DAVID MORRIS

J.

TROLLEYED

This book is dedicated to all those who have helped me create it Pete Morris (for encouragement and shelter), Steve Morris (for shelter), Sally Palmer (for being my rock for the last 7 years), my 3 children Donna, David and Lucia (for being a constant inspiration to me) and of course those characters who have (unwittingly) given me food to consume and regurgitate. This is a book of fictionbut it could be anybodys truth

Any similarity of the characters to anybody, living or dead, is purely coincidentalso it is.

2011 David J. ISBN 978-1-257-63405-7

Morris.

All

rights

reserved.

1 Apathetic Man 2 I, Abject 3 Be Wilder 4 Bonhomie and Brinkmanship 5 Hello Again 6 Dilemna For Mayhem 7 Mashed 8 Paralytically Parallel 9 A Fiend In Need 10 The Incubus Arrival 11 Tiddly-Om-Pom-Pom 12 A Severe Pounding 13 More Truth, Less Ruth 14 Another One Bites The Sand 15 A Mirror CracksAgain 16 Averse To A Void 17 Childsplea 18 Never Look A Gift Horse In The Eye 19 Gone Fishing 20 Salopia Utopia 21 Salopia Myopia 22 A Soldier To Cry On 23 The Crispness Of Christmas 24 - Its Only Just Begun 25 Little Green Boy 26 The Horse That Broke The Camels Back 27 Demon Seed 28 Bless Me Father For I Have Sinned 29 Man, happyreturns 30 A Probable Prodigal 31 Effacing The Fear 32 - Dont Know Where, Dont Know When 3

5 24 34 50 72 91 113 131 146 156 171 183 195 204 214 226 233 234 242 244 259 273 288 314 322 344 358 380 402 418 438 455

33 A Cute Disorder

473

1
Apathetic Man

Cheers mate! Michael eyed the pint glass before him

with lascivious intent. The volume of black liquid contrasted starkly with its creamy, white head. He retreated several steps and ran towards it. Before he reached the bar he jumped, diving head first into the black, liquid abyss mouth agape. He felt himself engulfed as the creamy froth swallowed his Doc Marten boots. He was experiencing true 5

bliss as his body swirled and somersaulted like a dolphin; his mouth formed the similar permanent grin of the mammal as the luscious ebony poured into it. He luxuriated in its taste and smell, until the beautiful aroma of his Guinness was slowly replaced by a foul, acrid stench. He slowly raised his eyelids and was faced with a horrifying, gaping orifice; the raucous commotion of the snoring was like decrepit farm machinery and the noxious fumes emanating from within its source reminded him of bad meat. His wifes open mouth was less than three inches from his nose. He almost gagged as he turned his face away, while he could still maintain control of his breathing, and the LCD display of the clock-radio registered its numbers on his brain. Shit! he said. It took him a few seconds to realise what day it was. Shit! he said again, when he realised it was Monday. He rubbed his cheek and emitted a third and final shit as he became aware of a need to shave. Michael Madigan was the manager of a branch of Wine Merchants based in Shoreditch High Street in London Benders Wines. He always felt a touch perturbed by the fact that he had to open the store at nine oclock in the morning especially on Mondays. How he hated Mondays! He felt a throb of guilt for likening himself to the masses. Everybody hates Mondays, he thought. Not me! I dont. I love Mondays! I think they are the best! He lied to himself. He lied to himself excessively. Who is going to use an off licence at nine oclock on a Monday morning? A few bumbling, piss-sodden winos buying their first daily fix of Olde English and an occasional red-nosed businessman, for his half-bottle of Famous Grouse? He felt anger at having to vacate his warm, secure pit in order to pamper to these sad, weak humans. 6

Bastards! he mouthed. His wife grunted and rolled over porkily. He hurled the quilt aside, content to put distance between himself and what he thought of as The Thing. He trundled, zombie-like, to the toilet and dropped his bombs, at which point, he encountered his second foul stench of the morning. The stools which emanated from his sphincter were a distressing, distorted, watery mass of yellow-brown ooze and the stench was horrendous. Jesus, that is HORRIBLE! He inhaled deeply, eyes closed, his head resting on his chest. It was horrible, but it was his, and he savoured the aroma of his stale stools as much as any of the chicken phals to which he felt he had become addicted, even detecting a slight similarity to the ferociously hot curry in the evil-smelling fumes. He returned from his olfactory heaven and tore a large piece of toilet tissue, the resulting deposit of wipe disgusting even himself albeit momentarily. The small nodule of faeces which had found its way on to his finger did not perturb him. Id better wash this, he said, and then thought he had better power-shower the exit-hole, as the distressing mixture may cause him later exasperation, which he affectionately termed arsenob. No thank you, I do not fancy that one little bit, my son not at all. Michael spoke to himself incessantly throughout his life, both inwardly and outwardly. He thought nothing of it. He thought everybody did it. He pondered Theyre all shit-scared, those fuckers out there - shit-scared of not being normal. They close their minds to their own individuality, scared of being cast out ostracised, ridiculed! They all talk to themselves - I know they do. They cant fool me! They get caught talking to themselves and they feel the need to justify it. First sign of madness, ha! 7

Just be your self. BE YOUR SELVES YOU WEAK FUCKERS! He despaired for his fellow beings. He sometimes wondered whether he really was Homo sapiens. Perhaps he was not? Perhaps he was an alien unwittingly planted in the midst of all these humans; sending back data to his alien brethren. Of course he was not permitted to know he was an alien, or he would blow his cover he wouldnt be able to do the job which he had been sent to do. It all appeared to make sense for a second. Maybe? Maybe Im a spy an alien implant? Bond from beyond! Shut the fuck up, you soft cunt! He castigated himself, and tore a piece of tissue to wipe the brown globule from his finger, and, having inhaled the finger fumes one glorious time, washed the offending digit after poking it into the Imperial Leather. He glanced at his watch. Fucks sake, is that the time? It was two minutes past eight. He had a half-hour tube journey to endure, sandwiched by two ten-minute walks. Yet again he would open up the shop in the nick of time. He was due to commence work at least thirty minutes before opening for business in order to prepare the previous days takings for banking while the store was closed. Fuck that shite! was Mikes answer to that. Indeed, his answer to many, many demands upon himself. He lit a Marlboro, dressed in his usual expeditious manner, tightened his lips as he kissed his wife goodbye, shouted goodbye to his children and slammed the front door shut behind him. He was on his miserable way. The icy wind howled its bad-tempered chill down Brixton Road, blowing open his overcoat. Michael thrust his left hand in one pocket opening his coat, turned to one side to allow the wind to blow back the other side and swung his left arm back across himself, thus clamping the 8

coat tight to his shivering bones his right arm placed strategically behind his back, protecting his cigarette from the gale. He refused to button his coat. His mother had always forced him as a child to wear his coat tightly closed. ZIP UP AGAINST THE COLD, MIKEY BOY, YOULL CATCH YOUR DEATH! were the words his mother used to batter into his young head. He had not wanted to do that. He had wanted to open up for the cold, and indeed, in his later, teenage years, had done so. He recalled walking against previous bone-shivering blasts, coat flapping hysterically in the wind, the chill gnawing at his bones freezing his gonads but he was himself. He could choose. He was his own man (alien?). If he wanted icy testicles he could have them. Fuck the wind! He was tough then and he could take it he thought that he was still tough, but slightly more mature and likened himself to a strong-tasting cheese. A more sophisticated, rebellious sort! he uttered senselessly. A couple of secretarial types glanced at him quizzically and scornfully as they high-heeled past him. Spread em, he whispered, and smiled through his gale-enforced grimace, happy that hed had the last word again. He took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked it into a parked car. He arrived at the Oval underground and the hatred surfaced. He wanted to stop in his tracks before he crossed the barrier, stretch his fists up to the heavens and scream FUCK THIS SHITE! until his lungs felt ready to puncture, but continued walking toward the ticket-man. Old Street please, he groaned. A yellow ticket spewed forth from the slit, coupled with an apathetic look of disdain from the aged, black, uniformed man caged behind the window like a depressed budgie. Thanks, replied Michael, and as he made his way towards the escalator, the words maybe tomorrow 9

mumbled hopelessly from his lips; he wasnt quite sure what he meant. He stepped on to the moving staircase and remained motionless on the right hand side as a seemingly endless line of human flotsam scurried like rats down the left. He held a tiny amount of begrudging respect for those on the right, as if they and he were alike in their dislike for the descending metal steps, leading to the tunnels of Hades. And yet, the bastards on the left were willing themselves down there, actually welcoming this maze of madness with outstretched arms. They should perish, he whispered impishly, and he toyed with the notion of slyly moving his left foot toward the oncoming rush of feet, as he imagined the scenario one of them would be certain to catch his mischievous foot and stumble into the bastard in front, who, in turn, would stumble into another bastard in front, thus causing a domino effect of tunnel-loving bastards, tumbling downwards, culminating in a heap of bruised and bloodied bastards at the bottom. Perhaps one bastard would catch his tie in the bottom step as it levelled out his ugly, bloated face gradually changing colour from red through to purpleyblue, as his helpless limbs flailed violently in desperate futility, hopelessly attempting to cling on to his existence. No good. Too late. Dead. You wouldnt have perished if youd had no tie, he mumbled childishly, as if death was justified by the wearing of a certain piece of clothing. He received another curious glimpse or two. Fuck it Mikey, you gotta stop doing that! Nah, fuck em! Tie-wearing bastards! Hope you all die of asphyxiation blue-faced fuckers! A distant rumbling echoed malevolently, followed by a rush of air, which was urgently followed by the obligatory rush of humans toward the platforms. Michael enjoyed a brief respite of pleasure at this stage. One could either head to the left platform to go south or to the right to travel north 10

 it was impossible to discern from which direction the train was approaching. He hoped it would not be his train, as he would have to embark. However, if it were not, he would have the pleasure of witnessing the comical sight of embarrassed-looking suit-wearers, panting for breath on the empty platform no train! The train arrived at Michaels platform. Shit, he breathed, no fun. He revelled in his infantile outlook. He thought of it as another facet of his character which separated him from his peers the more the better, as far as he was concerned. He sardined himself on to the commuter-laden, hellbound train; the diverse aromas of false cleanliness attacked his nasal senses - perfume, after-shave, deodorant. He loathed it. The proximity of these sweet-smelling, grimfaced people to his own sweaty torso caused him to mentally retch. He did what he did each morning in order to enable himself to endure this satanic journey he scoured the carriage for attractive females. This situation usually provided him with a fair share of facial eye-candy. Marvellous opportunities presented themselves to cause great embarrassment to these beauties. He scanned the carriage for a potential target. He was seeking out his prey. There, he thought, as he fixed his greedy gaze upon a pretty young lady; she was seated at the end of the row of seats further down the carriage but not too far away. She looked about twenty-one or twenty-two years old; she had short, boyish, blonde hair. She was dressed in a generic uniform of high heels, stockings, a dark, short skirt, matching jacket and light-coloured blouse all of which were covered by her luxurious, light-brown, knee-length coat. She was sitting, straight-shouldered, head up, staring confidently at the advertising material above the opposite seats. Michael imagined the milk of her bosoms underneath her crisply-ironed blouse, ebbing and flowing in unison 11

with the vibrations of the train. This caused a minor stirring sensation in his loins. He attempted to position himself suitably so that the woman was able to spot him, the bodily contact making it a real effort; he glared intently at her. At this juncture he was unaware of every other body in the carriage except his own and his quarry. Eventually she would cast a cursory glance in his direction and catch him staring at her he knew this was the case it always happened it never failed. The inevitable peep materialised a few minutes later. He smiled carnally and a little insanely she turned her face away almost immediately, slightly embarrassed, slightly perturbed, he suspected. He waited. The second look would normally follow within a couple of minutes, but not on this occasion this one was obstinate. Go on darlin, youre itchin to look again! Just do it! She did not. Shit! Perhaps he had been a little too demented but he refused to give in. He continued to stare at the obviously distressed female, who was now shifting a little uncomfortably in her seat. Go on look at me! Bitch! She did. A whole five minutes had passed since her first glance. She looked at him. He reciprocated with a Jack Nicholson smile toothy and fiendish. On this occasion she awarded him a look of complete contempt. How dare I smile at you! Bloody cheek Ive got! At this point in proceedings he had to wait again and hope. He must wait and time his moment precisely - also praying she would not alight in the meantime. It happened often, too often. And when it did it irked him it robbed him of his moment. The train pulled into Moorgate, the station before Old Street. Dont you dare move dollface! Stay the fuck still. Dont you even dare get off this train! 12

He could not look at her at this stage, as this would ruin his final glory, but he could see her through the corner of his eye. She would be doing likewise, afraid to look at him directly, for fear of encouraging this weirdo to do something more sinister. The train stopped. The girl remained seated. Michael loved it. He could now look at her again. She would not, he suspected, return his look for a while, but she would be aware of his gaze and she would return it before the train pulled in at Old Street. She knew he was staring at her he knew that she knew. And then, it happened she cast him a glance and he seized the moment. He would not let it slip. With his eyes as wide as saucers and nostrils flared like a demented baboon, he positioned his tongue, and slowly and purposely, allowed his denture to emerge from his mouth, replacing it almost instantly. The shock and horror-filled countenance of his victim was an absolute joy to behold for Michael. The train halted half a minute later and he stepped onto the platform, walking rapidly and merging into the flow of bodies, his face was a picture of beaming contentment. He emerged moments later from the underground feeling rather happy with himself and quite pleased with life in general, and proceeded to amble the ten minutes to his shop. It was eight forty-five. He arrived at five minutes before nine. Two punters were prepared to purchase their breakfast. All right lads, give us five minutes will ya? he shouted as he approached the two hunched tramps. They were regulars and he knew them quite well. He even admitted to himself to rather liking one of them. His name was Steve, a heavy-set, balding, red-faced, thirty-something Irishman, and the more agreeable of the two. They had chatted several weeks earlier in one of Steves rare sober states, and Michael had learned about his apparent bad fortune. He was accustomed to winos sob stories, and he 13

always promised himself to never entertain them. These fables were solely a means to an end a bottle of Olde English cider on tick. Although he actually associated with these losers spiritually, not socially and could sympathise, and at times empathise with them, he refused to be taken for a mug. He was no patsy. And yet he believed the stories his wino friend had related, despite the fact that, after their discourse, Steve had asked for a bottle of Olde English on tick until the following day Go on Scouse, give us a bottle. Ill pay ya in de mornin, after I cashed me giro, y know Im gud fr it! Bollocks Paddy! No problem Scouse, no problem at all son, uttered Steve, you take as long as you need, were not goin anywhere, are we Mick? His colleague grunted loudly in, what Mike assumed to be concurrence. Micks vocabulary was somewhat limited. Michael unlocked the door, entered the premises, and, before re-locking the door from the inside, poked his head through the opening and asked, Have yous two got any money? Ha! boomed Steve in mock sarcasm, have we got any money! Youre a roit one Scouse, so yare. Of course we got money. Mick, Mick, getcha fuckin poke outcha fuckin pocket show Scouse y fuckin money, y fuckin eejit! Mick dug his hands in each pocket of his filthy, piss-sodden attire as his limited sensory skills acknowledged Steve calling him, and eventually, pulled them out, grubbily; fists clenched tightly. He unclenched his hand in Michaels direction and showed him an eclectic mixture of coins foreign and English buttons, matches, nipped cigarette roll-ups and, what Michael observed to be, at least two dirty, crumpled five-pound notes. Fair enough boys! Shant be long! He turned the key in the lock. 14

Let the fuckers wait dirty, thievin, Irish bastards! He realised that he didnt like them much after all. After ridding himself of the eye-offending pair, and six flagons of cider into the bargain, Michael settled down to work, which constituted another Marlboro, a bottle of Schweppes orange juice (stolen, of course) and the reading of The Guardian. The front page headline concerning Bill Clinton and Boris Yeltsin bored him, the back page headline reporting on the Winter Olympics bored him; he decided on an early visit to the crossword. The sole distraction to his peace and quiet would be his customers. Why did they constantly disturb him? Why could they not patronise an alternative establishment? Why did they pick on him? It did not register with him that these people paid his wages. Inconsiderate cunts! he blurted. He didnt realise that hed spoken. Michael generally despised the people who walked through his door. They were arrogant. Rude. Obnoxious. Conceited. Smelly. Drunk. Tedious. Annoying. Snobbish. Small-minded. Violent. Petty. Garrulous. Ugly. The list of adjectives was endless. He felt apathy towards a few, actually liked a handful, and one particular customer he hoped, almost willed, to walk through the door. She was five foot four inches tall, slender, pretty, black and young. She had a tattoo of a small rose on her upper left thigh, her name was Michele and he had been having an affair with her for the previous two months. He knew it was wrong, immoral and unfair but it felt right. He was at peace with himself when he was in her company, and that is what he craved so desperately. He was continuously warring with himself, as a husband, a father and, apparently upstanding, responsible citizen of the community. He beat himself senseless over it. He knew it was not his vocation. He was not on this planet to be who 15

he now was, he was supposed to be someone (or something) else, but what that was eluded him. His life hurt him and caused him pain, and it should not. But when he was with Michele he did not hurt she was antiseptic, analgesic. He thought of her as the paracetamol that rid him of his headache he felt slightly guilty at comparing her, his oasis of beauty and calm in a desert of normality, drudgery and tedium, to a little white pill. His mind continued to focus on his black beauty and their time together. She had walked into his shop three months earlier, causing an instantaneous, lustful want. He had to bed this girl. He must. His mind wandered He had been washing the floor and shed opened the door to enter, instantly stopping, and preventing herself from stepping on the wet, clean floor. He looked at her face and read her thoughts. No, no, please! Come in some wino will probably walk in, in five minutes anyway, and vomit all over it. She had laughed and any ice-breaking exercise had been rendered unnecessary. He had not allowed the moment to escape. Which of my wares would you care to purchase? Im sorry? What would you like? Ohertwenty Silk Cut please. And she smokes! Michael had always held an inexplicable attraction towards smoking females. His very first words to his wife on their first date, those (what felt like to him) scores of years ago had been, Giz a ciggy! He had been attracted to her by her smoking action she looked so cool. He had always felt a certain sexual excitement during his teenage years, aroused by the smoking actresses in the black and white films he watched. Jean Harlow, Lauren Bacall, Marlene Dietrichperhaps it was the female lips sucking on a thin stick? He did not know. 16

Michele had forgotten to bring her purse with her from the Ladbrokes across the road where she had recently begun her employ. He handed her the cigarettes, and, in his nonchalant manner, told her to pay him whenever. She promised to bring the money across immediately, and he had calmly responded with an apathetic waving gesture. From that day forth she entered the shop almost each day (he had felt a little insulted when she hadnt) and a comfortable rapport had developed between the two. She knew that he was married; the ring on his finger had provided that information. Perhaps she felt a certain degree of safety, as if his gold band had caused him to approach, and interact with, the female gender in a non-sexual manner (needless to say, it had not). However, nothing sexual was ever alluded to in their many conversations until one Friday evening. Michael was on the point of locking up. He was about to turn the key in the lock, when he glanced through the glass panels in the door, and spotted her his masturbatory stimulus. Michele was standing across the road, awaiting a safe opportunity to cross. He knew she was intent on visiting him, if only to buy cigarettes or a packet of Wrigleys. She approached the door and he held it open with a welcoming smile and inviting gesture she returned the smile, entered and he locked the door behind her. Mine! Mine! Youre all mine now! No Mikey, no! Dont go there! He apologised to himself for his sordid thoughts. Twenty Silk Cut please, Michael. Sorry! What for? You were locking up. I know. But you were coming across, so I stopped locking up. Oh shit! Ive shown my hand. He cursed himself. He passed the cigarettes across the counter and she said nothing. She always said a thank 17

you. On this occasion she stood motionless, silent and staring. Ive fucked it! Silly motherfucker! I want you. He had not fucked it. He was caught completely off guard. He knew what shed said, what she had meant by it and still he played out his Joe Cool act. You want me to what? The words came out a little more nervously than intended. She smiled, paused for a second or two (it felt like minutes to him) and replied; I want you to come home with me. Now his mind began to race. She hadnt said I want to fuck you she wanted him to come home with her. Did she want him to stroll with her? Did she want his opinion on her new curtains? Did she want him to put out the rubbish for her? Did she have a spider in the bath? What the fuck is going on? He remembered how she must have observed his incredulity and she finally said; If you want me to spell it out, I will I WANT YOU TO FUCK ME! Oh my good Lord! She said it! Michaels face reddened, his loins tingled and he wanted to bone her there and then, next to the Curly Wurlies. Ding! The sound of the bell on the door, as a customer entered the shop awoke him from his thoughts. Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Yes please, what can I get you? You fuckin baldy, bearded, four-eyed thought-wrecker! Just a box of matches please. You fuckin wanker! Go on Mikey, give him his matches, light one, set the box alight and burn his fuckin beard off! He imagined the customers beard catching fire, flames rising, catching the greased curls of his remaining hair the skin catching, flaking, melting and dropping to the floor eventually, the flames enveloping his head as he raced around the shop with desperate futility, like a headless 18

chicken in a farmyard crashing blindly into the fixtures and sending the bottles plummeting and smashing on the floor. Ten pence please! Fucker! Inferno head slipped a coin on to the counter, retrieved his box of potential head-burners, and left. You lucky man! Michael said, and returned calmly to his crossword. Six oclock arrived and Michael had completed approximately half of his crossword. He blamed it on the intrusion of too many customers. He blamed a lot of things on a lot of people. He had not had a bad day at the office, but his morning optimism and good humour had failed to continue throughout the course of the day, and (or because?) Michele had not shown her face. He was yearning for a cool pint of black beer. The Hand and Diamond was situated, literally, next door but one to his shop. He often wished it wasnt there. More often than not he rejoiced in its close proximity. Dare he incur the wrath of his beloved? This wrath had been incurred on many previous occasions due to that wretched hostelry this wrath that menaced him. It wasnt his fault. If it were situated across the street, all would be well he could block it from his mind as he locked up and amble off to the underground, which would take him to his adoring family. But no - he had to walk past it. It was too much temptation for any man, especially when the pleasures awaiting him at home were few. Oh bollocks to it Mikey, drink is good! he justified, aloud. He set the alarm, locked up and walked next door. Hiya Deb, he shouted as he entered the public house. The girl behind the bar lifted her head, slowly, from her Sun newspaper. Hi Mike, pint is it? 19

Oh yes indeed it is me darlin! Im absolutely gaggin, so I am! He began to think pleasurable, sexual thoughts about the blonde, Cockney female whilst she poured his Guinness. He eyed her fingers on the tap of the pump and imagined them gripping his hot, sweaty penis. Slowly, sensually, moving up-down, up-down, gradually increasing the momentum, until their movement had matured into a pumping frenzy, causing him equal, and simultaneous amounts of pleasure pain; until the finishing line was in sight well and truly within the final furlong. When youre ready, Mike? The Cockney twang had caused Michaels horse to do a Devon Lock - it had fallen just short of the finishing line. Eh? What? Oh, sorry DebI was furlongs awayer miles away! What dyou want? Oh aye, yeah, one seventyfive isnt it? He felt a slight embarrassment as he placed the two pound coins in the hand, which seconds earlier had been milking his penis. Thanks love. He pocketed his change and retired to a corner to complete his crossword. He didnt like to sit at the bar in the Hand and Diamond, as many of his customers frequented the same place at this time of the day. He didnt wish to endure their company in his own time he didnt wish to endure their company in his work time either, but now, he was in control. It was his choice. Fuck em! he whispered. He acknowledged one of them, sat at a table, with a nod and a grimace (as if he was suffering from wind) as he walked to the furthest table possible. Hypocrite! No Im not! I would be if I just nodded to him, but I qualified it with a frown, so fuck you Mikey! The madness was inherent. He sat down, gulped half of his Guinness, and lit a cigarette. He was about to undergo a mind wander when he realised that this would be an open invitation for human jetsam to invade his space, like space-invaders. He instantly 20

took his paper from his pocket, spread it across the table and buried his head in the piebald squares of the crossword. He had erected his barrier lifted his drawbridge. He could now allow his mind free roam. Off you go mindwander away! His mind promptly raced to Michele. Where was she? Why had she not come to see him? Had she lost interest? Would they ever copulate again? Would he ever salivate over those huge, brown nipples? Now, now Mikey, dont debase this relationship with purely physical thoughts! Theres more to it than that, and you know it dont deny the emotional aspect. Bollocks! Who are you? Auntie fuckin Proops? No, Im your tender, thoughtful side, and you must listen, for I will preserve your relative sanity. Well, Im my tough, thought-FREE side, and I wish not to listen to your pontificating side, so fuck off, and retire from whence you came! Puff! Hom! HOMSIDE! This strange word dispersed his two warring factions, and into his head appeared his normal, abnormal self, as he recognised how the word homside sounded very similar to homicide. He thought of the word (and the deed) and spelled it slowly in his head; HOMICIDE! HOMICIDE the killing of homser nosorry! Men! The killing of another person the slaying of a man! The vision had been infiltrating his mind a little more often than was customary over the previous few weeks and he swiftly discharged it. He reprimanded himself for demonstrating a small, homophobic tendency but this, too, was inherent. HOMOPHOBIA a morbid dislike of homs! Shut up Mikey! Michael held no apparent, morbid dislike towards any particular section of the human race. Homosexuals. Women. Negroes. Jews. Aged. Young. Americans. Businessmen. Tories. Children. Pakistanis. Plumbers. 21

Mechanics. Scottish. Dentists. Tramps. Handicapped. Fat people. Drunks. Criminals. Librarians. Manchester United supporters. No. He held no discrimination. He liked to believe he treated all equally. He held a morbid dislike for the human race as a whole excluding, of course, his two children, who were part of him, thus qualifying for exemption. Need any help, Scouse? Y bin holdin ya head over dat crossword for ten fuckin minits, so yav mus be a toughn, isnt it? Michael raised his head with sheer, unadulterated dread. Quiet tnight, isnt it? the man continued. He was a middle-aged, Irish, semi-wino. A large man with a forest of curly, black, greying hair and a manic facial expression, dominated by an inane grin he was the Isnt it man. Oh no! Why? Why you? I fuckin hate you. Just piss off and leave me alone! Alright, he replied, lazily, hoping the Isnt it man would turn and leave, but he construed the solitary word as an invitation, and seated himself across Michaels table. Shes a good un dat Debbie, eh? Isnt it? Six pence short I was, eh? Let me off, she did. Let me off! Give it to her nex time, isnt it? Good un! Good un! Michael felt an urge to fold his Guardian as small as he possibly could, and pummel the skull of the Isnt it man with the hardened point, until he tumbled to the floor pleading for mercy (of which he would have none), blood pumping from his wounds. But he didnt. Another lucky man. Cold un, eh Scouse? Isnt it? Cold un! Yeah. Gonna get colder, they reckn, so they do. Reckn it will, they do, eh? Gotta, isnt it? Gotta get colder before it gets warmer, isnt it Scouse? Isnt it? This man was seriously deranged. No luck tday. SCOUSE! Fuckn gee-gees! Fixed, isnt it? All of it, fixed, isnt it? 22

Yeah. Last race. Last race! Favourite, it was, favourite isnt it? Eleven to eight on, odds on, eh? ODDS ON SCOUSE! Last foiver oi ad Scouse, eh? Las fuckn blue one stuck it on the fuckn nose, eh? Eh? EH? Michael lifted his head from his paper, which he had begun to read from the moment the Isnt it man parked his bloated buttocks in his immediate space. The face of the lunatic was glaring, psychotically, at him his eyes appeared to be on the point of emerging from their sockets, his nostrils were flared, hysterically. His thick, blubber lips were soaked in spittle his whole face, a red beacon. Michael felt a brief moment of trepidation. This man appears to be capable of severe criminal offences toward his fellow man! The moment passed quickly it was just the Isnt it man. On the nose! Got t, eh Scouse? Isnt it? Got t! Got t do it! Fuck me, it fell! It fuckn fell Scouse, eh? Tree fences out! Pfffrrrr! Michael felt a tiny saliva bullet land on his upper lip, and wiped it off instantaneously with the back of his hand twice- three times. He wanted to clean his lip with disinfectant and pour the remainder down the throat of the Irishman. He almost retched as he speculated whether any of the foul spray had contaminated his drink, which hed almost finished. Fuck it! He gulped down the remainder and walked out in silence. Cries of Your paper Scouse, isnt it? Dont forget your paper, eh? Isnt it? ISNT IT? echoed behind him as he entered the street. It isnt. Mike said stoically, and trudged wearily to the tube station.

