above me. The wrinkled, flabby flesh of my granny. It was horrible. It was enormous. I could smell her breath as she stooped to kiss me. I could see every pore on her face, the red veins in her washed-out eyes - I screamed and screamed.

And then I dreamed of amber, dreamed of huge golden drops encasing everything precious to me. My cat, my mother, my father, all smiling from transparent golden depths. I made a quick recovery. They brought me tea, but I begged for amber. My mother said she’d try and get some. Days went by and the excuses mounted until finally they must have thought I was well enough to face the truth. It was my mother who delivered the deadly news. I listened patiently as she explained that amber was not to be had, that it was the fossilised resin of trees and that it was very expensive. I was disappointed, but not distraught. I felt betrayed by this curious substance which seemed to hold so much promise. How could something so beautiful have such haphazard origins?

And so I turned to my one true friend - ice. Such a lovely word isn’t it?

Crisp, sharp, explicit.

It carries a tingle in its very sound. I always feel a slight shudder down my spine when I say it.

I have come to love this substance. And I have learned its secrets. For, inside the sharp, glistening crystal is a lattice of atoms in a perfect arrangement, each one surrounded by four others, an infinite tetrahedral skeleton. I know how each atom holds its neighbour, suspended at a magic angle, each one 109 degrees and 28 minutes. Such endless precision! Such perfection!

And between the atoms? In the not-ice spaces of this perfect crystal. What is there?

No one knows. Not the greatest scientist nor the most learned philosopher.

But these spaces can be filled! This honeycomb can hold such treasures. You of all people must know, Marianne. As I will soon, very soon.

I learned my love’s secrets very slowly - that is how it should be. No instant revelation, nothing gross. A gentle, quiet, slow disclosure.

My first experiments were very simple. I started with colour. Into the lattice I injected dyes. Beautiful crystals of every colour under the sun grew before my eyes. But not one matched the perfect brilliance of pure, simple ice where every trapped image is edged with a feint rainbow. I watched my masterpieces melt into pools of colour, watched them lose their form and meaning as they changed from crystalline order to liquid chaos. But this was simply childish playfulness, nothing more. My experiments became more complex. I began to encase objects in slabs of ice. Inanimate things at first - coins, small toys and suchlike. And this led me to a strange discovery. Some of the objects I embedded gradually settled to the bottom of their blocks of ice.

Now why was that?

My books gave the answer. It was really very simple. A heavy object melts the ice beneath it, so it slowly works its way through. The ice, of course,

immediately re-crystallises above it leaving no trace of its age. This goes by the lovely name of “Regelation” and was discovered by the great scientist Michael Faraday – my hero.

For me it was to be a momentous discovery. It was to be my deliverance!

Then I turned my attention to the plant kingdom. Have you ever seen a rose in ice? Its fragile petals preserved and strengthened by its transparent protector? It truly is a thing of beauty. And its beauty will never fade, never. Once frozen, it can be kept forever. How could I let such wonders be lost to the world of death and decay? They had to be preserved. But, as my collection grew, I began to run out of space and my needs for refrigeration became greater. I needed larger blocks of ice, I wanted to freeze a whole plant, not just its flower. I wanted to freeze a bush or a tree or even bigger things.

So, I moved here. Into this old cold store. Once, years ago, lumps of meat used to hang here. But now, everywhere there is only beauty.

I didn’t stop at plants. I read that animals were 60% water. Imagine that, Marianne, 60% water. I thought to myself: ‘What would happen if an animal was immersed in water and then the whole lot frozen?’ It’s simple, of course. The water in the animal would freeze and become part of the crystal outside of its body. The lattice would permeate everything. And what of the 40% that wasn’t water? Isn’t that what makes the animal what it is? Why, it would be trapped inside the crystal structure, existing as a kind of after-image.

I did it.

I’m not claiming it as some kind of breakthrough. After all, frozen mammoths have been found in Siberia, perfectly preserved after thousands of years. But look! All around you. Cats, rabbits, birds, fish, dogs. Never seen anything like that before, have you?

No. You said you hadn’t.

I the look on your face when you saw them.

You liked the flowers. I know you did. You thought they were beautiful. Like your face, just like your face. Until it saw the animals, then it became…… horrible. But why didn’t you understand? Animals are far more like water than plants. 60% . Plants are only about 30%. Animals are much more at home with water, they belong there. Don’t you know about evolution?

And you too belong there Marianne. Even your name - Mari. It means the sea you know. A woman of the sea, a mermaid. I thought that, the first time I ever saw you. Do you ? I was looking in that shop window, staring at some glass statues, and you came and looked in as well. I saw your reflection. You seemed to be staring at me from the depths of the sea. Our eyes met and you smiled, then you turned away. I followed you. Found out where you lived. Found out all about you.

That was 2 years ago. I didn’t see you again much after that. I don’t go out much you see - a bit of shopping for mother and that’s about it. Today was certainly my lucky day, wasn’t it? Bumping into you like that. I knew you were an artist. I’d made enquiries, you see. I was so excited when you said you’d like to see my ice-sculptures. You loved the flowers, didn’t you? It was just the animals that surprised you. But that look on your face. It showed you just didn’t understand ice. And there was another thing you didn’t understand about ice, wasn’t there?

You didn’t know ice could kill, did you?

You see, ice is an amazing substance. A long thin slither is just like a knife. More effective even, because it disappears. It melts, you see, with the body heat. Simply turns to water and vanishes.

But it’s alright, I’m not angry with you anymore, I forgive you. It’s just that you didn’t quite understand then, did you?

But you do now, don’t you? Lying there, so beautiful. Now you really do know about ice.

And you’ve forgiven me, haven’t you? Of course you have. It didn’t really hurt, did it? I never wanted to hurt you. Just a tiny pain in the ear, wasn’t it? Nothing more. And look what I’ve given you, Marianne. Just look! Eternal beauty. A beauty that will never fade. No-one has ever been given that before.

Do you know you have a rainbow, a garland of colours all around you? That always happens to something in ice.

So, you see. That’s how it came to this. You, so beautiful, so still. Patiently waiting within your crystal world. My ice-maiden, lying with arms outstretched, your hair a halo around a face so pale and beautiful.

Only 6 feet separates us now.

A six-foot depth of pure, glistening ice.

But soon our lips will be separated by only a single atom, then they’ll touch, and the crystal lattice will en them forever.

I am coming!

Sinking slowly into your silent world. For now, I wear a belt of lead, my wrists and ankles are encased in lead. The ice is parting before me and will close behind. I have begun my descent to heaven! Closer and closer we will come. In each slow moment I will enjoy your beauty. Closer and closer, with grace and certainty, I will move towards you.

Will I be able to bear it? Maybe not.

Perhaps I’ll grow impatient. Will I then dive for you, swimming slowly through the cold, hard ice? Or will I be an acrobat - performing somersaults that last for days or weeks? No! I will descend slowly. Sinking, sinking, forever sinking, drawing closer to your flawless beauty.

And then we’ll be together. Forever. As the last few crystals part and our bodies touch - oh what joy! Wait for me, Marianne, oh wait for me……

The last time I saw God

Dark, dark tunnels. Down the dark tunnels. Balls of furry hate. Flash of light, “What’s that?” Crawling, crawling, like an animal, “I wanna stand up!” Hot, it’s so hot. Smell of oil, dirt, shit. Squeak, squeak. More rats. Keep crawling. Air, fresh air. Can’t breathe! Need air! And light! Bright light to sweep away the dark. Trains in the subway, rumbling, roaring, screeching. Keep crawling, gotta keep crawling…

“Grandpa!”

Nearly there, nearly there. Head for the light…..

“Grandpa!” The boy gently stroked the old man’s hand,

“Grandpa. I’ve got to go now.”

The old man blinked. “Don’t leave me in the tunnels.”

The boy squeezed his grandfather’s hand, smiling at the frail old baby. “You’re not in a tunnel grandpa. You’re with me, Peter. In your room.”

The old man gazed at him blankly.

Peter explained again. Slowly, patiently. “You’re in your own room. Here on

Clinton Street. You’re not in a tunnel.”

“Used to be.” The old man replied “Spent my life in tunnels. Down the subway. Knew the subway better than the streets. Too many people up there. Think they know everything. Nobody down below. Nobody except me and my team. We kept the subway going you know. Didn’t matter what happened up there, floods, snow, fire, we kept them going. Did I ever tell you about that crash in Central Park station when…..”

“Yes grandpa, you told me.”

“Different ones this time. Different feel to them. I….I didn’t know where I was going this time. I was lost. Never been lost before. Can’t have been in the subway. Never would have got lost down there.”

“It’s O.K. grandpa. Must have been a dream. You’re here with me now.”

“Yes. Guess you’re right. You’re a good boy Peter. Spend too much time with your old grandpa, should be out with your friends.”

“Don’t have any friends.”

“Nonsense. Everybody’s got friends - just takes a bit of time to recognise them, that’s the tricky bit. Seeing things as they really are, yes sir, now that sure is a problem.”

“Yes. But… I mean I don’t even know anybody who might be a friend, I mean nobody even likes me,”

“Nobody likes you! Don’t believe it. You’re a swell kid. Heart of gold. Don’t know many kids who’d spend so much time with their old grandpa.”

“But I’m not ‘special’. I can’t tell jokes, I’m not clever, and nobody ever listens to me ‘cause nothing exciting ever happens to me. Guess I’m just plain boring.”

“No, son. Nobody’s boring. Everyone’s got a story to tell. Everyone’s got something special.”

“Except me.”

“You haven’t looked. It’s like I was saying. The tricky bit is seeing what’s special in your life. Now just think for a minute. Think about all the things going on around you right now.”

“There’s nothing. Just nothing.”

“Well, maybe your time hasn’t come yet, but it will one day, you’ll see. I had to wait 40 years for it, but when it came it was sure worth it. Did I ever tell you about…….

“Grandpa, I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go now. Mom’s expecting me back at

five and it’s five past already.”

“You coming back again tonight?”

“Sure! After I’ve done my homework. About seven. I’ll bring your supper as well. Look, I’d better turn down the fire in case you dose off again. ‘bye now.”

The old man rocked gently in his chair, gazing into the flickering electric flames. “Everyone’s got something special, every goddam one of us. Used to feel the same as Pete, poor kid, ‘til ‘she’ came along. Not that ‘she’ ever knew, never even saw me. But she sure as hell made my life worth living. Yes, sir. She sure made it all worthwhile.”

Little rats, big rats. Horrible things, rats. Smell’s bad, but rats are worse. “Switch the hoover on, Bud. Gotta suck all that dust and shit outta there.” Keep the tunnels clear. Dark, dirty. Helmet lights flash. Scamper, scamper. “What’s that?” Sharp white teeth. Gnawing, gnawing. Kill the rats. Breed like flies. Never get rid of them, never. Always be there. A gentle downdraught. Sweet smell of fresh air through the grating. Beautiful daylight through prison bars. White chiffon billowing, clouds part, the moon shines through, legs that go on for ever…….

“Grandpa!”

“……the face of God.”

“Grandpa. I’ve brought you your supper. Mom’s made a pot-roast. It’s really

good.”

Peter turned up the fire and snapped a tray onto the old man’s chair. “Come on, eat up!”

The old man pushed the food around on his plate. Then he looked up at his grandson and smiled. “Did I ever tell you about the last time I saw God?”

Peter shook his head. “You’ve told me some weird stories, but I can’t any about God.”

“No. I guess I never told you this one before. Never told anyone. Not even your Granma. Wanted to. But I’d never tell a woman this one. They wouldn’t understand. Only ones who’d really understand are dead now. Famous they were. But they’re dead anyhow.”

“Who were they?”

“Would you believe J.F.K.?”

“The president!”

“The very same. And how about Joe DiMaggio?”

“Aw, come on you’re kidding. Mom says I shouldn’t believe all the things you tell me.”

“Wouldn’t kid you, Peter, not you. Anyway, they’re all dead now. But they’d believe my story, yes sir, they’d believe it. Summer of ‘55 it was. it as clearly as…. No, don’t yesterday. Can’t a thing nowadays. Keep losing my glasses as well…”

“The summer of ‘55.” Peter reminded him.

“Yes. ‘55. Took your grandma to see King Kong, some movie house on Broadway. Great movie. Don’t make them like that anymore.

“Grandpa!”

“Sorry. Day after the movie got a call from the boss. Special job. Said only I could do it, only one who knew the tunnels well enough. Did you know there are 10,000 miles of tunnels in the subway system here? Did you know that?”

“Yes grandpa, you’ve told me, a hundred times.”

“OK. OK. Keep your shirt on, young fella. The boss said he’d had a call from Hollywood, Californ-i-a, some one big in the movies. He wanted to do some kind of publicity stunt for a big movie star - wouldn’t say who it was - very hush, hush. So, me and Bud. You Bud? Best friend a man ever had. Miss him almost as much as your grandma. Me and Bud went along to the chief.

He asked us could we get one of the X17s down along the service tunnel under Broadway. We got the maps out. The boss even poured us a couple of Bourbons. Any idea what a map of the New York subway with all its service and escape tunnels looks like? Imagine a huge red cobweb spread out on a sheet of paper. Every tiny strand is a tunnel. Now put a blue cobweb on top of that, then a yellow one, then a black one. Even then it wouldn’t be nearly as complicated as the subway. Took us nearly an hour to get a route planned, one that’d let us take an X17 along with us. Awful machines those things. Never did like them, always wanted……”

“Grandpa!”

“What?”

“You were planning a route through the tunnels.”

“Yes. That’s right. The boss said we had to get that darned machine down there under the grating and turn it on at exactly 3 o’clock the next day. Hadn’t a clue why.

Next day we went down. It was our day off as well.

Your grandma was furious. “How much they paying you for this?” she asked.

“Standard rates.” I told her. “It’s a favor for the boss.”

“Joe Flanaghan. You’re a fool.” She told me. “You’ll never be anything more than a poor fool.”

“But she was wrong you know. I’ll never forget that day. Magic it was. Closest I’ve ever been to heaven. Anyway. We went down at twelve and crawled along those tunnels for two whole hours. Dragging the machine along and trailing the electric cable behind. The tunnels were filthy. Rats, dirt, dust, oil, garbage everywhere. Hadn’t been in that part of the system for a year, due for cleaning it was. But nothing was gonna stop me and Bud. We were the best. The boss knew that and so did we. Got there about two. Tiny, cramped space it was. Under the grating there was only room for one of us and the blower, the other had to lie in the tunnel. We took turns to sip at that lovely cool air. Couldn’t see anything on the streets of course, just an occasional glimpse of someone if they happened to walk on the grating. One foot square it was, covered in cobwebs. We cleaned it up, and the space beneath it. Checked that the blower was working, smoked a couple of cigarettes, and waited.

Two minutes to three. Bud said it had to be me under the grating, I was the team leader. So, I squatted there, aching, sweaty, tired, excited.

One minute to three. A woman stood on the grating. Stock still. Saw her feet and her long white skirts.

3 o’clock. I switched on the blower. Up went her skirts. She shivered. She tried to push them down, but the air kept on blowing. White chiffon billowed out, like sails on one of those old wooden schooners. She pirouetted. First to the left and then to the right. I heard her laugh, like an angel it was. She shimmied, her hips swayed, her knees began to bend and then down came those cheeks, those perfect pink crescents. Closer and closer they came.”

“What is it? What can you see?” Bud yelled.

“The face of God.” I told him. “The face of God. And then she was gone. Stepped off that grating and out of my life.”

The old man stopped.

Peter looked at him, puzzled. “Who was it?”

“Marilyn Monroe.” The old man whispered. “It was Marilyn Monroe.”

I must go down to the sea again….

They say that a tender soul wears his heart on his sleeve. With John it was somewhat different because, tender though he undoubtedly was, his heart remained invisible. Instead, he wore his hurt on his skin. Nevertheless, what both John and that generalized, tender soul had in common was the involuntary nature of the stigmata that both were to wear. With John nothing could prevent every betrayal, insult and rebuff from being indelibly etched on what, at birth anyway, had been a pale clear expanse of flesh. ‘A page to be written on’ some cruel God, with a somewhat literal frame of mind, must have thought. John did believe in God. He also believed in sin. And with the age of time sin became guilt, or maybe guilt became sin. Whatever. Both became inexorably mixed up with pain, suffering, loneliness and rejection, both by God and by man. This delicious bouillon had been stirred and heavily seasoned by holy mother church and her minions. When he was a young boy, some priest had casually referred to sin as a blemish on the pure whiteness of the soul. Venial sins were tiny ink-specks, whereas mortal sin was a whole ink-well spilled over a blank sheet. Only prayer could bleach the soul back to Persil-whiteness.

For some reason, in John’s mind the soul in the spiritual sense took on the form of the soul of a shoe. Forever afterwards, he carried within him a footprintshaped white object which he imagined occupied the space between his belly and his neck. In John’s thinking, this well-defined shape retained its original whiteness throughout his life. It never became speckled or discoloured. For it had dawned on him that the blemishes that appeared on his skin with increasing frequency as he grew older were, in fact, the stains of his sins. His creator had made some terrible mistake with the way in which his spiritual -keeping was recorded. So convinced was he that this was the explanation for the condition of his skin, that he never saw any connection between the appearance of a blemish and an angry word from an acquaintance, a cross look from his father or a scolding from a teacher. But who can blame him for missing such a link? The blemishes had started appearing long before his logical faculties had been awakened. The first one, a small red mark on his dimpled bottom, arose following his mother’s decision to exchange breast-feeding for the bottle. It gained a few more companions when no-one came to staunch his tears as he lay awake and afraid in the darkness of the night. By the time he was six months old, quite an assembly had gathered around the dimples. They were dismissed as

nappy-rash when it became convenient to regard them as such. Not that his parents were uncaring. It was just that the endless trips to the surgery and the doctor’s inability to do anything other than advise various creams had made them rather weary. When they realised that John was suffering no great discomfort from the ‘rash’, they banished the concern from their minds.

The frustrations of not being able to communicate, the indignities of being forcefed, the manhandling by strangers he did not trust and the vulnerability that continually asserted itself, all left their marks as he grew older. So, by the time he was being instructed in how to wear the shackles of religion, he was grateful for any explanation of his disfigurement.

Childhood was not an easy time for John or his parents. The blemishes on the lower part of his body had coalesced into a red mass that, by the age of six, reached as far as his waist. Doctors excused their lack of success by pompous announcements to the effect that skin was ‘only poorly understood’ and had ‘more unexplained diseases than any other organ’. They did, however, recommend a move to the seaside. And so, John was taken to live in Lyme Regis.

Nothing could have been better. Not only did the sea-air bring some physical relief to his scarred integument, but the idle days and the simple rhythms of tides and waves soothed his troubled psyche. Stories of the sea nourished his fantasies. Treasure Island, Robinson Crusoe, and Moby Dick opened up a world into which his problem didn’t intrude. And, as his psyche healed, the advance of the mutilating colours was held in check. A balance was established. As often as he could, John would stand on the shore, gazing out at the vast shimmering liquid. He loved to watch the tide come in, on and on it would come until it seemed as if it would never stop. But no. The land always fought back, and the sea would slowly retreat. A cycle that was repeated over and over again. Endless activity, yes, but equilibrium was maintained. And, to John’s mind, the red scars became an angry sea held in check by the solid pink mass of his chest. “And nothing will change,” he said out loud, “It can’t go any further”. And then he

whispered, so only the sea could hear. “And one day I’ll come for you. Just you wait and see.” And, for a time, John was right. There was no further upward movement. His waist remained the high-water mark of his suffering.

But the certainties of childhood were eventually replaced by the traumas of adolescence and, once again, the pigmentation sallied forth. By the time he was 18 every square inch of flesh below his neck was covered in a mosaic of reds, purples, and every shade between. The only consolation being that it never reached his face. By some cruel irony, John was never afflicted by the adolescent scourges of pimples and blackheads. While the rest of his body glowed with shades of red seldom seen on earth, his face remained as clear as a baby’s. Until he turned 21. It was a woman. It was alcohol. It was sex. It was the same old story. The look on her face when she removed his shirt was all that was needed. The remaining psychological barriers collapsed before the onslaught of colour. The victorious red hordes established a small outpost just to the left of John’s Adams apple. He recounted the incident to the ever-receptive sea who, of course, kept his secret. The woman wasn’t so discrete. Whispers pursued him everywhere and he became an object of speculation. Each enquiry and each querulous glance was a victory for the invading facial colouration - onwards it spread. He turned his back on the sea. No longer could he share the daylight hours with his old confidante. The nighttime would find him wandering in the protective shadows of the dense woods in the undercliff. And it was there that it happened. The chance remark that was his liberation. Who spoke this doesn’t really matter. The voice came from the shadows as he stumbled on some vague shapes moving rhythmically in the tall grass. “For Christ’s sake,” a woman yelped, “be careful will you? Nearly jumped out of me skin, I did. Be off with you. Can’t a couple go a-courting these days?”

He ran. A technicoloured mixture of anger, humiliation, frustration and jealousy. How far he ran, he didn’t know. But at last he came to a clearing overlooking both town and sea. Throwing himself down on the grass, he sobbed his sorrows to the gently-heaving brine. And the sea replied, slowly and softly on each incoming wave “whyyyyy…. beeee…. liiiiike…. themmmmm? Whyyyyy…. beeee…. liiiiike…. themmmmm?”

Peter lay there, lulled by the soothing message repeated again and again. Then, one by one, the woman’s words dropped into his mind and he knew what he had to do. He threw off his clothes and stood, arms outstretched, reaching up to grab at salvation. His skin shimmered in the light of a million stars, like a smooth pond ruffled by a sudden breeze. And, from out of his skin, he willed his body to release itself. And there, on the cliff-top, where proof of evolution lay all around, trapped in stones a million years old, the transformation took place. Slowly, slowly, like a snake, he oozed out of his skin. Until, glistening like a new-born babe, he at last stepped away from the useless sack lying on the ground. He looked around, bemused, unsure. Stone imprints of feathered reptiles looked on, blushing at their own comparatively meagre contribution to evolution.

Then he let out one exultant howl and raced down to the sea, free of his dreadful, confining shroud. Through the town he ran. Down, down to the sea he flew. Grabbing a cutlass, a belt and a fine hat with ostrich plumes. Down to a tall ship with sails outstretched ready to grasp the breeze that would free it from the tiny harbour. Down to the quayside he ran, skimming over shallow rain-pools in which lantern-flames swam and skeletons of fish, with sockets empty of infinite, white-topped blue, dreamed of a saltier grave.