23

2
I, Abject

Why cant you put the bastard towels back on the

rail when youve finished with them? snorted Samantha, the voice of the she-devil echoing across the landing, tearing into her husbands tormented brain. Fuck you! he whispered under his breath. Sorry dear, shant do it again, he apologised insincerely, the words that hed uttered on dozens of occasions - an automated retort to the fiend upstairs. 24

Michael Madigan and Samantha Mellie were married four years earlier a day that he had quite enjoyed. They had been blessed with two beautiful, yet somehow quite devilish children. Michael thought all children were devilish - horrible little selfish, spiteful, nasty humans! Yet his own ones had that something extra. He always secretly cursed (and thanked) his wife for that evident diabolical streak which lurked inside them. They couldnt have obtained it from him he was a nice man. Sarah was seven, Jonathan, two. Sarah, a beautiful angel-faced child, had long blonde flowing locks. She was very slightly built, but not thin. She was a thoughtful child, quiet and reserved and caring and selfless yet somehow sinister; Michaels daughter. Daddys little girl. A chip off the old block. Jonathan was different from his sister. He was dark-haired, again handsome, but his personality was loud and brash. He was selfish and threw regular tantrums. He was well built, stocky, and very strong for such immature years. He reminded his father of a Tazmanian Devil; Samanthas son. Also a chip off the loud, brash and selfish block. Sarah was four years old; Jonathan was unborn, when their parents had married. Jonathan was not allowed to attend the celebration due to his lack of life. Mike had always held an insane and unreasonable resentment towards his wife for not having the presence of his son at their wedding. She would suffer one day for that, he was certain of it. But he did have the memory of his beautiful daughter dancing with him at the reception, laughing, giggling, and so very happy. He remembered feeling so complete and whole at that particular time, and the memory was a major factor in preventing him buying a one-way ticket to the Mediterranean. The thud of his overweight wife descending the stairs jarred him back to reality. OPEN THE BOX! OPEN THE 25

BOX! screeched the hoard of brain-dead humans from the corner of the living room. Des OConnor was questioning a middle-aged, obese, Mancunian gentleman whether he would prefer to accept six hundred pounds or RISK LOSING ALL and OPEN THE BOX! Take the fucking money and buy a box of your own, coffinshaped! Cram your bloated torso into it, and I would head the queue, shovel in hand, ready for burial one less sad motherfucker to scourge these shores! Michael didnt like him. Quick Sam, hes gonna open the box! he exclaimed, somewhat sarcastically, to his wife as she entered the room. How much has he got? Fuck me! He sighed. Six hundred pounds, he replied. Soft twat! Sam shouted at the television. Michael shifted his eyes in her direction. He didnt like any swearing in the presence of his young children. Do you mind? He glanced towards his unaffected daughter. She had heard it all before and worse. Its past her bedtime anyway, Samantha mumbled, come on Sarah, up you go! This was his wifes way of telling her husband to carry their daughter to bed, which he did each night. He crouched on the floor while his daughter clambered onto his shoulders. He was so grateful not to be witnessing the fat Manc on the television, winning his brand new, state-of-the-art, sixteen-valve (with alloyed wheels), four-wheel-drive shiny shite-heap. The lucky bastard! he heard as he left the room. He despaired. Right darlin, what story are we reading tonight? The Princess and the Pea, daddy, replied Sarah. Im sure she does it just to humour me. I know shes a bit grown-up for fairy stories, but we both gain something from it, so Im gonna carry on reading them, so bollocks to you Mikey! 26

Michael had regular conversations with himself, in his head this was one of those occasions. His actions now justified, he continued. Right you are sweetheart, retorted dad, contentedly. He wandered off on one of his regular mind excursions as he climbed the stairs. What devastation he would feel if he was not allowed to be with his children! He had witnessed various friends and acquaintances of his undergo the trauma of separation and divorce. How they had altered physically and mentally; one of them had even attempted suicide. Fuck that shite, he thought. Watch your head, love, he warned Sarah as they entered the bedroom. Dad, I havent got a mirror on me. His expression altered to one of bewilderment, for a second or two, as he contemplated his daughters surreal reply. A smile appeared, as he understood her mentality. Thats my girl! so she was a real princess, see? as he ended the tale. Dad, I know. You say that every time you read it. Im not stupid, dad," answered Sarah. just like you are. My princess! he finished, his daughters reply failing to register with him. Now, go straight to sleep, youve got schooly-ooly in the morning. He thought how his own mother had said this to him, even at weekends. Now, why did she say that? Why did she say schooly-ooly in the morning when there was no schooly-ooly in the morning? The question irritated him. He was puzzled and wanted to know the reasoning behind his mothers inane statement. He was glad nobody, especially a doctor, could enter his head, otherwise, he knew he would be destined for the padded cell. 27

Its my head, and I will think whatever the fuck I want so all you sane fuckers out there can get to fuck! He knew he was a little abnormal, and was aware that he was showing it more each day he blamed it on the return of the pictures in his head, but they would disappear again soonhe hoped. He closed Sarahs bedroom door and followed the nightly ritual of entering his sons bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, and staring at his beloved sons angelic, sleeping face. Good God, hes gonna shag some tarts when hes older! He instantly felt guilt at having sworn in the presence of his young boy, albeit inwardly. He began to talk to his son, believing his words may penetrate his young brain whilst in its state of unconsciousness. Guiding him toward the righteous path not to make the same sorry mistake he, himself, had made. Do it the right way round, son. Meet a girl. Fall in love. Stay together. Have children. Be happy. Simple! Michael had done it the wrong way around. He had been happy originally before hed met Samantha, had his children, stayed together and had fallen in love (eventually). The only thing he had done in, what he envisaged to be, the correct chronological order was the meeting and, if he could defy the laws of physics, he felt that he would have done that the wrong way too. THE WRONG WAY ROUND!!!!!!!!!!!!! He screamed in his head. Needless to say, he was no longer in love. He had not been for over three years. He realised he was being a weakling for not leaving his wife. He was being unfair to her as well as to himselfand his children. And yet, he could not deprive them of having a father, the way he had been cruelly deprived. Not at any cost. He thought back to his childhood. Crying. Suffering. Beatings. Drinking. Pain. Screaming. More pain. Shouting. Lonelinessso much hurt. He was thirteen years old when 28

his father finally decided to leave his mother. Dad had finally grown tired of mum. Tired of the arguing. Tired of the yelling. Tired of the beating. Tired of the fucking (if they ever did do it anymore).And now, he was leaving. Leaving. Leaving to find another wretched victim for his abuse. Mike had wished for this day to arrive for many years. No more conflict. Paradise! But he was not supposed to feel like this. He was not supposed to cry. He was not supposed to feel wretchedness and emptiness. He was supposed to feel happiness, relief, calm. But he did not. After his father had patted him on the head and said Look after your mother son. Ill see ya round., he had stood completely still for minutes, his mother was a crumpled mess of tears and mucus on the sofa. He wanted to comfort her but he couldnt. He wanted her to comfort him but she couldnt. They were both alone. Why? The word swam around his head. Such a simple word! Why? He didnt know why he was asking the question. Why? Why, to what? Why what? Why am I feeling sad? Why am I beginning to cry? What am I crying for? Why are my mums arms not around me? Then suddenly, like an athlete from the blocks, he darted up the stairs, two, even three at a time, causing him to stumble, and headed straight for the bathroom, slammed the door shut, bolted the lock, sat on the toilet seat, and cried. Cried. Cried. Moaned. Cried. Wailed. And cried some more until his head ached. He had never cried so many tears in all his young life, through all the misery he had endured. Never like this! How could he instil that misery and desolation into his own children? He would not. I wont! I wont! You wont what? Eh, what? 29

You wont what? his wife repeated. Whatwont you? she inquired patronisingly, as if addressing their son. Ohernothing love. Whats up? he asked her. Youve been up here over half an hour. Is anything the matter? Yes, the sight of you makes my skin creep. No, nothings up, oh light of my life. I just dozed off for a while. Lets go down before we wake the lad, he replied. He heard the word puddled issue from his wifes lips as she turned and left the room. Dead right, he thoughtfully concurred, I amand one fine day you shall suffer the consequences of my puddlement. This strange word sent him off mind-roaming again. Puddlement? Puddlement?, he thought, no, thats not correct. Whats the noun for puddled ? Puddling? Puddlition? Puddlation? Perhaps puddlement IS right! He eventually decided to go downstairs and check the word addle in his dictionary, which would give him the correct noun version of his wifes odd vocabulary. He entered the living room. Cilla Black was now in the corner of his front room, singing a song about surprises. Samantha had returned to her position on the sofa and was sitting forward, clutching a kerchief to her bloated face as the credits on the television rolled. Oh fuck, he thought. He stepped over her legs and selected the dictionary from the bookshelves, instantly wondering whether the book had ever been subjected to the tender touch of his wife. He mocked himself for even contemplating such a ridiculous thought. A a agog, adhere, addressaddle, addle-headed, addle-brained, addled (confused in ones wits). Thats me! A-ha, ADDLEMENT! 30

He felt a glorious feeling of victory, over who or what he didnt knownor care. PUDDLEMENT! Right first time Mikey boy. He slumped on the armchair, contented. The ringing of the doorbell roused him from his torpor. Samantha was nowhere to be seen. Ill get it. He sighed inwardly. As he was about to open the door, he spotted his semi-naked wifes body dripping water on to the stair-carpet. Its okay Sam, theres no need to leave your nice, warm, relaxing bath. Ive got it. He felt gleeful at having caused his wife to extricate her bulk from the warm, liquid cocoon, due to his selfish slumber. Hiya Linda! he greeted, as he opened the door. Standing in the doorway was Linda, best friend of Samantha. She was twenty-six years old and strikingly attractive. She was dressed in a skin-tight black dress, trying its utmost to reach the middle of her thighs. Long, black hair flowed over her denim jacket and tiny, black pixie boots covered the two Es on his WELCOME mat. She cradled a bottle of peach-flavoured Concorde wine. Classy Mike thought, sarcastically. Quality gear, he suggested, looking directly at her half-exposed breasts. Pardon? Quality gear, he nodded in the direction of the bottle of liquid nestled in her arm. Oh, that? Yeah, good stuff that isdo you like it? He despaired. Yeah! he lied enthusiastically, I like the original one better though, more of a distinguishing palate than the peach, dont you think? She appeared a little embarrassed 31

and confused as she looked over his shoulder for her friend to save her. He detected her discomfort. You two going somewhere nice? he asked as he turned his back on the girl and re-entered the living room, completely uninterested in any retort he may receive. He heard the patter of pixie boots and the thud of swollen ankles climbing the stairs. His wife had ventured halfway down the stairs to meet her friend. He re-visited his hebetudinous haven the picture of two naked women, a bubble bath and an empty bottle uppermost in his mind. He smiled as his loins stirred and dozed off again. Shift your arse, slob! He awoke to the sight of his domineering wife looming, largely over him, like some huge, threatening grizzly bear. She was dressed in practically the exact garb as her friend. Lord Jesus! he thought, and closed his lids, resignedly. Come on Mike, let Linda sit down. Following this slightly more refined request, he reluctantly shifted his arse. Sorry Lin, I mustve dozed off. He dragged himself across the sofa to allow the girl a seat. Good Lord, what I would give to jump on dem der bones! So hows Linda? he inquired, apathetically. Im fine Mike, she replied in her affected, pretentious, almost Sloanish tone of hers. It reminded him of Rik Mayall in one of his many guises. So, where yous off tonight? Its a bit late innit? It was ten past nine. A silence ensued. Each female replied simultaneously. Samantha took charge. Well have a couple of drinks and probably go down Cleopatras for a bop. Cleopatras was a club a cattle market a place to go to indulge in sexual antics. Mike had been there many timesand indulged. No doubt youll pick up a couple of hunkies, intent on threading their needles you dirty rotten who-ers! 32

But its Sunday night. It closes the same time as the pubs. Whats the point? He began to gain some semblance of interest. Wellerwell probably go and have a curry after or something, Sam replied, somewhat suspiciously. Yeah, youll probably have something and Ill bet its not a bloody Chicken Korma, girlie! I thought you were skint, he said to his wife, slightly peeved. Lindas paying, he muttered under his breath. Lindas paying, Sam replied, predictably. Good God Lin, youre good to my wife, you are. What are friends for Mike? she instantly replied. For going down on all fours, with their naked bottoms in the air, while sucking my stump and getting a huge dildo rammed, methodically, into their dripping pussies! Thats what friends like you are for you horny fuck-bitch! Silence. I didnt say that aloud, did I? Surely not! He didnt think so, but was unsure. He began to worry. He looked at both girls faces, a look of checked panic on his face, but was reassured when his wife spoke. Well, are you fit honey? I sure am, replied Linda. Yeah, and dont you fuckin know it. Dont wait up hun, well probably be a little bit late. Bye! Samantha kissed him on the cheek. Bye, Mike, Linda cloned. He felt betrayed. Why had she not kissed him too? The front door closed. He lit a cigarette and trundled up to bed to masturbate.

33

3
Be Wilder

Hi honey, Im home! He knew his wife despised

his daily greeting. He did too. Daddy! Daddy! he heard from the living-room. The door flew open and Michaels children clambered towards him like Olympic hurdlers. Hello kids! He smiled and kissed them both as he lifted them into his arms. He walked through to the front room to confront his wife, laden with children three against one.

34

Youre late, said Samantha, almost nonchalantly, not bothering to raise her eyes from Brookside, as she scraped the dregs from the chocolate mousse container. Yeah, Im sorry darlin. I had a pint with the area manager after work. He turned up just before I closed and offered to buy. It wouldve been rude to say no. He wanted to discuss something with me, he lied. Michael lied a lot. Lie, lie and lie some more! Never give it to em straight otherwise youre bollocksed! Come off it Mike, youve had more than one. Samantha knew he was lying. She could smell it on him. She could tell by his demeanour. She was used to it and it bored her silly. Yeah, it was two actually, he lied again, as he set his children down. He had left the Oval tube station and entered the Greyhound for a further two pints. Oh shit! Eight-fifteen! Good God! Is that the time? Jeez, I never realised, sorry love. His wife raised her eyes, listlessly, from the television screen, looked at him for a second and whispered submissively, Forget it Mike. Come on kids, kiss your dad goodnight, she continued. He stood there, astonished, the children sat there, confused. Mummy was lifting herself from the sofa to take them up to bed. But mum, shouted Jonathan, daddy take us! Well tonight, mummys taking you up. Come on, she replied calmly. Sarah and Jonathan stared at their father, he gave a swift nod of the head, accompanied by a smile, and the children kissed him goodnight and left the room hand in hand with mother. Michael remained static in the centre of the room, wholly bewildered by the events, which had just occurred - his wifes behaviour had rendered him speechless. She has dropped a potential argument. She has a good case. She would have been right to argue shout swear scream threaten terrify. She did nothing! She gave in! 35

And, to ice the cake, she took the kids to bed. What the fuck gives? He was truly scared something was terribly wrong. He wished hed had another pint. Dont push it Mikey, just be grateful and praise the Lord. He yearned for Samantha to return from upstairs, in order to confront her to inquire about her newfound humility and calm, the first time he could remember witnessing it in approximately three years. His mind fished for answers and a possible scenario. Maybe she was stoned? Maybe shed attended a LEARN HOW TO BE HUMBLE AND KEEP YOUR MAN SWEET class? Maybe she didnt care? Maybe she was in love with another man? Ha! He derided himself for thinking such absurd notions and was brought back by the sound of his wife descending the stairs. He checked the clock it was 8:32pm. Good Lord! She mustve read them stories too! This was too much for his muddy brain to cope with. He raced to the fridge, in the kitchen, and opened a beer lit a cigarette, and stood waiting. She didnt enter. Oh dear! He re-entered the living room. Your teas in the oven. Its probably a bit frazzled. She had regained her position on the sofa to watch Family Fortunes and demolish her second chocolate mousse. Thanks, he replied. Silence ensued. Shes not gonna talk. Shes not gonna explain. I need to know. Oh fuck it, Ill go and eat me tea. He returned to the kitchen to perform the gratuitous gesture of imbibing - what he imagined was going to be - a dehydrated food-mess in the oven. What culinary delight am I to be offered tonight? Cardboardburgers and chips? Sausage and chips? Perhaps the majestic simplicity of egg and chips? Chips and friggin egg! (His mind wandered back to the film Shirley 36

Valentine, and Bernard Hill seated at the kitchen table, contemplating his chips and friggin egg with utter disdain.) Yum Yum, that will do nicely, as long as Ive got a portion of bullet-beans - soldered to the plate for accompaniment. He opened the door of the oven tentatively. The aroma pleasantly surprised him. The casserole dish inside surprised him more. He grabbed the oven gloves and lifted the lid, inquisitively, and was faced with food real food! He recognised it as beef Bourgignon, a little overcooked but, nevertheless it was beef Bourgignon. Now he was truly curious. Do I live here? Am I me? What goes on? He sat and wolfed it down voraciously, with a large chunk of French bread. Not bad, not bloody bad at all, Sam, he said, on completion of his repast, and lit a cigarette. The theme tune of The Nine O Clock News filtered through to the kitchen. He didnt expect Samantha to remain seated to watch the events of the day, and so waited for her to enter the kitchen and, within a minute, she had. What was it like? she asked, referring to the meal. Mmm, yeah, it was good, very good. Thanks! he replied, truthfully. Good. I took my time over it. I started it as soon as I got back from the school. This is it! he thought. Its gonna pour forth! Back to reality He braced himself. The expected onslaught failed to materialise instead, she asked him in a quiet, dignified manner, Would you like a cup of coffee? He felt pure, unmitigated astonishment as his usually querulous wife stared at him with a look of passive indifference. Eryes please, love. This was truly baffling his head was dazzled. He knew he had to force the issue, despite the potential fiery outcome. (Michael enjoyed confrontation.) 37

Sam? Whats going on? he asked meekly. What dyou mean? she replied, purposely failing to look at him as she filled the kettle at the sink. You know! Ive come in late, Ive had a few pints Oh shit! Two. Ive had two pints you prick! Too late. youve not shouted, youve taken the kids to bed, read em stories and cooked me a lovely tea. Im sorry, but its not you. That should do it that should be the catalyst. He increasingly anticipated an offensive. It did not happen nor did the retort which he was expecting. Do you mind making it yourself? Im going to run a bath and go straight to bed, goodnight. She left the kitchen and trudged upstairs. She hadnt kissed him. He didnt like this he wasnt comfortable. He was anxious. Had she gone mad? Had his own strangeness finally impinged upon his wifes sanity, causing her to metamorphose into a malleable, zombie-like being? He chose to dismiss the thoughts, switched off the kettle, took another beer from the fridge and walked through to watch television. All will be right tomorrow, he reassured himself, and within ten minutes, was snoring. He was awoken by a disturbing, fuzzing sound the television channel had shown its last programme of the night. God, thats loud, he mumbled, lazily. He lifted his eyelids painstakingly, and the visual chaos of black and white squares and horizontal lines assailed his weary eyes. It distressed him. He thought of the young girl captured by the television in the film Poltergeist as he yawned. Mary Lou? Carol Ann? Mary Beth? What the fuck was her name? He fixed his gaze onto, into and beyond the screen, and hoped it would capture him. 38

Take me! Take me! Come on telly, Im all yours. I offer you my soul ! He imagined a life inside the television. It would be simple, uncomplicated and free from stress. Bloody boring, mind you! But Id give it a go have ME you square fucker! He remained in readiness for several moments and, appreciating that it would not have him, felt a wave of envy toward Carol Ann, Peggy Sue or whatever her name was. Bastard! he blurted and clenched his fist at the screen; he flicked it off with the remote control, feeling good at having killed it. He glanced at the clock 1:51am. Never! he said, and felt a trifle concerned at his tendency to lose track of time. He lifted up his beer can from the floor and, feeling it almost full, guzzled it to emptiness. He trundled into the kitchen, gulped down a pint of water, took another with him and sloped off to bed. Another day done, thank fuck! Mike! Mike! Wake up, its eight oclock! Michael felt an array of violent blows to his rib cage before he heard the voice. They felt to him, like Giant Haystacks had administered them himself. Its eight oclock Mike, youre gonna be late. He, slowly and reluctantly, regained consciousness and recalled the hundreds of occasions he had awoken in this manner mouth as dry as a dune, piss-hole eyes wholly disinclined in allowing access to the morning light, and the physical pains in his sorry carcass. He hated feeling this way, but it reaffirmed that he had spent a sober-free night which, in turn, caused him happiness. He was happy to feel so physically wrecked. Sam? Im not going to be late I AM FUCKING LATE! So stop ambushing me, please, as I am now, no longer, unconscious thank you. She muttered something 39

derogatory as she turned over. He deciphered it as ungrateful bastard. Correct again, my sweetness! I am that! Oh God, I really dont wanna do this, but I have to. He lifted his legs from the quilt, his morning erection now only semi-hard, and placed one of his foul-smelling socks over his penis, which was pointing at a ninety-degree angle from his body. Why he did this, he did not know. His wife remained disinterested in his movement, which failed to perturb him in any way whatsoever. This sock-covered missile aint for you no more, babe its discovered an altogether more sweet-smelling, welcoming target! Thank you very much! He thought about his wifes vagina, and had continuously pondered upon its disturbing aroma. Did she wash it regularly? He didnt know he never asked. It had always discouraged him from indulging in oral sex with her, since the first few unpleasant occasions when hed performed the deed. On one occasion he had actually physically retched as his head was buried between her legs, and had had to remove his nose from the upsetting aperture, on the pretence of neck cramp. He had received a certain degree of sympathy for that too not to mention a blowjob. Good result Mikey, lad! It was a real shame too, he thought, for he adored jabbing his tongue into female gash. He loved to make women come with his head their gradual ascendancy to climax made him feel good. The feeble moans, the thrusting of the hips into his face, the stronger moans, the grabbing of his head forcing his face into the depths of the wet wonder, and, finally, the frenzied body movement as the orgasm was reached. Absolutely wonderful, he would think, as he lapped up the juice and drank it down, catlike. Perhaps it instilled in him a certain power over women? Perhaps he was simply a selfless person and enjoyed giving pleasure to others? 40

Perhaps he enjoyed the reciprocation of his penis being sucked? Who cares? Its bloody marvellous! His sweaty sock had risen from ninety degrees to closer to one hundred and eighty degrees he had made himself hard with his vaginal-pleasure thoughts. He thought about making love to his wife, quickly dismissing the notion, as the boar-like grunts emanating from the bed assaulted his ears. Fuck it, Im late anyway Ill go and have a pull over the sink. He threw on his dressing-gown and made his way to the bathroom within two minutes, he was wiping his semen from the sink with a wedge of Kleenex. After rinsing out the sink (my family have to wash their faces in this sink! he thought), he sat back content, on the seat of the toilet. Fuck work, Im sick! he said. The precision of his words failed to register with him as he decided to return to bed. Mike dragged on his Marlboro and lifted his head from the pages of the Guardian. Five years Five years he had been working here. in this hole of shit! He inspected his immediate surroundings. He was seated behind a long counter, sweets and chocolate situated at one end, a cigar cabinet adjacent to them, a mound of tissue paper (for wrapping bottles for his beloved customers) and a till. Ching! He opened the drawer closed it. Ching!