The smell! Oh, the smell! Fish and tar and oil and rope and, over all, like the after-image of a sweet dream that colours the whole day, over all was the stinging scent of sea. Aboard he leapt as the sails bulged determinedly outwards, yearning for the open sea where dolphins leapt to laugh at the two-legged creatures trapped on up-turned shells that kept out their world. “Come us.” They sang to the not-hearing sailors who hauled at ropes and climbed to silken clouds trapped by spider-webs spun by rough-handed maidens who dreamed of pink dresses and men on horses - anything but the salt-burned skin of coarsevoiced wanderers who spoke of wonders but who never returned.

Onto the quarter-deck he leapt, legs astride and thumbs stuck deep into his leather belt as the words of Cohen’s “Sing another song, boys” sprang from his

lips. He tossed back his head and bellowed for the wind. And the wind roared, joyful at the summons. The sails billowed and the decks trembled. Still, he yelled for more. Two sailors saw the belted cutlass and the feathered hat and jumped overboard in terror. The masts creaked and groaned, but the sails held fast. The ship gained speed and the decks shuddered, but still he yelled for more. A north-westerly ed its brothers racing to the call.

Out of the harbour the ship was blown, spilling sailors from its decks. Mesmerized by the phantom call, the winds followed behind, jostling for position, forsaking other ships left becalmed on the high seas. On they flew to the horizon, a razor slash where sea and sky forgot who they were.

“Sing ‘Hauling On The Bowline’.” He called to frightened sailors who battened down the hatches and skulked below, wishing they could sleep for a hundred years. “Splice the main-brace, me hearties.” He bellowed. “Set the com due west, Mr. Christian. We’re bound for the edge of the world. And shoot any mutineers, Captain Bligh, you’re all in the king’s navy now. That right, Jim me lad? And get that blasted parrot below decks Mr. Silver. I’ll not have psittacosis rife in these latitudes. And leave the albatross alone, if anyone so much as touches a feather, I’ll hang the scurvy devil from the yardarm. Let out more sail! Raise the topgallant, Captain Hook. I’m going aloft to look for castaways. Shiver me timbers, I’ll need a lamp up there.”

And so a lamp was carried to the crows-nest where it burned bright in the black of the moonless night. By now the ship tossed and heaved amid waves so huge that the crows-nest skimmed the water to port, starboard, prow and stern in a seeming random manner. But, to the alien satellite orbiting above, the light sketched out a familiar pattern, a pattern for which it had waited patiently for a hundred years. Within seconds of recognizing the signal, it began beaming a message to a small planet in alpha-centauri. A message which, when it arrived two years hence, would trigger the invasion of planet Earth by a billion monsters that no human nightmare had ever envisaged. But this was only to be. For the present, the ship continued to be blown along until its speed was such that it

sailed off the edge of the earth.

Where he went to, I’m not really sure. But I’ll tell you this, and you can believe me or not. Late last night I went and sat by the water’s edge and, as I gazed out to sea, I heard a voice. In my head it was, I suppose, but I’m not quite sure. “Hard a-port, Cap’n Hornblower.” It yelled. “Don’t want to ram old Saturn do we?” Then it continued in a quieter, almost mournful, tone.

“Drake is in his hammock,

A million miles away,

Captain are you sleeping down below?”

In a country strange my prince lies dreaming

Mandrake. A genus comprising several plant species that are thought to have magical powers. It was believed that the mandrake could be safely uprooted only by a black dog attached to the plant by a cord after appropriate prayers and ritual. As it was pulled from the ground it uttered a shriek that either killed or made mad those who did not block their ears against it. After it had been freed from the earth, it could be used for beneficial purposes such as facilitating pregnancy.

On the 25th of September 1988 drops of water precipitated from the atmosphere. Since the drops were greater than 0.5 millimetres in diameter they could be classified as rain. Had their diameter been less than this, they would have been described as drizzle. The rain fell on David Stevens. He didn’t mind. He liked the rain. Well, actually, that wasn’t quite true. He liked certain types of rain. He liked the rain in the countryside. He liked summer rain. He also liked the idea of swimming in a hot country while it rained. Not that he’d ever done that, but he would have liked to. He wasn’t really that excited about the rain that was falling on him at that particular moment. It was dirty rain, city rain, almost certainly it was acid rain. He was glad when he reached the shelter of his doorway and raced inside.

David was excited. He’d just returned from visiting his wife who was about to give birth to their first child and, like many a prospective father, his thoughts lingered on concepts like the magic of birth, the mystery of woman, and the crushing ordinariness of the male.

David was a sentimental person, and, knowing the sex of the being about to be thrust into his care, he had been moved to writing. “A letter to my son.” he’d called his scribblings. This had been helped enormously by the innovations in medical science that had enabled him to actually see his child on a T.V. screen, floating aimlessly around in a different world.

David threw off his coat and rushed straight to the desk on which his letter lay. This is what he’d written.

I the first time I saw you. You seemed so far away. So small I could hardly make you out. A tiny, shapeless form in shades of grey. There were barriers then. Ones we couldn’t cross. Not without harm, more to you than to me. But we had no choice. We had to live with them, within them. Me with my seemingly limitless freedom, a kind of freedom anyway. The constraints less clearly defined, though I kept coming up against them. You in your confines. Sheltered and protected, yes. But contained. A prisoner. Waiting. Waiting. With infinite patience. For what? Now that’s a question. Such a question. I knew for how long. You didn’t.

“So!” You say. “Such a clever man, a knowledgeable man. To know the answers to such questions.”

But I too had to wait. Which would you have preferred? I envied you your not knowing. Knowledge can be such a heavy burden.

Of course, I’d known about you for a couple of months. But glimpsing you for the first time made all the difference, even though it was in that sterile no-mansland, that bleak limbo. And so I made my plans, started the preparations, told people about you. There were arrangements to make, there was the law to consider. Not everyone would be welcoming.

The next time was three weeks later. You waved a hand. I waved back. People looked at me, oddly. I felt foolish. Gravity triumphed. My hand dropped, limply. By my side it hung, useless, like meat in a butcher’s shop. You couldn’t see me. They knew that. I knew that. Again, I seemed to hold all the cards. It was so unfair.

What were you thinking when you waved? Why did you do it? A gesture that can mean anything or nothing. Was it a muscular spasm? A nervous twitch? Waving or drowning? Wanting to be noticed by someone? By anyone? And what will you do with that hand? With those hands? When you’re free. I know they’ll hold me. They will do that. But what else?

At twenty weeks the time had come. I’d been dreading it.

“We have to do it.” They told us. And they knew best. “We have to find out.”

I watched the needle plunging swiftly.

Silver streaked in a determined arc.

The fleshy barrier, elastic, yielding.

Vanishing slowly, resistance met.

So deep? Why so deep?

A drop of blood came oozing slowly.

Crimson red on plump, smooth, white.

Surrounding the metallic splinter.

Quivering in the harsh, bright light

I saw the shaft sink in. A violation of your secret space. And what did you think, as the spear flashed by? Will it be a future dread? A psychic shadow? A recurrent theme? A puzzle for ever? I will tell you about it, I promise. You must be told. But will I ? I let my head fill with so much nonsense. They say I need it for my life. It doesn’t seem to help. And anyway, it all escapes, slowly seeping out like an old leaking tap I keep forgetting to fix. Will you want to catch those useless drops? They’ll fall on you anyway, that’s for sure. For a while they’ll be as raindrops to a desert flower. But soon, too soon, a time will come when you’ll say they’re drowning you.

I could see your ears. I could just make them out. Their precious geometry channelling echoes down a tunnelled vortex. They’ll never again be simple appendages. I will take you to an icy land where our breath will freeze and fall tinkling to the ground - the whisper of the stars. Our voices will play tunes on the cold, smooth ice.

I will boom my sad contralto.

Icicles will plummet down.

From your lips a sweet falsetto.

Snowflakes settling to the ground.

And that nose! What could you possibly smell with something that small? But I have plans for that too. When we’re together. I know a place where the cactus blooms at night. Once every decade a single flower unfolds, but for one night only. And the smell. Oh, the smell. But wait. That’s not all.

We’ll lie on sand that summer evening,

Sand that’s hot when the sun goes down.

The waves will break, an endless motion,

Diamonds scattering all around.

The third time was four weeks later.

“He’s doing alright,” They told us. “Everything’s fine.”

“Can I see him then?” I asked.

“Just for a moment.”

I couldn’t believe it. You were lying on a beach. Languishing under a sun I must once have known, but will never see or feel again.

“I hope he’s got his sunglasses on.” They laughed with me then.

I gazed intently at the screen, straining to see your eyes, but then you turned away. Floating dreamily on some chance current.

“They do that all the time,” the doctor said, “But when he’s a little older, about 25 weeks, he’ll settle down to a nice comfortable position. Then we’ll just have to wait ‘till he’s ready to us.”

While David was waxing lyrical over the imminent arrival, tinkering with words, his wife was painfully, prematurely, expelling from her womb the sad, torn remnants of their stillborn son. She seemed unaware of the rain lashing against the hospital window, her mind having travelled to a place no doctor or nurse could follow.

“There, there, my little one. Snuggle softly in the woolly whiteness of little lambs playing in grass that glows an uncanny green on the poisoned rain-drenched fells. See, it carries still the unasked-for gift from foreign kings in lands you’ll never see. Shush, shush, don’t cry, though even now your tiny softness cradles the dancing motes of matter undreamed of by our mother earth. For I will take you far. I will take you among the rainbow drops sparkling with the morning sun

in a field where autumn-scattered fruits lie heavy, untouched, to rot in wanton waste. Come! Creeping, crawling, walk away my love, my life, among the fairies playing there. See the giant water-spheres where light is shredded by a gentler force, refracted, reflected, trapped forever inside a perfect skin. The wind blows cold, yes a cruel cold wind with the scent of fire. But take you it won’t. No, my little one. With me you’ll stay.

“Mary! Mary!”

Summonsed by means of yet another technological marvel, David had finally arrived, geographically at least, at his wife’s side.

Arrangements were made, arrangements that filled the hours that sped and the hours that crawled nowhere. Until, at last, the end of a beginning, the return to mother earth.

And the rain fell. Silently, softly, it fell on David and Mary as the child was buried. Among the ashes they planted a tree. And the tree grew, its roots drawing sustenance from the child’s remains. Years later, as its leaves turned a brilliant red, they stood before it under a huge full moon. David looked on, numbly, as Mary caressed its unyielding flesh. She looked up at the sky, expectant, waiting. Her lips moved slightly, and David watched as a tear oozed from the corner of her eye. Slowly it swelled, feeding on unrequited grief, glinting silver in the bright moonlight. She lowered her head, and the silver drop traced a slow, mournful track across her cheek. It lingered on her chin and grew in size as the seconds ed to who-knows-where. Gradually the perfect sphere elongated to a pendulous shape, a cartoon tear on a Disney Snow-white. “Will it ever break free?” At last its molecule-thin skin could stretch no longer, and the luminous pearl fell with an audible ‘ping’. A trail of tiny stars marked its downward plunge. Onto the tree it splashed and raced like quicksilver to the thirsty soil. In the dark earth it followed a tortuous path, he could see its glow. Along a root it hurried, down to the delicate root-hairs until it finally ed from the organic to

the mineral world. There it soaked up elements that had once been brain, heart and tiny lungs. Greedily it fed ‘till it could hold no more, spilling the excess as it hurried on through dark labyrinthine channels. At last its path was blocked by a thick white root, a root with a peculiarly human shape. And the mandrake sang, low and tremulous. A song unheard for countless years. Its limbs ed on the mournful sound until, under hillocks and houses, fields and factories, the dirge was sung by a million strong. As one they rose, tearing loose from the cradling earth, the dirge now triumphal, the song transformed by an unspeakable joy. Above the ground they hovered, circling slowly, a lace-like web across the land. And then, spinning madly as in some dance of old, they spiralled up towards the moon.

From the sky something fell near the couple huddled on the ground. Mary removed her hands from her ears and reached out for the pale shape lying by her side. Her fingers explored its irregular contours until she recognised a familiar bifurcation. She lifted the root to her lips and, glancing up at the now-veiled moon, bit into the firm white flesh. Then, with a Mona Lisa smile, she offered it to her husband.

The Sandman

Wimpy bars are a good place to find them. Quiet places. Kids wouldn’t be seen dead in them nowadays. They’ve moved on to other, glossier purveyors of instant indigestion. So, the old folks have moved in, along with the odd tramp and other small-spenders anxious to find somewhere warm and bright. Fluorescent lights to ward off the ghosts. So, I come here quite a lot. The waiter likes me. And why not? I’m quiet and respectable. I spend a lot. I must be one of the few people who has a two-course meal here, and coffee. I always tip well.

Sundays are best. Especially at lunch time. I think they must find the loneliness unbearable then. As sons and daughters find something conveniently urgent to postpone their visit yet again. And so, they come along to a Wimpy bar. It’s warm. It’s bright. Their poor, tired old eyes can’t see the seediness, can’t see the grubby, grease-stained overall of the waiter. Or perhaps they do. Perhaps they do see it all and just choose to ignore it. It’s sad, very sad. They come to places like this and nervously order something from the menu that they can recognise. Usually something like egg and chips. Never a quarter pounder or a beanburger. Too timid for anything like that. Most would never dare ask the waiter any questions. But occasionally a rather bold old lady will venture to haltingly enquire as to whether the fish is plaice or cod. The waiter, of course, hasn’t a clue to what she’s talking about. To him, fish come in frozen squares that are a damn nuisance to prise apart. A kind of conversation then usually takes place in which three or four-word phrases are exchanged with no understanding on either side. The waiter always wins, of course, and the poor old dear invariably ends up with egg and chips.

Another thing I’ve noticed is that they never talk to one another. I think it’s because they’re frightened of being with someone like themselves. They know that the other will recognise instantly why they’re there. That would be too much to bear. Their generation must hide their sorrows.

I must write an article about this for New Society. “Observations on social deprivation in the elderly.” Or else. “The role of cafes in the expiation of

sorrow.” I bet I know as much about their problems as any social worker.

Hold on. One’s coming. I knew there’d be one along soon.

Here she comes. Typical! First of all she looks through the window to see if there are any noisy youngsters inside. Notice the look on her face as she sees it’s almost empty. There’s only me. And I’m middle-aged and very respectable. In she comes. My, this one’s rather bold. She almost looked at me as she came in. No downcast eyes from this one. No sir. All the same though. She’ll be no match for old Alexandro. He’ll sort her out alright. Maybe I should go and help her with the menu so that the bad-tempered bastard has no excuse to bully her. But no. I shouldn’t really. Must learn to keep my distance.

“Don’t get involved.” They tell you. “And , you’re giving out taxpayers money. Not your own. This is no job for bleeding-hearts.” But I’m not a machine. How could I not get involved when people like poor Mrs. Cooper comes in with four cold, hungry, miserable children? I couldn’t turn them away. I had to find some way of helping them. God! I hope old misery-guts doesn’t cheque up on her case-sheet too closely tomorrow. I’ve had it if he does.

But this old lady. How on earth could I help her now? I mean, what could I say? She’d be very suspicious. No. I’m afraid she’ll just have to fend for herself, poor old soul. All I can do is get ready to step in if he gets too brusque with her.

Here he comes. Wiping his nose on his sleeve. My god! Aren’t there supposed to be laws on food-handling in this country? Don’t the health inspectors ever make checks on these places? Now he’s standing over her. Chewing on his pencil. He hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t even acknowledged her existence. And he’s looking out the window. She’s saying something. Pointing to a faded, grease-covered picture of a plate of fish and chips. He’s still looking out of the window. Eyeing

up some girl teetering past on high heels. The girl fades from view so he looks down at the old lady. He’s impatient now. Has no time for her.

Please don’t ask what kind of fish it is.

She hasn’t!

Thank god for that.

No problems. He’s got the order and left her in peace.

You can sense her relief. Now she’s poking around in her bag. A handkerchief? Her knitting? No. It’s a little notebook, maybe a diary. She’s writing something in it. Her shopping list for tomorrow? Or maybe something she’s just ed and is worried that she may forget again. Poor things. They do get so forgetful.

Here comes old Alexandro. Yes, he’s on form. He’s managed to plonk the plate down on the old lady’s book. She doesn’t say a thing. She knows the rules of this place. She expects no courtesy, no service, no consideration. She picks at her meal. After each mouthful she delicately dabs at her lips with a paper napkin. Inside that poor old head, she’s at the Ritz or maybe on a transatlantic cruise. God! I can’t watch her any longer. It’s too painful. Got to go.

That’s better. The cold air feels good. Clean. Pure.

I breathe deeply, chasing away the greasy warmth.

I cross the road, gazing into shop windows, walking slowly. She won’t be long.

Her reflection almost merges with the fur-coated manikin. Nearly missed her!

Down the street she shuffles. Looking straight ahead. Does she have far to go? What’s at the other end of her journey? Tiny bed-sit? Old-folk’s home? Council flat?

I follow.

Soon I’m opposite a huge tenement block as she confronts the ugly, battered metal door of a lift.

She presses the call-button and waits until it’s obvious that, once again, it’s out of order. She mutters something, shakes her head and slowly climbs the rubbishstrewn stairs. The stair-well stinks of urine and is covered with obscenities that she probably doesn’t even understand. The practices d on the walls in glorious yellows and reds were unheard-of in her days. What a terrible place to live in. It’s disgusting. Gingerly I follow her up the stairs, carefully avoiding the used condoms and piles of excrement. Dog or human? Does it matter? I feel my anger rise at the sordidness this poor old soul is forced to endure. How can they treat our senior citizens this way? After all they’ve contributed to our history. She shuffles along a landing, ed burned-out, boarded-up windows until she reaches a bright green door. She stops. Fumbles in her bag for a key and then disappears quickly inside. I continue along the ageway. Nobody is around. They’ll all be sitting worshiping those flickering square windows. Their only

respite from the horrors of an unbearable reality.

I knock on her door. Gently. There’s no response. I don’t knock again. I wait. I’m a patient man. At last, the door opens. Cautiously. It’s on a chain. A faint odour of boiled fish escapes. I don’t even wince. She peeps out.

Recognition shows on her face.

“Aren’t you the man from the Wimpy bar?”

“Yes.” I reply. “Even social workers have to eat sometimes you know.”

“Oh, you’re from the council then?”

She seems relieved.

“You’d better come in.”

“No. It’s OK. I don’t need to. And anyway, you should always ask for identification when a stranger knocks on your door. Here. Look. This is my card.” I talk to her slowly, gently. She takes the card. Looks at it with incomprehension.

“I’ll have to get my glasses.” She says and disappears into the flat.

She returns to the door a few minutes later.

“Yes. It’s alright.” She tells me. “It says you’re from the social services.”

“That’s right. From the senior citizens action group. We call it SCAG for short.” I smile at her. She seems confused.

“SCAG?” She repeats. “But you are from the council?”

“Yes.” I tell her. “I come round to see old people living on their own. To see if they need any help. If they do, I tell the social services to come round to do it. That’s why I don’t need to come in. All you have to do is tell me if anything is wrong.”

“Oh, I see. Well. Let me think. There’s the lift. That doesn’t work.”

“Right. But you are on your own, aren’t you? If you’re not, then I can’t help. That’d be a different department.”

“Oh yes. I’m all on my own. My husband died two years ago.”

“But what about children? Don’t you have children who visit you?”

“Yes. I’ve a daughter. But she’s in Australia. Two lovely grandchildren as well. She’s done very well for herself. And she does write to me. She writes every week. And Julie and Kirstie, they write as well. They sent me a lovely Christmas card they’d made at school and they’re only four.”

“Really? My little girl is four as well. She’s called Fuchsia.”

“Fuchsia?”

“Yes, Fuchsia. You know. It’s a kind of flower. Look I’ve a photo of her here. Would you like to see it?”

“Yes. That would be nice. But it’s silly to stand here like this. My old legs are getting tired. Why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea?”

“Well. I shouldn’t really. But I suppose it won’t do any harm. You won’t go telling SCAG about me, will you?”

“SCAG.”

“Yes, SCAG. The council.”

“Oh. The council. No, of course not.”

She unbolts the door and steps aside to let me in. I wipe my feet carefully on the mat and hand her a picture of a little girl.

“Fuchsia.” I tell her, proudly.

“Oh yes. Your little girl. She’s lovely. Wait a minute and I’ll put the kettle on. Go on into the sitting room.”

She points towards a door leading off the brightly lit hallway. I go into a small sparsely furnished room with red-rose wallpaper. Dampness lingers in the air and a distinctive old-woman smell. A cat slumbers peacefully on a worn leather sofa. I sit in an old armchair. Sadness descends as I notice the damp-stained ceiling, the thread-bare carpet, a collection of 5p-off coupons, and the empty carton of pot-noodles. A smiling sun-bronzed family stares at me from the mantle-piece.

“Here’s your tea.”

She places a willow-pattern teacup on a small table in front of me. For her there is a badly chipped mug. She nudges the cat along the sofa and sits down.

“Biscuits!” she says, “I’ve forgotten the biscuits. Won’t be a minute.”

She leaves the room.

I take out the small vial of liquid from my pocket and carefully let one drop fall into her tea. I watch the ripples spread outwards and then rebound from the cup walls. Back and forth they go.

“Are you alright?”

I look up at her.

“Yes. Sorry. Miles away.”

“Don’t you want to take your coat off, and your gloves?”

“No. It’s alright, thank you. I can’t stay long.”

She sips her tea. I sip mine. I find it difficult to talk.

She’s embarrassed by the silence.

“I really don’t need much help you know. Except maybe the lift. That’s always a nuisance. It’s the children. They play in it all the time.”

“I want to take you away from this.”

She looks puzzled. “I don’t understand.” she says.

“I’d like things to be better for you.”

“Oh, I’m….,. I’m……alright.”

She steadies herself and puts her cup down.

I move over to the sofa. The cat springs away from me. I sit down beside her. My arm goes around her. I gently pull her tired old head onto my shoulder. She doesn’t speak. She can’t.

I stroke her short silvery hair.

“Shush. Shush. It’s alright now. You’ll see.”

I feel the stiffness leave her body. She slumps against me.

“That’s right. Just go to sleep. Sleep, sleep, lovely sleep. Poor, little, sweet old lady. You deserve it. All your worries are over.”

I usually sing a song now.

But this time I don’t.

I didn’t really get to know her very well. So what song could I sing? I didn’t even get to know her name.

Spider woman

Someone should have been watching me. Somewhere a TV camera should have been hovering. The technician taking light readings, “More shadows. I want more shadows around his eyes and more contrast - his face just has to be sepulchre-white.” I was feeling sorry for myself – yet again. At the same time, I was slightly annoyed that no one was appreciating the tragic figure I cut, sitting in this grubby basement bar trying to get drunk. “How typical of my life,” I was thinking “the most poignant moments go totally unrecorded. All my achievements and all my suffering may as well never have happened as far as the rest of the world is concerned.”

The drink wasn’t working. It never does when it’s needed most. I pushed the small tumbler back and forwards from one hand to the other. It skimmed over the plastic table top very easily on its thin film of spilt whisky, recalling childhood memories of playing at the seaside. It was intriguing. Far more so than the imagined intricacies of my marital problems - really, it was quite simple. She was a bitch and I’d had enough. But what to do? What to do? I mean there’s the job, the house, the mortgage, friends. The embarrassment of telling everyone, feeling a failure. And who’d take who’s side? And all that time wasted trying to patch things up and all that analysis and the bills, my God the bills. All that money I’ve paid out just so I can understand why she’s such a bitch. And, after all that, he wouldn’t even tell me what I should do. Christ. I’d paid him enough. He could at least have told me whether I should stay or go.

I tossed the last of the whisky to the back of my throat, shuddered, and then felt the drips from the bottom of the glass soak through my shirt - that didn’t do much to improve my mood. I needed a cigarette, desperately. I’d given up six months ago but the weed had whispered seductively, “Just for tonight”. I picked up the drink-sodden box from the table and six matches later still hadn’t managed to set alight to another five minutes of my life. As the seventh spluttered and then decided not to co-operate I yelled out in frustration. I looked around, embarrassed at having sworn out loud. I needn’t have worried. Although there was hardly a noise to be heard, this wasn’t the kind of place that objected to such mild expletives. By the looks of it, the only thing that’d ever cause any

interest would be a cry of “Drinks on me” or “Fuzz”. What a dump! Full of down-and-outs intent only on drinking or keeping out of the cold as long as possible. How the hell had I managed to find such a place? “Better leave,” I thought, “there are pleasanter bars to get depressed in, and safer ones too.”

I stood up to go. Nobody seemed to notice - why should they? But, as I got to the bottom of the stairs, I felt a hand grasp my arm, claw-like.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Whoever it was had moved nimbly and quietly. I didn’t know where he had come from, but this materialisation was now digging his bony fingers tightly into my right arm.

I pulled away.

He held on - tighter.

I turned to look at him.

His face was bone, no flesh, just bone. His pale skin was stretched so tightly over his skull that it seemed to be on the verge of splitting apart. I’d seen faces like his before, but they’d been in museums, carved out of wood or rock.

But his eyes - there was life there - a tormented life, yes. My God, how they

burned.

I was speechless.

I was also terrified.

“Do you want to know about love?” he said.

His voice was shocking. But in a different way from his face and eyes.

I would have expected a harsh, dry rasp or even a drunken drawl. But no. The words came from those dry lips of his like a song. An image of Leonard Cohen flashed in my head.

To terror I could now add bewilderment - so much so that I didn’t at the time pause to regret the absence of T.V. cameras. But what a scene it would have made. A respectable businessman, a little drunk maybe, accosted by someone who wouldn’t have been out of place in a Dracula movie in a seedy bar full of dropouts, silently drinking themselves to oblivion - and this character wants to talk about love!

I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t belong in this place, didn’t know its rules, didn’t know how to behave here. The bartender seemed to have disappeared. No-one was taking any notice

of us, there was no-one I could appeal to.

It was his scene. He was writing the script. All I could do was wait. Maybe he’ll go away. Maybe I should offer him some money. I groped in my pocket with my free hand.

“You’ve got ‘out-of-love eyes’,” he said.

“Come. I want to talk to you about love.”

I let myself be steered back to the corner table I’d just left.

Two fresh drinks were on the table which had been wiped clean.

We’d barely sat down when he started his tale.

“I first met Celine when she was 18. I’d just graduated and was spending a few weeks at home before starting my Ph.D. in the autumn. I was bored, so bored. I hated having to spend so much time stuck in that tiny village far away from the excitement and glamour of London. How I resented having to converse with the locals about the price of corn and lamb, instead of discussing nuclear disarmament with other earnest young freethinkers at 2 a.m. in smoke-filled rooms. My family wasn’t exactly well off, so I couldn’t afford to stay at college during the vacation and my poor mother had to put up with the intolerable behaviour of her ungrateful offspring. “There’s not a soul under 100 for at least 20 miles.” I moaned to her two days after I’d arrived back home. “We’ve

discussed the decline of the English village many times at Friends of the Earth, now I can really appreciate just how bad it is.” My mind already rehearsing a powerful and imioned speech on the reality of life in the countryside. I’d be able to speak from personal experience. If I delivered it at the October meeting, I might even be able to impress Paula enough to take her away from that prat Robert. I listened with only one ear as my mother rambled on about the new folk in the cottage next door. A single parent family. A writer and her daughter. Any flicker of interest at the word daughter was quickly extinguished when I was told she was only 18. “Too big an age difference.” I thought “I could never go out with a schoolgirl. After all, I am a graduate.”

I was also an idiot. I knew nothing about anything.

I caught glimpses of her a few times as the weeks slowly rolled by, but it wasn’t until the very last day of my vacation that I actually spoke to her.

I was taking in the washing for my mother. Rather reluctantly of course, and with some ill-humour. To speed up this undignified menial chore that was so far beneath me, I left behind the clothes pegs on the washing line. They were those ones with the springs. You know? The ones you could make guns out of by wrapping an elastic band around. We used to have great fun with them at school.

Just as I was about to take the clothes indoors a voice behind me said “Please take in the clothes pegs”.

It wasn’t my mother - this was a young, delicate voice.

I turned around and there stood……..”

He stopped talking and looked up at me. Until then he’d never taken his eyes off his drink, completely ignoring me. So much so that I’d begun to feel a little more relaxed and even felt that, if I was quiet, I could walk away without him noticing.

He stared intently at me, his whole attitude had become challenging, he seemed poised, ready to defend something.

“and there stood …..an apparition” he continued.

“She was in white, all in white and her mop of fair hair was tinged with gold. I couldn’t see her face, it was incandescent - she simply glowed. I just stared. It was the sun of course, only the sun. As my eyes eventually adjusted to the light I could see that her dress was in fact a plain yellow cotton affair, rather childish, a bit frumpish. And it was the sun going down behind her that gave her the golden halo. Her hair wasn’t blonde either, it was a mousy colour.

“What?” I said, still gawping a bit. Then, ing what she’d said about the pegs I managed to be a bit more coherent.

“Err…what were you saying about the pegs?”

“I know it’s none of my business,” she began to blush, “but I couldn’t help notice that you were going to leave the clothes pegs on the washing line.”

“So what?” I said, “No-one’s going to steal them”.

I didn’t really mean to be so abrupt, but I was a bit embarrassed at being caught taking in the washing. I mean. I do believe in women’s lib and, although I wasn’t a male chauvinist, I was an intellectual and it was a fairly humble chore for an intellectual.

“I know no-one will steal them. That’s not the problem.”

She was getting more and more embarrassed as I continued to look at her. After all, she did look rather attractive in a pre-Raphaelite kind of way, and she filled out her dress rather nicely.

“It’s the spiders that will suffer.” She persisted.

“The spiders?”

“Yes. Tiny spiders. You see, if you leave the pegs out, the spiders make little houses inside the springs, and they spend ages spinning little webs from the pegs to the clothesline. Then, when you come and hang up some more clothes, you’ll destroy all their hard work. It’s much kinder if you don’t leave out the pegs in the first place. I left one out once. When I was a lot younger. I didn’t know about the spiders then, of course. So please, take the pegs in.”

I know it was only coincidence but, as she retreated back into her house, the last rays of the sun disappeared, and I suddenly felt cold and very much alone. My

mother broke the spell by calling out that dinner was ready.

I looked at the line of pegs. Now seeing them as a long row of desirable homes for itinerant arachnids. Hastily, I gathered them all up and took them into the house. I quickly put Celine out of my mind by busying myself with packing for my return to London the next day.

A hurried breakfast, a brief kiss on my mother’s cheek, vague promises to write, and then I was out of that house like a hound after a hare as soon as I heard uncle John’s car pull up outside.

I dived into the car expecting to be whisked away to the station, but of course, he had to have a few words with mother. I sat there irritatingly fingering the nowsquashed packet of sandwiches she’d carefully quartered and neatly packed for me.

“Come on. Come on.” I was thinking, “get a move on. I’m going to miss the train, you old goat”.

Out he came at last, ambled down the garden path, advising mother as to which roses should be pruned and what to do about the green fly. I could have exploded with the frustration building up inside me. When he finally made it to the door of the car something caught his eye. He smiled, and I watched him wave to a shadow which quickly vanished from the window of our neighbour’s cottage. “Nice young girl that.” He said as he laboriously fastened his seat belt, checked his rear-view mirror, wound down his window and finally turned the ignition. Self-interest prevented me from venting my frustration on Uncle John. But it had to have an outlet. So the scornful way I spat out the words, “Oh, the weird spider woman.” took him by surprise.

And with those words I dismissed Celine from my life for three whole years. Which was just as well because, when I saw her next, I was a very different person.

It wasn’t the Ph.D. after my name that made the difference. It was the three years harsh experience in the University of Life that had brought about the changes. One by one the old ideals were being compromised - the once-proud banners now looked decidedly ragged. I had heard the excuses of my socialist friends as they became merchant bankers, had seen the artists and the poets the dole queues, and my scientific classmates sign up for lucrative employment with the M.O.D. or with Big Pharma. Everything seemed to be falling apart. I was at a low ebb.”

His last sentence was almost a whisper. I barely heard it.

He didn’t continue.

His eyes remained downcast, his hands clutched the whisky glass so tightly that the veins stood out like blue rubber tubes, from under the white hairless skin his knuckles seemed about to pop out.

“Maybe it could have been anybody.”

He looked up at me.

The sentence had been almost a question.

I supposed he was referring to meeting Celine again. But I felt that it would have been an intrusion for me to speak. Best to keep quiet. I stared back at him, hoping to convey the sympathy I felt. My own marital problems and the distress they’d caused me seemed to pale into insignificance next to his palpable pain.

“Perhaps I’d have fallen in love with anyone just then.” He continued, “But it wasn’t just anyone - it was Celine. I didn’t recognise her at first. Hell. I didn’t even notice her - she’s that kind of person. All of a sudden, she was simply there, just like the first time we met. But not in a blaze of golden sunshine this time. In fact, she was wilting, cities didn’t suit her at all. It was at a party. Well, not really a party. It was one of those social gatherings that the career-minded love, but real human beings hate - the Dean’s dreaded “meet the post-grads” party. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the Dean could have claimed to be a pleasant human being or had any vestige of intellectual integrity. He had neither. A fat, gross, pompous ass whose name was Summer but who’s disposition was distinctly Wintery.

This time it was me who started off the conversation. She looked lost, standing next to a wall as far as possible from the main hub of people, gazing intently at her almost-empty glass as if it were the most fascinating object in the universe.

“I wouldn’t stand there much longer if I were you.” I said to her.

She looked up. A smile of recognition leant a radiance to her face.

“And why not?” She replied.

“A tiny spider might spin its web from your glass to the wall. Then, when you eventually do move, you’ll break its web and it’ll have wasted all that effort.” I mimicked her words of so long ago.

She blushed, quickly turned away, and made for the door.

I hurried after her, rudely pushing my way through the crowd. She seemed to glide through with no difficulty. “Like water through open fingers.” I was thinking. I’d never felt so gross, a bull-elephant crashing through the jungle.

I caught up with her out in the street. It was raining of course.

I walked alongside her. She wouldn’t look at me. I felt angry. I grabbed hold of her shoulders and turned her round to face me.

In between my laboured panting I managed to blurt out, “What’s the matter?”

Rain had smeared her long hair against the side of her face. I couldn’t help thinking of a mermaid rising from the sea.

But her eyes were swimming in tears, not seawater. And the hurt in them was enough to fill an ocean.

Still, she didn’t say anything.

“Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It was just a silly joke. No. Not even that. I was just trying to sound clever. Or cool, or something. But, anyway, there was no need to react like that, I didn’t say anything that terrible.”

“Didn’t you?” She whispered, “You made fun of me…..and of the spiders. They are important, very important. They’re why I’m here. My whole research project is about them. I’m devoting three years of my life to them.”

It was a good job that I didn’t say anything. Whatever I’d said would have been the wrong thing. So, I just looked at her, dumbly, I was good at doing that.

“I knew you worked here.” She said, “Our mothers are very good friends now, so we know all about you. And…..and…. you did take in the clothes pegs that day, I watched you.”

Fortunately, I did the right thing for once - I didn’t laugh. I didn’t attempt any wisecracks, just stood there, getting wetter and feeling myself becoming involved in something from which I couldn’t escape. A fly in a spider’s web - I didn’t say that of course, but I felt it.

My arms were around her before I knew what was happening. I was saying sorry, I was crying - I didn’t know why. For her innocence? For my lost ideals? I don’t know.”

He stopped talking. I waited for him to start again.

“So, you see. It could have been anyone couldn’t it? It was just something I needed at the time. It didn’t have to be her. Why was it her?” He lunged across the table and grabbed my arm again, so tightly it made me wince. “Why?” he shouted, “Why?” His mad eyes pierced me, through and through. I was shit scared. A quick look round the bar didn’t reassure me. Everyone here was an accomplished non-hearer.

“Why the hell aren’t they closing the fucking place?” I thought, “It’s well after midnight.”

I was beginning to look forward to going home - even if it was only to her.

He sensed my thoughts.

“No. You can’t go yet. I haven’t finished. I’m sorry for getting carried away. It won’t happen again.”

I ordered another couple of drinks and he continued with his story.

“She moved in with me that same night. We lived in a dream world; nothing was allowed to mar the phantasy we wove around one another. I wrote poems to her continually, they simply poured out in a never-ending cascade. She was forever leaving little gifts in the most unlikely places. I would open the sock drawer and find a book of Lorca’s poems. Among my lecture notes I’d find a surrealist

postcard. And the rainbows – there were always photos of rainbows, everywhere. Nothing was ever humdrum or a nuisance. Shopping was a voyage to strange lands to barter for goods with the natives. Instead of going to work we were setting forth on pilgrimages or chivalrous deeds and the sorrow of our partings were borne with dignity because of the nobleness of our quests. Christ knows what she or I actually did at work, I can’t seem to much about workdays. Obviously, it was enough to keep the powers-that-be happy.

Bits of her life surfaced occasionally, and they seemed to bring us even closer together. Her father had been a musician, couldn’t cope with life in general and had committed suicide. Of course, her mother simply flipped over this and dragged Celine off to the country to try and escape the whole bloody mess. For months it had been hell for both of them. Celine had watched her mother almost destroy herself with a poisonous mixture of guilt and grief. Eventually they both learned to love the tranquillity of the countryside and it became a haven instead of a retreat.

For six months it was heaven. But then the rot set in. It was me of course. Just couldn’t take any more of the … of the … whimsy I suppose is the nearest I can come to describing it. You see, basically I’m a down-to-earth kind of person. I’m a scientist for fucks sake. There’s only so much delicacy and prettiness I can take. She started to irritate me with the way everything was so carefully appraised, every action, every utterance was weighed up and examined for potential hurt to her or to our planet. It soon dawned on me that I wasn’t living up to her expectations and probably never could. I mean, for heaven’s sake, I’m a Newcastle er and my shouts of “rip his fucking leg off” during Match of the Day didn’t go down too well. But that’s an extreme example, I’m not usually that bad. Just simple things, like accidently standing on an ant would have her in tears and she’d be inconsolable. She was wounded when I failed to put things in the correct recycling container – “Damage to our lovely planet.” she’d say. Not turning off the tap properly – “All that precious water going to waste”. Turning up the central heating thermostat – “All that CO2 added to the atmosphere”. But it wasn’t just about the planet, it was about her feelings as well. Scarcely a day went by when she didn’t come home in tears because of something someone had said at work. Comforting her changed from being sweet

moments of tenderness to irritating chores. There’s a limit to how much solace somebody can give – isn’t there? It’s too much to expect all the time – isn’t it? I’m only human”.

He stopped talking and started to sob. I suppose I could have easily escaped then as he wallowed in his misery. But by then he’d got me well and truly hooked. Nothing could have dragged me away. A couple more drinks got him going again.

“But I’m not. Not human. I’m something very different. I used to think I was so clever, you know. Thought I had all the answers. Thought I could “sort her out”. So, what did I do? This brilliant scientist you see before you – what did he do? This genius – what did he do? You won’t believe it, but he decided that acid was the answer. His old friend LSD. That would “get her out of herself”. Well, it sure as hell did just that. Everyone was dropping it then, of course, it was during those very strange times. I thought it would kind of jolt her out of her toodelicate ways. Everyone else seemed to have benefited from taking it and the mantra then was “Turn on, tune in and drop out”. So, I slipped some into her cocoa one night – she always went to bed with a cup of cocoa. Can you believe anyone would do anything that stupid? But even more stupidly, I took some as well. Thought I’d be able to have “spiritual communion” with her. You can guess what happened can’t you?”

He stopped talking and looked closely at me. “Not really,” I said. I’d let him down, that was very obvious. “You do realise this is all for your benefit, don’t you?” he said, “Do you really think I enjoy going through this over and over again? This is my curse. I’m the ancient fucking mariner and you’re the wedding guest. Haven’t you realised that yet? Can’t you see the albatross around my neck?” He was getting weird again, and I started feeling nervous once more. Time to go. “Don’t you dare.” He said, “I’m not finished with you yet.”

“OK. Sorry. You need it spelt out, don’t you? Quite a few of them do. The

brighter ones, the more emotionally mature, don’t. They realise what’s going on. Anyway, idiot. She became a spider. It was a hot summer evening, and our bedroom window was open. She was a spider and I’d become a fly – a very tasty meal for her. But then she noticed a spider’s web across the window frame. She abandoned me and headed for the open window. Out she went. Three floors up. I just felt relieved, this fly was going to survive. Survive? Survive? I had no idea. Do you call this surviving?”

“So, I certainly “got her out of herself”, didn’t I? I didn’t even go to prison. The dealer couldn’t be traced. The coroner talked of the dangers of drug misuse and pointed out the obvious – ‘the quantity of LSD present in a particular batch is not regulated by any competent authority’. He hypothesised that the pills we’d taken had contained an ‘inordinate quantity of Lysergic acid diethylamide’.”

“So, go home to the wife.” He told me. “She isn’t as bad as you think. Give it another go. It’s always worth one more try. Don’t be like me and assume that she’s the problem – it’s probably you. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Celine. It was the world that was at fault – and, of course, me.” And then he just left. One minute he was sitting next to me and then he was gone.

I left the bar and slowly started on the long walk home. Maybe he was right, and I should give it another try. But then again, maybe the amount of LSD in pills these days is more regulated – now that was an interesting idea.

An English Christmas dinner

Christmas Eve in Motang, a small town high in the Himalayan Mountains, 40 miles North East of Katmandu. 7,000 miles from their homes, the small group of ex-pats gathered for a traditional carol service - a little piece of England in a strange, foreign land. They were an odd collection of residents and transients, the only thing they had in common being their nationality. There was the retired brigadier who had served in the British Army in Nepal many years ago. Staying with him were one of his daughters and her husband who he always introduced as his “house guests”, although they were really live-in carers for the old man. Richard Harvey, a teacher in the local school financed by the British Council was there with his wife, Sandra, and their young son Johnnie. Then there were four young backpackers on a gap-year adventure as well as two Cambridge University scientists researching the local flora and fauna.

Dark-coloured faces peered in through the windows, curiosity at the antics of the foreigners overcoming their natural reserve. Inside, not a brown face was to be seen, merely shades of sun-burned white with a liberal sprinkling of red, peeling noses. A few pieces of holly, and an even more precious sprig of mistletoe, decorated the Brigadier’s front room. But pride of place was given to the huge fir tree, adorned with baubles and topped with a silver-winged angel. Plates of mince pies, bottles of port and brightly-coloured Christmas crackers leant a surreal touch to the tiger’s head, elephant tusks and animal skins hanging on the walls. And yet, not everything was alien to this imported festivity. The high altitude had conspired with these adventurous souls to give some vestige of authenticity to the occasion. For, outside, a blanket of snow hid the more obvious differences between this land and the one where their thoughts lingered at this time of year. With great gusto the traditional carols were belted out. “Oh come, all ye faithful” was followed by “Hark! The herald angels sing”. But the words of one in particular stuck in the mind of young Johnnie Harvey.

“Mark my footsteps good my page

Tread thou in them boldly

Thou shalt find the winter’s rage

Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his master’s steps he trod

Where the snow lay dinted

Heat was in the very sod

Which the saint had printed.”

“Time to go.” Johnnie’s mother whispered, “Don’t make a fuss now, it’s very late. We’ve got to get home before Santa comes.”

“Why did he stand in the footprints?” Johnnie asked her.

“Well, I suppose it made it easier for him to walk, and his feet wouldn’t have got so cold because they wouldn’t actually be treading through the deep snow.”

“But the king would have taken much longer steps, the page wouldn’t have been able to stand in them. Not unless he jumped. And if he jumped, he would probably fall over into the snow, and then he’d get even wetter and colder because the snow would be all over him, not just on his feet. It’d probably be on his face and down his neck. And his hands would get cold if he didn’t have gloves on. And if he did have gloves on then they’d get all wet and soggy.”

“Oh! It’s just a story, Johnnie. Stop asking silly questions. It never really happened.”

“Didn’t it? How do you know?”

“Because I do.” Snapped his mother. “Now come on, we’ve got to get home.”

‘Must have happened’ mused Johnnie as the goodbyes were said. ‘They wouldn’t sing about lies. Not at Christmas anyway. Nobody would tell lies at Christmas, especially if you wanted presents’

Outside, he hung back from his parents, trying to follow exactly in their footprints as they made their way back to their home, a small house on the edge of the town.

“Johnnie.” Yelled his father, “Come here! Stop fooling about!”

“I was only……..”

“I don’t care what you were doing. It’s freezing cold. Let’s get back home as quick as we can. If you don’t hurry up there’ll be no presents for you.”

‘Suppose Santa Claus doesn’t really exist either.’ he muttered to himself.