41

He opened it again closed it again. He was seriously uninspired, unexcited and bored. He glanced at the clock behind him on the cigarette display unit it read 10:15am. Fucks sake! He opted to become a little more adventurous and soak in the surroundings of the whole shop he was truly jaded. A plinth, full of various beers was situated in the centre of the shop - shelves, and more shelves, of wine bottles lined the false walls of the building. Behind these fixtures stood the damp, brick walls of the old railway arch which accommodated his working life. He looked up at the ceiling no false roof, just damp, red brick what a depressing scene, he thought What the fuck am I doing here? Why am I doing this? What would happen if? Ding! He looked towards the entrance as the bell rang, and in the doorway was one reason for his being here Michele. His heart leapt as all previous melancholy brooding faded, and he now liked his work. Hiya! she shouted cheerfully. Michael knew he was falling smitten. He couldnt help it, he didnt want to help it, it didnt need help it just needed leaving alone. Hiya Shell, whappen? He often used local Brixton colloquialisms, but only with people he knew would not take offence for many would and did. Michele never did. I gotta be quick, Mikesorry I just need me fags please. No chance of a quickie down the back then? he joked. She smiled she knew what he was like. He passed her a packet of Silk Cut, feeling somewhat betrayed by her brief visit. The boss has got the ump, I gotta go later! He imagined her planting a kiss on his lips across the counter then, feeling aroused, she would walk around to him, and 42

unzip his trousers and masturbate him, unconcerned of any potential witnesses she didnt she turned and left with a smile. Tra! he retorted, still a little dejected, but somewhat reassured and refreshed by her smiling presence. He thought about her lips so smooth and full. He recalled the intimate places on his person where hed felt them, and his loin stirring was in full throttle as he considered personal satisfaction. No, I cant Id have to shut the shop again. He had already closed it twice since opening, each time for a five-minute snooze in the toilets. He thought unpleasant thoughts the Isnt it man! This conjured up a horrific image and chased away his erotic daydream quicker than a greyhound after the hare. He chose to have another coffee his fourth of the day. It was now ten thirtyfive. One hundred and ten miles away, in Skegness, Lucy Vermicelli had just parked her Renault Clio in Prince George Street; the same street she had parked it in each year for all those years. She always made the journey alone; her grown children had long since disowned their dead father, so she conducted the annual vigil alone. She was in conversation with Amanda Wynn, who had owned Wynns Flora for the past twenty-two years. They had become good friends over the years and Amanda always looked forward to the ninth of February with anticipation, when they would drink tea and catch up with each others previous twelve months. Lucy no longer had to pay for the single yellow rose; Amanda always donated it to her and had done so for the previous nine years. This was the twelfth rose she had walked away from the shop with; one for each anniversary of her husbands suicide. The two women hugged and ended their conversation with the same, mutually spoken phrase, see you next year and a sad smile. As Lucy 43

walked the short distance to the beach, rose clutched to her chest, she thought the same thoughts as she had done for each year of his passing. She still hated him for what hed done and knew that the passage of time would not bring on any form of forgiveness on her part, not even when she drew her last breath. But she still couldnt help but love the man she had spent sixteen years with. She could never have imagined that he could commit such a despicable act and the note which hed left her remained with her wherever she travelled. As she arrived at the deserted sands, the icy breeze chilled her to the core and the thought of her husband walking back to Italy froze her insides. She cried (as she always did) as the arctic North Sea splashed onto her legs, and she gently laid the flower onto the surface of the water. Why? she whispered. The question would never be answered she knew that - but she asked it each year and scarcely a day would pass when she didnt crave the answer. She peered into the grey distance, across the murky sea, and shivered the annual goodbye. to him. She turned and walked laboriously through the sand to return to her car and the one hundred and six miles back to her home in Leeds; glad to be away from the bleakness of this place. She would, of course, return the following year. Another dreary day was almost over as the door opened and Michael extinguished his umpteenth cigarette. I knew it! he whispered to himself. A short, rotund, seriously balding gentleman, dressed in a dark, blue suit entered the shop. He looked forty-five years old, at least he was in fact thirty-four years old. His name was Maurice Digweed he was the area manager. Mike had asked his wife to report his previous days absence, and invent a cunning, deceptive tale to explain his one-day illness she had reported diarrhoea and sickness again, saying that hed lost a stone in weight. 44

Why do I give the woman credit? Will I never accept that her brain is the size of the stool of a diminutive rodent? hed thought. He now had to justify his third bout of the affliction in less than a month. It didnt occur to his sickened mind that she may have said it purposely. Bollocks! He glimpsed at the clock for perhaps the fortieth time that day 5:52pm. Par for the course my sad, little baldy fuck! I hear nothing all dayyou let me think Ive escaped punishment, and just when you think Im off guard, you pounce with all the majestic poise of a slug. You short-arsed, sweaty human ball of filth! Whats wrong with these people? Are they so stupid that they think I dont know what will happen? Do they think Im an imbecile that I dont realise? He despaired again he did so every day. Hello Michael, had a good day? Been busy? All right, Maurice! He refused to address this human stain as Mr. Digweed, unlike the majority of his fellow shop managers. Maurice had tried to persuade him to address him formally in the manner accustomed to a person in his position (he thought) but had failed miserably. Even now, after five years, Mike knew that this riled Maurice. He delighted in riling people such as Maurice Digweed. Im just going to make a coffee in the back, Michael. When you close up would you come and join me please? Id love to Maurice, but Ive got an appointment at quarter-past six. With a pint of Guiness, you stumpy, shiny-headed mollusc! No problem, well close early. Mike was stunned this must be grave business. He threw the spare keys to Maurice from behind the counter Maurice did not appreciate that. Michael did. 45

The area manager locked the door, turned the closedsign around when, within a few seconds a loud, rapping sound was heard. A huge man with a lower jaw the size of a normal head was peering intently through the glass of the door It was Robbie Burns. Wot the fuck ya deein, man? he shouted through the glass, Its not six yet! Nice one, Robbie, lad! You give this bloke some shit. Mike didnt dislike Robbie Burns. He felt somewhat soporific when the large-faced bulk spoke to him, but he was acceptable. He was a very large, heavy-set Geordie man, whose only apparent interests and passions in life were Robert Burns and cider. Mike often pondered which he would forsake if he were allowed only one of his infatuations he suspected it may be the cider. This man was seriously obsessed, and not a little derailed. Maurice appeared ruffled and laid the spare keys on the counter next to Michael, scurrying off into the dark sanctuary of The-Back-Place-Where-We-Make-TheCoffee, not daring to approach the bloated dimensions of Mr. Burns not even through the relative safety of wood and glass. Mike took the keys, replaced them underneath the counter, and, churlishly, used his own bunch to open the door. The drunk was still banging the door. Hold on, you dull, Newcastle man-mountain! I am about to permit access! he said. All right, Robbie. Listen mate, Im closin up in five minutes, so Id appreciate it if your stay tonight is a short one. Id like to hear more tales about the Ploughman Poet and his casual shags and clever words, but Ive got an extra-special rendezvous, where lips and black beer wed in perfect harmony. Robbie appeared bemused. Wot the fuck ya closin early f man? Y cannee dee tha! Give us three flagons, f fucks sake! Three forty-five please, sir? Mike replied with just a hint of sarcasm, not yet returning to the counter. 46

An y naa The Bardwhen hed put his fuckin pen doon an stop writin, he THREE FORTY-FIVE PLEASE! Mike repeated a little more firmly, now situated behind the counter; the drunks purchase already bagged. He begrudged working one minute into his personal time his freedom time. He held out his hand to expedite the fat freak, but Robbie was most meticulous with his funds, and proceeded to systematically place penny after penny, five pence after five pence, ten pence after ten pence on the tissue paper Mike despaired. Seven minutes later he was tailing the large man toward the exit door, holding his breath from the stench of stale urine wishing he had a red-hot poker in his hand. Cheers Scouse. An y naa the Burns Supper Night las week? They let me cut the haggis an Yeah, thanks Robbiebye now. Please call again never! He closed the door and locked it raising his eyes skyward to the grim, dank ceiling in desperation. Now for this other, less-proportioned, over-sized fuck. He prepared to confront his superior as he approached the dark, netherworld of The-Back-Place-Where-We-MakeThe-Coffee Maurice, do us a favour? I really need to get offcan you lock up for us please? Im gonna miss me pinter pointwhereI needtobe. OOPS! He threw the spare keys to Maurice again, and turned lessening the opportunity for reply. He didnt see the look of despicable hatred etched on the face of Maurice Digweed; it was a shame, for he would have revelled in it. Fuck it! She was all right the other night Ill only have one. (A lame effort at self-justification for entering the pub it was futile whenever he tried to justify his actions, he succeeded in giving himself enough rope, and usually 47

hanging himself. Why did he bother?). He didnt care drink was good. Hiya Deb, pint please love? Debbie smiled and placed her fingers, complete with back-scratching, painted nails, on the penis pump again. Mike discharged the vision from his head he was adept at this he had had to befor very different reasons. He took his drink and approached a dark recess in preparation for a mind-wander. He sat down, lit a cigarette, sipped his drink his usual hefty half-pint sip and embarked on his cogitative journey. What the fuck was up with her the other night? And the next day too? Such is the strangeness of life! He had acted the perfect gentleman throughout that previous day his day of absence. After his shorthand masturbation, he had checked the bedroom for any movement from his wife she hadnt stirred. So, he had roused his children, prepared them for school and playgroup, walked them there, returned home and made two bacon sandwiches (he would make his own later) and a cup of coffee, and offered the breakfast to his wife in bed. She had rebuffed her repast, but accepted the drink with an apathetic ta. He thought that this was getting silly beyond a jokenot funny any more. He was losing control. He couldnt cope. The words began to encircle his brain; What the fuck is going on? His wife had declined food and it was all too much for him. Hed returned downstairs with the rebuked sandwiches and battled against the urge to imbibe them both, as his own bacon was cooking on the grill. (Cant stand waste! his father had always said). He reassured himself that it would not be his fault if he ate all three sandwiches, it would be his defective fathers but decided not to. He covered the spurned breakfast with a plate, and left it under the grill. He tuned into Kilroy, ignored the programme and pondered. His wife surfaced as the Richard and Judy theme tune began ten thirty and she was the epitome of correctness. 48

No emotion. No hatred. No disdain. No love. No resentment. Pure deference. She had continued in this mode throughout the day - and night. Despite her husbands attempts to bring her back to normality with flattery, grovelling, fawning, collecting the children from school and playgroup, and cooking dinner (stir-fry, her favourite) nothing was working. She was simply gracious. And even in bed together later she was respectful. She had kissed him on the cheek, said goodnight and turned over. Mikes glass was empty. He opted to forsake a second drink for fear of the presence of the Isnt it man. He lit a cigarette and decided to venture home. What the fuck is going on?

49

4
Bonhomie and Brinkmanship

The shopkeeper stared blankly at the young lady for a

full ten seconds. The young lady, spiky-haired and dressed in gothic-style attire, was becoming increasingly agitated. Little green balls that come in tins! PEAS, for fucks sake! Have you got any? she shouted. The Indian hurried around the counter. Get out of my shop! I dont have to need that language! Out, NOW! 50

Fucking smelly Paki - I only wanted a tin of fucking peas! OUT! The young Goth left, brimming with resentment, as the shopkeeper continued to mumble under his breath, clearly upset. When he had recovered his composure somewhat, he returned behind the counter and addressed the next person in the queue, Yes please? Mike contemplated staring at him blankly for ten seconds or so, but decided against it. Twenty Marlboro, please mate. Three thirty-five please. Mike handed him his last four pound coins, received his change, and wondered why the young Goth would be buying peas at eight-fifteen in the morning. Who cares? Nice arse though! He checked his change and added it to the coppers he had in his pocket. Remembering that Samantha had asked him to buy shampoo, he pulled them out. Have you got any shampoo for he fingered the coins in the palm of his hand, seventy-three pence? Weve only got the Herbal Lifesixty-nine pence, the Indian owner replied. Michael gazed at him in disbelief. Youve got whatsorry? Herbal Lifesixty-nine pence, the shopkeeper repeated. Horrible life?youve got a Horrible Life shampoo? he asked. Herbal Lifeyes, shampoosixty-nine pence. He was beginning to lose his composure again as Michael continued staring at him with genuine incredulity. Youve got a shampoo called Horrible Life? How can they call it that? Ill have some of that mateHorrible Life? Where is it? What the? Herbal Life! Herbal! Not horrible! Its over there, with the toiletries. Mike walked over to the shelf mumbling, Horrible, not horrible? Whats he on about? He was truly 51

confused as he scoured the shampoos on the shelf. The guffaw startled the Indian and Michael returned to the counter laughing hysterically and carrying the bottle of Herbal Life shampoo. Herbal! Herbal Life! Mike said, his laughter tapering off into a grin, the Indian failed to appreciate the joke; hed already had enough of the day. Michael left the shop still smirking from the comical misunderstanding as the biting February gale caught his coat, flapping it turbulently as he struggled along Brixton Road toward the tube station. He speculated. Why am I such an obstinate fool? (referring to his daily open-coated trek to the underground). Why not just button up your coat, Mikey lad you know it makes sense! Very little that he did or said made much sense anymore. He, himself, did not make sense. Fuck it! he said. A large, stout, African lady exited a shop as he uttered his expletive, and awarded him a harsh look of disgust. I mustve said it out loud. Fuck you too, fat mama! He flicked his half-smoked cigarette into a cage full of milk located outside a shop, hoping it would nestle between the plastic containers and burn into them. Fuck em all! Three weeks had elapsed since the polite wife day. His wife had not yet returned to her normal behaviour, but her frostiness of that day had gradually warmed to a lukewarm indifference. Mike had attempted to bar it from his head, and was dumbfounded that he cared so much. Why do I care so much if I dont love her? Do I love her? I used to love her, but I thought I didnt anymore. Maybe I do? Maybe I still do? Maybe I still love my wife? Oh God Jesus! This idea alarmed him panicked him and scared him witless. The fact that he may still love his wife actually petrified him. He hadnt thought about this in the previous 52

three years, not to mention the three weeks since. He suddenly felt very vulnerable and wanted a drink it was eight-twenty in the morning. Too earlyeven for you son. He sat down on the wall of the churchyard opposite the tube station, and lit another cigarette. Fuck work! Dont care if Im late! He recognised how juvenile he sounded. Dont care if Im childish dont fucking care, so fucking there! It was at this point that he became clearly aware of losing his sense of proportion as the gruesome visions from his past began to form in his head again he knew his mind would capsize in a torturous vortex of guilt and torment if he permitted them; he wouldnt. He fended them off. But he was on a slippery slope and knew there would be only one upshot. Dont care. And he did not. He pulled the bunch of shop keys from his pocket, his fingers raw from the cold, and glimpsed at his watch ten past nine. Bollocks to it. He was shocked by the absence of bumbling, cideryearning morons outside the door. Perhaps theyve all seen the light and attended Alcoholics Anonymous sessions the previous day? Perhaps theyve all formed an Irish-Scottish-Northern-Pact-Against-TheDebatable-Rewards-Of-The-Demon-Brew? Perhaps theyve all tottered into the path of an oncoming thirtyeight tonner, whilst under the influence of the demonic liquid causing a bloody, human pulp, interspersed with remnants of piss-sodden overcoats, fag butts, copper coins and shards of cider bottles. The only surviving large, solid object would be a whole human head, a head so large, that 53

the wheels of the juggernaut had been unable to crush it, merely nudging it toward the pavement the head, now cradled in a council refuse receptacle, screaming at passers-by, grabbing their attention in order to extol the virtues of a certain Robert Burns? Perhaps theyve Aye, aye, Scouse! Where the fuckve you bin? Bin ere since five to jus bin roun the corner fr a piss you saved me life, son! Oh god, perhaps not! Give us a minute kid. Resignation overwhelmed Michael. He entered the shop, locking the door behind him and walked behind the fittings to switch off the alarm. After silencing the drum-piercing screech, he stood motionless, raised his arms toward the heavens, each arm at ninetydegree angles to his torso, palms facing upward and inhaled as deep a breath as his damaged lungs could accommodate and emitted a prolonged howling wail, the equal of any banshee, until he gasped for air and his lungs ached. Aaah, thats the ticket! he voiced, satisfied, and emerged from the darkness to confront the swollen, ruddy face at the door with renewed vigour. Come in sir, he invited, simultaneously turning his back on the drunk, and what can I serve you with today, my good man? as he walked away from him, perhaps a fine burgundy? Gevrey Chambertin? Nuit St.Georges, perchance? No? Yes? Wot d fuck y wafflin, Scouse? Giv us two flagons an a haaaf ounce! A fine choice, OLD sir! and Michael began to wrap the cider in the tissue paper, deposited the brace in a carrier bag and allowed the tobacco to drop into the bag from his outstretched arm unremittingly gazing blankly into space. No need for all dat, Ill shuv em straight in me pockets. Au contraire sir, you shall not! You are a highly valued patron of this establishment, and, as such, shall be treated 54

accordingly. Please call again soon, thank you so much. Michael held out the bag at arms length, in mid-air, awaiting the tramps collection. He snatched it and scuttled away, somewhat perplexed and not a little intimidated the tissue paper and carrier bag trailing in his wake, as he safely stored his booty in the deep pockets of his overcoat. Michael remained behind the counter - his arm continued to hang outstretched in mid-air smiling psychotically. Im going out on Friday night love, you dont mind do ya? It was Wednesday night and Mike had not had a drink since Sunday. He was longing to go out and get drunk or even have a can in the house (which would no doubt lead to further cans). But, he was making an effort. He thought that perhaps his drinking habits had been the cause of his wifes lack of emotion. He knew he drank too much he was not alcoholic (he thought), but he drank too much. He knew it, but he would never openly admit it he would never inwardly admit it. But he knew. The fact that he was willing (but probably unable) to spend four continuous days without drinking amazed him. Scary love-thoughts reentered his brain: FUCK OFF! What have I done? Samantha replied, entering the kitchen as her husband expelled his expletive, and thinking she had done something to offend him. What? No, nothinwhy? He was thrown into disarray by his sudden jolt back to reality. Who are you tellin to fuck off? Nobodywhy? He was unaware that hed said the words. Never mind, Sam said, NoI dont anyway. Dont what? He was still confused. I dont mind if you go out on Friday night! She was becoming annoyed. 55

Ohyeah, tayeah. He experienced a sudden burst of elation as his stomach fluttered with anticipation. The idea of freedom however short-lived breathed life into him. The idea of Guinness pouring down his throat made him thirsty. The idea of females with short skirts and potential rub-pasts stirred his loins. (A rub-past was a fleeting touch of a breast against any particular area of his torso, preferably his hand, but probably his back it was highly likely in people-filled hostelries and it was bliss to Michael.) Life is good! An ear-piercing shriek interrupted his train of thought the dulcet tones of his young son. AAAARRRGH!!! Perhaps not that good! Jonathan entered the kitchen with tears rolling down his face. Mummy! MUMMY! Sarah punch me! AAAARRGH!!! The wailing continued, and Mike was torn between lifting his son into his arms and consoling him lovingly, and blindly scarpering through the back door. He chose the former. As any normal parent, Mike loved his children more than anything or anyone on the planet. He would maim, and knew he had the ability to kill, anyone who purposely caused them any great harm, and yet, paradoxically, he bore a slight resentment for having been forced down a path, which he had not, at that time, intended to follow. The thought crossed his mind and was instantly replaced by a huge sense of guilt for having contemplated it. Prick! He reprimanded himself and realised that the resentment he felt was towards his wife not his children. He loved his childrenso much he did not love his wifeall that much (or at least, he thought not), although the previous three weeks had clouded his judgement, blurred his vision, 56

entangled his thoughts and forced him to question his own emotions (he disliked this). He had even pondered upon a life without his family but had hastily discharged this terrifying concept. It had petrified him excited him a little but the overriding emotion he felt was fear. What would he do without them? What would they do without him? Where would he go? Come here son, whats the matter? She didnt mean it. He held his boy in his arms and felt the childs crocodile tears on his own face, and experienced an immense calm and contentment sweeping over him. He was truly happy at that moment. Samantha gazed at the pair with no expression on her face, but a sincere sadness in her eyes, averting them instantly, on contact with her husbands. She picked up the kettle and turned her back to fill it from the sink. Danny Elmore took a final drag on his cigarette stub and discarded it casually. He coughed and cursed his thirty-aday habit. He entered the public house and ordered himself a drink. He rubbed his right hand gently with the thumb of his other in a soothing manner, took his drink and retreated to a table. His twenty-nine year old frame was rather large, too large he thought. He was a tall man, six foot one, but overweight at sixteen and a half stone. He sipped his drink and rubbed his hand again it was causing him a little discomfort. He wished he hadnt chinned the drunken yuppie on the Underground. He was a laconic, genial man not violent, but he was prone to occasional outbursts. The yuppie had been seated with, what Danny deemed to be, his business colleagues on the same train as him, on the opposite seats. They had obviously been drinking for a long period during the afternoon, and were pontificating about the business of making money. Dan didnt like yuppies, especially arrogant, inebriated types and he had 57

singled out this one individual. He was the loudest, the most pompous of the bunch. He had stared at him almost constantly for the previous ten minutes and as Dans destination approached, he rose from his seat. At the same moment the yuppie rose from his, and stumbled into Danny. Watch it! Those two words, uttered by the yuppie, coupled with the look of contempt directed towards Dan, had confirmed the outcome. He allowed the drunk to head towards the door before himself. The door opened and the yuppie staggered on to the platform, Danny was following directly. You stood on my fucking toe, you pissed up yuppie cunt! As he turned to discover from where the aggressive words had originated, Danny dealt him a right hook square on his chin. As the doors of the train closed, the lights went out for the drunk and Danny Elmore mingled into the flow. As he soothed his aching knuckles, he wished it hadnt happened. Not for any misplaced sympathy towards his victim, solely because of the pain which he was now experiencing. He sipped his drink, pulled his newspaper from his pocket and lit another cigarette. Michael glanced at the clock as he sat in his prison cell at work it was four-thirty in the afternoon. Thatll do for me son! He lifted himself from his stool and approached the beer fixture, which was centred in the shop. He opted for a can of Holsten Pils. Sorry lad, youre IT. Im going to take you from your chums and turn you into piss! He felt a wave of sorrow flow over him for the fate of the lager in the tin, replaced it and chose another. Reprieve for you kid he pointed to the spared lager, but PISS for YOU! as he affectionately fondled his second choice. He headed toward The-Back-Place-WhereWe-Make-The-Coffee, safe in the knowledge that the bell 58

on the door would announce the entrance of a customer. He embarked on his ritual. He had seen it in a film perhaps? Read it in a book? He was unsure. He picked up a paper clip and unfurled it to a point. I shall insert a small prick into the bottom of the can here! He said the words on every occasion he would do this and, each time, the words small prick would take him back to his childhood for a second, when he would fear for the size of the under-developed penis he then owned; his mind would return to the task in hand almost immediately. His thumb covered the small hole which he had made and the can was opened. This was supposed to somehow disperse the excess gas and the lager beer could be swallowed, as if it were a bottle of Evian. He performed the act. The small jet of lager soaked him as usual. He pulled the ring and began to drink. As usual he emptied the can, but also as usual, he was afflicted by a bout of severe hiccups and excess eye-fluid the system had failed to operate as it should, again. Fuckin load of shite! He uttered these words on each occasion whilst experiencing a feeling of betrayal, as if hed been given false information dealt a dodgy hand. Perhaps he had dreamt the whole pathetic idea. He belched several times; eyes tightly closed and crushed the empty can in his hand as he expelled a loud aaaah of contentment. Ding! Fuck it! He hurled the crumpled tin into the bin and resumed his duties. A tall, smart-looking gentleman was standing at the counter, turning his head in search of assistance. Mike belched on his approach, which diverted the attention towards him - a look of contempt appeared on the face of the customer. Good evening! I assume I can purchase quality Champagne? 59

For fucks sake! Mike despaired. Certainly! If you would care to accompany me in the direction of the sparkling, bubbly liquid, I would be ever so pleased to assist you in your quest. Please walk this way. Mike walked towards the Champagne fixture, gesturing towards the customer to follow him, mockingly dragging his right leg as if it were useless. He detected a look of quizzical uncertainty on the face of his customer as he turned around to give him a smile of false reassurance as if he was the subject of ridicule. He was. Mike enjoyed this type of person in the store he would relish this. Sec? Demi-sec? Or Brut? he inquired of his prey. Im sorry? No, no, my fault entirely, Mike replied, would you like a dry, medium or sweet? I was under the impression that most, if not all champagne, was dry. The businessman retorted pompously and ever so slightly irked. Aha! You are not wrong, sir! Most people hold a similar view; however, I am in a position to remark to the contrary. Right then, cunty-bollocks, cop a load of this shite! He began the spiel and the customer retained a suspicious countenance. The vast majority of people believe that Champagne is a high quality product in its own right, made from grapes cultivated in the Sharm-pan-ya region of France correct, yet incorrect! This Champagne can be medium but is almost always dry, however a sparkling wine made from grapes from other regions, as opposed to the Sharm-panya region can, in fact, be either dry, medium or sweet and in many cases, of a superior quality to the apparent real McCoy. An Asti, for example, although that is from Italy, or a Veuve Du Vernay these glorious sparkling wines are exactly the same product, made in exactly the same way, and in my opinion, of a higher quality than the champagne. 60

The fact that they retail at less than a third of the price of a Bollinger, for example, is a reflection, not of the apparent poorer quality of the bubbly alcohol, but of the inflated price of the Champagne, caused by the snobbery which is practised by the manufacturers, and some might say, the very consumers of their product. He knew that this would hit the mark. He had never yet encountered a snob who did not attempt to deny being a snob when accused, albeit indirectly on this occasion. He awaited the reaction and it arrived in precisely the exact manner in which he had expected. After a few moments of cogitation the man replied, Well, young man, you have an evident knowledge of the product on offer. I refuse to purchase a commodity which may be of a poorer quality, and yet, a relatively extortionate retail price. You mentioned aDuverne? Ha Ha! A Veuve Du Vernay, indeed I did! Mike smiled joyfully he had achieved his goal. You can pull the wool over these fuckers eyes easier than the bleedin winos! Fucking brainless, suit-wearing shits! Sec or Brut? Oh, definitely Brut! You fucking wanker! Excellent choice! Mike exclaimed, and grabbed a bottle from the shelf. Oh no, I intend to purchase a case, I am organising a small dinner party tonight. Wonderful! I shall fetch one from the storeroom back in a jiffy! Mike returned with a box of twelve, relatively poor quality, sparkling wines and placed it on the counter. That will be forty-one pounds and forty-five pence please. The patsy passed him his American Express Gold Card. That will do nicely! Mike felt elated and lucky to be alive he had made a fool of this man and deprived his 61

company of a potential gain of approximately one hundred pounds. Result! He wished he could be a fly on the wall at his victims dinner party but that would be greedy. What a complete anus you are going to feel, my good man! And please call again goodbye. The gentleman struggled towards the door with his heavy purchase with, what Mike perceived to be, an attempted confident swagger, but his bowed legs reminded Mike of John Wayne. He hurried to the door purposely unwilling to help him with his burden and held it open for him, a smug grin upon his face. The man left and Michael stood there, positively beaming. He decided to close the shop early. He could scarcely wait to pour the black nectar down his greedy gullet. He had just finished his third can of Holsten Pils and was already feeling a little merry not to mention a little damp, as his shirt had suffered its third jet-spray of beer due to the-ritual-that-did-not-work. He had arranged to meet one of his friends next door in the Hand and Diamond at six oclock. They would have a few drinks around the area and head back to meet the Brixton crowd around nine oclock. Fuck going home first! No need for that shit mate! Straight in that alehouse! It was ten to six. Fuck em! FUCK YAS YOU DARK SHADOW PEOPLE! He directed the second expletive towards the passers-by at his window. He knew he could be seen. It was dark outside so he could not see them it didnt matter. He locked the door, deposited the till drawer in the safe, set the alarm and left. He achieved these tasks in approximately one minute, imagining his still un-poured Guinness was standing on the bar, warming in the open air. He noticed a drunken, overcoat-wearing human crossing the street, 62

attempting to avoid being crushed by the flow of uncaring traffic, and he knew his destination. Tough shit mate - were closed! Mike turned up his collar, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and headed towards the pub. He glanced back at the shop before entering. The drunk was pounding frantically hopelessly on the door. Mike presumed that his closing early had confused him, or perhaps it was the OPEN sign hanging in the window that he had forgotten to turn around. Fuck it mate, give up the demon drink, yknow its bad for ya. Mike entered and ordered a Guinness with a Jack Daniels chaser. Deb, what d you reckon? The barmaid looked up from her newspaper, cleavage heaving. Wha? What d you reckon? What do I reckon about what? What you goin on about Bill? Do you reckon women are more self-conscious about their arses or their tits? The blonde looked pensive for a moment, stared into space and replied, Arses, and continued reading Dear Deidre. See, told ya! Arses. Women are more conscious of their arses because theyre behind them they cant see em properly and blokes can look at them without them knowing. Bill puffed on his cigarette, sipped his beer and looked at his companion, smugly. His companion sipped his beer, still shaking his head in disagreement. Michael thought the mans logic bewildering. He shook his own head in despair and left the bar with his pint glass in his hand warmed by the sour mash inside his belly. He approached a large man seated at a corner table. He was 63

studying a broadsheet and rubbing his hand two empty pint glasses stood on his table. Bastard! Mike blurted. The reader looked up at him dispassionately. He didnt want another confrontation his hand hurt. Alright mate! He moved his newspaper aside. How longve you been here, you fat twat? Mike said. Five oclock and dont call me a fat twat, you Scouse bastard! Danny replied as he emptied his third pint into his Friday night mouth, and asked, Wheres mine? I put one in for ya, go see Deb. Top man! Danny replied, Seven across mate, cant get it, have a go. He walked to the bar to retrieve his fourth. Mike sat down and turned the folded newspaper towards him, he read the cryptic clue, Singing in the aisles, at Hogmanay, we hear. Fuck knows! Who gives a shit? He callously discarded the newspaper with a flick of his hand, professing a lack of concern; he did care, but he had neither the inclination nor the wherewithal to solve the clue it was Friday night. His friend returned from the bar a minute later, his Guinness settling at the pump. Mike had known Danny Elmore for almost three years. They had first met at the George Canning pub in Brixton through friends of friends. Dan had recently stopped smoking and Mike had offered him a cigarette, unaware of his abstinence. Dan had accepted without hesitation, followed by an utterance of Fuck it, I didnt wanna give up anyway! Mike had thought he could get along with this guy. They discovered that they both shared a passion for drinking, smoking, women, cinema and a mutual interest in football Liverpool F.C. in particular although Mike harboured a deep suspicion, in general, for people who purportedly supported clubs to which they had no physical connection. Danny was born in Portsmouth and was raised 64