Once he was safely tucked up in bed his mother came to his room.

“Sorry I lost my temper with you tonight love. But I’ve had a really busy day with all that cooking to do. Just think. Tomorrow there’ll be lots of presents, and after that a proper English Christmas dinner. Just like at home. That’ll be nice, won’t it? So go to sleep now and it’ll soon be morning.”

But for Johnnie, as for countless other children around the world, sleep just would not come. The excitement was far too much.

At four o’clock his restlessness drove him to peep out of his bedroom window. And there, in the bright moonlight, dark against the newly fallen snow, was a trail of footprints.

“Wenceslas! You do exist! I knew you did!”

Out of his bed he jumped. “I’ll show them,” he mumbled, “I’ll show them they were wrong”. He dressed quickly and quietly and left the house with practiced stealth.

Before him stretched the footprints – they stretched as far as his eyes could see, way out of town.

“Don’t worry, Wenceslas, I’ll do what you said. I’m going to follow you. I’m coming”

Carefully he leapt from print to print. “It’s dead easy” he thought, “the footprints are huge.” As the trail started to head upwards the going became even easier as the prints became less distinct and merged into continuous lines.

“He’s started to shuffle a bit now. Must be pretty old. Bet he’ll be glad to see me. Maybe he’ll come back home with me. Then they’ll all see I was right.”

The trail led eventually into a deep, narrow winding gorge. Huge boulders lay strewn by the side of the path. It was all a bit scary, but Johnnie marched bravely on.

Beyond the next turning, waiting patiently in ambush, the yeti lurked. Drooling at the thought of his first English Christmas dinner.

Car-free, care-free

He wasn’t going to make it. He was going to be left stranded in that awful place. Lost among those grim, concrete giants forever. The car was going to stop at any moment. It had to. The needle had been skulking in that ominous red zone for as long as he could . Once again, he cursed himself for not filling the tank up the previous day.

Then he saw it. A bright neon star. Proclaiming its need to exchange combustible liquid for elaborately printed paper leaves.

He pulled into the brightly lit area. A gaudy oasis among the decaying blocks packed with feeding, breathing, reproducing bags of chemicals. He filled the tank with the ghosts of long-dead trees.

“A million years of slow decay for this? For me? So I can criss-cross this country on pointless errands. Leaving a maze of trails impossible to decipher, like 20th century Nazca lines. ‘Hello’. ‘Goodbye.’ ‘Wonderful dinner.’ ‘You must come back soon’.”

The boy was in the enger seat when he returned. Brian wasn’t surprised. He’d seen him before. The boy said nothing, his wide grin conveyed enough. His skin was white, pure white, white as Arctic snow. But his gums were red, dark red. A rich ruby wine. They bordered teeth that were pointed, shark-like.

Brian ignored him. That seemed to amuse him a little.

He turned on the ignition. Electricity flowed, gas exploded, metal grinded on

metal, the car moved. He didn’t understand mechanical things. They confused him. It worried him that he didn’t know how cars worked.

“I shouldn’t drive the thing if I don’t understand it. Does everyone else know about these machines? They seem to. They talk about them in pubs and offices all the time. Carburettors, distributors, fuel-injection, differentials. Are all those metal boxes hurtling around thousands of miles of concrete ribbon beyond understanding? Beyond control? Surely not!”

He swerved as a line of cars appeared to head straight for him.

The boy tossed his head back and laughed heartily.

“Bastard!”

The boy frowned. His hand snaked out from a purple velvet sleeve fringed with white lace. The tip of a finger touched Brian’s hand; ice-water flowed through his veins.

“Christ! It’s going to reach my heart. It’ll kill me!”

The boy’s face creased into a frown as he wagged a finger in reproach.

The chill stopped at his shoulder.

“Thank God!”

He smiled at the boy in gratitude. But the boy simply turned away, sulkily, and stared through the windscreen.

Gradually they left the city behind. A cloak of prosperity enveloped everything houses, cars, shops, gardens, people. As they reached the countryside daylight was disappearing fast. Palette-bright colours faded to sluggish grey and then to black. Pairs of diamond-bright eyes zoomed past. Purposeful. Determined. Knowing.

“Where are they going? Why are they going?”

He turned on the radio. A film star was receiving an Oscar, the applause was rapturous.

The boy frowned and, with a fleeting glance, eliminated the sound. The radio dial glowed impotently in the gloom.

The boy pointed languidly at the dark outline of a clump of trees ahead. He stared at Brian as the car slowed and came to a gentle halt. The engine shuddered into silence.

A question formed on Brian’s lips but the boy quickly stopped it with another icy touch. The car-door opened, and the boy left. The radio burst into life. Brian

turned it off.

The car got him home, somehow.

“It’s a good car”.

The cottage was well-lit, and the front window threw a bright yellow rectangle onto the black, furry lawn, a gateway to a different world. He strayed from the path towards it and a million tiny crystal planets shimmered at his approach. In the centre a roundness cast a shadow. Seconds ed before he realised that it was a ball. The gateway slammed shut. He picked up the ball and examined it closely.

“Did a child live here?”

He looked around. Other vague shapes coalesced into childish objects. A seaside bucket and spade, a broken doll, toy soldiers. He squatted to examine them more closely and a soldier caught his eye. He reached out to pick it up but found a bottle in his hand. He placed it carefully on the ground. The soldier felt heavy, smooth, unyielding. Frozen in time. “Always on duty.”

Its decay would be imperceptible. But still, the colours will fade. Its form will lose its sharpness. It too will become an amorphous mass.

“Brian! Is that you?”

Darkness fell across his yellow universe. He turned towards the window. A black silhouette disrupted the yellow symmetry. The intrusion annoyed.

“Brian! What on earth are you doing out there?”

“Just looking.”

“Looking at what? For heaven’s sake come on in. It must be freezing out there.”

The lamplight glints on a crystal glass. He slowly turns its base until a shaft of light blinds him.

“Did we have a child here?” He asks.

She looks at him, bewildered. She seems upset. “Why do you do this to me?”

“I….I just thought that….”

“What? What do you think? I really want to know. Tell me.”

“I thought…..I thought there might be a child here.”

“Brian. Listen to me. There was a child. Our child. Why don’t you ?”

“I keep seeing this strange boy, but I don’t know who he is. He never speaks to me. He just keeps appearing. I don’t like him. I think he hates me, but I don’t know why. I haven’t done anything to harm him so why does he hate me? The first time was at work. I was giving a lecture and he sneaked in halfway through. Afterwards, when everyone else had gone, he just sat there. I asked him what he wanted, and he just smiled. It was a horrible smile. He has awful, pointed teeth, like a shark. Just like a shark. He’s been a few times since then, but today was the worst. He got in the car with me, and he touched me. His touch was cold, ice-cold. I thought he was going to kill me. He terrifies me.”

“Brian,” she says wearily. “You’ve had a hard day. Let’s just go to bed.”

She takes his hand, and he follows her upstairs. It feels nice to be led. She leaves him sitting on the bed and busies herself in the bathroom. He hears water running, a jar being opened. Something hard drops onto the tiled floor. It rolls noisily away then spirals frantically to a silent halt. Immobile. Becalmed.

“Brian?”

She stands in the doorway.

He looks up and smiles. “Teeth brushed. Toilet flushed. Hopes crushed.”

She doesn’t smile.

The blankets are comforting, protective. Her warmth is exciting. He presses into her back, arms around her. He begins to feel…….. different.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the back of her neck. “I don’t know why I feel like this. I just…..”

“Don’t! Don’t say a thing. Just listen. This boy you keep talking about, he’s just a figment of your imagination. He doesn’t really exist. How could he exist? It’s all nonsense. You’ve been working too hard, and your brain’s playing tricks on you. It’s all to do with guilt. There’s something you have to face up to. We’ve both got to face it. I feel guilty as well. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I think someone’s watching me. And do you know who it is?”

“The boy?”

“No, not the boy. Johnathon.”

“Johnathon? Who’s……”

A white face rises from behind her head. A huge moon with a dazzling smile. He jerks away. Terrified.

“Go away! Leave me alone!” He scrambles across the floor, ape-like, and crashes into a wall. He jumps up, pointing at the whiteness looming behind her.

“There! There he is! Look! Behind you!”

She looks. Nothing.

Turning back, she stares at her husband cowering in the corner. “Brian! Oh, Brian!”

She coaxes him back to bed. He lies in her arms, nuzzling at her breast, and sobs himself to sleep. Her mind drifts to thoughts of babies, doctors, Valium, “Dr. Brown will help,” she mutters, “must see him tomorrow.”

“I need some tranquilisers, a lot of tranquilisers.”

The doctor looked up from his scribbling, transferred the pen to his mouth and looked at her. “Maureen. I’m not going to dish out more of those things without a good reason. You’ve had enough. Now what’s the matter?”

“It’s Brian. He’s becoming impossible. He’s started seeing things.”

“What things?”

“A boy.”

“Not…er….”

“ Johnathon?”

“Yes, sorry, I’d forgotten his name.”

“That’s alright. Why should you his name? You never met him. It was long before you came to these God-forsaken parts. Anyway, I don’t think it was Johnathon he saw. He doesn’t call this boy anything. Doesn’t refer to him by name. He describes him as if he’s some kind of evil being with strange powers. I’m frightened to ask him if he looks like Johnathon.”

“When did he last see him?”

“Who? The boy?”

“No. Johnathon.”

“Oh, not for years. He refuses to come to see him with me. He never asks me about him. Never talks about him. And last night……. last night he asked me if we ever had a child. How could he do that? I can’t take much more. I really can’t.”

“Look, Maureen. I’ll have to see Brian. It’s no good me dishing out valium to you. Brian is the problem. We can’t make any progress until he is sorted out. I’m no psychiatrist, but it’s obvious that these fantasies all stem from some kind of guilt complex associated with putting Johnathon into a home. He has to see that it was the best thing to do in the circumstances. No one could have coped with looking after a child with the deformities you’ve described.”

“What’s the use. We went through all this at the time. He seemed to accept it all. He was marvellous. I was the one with all the guilt. I was the one who felt responsible. But he was the rational one. He made all the arrangements. I didn’t have to do a thing.”

“Yes. Well now he needs your help. Anyone who buries something like this so deeply that he can’t talk about it has a serious problem.”

“He did mention him once, a long time ago.”

“What did he say?”

“It was on Johnathon’s last birthday. We were driving somewhere and, right out of the blue, he said ‘I wonder what he thinks of us’. Of course, I knew he meant Johnathon, so I started to tell him about the last time I’d been to the home. But as soon as I did, he just stared at me as if he hadn’t realised I was there.”

“And?”

“Nothing. He wouldn’t let me say another thing about him.”

“How? Did he tell you to be quiet, or did he say he didn’t want to know? Or what?”

“No. I stopped because of the way he looked at me.”

“Sounds pretty bad. Can you get him to come and see me tomorrow?”

“I can try.”

“And I think I ought to see Johnathon, it…..”

“No! You can’t! I mean……it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“But why not? It would help me to help Brian. I could tell him how he’s getting on. I can’t deal with the problem if I don’t have a clear picture of what’s involved?”

“No! I must go! Some other time, maybe. And the Valium? Please Doctor, can I have more Valium?”

While Maureen tries to escape into chemically-induced oblivion, Brian drives to

work. The boy has ed him already which is rather unusual, he’s not a morning person. He’s also chosen to sit in the back of the car. Brian didn’t even realise he’d arrived until, glancing in the driving mirror, the whiteness had beamed back at him. He isn’t surprised.

“I spend my days filling in time. Spending it freely, thoughtlessly, as if I had a million years locked away in some huge time vault. I feel as if I’m waiting for something important to happen. Something immense. Something only I can do. But how will I know what it is? I try to see a pattern in my life, it’s got to be going somewhere. Hasn’t it? I even started to keep a diary, so I could look back over what had been going on. So I could see the threads unwinding. But when I read it, it wasn’t about me. It was a collection of appointments and meetings, times and places, of things I had to do. Not things I wanted to do. Nothing about me. I threw it away. A whole year of my life on 365 leaves of paper, and it was nothing, absolutely nothing. I can’t do anything. Nothing stems from me. I hear people talking. I watch them eating, smiling, walking. They know what they’re doing, they know why they’re doing these things. But I don’t. I may as well not exist. Sometimes I think I don’t exist. Maureen wants me to see a doctor. As if a doctor could help. What would he do? Give me an aspirin, Valium, antibiotics? Why can’t he dispense something I really need? Like ‘life’ or ‘hope’ or ‘happiness’? I’ve read about these things. They seem to exist for everyone else. So why not for me? Why can’t I have some? What is the secret that everyone knows but me?

The boy lounges on the back seat, absently gazing out of the window or picking at his exquisitely manicured nails.

“Anyhow. She’s the one who should be seeing a doctor, or a psychiatrist. Hasn’t been the same since the abortion.”

The boy is suddenly interested. He leans on the back of the enger seat, sharp chin resting on interlaced fingers.

“10 years ago now, and she still refuses to talk about it. Pretends it never happened. It was her last chance of course. At 45 you can’t really try again, even if you wanted to.”

The boy’s head lies flat on his left hand. His right hand disengages from the left and he gently strokes Brian’s neck. Brian looks at him. The boy smiles as Brian relaxes. Gradually Brian’s eyes close and a smile plays on his lips. The car leaves the road at 60 mph and is stopped by an authentic dry-stone wall. Brian is catapulted through the windscreen still wearing a peaceful smile. The boy flies with him, hovering round the dying man, feeding on the stories flickering across the now-young face. As Brian begins his descent, the boy kisses his warm, open mouth. The kiss lingers through somersaults, arabesques and pirouettes until at last they meet the solid, unyielding earth.

The boy moves away from the broken body. He glances back at the wreckage and, with a determined stride, heads down the road towards the cottage.

Happy birthday

Dawn. But only just. The weak autumnal sun struggles to lift itself above the horizon. Try as it may, it won’t be able to drive away the night-phantoms for some time yet. Through the trees, across the well-manicured lawns, the outline of a row of houses is only just visible. Cocooned within the houses a variety of human beings share a welcome state of semi-oblivion.

One of the occupants stirs. Through a window he can be seen, lying motionless, alone in his bed.

“Its my birthday. My birthday. Today, all day. My special day. What shall I do? Go and see Timmy? No, he won’t be awake. I know. I’ll make a cake, a birthday cake. That’s it! I’m going to make a birthday cake, all by myself. For me and for my friends. Must keep it a secret. Especially from Timmy. Whatever happens he mustn’t find out.

It’ll be a huge surprise for everyone. For all my friends. But not for Timmy.”

Quietly he slips out from under the covers. His feet touch the floor. It’s cold, very cold.

“Now. Where are my slippers? There! They’re hiding under my pants. Silly things. I can see you and I’m coming to get you.”

“Mustn’t stand on black tiles. White ones are OK, they’re safe. Mustn’t touch any lines though.”

His feet slip into the warm, fur-lined slippers.

“Right way round first time! What a day! It’s going to be great.”

He turns towards the door.

“Oh no! Forgot about the door. It’s always a problem, those hinges make a terrible squeak.”

Then his face lights up.

“Of course. I know how to stop that now don’t I? Spit. That’s the answer. A lot of spit on the hinges.”

But excitement has dried his mouth. He sits on the hard floor, head leaning against the door, puts his thumb in his mouth and sucks rhythmically. After a few minutes a glazed look appears on his face, a variety of expressions flicker across it as the images spill into his consciousness, strong dark colours mixing and swirling on blank white paper.

“Mammy! Maaaaaaaamy”

The bomb crater gently cradles her pain-wracked form

As memories whisper of friendship false and fleeting in a horror world-wide.

Used condoms piled in soft-watch-dripping putrefaction

Life among the stark remnants of the city squalor.

Urchins gambol black-faced in terrace-house gutters,

Down to the grim oily river the countless rows arch,

Rib-like,

A giant beached whale.

The egg is dropped.

The me that once was,

Sucked greedily into oozing mud,

Slowly falling into mouth of worm in labyrinthine tunnels,

Devoured in darkness by mindless munching satin-skinned undulants.

Vomited onto the surface.

A soft jelly,

To consume,

To excrete.

Silver tubes snake from rose-pink skies

Spurting life-juices,

A spark jolts the lifeless one’s velvet coccoon,

An eye opens and cobwebs part.

Where am I man?

Yes, it’s me

The soft-voiced uncertainty,

Hollow vessel of formless dreams

Groping blind-beggar-like in a Gothic horror

Vast and disease-ridden.

“So tired…. so tired…..Mammy! Daddy! Where are you? Why does nobody come? Want to curl into a tiny little ball and go to sleep. No! Today it’s my birthday, and I’m going to make a cake. Must get to the kitchen before cook wakes up”

He rubs the saliva from his chin and mouth onto the lower door hinge. Listens with an ear to the door for a few seconds and then slowly opens it.

He peeps out. No-one is there.

He sneaks past the other bedrooms, silently counting.

“One, two, three, Timmy’s”

He stops outside the fourth door and listens.

“No. He isn’t awake.”

A malicious smile hovers on his face.

“Maybe I’ll make a special cake for Timmy with nasty things inside, really horrible things that’ll make him sick for ages and ages.”

He moves on. Down the stairs.

“Don’t stand on the red roses. Count the steps. Touch a railing, miss the next, go back to the top of the stairs if you don’t. So many things to . I can’t it all. I can’t. I can’t.”

His eyes moisten. He bravely fights back the tears.

“Must get to the kitchen. Not far now. Just along the age, only 146 steps. It’s a bit dark and spooky. But I’m not scared, not really. I bet if Timmy saw me now he’d stop calling me a scaredeecat. Maybe I’ll give him some of the cake and then he’ll have to believe me.”

He creeps along the age. Past rows of solid dark-brown doors with their brass handles gleaming - eyes of tigers waiting to pounce on unsuspecting prey.

Bravely he ventures on.

“Touch the handles?” He muses, bewildered, “Once….once someone told me not to touch the….. No! Never! I’d never touch the handles. Why should I want to touch them? It wasn’t me! Wasn’t me!!”

The idiot child drools in cupboard darkness,

Hearing father’s fearsome footsteps

Thump,

thump,

thump.

As minnows surface to kiss the skin of mirrored pools

and blue-finned silver fish flash in crystal depths

mouthing endless songs of love.

Gentle-eyed fawns bathing in sweet waters startled gaze,

And the rainbow-hued ice castles shatter in impossible cerebral landscapes,

Gone, all gone, as the drunken blows fall.

The impaled prophet of a jealous god casts shadows over snipsnatched joys of grim-faced grey-suited work junkies,

Blue flickering square-screened windows offer unreal promised pleasures,

buy,

sell,

don’t give,

eat junk,

smell sweet,

get brown,

keep fit,

I walk the streets of grey canyon-walled cities trailing rainbow footprints

Washed away by acid-mouthed city fathers,

Hush,

Shush,

Don’t breathe,

Don’t shake,

Tread softly on the shimmering streets.

He sobs quietly, thumb in mouth. Minutes . The sobbing gives way to an occasional heave of the chest and then, once again, he takes up his quest.

Shrinking away from the doors, he edges along the opposite wall. Afraid of whispering his presence to those steely sentinels, guardians of dark secrets.

At last, he reaches the kitchen. Its friendliness in stark contrast to the forbidding age. He sighs with relief, soaking up the comforting warmth and tantalising odours, remnants of the previous day’s creations.

Relief gives way to a little uncertainty.

“What do I need to make a cake?” he wonders, fishing in the dark waters of his memory, “Flour! That’s it. Cook makes cakes with flour. I now. Once she let me help her and I watched her stir the cake. Round and round went the spoon. Round and round went the big red cherries, round and round and round and…….No! No! Stop it!”

He quickly gathers together flour, water and cherries in a huge bowl, craftily leaving behind no trace of his visit.

He races back down the age and up the stairs.

“Quiet as a mouse,” he chuckles, “I can be very quiet when I try. Even Timmy says I’m the quietest person in the house. I love sneaking up on him and giving him a shock. He doesn’t like it though, and he always gets annoyed when I do it.

I wonder if he’s awake yet?”

He listens outside a bedroom door. Nothing stirs inside.

“Yes. One of these days I’ll make him a special cake. But not today. Today I’m much too busy. Today I’m making my birthday cake.”

Back in his bedroom he examines the spoils of his escapade - a bowl containing a soggy mass of flour and water on top of which a few cherries are perched.

“Fred!”

“Gosh! Timmy”.

He scampers across the floor, shoves the bowl under his bed, jumps onto the mattress and hides himself in the blankets.

A man enters the room carrying a tray, “Breakfast-time,” he announces cheerfully.

Silence.

He prods the motionless pile of blankets, “Wakey, Wakey!”

“I’ve told you a million times about knocking before coming into my room. But you never do. You still just come straight in. It is my room, you know.”

“Sorry Fred, old boy. Been a busy morning and I just forgot.”

“And don’t call me Fred, I hate it. My name is Frederick, Master Frederick to you.”

“Oh! So it’s Master Frederick today is it? Well, Master Frederick, I do hope you’ll enjoy your breakfast.” As he leaves the room, Timothy pauses at the door, bows solemnly and says, “I will patiently await your call when you have finished.”

“And don’t be so insolent with me. Don’t you know who I am? If I tell my parents, you’ll be sacked for certain.”

“Yes, Master Frederick”

“Timmy!” he shouts after the departing figure

“Yes?”

“You’ll still be my friend won’t you?”

“Of course,” Timothy replies.

Once the door has closed, he retrieves the bowl from under the bed.

“Oh no. I’ve forgotten a spoon,” he moans. “There’s always too much to . What shall I do? Can’t go down to the kitchen again. What am I going to do? Fingers! Of course. I can use my fingers.”

He dips his hand into the mess and slowly begins to stir it.

“It looks yucky, but it feels nice.”

“Fred!”

“When I stir it it feels like mud, all soft and gooey.”

“Fred! Can we come in?”

“I like to squeeeeeze it.”

“We’d better go in, he’s probably asleep. Got to have his medicine though.”

“Oh, how I love to squeeeeeeeeze”.

I hear the speech-echoes of Shakespearean actors

Wallowing in the mud of human experience

Word blizzards opening sluice gates of unreason

Unleashing torrents of malodorous thoughts.

I wallow in my slime.

An egg-shell skin of behaviour learned,

As fat-cat businessmen drool over

Wrinkle-free, crinkle-cut, fresh young fodder for the city machine,

Spewing forth dim crippled outcasts.

The old lady, eyes darting,

Peck, peck, pecking at Sunday lunch in a fast food bar

As the waiter in grease-stained, button-missed, wrong-sized regulation white

With menace hovers near

Timing every mouthful.

At least it’s warm, somewhere to go.

“Quick, he’s having some kind of fit, get the doctor!” Timothy races from the room as the nurse tries to revive her patient from a dreamy stupor.

There is no chance of fresh neural connections

In a brain rusted by guilt and fear.

I peer through eyes of glass and feel nothing as the patterns change.

People,

Crowds,

The futile chasing of unrealised dreams

The frantic clutching,

The desperate searching.

The windscreen wipers slop back and forth,

Discarding myriad icy crystal hexagons

The red, the orange, the green.

All around the shark-toothed jaws smile

And then clamp tightly shut.

I cannot speak,

I know no words,

And silver-tongued angels show me the way to nowhere.

“He seems to be alright,” the doctor announces.

He turns to the silent figure on the bed.

“Dropped off to sleep, did we? And what’s all this then?”

“My birthday cake”

“Your birthday cake? Oh! I didn’t know it was your birthday. And how old are we today then?”

“Shan’t tell”

“Oh, come on now.”

“No!”

“Shall we guess?”

“If you like”

“How about 85?”

“No! No! No! I’m five. I’m not like you, all old and wrinkled. Mammy and Daddy will tell you how old I am.”

“And where are mammy and daddy?”

“Don’t know. In Paris! On holiday in Paris! So you’d better take good care of me. I’ll tell them all about you when they come back, so you’d better be nice to me.”

“Yes, of course. Of course we’ll be nice to you.”

The doctor leads his team towards the door “No great problem. Nothing to worry about. Just look in on him now and again.”

“Shall I take that awful mess away from him?” asks Timothy.

“No. He’s doing no harm. Creative play - do him the world of good.”

“Nasty people. Won’t give them any of my cake. Except nurse Halliday, she’s nice, she can have some. She can have lots and lots. When I grow up I’m going to marry her, then she can make me lots of cakes just like mammy, just like this.”

He looks at what his fingers are squeezing in the bowl. “Why isn’t it all brown and hard like mammy’s cakes? I’ve stirred it for ages and it’s still white and soft. But the cherries taste nice so I’m sure everyone’ll like it. Anyway, it’s my birthday and my cake, and I can have it any way I want it. I’m going to give all my friends some.”

“Teatime, Master Frederick. May I come in?”

“Yes. You may enter.”

The nurse wheels in a trolley loaded with an assortment of sandwiches and cakes. “Brought some special goodies for your birthday.”

“Really! Oh, thanks. You can have some of my birthday cake if you like.”

“Well, err, no thanks. Got the rounds to do now. Then I’m off to the pub with Timothy.”

“Oh! Well, shall I keep some for you? It’s smashing, made it all by myself.”

“Sure! Looks lovely. I’ll have some tomorrow with my breakfast. ‘bye for now. Be good.”

“It’s dark outside. Don’t like the dark. And it’s cold. Don’t want to go out, but I must take my birthday cake to all my friends. I’ll wrap myself up in lots of blankets, then I’ll be nice and warm. Then I’ll be able to go to the big house and see my friends. Have to be my quietest. No-one must see me. They don’t like me going out by myself. I will be a shadow. A flying shadow. I will swoop down the stairs and out of the house. I don’t care about not tapping the stair-rails, that’s silly. Anyway, it’s my birthday so it doesn’t count. I will race down the dark street like the wind. I can see the house. It’s bright with lots of coloured lights and there is music and lots of voices.”

He stands outside the door listening.

“I feel so happy, so very happy. My friends will love me and my cake, they’ll be so glad to see me.”

He opens the door. Warm yellow light splashes out onto the dark street. He holds out his offering in front of him and shouts, “Who wants to see my birthday cake?”

The music stops. Conversations end abruptly.

Everyone looks at him. He sees nurse Halliday sitting at a table with Timothy.

“Nurse Halliday!”

He moves towards the table, but the blankets are caught in the door. He presses on and the blankets fall away. He is naked. They gaze at his wrinkled old flesh. A woman giggles, laughter fills the pub.

A smile lights up his face. “They’re happy to see me”. He smiles back at them. He holds out the soggy, dripping mass. “It’s my birthday. You must have some of my cake.”

The laughter stops suddenly as a voice shouts out, “Christ! Somebody ‘phone the funny farm. It’s old Fred. He’s escaped again.”

The frenzied dance of the manic molecules

Where entropy is king

And man to ancient patterns desperately holds.

Frantically shaping order from chaos.

Yet still the phantoms reach out in the night,

Following behind like faithful hounds

Devouring the unwary,

As the gross and obscene survive and dominate.

“I want no part of it” he screams,

As the eggshell cracks and writhing demons spill from his wounds

Spreading ever outwards.

Slowly she rises from the bed,

Contentment in every limb,

On her back the sweet sheen of sweat glistens,

A languid toss of her head,

The slow pirouette of hair

Arcing black against the silver moon.

She turns,

A sweet smile on her lips,

“I mean no harm.”

The smile lengthens to a hideous grin,

The skin splits,

Flesh drips from her skull

And the hungry red eyes glow.

Somewhere a lonely man sobs as the city grinds on.

The hen house

The wind urged the snow across the bleak, flat whiteness. Starting off as the merest breath of air on the west coast of Greenland, it had gained in confidence as it moved unhindered across the great empty expanse that formed the crystal crown of Mother Earth. As it reached the very pinnacle of the planet it smashed against the bright red canvas peeping out barely a foot above the icy plain. It reared in surprise, ice-cold gusts scattering in confusion around and above the unexpected obstacle, oblivious of its meeting with the world-renowned Major Edward Whitaker - Arctic explorer extraordinaire. Re-assembling on the far side of the illustrious explorer’s temporary refuge, it continued its mad eastward plunge, frantically searching for its own chill home in the Siberian wilderness.

Inside the womb-like redness the major listened to the howling outside. The other occupant, Lieutenant Michael Smith, was a huddled mass on the cold, unyielding floor, exhausted by the gruelling trek both had just endured. The Major once again examined the remnants of the last parachute drop his team had managed to make two weeks ago - one tin of dried eggs.

“Eggs!” he muttered, the breathe freezing on his moustache as he spoke the word, “500 miles from nowhere and all we have is powdered eggs.”

Slowly, to conserve energy, he opened the tin. He then spooned out exactly two level tablespoons of the yellowish powder and added it to four tablespoons of ice-water. He stirred the porridge-like mixture for exactly two minutes and then warmed it on the calor gas stove for another two minutes. He did this calmly and meticulously, for the major was a very methodical man. All of his adult life was somehow mirrored in the way he prepared his sparse meal. His emotions, time, duties and money were doled out in a similar fashion. A five-minute call to his mother once a week, church for one hour on a Sunday, exercise one hour every day, a call-girl when sex was needed, one game of tennis per week, no more than two whiskies a night. Everything was measured out in tidy little packages.

A lesser man than the major would have betrayed some emotion at the thought of eating a food he had denied himself for 25 of his 30 years.

But a lesser man would have been able to swallow the meal he had so carefully prepared. Major Whitaker, however, vomited wretchedly as the omelette-filled spoon reached his lips and the smell ed in the appropriate region of his cerebellum. The major quickly recovered his composure. He was a determined man and his body cried out for nourishment. He tried again, this time holding his nose. As soon as the omelette touched his tongue the pharyngeal muscles contracted, and the vomit reflex projected the yellow mass across the tent to splatter against its bright red walls. The major scrupulously gathered the pieces from the tent walls and calmly considered his predicament.

“60 grams of protein and 10,000 kilojoules of energy. I must take in at least that much today. The powder will last the two of us three days, maybe four. By then the storm should be over and the boys will fly us out of this mess. But I must eat that omelette now or else I may as well……..A tube! Back of the throat. By the taste buds. That’ll do it”

Quickly he tore a page from his logbook. Rolled it into a tube. Stuck it into his mouth, flung his head back and poured the omelette down the tube. But again, as soon as the food touched the back of his throat, a paroxysm of coughing expelled it with an efficiency that would normally have gained the major’s iration. But now he wasn’t quite himself.

Frustration began to tear at his nerves.

Defeated by himself, by his own body, by psychic and physical reflexes beyond his conscious control.

It couldn’t happen!

Not like this.

Hadn’t he tracked the polar wastes these last ten years till he knew them better than his own home?

Wasn’t his name legend throughout the NATO high command? Nothing this frozen waste had thrown at him had ever defeated him, could ever defeat him.

The torrent of emotion was something new to the major.

Something shifted inside.

A new psychic equilibrium was established. The frustration turned to pride.

“So. That’s how it is then? The only thing that’s big enough to defeat me is myself.” he cried out, “And I’ll be a hero for it. I deserve that at least.”

The eyes of his slumbering companion slowly opened and regarded the Major blearily.

“Lieutenant Smith. There isn’t enough food for both of us. Obviously one of us has to survive to report on our mission. You will be that person and that’s an order. I’m going now. Goodbye Lieutenant and good luck”

He stumbled out into the blizzard. The wind howled its greeting and joyfully sucked at the life-giving warmth. The major ignored it. He stumbled on until he fell and lay motionless. Gazing up into the whiteness, seeing the swallows dive for their evening meal as the bees hummed in the tall Sussex grass. He wanted to see his father. There was something he needed from him. But it was his grandad who appeared first and his little sister Susie.

“Grandad! Grandad!” he called.

Grandad was a lovely old man, content to spend his time with an inquisitive five-year old. Edward loved him, and the only sorrow of his young life was that he saw him only once a year when the family travelled south for its summer holidays. Coming from grim, industrial Tyneside, grandad’s huge garden was truly a paradise, full of wonders and excitement. There were trees to climb, bushes to hide in, apples and berries to steal, a tiny stream to sail boats in, three wooden sheds full of strange machines, tools, and things from a bygone age. And …….there was the hen house. The hen house was Grandad’s pride and joy. 50 prize Sussex hens and 2 roosters. Not only did they provide the family with a plentiful supply of fresh eggs but their success at the county shows generated a whole cabinet full of trophies. Grandad never tired of telling the history behind each cup even though over the years his audience had dwindled to one. He always started off by saying something like “Did I ever tell you about the Lewes show in 1949?” They both knew he had, a hundred times. But it didn’t matter. He would take the appropriate cup from the cabinet and sit in his favourite armchair with Edward on the floor looking up at him. He would puff on his pipe and peer at the cup through the wire-rimmed glasses perched perilously on the end of his nose. Edward never ceased to wonder at this amazing defiance of the laws of gravity.

“Well. We nearly didn’t make it.”

And then would follow a tale of escaping hens, the treachery of agricultural judges, the unforgivable refusal of railway staff to accept chickens as engers, the instability of marquee tents in high winds, and the tendency of vicars to get a little tipsy after sampling Mrs. Johnson’s elderberry wine.

The fascination Edward and his grandad felt for their feathered friends wasn’t widely shared amongst other of the family.

Grandma couldn’t stand them, their smell, or the constant noise they made from 5 in the morning till 9 at night. She wouldn’t go near them. The only people allowed into the hen house were Grandad and Edward. It was a privilege Edward was immensely proud of.

Every day at exactly 10 o’clock they would meet by the backdoor of the house. Grandad would take a bucket full of corn and then fill another one with water from the kitchen tap. Edward would carry an empty one for the eggs. Then they would walk through the bushes, past the apple trees, down through the long grass to the hen house. Edward would pull out the two door bolts and carefully open the door a little, and then they would both quickly squeeze through into the dim interior before the hens could escape. They would spend at least an hour feeding the chickens, cleaning out their rather spacious home and collecting eggs. After carefully bolting the door they would return to the house and Edward would proudly present the eggs to his Grandma who would always pretend to be amazed at the number he had collected. “I don’t know what you do to those hens, Edward, but they never lay a single egg all year round till you come. I wish you’d tell Grandad your secret.”

Golden days.

For Edward, the only cloud on the horizon was his little sister Susie. She was a year younger than him, and everyone agreed that she was “a little angel”. Only Edward knew the truth. She was a terrible bossy-boots. Unfortunately, whereas he was rather small for his age she was on the large size, so they were about the same height. She was also a bully and was beginning to make his life a misery. Pride wouldn’t allow Edward to tell his parents that she tormented him - he didn’t want to be called a cissy. They were like those Tom and Jerry cartoons where Tom always got the blame for any mess even when that awful little rodent was responsible. Whenever there was any argument or fight and parents intervened, Susie would act the “little miss innocent” and Edward would get the blame. After all, he was the oldest, and he was the boy. So he tolerated the indignities in silence and simply tried to avoid her as much as possible.

What really worried him was that Susie seemed to be playing up to Grandad rather a lot that year. She had taken to following him around and climbing all over him whenever he was in the house. Edward thought Grandad would be annoyed but no, he seemed to enjoy it. Edward was jealous.

One day he overheard Grandad telling his mother what a little treasure Susie was. That hurt. Especially as that very morning she’d sunk two of his oil tankers and an escorting frigate that he was trying to get through to Malta.

Edward was sulking in a secret place in the tall grass when he saw his sister coming along the path with her dolls.

She was carrying his egg bucket!

His egg bucket!

And she was heading for the hen house!

What was she going to do?

He was furious.

Surely she wasn’t going into the hen house?

She knew that only Grandad and he went into the hen house. And even he only went with Grandad, never on his own.

Edward watched her. She was! She was going in to see the hens! How could she?

He sat there fuming.

And then it dawned on him that he could teach her a lesson. He’d lock her in that’d give her a fright. He crept up to the door, quickly closed it, pushed home the bolts, and then ran back to his secret place. He felt elated. Then he realised that, with Susie safely locked up, he could play in the stream with his boats in peace. No longer would he have to look over his shoulder in case she surprised him and sank them all. Why hadn’t he thought of locking her up before? With a light-heartedness he hadn’t felt for a long time Edward soon became totally engrossed in his play, completely forgetting about the reason for his new-found freedom.

Later, just when he started feeling hungry and the light was becoming a little dimmer, Edward heard his mother calling that it was tea-time.

Then he ed about Susie.

“Serves her right,” he thought, “spending all afternoon in the hen house. Still, I’d better let her out before the grown-ups find out about it.”

He made his way to the hen house.

The hens were as noisy as ever.

He listened outside the door but could hear nothing above the noisy clucking.

“Susie,” he shouted, “I’ll let you out if you promise never to sink my ships again. And, if you promise you’ll give me all the sweets you get from Grandma the next time you go to the shops with her”.

He thought he may as well make the most of the opportunity. He’d probably never be in such a strong position again.

But there was no answer.

“Alright. It doesn’t matter about the sweets. Just make the promise about the ships.”

No answer.

He started to feel uneasy.

“Susie. If I open the door will you promise not to hit me?” Again, there was no reply.

He slid back the bolts, opened the door a little and peeked in. A dozen or more hens hurried away from a bloody mass on the floor.

It was Susie.

Two roosters remained defiantly perched on her head, busily pecking away at her face. She was lying on the ground, blood flowed from a thousand places - from her face, arms, legs, everywhere.

He must have fainted because the next thing he knew he was in Grandad’s huge bed, surrounded by weeping parents and grandparents.

His mother was the first to see that he’d regained consciousness. She flung her

arms around him.

“Oh Edward, poor Edward. You tried to save Susie, didn’t you? What a brave boy. Are you hurt my love?”

Edward started sobbing. Through the tears he could see his father looking at him strangely. He tried to tell him what had happened, but the coldness in that stony face made his few halting words tail off into an incoherent garble.

For the next two days Edward was fawned over by everyone. Everyone except his father. He rarely even saw him.

And then came the funeral. Edward was fascinated by the whole spectacle and felt a curious detachment from the proceedings until the coffin was lowered into the damp, gaping, rectangular mouth. As the soil clattered noisily onto the polished wood he felt a desperate panic rising. He turned to face his father, words of explanation about to spill from his lips. But his mother clasped him tightly, suffocatingly. The soil gradually piled up on the dreadful secret. A heavy, immovable burden.

They never went back to Grandad’s house.

Edward’s grandparents used to come to see him every year, of course, but it wasn’t the same.

His father refused to have chicken or eggs in the house again. It was a bit odd at

first, but the family got used to it.

Nobody ever mentioned that summer again. It was a secret shared by the five of them. Each one knowing more than, or less than, he or she cared to.

As the last traces of consciousness flickered across the major’s brain, the final image to form was of his father. With a huge effort he willed it to smile. Tried desperately to make the face appear comforting.

It was no use.

Again, his father had that same strange look on his face that he had had so many years ago, and it carried the same message, as appropriate now as it was then.

“Liar! Cheat!”

The wind took no interest in the dark shape as it slowly whitened and disappeared beneath the snow.

Jeepers, creepers

As the puppy playfully unraveled the toilet roll down the stairs, Mary glanced at her husband. He wasn’t watching the TV screen but was, once again, gazing out through the double-glazed patio doors with a pained expression on his thin, anxious face.

“Bill!” “Bill!” a little louder this time. “For heaven’s sake stop looking at that wall. The adverts are nearly over, and Gardener’s Question Time will be on soon.”

Bill turned to his wife, “I can’t help it. It irritates me, that wall. Why on earth won’t anything grow up it?”

Mary sighed and continued her knitting as he embarked on the all-too-familiar monologue about his problems with the wall. How he’d tried to grow every plant known to the Hackney Garden Centre next to the offending expanse of white plaster. How it ruined the view from the patio doors. How it made the garden look like a prison exercise yard.

Poor Bill. He couldn’t stop thinking about that wall. He dreamed about it being covered in lush foliage. He yearned for the sight of climbing roses with pink and yellow flowers peeping out at nicely spaced intervals. Even the bright reds and browns of a Virginia creeper would be better than that irritating bareness.

“Something must be missing from the soil next to that wall.” He told himself.

Why else did the other walls an abundance of vegetation? In fact, things

seemed to grow even quicker and stronger around the other walls as if to compensate for their barren neighbour. Everything he planted there seemed to sprout and grow with a vigour usually found only in tropical rain forests. When they first saw the house two years ago, he’d been surprised by the contrast between the bare wall facing the house and the lush covering on the other two walls. “Can’t be keen gardeners.” He’d whispered to Mary as the previous owners showed them into the small, enclosed garden. The bareness of the wall had fascinated him even then, and had a lot to do with him persuading Mary to buy the house. He regarded the wall as a challenge, especially as he knew very little about gardening. “Nothing to it.” He’d said, “Dig a few holes, stick in the plants, give them a squirt of Baby Bio and we’ll soon have the place covered with roses. We’ll be able to sit in here and look out on a display that’ll put the Chelsea Flower Show to shame.”

On the day they moved in, the roses were in their bed long before his own had been re-assembled. An orderly line of six, evenly spaced bushes stood with their backs to the blank wall like prisoners before a firing squad. Within two weeks he was solemnly digging up their withered remains.

“I can’t understand it,” he told Mary, “they were supposed to be ideal for a sheltered garden. I manured them, I watered them, I sprayed them, I even talked to them. But still they died.”

“You spend more time on that garden than you do on me,” Mary complained, “I could do with a bit of attention as well you know.”

“I know, love. I’m sorry. But I’ve got to do something about that wall. I’ve got to!”

“Could it be something to do with the soil?” she replied, “There’s something in

the paper here that says roses like a clay soil.”

“Of course! The soil! That’s the problem. I’ll get on down to the Garden Centre tomorrow. They’ll have something to fix it.”

And so Bill became a scientist. He experimented with everything available. He made the soil alkaline. He made it acid. He added bones to it. Then seaweed, epsom salts (“It’ll be good for your indigestion, Bill. You should try some.”), compost, sludge, poultry droppings (“Ooh! Bill! I’m not having those in the garden. They’ll stink.”), peat, hops, fish meal, soot, urea (“Now don’t you go telling the neighbours. They’ll think we’re awful”), sand and blood. After each new additive he carefully planted the appropriate climbing plant. In went roses, Pyracantha, Escallonia, Hydrangeas, ivies, Virginia creepers, clematis, Polygonum, honeysuckle, winter jasmine, sweet peas, and even runner beans. But none survived. As the plants withered, so did Bill. The only things that grew were his obsession and the bank balances of the local garden centres.

At last, unable to bear the idea of another failure, he resorted to subterfuge. He decided to train the creepers on the neighbouring walls to grow across onto the hated blankness. So, plastic netting was hung on the offending wall (“Can’t you just tie some plastic flowers to it? It’ll look nice.”) and the campaign was renewed. First of all, blood was poured liberally onto the soil of the neighbouring creepers to speed their growth. Next, he patiently unraveled innumerable tendrils from their s and bent them sideways so they could grasp the netting covering the bare wall. And then he waited. All day he waited. Nervously eyeing the potential colonisers of that barren space. Nothing happened (“Well what do you expect? They won’t grow very much in a day.”). That night he slept uneasily, a mixture of anticipation and dread coloured his dreams. At six the next morning he looked out of the bedroom window. He’d half expected what he saw. The tendrils had grown, yes, that was true. But they’d also sprung loose from the netting and were once again reaching for the sky – far away from the bare wall. Down the stairs he ran, trembling, angry, out into the garden. He lashed at the creepers, tearing at them wildly.

“Bill! Bill! What on earth are you doing?” Whispered Mary as she dragged him away, “What will the neighbours think? All that noise. And at this time of the day.”

“Those bloody creepers. What’s wrong with them? They grew. They bloody well grew all right. But they didn’t grow onto the back wall. Why? Why? What’s so special about that bloody wall? It’s driving me mad.”

“There, there now. Let’s have a nice cup of tea. Then I’ll help you to tie the creepers to the new netting. That’ll do it. They won’t be able to do anything about that now, will they?”

Mary’s commonsense calmed him down. Of course, she had the answer. Why hadn’t he thought of that in the first place? The trouble was he was too soft with those plants. Strapping them down was the only way to treat them. He’d show them who was boss!

He foraged amongst the bruised foliage for some choice tendrils and once again unraveled them from their preferred s. Again, he bent them towards the back wall, entwining them in the netting and then tying them to it with string. At last, he stepped back to ire his handiwork. 20 tendrils from the left wall and 20 from the right were now reluctantly ed to the green plastic threads of the netting.

“Of course, they won’t like you now at all.” Mary teased him during their afternoon tea.

“Like me? What do you mean, like me? They’re only plants. And anyway, why shouldn’t they like me?”