in various towns none of them Mikes hometown. He agreed to temporarily dismiss the apprehension and give the man a chance. He conversed with him at various stages of the night and the stranger seemed okay a little effeminate perhaps but okay (although Mike was happy to have the reassurance which the presence of his own friends offered to him. He would not have relished a tte--tte with this unknown, Pompey-born, Liverpool supporter with somewhat womanly ways). After closing time they had gone their separate ways and Mike had thought no more about him. The following weeks had thrown the two mens circle of friends together on several occasions, and they had conversed and established a reserved, mutual respect, and actually discovered much common ground particularly the joy they felt when imbibing copious quantities of Guinness. At this present time they regarded themselves as very good friends. Oi mate, pint of Guinness here! the barmaids brash, Cockney tone pierced the ambience. Danny returned to the bar to fetch his drink and sipped from it constantly on his return to the table. Mike suspected a drunken night of debauchery was in store, and he could scarcely wait. One hour and ten minutes later, after three more pints of Guinness, numerous cigarettes and much football discussion, the two men were feeling a little tipsy. The conversation had inevitably veered towards the topic of females. So, are you goin for it later? Danny always asked Mike this question after hed had a few, hoping for an affirmative reply, which would then give justification to his own subtle flirtatious behaviour. Fuck knows mate, see whappen. I tell ya what though, I hope that Claire is in there tonight. Yeah, shell be there she always is. Get it shagged mate, yknow you wannit! Mike did know he wanted it 65

he always wanted it, that was the problem. His mind would temporarily shelve his marital status that was a wholly separate problem. Fuck it, I dunno, Mike replied, heaving a sigh. Whats the problem? Yknow shes up for it, she knows youre up for it so whats wrong? Mike rambled on about his wifes altered attitude, his own confused approach towards her, towards Michele, his work, his whole life. Danny listened intently and commented throughout. His final remark on the subject being Bollocks to it mate get pissed and get em shagged! This was either a remark of typical male bravado or an ill-expressed, deeply intense, philosophical solution to Michaels quandary. Mike preferred the latter option offered by his friend and decided to act upon it. The clientele of the Prince Albert in Coldharbour Lane in Brixton were an eclectic mixture of typical drunks young and aged Rastafarians drinking Guinness and Special Brew, Poncy Pennies (as Mike liked to name them well-spoken people with a haughty attitude.), and, what Mike conceived as his type of folk alternative people, people who didnt quite fit in with normal society. People with attitude. People who took drugs and drank too much. People who interested him and didnt cause him ennui. There were numerous people of this ilk in the Prince Albert on this night. Two more appeared Michael and Danny entered. A wall of populace, a dense cloud of smoke and a tumult of noise bombarded them. They embarked on a mission to reach the bar. In this situation the two men had an understanding a cunning plan. They would separate at the bar to offer themselves double the opportunity of being served. If it transpired that they had both been served, so be it they had double the reward. The more the merrier as far as these two reprobates were concerned. Dan had been served first, 66

so he gestured to his friend with a nod of his head, and Mike extruded himself from the bar and approached him. They now began their second undertaking to battle through the multitude without losing any beer and find their friends. Again, Dan nodded to Mike as he spotted a couple of familiar faces seated half way down the pub, towards the beer garden. The two headed in their direction. Mike considered just three or four (Dan included) of his circle as true friends. He could rely on them. He could talk on any subject with them. He could fight with them verbally and physically. They were his friends. The remainder (another seven, eight, twelvehe was unsure) were acquaintances, friends of friends, wannabees and buffoons. Adam had a penchant for deriding people. His brother, Kevin punched strangers after drinking heavily, approaching them and breathing the words thing is, youll love it into their faces. Kevins girlfriend, Jane, revealed her breasts regularly. Peanuts (real name, Paul) performed a remarkable impression of a lizard. Mica cried a lot. Socrates (Sock for short real name, Martin) theorised. Noddy smoked drugs every day (along with dealing them, kicking people in the eye and chasing people with an axe, in a severely menacing manner). His friend, Alan, also smoked drugs, but refrained from indulging in Noddys alternative, anti-social pastimes. Little Stuey was beyond help. He was just Little Stuey, a tiny, weasel-like, waif of a lunatic, whos favourite line was How many coats do you have Betty Windsor? And thenthere was Claire Claire captivated Mike. She was a beautiful, dark-haired, sociable, intelligent, confident, independent woman and a complete mental mess. She intrigued him. She interacted with everybody and appeared so comfortable in any circumstance, and yet, so fearful and distant. He couldnt comprehend the paradox. He wanted to understand. He wanted to know what lurked beneath the angelic visage. He 67

wanted to know how the brain behind the beauty functioned. What did it think really? Why did it think it? What compelled it to respond in a certain manner? But, the question that was uppermost in his mind on this occasion after seven pints of Guinness was What lay beneath the tight, figure-hugging black dress she was now wearing? He glanced towards Adam. Jammy bastard! Youve been there. Twat! What was it like? No relationship had ensued between Adam and Claire. Mike thought it would have been miraculous if it had, as he perceived them both as incapable of conducting anything resembling a close relationship. But he had indulged in the pleasures of her flesh. Mike was unsure whether he wanted to shake his hand or beat him about the head, but he was certain of one thing he was jealous, jaundiced. Nobody knew he felt that way and nobody ever would. Mike and Danny snuggled in amongst the deviant contingent, a sufficient distance from Claire (who was conversing with two other females who Mike barely recognised) to be able to be drawn into the discourse, and yet, appear disinterested in them. The two men acknowledged their friends with a slight tilt of the head and ignored the flotilla of fools. Adam shouted out first. Alright you pair of twisters! Come and sit down you anti-social fuckers! He made space for two along the crowded bench. Whappen fishbodies? he inquired, affectionately. Mike and Danny settled themselves. Were fuckin mashed Ad. Been in the alehouse since six and this drunken slag has been in since five. Mike nodded his head in the direction of Dan and he replied with a grin from ear to ear, and a hefty sip of his drink. Fuckin sot! Adam remarked as Dan continued to drink. Hows the family, family man? Adam asked Mike. He replied with a nod as he was caught in mid-gulp and said, 68

Fine mate. This was the end of the conversation, as he couldnt talk to Adam about such matters. He didnt feel comfortable and suspected Adam of feeling similar, so they generally refrained from any serious discussion and tended to mock each other, or anybody in their immediate vicinity. Some filly in tonight Ad, Mike said. Fuckin right kidder! Adam replied, Ive got me dirty little beads on that slut over there, talkin to Roy Rogers. She looks like shes flattened some grass. Danny chuckled. Mike looked over to where Adam had ostentatiously pointed and saw a man wearing a cowboy hat and waistcoat. He was talking with an attractive female who, indeed, conjured up the aura of a grass-flattener. Fuckin Roy Rogers! Should be in the stable givin Trigger a blow job, never mind chattin up my missus fuckin horse-knob breath! Mike grinned, realising that Adam had probably consumed a similar amount of beer to himself. Adam could become somewhat obstreperous after several beers, especially when he had targeted a potential wet hole who was interacting with someone other than himself and especially when the orchestrator of that interaction was wearing a cowboy hat. Under normal circumstances Mike would have offered a deflective comment, in order to avert any potential confrontation to his unruly acquaintance. Tonight he didnt. He had neither the inclination, nor the intention. He didnt care about altercation, involving himself or any other person he was not in the mood. He had more important matters in his head. He recognised a woman struggling through the huddled mass of drinkers. Her name was Hilary Huth and she was the long-term girlfriend of Danny. Mike turned to his friend to warn him of the presence of his loved one. He wasnt there. Mike stood up. He had to find him so Dan could prepare himself. As he stood, he caught the eye of Hilary, and she beckoned him towards her. 69

Shit! I hope hes not being mischievous. Danny hadnt mentioned that his girlfriend would be joining them. Hiya Hilaryl! Hiya babe! (She addressed most familiar males by this term.) I think hes just gone for a squirt, which is where I need to go now. Take my seat. See ya in a bit. He headed for the toilets. As he entered, a large, overweight, hairy, leatherclad man was walking out. Michael managed to avoid any physical contact. Bloke in there pukin his guts out, mate. Oh aye? Dont even speak to me, fat grebo fuck! He entered the urine-soaked room, walking on his heels to protect his boots from being stained, his nasal senses ambushed by the stench of stale urine and his aural senses, by a retching sound emanating from the cubicle. He stood at the urinal to empty his bladder, listening resolutely; perhaps he could detect some vague overtones amongst the sporadic heaving, spitting and gasping. (His mind began to wander back to a certain day in the long distant past, before he instantly, and automatically, arrested it.) He thought he recognised an occasional urrrgh. As he zipped up his jeans, the sick man withdrew from the cubicle and Mike turned to look at him. The man was a picture of disorder streaming eyes, mucus dangling from one nostril and vomit trickling down his shirt. Fucks sake! the man gasped, exhausted and weakened by his ordeal. Jesus man! Your missus has just come in. You better clean yourself up. Oh for fucks sake! gasped Dan, Im off! I cant handle this. Cover for me Mike, Im sloping off home. See ya! He stumbled out as Mike thought perhaps he should do 70

likewise. This, he knew, would be the most sensible course of action. Fuck that shite! Hes had more to drink than me! Mike left the toilets with visions of black wonder (Guinness and Claires pubic hair) pampering to his prurient mentality, and felt happy to be alive.

71

5
hello again

Theres a cup of coffee for you downstairs. Mike

was thirsty. He stretched his arm and fumbled in vain, for the reassuring shape of a glass he needed liquid. Please Lord, let there be water? He couldnt use his eyes; they would not permit the light to enter for at least two full minutes. His hand touched a book and a clock radio but no drink. Fuck it! he swore, having forgotten to prepare for his waking thirst the previous drunken night. How the fuck did I get here? Where? What do I mean? In bed? In this house? On this planet? He meant all three. He had drunk a further three pints on his return to his friends after the episode with Danny in the toilets. He couldnt remember what he had said to Hilary 72

couldnt remember saying goodbye to his friends couldnt remember his journey home couldnt remember arriving home. Nothing. All was a void. Sorry love, did you say something? Silence. His wife had left the bedroom, revolted. Fuck ya, ya selfish bitch! Ya couldve woken me up with a blowjob. Thoughts of Michele entered his head and his semierection began to grow then shrink, as his two children raced into the bedroom, loud and stentorian. Daddy! Daddy! Wake up, its not morning anymore! screamed Sarah. Oh fuck, its not morning anymore. That means its afternoon p.m. past midday post meridian. Bollocks! Mornin kidsno afternoon kids. He shifted his aching bones towards the headboard, his eyes allowing only minimal light. Fuckin hell my head hurts! His young son clambered onto his bed and Mike took refuge beneath the duvet as the two-year old misconstrued his fathers action as some type of hiding game, and attempted to gain entry. Fathers attempts to prevent him were futile. No Jon, please no! The boys efforts became more assertive, which called for drastic defensive action. He curled himself, cocoon-like, into his duvet. Now try and get in, Taz! Victory was his. Sarah had now joined in the-game-thatshould-not-have-been. He felt two small bodies treading and jumping on his fragile frame; his only defence from the onslaught was his duvet, and he wished it were not happening. Sarah! Jonathan! Come and get some lunch! Thank you Sam. He felt sincere gratitude for his wifes timely interjection and, indeed, her very presence in the house; the thought 73

seemed alien to him. He revelled in the serenity as the children thundered towards feeding-time, and fell back asleep. Come on Mike, its gone two oclock; dont take the piss. He awoke, a little more alert than his previous exertion, but still sluggish, aching and dozy. His eyes again refused entry to the daylight. Giz a ciggie and make us a coffee and Ill rise. Samantha handed him her half-smoked cigarette. Your coffees down the sink an hour ago, move it, cos these kids are doin my head in! He thankfully accepted the quarter of his request and drew on it, fully aware that he would feel worse when he exhaled he did not care. Smoke! Good! After the second drag he extinguished the foul, smoky stick. Smoke! Bad! He thought he had better show his face and heaved himself from his bed, throwing on his dressing gown and steadying himself as he approached the door. Still pissed man! he murmured. He took the plunge and headed downstairs. The children were fighting in the living room as usual; he altered his course and made his way into the kitchen. His wife was seated at the table, smoking another cigarette a cup of steaming coffee in front of her. Kettles just boiled. Oh dear, thats cold. (An observation on his wifes chilled emotion and stony features.) Oh shit, thats hot! He had reached across the spout of the kettle, the steam burning his wrist. Fuckin prick! He pushed the kettle with the heel of his hand in childish retribution; boiling water vomitted from the spout onto the Sunblest. 74

Well, its your own fault, fucking idiot, for putting your hand over the spout, his wife commented unsympathetically. Fuckin stony bitchface! Sorry! Sorry, Sam! Sorry, kettle! Sorry bread! Sorry, kids! Sorry, window! SORRY, WORLD! Oh fuck this, Im goin to mums. She sprung from her seat and shouted to the children, Come on kids, were goin to nannys! They responded with screeches of delight. Is daddy coming as well? Sarah spouted. Mike craned his neck but failed to decipher the mothers reply. I think perhaps, it may have been a negative! Five minutes later, the house stood silent. His children had not even said goodbye and he felt very alone and depressed. He wanted a drink. The coffee he had made suffered the same fate as his first coffee as he threw it down the sink and grabbed a tin of lager from the fridge. His first gulp almost choked him as he gagged. He lit a cigarette and sat down to contemplate the meaning of life; the hideous visions began again. He was spiralling downward. And he knew it. His wife returned home a few minutes after five oclock. Her husband had just finished watching his last wager of the day, Fallen Hero, almost walking over the finishing line in sixth place in the 4:45 at Doncaster. A bundle of screwed-up betting slips lay on the floor, surrounded by a bunch of empty, crushed beer cans. He had journeyed to the local betting shop twenty minutes after his family had left the house, taking a detour via the off-licence on the way home. He was positioned upright on the sofa, staring blankly at the wall opposite, as his wife entered, childless. Wheres the kids? Theyre staying at my mothers tonight. She left the room with a repugnant look on her face and in her eyes, 75

Michael thought, Was it? It was a look of true misanthropic abhorrence. He had never discerned it in the eyes of his wife in all of their previous, turbulent nine years together. Yes, he had seen hatred in her eyes when they had fought. He had also seen disgust. (He recalled the occasion two years ago, when he had been exposed, extricating an elongated string of nasal mucus from his nostril, while he was evacuating his bowels. He had forgotten to lock the bathroom door and Samantha had entered, as the offending mucus string was swinging like a pendulum, inches from his face. He had been completely engrossed hypnotised. She didnt sit near him for the following two days.) Yes, he had seen disgust. He had experienced many negative sentiments from his wife. Contempt. Horror. Fear. Dislike. Apathy. Anger. But nothing like this. The look in his wifes eyes perturbed him and left him feeling a hollow, scathing chill. Im out tonight by the way. Samanthas nonchalant tones echoed from the kitchen. He said nothing. She poked her head around the door. I said, Im out tonight by the Yeah, whatever! He was cogitating. Dont disturb me with petty conversation when Im thinking. The petty conversation, to which he alluded in his head, was not petty conversation. They were words that would pave the way for the most traumatic period of his adult life. He lifted his shape from the sofa to fetch another beer. He heard the sound of water filling the bath upstairs. He ignored it and cracked open his drink. Eight thirty-five. THEM DIE! Eight thirty-five on a Saturday night. CRY! Eight thirty-five on a Saturday night and Michael Madigan was drunk at home alone. The offensive lyrics of the Dead Kennedies I Kill 76

Children spinning on the turntable caused him no distress; they ought to he was a parent but they did not. No wife at home, no children at home, offered him a perfect opportunity to go out and get very drunk with his pals; indulge in a little lecherous, flirtatious behaviour perhaps? He had even received a telephone call from Danny an hour and a half ago, offering the pleasures of the Prince Albert and declined. He had been very sorry to decline, but, decline he had. Danny had ended the conversation with Fuck ya, ya borin ol fart! and put the receiver down. Michael had listened to the dull tone for almost two minutes he hadnt cared. He had scarcely listened to a word his friend had uttered as his mind was elsewhere. He was aware that something was afoot. He knew his life was about to undergo a dramatic change. He knew this alteration would be most unwelcome. He knew he could do nothing about it. He knew he did not want to experience this change. He knew he had no choice. He sat and drank and satand drankand smokedand satand drank and smokedand sat and drank more, willing the feeling of hopelessness to go away but it grew stronger with every swallow. He would only move to change the music on the turntable; Sex Pistols followed by The Damned, perhaps a melodic love song interjected, followed by more angstridden, aggressive cacophonyStiff Little Fingers, UK Subs, Vice Squad. He glanced at the untidy pile of records and sleeves, callously strewn across the carpet, and thought he needed respite from noise it was time for a weepy. He flicked through his record collection and stopped at an old, tattered sleeve, evidently worn through endless handling. He selected it, slipped the vinyl from the sleeve and placed it on the turntable. He studied the sleeve in his hand. He recalled how he used to hide his Penthouse and other such masturbatory material inside the sleeve, away from the prying eyes of his mother when he was fifteen. He 77

recalled how he used to jerk himself stupid, music blasting out, masking the sound of his masturbation masking the very act of masturbation. (Not allowed! Bad, bad boy! Good Catholics do not masturbate!) He recalled how he would spurt into his sock to render a cleansing operation unnecessary. He recalled how he thought whether his mother realised. He recalled how he thought whether she would have quizzed him about the rolled-up socks that would open, crunchily. He recalled how he doubted it. Throughout his recollection, the one track he had chosen to play had ended; a heavy-metal frenzy was now blasting from the speakers. He lifted the stylus and replaced it on his original choice of track, and sat back, the words registering in his brain, his heart, his very soul I AM GONNA LOSE MY WORRIED MINDHOW I LOVED YOU GIRL (he was and he did). He now suspected, through his alcohol-induced haze, and after several weeks of marital lassitude, that he did still love his wife. He began to weep. He wept uncontrollably for ten minutes EVER FALLEN IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE! Michael had finished weeping. He was angry now as he shouted along with the lyrics of The Buzzcocks Ever Fallen In Love With Someone You Shouldnt Have Fallen In Love With. The dust of melancholy had been swept away by a broom of indignation. He was ruminating again. His eighteenth birthday his marriage his first wife. He never permitted these thoughts into his head. He never acknowledged her memory. But he knew from the past few weeks of momentary visions and flashbacks that they were banging at the door to his consciousness, and tonight it was going to splinter; something was going to give. Things must be pretty bad Mikey. He was eighteen. Helen was seventeen and beautiful. She had sparkling blue eyes, long black hair, a petite nose and full, voluptuous lips. She was five-foot three inches 78

tall, of slender build. She had small firm breasts and firm, pert buttocks and Michael adored her. They had first met less than four months earlier, on Christmas Eve he, a male slut, she, a virgin. She was crying into her snakebite and he felt sorry for her. (Nobody should cry on Christmas Eve - its Christmas Eve, for fucks sake!) He had approached her with a portion of toilet roll and an amiable smile. She told him to fuck off and he did. He returned minutes later with a handful of paper handkerchiefs, which he had frantically requested from a selection of women in the bar, and the same amiable smile. Why dont you leave me alone? Nobody should cry on Christmas Eve - its Christmas Eve! He sensed her guard lowering, ever so slightly, before it returned, instantaneously. Please, just go away! (At least shed not said fuck off!) He seated himself opposite and said I wont say a word; Ill just sit here and sip me drink if thats okay? Okay. Hed sipped his drink, glanced around the crowded bar, surreptitiously checked out her legs underneath the table (admiring her big, brown boots), thinking, at that moment, that he was in with a chance. He had expected total silence, followed rapidly by the girls departure, but the opposite occurred. Within seconds, she had instigated the conversation. Only two hours ago her boyfriend had ended their relationship; she had wanted time alone so she had left her friends, after arranging to meet them later (an hour ago); she had failed, purposely, to do so; her world had shattered, and she wanted to die. (Phew! Not bad for a first topic of conversation only known the girl ten minutes!) Under normal circumstances he would have been exploiting the situation intending to pump his penis into her at a later time, or date. But these were abnormal 79

circumstances. He still intended to fornicate, but this intention was overridden by a deeper emotion; something he hadnt experienced before. He wanted to cuddle her, to hug her, to envelope her in his arms and console her. He wanted to dry her tears. This felt wholly alien to him and he felt discomposed as a ridiculous thought entered his head he could fall in love with this girl. Mike had never been in love and never wanted to. He had a problem allowing people to become emotionally involved with him; he didnt want it or need it. He was about to discover what it was like. He was about to learn a glorious paradox of humans (arguably) strongest emotion love. Love, the Lords most celebrated and majestic gift and yet, Hells most obscene and unscrupulous retribution. They had said goodnight, only a handful of awkward silences peppering two and a quarter hours of comfortable, almost constant, dialogue, with a Christmas peck on the cheek, and arranged to meet on Boxing Day. After that encounter they had said goodnight wrapped in each others naked flesh, breathless, fulfilled and falling in love Helen, no longer virginal. During the following weeks they often discussed how quickly they had fallen for one another, justifying to themselves that they were made for each other. They clung to tenuous, coincidental links in their relative pasts; these similarities dictating that they should spend the remainder of their days together. Both sets of parents were married on the same date, both had no siblings, both were born under the same star sign Aries, both of their fathers had left them at the same age (Helens had died of a brain haemorrhage on Easter Sunday) and the ultimate deciding factor; that they had been born thousands of miles apart, (she, in Malaysia her father had served there in the army and he, in Liverpool) yet, had been brought together kismet! 80

They had planned to have many children and even chosen names for them. They agreed to have four; he wanted three boys and one girl, she, conversely, three girls and one boy. They had written down their preferred names on separate sheets of paper, and exchanged. His chosen names were Michael, Mark, David and Donna Helens were Anjelica, Donna, Davina andMichael! (This was written in the stars. they told themselves). They felt so good together and nothing could go wrong. They were ecstatically happy and intended to wed on Michaels eighteenth birthday April the nineteenth, 1981. They did. They separated two and a half months later, July the third, 1981; the uxorious sentiment he felt would never wane. He allowed the vision into his mind, the vision he swore he would never imagine again. The vision that was indelibly stamped into his psyche branded! He felt apprehensive. He hadnt permitted this image into his brain since he had met Samantha, having endured it each single day for approximately eighteen months after the event. He authorised its entry Michael had walked into the public house, already having consumed three pints of lager in another hostelry, on his journey home. His bladder felt like it was about to burst and he entered only to relieve his discomfort; he would buy a half and use the facilities. He ordered his drink, left his fifty-pence piece on the bar and gestured to the barman his intention. He walked to the toilets. As he entered he heard muffled sounds from one of the cubicles. He grinned. Dirty bastards! he said, quietly. He began to urinate. He had entered at the crucial moment, the mans suppressed grunts were becoming a little louder; he was losing control, reaching orgasm. The woman (he supposed it was a woman) was strangely quiet. He wondered whether they had heard him enter. 81

Perhaps not! He continued urinating. The woman eventually began to utter whimpering, muffled moans, as if she was trying to stifle her expressions of enjoyment. Mike had thought that she was finally enjoying it, especially when the thumping on the cubicle wall occurred. The mans grunting became frenetic; he was obviously near to his ejaculation but it was the womans muffled whining which intrigued Michael. He concentrated a little more intensely on the females overtones, his grin gradually disappearing. He thought he could smell the perfume, the very perfume his wife used. No, it cant be! He listened intently. No, it cannot BE! He ended his urination prematurely and tucked away his penis into his jeans, urine trickling down his leg, soaking his jeans he was unaware of it. His whole attention was diverted to the cubicle and its occupants. He approached. The man uttered some words which Mike could not decipher as he obviously ejaculated. He made the decision that he would regret for the remainder of his days; he decided to peer over the cubicle wall. He froze when he saw his wifes body writhing, limbs pounding against the walls in, what Mike assumed to be, orgasmic frenzy. She screamed. He never did discover whether it was the sight of her husband watching her being fucked to orgasm that caused her to scream, or the orgasm itself. He thought (as he sat on the sofa contemplating), It mustve been one hell of a climax! He re-visited the scene in his head He became possessed with rage. He clambered down, broke the lock with one swift kick, struggled through the opening, grabbed lover boy and splattered his nose with his forehead. His wife was screaming hysterically and shouting her husbands name he was oblivious to it. He 82

was demonic. His Doc Marten boot pummelled the skull of the man, as he fell towards the floor; his face bleeding profusely. The spectacle of his wife, naked from the waist down and blubbering uncontrollably as she huddled into the corner, incited him to desist from further onslaught. The mans blood had sprayed onto Helens torn tee-shirt (their passion must have been intense, he thought), and Mike imagined it trickling down and nestling amongst her pubic hair. He pictured it seeping into his wifes semenfilled vagina; the two life-giving fluids blending together, uniting in her sperm-ridden sleeve, completing a deviant liquid fusion. He imagined increasing the blood flow by splitting open her innards, but instead, stamped one final blow on the blood-soaked head on the floor and left without saying a word. As he sat on the sofa, thirteen years later, devouring his beer cache, he remembered the feeling as clearly as if it were yesterday. He recalled how he had walked through the bar in a total daze; nothing, nobody registered in his brain. He had to leave he had to put as much distance as possible between himself and that infernal place. But where would he go? He simply walked and went away. His mind had also walked and gone away. He started trembling as he walked. He was unaware of how long he had been walking, or in which direction, or where he was, or what day it was; month? Year? He was unable to prevent his body from shaking. He had smoked. He had smoked heavily. He remembered his quivering hand raising one cigarette after another to his trembling lips. He remembered how he had contemplated suicide not a cry for help, or a pathetic attempt but a faultless killing of his body, which, in turn, would end his agony; an agony that was unbearable - an agony that would never leave him. He knew then that it would never leave him. It was better to get rid of it now, in the only manner he knew KILL THE BODY, KILL THE PAIN! 83

He awoke from his trance, unaware of the length of his meditation, and was now focused he was on a mission. He began to register his surroundings and nothing was familiar. In the distance, one outstanding object a building logged in his brain. A large block of flats. He would run towards it, climb the stairs, reach the highest position attainableand hurl himself to the concrete. Simple. Straightforward. Painless. Final. He yearned to be there, now immediately tumbling through the air towards his doom, towards his freedom, towards a pain-free non-existence. He began to run. He ran until his lungs felt like they were about to burst and reached the building within minutes. He stopped, almost bent double; his hands resting on his knees, pantinggasping, and raised his eyes, gradually, scaling the height of the edifice. It was high. He counted the storeys thirteen. Unlucky for some! He sat outside on the concrete step and lit another cigarette, coughing and spluttering with the intake of smoke. He regained his breath and smoked the cigarette like a maniac, like a man deprived of air, sucking through an oxygen-giving tube. He felt strangely happy, elated even, knowing that within minutes he would be dead. He raised himself and trudged up the cold, stark, concrete stairs, his lungs hurting him before the third flight the pain being insignificant compared to the anguish he was feeling. He would readily endure this physical pain, perpetually, if it could replace the emotional agony. But it never could. He continued his ascentfour, five, six almost halfway. His wifes eyes refused to leave his mind; her scream filled his ears. He was unable to eliminate the horrendous visions. The image of the bleeding skull flitted momentarily across his mind, and vanished, replaced by the eyesand the scream. twelve, thirteen! He reached the summit as the bleeding skull appeared again. The picture remained a little 84

longer on this occasion. He approached the wall; it was chest-high, not a problem to scramble over. He would soon welcome his own demise. The bleeding skull showed itself again, and refused to leave. It was there, fixed in his mind. He thought how good it had felt to crunch the cranium of the man who had cuckolded him, and wanted to do it againand again. He wanted to cause him insufferable torment, like Michael, himself, was suffering. He peered over the wall at the darkness below sufficient distance between himself and the ground to cause instantaneous death. Why? He began to question his logic. Why die? Why kill myself when the person who should die is not me, but another? Ive done nothing wrong I have BEEN wronged! The wrongdoer should die, not me! He perused the city from his vantage point; the sea of neon lights looked absurdly romantic. He thought of his wife, out theresomewhere. She had thrown away their future, his future! He thought of blood-skullout there somewhere, probably with a severe headache Hopefully with a brain haemorrhage! probably lying in an ambulance on the way to his hospital bed and probably still alive. Anger, bitterness, exasperation was overhauling the feelings of sorrow and despair; fuelling the fire of retribution that was now beginning to burn in his soul he wanted revenge, needed revenge. He could yet kill himself if he wished to, but at a later date; after he had sought justice. But he must inflict limitless pain on the scum who had caused this maelstrom of madness. Fuck this! he said, turned away, lit a cigarette and retraced his steps towards existence; wholly intent on creating the utmost physical, psychological, emotional and mental anguish toward the filth who had wrecked his life. 85