“Well, they’ll be really fed up with you unwinding them from where they want to be and trying to make them go where they don’t want to be.”

“Oh, don’t be daft. Plants don’t have feelings.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Why don’t they want to grow up the back wall then? They mustn’t like it for some reason. And anyway, you hit them this morning. They won’t like that you know.”

“I’ll make it up to them then.” He humoured her. “I’ll give them an extra big dose of blood tonight. And I’ll say I’m sorry.”

“No good saying you’re sorry if you don’t mean it. They’ll know. And all that blood. I don’t like it. Whoever heard of plants eating blood? They’re vegetarians you know. Like our Edith’s boy, lives on lentils and those weird beans - Goya beans I think he calls them. Very pale he’s getting as well - needs a big black pudding, do him the world of good. It’s him you should be giving the blood to. He needs it. He’s a growing lad.”

“Well that just goes to show how wrong you are. You don’t know what you’re talking about. All plants like blood, especially roses. But they don’t eat it. It’s not like black pudding. They suck up the goodness from it through their roots.”

Bill slept easily that night. Nothing could go wrong this time. The next morning, he calmly washed and shaved without so much as a glance out into the back garden. Only when he went downstairs did he allow himself a peek through the curtains. It was alright. They were still tied to the netting. When Mary walked into the kitchen a few minutes later she was treated to her first weekday kiss for nearly twenty years.

“Ooh, Bill,” she cooed, “all this gardening certainly does something for you.”

But Bill’s interest in propagation was focused only on the vegetative type. With nose pressed against the window, he talked to her reflection. “They’re still there. Still fixed to the netting. That’s it. By tomorrow they’ll have grown a couple of inches and by the end of the week they’ll be all over that bloody wall.”

“Language Bill, language. Can we go out for the day then? We haven’t had a day out for ages.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Let’s go out to the country. Pub lunch, cream tea, the lot. Anything you want. The day’s yours.”

By 6 they were back home. Bill was excited, Mary a little peeved.

“We were having such a lovely time, Bill.”

“Yes, but surely you didn’t mind coming back a little earlier, before it got dark? Just so I could have a quick look? They’ll have grown a bit today you know.”

Bill rushed straight out to the garden. Mary followed, only to find him transfixed before the creepers. Arms hanging limply at his sides.

“Bill! Bill! What’s the matter?”

But Bill didn’t speak. She followed his gaze to the creepers. Each one was still securely tied to the netting, but each tiny shoot was determinedly growing away from the bare wall back towards the side walls. Mary turned her husband away from the plants. “Come on in, love. Let’s have a nice cup of tea.”

A disconsolate Bill let himself to be led into the house. Only after two cups of tea was he able to speak. And even then, it was to his teacup in a slow, halting voice. “It isn’t going to beat me. It isn’t. Mary’s right. There’s something missing from the soil. I’ll dig it all up. Every bit of it in front of that damned wall. Then I’ll get some fresh soil and put that in its place. That’ll fix it. Then things will grow there.”

“Feeling better love?”

Bill looked at her, “One last go Mary, one last go. If it doesn’t work, I promise that’ll be it. Honestly.”

“Well, I’m not staying here to watch you killing yourself with all that digging. You shouldn’t do it at your age. I’ll go and stay at Edith’s for the weekend.”

So, there they were, spending a quiet evening together before Mary went to stay with her sister.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright by yourself?” Mary asked him.

“Of course. It’s only for 2 days. One day to dig the trench and another to fill it with fresh soil. You’re best out of it. It’s going to be a bit messy carrying all that soil in and out. You’d only get annoyed if you were here. I’ll tidy everything up so when you get back you won’t notice a thing.”

“Alright then. Well, I’m going to bed. Coming?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Don’t stay up too late now, will you?”

“No. Be up in a minute.”

“’night then.”

“’night.”

Next day, Bill saw Mary into her taxi at 9.00.

“Be careful with your back.”

“Yes. I’ll take care. Don’t you worry. And have a nice time at Edith’s.”

“Yes, it’ll be good to spend some time with her. We haven’t had a good natter for ages. See you tomorrow. I’ll be back around dinner time. I’ll make you a nice steak and kidney pie.”

“’bye.”

Bill stripped off his shirt and set to work immediately. First he dug a 12 foot trench all along the base of the wall. He carefully carted away the soil as if it were contaminated with some deadly virus. By tea-time it was 3 foot deep and extended 6 feet back from the wall. Refreshed by several cups of tea and the sandwiches Mary had left for him, he then carried on with renewed vigour. By 8, as it was getting dark, he was tidying up a corner next to the left-hand wall. His initial exhilaration had almost run its course, he felt weary. Resting on his spade at the edge of the trench, he surveyed the results of his hard work. Then he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. “Rain.” he thought, “Just finished in time” He looked up. “Strange. No clouds.” Another soft touch, on his back this time, and then something slithered round his neck. Bill turned. Too late. A mass of tendrils coiled around him. He tried to run but his legs were bound tightly by the advancing mass. He fell into the trench. He tried to cry out, but the whip-like growth tightened quickly round his neck. The angry green snakes coiled, squeezed, probed and burrowed everywhere. For a few moments the green mass in the trench thrashed around, a mixture of anger and terror. Then there was silence. A myriad of tiny tentacles explored new orifices, burrowing relentlessly into the rich, skin-covered bag of nutrients. By morning, their rampant growth had covered the once-bare wall. In the garden, all was calm.

That evening a taxi door slammed.

“Bill! Bill! I thought you said all this soil would be cleared away by now! What a mess the front garden is in - great big mounds of earth all over……”

She stopped as she entered the back garden and saw the magnificent growth covering the back wall.

“Bill! Oh, Bill! You’ve done it! What did you put in the soil?”

Keep on running

So, I left work a bit early and went home. The kids had all their things packed, essentials like teddy bears, Jane and John books and jigsaws. “Why the jigsaws?” I asked them, “Half the pieces are missing. And how on earth are we going to play with them on a train or in a tent?” Christine’s face fell. I felt bad. Hell, they’d done the best they could.

“OK. Jigsaws are in.”

“They’re really nice colours.” Jane chipped in

“Sure. It’s just silly old dad. Jigsaws are essential. Kerouac should have known that, an absolute must when you’re out on the road.”

“Kerouac?”

“It’s OK, nothing. Just some guy who’s done this before.”

“Had a holiday?”

“Yes. Had a holiday”. I was tossing things into an old suitcase and they were hanging around the way kids do.

“Are we taking the TV?” One of them asked.

“TV! How the hell can we take the TV? Look. Stop asking silly questions. We’ve a train to catch.” Jane pulled a face and wandered out the room, I carried on packing. “Shit!” I took Christine by the hand and we went looking for her sister. She was talking to the cat.

“Jane! Look I’m sorry. I’ve had a hard day and I’ve still got all my packing to do.” As I bent down to pick her up she burst into tears. “What’s the matter angel?”

“Don’t want to go.”

“Look. I thought we’d sorted all this out?”

She shook her head.

“But why? Everything’s going to be alright. Soon we’ll be having a lovely time.”

“Why can’t it be lovely now?”

“You’d better ask your mother that?”

“Can we ‘phone her?”

“No! Of course not. I thought this was our big secret? You haven’t told her have you?”

She shook her head. I looked at Christine “No daddy. Honestly we haven’t.”

“Listen, the two of you. I know you must be a bit worried just now, but you’ll feel completely different tomorrow. A new country, lots of exciting things to do. We’ll be leaving all the horrible things behind. And I promise, cross my heart, if you aren’t having a great time by tomorrow, we’ll come back. OK?”

They looked at each other and then nodded.

“Right. Now dry those tears away while I go and do my packing.”

“Done your packing.” Jane pouted. I looked at Christine who nodded vigorously.

“Really? Where is it then?”

“There.” She pointed at a plastic bag next to theirs. I went over and looked inside. There were three sets of knives and forks. Two tins of beans, a few clothes and an assortment of Dylan tapes. I picked both of them up and waltzed round the room, smothering them with kisses. They screamed, we laughed, the cat ran out the room.

“Pussy! Pussy!” We yelled, and it was ‘hunt the cat time’.

“Listen!” I told them, “Why don’t you two feed the cat while I finish off the packing?”

Two pairs of eyes bored into me. “Isn’t pussy coming?” Jane asked.

It was going to be a long night.

“Well, not really. She doesn’t like trains. And anyway, she can’t speak French. Probably wouldn’t like the food either. You know how fussy she is.”

“But who’ll look after her?” Christine this time.

I didn’t have an answer.

“Well. I reckon she’ll have to look after herself.” More tears. So, we phoned around until some poor cat-lover promised to take care of her.

“Missed the train now.” I told them, and ended up having a cup of tea and watching the Magic Roundabout.

We said goodbye to pussy. Checked to make sure that the teddies wouldn’t

suffocate in the bags and then we were off. “Bye, bye house. Bye, bye toys”.

“Bye bye love,” I sang to them as we got into the taxi. Puzzled looks.

“Just an old song” I told them. “Before your time.”

“What time?” Christine asked.

“Forget it.” I told her, “Check out the teddies.”

There were two queues at the ticket office. I stood in the slow one. Jane wanted a pee, so I left Christine in the line clutching a ten pound note. “One and two halves to Newhaven. Got it?” We dashed around looking for a loo.

“I want to go in a Ladies, not a Gents.” She protested. Two minutes later I was holding her over a stained and filthy bowl. Above the noise of the tinkling stream she asked the big one. “Are we coming back?”

“Let’s see if we like it.” It’s all I could think of at the time.

“Not fit to have children.” An old lady yelled as we ran for the 7.45. “Leaving a child by herself like that”.

“My knickers are wet.” wailed Jane.

We found some seats hiding behind a pile of Swedish back-packs. I stored away our bags, rescued the teddies and, while the kids were giving them mouth-tomouth, I lit up a fag and donned my headphones. Relief! I glimpsed my reflection as we ed through a tunnel. Blue and white stripey blazer, mirror sunglasses, black shirt and my famous white stetson. I felt pretty cool. Then, for a second, just a brief flash, something that wasn’t quite me stared back. Christ! I looked away. Nerves. That’s what it was, nerves, exhaustion and worry. And boy did I have things to worry about, like finding a place to stay in Newhaven, catching the 5.30 boat the next day, their mother and the court order, about everything. “Listen kids,” Four eyes looked up from resuscitated teddies, “I couldn’t get a hotel in Newhaven. Might have to camp out tonight. OK?”

“Ooh! Yes. Great.”

“Can we have a fire?” from Jane.

“And cook sausages?” from Christine, “We can have them with the beans.”

“I don’t think so, shops’ll be shut. But we can go to a nice restaurant instead. That’ll be fun won’t it?”

They said it wouldn’t be, and put on their sulky faces.

“Shall we get some Cokes?” I asked them.

It did the trick.

“With ice? Can we have ice in them?”

“And straws. Can we have straws?”

“You can’t use them properly,” Jane challenged her sister, “Yours always go all yucky”

“I can! Can’t I daddy? Can’t I?”

“Sure, sure. Now stop arguing”

“Wasn’t arguing. She does always get them soggy.”

“For Christ’s sake!”

“You shouldn’t say that. Mammy doesn’t like it.” Jane told me.

“Your fucking mother isn’t here.”

Silence.

“Will we see her again?” Jane asked.

“Do you want to?”

Silence.

“I think the teddies might.” whispered Christine

“Come on. Let’s get the cokes.”

I took their hands as we edged along the corridor. They held on tight. I felt a bastard. What the hell was I doing? Running away with two preschoolers? Where to? What would we do? Was I really mad?

“I want a wee-wee daddy.” Christine this time.

As I held her over the bowl I had a flash-back. “You know, the last time I did this we were in a train going over the Alps. You were about three then. You woke me in the middle of the night and I couldn’t find the loo. The train had stopped so the only thing I could think of was to let you pee out onto the track. When I opened the door you just gasped “Snow! Daddy. Snow!” And sure enough, all

we could see was snow and mountains, it was beautiful. You were so excited you couldn’t pee.”

“That’s rude,” Jane told us, “Having a wee-wee like that”

“But I didn’t have one. Did I daddy? So, it wasn’t rude, was it?”

“Well. You did have one eventually. I the steam rising as it hit the snow.”

They both got an attack of the giggles. I felt better. Doubts held in check, for a while anyway.

Newhaven was closed. No vacancies in the B and Bs and a faded map at the tourist office showed the campsite was two stops down the line. So. Back to the station.

“Christ! The boat train’s at 4.30 in the morning.”

“Oh, goody! Will it be dark? I’ve never been in the dark in the day.”

“Yes you have. Sometimes it gets dark at tea-time.”

“Yes, but that’s not day-dark that’s night-dark. Isn’t it daddy?”

“Tricky one. I reckon you’re both right. Different sides of the same coin, that’s all. But, yes, it’ll be dark. Pitch black. And cold.”

Christine squeezed my hand “Don’t worry daddy. We’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”

“No, we can’t.” Jane sulked, “He won’t let us have a fire.”

We wandered through some awful kind of sea-mist. Something black scuttled along beside us, it seemed vaguely familiar. I stopped, scared.

“What’s up daddy?”

“Oh, nothing. Let’s just hurry a bit.”

We found the campsite, put up the tent and ate some sandwiches. The kids argued about where the teddies were going to sleep until at last they dozed off. I’d forgotten the alarm, so I tried to stay awake, drifting in and out of nightmares ‘till dawn.

“It’s not very dark,” they complained.

“For Christs sake shut up. You’ll have the whole campsite up. Just start your packing.”

“Don’t worry, Teddies.” Jane whispered, “He’s an old grumpy.”

I just kept busy, behaving like a parent. Somehow we got the tent down and then we were off. A deserted platform at 4.15 in the morning can be pretty disheartening. Even the kids had gone quiet. I grabbed Jane by the waist and told her to hold on to her sister, then down the platform we shunted singing the Chatanooga choochoo.

We covered a good few miles by the time the train came in.

We waltzed onto the boat, poking fun at the poor sods queueing up in their cars. Hell, I didn’t want the kids to feel deprived or something.

The crossing was predictable - lots of water, wind, noise and greasy bacon and eggs. As we left the boat I heard an awful screeching. I looked round and something black seemed to leap into the air and take flight. “What the hell?”

The girls tugged at my hands I glanced at them, and for that one moment they seemed…….different. Then I gazed up at the dark shape hovering far above us, trying to make out what it was. But the kids were impatient. “Dad! Dad!” they chorused. I looked at them closely this time. But, no, they were the same as ever. I wasn’t going mad, thank god.

“Come on dad, we’re in .”

I let myself be dragged along.

“They might put the teddies in quarantine you know.” I teased them.

They looked at me strangely. “For heaven’s sake don’t mention teddies with all these people around. We aren’t babies any more.”

“First thing to do is have a genuine French breakfast,” I told them, “Coffee and croissants.”

“Rather go to MacDonalds.”

“MacDonalds! Do you know what they’re doing to our planet? Cutting down the rain forests just so they can produce more cattle. Cluttering up the streets with horrible plastic containers, and poisoning people with all those awful additives.”

I had my coffee and croissant; they had a coke and a bag of crisps. I picked up a paper someone had left. “Christ, listen to this. ‘Every morning three plane loads of carnations leave Uganda for Amsterdam and then they’re sent in Jumbos to America.’ My God, what the hell’s going on in this world?”

“I like flowers.” Christine retorted.

“Everyone likes flowers.” Jane told her.

“Yes, but that’s not the point. They should be growing vegetables.” I told them.

“Flowers are nicer.” Christine persisted, “That’s why they have pictures of them on stamps. My favourite stamps are the ones with flowers on. You don’t see stamps with potatoes and carrots on.”

“People are starving in Africa. They shouldn’t be wasting land by growing flowers. And then u all that fuel and destroying the ozone layer at the same time. Just so some rich guy in New York can have carnations around his house.”

“If I was rich I’d have fresh flowers every day as well.” Jane said. Christine agreed.

I’ll never forget Paris. We left the Gare du Nord on a pay-as-you-enter bus with only an old lady for company. Every time it stopped the doors opened with a superb farting noise. The girls couldn’t stop giggling. “I thought you were supposed to be young ladies now.” I told them as the old lady glared at them yet again. But it was no good, we had to get off. The three of us barged into a cafe like a crowd of football hooligans.

“Nous voudrons trois cafes au lait et trois croissants s’il vous plait.” Christine told the waiter.

“Where the hell did you learn to speak French?” I asked her.

“At school of course.”

“I can’t speak a word,” Jane butted in, “waste of time learning languages.”

“Ignorant scientist!” Christine shot back.

“No. Not ignorance. The language of Mathematics is universal. I could communicate with a Martian through Maths. You couldn’t.”

“Let’s just have our breakfast.” I told them, feeling increasingly uncomfortable and bemused, “Philosophy should be kept ‘till after dinner.”

Christine nudged her sister.

“What’s up?” I asked them.

“We won’t be staying for dinner.” Jane replied.

“And why not?”

“Well….we’ve got a date.”

“A date! Who with?”

“Just some guys we met.”

“Where?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. Who are they? What are they like? Where did you meet them?”

“They’re two French boys we met at a party….”

“Party! What party?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know!”. Snapped Jane

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’re always somewhere else. You’re never with us.”

“What the hell do you mean ‘never with us’. I’m always with you. I hardly ever leave you. Do I?”

“Not physically, no. But dad, you always seem so far away. You don’t seem to take in what’s going on around you. Not with us, not with anything. You seem to be in a different world. For heaven’s sake, we’ve grown up, and you haven’t even noticed.”

I looked at Christine, “Is that how it seems to you as well?”

She nodded.

“I didn’t know you felt like that. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Well, we kind of hoped you’d realise. When you didn’t, we couldn’t face up to telling you - we didn’t want to upset you.” She reached out and covered my hand with hers. “But dad, you’ve got to let go a bit. You’re stifling us. We need more space, space to do what we want to do - not what you want. We’ve our own lives to lead.”

They left me nursing a drink. I took out the packet of stamps I’d bought them and emptied it over the table. Brightly-coloured butterflies fluttered around the empty cups, exotic fish floated in pools of spilt beer and orchids took root

among the scattered crumbs. A ‘madonna and child’ caught my eye and I thought of their mother. I ordered another drink, and another. By the time I left, their mother was safely locked away in some dark corner of a mind that wasn’t quite my own. I wandered around the city, keeping away from the bright lights, drinking in bars that would normally have scared the shit out of me. But as the night grew older it took me into its care - nothing was going to harm me, all was right with the world, the bartenders were friendly, the whores beautiful. Until reality intruded. Just a hint mind you, just enough to make me glance over my shoulder. And there he was, standing right behind. All I really noticed was the black cloak. That was enough, I never looked into his face - I knew I mustn’t. I started to run. The night was suddenly hostile. I raced down alleyways, the cobbles damp and shiny; leapt over shapes that hugged the cruel, hard stones; recoiled from amorphous shadows lurking in every corner. The batman followed, swift and silent, with a fluid motion that never faltered. I reached our rooms and pounded on the door. When it opened I threw myself inside. “Don’t leave me.” I begged them, “please don’t leave me alone. It’s you who keep him away.”

We were in Tours when I found the letter. Not that I was spying on them or anything. It just kind of fell out of one of their books. The envelope was addressed to ‘Mammy, Lundun, Ingland.’ I opened it carefully. ‘Dear Mammy’ it read ‘we’re having lots of fun. How are you? Yesturday we had some cwassons. They’re nice but not as nice as your scons. Can’t wait to see you. Luv, Jane and Cristine.’ As I stared at the letter my hands seemed to fade, kind of went all watery and transparent. Only for a second mind you. But it was a bit scary. When they’d returned to normal the letter lay on the floor between my feet. I picked it up and put it back in the book. I didn’t feel too good. Next thing I knew Jane was shaking me.

“Hey dad! Wake up! Can you lend me some money?”

I looked groggily around the room “Where’s your sister?”

“Dunno,” she shrugged.

“Dunno! Dunno! What kind of answer is that?”

“Am I my sister’s keeper?” she retorted.

“Yes, you bloody well are.” I shouted at her, “I’ve told you a hundred times to stick together. We’ve all got to stick together. It’s the only way.”

“Why?” She challenged.

“Why what?”

“Why is it the only way? Why can’t we be with other people?”

“Because it isn’t safe.”

“Isn’t safe? For who?”

“For you of course.”

“For us? No. I don’t think so. Look, if you really want to know, she’s with a man – he’s called Francois. And I’m on my way out to meet Roget.”

“Not with my money you’re not.”

“OK! I’ll walk then.” At the door she paused and looked back at me. “Don’t wait up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I lunged for the door but she was out and gone. “Come back this minute!” I yelled after her. She didn’t.

I drove into Poitiers minus one daughter.

“Will you miss her very much?” I asked Christine.

“Of course.”

“Do you think she’ll be happy?”

“Yes. He’s a nice guy.”

“Why didn’t you stay? Didn’t you like your boyfriend?”

“Oh, he was alright. But…I want to stay with you for a while.”

“Maybe you can go back and see them sometime.”

“Yes. Maybe.”

“You aren’t very talkative. What’s the matter?”

“I’m trying to figure out something.”

“What?”

“Trying to understand why you were so strange with Jane after she took the overdose. She really needed you then.”

“Yes. I know. But…hell…what do you say to someone who’s tried to commit suicide. They aren’t the same anymore. If they survive it’s not because of love or care or exhortations. It’s because they’ve eaten a few grams of extra food that day so the drugs aren’t absorbed, or because the vomit reflex was efficient, or because people got to them in time. Chance, sheer chance, saved her, not love. She kind of flickered off and then came back. She became even more precious to me. But also very fragile. I was always worried in case I said the wrong thing.”

She looked at me for a long time. I kept my eyes on the road.

Jane phoned us at Bordeaux. “She’s had a baby boy.” I yelled at Christine “A baby boy. Wowee! That makes you an aunty.”

“And you a grandad,” she replied.

“Really? Well, I suppose so. Don’t feel like one though. Don’t look like one, do I?”

She changed the subject. “What are they going to call him?”

“She didn’t say.”

At Biarritz we booked into a smart hotel. The money was running out so I thought we’d blow it on a few days of luxury. “Don’t worry,” I told Christine, “Something’ll turn up.”

She seemed tired and listless. She wandered along the seafront by herself for hours then took to her bed.

“What’s the matter angel?”

She took my hand, “Oh dad, I’m so weary.” Her touch was cold, her fingers bony.