His whole existence was, from this moment on, geared towards this; it was now his raison detre. He had abandoned his hometown the following day and resolved to never forgive his wife. She had appeared in his mind each day for the following yearand more, and he would conjure up that image, in the cubicle, her eyes recognising his her eyes filled with horror? Fear? Shame? Shock? Pleasure? Lust? Sorrow? Pity? He was unable to differentiate between the emotions that hed detected in those eyes; every negative emotion he could think of was alive in them at that moment. Every single day he had pictured the image, it seemed it would never go. Was he to be haunted by it for the rest of his life? He was. It would never leave him. He would only learn to regulate it. But now, as he emptied the final can of beer into his bloated gut, as the turntable continued rotating, having played its final song the stylus stuck in the final groove, he had learned to dismiss the harrowing image from his consciousness; burying it deeply the instant it attempted to emerge. Tonight was the single, solitary occasion he had permitted its resurgence in all those years. Tears dribbled down his cheeks; he could taste their salty flavour on his lips. The silence deafened him and his head ached. He lifted his legs onto the sofa, assumed a foetal position and lost consciousness. Ive been unfaithful to you. The simple statement failed to register. Ive been unfaithful to you. Stillnothing. Ive been unfaithful to you. Ive been unfaithful to you. Ive been unfaithful to you she repeated the words over and over again until they hit their target. The dishevelled man eventually felt the contact on his shoulder as he began gradually waking from his alcohol-induced stupor. He felt a 86

huge wave of relief, in his semi-conscious state, as his unconscious state had painted a vivid picture of his wife telling him that she had been unfaithful to him. He smiled with contented relief. She stopped shaking him and stepped back. Ive been unfaithful to you. Again again those horrific words were ambushing his thoughts even in semiconscious mode. Michael half-opened his eyes and his wifes substantial form towered before him. He raised his eyes, tentatively, to meet hers. Hi love, had a good night? What time is it? Twenty to threeIve been unfaithful to you. Twenty to three? Fucks sake Sam, whereve you been? Go clubbing, yeah? Ive just been having a few beers and playing some records; mustve dozed off. God I need a ciggie! Have ya got one pet? Sam pulled the final cigarette from his own pack on the floor, lit it and passed it to her husband. Ta darlin! He put it to his lips, inhaled deeply, exhaled inhaled again immediately, and exhaled; then burst uncontrollably into torrents of tears. Ive been unfaithful to you. His wife repeated for the final time. His intestines had knotted, re-knotted and felt like they would never unravel. Ive been un STOP IT! STOP SAYIN THAT FOR FUCKS SAKE! Stop it! he interrupted abruptly, through a stream of tears and mucus. Stop it, please, he said, a little calmer, please, please stop it. He was now begging. He wished it to be untrue wished he was still asleep. Ive not woken up yet, oh thank fuck! Thank you Lord! But he absorbed the contents of his living-room, blue carpet, gas fire, blue wallpaper, dark blue floor-length curtains, pictures of his children and his wedding photograph on the walland realised that there was no escaping the truth. 87

Aha! Truth! Its NOT the truth! Shes telling me lies she verbally deceives me! He looked up at her face, and in her eyes he saw a sincere, resigned, sad respiteand he knew. She did not lie. She did lie quite often but now, tonight, this morning, she did not lie. He wept again, for many minutes. Come on Mike, dont. Samantha delivered her sympathetic words with a tentative touch to his head. He jerked back, startled and revolted. His eyes wide, lips taut, his whole body tensed and said in a composed and menacing manner, Dont you EVER touch me! Dont ever touch me again, you fucking slut! Anger had kicked in. Several seconds of silence ensued (which felt like minutes hoursto Sam especially). She needed to talk, to explain; she had to define why this had happened. But, she was fearful, frightened to utter a word until her husband had spoken again; she thought that he was entitled to that, at least. When? A quiet, solitary word emerged from his lips. She was unsure whether he had said where or when or why; she couldnt ask him what he had said. She gambled, and opted for where. In Barnsley, she replied timidly. His head drooped further into his chest. He lifted it slowly and looked her in the eyes, I said when, you stupid bitch! But you answered my question anyway, thank you. She had been to Barnsley with her friend approximately two months earlier and Mike had observed her mood change on her return. She had happily showed him what they had bought while shopping, told him what they had got up to, (not all!) and showed him a lot of affection, (too much!). He felt so stupid. What a prick I am! This self-recrimination directed his thoughts to his own infidelity and he thanked Jesus for it. The feelings of guilt he had experienced (albeit, very few), were now no longer 88

necessary. His nature dictated the necessity to inform his wife about Michele. He was fully aware of the repercussions; but there was no turning back. No way back Mikey boy your marriage is over, finished, KAPUT, so what the hell? Fuck it, here it comes slag! So have I. He had said it and a great burden floated from him like a balloon. She heard the words clearly but they confounded her she wasnt expecting this. She thought to sit down but remained standing. Pardon? He looked at her and was astounded by the change in her facial expression; from sadness and guilt and resignation, to one of stone-faced quizzical intrigue. Definitely no turning back now son! He repeated the three words. So have I. The words slithered from him like a snake. She stared at him, and looked away, smiling nervously. No, no, no! Youre sayin that to get back at me. Dont be so childish Mike! He thought he detected a little desperation in the voice. He repeated the words, SO HAVEI. in a more forceful and dominant manner. He was amazed at the extreme alteration of each of their relative attitudes in such a short space of time. He sat there, gazing at herwaiting. She was delving into herself, attempting to discover when, where, why, how? He thought she needed a nudge in the right direction. Her name is Michele - I met her at work - shes a customer - she works over the road - comes in most days - I first fucked her two months ago maybe the same day you got fucked who knows? Shes got huge, brown nipples on massive, full breasts and her fanny juice tastes as sweet as the morning dew He stopped speaking when the blows began to rain down on his head; she believed him. He smiled inwardly at the utter absurdity of the moment; minutes earlier his wife had told him that shed had sexual intercourse with another, and now, here she was, manically pummelling him. 89

He needed to end the onslaught as it was beginning to cause him pain. He stood up and grabbed her wrists, instantly feeling a searing pain between his legs, as she hoisted her knee, swiftly and violently, into his groin. He pushed her away and tucked his legs together as he doubled over; immediately feeling more pounding, savage blows to his back. The red mist descended. He stood upright and pushed her, using all his available strength, not caring where or how she landed he just wanted this beast away from him. She landed on the television set. Poor telly! Its just an innocent bystander! He marvelled at his ability to be flippant in such crazy, tragic and violent circumstances. Forever the joker Mikey lad! His wife lifted herself to her feet, the television lay on its back behind her; ornaments and pictures lay smashed and scattered across the carpet around her. She steadied herself, as her shoe splintered the glass in the wedding photograph, and with a contorted grimace as grotesque as a constipated gargoyle, delivered as venomous and trenchant piece of dialogue as Michael had ever witnessed. You will never, EVER see your kids again, you fucking drunken loser, you fucking worthless piece of dog shit you get the fuck out of this house NOW, you twisted, fucked-up CUNT!

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6
dilemma for mayhem

Ive told him. Three simple words which Samantha

had just pronounced to her mother as they sipped coffee in the kitchen of her mothers house. Three simple words that made her realise the daunting, alien life that she now faced. Three simple words that, somehow perversely, she wished were untrue. Three simple words that would alter the destiny of her and her children. She felt a huge, burdensome guilt for having told him. She felt it could physically crush her, as a hedgehog would be crushed underneath the wheels of a speeding automobile pulped. Her very soul felt as if it were mashed to pulp. She began to feel the tears emerging again, again, so many, many agains. When would they ever dry? Would they ever dry? She thought not. She began to bawl; her mother started from the chair and hurried around the table to comfort her desolate daughter. The two women huddled 91

together; mother sobbing, daughter squalling, such a soulwrenching image, yet somehow beautiful mother yearning to ease the agony which had been bestowed on her daughter. She felt so helpless and small but would stay strong for Samanthas sake she had no choice she was her mum. Samanthas tears began to subside, gradually. They would start again in the not so distant future; she knew that for certain. She fumbled in her bag for a Kleenex, dried her eyes, wiped her nose and uttered the words again to her mother, Ive told him. Her mother regarded her sorrowfully, understanding exactly what she meant. I told Mike. I told Mike what I did. I told Mike what I did in Barnsley. I told Mike what I did in Barnsley two months ago. The statements - one immediately following another - sounded preposterous, like the teacher of a class of five-year old staring, attentive children as she pointed to the words on the blackboard, The catthe cat satthe cat sat on the mat. She began to feel her tears welling up again but succeeded in fighting them off. She took out another paper handkerchief, held it to her face for a few seconds, and continued. She reeled off the events of a few hours earlier. How she had returned home from a night out with her friends how she had walked into the living room how she had been so disgusted by that image, the image of her drunken sot of a husband as he snored, bear-like, on the settee. Strewn beer cans littered the floor; the needle on the record was stuck in the final groove, the disc spinning uselessly. The sound of the needle through the speakers alternated harmoniously with the animal noises emanating from sotmans black-headed nose. She had calmly replaced the needle on its arm and switched the power off, walked across to the incapable human mess sprawled across the sofa, stared at himand thought. She thought how she could ever have fallen in love with this thing. She thought how she had fallen in love with, what was once, a 92

wonderful, loving human beingand shed thought of their first meeting She had only walked into the foyer of the Ritzy Cinema to pick up a programme. She had been reading it for a few minutes, engrossed by the plot of a certain film, when she heard a cry of fuck it! She raised her head in mild curiosity and observed a young man. He looked about twenty-one or twenty-two years old, (quite dishy, she thought, a bit short though.). He had jet-black, spiky hair and was dressed all in black; black tee shirt, black jeans and black Doc Marten Chelsea boots, and stood no more than a few feet away. He had evidently hurt his hand whilst carrying a large, silver, metal box. He had laid the tin box on the floor and was rubbing his fingers. The man noticed the female gazing at him with a look which he assumed to be of disapproval at his expletive outburst. It was not. The stare, which Samantha awarded him, was look of admiration, bewilderment and pure carnal lust. Sorry love, these bleedin boxes are heavy. Theyve got films in, see. She had recognised the accent as Liverpudlian and another degree of admiration (and lust) had been accredited. She shivered momentarily. She knew that she must say something but her lips had frozen. She wanted to say something something witty, something appropriate, something like you should do a few work-outs in the gym then build those muscles up would have been perfect, but no, she couldnt think. The moment was lost as the man in black misunderstood her silence as apathy, calmly lifted the box with his uninjured hand and awkwardly trundled away, disappearing into the lift. Shit. You stupid bitch! she thought, as she tried to imagine her gormless gaze from the mans point of view, concluding that she must have resembled a lobotomised inmate from a mental institution. She reprimanded herself at letting the opportunity pass and folded the leaflet, put it 93

in her bag, walked to the tube station and thought of little else for the remainder of the day. Mum! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!! Sarah twat me! AAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH! The screaming voice of the two-year old boy interrupted her thoughts and conversation with her mother. The boy trotted across the floor of the kitchen, yelling dementedly. His two tiny fists embedded into his tear-sodden eyes. She admired his uncanny radar ability to negotiate his way towards her. The child jumped at his mother and she cradled him to her breast. After a minute or so of sobbing, she acknowledged the crocodile tears with a cursory glance at her own mother a tiny smile of recognition fell between the two mothers as they thought back together to Samanthas own childhood. She lifted Jonathans head from her bosom; a trail of saliva dampened her blouse. Jon? The boy looked up at mummy, squinting through bloodshot, tear-stained eyes. Sarah did not twat you Did, did, did! The boy was about to start bleating again, thinking his mother didnt believe him and began to re-bury his head. No, look at me son. Sarah did not twat you, she may have hit you but she did not twat you. She inwardly cursed her husbands colloquial lingo for having such an influence on her sons own speech, then, almost instantaneously, felt hypocritical, knowing that she was more to blame than him. She cast her mother, who had now moved to the sink to wash the two empty coffee mugs, a furtive glance. Mother wouldnt know I swear at my children she thought. Mother did know. Mother knew many things that Samantha didnt think she knew. Of course she did, she was her mother. After a few more moments of crocodile tears the boy jumped off Samantha and returned to the garden to instigate retribution on his sister. Sam continued. so I just kept on saying the words over and over again, Ive been unfaithful to you, Ive been unfaithful to 94

you really quiet at first THUD! A ball hit the frame of the kitchen window, Careful you two! the mothers shouted in unison at the two football-playing children in the garden. They smiled at each other. and he just carried on snoring. I felt the urge to grab a knife from the kitchen and slice his throat, just to make him stop bloody snoring! But he wouldnt. So I started shaking him at the same time as saying those words. Then, finally, after about ten, twelve, fifteen times of saying it, he gradually woke up and looked up at me. God, mum, he looked a mess! Wrinkled, bloodshot eyesthree-day beardmum, I couldve walked out there and then. So, anyway, I said it again when he was sat up and he just kept waffling on about stuff until he finally accepted what I was saying. Then all hell let loose. Oh mum, what am I going to do? She began sniffling again. Ill tell you what youre going to do, youre going to carry on. Youre going to care for those two lovely bairns of yours and carry on without him, and be strong. You have to. For the sake of those kids you have to darling. Rose, Samanthas mother, was a pragmatic type. She could offer sympathy when she thought it was required, but so often she thought it unnecessary. In drastic situations like these sympathy was offered, coupled with a practical outlook. Rose was a diminutive woman, but in physical stature only. She had a presence that belied her small size; a presence which had been cultivated and nurtured through almost thirty-five years of marrying, divorcing, mothering, fighting, arguing, loving, battering, suffering, drinking, laughing, crying, attempting suicide, using, abusing, working and struggling - she had been through it all and emerged the other side, not in any way unscathed, but alive. She could be a very hard woman, and yet, have so many loving, tender moments. And she loved her daughters intensely. She was fifty-one years of age and unmarried. But mum, its so bloody hard, I cant do itI cant! 95

Dont be silly Samantha, you can. You can do it and you will do it. Well help youme and your sisterswell all help you. Well be there when you need us, all of us. Samantha had four sisters. Of the four, she was closer to the eldest, Donna. Donna was twenty-nine; Samantha herself was twenty-seven. Leanne was her half-sister on her mothers side, she was twenty-six. And there was Gemma who was not blood-related, but her stepsister she was the daughter of Tyrone, Roses second husband. Gemmas own mother had died in an accident months after giving birth to her; Gemma having been raised by her father, until he drank himself to death whilst married to Rose. Gemma was then ten years old. But, from the point of view of the three sisters, Gemma was one of them; emotionally tied to them as if she were a blood-related sibling. She was the baby, now twenty years old. Lorraine, another half sister, was never spoken of by any of them. The sisters had a very strong family bond and Sam could be assured of their support through traumatic times such as this. She had been there for Donna through the dramatic and violent break-up of Donnas first marriage seven years earlier. Donnas husband had been violent to her throughout the marriage and Samantha was the only one who could stand up to him. She had clubbed him with a houseplant during a violent argument between him and her sister, which had given Donna the impetus to kick him out. Divorce. The word hounded Sams brain, as she stood in her mothers kitchen, devastated. Divorce it conjured up a terrifying image to her. Divorce. It changed people. It scared people. And it sometimes killed people. She was so scared. What was going to happen to her? What was going to happen to her children? How would they cope? Fear overcame her and she cried again. And did not stop for many minutes.

96

Coffee mate? No reply. Danny shouted again, a little louder. COFFEE MATE? Still no reply. He walked into the living room and stared at his settee in stunned fascination. A human wreck was slumped across it. This wreck smelt. It smelt bad. It stank of beer fumes, body odour and foetid breath; a foul-smelling legacy of Michaels previous night/early morning. He hadnt cared about his breath or his body; his only concern was to drown out the pain. Killing the pain squeezing the life from this overwhelming emotion that had enveloped him. He needed to throttle it before it overtook him and killed him. Alcohol was the knotted rope he was using it worked. It worked for a few soothing hours, but he knew it did not work, not really. On the contrary it fuelled the feeling and strengthened it. It nourished the emotion. Alcohol was emotional pains life-giving blood and Mike had donated a huge dose towards its survival. Fucks sake man, you stink! (Dannys words of comfort to his demolished friend.) Dyou want a coffee? Mike lifted his arm from his eyes, hesitantly, and wondered where he was; he knew he wasnt in his own home. Realisation slowly dawned. Yeah, stick us a whisky in it. One whisky-less coffee comin right up. Danny did care and that was his way of showing it. He walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Mike sat up on the settee and echoed his friends words. Fucks sake man, I stink! He cared for no more than three seconds until his broken mind wandered back to the events of the previous night. He buried his head in his hands and wanted to cryagain. His brain was fuzzed. His flesh stank. His marriage was over, and he thought of clowns big, jolly, colourfully-clad, stuck-on-smiled, face-painted clowns. He had no idea why 97

he thought of clowns; he hated clowns. They were bumbling idiots yet somehow creepy and sinister. Fucking freaks of human nature, he said, laughing softly at first no more than an embryo of a titter. Ha. He laughed again. Ha ha. Perhaps he was laughing at the clowns in his head? Perhaps he was laughing at the idea of laughing at clowns? Perhaps he was laughing at the notion that clowns are supposed to be funny? They make some people laugh they make most people laugh, but they creep the fuck out of me. He pictured the audience of happy, smiling, faces; all of them laughing in response to the ludicrous antics of the constantly smiling man with the large feet. He laughed again, louder, louder, and broke out into a full, sidesplitting belly laugh. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha aaaggghhhh, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Dan stared at him on his return, two mugs of steaming Kenyan blend in his hands. He stared, incredulous. This man has gone insane, he thought. ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha Mikes stomach began to ache but he couldnt stop. He continued. ha ha ha ha ooooooooooh ha ha haha haaaaggghhh.Oh God! Oh God no! HELP ME! His laughing had now ceased and pleas to the Almighty had begun. Danny continued to stare, unable to steer his gaze from this madman and thought, Hell start crying in a minute. Another scream wrenched from Michaels soul and he began to blubber, as Danny put the mugs on the coffee table and his arm around his friend. He said nothing not a single word, while Mike wept like a newborn baby. Wheres Daddy? Jonathan continued the pogrom as he hurled another snail at the wall; its shell shattering as its crumpled mass 98

nestled on the ground amongst its dead and half-dead compatriots there were at least twelve other broken shells - a veritable snail funeral parlour. The childs supply was beginning to diminish and he searched maniacally for more slugs in shells; hunting in the long, damp grass and down by the side of the garden fence. He knew where they were hiding. stds, he mumbled his shortened version of the full expletive, he wouldnt say the word bastard. He could find no more and aborted the hunt. Wheres daddy, SAID? he repeated a little more aggressively. The question was directed toward his sevenyear old sister who was seated on the step of the back door, head in hands, gazing aimlessly at the water leaving the pipe on its journey to the drains. She ignored him, The little snail-murdering freak, she thought. She wished some great giant snail would throw him against the wall. I SAID, WHERES DADDY, I SAID! Jonathan yelled, kicking the grass in frustration. I dont know Jon, I dont know! Sarah replied angrily. Her brother threw himself onto the wet grass and lay there, stubbing his toes into the soil in a frenzied action. He started to cry. Mother looked through the kitchen window and saw her son attempting to plough the soil with his frog wellies. Oh God, hes having another paddy, she said to her mother, I better go sort him out. She walked into the garden, stepping over Sarah. Whats up with him now? I dont know, Sarah replied, he just started asking where Dad was and took a fit - bloody spoon! Dont Sarah. Sam pointed at her daughter sternly. She approached the wailing, little human and gently touched his head. Whats up son? Where Daddy gone? I not seen im f ages. He had last seen him on Saturday afternoon; it was now Monday afternoon. Samantha felt she had to tell him something, 99

some semblance of truth, but not all of itnot yet it was too soon. She would probably end up in tears herself again if she did. She decided to hedge her bets and said, Hes gone away for a while Jon. She couldnt think of anything else without resorting to lies. She hated to lie to her children and did so as little as possible; unlike her husband, she thought, who lied to them and her almost continuouslybut no more. Wheres he gone? Jonathan was now sat upright, tears rolling down his face. He knew something was wrong but he was only two. What did he know? Hes gone to stay at his friends while Mummy and Daddy sort things out. What tings? Just stuff mate, now come on, this grass is soaking, youre gonna ruin your clothes. The boy lifted himself to his feet and was led inside by his mother. As she stepped past her daughter she said to her, Are you coming in Sarah, its freezing out here? Sarah looked up at her mother and shook her head silently. Okay love. Sam replied with a forced smile. Sarah rubbed her leg where her brother had slyly kicked her on entry to the kitchen and cursed her life. She was only seven but knew a lot more than she ought to. She knew mummy and daddy were splitting up; shed heard them at nights. While her brother was asleep she would sneak from her bedroom and listen to their arguments from the landing. Daddy would come home late, mummy would shout, daddy would shout back. This would last for maybe five minutes when, more often than not, the back door would slam shut and all would be silent. They would say such horrible things, hurtful things to each other; they couldnt possibly love each othersurely? People in love didnt do that. People in love walked together in the park, talking, laughing and chasing each other. Thats what they did shed seen them on the television they were in 100

love. Mummy and daddy were not anymore; they just shouted. She wanted to cry but refused. She was almost eight, but still only seven. But she was strong. I phoned work for ya, you drunken, bawling freak. I said you got your fingers caught in a car door and had to go the hospital to check for breakages, so if ya go back this week, I reckon you'd better wear some sort of bandage and act the martyr. Thanks Dan, Mike replied. His episode of insane laughter/crying/pleading had now ceased and he felt slightly better for it, aside from his headache, caused by weeping overkill or beer overkill or both he didnt know. How come you havent gone? Danny worked in a Virgin music store in the West End. I called in sick. Whats happened to you then? I got punched on the Tube on Friday afternoon and had to go the dentist to check for loosages! Dan smiled at his friend, cheekily. Mike smiled back and let out a roaring laugh. Dont start that again, for fucks sake, Id rather see ya cryin! His laugh tapered off naturally. He didnt feel insane at the moment. A fly landed on his arm and began to rub its front legs together. He imagined it rubbing its hands together with greedy glee, anticipating a mouth-watering meal of foetid human flesh. Not me, you dirty little black body of pus! He slapped his arm, intent on crushing the life from the offending beast. The fly flew away at the last microsecond. Bastard, he cursed, and then directed his attention back to Dan. Listen mate, I need a shower dyou mind? 101

Do I mind? Do I fuck mind! I mind you stinkin out my living room with your rotten carcass, thats what I mind. Mike took another sip of coffee, discarded it and lifted himself wearily from the sofa to go and wash his body. He knew it would make him feel a little better, if only temporarily. Danny sat in his armchair and shook his head, despairingly, when he knew his friend was out of sight. He hadnt seen him this way before and felt a little perturbed. It caused him to think about his own relationship with Hilary. They had been together for a little over three years. They loved each other but he would not make that final commitment, that final step to apparent normality and acceptance within society. He refused. She had asked him twice in the previous two years - on both occasions after a romantic evening, both partners feeling dreamy from the wine and in love with each other. He had been so tempted to agree to marriage - so near to acceptance and then felt empty and guilty due to his refusal. But a refusal it had been; and their relationship would continue and it had. They lived together in a ground floor flat off Acre Lane in Brixton. They had no children although both were approaching thirty years of age but they had a happy life together. He knew his girlfriend wanted the whole picture. She wanted a husband, children, a proper home (hopefully outside London), and he knew that one day he would have to either agree to her wishes or risk losing her. He knew that for certain but, for the moment, they were happy together and he liked it that way. He would cook her a special dinner tonight when she returned home from work; not solely to ease the little guilt he felt, nor to strengthen his own relationship in the light of his friends broken one, but because he loved her. Harmonious thoughts of love disappeared as Michael entered the room, towel fastened around his waist; a tremulous fart issued, ruthlessly, from his anus. 102

Thats better, Mike said, relieved. Thats quick man! Whats better, the shower or the fart? Dan inquired sarcastically as he repositioned his body to escape the effluvium. Both mate. Its really amazing how a complete body cleanse can make you feel so much better, not just physically, but emotionally. I feel like a new pint. Mike knew that this newly discovered optimism would be shortlived, but he revelled in it. He would have to grasp every moment like this in order to keep himself on track; whether he would (or could) he didnt know. But, for the present, he felt cleansed and exasperated and would enjoy the moment. Bugger it; Ill buy her a takeaway! Mike chuckled and began sipping his fourth pint of Guinness. The pair of friends had decided to enjoy their respective days off work together in the Duke of Edinburgh. It was now ten past three in the afternoon and the pub was scarcely occupied. A couple of old, black dodderers propped up the bar, sipping glasses of barley wine. A couple of middle-aged white men obviously experienced alcohol drinkers were playing pool in the corner and one lone, Irish-looking man of about fifty was reading the Daily Mirror at a table. And then there was Dan and Mike almost halfway to drunkenness, conversing at an adjacent table. Mike had known, almost as soon as he had woken that morning that he would not retire to bed that night alcohol free; with or without his friend he would have been drunk. He was pleased that he was with his friend although the previous three pints had buoyed his feeling of contentment he was grateful for the company. He suspected that he had probably ruined Dans plans for the night probably for the foreseeable future Dan having given him assurance that Mikes presence in their flat was welcome for as long as he required. Mike felt sorry for his 103

imposition. Sorry that Dans culinary plans had been scuppered. Sorry that Hilary would put on a brave face in his presence (despite her not wanting him there). Sorry that he could not see his children. Sorry that he had lost his wife. Sorry that he had lost his home. Sorry that his whole existence had been upended. But for the present, due to his liquid crutch, he felt okay. Come on kids, lets go home. Samantha, halfheartedly almost resignedly requested her children to gather up their belongings and leave Grannys house. It was three-thirty on a Monday afternoon. She had purposely allowed Sarah to miss school due to the upheaval of the weekend, but she would return tomorrow. Back to normal tomorrow, she thought, but she knew that was untrue. Nothing would ever be back to normal. She wondered where her husband was at this moment, thinking he would probably be propping up a bar on the road to drunken denial. She was correct. She asked herself why he had to drink so much, why could he not be a normal father and husband? She thought, okay, have a drink at the weekend, get drunk once in a while, but not constantly, not through the week. Hes not twenty-one anymore, hes got responsibilities and she despaired. She knew she could not change him she shouldnt have to change him but he would never change, she knew that. He was his own man and she loved that feature of his personality, but it brought about its own dilemmas. Come on kids, are you ready yet? Dont wanna go home! Got no Dad there, the young boys outburst to his dejected mother. Oh come on Jon, weve got to go. Dadll be back soon, we just dont know when. Sarah was playing at being mother again. She did this often to relieve the burden on her mother. She loved her so much and despised seeing her in 104

such obvious pain, despite the efforts to mask it. Sarah knew she could see the despair and agony in her mothers eyes she couldnt hide that. Okay Saz. Jonathan surrendered instantly - Sarah was astounded. She helped him collect his belongings and walked with him, one arm around his tiny shoulders, to say goodbye to Gran, no longer wishing him to be crushed by giant snails. Bye Gran, Sarah said and kissed her grandmother. Bye Gan! Jonathan said, immediately turning away. Come here you little rascal come give your nan a kiss. Rose chased the little boy and, amid screams of rebellion, planted a smacker on his forehead. The boy reacted, rubbing his head in frenzy, where the offending lips had landed. See ya mum, Sam said, the exhaustion she felt, showing in her voice. Bye darling, look after yourself and those two little uns and remember, Im always here for you. Rose replied reassuringly. The two women hugged each other for several seconds, and parted. The three left the house and trudged down the street toward their father-less, husband-less home, ten minutes away; Sarah held her mothers hand tightly as Jonathan followed behind, avoiding all the cracks in the pavement and searching for small insects to crush under his soles. Hilary turned the key in the lock and called, Hi babe! Silence. She called again.Dan, hi babe, Im home! Nothing. Theyve gone the bloody pub, she thought. Her suspicions were confirmed as she entered the kitchen and read the note pasted on the kettle it read: HI DARLING, JUST GONE TO DUKE WITH MIKE HES FEELING A BIT LOW ILL BE HOME BY 5 ILL COOK. LOVE YOU, DAN XXX. 105

Bloody bastards, she said. She wouldnt reprimand him on his return, despite her current anger; she would discuss it with him at a later, private moment store it up. She glanced at the clock; it was ten minutes to five. Youve got ten minutes, she thought, and switched on the kettle. Hilary was twenty-eight years old. She was naturally blonde pretty from a distance but quite plain looking on closer inspection. She was very slim, five foot two inches tall and she possessed a voluptuous bottom, of which she was very self-conscious. Although she was aware that men thought of it as her primary, physically attractive feature, she knew it was too large. She had moved from Coulsdon, Surrey five years ago when her parents had decided to sell up and move to France. She had wanted to leave home previously but enjoyed the comforts of home too much. Shed decided on Brixton as a complete antithesis to her home district. She had loved Brixton at first busy, loud, scary and throbbing with vitality but now had grown a little weary of the place. She wanted a quiet life again and wanted it yearned for it to be with her loving boyfriend. She idolised him, but nurtured a deep suspicion that he didnt want all that she did; she regularly dismissed the thought. She loved him. He loved her. That was all that mattered. At least for now. She worked as a receptionist in a large office building in Marylebone and enjoyed it immensely. She loved to meet people and interact with different sorts. Secretly, she cherished the attention that she received from most males who she dealt with and worked with, but would never admit this to her boyfriend or herself. She heard the key in the front door and looked at the clock five minutes to five. Danny was true to his word.

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Hiya darlin, Dan shouted, as he walked into the kitchen. He put down the bag of Chinese food and hugged his girlfriend, lovingly. Phwoor! You stink of booze how many have you had? I have had, my love, exactly five pints. I have been consoling my good friend Michael, due to his temporary marital breakdown. Aint that the truth Mikey? He wasnt there, he had scuttled off to the bathroom. Well, dont make a habit of it babe, she replied, a little peeved, but not allowing a situation to develop. I shall go and put my feet up and wait for my hunky boyfriend to serve me viddles. I thought you were cooking anyway? She kissed him on the cheek, not waiting for a reply, and walked to the living room. Michael returned from the toilet and entered the kitchen, where his friend was sharing the food on to three separate plates. Wheres your missus? Shes in the front room. Is she alright? Yeah, shes fine. But try and act a bit sober if you can, I dont wanna push my luck. Yknow what I mean mate? Yeah, no prob mate. Michael felt a little alienated. He wanted his home back, his family. He wanted to be sharing Chinese food with them. He missed them so much. He felt like crying, but refrained; he could do that when he went to bed alone. For the moment he would be polite and controlled. He knew he was imposing and appreciated the hospitality of the couple. Go and sit down man, Dan said, she wont bite. He left the kitchen and entered the front room where Hilary was seated on the sofa, watching television. Hiya Hilary! he said, feigning enthusiasm.

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Hiya babe, she replied. An awkward silence ensued and he felt self-conscious. After a minute or so, he could stand no more. Ill go and help Dan bring the food in, he said, somewhat relieved. Hilary smiled, also relieved. Michael walked away, congratulating himself for having spoken. He and Hilary were not friends, but they usually got along well. However, he secretly presumed that she resented him in some way, as if his relationship with Dan was preventing her from having what she wanted with her boyfriend; the whole picture. He returned three minutes later, following in the footsteps of his friend; Dan, carrying two plates of food and Mike carrying his own, with a bag of prawn crackers swinging from his mouth. The three of them sat and ate in silence. Michael toyed with his food, moving it around on his plate. He had no appetite. He didnt want to eat. He did not want to drink. He just wanted his life back. After consuming exactly five - slowly chewed mouthfuls, he said, Im sorry, I got no appetite. Dyou mind if I go and have a kip? addressing neither person in particular. Dan spoke. No, you go mate. Well polish that off, unless you want it later? No, yous have it. Goodnight. See ya mate, Dan said. Goodnight, Hilary said, and he went to rest his aching body, at ten past five in the evening. He lay down on the bed, fully dressed, and contemplated his future; but thoughts of his past flooded his head: He was thirteen. He was standing on the terraces at his beloved football club in Liverpool, enjoying the game. He was alone as he had no friends or siblings. He craved the company of his father, as he studied the thousands of people surrounding him. So many young boys were with their fathers; young lads of six, seven, sitting on their 108

fathers shoulders, boys his own age, their fathers arms around them, lovingly. Smiling together. Laughing together. Eating together. Drinking together. Being together. He knew where his own father would be one of two places the bar or the betting shop. Why could he not spend just one Saturday afternoon with his only son? Just the two of them. Smiling together. Laughing together. Eating together. Drinking together. Watching a football game like all these lucky boys around him. He felt so alone; fifty-six thousand people in the same place as himself and he felt completely isolated. The boy was standing at the back of the terracing where there was a little more space leaning forward against a barrier. A man approached him, he looked about thirty-five years old, greying slightly and balding. He was wearing a black leather jacket and a pair of scruffy, blue jeans, which were worn and soiled at the thighs. Michael was wholly unaware of the mans intent. Dyou want one of these son? The man had a large, opened bag of Everton mints in one hand and offered the bag to him. Yeah, thanks. He innocently took one from the bag, failing to realise the mistake he had made. He had opened a door to the stranger and welcomed him inside. The man entered. How longve you been watchin the Reds then? the man asked. Oh, about a year Ive been comin to the games but Ive supported them since I was eight. A true supporter then, just like me. Ive supported them since I wasguess what? Eight, yeah, just like you. Michael felt a little apprehensive caused by the mans amicable demeanour, but this was greatly overshadowed by the feeling of belonging. He was talking to this man who could be his father nobody would know, or could know. The pair of them would be seen chatting and everyone 109

would think they were father and son. He wanted the stranger to talk more. The stranger obliged. Were not playin too well today, eh kid? he said. No, were lucky to be a goal up, I think, Michael retorted. Yeah, me too. You want another sweet? Ee-yar mate, av the bag! The man offered the whole bag of sweets to him. He glanced up, pleasantly shocked, at the man-whocould-be-his-father, and gratefully accepted his gift. They both smiled and Michael liked him. A couple of minutes of silence followed, after which, the man asked, Are you comin t the next home match? No, he replied, I wont have enough money. Naaah! You dont wanna worry about that! the man exclaimed, as he slid his hand into his jacket pocket, peeling off two pound notes from a thick wad. He offered the money to Michael. You av now. he said, smiling. Again, Michael was shocked, but happy, and gladly accepted the second gift. Oh great, thanks very much! He wanted to call the man Dad but thought it may scare him off; he neednt have worried. The man was callously stalking his prey and Michael was oblivious. He had fallen into his trap. Two more minutes of silence ensued, by which time, the man had manoeuvred himself behind the boy his outstretched arms leaning on the barrier in front. The boy stood between the two arms, feeling protected and wanted feeling like a son. A few moments later the man moved his left arm and Michael thought nothing of it. When the boy felt his groin being touched, he thought it was a mistake. Perhaps the man was a little disorientated? The boy turned slightly away from the offending hand lifting his left leg a little protectively and the pervert took his hand away. Yes, he thought, it was a mistake. He didnt mean to do that - that is horrible! 110

You all right there son? the man inquired. Yeah, okay thanks, he replied, disingenuously. He was not okay, he was feeling scared. Good lad! the man said. A minute or two passed and Michael had stepped slightly forward, putting a little distance between him and the abuser, which made him feel safer. But the man moved closer within a few seconds and proceeded to fondle Michaels groin again. On this occasion the boy looked around, gazed at the man, and said, Hey! What you doin? Whats up kid? Dont ya like that? he whispered. No, I dont fuckin like that! Michael had never sworn at an adult before in his whole life, and the power of the word shocked him. Im sorry lad, it was a mistake. Come on. Turn round, watch the game. But Michael had forgotten about the football; he felt sick and wanted to run. He pulled the bag of sweets from his pocket, threw them at the mans feet and began to walk away. Youre comin to the next match, eh son? the man said to him. He felt the two pound notes in his pocket and was on the point of throwing them back at the child-molester, but thought again. He thought it would be churlish and chose to keep them, but knew he would not use the money for the purpose that was intended. He would not attend the next football match or any other football match again throughout his life. A knock on the bedroom door brought him back from the past, followed by a muffled voice. Are you asleep mate? It was Dan, I brought you a cup of tea - it might help you sleep. YeahI mean, no. Come in. Danny entered and handed his friend the hot drink. He could smell the whisky in the tea and realised what Dan had meant.

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Thanks mate, he said. Dan replied with a smile and left the room. Michael sipped his drink and was impressed with his friend, and the amount of alcohol he had mixed in. He returned to his past and recalled how dirty and used he had felt whilst walking home from the stadium. He wanted to vomit. On his arrival home he headed straight for the bathroom and washed himself from head to toe. As he finished he watched the grimy water disappearing down the plughole, but knew the memory of that afternoon would never wash away. He would always harbour a latent dislike for homosexuals although this had diluted with age and a sincere, murderous intent toward anyone who bullied or abused children. This incident coupled with the departure of his father several months later, caused a great alteration in the attitude of the teenage boy. He vowed never to rely on any one person. Not ever. He was an island and he would never let anyone ashore. As he lay on his bed in his friends spare bedroom, sipping whisky-flavoured tea, homeless and alone, he thought what his children would be doing. He wished he had been true to his word when swearing that teenage oath. He, again, felt like an island, and wished he had remained so throughout the past seventeen eventful and often painful years of his messed up life. He drank his drink as quickly as was physically possible, the hot liquid burning his lips, tongue and throat. He didnt care. He needed the extra alcohol in order to sleep. Within minutes he had drank the cup dry and he lay back, exhausted; willing the sanctuary of sleep to whisk him away and rid him - albeit temporarily - of this debilitating wretchedness. He would have to withstand another four hours of consciousness as thoughts and memories swirled about his head like a plastic bag in a wind.

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7
mashed

Vincenzo Vermicelli was a tall, strong man of fortyfive years. He was seriously balding the reason for his closely cropped hair heavy set and not (he thought) physically unattractive for his mature years. He studied his face in the bathroom mirror. The years had been relatively kind to him despite his rather eventful and stress-filled life. His eyes were deep set, almost black and still, but despite everything that had happened, still showed a certain sparkle a glimmer of mischief. They were set far back in his head and his glasses could not disguise his particularly bushy eyebrows. The heavy bags under these eyes were a legacy to the previous seven months of upheaval and 113

turmoil, however, the rest of the face would pass for a man of five years his junior. His nose was lean and straight, although his lips were a little thin and the two-inch scar on his chin did not detract from his looks perhaps even enhancing them it gave him the look of an interesting, yet furtively sinister, man. He was an Italian by birth and had moved from his hometown of Milan in 1963, at the age of twenty-six. He often wondered why he had not returned to his country to settle, as he intently disliked the greyness and dampness of England, especially the North. He had lived in Leeds for all of his current, almost nineteen years in England and now, as he studied his face dejectedly, pitifully and so full of remorse, he contemplated what would be his final day of life. He could no longer live with himself. He could no longer endure the guilt that was, slowly and methodically, gnawing at his very soul. He had to die. He deserved to die, he knew it and today, he would die.

Michael lay in his bed, staring vacantly at the ceiling. He had been awake for the previous hour and a half, although it felt like twice as long to him. He looked at his watch again, and it was now twenty minutes after one in the morning. The alcohol-enhanced bedtime drink, and the previous five pints in the pub, had awarded him a few hours sleep respite from the misery he was enduring but now, lying motionless and holding his erection, he felt it even more pure, unadulterated despair. He felt the urge to masturbate as he thought about his wife but, as he was about to begin, his hard penis had shrunk to a floppy, useless tube of flesh. He dismissed his masturbatory intentions and thought about his family. He had to do something. He wanted to go to the house to speak to his wife to read his children a goodnight 114

tale he wanted it all back. So much, that it pained his heart. He thought seriously about visiting his ex-home even at this late hour but before he could act upon it, he had drifted back to sleep. Well how longs he going to be here? He cant stay indefinitely. I know, I know that. Just give him a few days to sort his head out and well take it from thereplease Hil, hes a mate. I cant leave him out in the cold. Surely you understand that? Yeah, I know babebut all Im saying is that hes got to sort himself outbut I know what youre saying and I trust you. Youre a good man and I love you very much. I gotta go to work, bye hun! Hilary kissed her boyfriend on the lips and left for work. Danny remained in the kitchen, toying unconsciously at a packet of Benson and Hedges. He realised what he was doing and took another cigarette from the pack. He was under stress his allegiances were split. Obviously, he had to support his partner and respect her wishes and he would but, by the same token, he had to support his friend through his dark period. He could not forsake him and he wouldnt but he decided to drop a hint or two. He took a long drag on his cigarette and rubbed his temples he thought he should be getting to work himself. He glanced clockwards and registered the hour he was late. As he heard movements upstairs he opted to save the hinting until a later, more appropriate time, shouting to Mike, Mike, Im going to work. Theres a spare key in the kitchen. Keep out the fucking pub, okay? Cheers mate! he heard from (he guessed) the toilet. He heard it flush as he opened the front door, and made his way to work, confused. Mike waited for the sound of the front door to close before he raised himself, wearily, from the toilet seat, and 115

zipped up his trousers. The sight and the stench of the brown, liquid mass that lay in the bowl, made him heave slightly, and he felt a little distressed that this foul, stinking paste could originate from his own body. He knew too, that he should return to work as soon as possible; but he couldnt face it yet. Perhaps in a day or two he would have the strength to face reality but at the moment, it was too early. He needed to wallow in despair and drink. He walked downstairs alone in his friends house and entered the kitchen to make a drink. The cleanliness and the orderly manner of the kitchen reminded of his own ex-kitchen, and he fought the urge to weep. He had done too much weepingand would do a lot more, but when he could prevent it, he would. Where the fuck did I go wrong? How many bastard mirrors did I break? How many people did I kill? Why did I walk under all those fucking ladders? (Referring to his obstinate stupidity at purposely walking underneath a propped-up ladder willing bad fortune upon himself.) His self-pity was beginning to overwhelm him and he knew that he had to stop it in its tracks. He lit a cigarette and carried his coffee through to the living room and switched on the television. As he flicked through the channels utterly bored he opted for the banality of Kilroy and his unpleasant audience. so why do you continue to do it? I dunno. The lean, spotty teenager was slouching, almost horizontal, in his seat as the host quizzed him about his unerring need to strike his girlfriend. The host turned to the boys girlfriend who was sitting alongside her partner and asked, So why do you put up with it? Why dont you leave him? She replied, through sniffing and tears, Because I love him. at which point, the audience groaned collectively and the spotty youth smirked his right leg twitching agitatedly. Mike wanted to stamp on his face. He 116

switched channels and was faced with an advert to sponsor a dog, switched again and a cheesy husband and wife team were pampering their newborn. He switched off. The silence unnerved him. He looked around the room. The photographs of Dan and Hilary, the photograph of the cat, the utter normality of the contented couple which was captured in this room irked him. He envied it. He envied it so much that he wanted to screech to the heavens, I WANTTHISBACK. But he couldnt have it back. It was too late. Too much damage had been done which could never be rectified. He knew that only too well. He spat the remote control from his mouth and decided to venture to the off licence to purchase a welcome pick-me-up. He was aware that it was a bad idea, but ignored his coffee and left the flat. As he walked down Acre Lane, he stared at the filthy, bearded drunk on the pavement outside Lloyds bank; struggling to lift a tin of Special Brew to his bloated, ruddy face. Mike entered the nearby telephone box and rang his workplace to inform them of his intention to return the following day. Perhaps it was too soon, but the sight of the tramp had rattled him to a semblance of reality a moment of clarity. He would choose to ignore the off licence and instead, would visit his estranged wife. Tuesday morning, walking down Brixton Road, dodging the human onslaught approaching him and purposely failing to dodge the arrogant and ignorant who made no similar attempt Michael did not care. He didnt care if he received a blade in the belly, and if someone did dare to confront him this mad-eyed staring man they would lament. Nobody did. It would take him no more than fifteen minutes to reach his wifes house his house. 117

He knew that his daughter would be in school and his boy would be in playgroup; he hoped that his wife would be at home, and her anger had been tempered by their short time apart but he suspected the contrary. He had no idea what he would say, how he would say it or what his expression would be when he said those unknown words, he only knew that he must see her and try to sort out this whole mess. He was absolutely unprepared for his wifes reaction. As he approached his former abode, the house and home he had known for seven years, the familiarity of the territory appeared so strangely and paradoxically unfamiliar. He felt scared; felt he did not belong here. He was soon to discover which direction his life would take as he stopped two doors from the house and lit a cigarette. I shouldnt be doin this, its too soon. I should leave it at least three or four days; its only been a couple of days. Im gonna fuck meself up Im gonna fuck my chances right up! I want me family back and Im gonna fuck it up, but I cant turn around. I need to do this. Oh fuck! Oh fucking wanky bollocks! He walked towards the front door and without hesitation, rapped loudly on the letterbox. (He despised people who knocked on the window of the door; he thought it was intrusive and cheeky.) There was no reply, and he felt a certain relief, coupled with disappointment. He knocked again, and waited a few more secondsno reply. He thought he saw the curtain twitch in the front room, but knew that his wife would not be so obviously coy. If she had wanted to ignore him, she wouldnt allow him any evidence of her shynessbut he doubted that she would ignore him. He was proved correct when the door opened and, in front of him, stood his wife, and an astounding thought entered his head. Shes lost weight! 118

He had seen her less than two days ago and she had apparently lost weight. She appeared in front of her husband dressed in a brand new and Mike thought, quite fetching dark green dress. Her hair was immaculately cut and the make-up on her face was tasteful. He wanted to bone her on the spot. She seemed a different human. She gazed at him, indifferently an ever-so-slight look of disgust appearing in her eyes before she consciously sent it away and the original countenance re-admitted itself. She tilted her head minimally and slightly widened her eyes as an invitation for her former life-partner to begin the conversation; she refused to instigate it. She waited. He drew on his Marlboro and turned back towards the gate; she deciphered his actions as a refusal to continue and, with a feeling of sadness (and even betrayal), she stubbornly contradicted her wishes and closed the front door. He had heard it close and knocked again she opened it instantly holding the same stance, and waited again This is fuckin ridiculous! I agree. I only turned to throw me fag out the garden. Why? You never bothered before. Before is no more. Youre right there. Can I come in? What for? To talk. What about? Us. What about us? Oh come on Sam, this is fucking ridiculous! You already said that and I said I agree. Oh fuck this! Ok, bye!And she closed the door again. He stood on the doorstep, bemused, frustrated and dejected. He felt a strong urge to kick the door aggressively, but simply turned 119

and walked away. She observed his hunched gait through the net curtains as he trundled away a downtrodden man. He looked back a few seconds later but failed to see his wife breaking down in a deluge of tears. The strength that she had summoned throughout their banal conversation, that strength which she had forced herself to find, to prevent her from enveloping her husband in her arms, had taken its toll. It was now replaced by an overwhelming grief, for if she didnt know before, she did nowher marriage was truly dead. As Michael sat at the bar of the Normandy Arms five minutes from his former home and a hostelry that he had never dared to venture into he gulped the remnants of his fourth Guinness and scrutinized his fourth Jack Daniels chaser with glee, ignoring it for a second while his body rotated a full three-hundred and sixty degrees to scan his surroundings. As he perused his fellow drinkers he detected no sign of friendliness or threat (although that feeling would have been somewhat dampened through his alcohol consumption). He felt nothing but drunken apathy. This place is a fuckin shithole! The large black man behind the bar feared for his customers safety not the seven other black men in his bar but the solitary white, drunken man sitting at the bar. Las one innit? he said, as he withdrew Mikes empty pint glass. Mike turned awkwardly on his stool and lifted the glass of JD into the air. Cheers mate! He swallowed it in less than a second returned it to the bar, accidentally slamming it onto the heavily scratched wooden surface; the barman withdrew the glass immediately, and Mike was preposterously unsure whether it had actually existed as he ordered another. A pint and a JD please? The landlord repeated his previous 120

question, as Mike fumbled in his back pocket for change. He felt someone brush behind him. Sorry blood. No problem, mein heir. Oh shit! Perhaps I shouldnve said that? No prolem indeed. The man said, as he leaned on the bar beside Michael. A pint and a JD please barman Michael repeated, and a drink for the rather large man beside me. The two black men looked at each other; the customer spoke, Mos generous blood. Me av the Guinness maan! Most excellent! Mike replied, Two pints and one JD please. Im sorry I cannot buy you a JD as that would be too extreme of the old generos oshity and I might be deemed a hom, of which I amnt not. The mans gold front tooth stood out as his nicotine-stained teeth showed themselves in a beaming smile. He thumped his huge hand on the bar in a gesture of mirth as the landlord reluctantly poured the ordered drinks, with a sigh of resignation. Why ya wanna drink here maan? Michaels companion asked him. I have never been here before and my wife kicked me on to the street good reason I do feel? Aaaagh, dem bitches, scourge of the drinkin man, maan. Michael felt a little upset by the mans use of the word bitch to refer to his wife he even felt defensive but raised his freshly filled Guinness glass (leaving his bourbon for later) in denial, and toasted with his new friend. BITCHES! All of em! ALL O YOUS! Mike agreed, and drank. Excuse me while I empty the bladder of beer. And he ventured to the toilet, feeling a little more drunk than he thought he should after four pints and four shots. He justified it by his lack of food and previous three days of drinking he was just topping up. As he pushed open the door to the toilet he almost bumped into 121

somebody. Sorry mate, he said. The mans solitary reply was a hissing sound as he sucked his teeth. You cotton- pickin ignorant fuck! On his return to the bar nestling comfortably in his stool he took another sip of his beer and noticed his glass of Jack Daniels was now empty; he struggled to remember whether he had drank it, or even been given it. He looked around, perplexed, and caught the eye of Gold Tooth, the man replying by raising his glass. Mike turned to the barman. Scuse me lad, did you give us a JD? Yes maan. But its not in the glass, he said, desperately. Mussa drink it ready. He felt movement behind him as Gold Tooth re-appeared at the bar, lifted the offending, empty glass and savoured the drop which remained. AAAGH, tanks, you one nice white man! Mike stared in bewilderment and felt a little trepidation. He glanced at the barman, hoping for a just, intermediate decision in this apparent unjust, loaded situation, but detected nothing but indifference. He decided that he could either leave now voluntarily and unscathed or, outwardly dispute the stealing of his shot. He chose the foolish option. I bought you a fucking Guinness and you nick me fuckin JD chaser! Oh accusations, pussy claat, nasty accusations innit. Youre a fuckin thief, you yellow-toothed arse cloth! He knew, as soon as the words left his angry mouth, that hed made an error of calamitous proportions. The nails-onblackboard sound of chairs dragging across the tiled floor was deafeningand intimidating. Mike turned on his stool to see three men raising themselves from their seats and approaching the bar. Oh shit! He looked at Gold Tooth. The mans yellow smile exuded confidence as Michael read his face. It said, You 122

fucked up man! and Michael knew it. One man stood at the bar on Mikes free side as the other two stood directly in front of his face; Gold Tooth continued to grin, remaining motionless and silent. Oh fuck! JD for the white man Gregory! He one down! The words appeared from the recent visitor to Mikes left. Michael looked at him loath to re-turn his body to the bar, fearing violent recrimination from the two who were stood four feet from him. No, youre alright thanks mate, I gotta gerroffI gotta pick the kids up from schoolta anyway bloods. He began to seriously fear for his safety and realised that he had to vacate now. He raised himself from the stool and attempted to squeeze his body through the circle of ebony macho. The circle remained intact and stationary and he couldnt free himself without making physical contact with one. He had no option; he knew if he remained that he would be pulverized, knifed or dead, or all three. Excuse me, he said, softly, as he sidled through the largest gap available. No touch me, bloodclaaat! Sorry lad, I jus gotta get through. He squeezed through and was free from the intimidators circle, but not yet free from danger. The blow to the side of his face from behind caught him off guard and dazed him. He clutched his face and remained standing as a second blow landed on the back of his head. Dont you go down Mikey, jus get the fuck out! He felt a little disorientated, but managed to make his way to the exit door courtesy of his self-survival-radarsystem before the man blocking the door pushed him back from the relative sanctuary of the street. A third blow landed on him, but this one felt harder and an inhuman feel to it. It made contact with the top of his skull and he had no choice but to fall to the floor, still managing to maintain the 123

survival instinct to cover his head with his hands, and curl into as tight a human ball as possible. Nigger STOP! The man holding the pool cue above his head in preparation for a second, sharp blow to the bleeding foetal shape on the floor looked sharply towards the bar, and Gregory spoke again, You wanna kill the Babylon, you mash im outside innit! Michael heard the word Babylon before - through a fuzz-headed haze of drunken pain and shock - he lost consciousness. Mummy, whats that? Leave it boy, come here now! The shocked mother beckoned her son towards her and he ran away from it. Mother felt a little guilty, but reassured herself that somebody else would see it and sort it out. It wasnt her job anyway; she had meals to cook and her own problems to worry about. She hurried away from the offending sight, pushing the pushchair with her right hand, her uniformed son clutching the left. As she dragged him, he continued to turn his head, enthralled by what he had seen. An hour and a half would pass many more mothers and schoolchildren would pass before a kind soul would take charge of the unfortunate situation. As he approached he thought, Nobody should be left like that.