“But why? We’re enjoying ourselves, aren’t we?”

“Yes. But….”

“You aren’t missing your mammy are you? I thought you’d got over that. You can see her if you want, you know. I’ve never stopped you have I?”

“Dad. Mam’s dead. Don’t you ?”

“Well….yes, of course. It’s just that I thought…..”

“Don’t think, dad. Don’t worry. It’s time.”

“Time! Time for what?”

“Time to go.”

“Go! Where to? I thought we’d stay here awhile.”

“We can’t stay here. It’s time to leave for good. Time to stop running away.”

“I’m not running away.”

“Oh dad. Don’t you realise. Your old. Too old. You’ve been here too long.”

As she spoke the room seemed to quiver, the whole world seemed to pause. And then my arms started to fade. I looked at her. “Oh my god! What’s happening?”

“Go with it. Just go with it. Don’t fight. We’re both going, together. It’s just like falling asleep. Come and hold me, like you used to. Before he comes for us.”

“Who?”

“The one who’s been following you all this time.”

“You saw him too then?”

“Yes.”

“And Jane. Did she know about him?”

“Of course. One of us had to stay with you. We didn’t want you to face him by yourself. Someone had to look after you.”

“But I thought I was looking after you.”

“It’s alright. I wanted to be with you anyway. But listen. Can’t you hear him?”

I listened, but all I could hear was our breathing, it got shallower by the minute. And then there was nothing. It felt… good.

The miracle-maker

It is 1354 and inside the crypt of a famous Italian cathedral, hidden away from prying eyes, lies the body of a young man. Although he was baptised a Roman Catholic, he was no longer a believer so it’s difficult to understand why his body should end up in such a venerable location. How on earth could this have happened? It’s best to hear the story from the mouth of the man himself.

My name is Vincente, Amerigo Vincente. I was born in Naples in the year 1321, the son of Giorgio Vincente the doctor. I was a fortunate child, far luckier than most. I never went hungry, I had servants to care for me. I was sent to the finest schools and then to the university. My parents were ambitious, I was ambitious, I was to become a doctor like my father. But at the university I learned things I was never meant to know. More and more I found myself neglecting my studies to listen to the golden words of Coarelli and Sereni - the prophets of a new age. How their ideas inflamed me. My friends and I formed a brotherhood, Leonardo, Augusto, Emilio, Guido, so many. So many I can’t recall their names. It seems so long ago. Another world, another life.

We loved one another. We were brave, we were bold, and we would be free. We lived in a golden age. Our town had never known such riches. And with them came knowledge. Knowledge the like of which had never been dreamed of. New lands were being discovered, the sciences were blossoming, artists showed us new ways of seeing, the poets laid bare our inner selves. And God’s authority was at last being overthrown. How we laughed at our teachers, our parents and, most of all, those pious, lecherous priests. How we scorned the lives and beliefs of our neighbours. We would start a new order, as befitted the new age, where men would not be bound by the petty restrictions of outmoded ways. Where priests would not frighten us and tempt us with their puny sins. There would be no more sin.

Our teachers were frightened, frightened of our questions. We challenged everything. Nothing was sacred. Everything had to be justified or else abandoned, cast aside, rejected. We had a following, our brotherhood. The

students were behind us, they believed in us. And the women. How they were drawn to us. They too came to know freedom. But for me, there was only Beatrice. Not that we married. Heavens no! The brotherhood were witnesses to our pledge. That was enough. And our daughter Carla, she was received into the brotherhood, not into sick, tired old mother church.

The brotherhood, oh yes, the brotherhood. Where are they now? Where are my trusted friends? What of the vows we swore? Times changed. How they changed. The plague was our undoing. It destroyed so much. Death was everywhere. Every family knew it. And with every death a seed of doubt was sown. Our followers drifted back to the old ways, the old superstitions. They ed those we used to scorn, they listened to the priests. Oh, how those parasites loved the stench of death. How they grew fat on the suffering around them. They told the people they were evil, they told them they had sinned, they told them they must suffer, they told them they must beg forgiveness. And all the while the plague circled round, picking off the weak and the strong, the poor and the rich, the young and the old. The days seemed like night with nauseous black smoke swirling everywhere from funeral pyres and burning houses. Yet the nights seemed like day, bright with flames and the countless flickering candles of the pious. There was madness everywhere, of one sort or another. While my mother prayed endlessly to statues of the saints, my father cut up the bodies of the dead to better understand the plague. And my sister, my god, she squandered her dowry on the bones of saints, pieces of the cross and suchlike. Every rogue in Naples sold his rubbish at her door.

Then came the processions. Long lines of wretched souls whipping each other, begging the Lord’s forgiveness, chanting dirges and wailing like rabid dogs. They came snaking in from who knows where. The mad and the foolish ed them, and then off they wandered, littering the roads with the dead and dying. Then one day, looking out of the window at those poor wretches, I recognised one of the brotherhood. Wailing and chanting he was, just like the rest. But, worst of all, he was dragging along a cross. It was all too much. I pissed on their piety. I pissed on their priests. And I pissed on their cross.

I shouldn’t have.

They came for me. They were like animals. They dragged me out and carried me off to this God-forsaken city, far from my family and friends. They locked me away. For weeks I saw no one but priests. I was tried by priests, sentenced by priests, I was even to die at the hands of priests. And then one day, a bishop came. He wasn’t like the rest. He didn’t rant and rave, he didn’t stink of filth, he didn’t invoke the Lord’s name with every other breath. No, he was wellmannered and treated me with courtesy. In other circumstances I might even have liked him. He told me that Beatrice and my little Carla were in the city and were being “looked after” by his men. I asked for proof and he showed me a letter. It was from Beatrice. He told me the people seemed very interested in her as well as in me. He said that, as yet, they didn’t know she was in the city. He said it was better for her that they didn’t. He said it was better for them that they didn’t. He didn’t want them to kill her - that would serve no useful purpose and would only add to their sins.

He told me he could save her, and Carla, if I helped him.

The people were frightened, he explained. Frightened of the plague, the famine, the Turks, their very shadows. There seemed to be so much for them to fear. They expected God to help them, God and his holy church. They were simple people, he said. They were getting impatient. He was worried that they would start to doubt the church and then to doubt God. The bishop thought that such doubts were best rectified - for the sake of the church and society, and even for their own good. A sacrifice and a miracle were needed to save the situation, and quickly. I was to provide both.

I told him to go to the devil.

He thoughtfully reminded me of Beatrice and his difficulty in keeping her whereabouts a secret from the mob. He said that since I was going to die anyway, I may as well do so in a manner that could save the lives of Beatrice and Carla.

I said I could understand how I could provide a sacrifice, but miracles didn’t come that easy to me, nor, I imagined, to him.

He smiled. He said he thought my sense of humour had survived quite well considering my circumstances. And, yes, he agreed that miracles weren’t exactly his strong point. However, he did seem to have a flair for the theatrical and was quite imaginative in his use of both people and objects. In fact, he thought he could use me to construct quite an interesting relic.

“Bones!” I said to him “So, that’s your plan. But surely you don’t need my poor old bones to scatter amongst your flock. A few from an old dog would be just as good, especially if the Holy father were to mumble a few prayers over them. If, of course, you can persuade him to come back from Avignon.”

“No,” he told me, sighing “we don’t want your bones. We need more than a few dubious relics in these difficult times. We need a miracle. Unfortunately, miracles don’t seem to be too plentiful these days so we’re going to have to…..How can I put it? ….help the almighty along a little.”

“So, you’re doubting the almighty’s sense of timing?” I asked him, “I think you’re as close to heresy as me, your eminence. Would you mind explaining how you intend to use my humble services to nudge that architect of the heavens, the one who not only created everything in six days but who also knows when even a little sparrow falls?”

But he wouldn’t. Said he couldn’t trust me not to tell someone his ‘little secret’. Said the church wouldn’t be able to survive the scandal. And so we struck our bargain. What else could I have done?

Beatrice and Carla were freed into the safe keeping of my parents, and I received assurances that all was well. Then I began to pay the price.

First there was the lashing. Then through the streets they made me drag my cross. I received my crown of thorns. I heard the baying of the mob. I felt the lance in my side. And then for hours I hung there, above their heads. I could see the crowd only dimly, as if through a veil, a red veil. They were excited. They seemed to be shouting and yelling, their faces contorted and grotesque. I heard almost nothing, just a distant murmur which seemed to grow loud then feint. It reminded me of the sea, of Naples. I ed playing on the beach with my friends, so long ago. I began to cry, for them, for me, and then for all those misguided wretches who thought my death would have some meaning. I waited there for death to come, I waited and waited. And I laughed! Yes, I laughing! Perhaps I went mad. Perhaps I am mad. No! I was right to laugh. I laughed because it was funny. It was all so funny. I was saving the church. Me, Amerigo Vincente, the atheist. And how? How was I saving the church? I didn’t know! I really didn’t know. Those clever priests were once again plotting some monstrous deception on the poor and ignorant. But they had to keep their part of the bargain. Yes! Yes! They had to do what I told them. They had to let Beatrice and Carla go free.

And I laughed because my mother was right. After all those years, the church was finally my greatest source of comfort.

At last death came to him. Four priests very carefully took down his body from the cross. The tenderness they showed to the lifeless corpse being in marked

contrast to the cruel, savage way his body had been treated while he lived. They carried the corpse down into the closely-guarded crypt of the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. There they gently placed it on a long linen cloth that stretched from head to toe and beyond. It was 1.1 metres wide and 4.3 metres long, so they were able to pull it over his head and back down again to his feet. Handling the cloth gently, they made sure that it was in close with every part of Amerigo’s body – the blood that still oozed from his wounds was a great help in this respect. And then they left. Each day the priests visited the cloth-covered remains to make sure that the fabric remained in with the lifeless body. After 10 days they very carefully peeled back the cloth from the upper surface of Amerigo’s remains. Slowly and carefully, they then prised his corpse away from the underlying material. Once this was free of the cloth, they dumped it unceremoniously in a wheelbarrow - they had no further need of this revolting bag of bones. The monastery’s dogs would be fed well that night. But the cloth. Oh, how eagerly they examined their newly-revealed handiwork. For these cruel, pitiless priests of Turin had great plans for this wondrous new relic.

Oh, how we danced

The big country-house basks lazily in the warm sun, spreading out its lawns like a huge velvet skirt. It’s in a tolerant mood, showing no irritation at the group of figures gathered like ink-stains near the hem of its fine garment. And why not? Three of the ink-blots seem quite acceptable as they sit there so quietly, so still. A middle-aged lady, impeccably dressed, reading a Jane Austen novel. An old man in a wheelchair, gazing into the dark woods beyond. And a younger woman, trying to capture the house’s expression in water-colours. But what about the small creature that orbits erratically around them, the one that thinks it’s an aeroplane? Well, there’s noise pollution, certainly. But, as the ozone layer will remain unaffected, perhaps the house’s magnanimity is understandable.

And then. The cat. Tentatively it approaches the group from the cover of a rhododendron. Only the old man sees it.

‘Black/white cat stalks the smooth green lawns. Eyes staring with cold green sparkle. Soft fur, stroke, scratch, thin lines parting flesh, bright red jewels ballooning grow, glistening freshness turns dull with age.’

“It scratched me grandad, it scratched me!”

‘I cats snaking round smooth bare legs. Fur, dinner, silk, light glancing off polished silver.’

“Now leave grandad alone, it’s only a tiny little scratch.”

“No it’s not. It’s huge. I want a bandage.”

‘Ink black suits, crisp and clean, butterfly ties, formal tones, strings of ice on warm white throats.’

“Alright. Let’s see if grandma has a plaster or something.”

‘Car doors slam, yellow light and tinkling laughter spill onto the rain-soaked streets. Water pools silent, knowing, observe the flow of hellos, goodbyes. Hording glimpses of secret regions, relayed to the prying eyes of urchins grubbing in city gutters. “Spare a copper, Mister?” Hollow laughter, polite partakings, a silken hand on martial thighs. Betrayal! So many years have ed and there she sits so prim and proper.’

“Oh, my little angel. It is a nasty scratch. We’ll have to go up to the house for a plaster.”

‘Hair greyed by age. Opinions, advice, bon mots dripping from those lying lips. Those lips, ah, those lips. The once-bright red curves, flower petals cupped, eyes closed, head arched back, glistening inviting depths, tongue flickering. Snake, like a snake, the forked tongue darting, probing, sensing, seeking its prey. I was that prey. But only one of many. Her neck has folds, her arms are scrawny, the eyes are circled by uned flesh. I have watched these changes. I have marked her sad decline. The first strand of silver in that sleek velvet blackness, its heavenly touch tracing circles on my thighs. And now? Now these thighs function no longer, encased in steel, trapped.’

Shadows reach out over the lawns, slowly creeping towards the stranded cripple. The old man shudders. As if from nowhere a servant appears, “Dinner, sir.” He announces as he pushes the invalid to the house.

‘The child! Where is he? Gone! So soon?’

Silence in the long room, candles flickering. Servants hover, ever watchful.

She holds a crystal glass to her lips and the dark red wine drains away. He reaches out a trembling hand and watches the redness spread outwards from the overturned glass across the starched white cloth.

“Oh darling,” she croons. He shudders at her touch. She dabs his lips with perfumed silk.

“Get away!”, he inwardly shrieks. But only the ghosts can hear, a momentary pause, a backward glance, then off they wander. To secret meeting places, through walls and floors, ever searching, never finding.

With her eyes she hears the scream. She bends as if to plant a kiss. “You poor old bastard,” she whispers, then strokes his head. Her nimble fingers move down his chest, slowly smoothing the ruffled tie. Down, down, slowly down they go. Where to? Why not? Please, yes, no, no yes. She sees it all. The fingers hover around his waist then up they come, slowly caressing the flaccid cloth. Her eyes fix his, a snake about to strike. The corners wrinkle and her pupils sparkle. The knot is pulled tight. “Not tonight Josephine.” as she turns away.

He watches her go, hips moving with a conscious sway, she trails a hand along the endless table and leaves without another word.

Up the slowly-spiralling stairs the lady glides, eyes looking neither to left nor right.

‘How I hate this silent place, which music can never fill. Its notes clattering emptily to the floor as if the very walls refuse to vibrate. At one time his silence meant something, self-indulgence perhaps or a loneliness I could never fill. A banner held aloft in arrogance, knowing I could never tear it down. I tried, oh how I tried. But beneath it he was smiling, yes smiling, a triumphant smile. And now? Well now his silence is of a different kind, no longer self-imposed, a fitting retribution from a god he loved to taunt. How I loved him then, how magnificent he was, brave, bold, arrogant. I loved him, everyone loved him. But how difficult he was to love. We heaped our praise at his feet. But, like a conqueror, he received our gifts with disdain, they were as nothing. Can he wonder I took my charms elsewhere? To those he considered lesser men, yes. But they welcomed them, accepting with grace and gratitude. And so, in my small way, I became an empress, a bounteous empress. I bestowed my treasures with abandon for, with my youth, they seemed without end. And then the jewels became tarnished with age. They lost their glitter, debased, unwanted. Now they are treasures only to him, their value increased by each withholding. Once more I am an empress.’

The sound of wheels on finely-polished wood brings a smile to her lips. For a moment she lingers, then hurries on.

And now the nightly torment. Determined hands propel him to his hell. Down the long corridors he trundles. Portraits gaze from led walls. His guide, his warder, says not a word. From a distant somewhere a bell tolls once and the ghosts are summoned. Slowly they gather, trailing silently behind. Bowing politely as they appear through walls. Eclipsed by every pool of light. Through the curtained door they , crowding to the room beyond.

The servant stops abruptly. The wheels are clamped. The lady beckons and he watches the servant go. A few brave souls adventure with him, the rest remain behind the old man’s wheelchair. He closes his eyes, but his ears are open. Upon them fall the nauseous sounds. The rustles, the murmurs, the groans, the sighs. But, worst of all, the laughter.

At last, it’s over. The sickening warmth spreads across my thighs. She comes towards me, laughing gaily, her plaything smokes a cigarette. She lays her hands so gently on me, feels the dampness, looks surprised.

“Oh, darling wasn’t that terrific?” Staring deep into my eyes.

They leave. The ghosts drift away. I sit there, stranded like a beached whale.

Car doors slam. Another day. Laughter fights its way into the grim old house.

Tiny feet run towards the old man, then stop. He opens his eyes.

“Grandad, why are you crying?”

The Joke

Late afternoon. A cold mid-winter day. The sea is sluggish, heavy with the promise of ice, poised on the verge of changing from chaos to order. The seagull circles lazily near the cliff edge. Suddenly, a gust of wind tosses it effortlessly inland, abandoning it over the silent school buildings. It glances down, surprised to find itself in unfamiliar territory. But nothing threatens it. Nothing moves. Then a bell clangs its message of deliverance. The sea-gull soars, screeching, as animated dots spill out from the building, scattering in a thousand directions.

One tiny figure sees the seagull’s startled flight. Hurrying by chance in the same direction, the child races his airborne challenger but, within seconds, senses futility. He slows, panting heavily. His satchel bursts open. Pencils, half-eaten sandwiches, secret messages, catapults and marbles spill into the gutter. The boy stops. Grateful for the excuse. Honour is maintained. He half-hears, half-senses a marble roll off the pavement and into the gutter. Plop! But his attention is fixed on the distant bird as it slowly disappears. He feels a sadness, an unformed longing - momentary, inexplicable. He shrugs and stoops to gather his scattered treasures, completely absorbed, a blessed diversion. And then, as he reaches for the marble, a door slams and the seagull is forgotten. Once more he is running. Pursued by Gestapo gunmen, he dodges along the suburban streets. He must get back to England with the plans. He slows as a crowd of shoppers blocks his way. No! He can’t believe it. The hun are firing. With women and children around! Through the ageway he hurtles, alert for ambushes. Nearly there. Nearly there. Keep going. Keep going. His lungs are almost bursting. But there, over there. He sees the Union Jack bravely fluttering. He can hear his mam and dad and all his friends shouting for him. He can’t fail now. Nothing can stop him. He leaps over the garden fence, flings open the back door, slams it shut and slumps against it. Safe! His back slides slowly down the door as his legs give way. The satchel drops with a noisy thud. He sits on the floor, eyes closed, exhausted, triumphant.

“What on earth is all that noise? David! Is that you?”

“It’s alright mam. I was only…..”

“Get up off that floor. Do you know how much those tros cost? They aren’t for sitting around on floors in. Go upstairs and take them off. And get washed before your father comes home.”

He goes straight upstairs to the bathroom and washes himself thoroughly. Then he pulls out the plug and watches, fascinated, as the vortex grows to a voracious, noisy, all-consuming hole, dragging down its victims into the very jaws of hell. Nothing could ever free itself once trapped in that deadly spiral of destruction. The greedy noise stops leaving behind a tidal scum. He runs his finger around the bowl, gathering the white mass.

“David! Have you washed yourself yet?”

“Yes mam. Finished mam.”

Quickly he rinses the bowl, dries his hands, carefully straightening the threadbare towel on the edge of the bath, and runs downstairs into the kitchen where his mother is peeling potatoes over the sink.

“David, please don’t run around the house like that all the time. I’ve a splitting headache. And why haven’t you got your slippers on?”

“Sorry mam. I forgot. I’ll put them on now.”

He struggles out of his shoes without undoing the laces. Then, thinking better of it, sits on the floor and begins to unravel the damp, soiled Gordian mass.

“Mam?”

“Yes?”

“How can seagulls fly so fast without getting tired? Do you think they get tired?”

“Oh, I’m sure they get tired eventually. But they’re very strong. You see, they eat a lot of fish. Now. If you’d eat some fish, you could be just as strong.”

David ponders this for a few moments, wondering whether such strength is worth the suffering involved in consuming the bland, white flesh his mother is always trying to persuade him to eat. But if he was a seagull he’d be alright. He’d like fish then. He could spend all day skimming over the waves looking for tasty flashes of silver. He’d soar up into the clouds and then plunge down into the very depths of the sea, scattering startled fishes in their secret world. Arms outstretched, David flies round the kitchen until, chased by his mother, he swoops into the dining room.

A mistake. The faint smell of tobacco triggers unpleasant memories. He feels the chill of the little-used room. He can see the veins standing out on his father’s face as the nightly ritual of maths homework is re-enacted.

“Seven nines, David. What are seven nines? It’s the same as nine sevens isn’t it David? We did the seven times table yesterday didn’t we?” David, by then, is usually beyond coherent speech as he tries to make sense of the columns of numbers whirling around his head. The torture usually continues until his mother’s intervention. Then he retreats to his room with their arguing voices ringing in his ears.

David shudders. He climbs the stairs and quietly closes his bedroom door. He pulls out the bottom drawer of his dressing table and reaches into the dark space, fearing the hairy claw that could dart out and drag him into the depths of hell. But no, not this time, the monster sleeps. He removes a small packet, sits on his bed and, for the hundredth time, examines it carefully. On the label is a crude cartoon of a man’s face, screwed up in obvious distaste as he examines the cigarette he is smoking. In the background a young boy and a woman, presumably his mother, are laughing. David mouths the words written underneath the drawings “Little joker cigarette stink bombs. Give your dad a fright. Hours of fun.” He opens the packet to check that he’s followed the instructions properly. After all, they had cost him one and six, nearly two weeks pocket money! It just had to work. He reads the words badly-printed on the flimsy instruction sheet. “Slide your Little Joker stink bomb between the tobacco and the paper of a cigarette (they’re so thin they won’t be seen!!). Put the cigarette back into the packet and wait for someone to light-up. Then stand by for the biggest stink of your life! Guaranteed hours of fun. Your friends will die laughing.”

David tries to recall what he had done to his father’s cigarettes that morning. Had he been careful enough? Would his father see the stink bomb before he lit the cigarette? Maybe he hadn’t had one yet and would light one after dinner.

“David! Dinner!”

“Gosh. Dad’s home.”

He quickly returns the stink bombs to their hiding place and runs down the stairs, barely able to contain his excitement.

In the kitchen his mother and father have already started eating. His father looks up as he comes in and beams a cheery hello.

“Hello dad. Had a good day?”

“Yes son. Fine thanks. And you. What have you been upto at school today? Was your homework alright?”

“Didn’t have any homework yesterday, but school was OK.”

“Alright,” interjects his mother, “school was alright, not OK. OK isn’t English”.

David is disappointed, he feels let down by the Little Joker stink bombs. “Can’t have worked,” he thinks, “Dad’s bound to have had at least one cigarette today.”