Mike entered the bathroom for his weekly summer ritual. He loved the summertime. Everything was bright. It showered him with a glow of warm enthusiasm - a contradiction to his insular and (what seemed to him) exclusively, lonely life. Everybody appeared happier, calmer and less likely to cause harm to each otherand it brought the flies. 124

Each Saturday afternoon, throughout the (oh-so-short) summer months and as soon as his father had left the house to visit various public houses and bookmakers, Michael would gleefully run upstairs. He would open the bathroom windows as wide as possible to allow each willing fly into the lions den. He knew that his mother would not interfere as she would leave soon after her husband, Just going to have a coffee with Leslie, son. Ill be about an hour. she would shout. OK Ma, Ill see ya about four hours just before me Dad gets home. He didnt have the courage to say the words aloud, OK Mam, bye! he would say. The boy had just turned eleven, and had no friends where he lived, as his mother dissuaded him from playing in the street and, thus, associating with his peers, out of a twisted sense of care for her only child (his father didnt care who he played with). She was unaware of the distress that it caused Michael; he craved the company of children of his own age, but it was denied to him. He longed to dance in the puddles with the gang of kids but was not allowed, Youll catch your death, Mikey, his mother would iterate. However, at this time, it mattered not. Mikey had his flies. He hated flies, yet he willed them into the bathroom. As soon as his mother had closed the front door; venturing off to indulge in her only-be-an-hour coffee which lasted four times as long, (The boy often wondered whether his mother was really visiting Auntie Leslie, but would not allow another more feasible scenario to enter his head), he would gather his tools two solitary pieces, simple yet effective an empty mug and a piece of cardboard. (He would always choose his fathers personal I LOVE DAD mug that his mother had bought on the pretence that Michael had bought it). Any piece of cardboard would 125

suffice, provided that it was large and sturdy enough. He would race up the stairs to welcome his afternoon of joy. As he entered the bathroom the plethora of small, winged, black-bodied beasts encircling the light bulb syringed him with happiness. His first course of action was to block all escape routes, so he closed the windows and the door. Prepare for torture my flying little uglies, the boy said aloud. Even at this tender age, he suspected himself to be a little strange; the ensuing ritual proving his suspicions were founded. The second step was to disperse the flying beasts from the circle and onto the walls. He picked the towel from the rail and flicked it continuously, amid the flies. They separated and inevitably (as the boy was fully aware), several would land on the walls and the ceiling. He selected his first victim which had landed on the mirror. He collected his instruments and directed all of his attention to the fly on the mirror, dismissing the remaining flies from his consciousness, temporarily. He thought of himself as the tiger stalking its prey and even mimicked the jutting shoulder blades of the large cat as he pronounced each alternating shoulder blade into the air. He prepared his mug to imprison the fly and positioned it appropriately, a foot away from the beast. Ever so slowly he allowed the mug towards the fly and, when just a few inches away, with one sharp movement, he enveloped it and howled a large cry of satisfaction. With his cardboard in the other hand and the mug pressed against the (now cracked) mirror, he would slide the cardboard between the mug and mirror, enabling him to bring his victim to its painful, tortured demise. Now, with his victim safely imprisoned, he plugged the sink and began to run the hot water tap. When the water level was correct he knew the exact level he embarked on the trickiest step of his demented operation. He had to transfer the fly from the mug to the water, but he was now 126

an expert and had not lost one for weeks. He lifted the mug with cardboard in place and turned it upside down. Then, with rapier-like swiftness he slid the cardboard away, simultaneously dropping the mug into the water. Sometimes the fly would hit the water instantly, but more often than not, it would fly up into the mugs air pocket. This caused the boy no problem as experience would enable him to manoeuvre the mug into the water so the fly would touch the water; as this happened the boy would flick water over its body to dampen the wings, making escape impossible. He watched the helpless creature swimming around the sink. He thought it appeared as if it were enjoying the pastime a leisurely Saturday afternoon swim. It would enjoy it no longer. The water temperature at this point was tepid, quite pleasant for the fly (he imagined). The water waiting to pour from the tap would be far from pleasant, it would be hot (having emitted its coolness to fill the sink). Michael turned on the hot tap, allowing only a small trickle to emerge, running his finger under the flowing water and feeling its heat; not yet maximum, but warming up. The water would reach its maximum heat when the sink was about half full. The fly was attempting to swim away from the waterfall, but would be unable to, as it was drawn into the flow. He giggled with delight as the fly was sent underwater by the flow from the tap imagining its pain as the hot flow crashed onto its body. The force of the water would send the fly to the other side of the sink, where it would enjoy a certain respite from the extreme heat but only for a few seconds, as it would be inevitably pulled back towards the burning trickle. The fly sank again and he marvelled. After a couple of minutes had passed, the flys movements would become increasingly agitated as the water temperature gradually rose; the continuing submergence now taking its toll. When the level of water was about two inches from 127

overflowing, the fly would (normally) be about to meet its maker (he imagined the fly to be wishing death upon itself to escape its painful, torturous ritual) but this one was obstinate it lived. He plunged his hand into the hot water (this hurt him, but didnt bother him) and pulled the plug a little to one side, enabling the water to seep away, very slowly. It would take a few minutes for the sink to empty completely, by which the time the fly would usually have given up the fight; this one had not. When the sink had emptied, the bedraggled, sodden, tortured creature attempted to crawl from the tiny opening where the water had escaped, to survival. He pulled the plug from the hole eyes fixed intently on the fly and studied its pathetic movement for a moment or two, before turning the hot tap on at full capacity, sending the fly to its watery doom. The boy sat on the toilet seat grinning maniacally, as he tilted his head upward towards the reformed circle around the light bulb, a look of savage insanity etched into his features You okay der, maan? The aged, lean Jamaican man asked the bloodied and bruised human heap that was lying face down on the damp grass. He received no answer. He nudged him slightly and repeated the question; the bleeding man moved a little gingerly, in obvious pain. As Michael slowly regained consciousness, he saw a hazy, dark figure towering over him, immediately covering his head with his hands and shouting mercifully, No! Please! No more! Its alright maan, me no gonna arm you. Cool bwoy! Mike allowed his head to surface, tentatively, suspiciously, and tried to focus on his carer. Look maan, I standin back now. The old man retreated a few steps and Michael began to trust him a little. 128

As the image of the tall man began to form in his pummelled head, he became aware of the severe pain. He touched his head, instantly wincing and crying out, as his hand made contact with the egg-shaped lump on the back of his skull. He didnt know where he was, how he had arrived there, why he had an egg on his head, what day, month or year it was. He just knew that he hurt and he had an intense thirst. The kindly stranger recognised his awkward, painful movement and asked him, Alright maan? Cyall ambulance, yeah? No! His pain increasing as he uttered the word. No, pleasethanks, Im fine. Just let me lie here for five minutes and Ill be okay. Thanksplease. You sure? You aint look healthy. The image of the beaten mans bloody face, the sticky red pool in the grass, the twisted, gnarled movements of the injured man and the evident pain he was feeling caused the Old Samaritan some distress, but he respected Michaels wishes. You speak, you want, you get. I jus tryin help innit. And I thank you, but honest Im fine. I just need five, please? Im okay, thank you. The old mans face said as you wish and he walked away slowly, staring back at short intervals. He finally gave up when he observed Michael flounder tenaciously to his feet. Michael tottered and his head reeled as he considered his whereabouts. Everything appeared hazy; he wanted to lie down again but knew that that would be a foolish option. He opened his eyes wide, closed them, re-opened them; continuing this ritual for several seconds until the pain in his head began to worsen, gaining, however, some semblance of reality. He saw a housing estate. A grassy area. A main road. A public house. And the penny dropped as he recalled his melee with the locals of the pub. I better get the fuck away from here before the posse comea-chasin!! 129

He began to stagger on to the paved area of the estate and regained a little normality in his gait, as he entered Normandy Road, towards Brixton Road. Without a thought, he turned right in the direction of his former home; passersby staring and wide-berthing him as he stumbled, bloodied and battered. A few minutes passed before he realised that he did not live there any longer. I dont live there anymore, he uttered, and turned full circle to embark upon the half-hour walk to Dannys flat, feeling utterly miserable, defeated, alone and in utmost physical pain. As he limped past the bus stop, an old woman was preparing herself to catch the approaching bus he smiled at her and, jutting his chin into her personal space, said, Im just a motherfucker from hellgood day to you Madame! He felt immediate guilt at having subjected her albeit unintentionally to intimidation. Fuck the wizened old hag! he said, as he continued his torturous journey.

130

8
paralytically parallel

Thats all folks! The Warner Brothers logo appeared

on the television screen and Sarahs smile would not disappear for minutes. The seven-year old adored the Bugs Bunny cartoons; Bugs was funny, he was cool and he was violent and always ended as the victor. Sarah knew too, that she would end up winningjust like Bugs, and she smiled, sinister and childlike. She jumped off the settee to go to her bedroom. Jonathan had pulled out an almost perfect, circular crisp from his bag of Walkers and was repeating the words, round crisp, round crisp, round crisp, round Sarah thought he was chanting the name, Chris Brown. Whos Chris Brown, you little freak? she asked sarcastically. koff! he replied as she headed towards the door. Where goin you? her brother shouted. 131

Fuck off ya little headfry! she replied, with a middle finger and a twisted countenance and she burst through the living-room door and ran to the sanctuary of her bedroom. MOM! Sarah swear me! MOM! Before Samantha had the opportunity to approach her children, Sarah was up the stairs like a rat up a drainpipe, and had slammed her bedroom door, shutting out the world and all its petty nastiness. She waited a few seconds for her mother to call her back, but it did not happen; she dived on to her bed and lay back, smiling. The young girl felt strangely happy. Perhaps it was the cartoon, perhaps it was the fact that she had got one over on her brother and gone unpunished or perhaps it was the calm in the household. A general, eerie silence had descended upon her home since her fathers sudden departure; she thought about him, her smile remaining. What in hell happened to you? I had an arguventand got davaged. Jesus kid! Some argument! You cant work like that, have you been to the hospital? Yeah, they vandaged ve hand. Michael, finding it difficult to pronounce his words through swollen lips which refused to meet, showed his colleague his bandaged hand one of the few places on his body which was actually pain free and a false confirmation of Dannys cover-up story two days earlier. He knew he shouldnt have gone to work, and was advised against the idea the previous night by Dan and Hilary - and indeed this morning. But he had been expected and knew that the area manager, Maurice Digweed, would be waiting for him. He did this out of no loyalty towards his employers, or indeed, no wish to disappoint Mr.Digweed, but from total and complete nave stubbornness. He would not be beaten by circumstances. His colleague, Keith, a painfully gaunt fifty-one year old man from Gloucester 132

who was managing the shop in Michaels absence - advised him. Mike was astonished how such a skeletal human could actually stand. Digweeds out the back. Hes looking for you kid. Cheers! Wha did you have v veakfast? Breakfast? Shredded Wheatwhy? How vany? Eh? How vany did you ave? Just the onewhy? Oh, no reason. I vetter go and see arse vace. I bet you couldnt eat two, never mind three whole ones, mate. I reckn youd struggle with three Shreddies! He walked out to the-back-place-where-we-make-thecoffee before his boss had the chance to beckon him. He studied the mans back and bald patch with an exhausted apathy as Maurice stirred his coffee. Hi Vaurice! The rotund man turned and his jaw physically dropped, as he gazed upon the bruised and battered face of Michael. His left eye was completely closed an unable-to-open slit, buried in a sea of purple. His lips were twice their normal size (also purple) with one front tooth missing from his mouth. (He had found his missing denture - miraculously intact - on the grass beside him after he woke, but could not wear it due to the pain.) His skull had a distorted outline and his contorted face was contoured with a myriad of cuts and grazes. Maurice took a whole ten seconds to acknowledge the ghastly visage. More than just a damaged hand then? Hand? What the fucks he on about? Michael thought for a second, looked at his (apparently) injured hand and replied, Oh yeah, hand! Itserits not voken, just vadly vuised. Sokay. Michael? How the hell do you expect to work in that condition? 133

Oh, its okay fat boy! I only got jumped by a bunch of darkie thugs, beaten to a pulp, left for dead in the freezing cold. The pains not that bad! Thanks for askin, wanker! Mike did not expect the man to inquire of his welfare. He was only too aware that Maurice was more concerned about the newly formed Elephant Man upsetting his customers. Iv okay. Shall I tell the Thin Van he is not required then? Maurice scowled at him, wholly unimpressed with his Thin Man comment. No you shall not, and, indeed, neither shall I. You need to go home and return to work in a fit condition. Telephone me in a week next Tuesday and bring with you a doctors certificate when we shall continue this conversation. Goodbye Michael. The purple-faced man offered no resistance to Digweeds comments, instantly replying, Goodvye Vaurice! as he hobbled towards the exit door. As he passed the counter he asked Keith if he liked the music of Boney M, uttered the words Vye Orson! to the bemused, emaciated colleague, and left. The following days were spent relatively peacefully. Mike and Dan had had a man-to-man-straight-from-the-hip discussion about the present situation, and had both agreed that it could continue no longer. If he were to remain in the household he would have to alter his ways, as it was causing unwanted friction between Dan and Hilary. He had agreed, and spent the ensuing days and nights alone in his bedroom. He had to recuperate from his physical ordeal (his emotional ordeal would take a little longer recuperation) so he rested, remaining alcohol-free and decided to read the longest book he could find in his friends substantial personal library. He chose J.R.R. Tolkiens Lord of the Rings due to its length and fantasy content, and lauded the imagination of the author, imagining him to be under the 134

influence of certain mind-altering, image-inducing narcotics, but not allowing the thought to dampen the admiration he held for the work. The Hobbit was not an option owing to its shorter length. He thought that the fantasy novel may help him deal with his loss; hope, joy and relief were what he needed now. He left his room, in those five days, solely to carry out natures necessities eating, drinking and defecating, contacting nobody except his two hosts. And, despite desperately strong urges to contact his wife and children, he didnt leave the house, or answer the door. He played the role of a five-day-hobbit-reading-hermit. He had completed the book on the Monday night after five days of almost constant reading the day before he was due to telephone his boss. His bruises and abrasions had faded somewhat, his lips no longer resembled a pair of fat, purple slugs, his pain had subsided and he genuinely looked forward to returning to the real world (having had his fill of Orcs and Ents, but genuinely missing Smiegel). He would telephone Maurice on Tuesday as agreed and offer his services for the following day. But despite his self-induced alcohol ban and apparent calm, he would still only sleep a couple of hours that night. Cant sleep! CANT! It was two-thirty in the morning and the two-year old boy was sobbing. His mother was seated on his bed offering reassuring words as she gently wiped the tears from his face with her thumbs, wishing somebody could do the same for her. Just try and lie still Jon, think of a black cat in a coal cellar at night-time, and youll eventually doze off. The quip failed to lighten the boys mood. Cant, was the tearful reply. Samantha felt her own tears rising again but fought them back she refused to allow her son to witness the deluge and said, Ill go and 135

make you some hot chocolate, lie still back soon, and kissed him comfortingly on the cheek. She left the bedroom and, on closing the door, crouched on the floor and broke down in tears. A couple of minutes passed when she felt a delicate touch to her head. She started and looked up to see the ghostly image of her daughter standing over her. Its okay mum, well be okay. Samantha clutched Sarah to her tears soaking her daughters nightdress and looked at her through reddened eyes, smiling. I know darling, I know. Go back to bed now; I need to make your brother some hot chocolate. You want some? You alright? No to the first, thanks and yes to the second. Samantha was amazed at her daughters tough exterior and said, Night night love, kissing her delicately on her forehead. As the young girl returned to her bedroom, she stopped and turned; her mother had stood up and was venturing downstairs. Mum? Samantha turned her face toward the pitiful voice. Yes darling? Is daddy coming back? She stared at her daughter for many seconds, smiled a hopeless, empty smile and simply shook her head, blew a kiss and headed downstairs. She thought she was slowly going insane. The child returned to her bed and sobbed herself to sleep, in private. When Michael awoke the following morning, after another night of demons and occasional sleep, he felt weary, but strangely content. He had spoken to his boss the previous day and was returning to work after almost two weeks the most difficult two weeks of his life, he thought. Why was he feeling this contentment? Whats wrong with me? 136

He put it down to his return to reality. He was about to return to unreal reality. After his half-hour-tube-ride-trauma and a serious discussion with Maurice where he was warned that he would be closely monitored he settled down behind the counter and lit a Marlboro. Aah, just like ol times! At nine-thirty two in the morning he opened his first beer of the day indeed, his first for more than a week. Bottoms up you fuckwits! he shouted, as he gestured his can towards the window. At nine-thirty nine he had opened his second beer, and by midday he was half drunk, having consumed six cans of Holsten Pils. He was balancing on the precipice, at that stage of drinking where one either steps back and returns to sober safety or dives headlong into the drunken abyss. He had to make a decision, but decide to postpone it as he closed the shop for lunch (which he had never done before). He scribbled a message on a piece of card (TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO MALADJUSTMENT), stuck it on the window of the door, walked out and locked up. Now what? I could go back in and be regimental in my behaviour for the afternoon? Or Five minutes later he was standing at the bar of the Hand and Diamond ordering a chilli con carne and a pint of Guinness he had opted to dive. At ten past three he left the pub to return to work. The food he had consumed had sobered him a little at the time, but the ensuing four pints had negated the effect and, indeed, exaggerated it. He felt drunk as he tottered the few yards to the shop and was thankful to see no queue of customers. As he unlocked the door he heard the telephone ringing and instantly assumed it to be Maurice Digweed, he ignored it, settled back in his stool to await his beloved customers (expecting the phone to ring again) and willed the presence of Michele. He had given little thought to her 137

since the night that changed his life, but now, concentrated his thoughts upon her and concluded after many customers irritating interruptions that he must end his relationship with her. Shell be fucking distraught! The loud ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts. He chose to answer it. Hello? Michael? Hello? Michael, can you hear me? He scratched the holes on the receiver, feigning interference. Hello? Im sorry, theres a bit of interruptionence on the line. Who is this? Michael, its Mr.Digweed, can you hear me? Ah Maurice! Michael speaking. How may I help you? Where the hell have you been? Ive been ringing you for the past hour! Shame you havent been ringing for three hours, baldy! Otherwise Idve been nobbled. Maurice! Ive beenerringing for you to wait ermwaiting for you to ring. Where the hell have you been Michael? Did you shut the shop? Yes, Maurice. Why? Listen Maurice, I have had these awfully painfilled headaches today and I have had to go and shit in, yknow the-place-where-we-make-the-coffee? (he joked, drunkenly, to himself) Well, I have had to shit in there for over one whole hour, I say, one whole hour Maurice! But fear not, for these aches have now subsidyersubsidied - ided a bitexcuse me a momentyes sir, I shall be with you in two secondssorry Maurice, Ive got a queue of customers as long as your hair, must go. Bye! He put down the receiver and smiled as he glanced around the empty shop. 138

Fighting the urge to open another beer, he took a packet of strong mints from the sweet counter to mask his beer breath and stared at the door, waiting for Michele. He would bumble his way through the course of the afternoon, which was event-free. The usual clientele entered; winos, businessmen, local workersMichele did not. Digweed had phoned back at five-thirty five (Michael knew he was checking on him) to inform him that they would talk at length tomorrow. He had caught only a portion of the conversation, as he had been pulling the receiver away from his ear and replacing it, as if he were playing an imaginary accordion with his one hand. As he locked up that night he was astounded that he had escaped the day with his job still intact. He was weary as he walked past the Hand and Diamond, embarking on the trek to the Tube station, dreading arrival at his temporary home. On his arrival approximately an hour later he informed Danny that he was going to bed immediately, and wished him good night. He lay down on his bed, fully clothed, bottomed-up a pint of water and waited for sleep to take him away from reality. As he stared at his unconscious mother, the fifteen-year old boy felt pity, shame, fear and lovestill, he felt love. He put down his school bag and reached forward to lift the vodka bottle from his sleeping mothers hand to swallow the small, remaining contents; he lifted it to his lips and dropped it purposely on to the floor before his mouth had made contact. He did not worry about the spillage; she would never remember. His mother jerked at the noise, instantly settling back into drunken oblivion. Michael went upstairs to his bedroom, locked his door and played his music as loud as possible through his headphones. He lay down on his bed and stared through the window at the clear, blue, July sky. He wished it was night but 139

another five hours would have to pass before the sun would set below the roofs of the dirty, brown-bricked, matchbox houses. He hated this place and longed to be elsewhere; and one day, he knew he would. He would not stay in this infernal place one second more than was necessary. It had been almost two years since his father had left the family home, and neither the boy nor his mother (as far as he knew) had heard any word. Michael assumed him to be dead and, if he was not, wished death upon him despite the fact that he still missed him (and loved him), a fact that he would never share with anyone, not least himself. The boy despaired for his mother, Margaret. He had witnessed this sight on his return home from school many, many times - too many since the departure of his father. He had tried so hard to show her the damage that she was inflicting upon herselfand him, but had received either no reaction or a verbal outburst, the latter terrifying him. She was like a completely different human being since it happened, and it scared him terribly. Why did she do it? Why did she drink so much? Why did she have so many different partners? All of these questions (and more) encircled the brain of the young Michael, but it was the final one that gave him the most pain and he didnt welcome these thoughts. He had lost count of the number of uncles he had seen and heard during the previous twenty months. When his mother left the house at night, he would ensure that his bedroom was locked before he went to bed. Sleep would fail to offer its comfort for a while. He would wake immediately on hearing the key in the door on his mothers return home which would, undoubtedly, be accompanied by the drunken laughter. You okay up there Mikey boy? his mother would eventually call. Fine mam! he would reply, at which stage he would put on his headphones to block out the distressing sounds and lie awake, eventually welcoming the long-awaited sleep. 140

As the teenager lay on his bed - staring, willing himself away - he reached a decision. He knew that he was unable to change the situation (which he was finding increasingly difficult to deal with) therefore, he would change himself strengthen himself so he could cope with the mess in his homeand his head. A change is as good as a rest; it will make a change for you to go out and enjoy yourself, and I will not take no for an answer. There! So youre comin. I dont know. What about the kids? The babysitter is already sorted out. Not a problem. Not just that though is it; they need me at the moment. Samantha was tempted; she knew she needed a break. Look sis, Donna said, what use would you be to those kids when youre in the funny farm? You need a break love. Dont forget, I know, Ive been there before and you were there for me. Well, now it's my turn, Im here for you. And I wont let no fucked up bloke who cant keep his dick in his pants make my sister ill, yeah? So youre comin, yeah? Samantha smiled, touched her sisters hand and nodded. Okay you. You always did get your own way didnt you? Yes I did, and I will carry on doin. Now go and put your face on, your sexiest clobber and look forward to a girlie night to remember. Were gonna bulge some jeans, girl! Ill just go and make sure Sarah and Jon are No! I will go and make sure theyre fine, you are making yourself beautiful. Up! And Donna pointed to the ceiling as Sam relented and headed upstairs to run a bath. Donna looked to the heavens, puffed out her cheeks with relief and shouted, Ill bring you a glass of wine up in ten minutes! Thanks Don, came the reply. Donna went 141

outside to check on her niece and nephew and, seeing them safely occupied, returned to the kitchen, lit a cigarette and thought of her sister. Her sister was looking at herself in the dressing table mirror and for the first time in two weeks smiled a true smile. You look stunning sis! Are you sure? Its not tooover the top? Sam, youve got tits, show them off! Make the boys pay for your night, they love spendin money on us! The sisters laughed together. Samantha felt really good for the first time in many weeks, and she was going to enjoy this night. Right Sam, the taxis booked for eight oclock, the babysitter is in the living room with the kids, and were picking Gemma up on the way and meeting Linda, Faye and Emma in Clapham. From there well get a taxi up west fuck the expense and the world is our oyster. Faye has got to meet her gimpy Neville, you know what theyre like. So its up to the five of us to make some West End noise! What dyou reckon? Sounds great Don, Ill just go see the kids. Samantha walked to the living room, said hello to Marianna, her best friends sister, and spoke to her children. I wont be late, right? And you both know Maz and shes here til I get in, okay? Be good for her! (looking directly at Jonathan). Love ya! and she kissed both her children goodbye. Sarah winked at her mother, lovingly, as Jon asked, Mom? You get drink? Sam smiled and blew them both a final kiss as a taxi announced its arrival outside. As she entered the kitchen Donna produced two pieces of sparkling headgear glittering, flexible horns with baubles on the end. Sam shook her head. No Don, I cant! You can and you will its party time! 142

Oh fuck it! And she fixed the ludicrous crown to her head. The girls produced an outburst of hysterical laughter and headed for the door. Bye kids! they both shouted, and jumped into the taxi. Wardour Street, Soho, was bustling with an incessant movement of drunken revellers as music boomed from what seemed every hostelry. Samantha, her two sisters and two friends were enjoying the merits of one such hostelry, The Armoury. It consisted of a small caf bar upstairs with a spacious drinking cellar downstairs for people wishing to dance, drink and forget their woes. The five girls were downstairs. Linda was attempting to remain seated on her stool at the bar while Emma was indulging in a passionate embrace with a young, dark-haired man named Roy who appeared to be at least fifteen years her junior; neither of them seemed to care about the apparent age difference. The three sisters were feebly attempting to deflect the attention of three inebriated, dancing males who had been trying their luck for the previous forty minutes. The eldest sister again took charge of the situation. She was also the least drunk of the three. Donna shouted - above the cacophony a proposition into the ear of Sam, the idea appeared quite intriguing to the younger sister. As she was in no fit state to offer any type of resistance to her sister, she nodded in agreement. Donna approached the three lecherous boys; the eldest was no more than twenty years old. She advised them to dance in a line one behind the other where the welcoming arms of her sister would be waiting, lips puckered in readiness for one long snog after another. The boys eagerly agreed; almost falling over themselves in anticipation of the females lips. The first boy was enveloped by Samanthas wriggling arms and kissed for a whole minute; the second boy in line, becoming a little 143

impatient, tapped his colleague on the shoulder it was his turn and Sam enthusiastically obliged. She was not as keen on this one, so she pushed him off after half a minute and beckoned the third. Sam thought he was the best so far holding him for a couple of minutes, passionately kissing only pushing him away when she felt a wavering hand between her legs. By this time, other drunken, sexually frustrated men were hastily forming a dancing queue, eagerly anticipating sexual activity with this (as they perceived) drunken slut. She was not. She was lonely and needed to feel loved however shallow the attention was at this moment. A fourth man claimed his kiss and by the time the fifth different man had embraced and kissed Samantha, Donna intercepted and called the show to a halt, imagining the situation would escalate beyond her control, and the three sisters staggered back to their table. The original three boys who had rejoined the now disbanding and disappointed queue left the dance floor. You fucking slut! Donna shouted to her sister, and the three girls howled in exuberance. Bring em on! Sam yelled, and they all screamed again. As they settled, Gemma went to the bar for three more vodkas. She inspected the premises for evidence of the two remaining gang members, and on sight of them (wrapped around two males) decided to leave them in peace with their partners. You dropped this. The two girls looked at the young man. He was a tall, handsome man of nineteen, with neatly cut, black hair and many piercings in his left ear. He was holding on to Samanthas lost headgear. The two girls looked at the glittering baubles, looked at each other, looked at the boy and screeched in amusement; their hilarity increasing as Sam took the shiny horns and held it at the young mans zip-fly; tweaking one of the silvery, springy horns in a lewd manner. The boy reddened a little 144

and placed a folded note on the table in front of Sam. I just wanted to give you this, he said, and smiled a little embarrassed before returning to his friends. What did he want? Gemma shouted, as she returned with refills. He wanted to give me this, Sam replied, tapping the unread note. Well? What is it? asked Gemma. Sam looked at Donna both simultaneously raising eyebrows and uttered, Dunno! Have a look then sis! replied Gemma, eager to know what it said. Samantha opened it. WE WILL KISS AGAIN, ROB, 01 253 7769 XX. She showed it to her sisters, perusing the bar in a vain attempt to discover the young mans whereabouts but he had quickly left. Which snogger was he then Sam? asked Donna, suppressing a smile. Fucked if I know! How many were there? Donna and Gemma looked at each other, puzzled, and uttered in unison, Fucked if we know! The three sisters, again, disgorged simultaneous howls of uproarious laughter.

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9
a fiend in need

Vincenzo! How long are you going to be in there?