He pokes at his food as his parents chatter on. From the mound of mashed potato he creates a whole island with tiny bays and inlets into which the dark brown sea flows. Excavation of the island’s centre results in an influx of thick brown liquid - could it be oil?

Towards the northern cape he unearths shiny green spheres - gosh, emeralds as well?

“David! Stop playing with your food! And stop day-dreaming.”

Reluctantly he tucks into his newly-created paradise.

“Of course they’ll sue the firm,” his father is saying, “they can’t get away with something like that. It’s shocking.”

“And poor Barbara,” his mother replies, “how will she manage with two young children while Jim’s in hospital. How long will he be there?”

“They don’t know yet. It’ll be touch and go for a while. Dr. Roberts thinks he could be alright in about 6 months if there aren’t any complications.”

His father turns to him.

“Billy Cartright’s in your class isn’t he?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, something terrible happened to his dad at work today. It’s really awful. He

collapsed with some kind of a heart attack. The doctors think it’s because of some strange poison, but they don’t really know what it is. They reckon it must have been in a cigarette he’d just smoked. Of course, we’ve got the rest of the cigarettes, so they’ll find out what the poison was eventually”

The words come from a long way off.

“The police had to be called, of course. Took the whole of the morning to interview us. I feel really awful about it because it was one of my cigarettes that did it. He took one drag and just keeled over. Out like a light!”

The island, the sea, the oil, and the emeralds are scattered over the table as David jumps up and dashes from the room.

He sobs on his bed. Oblivious, for once, of the strange creatures that hide beneath it, and the monster that lurks in the dressing table. They wait a long time for the tears to stop. Then, as they tentatively reach out to him, a knock on the door sends them scampering back to their secret lairs. His mother appears with a tray. “David, love. I’ve brought you a sandwich. And some lemonade.”

There is no response.

“Oh, David. Can’t you see? Your dad was just playing a joke on you. To get his own back. Nobody was hurt. His office smelled awful for hours. Your joke worked. Everyone thought it was really funny. David. Please listen.”

But David will not listen. Once, just once, he pulls his face from the pillow and turns to her. The look in his eyes makes her leave.

Later. Much later. In the silence. David kneels up on his bed. With head propped on unsteady hands he gazes through the window into the night. Outside, a white cone spreads from the street-light onto the cold, hard ground. A vague glow taints the whole sky. Black and grey everywhere, not a colour to be seen. He gazes upwards, searching for the cold, blinking, distant lights. Just then the dull grey clouds shift and the blackness reveals its silver secret. David’s eyes shine as he reads their message.

“Time to fly. Time to see my friends.”

He prepares for take-off. Hands ed above his head, arms straightened to form the streamlined shape he knows is best. His eyes close as the countdown begins.

“…..three, two, one, blast-off!

The powerful engines briefly roar and then splutter into silence.

He tries again.

“…..three, two, one, blast-off!”

There is no ignition. No soaring flight. Never again will he explore those distant

planets. His eyes open. “Three, two, one. Three, two, one.” he mutters.

He looks out at the stars.

“Yes,” he sighs “Of course. Now I know. Three, times two, times one are…….. six.”

A long time waiting.

The room is almost bare. Two blank, featureless walls face one another. The other two have more to offer. One is graced with a door while the other boasts a window, a light rectangle behind faded grey curtains. The box is completed by a ceiling which once was white, and a floor which is distinguished only by the objects it s.

A man occupies an old armchair. “Is he alive?”

“Well, blood is circulating through his vital organs”.

“What is he doing?”

“Certainly nothing physical. He hasn’t moved for at least half an hour.”

“Is he thinking then?”

“It’s difficult to say. It depends on what you mean by thinking. There are traces of electrical activity in his brain. But I’m not sure whether that’s sufficient evidence of thought. I think his present state is best defined as wallowing.”

“Wallowing?”

“Yes, physical and mental wallowing.”

“Look, forget him awhile. Nothing’s going to change in the next few minutes. I’m more interested in the contents of the room for the moment. Why are they here? What’s their significance? I mean, why that yellow shirt? Why not a white one, a grey one, a blue one? Look, the seam is giving way. What does the label say? Made in Korea. Christ! It’s come all the way from Korea. That has to mean something. Chance alone can’t explain the transportation of this shirt over 5,000 miles to this room at this particular time. Just think. Some poor peasant sweated over this in a place where you can look out of the window and see temples clinging to the sides of mist-shrouded mountains, or 6 inch purple butterflies drying their wings after a tropical storm. I bet it was a woman. What was she thinking at the time? Was she in love? Was she savouring the memory of her first kiss the night before? Maybe her daydreaming made her miss a stitch. And so, our friend must suffer the consequences - a shirt coming apart at the seams. Why are you laughing?”

“Coming apart at the seams. I like that. It looks as though our friend is doing the same.”

“Don’t be so heartless. You irritate me sometimes. Be serious for a change. Look at those photos by his feet. Quite a collection, eh?”

“Typical family snaps I’d say. Same old stuff. Wife and two kids. In Greece they’re like lobsters, in Cornwall drowned rats, sozzled at the Christmas party. Seen one, seen them all.”

“No. You’re not entirely right. Look at this one. A young woman, quite attractive.”

“A niece? Wife’s friend? Au pair?”

“No. Can’t be. She’s not on any of the other photos.”

“The Korean peasant who sewed his shirt?”

“Oh, shut up. Look! On the back of the photo. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She’s his lover. Has to be. Only a secret lover says so much with so little. She’s being ever so cautious. Or so she tells the man. She’s hurt if the poor sod won’t carry her photo around all the time. She convinces him that his wife will never be suspicious if she finds it - after all, it could be anyone. Of course, she’s really hoping that the wife will find it. She knows that there is nothing more damning than an unmarked photo of a young woman.”

“Obviously, his wife did find out. That’s why he’s in this depressing little room looking so miserable.”

“Maybe. Let’s look around a bit more. He hasn’t brought much with him, has he? What do you think he’s upto?”

“Running away somewhere, I’d say. Maybe he’s waiting for his lover to meet him.”

“But why such a seedy place? Wouldn’t he want a romantic rendezvous now that he’s free? And why has he had to wait so long? Surely she’d have come straight away?”

“Well. They could be hard-up. She could be at work. Maybe he can’t phone her at work. She might not know he’s left his wife. So many possibilities. Let’s look in that plastic bag.”

“A gun! My god, he’s got a gun. Suicide! He’s going to shoot himself.”

“Keep calm. Don’t jump to conclusions. I suppose you’re right though. It does look like that. Maybe he left his wife and then his lover changed her mind about him.”

“But why is he sitting here waiting? Why doesn’t he just get it over with?”

“Oh, come on now. It takes a lot of guts to kill yourself. He’s trying to pluck up the courage. Or maybe he’s changed his mind. He probably got the gun in a fit of despair. Then came here to his little love nest to think things over. That’s why he’s got those photos with him. Why else would anyone carry around a whole pile of boring family snaps. I thought that was odd. He’s probably trying to convince himself that things weren’t so bad with the wife and kids. Trying to the good times together.”

“Yes. That sounds reasonable enough. But I wish he’d bloody well do something soon. I’m getting really bored.”

“You’ll have to learn to be more patient, my friend. Time is something we have too much of.”

“Look! He’s moving.”

“Why so he is”.

The man stirs. The sun has long gone down. The light from the window is now harsh, artificial. Wearily he stretches, cat-like, to wake his sluggish muscles.

He glances at his watch. Then puts the photos back in his wallet, except for the one of the young woman. He gazes at it for a little longer. His face tightens in anger. The word “bitch” is spat from his lips. He takes out the gun. Loads it. Weighs it in his hand.

Crash!

Three floors below, the front door slams shut. He listens. The footsteps don’t linger on the lower floors. They continue their upward journey. His stomach muscles tighten. He breathes deeply, trying to remain calm. The footsteps pause outside the ading room. He waits for the key to turn in the lock. Out he leaps.

“Phut! Phut!”

The bullets find a home in the soft, yielding flesh.

The girl staggers back from the door. Surprise and then pain distort the features shown in the photograph.

He kneels beside her. Then pulls her to him like an aggressive lover. “Now listen here, bitch! I want you to know. Before you die. That you’re only the first. I’ll get the rest of your family. Just as you got mine.”

Her eyes begin to close. He shakes her, violently.

“You don’t know who I am do you? Do you?”

Her eyes open. She looks at him, dreamily.

“ the bus you blew up? You know? The one you blasted with a suitcase bomb? My wife and kids were on that bus. Don’t you know that kids like to be in the back seats? I saw them off. Their faces pressed against the back window, waving furiously. They couldn’t keep still. They were so excited about their holidays. They were laughing when it went off. They were right over the fucking luggage. Right over your bomb. One minute they were laughing and the next they were nothing, just nothing.”

“Well, what a surprise.”

“Yes. Very interesting. You’d think they were lovers, wouldn’t you, the way he’s holding her body?”

“Yes, and he’s crying his eyes out as well.”

“Christ! He’s shot himself.”

“No! Now why on earth did he do that? He said he was going to kill the rest of her family, didn’t he?”

“Must have felt guilty or something. Killing is never how you think it’s going to be.”

“Well, you should know.”

“I’ve done my time!”

“Sure. Sorry. Well, now what? Shall we go and look somewhere else?”

“Oh no, certainly not. I think we can have a lot of fun with these two.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I think next time we’ll let her know what’s coming. Make it a bit more dramatic.”

“Could we give her a gun as well then?”

“No. I don’t like too much noise and I prefer something a little more subtle than a shoot-out”

“Well, I like a good fight. Look. Let me arrange one and then you can have them. I think I might have them making love or something. After all, they did look like lovers.”

“Well, alright. After all, they’ll have arrived by now. Probably got a few thousand years ‘till they’re out. Time for plenty more games.”

“Sure. That’s the spirit. Great invention, eh?”

“What is?”

“This purgatory business, of course.”

Flying south

He didn’t sleep much that night. In fact, he hadn’t slept well for many a night. He looked at the bed-side clock. The green, glowing arrangement of dots and lines told him it was only 5.30. Vague twitterings could be heard outside his window.

“Today’s the day.”

He lay in bed a little longer, savouring the thrill of his carefully planned journey. Images of escape committees and carefully concealed tunnels hovered on the edge of his consciousness.

“Stop it!” He said to himself, chuckling. “After all, you can’t exactly call this place a prison. Most of them are well-intentioned.”

In spite of himself, his thoughts slipped easily into a huge wooden hut in which the prisoners were all young girls. They sat in endless rows, silently painting the dials of clocks. Mechanically, in synchrony, they licked their brushes to a fine point, dipped them into luminous green jars and then carefully spotted the magical, glowing liquid onto the clock faces. “Don’t lick the paint brushes.” He shouted. “The paint is radioactive.” They took no notice. How many licks would trigger off lip cancer? Nobody’s warned them. They don’t realise the danger. They might even paint their lips with the stuff. They turned to him in unison. Each blew him a kiss. A thousand luminous lips sped towards him from all directions. Down they swooped, comets plunging from an ink-black sky. He ran in terror. Any second he would feel one of those cold, green, kisses of death.

He jerked upright.

Christ!

He looked around. The familiar surroundings calmed his panic. It was just a dream.

The birds cheerfully welcomed his return.

Then he ed what day it was.

“Action,” he thought, “now’s the time to get up and go.”

Stealthily he climbed down from the high, single bed. As his feet touched the cold, bare floor he grabbed at the wooden headboard, eerily outlined in the weak dawn light.

“Steady on there. No noises. Don’t blow it now.”

He dressed quickly. His excitement mounting. From the tall white cupboard he removed a large canvas bag. Hurriedly, he stuffed it with shirts, socks, underclothes - all the usual, dull, uninteresting essentials. Then, with secret pleasure, he gathered together his treasures. port, Fodor’s Guide to , “Chinese poets of the late T’Ang”, camera, ipod.

“Ready!”

He carefully slid the window open and paused for a last look round the room he knew so well. He felt like crying - a little. But mostly he felt like singing. He did neither. With a whispered “Adios!” he was through the window and onto the frost-sparkled lawn. The cold March air clawed at his lungs. He gasped.

“Won’t be like this in La belle .” He grinned.

Round to the front of the building he crept, avoiding the gravel drive, and made for the gate.

Once he was out in the country lane, he relaxed a little. Now he sang. Now the words of a favourite Neil Young song echoed in his head – “Bound for Glory”.

He beat out the joyful rhythm on the side of his bag “Oh boy, old Neil could certainly write a great song, and what a performer. He certainly put his heart and soul into that one”.

A cow looked up at him as he ed.

“And a good morning to you.” He bowed solemnly.

The cow gazed at him, unperturbed, and continued to chew lazily on a mouthful of grass.

“Enjoying your breakfast, I see. Well, I must say I envy you. I myself have not yet broken my fast. However, I do intend to dine shortly with a lady friend, so I’ll say adieu.”

He walked on a few yards, paused, and retraced his steps.

The cow looked up at him again.

“Should anyone ask as to my whereabouts you may inform them that I can be found at my summer residence. In Nice, that is. Nice. . So, au revoir mademoiselle.”

Eventually the long walk took the edge off his excitement. He began to feel hungry. His feet and tros were cold and wet. He started to worry about Maureen. Will she make it? What if they miss the bus? There wouldn’t be another one until tomorrow. By then they’d know we’d gone AWOL. They’d come and get us for sure. The problems and doubts vanished as he turned into the square and saw her standing there. His heart skipped. She looked so small and delicate. And lost. So lost. So alone. She saw him. Her face beamed. She looked so pale.

“Are you alright?” he whispered as she wrapped her arms around him.

He felt her tears run down his neck.

“Yes. Yes. I’m alright now. I was so worried. They nearly saw me. I’d forgotten the rose you gave me. I had to go back for it and I was so noisy. And then you weren’t here. And I felt so silly standing here by myself at this time of day.”

She squeezed him tightly once more and then pulled away.

“Your tros are soaked. What happened?”

“Must have been from the grass. I didn’t notice.”

She fussed over him. “You must take more care of yourself.”

“But why? You do enough of that. Come on. We’ve time for a quick breakfast before the bus comes.”

They crossed the square to a small cafe.

“Terminus café.” Read the sign above the door. “Hope the food’s not terminal.” She squeezed his hand.

He opened the door and a blast of steamy, bacon-tinged air enveloped them. His glasses misted up and for a moment he couldn’t see.

“Sorry mate.” He said to an amorphous dark shape as his bag hit something soft.

“Hey! Mind where you’re putting that.” Replied a gruff voice, “nearly did me a mishap with your bleedin’ bag. What you got in there? Bleedin’ Crown jewels?”

They found room at a small table awash with tea and piled with bean-covered plates.

“Table for two, madam?” He pulled back the chair for her.

“Thank you, kind sir.” She smiled nervously as she squeezed into the narrow space, banging her knee against the table leg. Pain flitted across her face.

He took her hand. Stroked it soothingly.

“Maureen. It’s going to be alright. You’ll see. We’re just ing through. This is just ten minutes out of the rest of our lives. We’re on our way now. On our way.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I’ll be alright when we really get going. When we’re on the boat. Then I’ll know we’re going to make it.”

“Hey. You two lovebirds. Come on. Hurry it up. Wha’d’yu want?”

They looked round. Behind the tall counter-top a fat, swarthy, bearded man in grease-stained white was trying to attract their attention. Clouds of steam billowed round him vainly trying to douse the glow of a cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

“Ah! The head chef awaits our requirements.”

He turned towards the mist-shrouded interloper.

“If you would be so kind, we would like a pot of China tea and four slices of toast, preferably cinnamon.”

The cigarette almost lost its precarious hold as a guffaw erupted from resonant depths via a dark, cavernous orifice.

“Hey, Joe! Bloke ‘ere. Wants Chinky tea and sinu… something toast.”

“Is ‘e the prince of Wales?” Responded an unseen voice from behind the counter.

“Don’t fink so. Hey you. The guv’nu wants to know if yu the bleedin’ Prince of Wales.”

“I said ‘Prince of Wales’ not ‘bleedin’ Prince of Wales’. Yu big fat commie. If ‘e isn’t royalty give ‘im wot we got and if ‘e is royalty give ‘im wot we got, politelike.”

“Alright. Pot u tea fu two an’ 4 rounds u white cumun up.”

“I think we’ll have to give some consideration to recruiting new domestics.” George whispered across the table.

The breakfast arrived soon enough, and George attacked it with gusto. Between mouthfuls of toast, he gently questioned his companion.

“Now. Got your port?”

She rummaged through her handbag, “Yes”

“Travellers cheques?”

“Yes”

“Arthritis pills?”

“Yes”

“Black silk nightie?”

“George!” she giggled, as though her last 60 years had been a young girl’s daydream. He took her hand, smearing it with melted butter, “How I love to hear you laugh. I can’t wait to see your face when we hit the Cote d’Azur. You’re going to love it.”

With a paper hanky she wiped the butter from her hand then dabbed at her nose with it, sniffing as discretely as she could.

“Oh, George. Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? I’m so worried about leaving the home. It wasn’t so bad you know. And they won’t ever let us back in.”

“We aren’t coming back, Maureen. Never again. We’re starting a new life in a new country. Sun, sand and sea. That’s where we’re heading. No more cold, no more snow, no more ‘lights out now Mr. Thompson, it’s ten o’ clock’. We were fading away Maureen, fading away. Within two years we’d be nodding off in front of a blaring television in a room filled with others just the same. And do you think those poor sods can make sense of what they’re watching? They see the flicker, that’s all. Movement and noise. They’re like babies, shapes and sounds, that’s all. Do you want to be like that? Do you?”

“No. But.”

“No buts, Maureen. The bus leaves in 5 minutes. It’s now or never.”

“Better make it now then,” she replied as she stood up, “it’s here.”

He glanced out of the window, then held out his arm, “May I escort you to your carriage, mademoiselle?”

“But of course, monsieur.”

“A front or rear seat?” He asked her.

“A middle one, George. They don’t go up and down so much. It’ll make the journey much smoother, you’ll see. Stop us getting travel sick.”

“Can I have the window seat then?”

“If it’ll stop you sulking, yes.”

“Oh Maureen. I wasn’t sulking.”

“Your wrinkles give you away, George. They twitched. They always do that when you’re not getting your own way. Now sit down. The bus is starting.”

“Your bag! Where’s your bag? My God! You didn’t bring one. I never saw it.”

“It’s all taken care of. I left it with the inspector when I got here. He said he’d put it in the luggage compartment for me. Everything’s under control George. Just relax. your heart now. At your age you have to be careful.”

“Can’t help it Maureen. I’m so excited. Hey! Look! It’s Simpkins the postman, on his way to Stalag fourteen.”

And then they were off. The bus slowly made its way down winding country lanes until it reached the motorway.

“Now we’ll pick up some speed.” George told her, “We’ll reach Dover in no time”.

Maureen snuggled down into the seat, “Tell me again about what it’s going to be like, George.”

So, George began an oft-repeated monologue outlining their plans with details of the long journey by bus, boat and bus again down through to its sunny south coast. “And the hotel, George, it will be nice won’t it?”

“Nice?” George replied, “Nice? Not only will it be nice but it’ll be slap bang in the middle of Nice. Nice and in Nice – can’t beat that can you?”

“And it will be warm won’t it George?”

“Warm”, he replied, “I’ll say it’ll be warm – warm as toast. Bikini weather. And you’ll put those French lasses to shame.”

She blushed at the thought. “Well, I don’t know, George. I’m not so sure it’ll be that warm.”

“But it’s the nights I’m looking forward to”. He chuckled suggestively.

“Oh, George, don’t be so saucy.”

“No, not that so much,” he replied, “Although there’ll be plenty of hanky panky, I hope. No, it’s the warm evenings. Sitting out on a pavement café, sipping wine, looking out to sea and just watching the world go by. I just love those warm evenings – it’s a different world.”

“But what about the food?” Maureen asked, “I’m not sure all that strange stuff is going to agree with me, it’ll set off my indigestion.”

“I’ve plenty of Rennies.” he said, “Enough to last a lifetime. I wasn’t sure you’d be able to get them over there. But Maureen, love, that’s going to be half the fun. Trying out new things. We’ve been stuck in a rut for so long now. Same old food, same old day trips, same old people. The monthly visits from our bored kids and their even more bored, noisy offspring. Everything’s going to be so new and so different. Every day we’ll go on a different walk, go to a different café, try strange food. And the evenings. Imagine, dancing under the palm trees every night. The warmth, the moon, the stars, the sweet sound of music, the gentle breeze, the scent of flowers on the air. It’s going to rejuvenate us, it’ll knock years off us. And then there’ll be the days out to new exciting places. And then

there’s the museums and the art galleries. In Fodors it says there are 15 museums just in Nice. And then there’s the old city to explore. It’s a maze of narrow streets and is full of old churches and palaces. A bit different from being stuck out in the middle of nowhere for all those years, isn’t it?”.

But Maureen had dozed off, comforted by the rhythm of the bus and by the repetition of George’s all-too-familiar story. And then George’s eyes also started to feel heavy until once again he was in the hut gazing at the young girls with their bright green, radiant lips. He opened the door, left the hut and then found himself in the more familiar surroundings of the Dounreay nuclear facility he’d worked in for 40 years. He ed the dire warnings to operators like him. “If anything goes wrong and there’s a leak of radioactive material it’ll be deadly for 20,000 years.” Mechanically, he enacted the old, familiar routine. “Valve 6 to open. Cross-check. Air vent 4 to close. Cross-check. Pump 2 to operate. Crosscheck.” It was easy. Fail-safe. “Lower control rods into core. Cross-check. Lower control rods into core. CROSS-CHECK. Malfunction. Malfunction. For fucks sake George, lower those rods into the fucking core. Malfunction. Malfunction. Emergency. Emergency. Reactor core overheating. George, George, what the fuck have you done? Get those rods down. 10 seconds to meltdown. Emergency. Emergency.”

Maureen woke with a start. “In 5 minutes we will be arriving at our final destination. Please gather all your personal belongings and do not leave anything behind. Directions to the ferry are clearly displayed at the bus stop.” She looked over at George and gently nudged his arm. Nothing. “George,” she whispered in his ear, “We’re here”. But George was no longer desperately trying to avert a nuclear disaster, nor was he on his way to . He would never bask in the warmth of the Cote d’Azur. He was destined only for the cold slab of the pathologist’s dissecting table as an explanation was sought for his sudden, unexplained death.