He was still staring at his face in the mirror; the voice of his wife shook him out of his trance. Just coming my dear! He took one final, lingering look at his face turned on the tap to splash water on it, dried and pulled the chain. Sorry my darling, he said, as he opened the door, Ive got a little bit of runs, maybe it was that mince we had last night. Hows yours? Hows my what? his wife replied. Hows your bottom? Is it leaking? His wife lurched past him and locked the bathroom door without a word. He knew exactly how he would die, and when he would die. He rubbed his head with his fingers as one of his 146

headaches began to surface a legacy of that fateful night; and not the only consequence. He would say goodbye to his wife, as he would do on any normal Monday morning, as he went to work. Only today he would not appear at work, he would continue down the M62 on his way to Skegness and would spend his final minutes of life staring at the North Sea. He felt immense guilt for going through with this cowardly act. His children would not know he was dead, his wife would not know he was dead, his family back in Italy would not know he was dead; until, of course his car was located after he was reported missing. And then and only then would they all understand the reasoning behind his opting out of existence. The police would conduct a thorough search of his car and, amidst the papers in his glove compartment, they would discover the note - the note that would explain everything. It would contain details of the confession (he was always totally bewildered how he had never been charged), the reason why he had done it, the wish to die while he was recuperating in hospital, the absolute contrition he felt towards his victim (and his own family) and the utter shame he still felt which, of course, led to this final ending of his life. But, for now at seventhirty on this grim, Monday morning he had an hour and a half remaining with his wife. And he would spend it as he should have spent the previous sixteen years, doting on her. She would evidently show suspicions about it, but it didnt matter - he was never going to see her again. He would miss her terribly. He walked to the fridge and took out a single, small yellow tomato. As he bit into it, the goodness oozed onto his tongue he would miss these too. Ha! What dyou mean? asked the young girl, a little perplexed by the comment, and indeed, shocked by the appearance of the unkempt, red-eyed man behind the 147

counter. She thought that she could detect the smell of alcohol on the mans breath. Have you been drinking? Indeed I have, my sweetheart! Many times in my weird and wonderless existence that you beautifully call life have I been drinking. Would you care for a tot? Michael lifted the half-empty bottle of Jamesons whiskey from beneath the counter and offered it to Michele. She declined vehemently as she raised her hand in refusal, a hand that he instantly imagined between her own legs rubbing her clitoris intensely as she achieved orgasm; a sight that he had fabricated in his head many times. Mike? Whats happened to you recently? And what did you mean when you said us? He lifted the bottle to his lips and swallowed, oblivious and indifferent to detection from his superior. He emitted a sigh of satisfaction and rubbed his mouth, uncouthly, with the back of his sleeve, slowly replacing the cap. He lit a cigarette, stood up from his stool and leaned across the counter to be a little closer to his Michele staring intently into her eyes. The girl backed away, ever so slightly. Ever since my wife kicked me out Meesh over a month ago now you havent phoned me to ask how I am, and youve hardly been in at all in the weeks Ive been back. Its as if youve forsaken me in my hour of need, just when I needed a friendand more! Yknow what I mean? He smiled a drunken smile of sexual intent as he lowered his mouth and winked lubriciously. She, again, backed away a little more fearful. She was beginning to dislike this conversation and wanted to turn and walk out of the shop, but she needed to clarify the situation. Listen, she replied, a little anger now showing itself in her eyes and her voice, I know weve got on quite well over the past few weeks since I started over the road, and weve had some interesting chats about all sorts of stuff and we get on quite 148

Oh Meesh! Dont do this to me! Not now, not at this time! I didnt mean to get all heavy dont end it! Im just a little stressed by recent upheavies. Well continue the waythe thingsthat they are (he was losing the ability to speak). I know! What say we go down to Giovannis Twatty-oria later tonight and indulge in huge plates of cheesy pasta and doorstops of garlic bread? Well eat til we POP! What say you, doll face? What say I? I say youre a fucking freak of nature! Anger was overpowering the girl now, as she stood in the off licence faced with this bumbling, deluded, whiskeydrinking man, she let rip. We havent even been out together. Were not even friends! End what? Theres nothing to fucking end, you twisted, drunken fuck! What? But M! The sex! What about the sex? Were you just faking all the time? Oh no, no! Maybe two or three times, but not all twenty-nine times, no way! Youre fucking mad. You need help. I wouldnt let you anywhere near my body if I was the last desperate girl on earth. Im going, you wont see me in here again no way and Ill be reporting you to your head office, you fucking sicko! At this stage, the girl threw her payment for the cigarettes on the counter towards him coins splattering in every direction and speeded to the exit; looking back only when she had reached the sanctuary of the street, feeling bloated with disgust and confusion. She failed to hear the words that the man shouted in sheer helplessness, but Meesh! Youre confused! Ill stop drinking! Ill suck your huge nips til theyre brown raw and finger you to the O! WE COULD BE TOGETHER STILL! WE LOVE EACH OTHER! MEEEE-SHELLE, SUCK ME BELL, SONKYMONKEY-VONKY BEN ONSOM! Michael sang out 149

loud, rocking on his stool, behind his counter, in his offlicence. It was his counter, his off-licence and his stock and he could do and drink what he liked. And it was his song, the song he had sung as a small child. It didnt belong to The Beatles.It belonged to him. SONKY-MONKEY Ermexcuse me? He looked up at the lady standing before him, taking a drink of his Tennents Extra lager. Yes? he replied, a little irked by the presence of the stranger, Who are you? Im sorry, but do you work here? Me? Work here? Course I work here! Dyou think I would choose to shit in this shithole if I didnt have to? Tchah! Yeah work here not much longer tho luv, but yeah, fnow, I work here. Which can I do ya? But the customer had already turned and fled. Another fuckin complaint comin my way fuck em! FUCK EM ALL! He fumbled under the counter for the shop keys in order to lock the door and repel any potential interference. He wanted to sing (and drink) in peace. After much searching and ruffling of papers, and knocking over objects, he located them and struggled to the door unsteady on his feet to lock his fuckers out. He was faced with another struggle when he attempted to find the relevant door key amongst the bunch. Too bastard many keys man! Help! Due to his failure to complete this simple task, he proceeded to insert each individual key even the most ridiculously outsized into the lock. His fifth attempt proved successful as he slotted it into the keyhole and turned. Aaarh, solace! Comfort and peace! COMFORT AND PEEEEEEEEECE!! He sang the words as he stared through the glass of the door, hands clasped together religiously, as he recalled the 150

hymn he used to sing in school. He could now return to his pathetic world. As he zigzagged his way back to the land of distorted thoughts (and songs), he heard a loud banging on the door. Oh fuck off! He continued his unsteady journey, refusing to look back. Bang! Bang! More heavy blows were hammered onto the unyielding door. He turned and approached the door, mouthing the words, Were fucking closed you cunt! as the identity of the attempting entre registered. He then mouthed the words, Oh fuck! as he directed his gaze towards Maurice Digweed. A further three minutes ensued as he attempted to allow him entry, finally succeeding. Oh fuck indeed! Go! Leavenow! Youre sacked. But Maureeeeeece, quel is le problemo? Are you uptight for a type of reason of which I know not? Come and av a drink with your ol muckeryou fucker! At which point he exploded into fits of uncontrollable mirth. Maurices bloated face was reddening by the second, he found it difficult to control his ire, but remained professional. If you have not vacated this building within two minutes, I shall have no option but to call the police and have you forcibly ejected. Michaels laughter was slowly subsiding and he stared, menacingly, into the eyes of his superior. Maurice felt a little intimidation as he sought sanctuary behind the counter. As he stood back against the cigarette display (as far back as possible from Michael) he perused the chaotic mess behind the counter. The stool lay on its side on the floor; a coat was covering a bunch of scattered documents a coat with two dusty footprints imprinted on it and an empty bottle of Jamesons whiskey accompanied by three empty cans of Tennents Extra lay on their sides. One can was standing upright as Maurice investigated it (forever the professional), discovering it to 151

be almost full. He felt disgusted and betrayed as he turned his face to the staggering drunk who was studying his watch in the middle of the floor, counting the seconds. One fifty sevenone fifty eightone ninety five DING! TWO MINUTESand Im still here! Right, Im calling the police. He lifted the receiver at which point Michael relented. Okies old balding fruit, you win. I could spiel lots of poo to your bad self and your rotten eblash elblish estishment, but I fail to cope with very words which would need me. I therefore leave you with a parting wish of pigeon plop on your shiny dome and an act of thievery as I steal this very tin of alcoholic juice. At which point he plucked a can of Special Brew from the stack of beers on the fixture, sending another dozen or so cans crashing to the floor, unintentionally. Oops! Apologgees! And he lurched his way through the door less than a fortnight after his return his job now gone. Another potential avenue towards recovery had been blocked, and time was running out. Would you like to come back for a cup of tea? I dont like tea. Neither do I. The pair laughed together and, as the laughter fizzled away, the young man looked shyly towards the ground. Samantha directed his head to face her own with a single forefinger to his chin. They stared at each other for several seconds and their faces began slowly approaching. She made the first slight movement and Rob needed no more encouragement as he reciprocated. The couple indulged in a lengthy, sexually charged openmouthed kiss. Samantha felt his semi-erect penis pushing against her inner thigh as the boys hands fell to caress her buttocks. 152

No, not here Roblets go back to mine, she said, fighting the sexual desire that was burning inside her; her clitoris already throbbing. Whatever you say, he complied. Samantha and Rob had been seeing each other for about a week before this Saturday night. She had summoned up the courage to ring the number a few days after discovering the note in her purse, the morning after her night out with her sisters. Amid feelings of guilt, trepidation and huge encouragement from her friends (and sisters), she had decided to ring the number on the piece of paper. She listened to the dialling tone and, after two rings, made a movement to replace the receiver, where she would have torn up the note and discarded it into the waste paper bin. However, this hadnt happened, as a mans voice answered, Hello? Hello? Sam repeated. Yes? Hello? She almost put the receiver down again but fought the urge. Hello? Who is this please? You said on your note that we would kiss again. She purposely kept her identity secret, imagining him to have given the same note to other random women he had kissed (if he didnt know who she was, she would slam the receiver down) she also felt great apprehension and a little silly. The meaning behind these spoken words registered instantaneously with the man, for he had been hoping praying for the lady with the shiny baubles to telephone him for the previous four days. Oh God its you! The man hadnt intended the words to be impolite as she replied, Oh great! You sound glad to hear from me, bye! No, no! I mean yes, I am. I mean, its great to hear from you. She had had no intention to end the call, as she was impressed that he appeared to recognise her instantly; 153

she was merely toying with the boy. An awkward pause followed. Well? Er, yeah, sorry! Im just a bit shocked, pleasantly! Honestly! Okay. You fancy meeting up? Ersorry, but I dont even know your name. Sam, and stop saying sorry or Ill put the phone down. Sorno! The boy sounded almost hysterical as he screamed the negative. Yes, I do. Im not ringing to sell double glazing or anything. She immediately chastised herself for unnecessary sarcasm, especially at this early stage, but the boy laughed. Putty in my hands, she thought. You like the cinema? Rob asked. Dont mind, she replied. Did you see Four Weddings and a Funeral last year? No, she lied. Well its showing as a one-off at the Prince Charles down Leicester Square if you fancy it tonight? No, cant do tonight, cant get a babysitter, (she was intentionally letting her prospective date know that she was a mother.) I can do Friday night though. Okay, Fridays great! But well have to go see a different film if thats okay? Shall we say meet in The Bear and Staff just by Leicester Square tube? About seven? She didnt know the pub, but she refused to ask him, not wishing to forego her feeling of superiority. Yeah, Ill find it. See you then, bye. Bye, replied Rob, a little stunned by the sudden departure. She sat back on the stairs, a myriad of emotions overwhelmed her as she contemplated her date with this manboy. He must be almost ten years younger she thought, and a feeling of excitement engulfed her. She was 154

going on a date with a good-looking, young man of almost ten years her junior. Her, a slightly overweight, soon-to-bedivorced, twenty-seven year old mother of two, who, until a few days ago, had been wallowing in depression. She laughed at the absurdity of it, dismissing the feelings of guilt into the bowels of her psyche, a custom she had become adept at. And now, here she was, passionately entwined with this very person, a moist feeling between her legs, (she had gone almost three months without sex, and was longing for it) not sparing a thought for her estranged husband and why should she? This was her life now, and she would live it as she would live it. She pulled away from the elongated kiss. Coffee then? she asked. Coffees fine. And the couple strolled hand in hand towards her home, her bedher future.

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the incubus arrival

Now! Today, when he gets back, I mean it! Its me

or him! Hilary had not intended to give the ultimatum, but that was how she now felt she had had enough of this man; he was into the second month of lodging with them and she could take no more. He was beyond hope, and his presence was causing many arguments and too much resentment between her and the man she loved. Danny knew she was serious, knew that she meant what she said and knew that she was right. Lamely, he agreed. Ill tell him when he gets back, he said, and walked away, head bowed. The previous day had been the final straw for Hilary and Dan. After discovering his friend fast asleep on his doorstep (again) on his return from work, vomit trailing down his chin and covering his shirt, Dan knew that was it. He wanted him gone too. He assumed that Mike had just lost his job, but the fact lay unconfirmed until earlier today 156

 Saturday afternoon when Mike appeared in the kitchen, resembling a man ten years his senior. Do you want a coffee? Dan had said. I lost me job, Mike had said. I thought you had, Dan had said. I need a Lucozade, Mike had said, when he headed for the front door to walk the fifty or so yards to the newsagents, at which point Hilary began to issue her ultimatum. Dan had heard a knock at the door a few minutes later and raised his eyes upward, thinking, Who can that be? as he lifted himself from the sofa to find out. On opening the door, Michael was standing there, unshaven, bag-eyed, red-faced and blotchy. He was clutching an almost empty bottle of Lucozade. Wheres your fuckin key, man? He raised the fizzy liquid to his mouth, emptying the bottle, and, with an embarrassing look of shame and resignation, simply said, I lost it. Dan turned away as the words fucks sake Mike! left his mouth, and he approached his girlfriend, who was smoking a cigarette in the kitchen. (She had given up smoking a year ago.) Dan eyed her suspiciously, a little shocked but thinking twice about mentioning the cigarette she read his thoughts. Dont! I need nicotine! she said as her boyfriend nodded, kissed her forehead and stood by her side with an understanding arm around her waist. They awaited the entrance of the crestfallen Michael. He approached the couple, registered their loving stance of solidarity and knew instantly what was coming next. Listen mate Michael interrupted Dan immediately to save his friend and himself - the embarrassment; a little self-worth still intact. Dan, I know. Theres no need mate. Ill go and pack me stuff. Im sorry. Whereupon, he dropped the empty bottle which he still held in the bin beside him, turned and went upstairs to pack his belongings. He expected no 157

contradict from his hosts and, indeed, received none. The couple looked at each other as he left the room, Hilary faced her man and hugged him tightly saying, Thanks babe that must have been hard. She really did love him. Danny reciprocated with a gentle kiss on her hair. He knew that he had done the right thing but couldnt understand why it felt so wrong. He felt so guilty, feeling a strange urge to cry but fought it instead, he hugged his girlfriend tightly. Michael returned downstairs within ten minutes. He held a solitary suitcase in one hand and a single duvet and pillow in the other (leaving presents from Samantha). He peered into the kitchen, warily. It was empty. Not there, he mumbled, as if his riddled brain needed reassurance. He dropped his load on to the floor and entered the living room; the couple were sitting on the sofa, side by side, hands entwined. Mike felt instant envy as Dan immediately stood up. Where will ya go? he asked. Ah, you know me mate! Ill probably give one of the lads a knock and crash on his couch for a bit. But you havent seen the lads for weeks. Yeah but, yknowanyway, thanks for everythin I do appreciate it and I really am sorry that I fucked up, but yknow! Yeah, I know. And the two friends embraced, both of them thinking the same thought without knowing it. (Im not going to see you again.) Hilary gazed at the two friends, feeling a little sad, but feeling more relief for the mans departure. She stood up and waited for the long hug to end, feeling slightly unwanted and strangely out of place. They parted (About time! she thought) and Michael looked at her and simply said, Thanks Hilsorry. She retorted with a genuine hug and a simple, Take care Mike. He smiled, deflated, and turned out of the room. Dan followed. 158

Take care mate! he said, a little more desperately than he intended, and Michael lifted up all that remained of his lifes belongings; his bedding tucked under one arm. As he undid the latch on the door, he turned to his closest friend and said, You too Dan., and shuffled through the front door, tripping on the step as he entered the street. He closed the door gently, knowing he would never see Danny again. Bollocks! he cursed, as his pillow which he still carried underneath one arm dropped to the ground into a filthy puddle. Instead of leaning down to retrieve it he lashed out, dealing it a hefty kick. The dirty, sodden item travelled through the air and landed on a particularly shiny car, which was parked in front of his own. Hope this piece of shit still works, he said, referring to his seven-year old Skoda; the jalopy had languished immobile since his period of lodging had started. He felt as if Dans eyes were focused on him through the living room window (they were), but refused to look back; instead, retrieving his now useless pillow from the roof of the nearly-new J-registration Primera its shiny, metallic silver bodywork was not as eye-catchingly sparkling as it had been earlier. He opened the boot of his nearly-old Skoda, hurling his belongings into it. As he slammed the boot shut a man approached him from across the street. He was a short, unintimidating type - a little younger than Michael. He carried a metal bin lid in one hand. You gonna clean this then son? the man shouted aggressively, pointing to his car, which now had trails of black water streaming down the windows. Michael could not divert his eyes from the bin lid. He assumed it was for protection. He despaired. No needDAD, he replied, unperturbed, It looks pretty shiny to me whats the rest of the bin like? and he pulled his car keys from his pocket.

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You bein a funny cunt? Mike recognised the Yorkshire accent and thought of Barnsley and his wifes indiscretions. It fuelled his developing anger. Listen lad, you really dont wanna be callin me a cunt. Ive had a bad few weeks, Im havin a really bad day, I got a hangover like you will never know and I got a six inch blade in the glove compartment. Now, I know youve got a large, circular metal object in your hand whether for attack or defence I dont really know, and I dont give a fuck. But the only harm you can cause me is if you had another one in the other hand and used them as cymbals, causing my headache to worsen fivefold. Do yourself a favour kid go indoors please? The man retreated two steps appearing a little wary and proceeded to hop from one foot to another, slightly crouched. Mike thought he resembled a mentally retarded boy simulating a Tolkien Orc and admired the mans unintended ribaldry. Come on then, you Scouse cunt! retreating another couple of paces. Michael retraced his steps toward the boot of his car, approached the passenger door (which was facing the road, and the Orc), opened the door, and opened his glove compartment, wondering whether he would feel an Orcish boot in his backside. He rifled amongst the debris ignoring his knife (which was not a hollow threat) and located his cigarettes and lighter. Still crouched inside the car, he lit one, and then straightened up to confront his aggressor. He had just enough time to see a front door across the road slam shut as a bin lid rattled, harmlessly, on the concrete path. Michael entered the car through the opened door, shuffled awkwardly across, and settled behind the wheel. He laid his hands on the steering wheel, dropped his head on his hands and remained still. After a few seconds he turned the key, reversed, looked into the passenger wing mirror, saw the road clear and pulled out, stopping doubleparked by the side of the Orcmobile. As he lowered his 160

window he concocted a volume of phlegm in the back of his throat and launched the green globule like a missile onto the window of the dirty car. It remained motionless on the window for a second, only obeying the law of gravity when forced downwards by the black puddle-water, as they fused. He drove off. As he glanced in the rear-view mirror an odd, little man appeared to be dancing in the middle of the road, no shield required. The young bare-chested male rocked back and forth on his bare feet as he stared out at the street through the bay window of the lounge a room he thought was decorated a little too blue. He did not, however, give a second thought to the interior design or colour scheme; he was too engrossed in his own languid thoughts. The self-satisfaction he felt was intense, confirmed by the aching he felt in his penis. Wait until he saw his mates! He would have a tale to tell, indeed. He had been a little surprised by the fact that the woman with whom he had sexually intercoursed had allowed her children to be present in the house, and, indeed, knocking on the bedroom door only a half hour ago as he pumped his teenage seed into her welcoming mouth. She must have been gagging for it! he thought. He quizzed himself as to why she was single, Yes, perhaps she was a bit porky, he thought, though not bad looking for her age (he guessed the age of thirty) Ill bet her ex had a bit of fun with her though shes a fucking animal! he thought, and smiled arrogantly to his reflection. His thoughts were interrupted as a car pulled up outside the house. He could only discern the outline of what appeared to be a man, he was lighting a cigarette and then laid his head forward upon the steering-wheel, remaining motionless for many seconds. Strange behaviour, he thought. He continued to observe the figure as the shadowed human raised his head from the wheel and 161

proceeded to fumble in the glove compartment. The young boy thought it a little more peculiar as the ghostly figure exited the vehicle, crouching on all limbs on the pavement and appeared to grope underneath the car for a few moments. The man then rose to his feet, glanced in the direction of the peeping young boy for many seconds (the youth ridiculously thought he was being stared at, but dismissed the notion, as he realised he was invisible from the street) and proceeded to amble down the street, eventually disappearing from view. Weirdo, he thought, and failed to give the incident another thought as he felt fingers caressing his nipples from behind. So are you comin round again tonight, lover boy? Only if youll have me, feeling much more confident in her company. Oh, you can be sure of that Ill have you alright! she whispered into her lovers ear. The boy turned and the couple kissed passionately as the child walked past the door, awarding the embracing couple a look of intense disgust and hatred. Michael welcomed the arrival of the month of April with a gulp of his pale ale. This month would bring him a fourth wedding anniversary of his second marriage, a thirteenth wedding anniversary of his first marriage (despite the fact that he was no longer with either), his own birthday and an eighth birthday for a daughter who he was not allowed to see. But, meanwhile, as he watched the second hand welcome the morning, he would celebrate April Fools Day, for no other reason than he was already completely inebriated and hardly able to stand. He was pleased with himself that he had had the foresight to purchase two bottles of Samuel Smiths Pale Ale in The Chandos just off Trafalgar Square before last orders chimed; one to drink inside the pub and one to take out. He didnt care about the extra ten pence he had to pay 162

for the unopened bottle, nor the fact that he possessed no bottle-opener, he had teeth. And now, as he sat amongst the pigeons, listening to the rush of the water fountains, perusing the vast amounts of people who shuffled and marched, ant-like, on this freezing cold, drizzly Saturday night, he finished the dregs of his ale, tossed the bottle backwards into the fountain, made a wish and walked the few minutes to catch the night bus. As he stumbled through the crowds and across the roads (his self-survival instinct well and truly mobilised) he felt a little hungry as he noticed the illuminated kebab sign and realised he had eaten nothing for the whole duration of the day his plans for the day having been scuppered somewhat by his enforced ejection from Daniels flat earlier that morning. He knew of the unclean fast food establishment close to the bus stop and opted to dine. As he entered the open plan kebab parlour, he found it difficult to disguise his disgust at the unpleasant stench of dead lambs and hot sauce amidst the aromas of drunken London. He raised his hands to cover his nose. He leaned upon the glass counter - face still covered, and attempted to focus his eyes upon the tariff above him. Everything alright my friend? the obese Greeklooking man inquired from behind the counter, huge greasy stains, shaped like the Great Lakes, smothered his red apron. Michael thought he was the curly-headed actor from the Liver Birds sitcom of the seventies. You a Scouser? he asked, dropping his hands as he searched for loose change. You want food my friend? ignoring the silly drunken question from the silly drunken man. Eryeahcan I ava large doughnut please, with extra hoterthingy? Please? Large doner with hot chilli sauce? Yeah, thats itlarge donornot blood donor keeebab donerhot sauce stuff. The courteous Greek re163

appeared, much too quickly for Michaels liking, within two minutes. You like all salad? I like ALL salad, Mike replied, No! The Greek looked up, a bunch of red cabbage held in his metal tongs, hovering above the dead flesh, I dont like salad butmy friendI eat it cuz its good for me. The Greek replaced the red cabbage in the metal tray. You like salad now, now with your kebab? He was becoming agitated; Michael detected it and simply replied, Yes please. Hot chilli sauce? Yes please. Wrapped? No please. He failed to observe the Greek as he slyly wiped his hand down his filthy apron, his hand attracting raw pieces of meat which clung to the cloth, as he sprinkled the pieces into Michaels food. Two-sixty please. Michael lay three pound coins on the glass and collected his meal, Ta laaaa! he said, forgetting to wait for his change, and stumbled out into the night. The bus stop was situated literally three minutes from the kebab shop and he headed towards it, picking large pieces of meat from the bread, cocking his head back and welcoming it into his mouth, much like a young chick-inthe-nest awaiting sustenance. He leaned against the litter bin next to the bus stop and continued to gorge. His bus appeared within four minutes and he crammed as much food into his mouth as was humanly possible, allowing people to embark before him. As the last passenger jumped on to the platform of the old Routemaster, Mike took one last clump of chilli-covered flesh from his food mess and threw the remainder into the bin. He tried to utter the words good shot as the remnants of his meal reached its intended target, but showers of chewed lamb, salad and pitta bread spewed forth from his mouth like starlings as 164

chilli sauce dribbled down his chin. He noticed the looks of contempt from the seated customers. He glanced back at the unwelcoming stares and spouted, Phfck ys y biserble fphcks! as he tromped upstairs, cheeks puffed out with food, chewing the spurious meat As he alighted twenty minutes later on Brixton Road a ten minute walk from his former home Samantha was awoken from her contented slumber, feeling a warm, liquid movement between her legs, her new boyfriends tongue was motoring inside her. She was about to enjoy her fourth orgasm of the night. Michael staggered subconsciously towards his home. Even in his drunk, emotionally stunted state, he was fully aware that this night would end in tears for many. He continued on his way. As he swayed up Hillyard Avenue he observed a mutually tottering figure in the distance, approaching him. Escuse me, have you got a spare cigarette? He scanned the drunk for a few seconds with complete scorn, delved into his pocket and took out his pack of Marlboro and began to count them physically pointing at and numbering each one. Nope! No spare, I got seven, I need seven, sorry lad. Okay bossyou know? You see these pissed up tramps walking the street, all scruffy and smelling, and I, Im tellin you, I will never let myself get in to that state, NEVER! Mike studied the scruffy, smelly man and said, Youre a fuckin tosser mate. The man began to flail his arms and attempted a boxing stance, emitting an unintelligible diatribe. Michael copied the mans physical movements and speech and, for a few moments, a ludicrously surreal image was acted out; two hopelessly inebriated men, bodies swaying in the dark, deserted street, each with one clenched fist in front of the other, one foot in front of the other a staggering carbon copy of the old 165

boxing promotion posters from the 1920s. Who would go first? Even in Michaels incapable state he had time to duck as the right hook took an age to reach its attempted target the momentum of the effort causing the stranger to topple over into a tree and land, crumpled, on the pavement. Michael hovered above the man as the drunk attempted to lift himself to his feet, failing majestically. He walked away, congratulating himself on his ability to refrain from dealing a violent kick to the mans hairy face. Theres more important shit to sort. As he approached his car still parked outside Samanthas house he fumbled in his pockets for his keys; the realisation only registered after a while that he had taped his ignition key to the underneath of the car. Im not fuckin stupid. Those filthy filth aint gonna pick me up and charge me with drunken drink-drivin. Fuckin dirty rozzers! He retrieved the key and entered the car, relieved to rest his weary bones. Again he placed his hands on the steering wheel and rested his aching head, occasionally glancing at his ex-bedroom window, jealously and lustfully; the hopeless desire he felt to be inside that room absorbed him and he knew what was to follow. Have a ciggie mate! Dont mind if I do mate, where are they mate? In the glovey mate. Ah, youre a star mate! He lit a cigarette, purposely switching on the interior light, hoping his wife would somehow look out of her window, notice him and call the police. He could not stop what he was about to do. Only the police couldand they would. He began to slap his face to sober up. Samanthas head was nestled peacefully into Robs hairless chest. She felt so calm and satisfied. She would wash the semen from her vagina in the morning, certain that there would be an extra deposit before the morning came. 166

She felt re-invigorated, yet serene, drifting into a comfortable sleep. Rob was sleeping soundly. AAAghhhh fuck it! Mike rapped loudly on the window of the front door with his fistand waited. Youre a prick son. Dont do it, just walk away. He knew he wouldnt, couldnt. He knocked againand waited, motionless. Sarah knocked timidly on her mothers bedroom door. Mum? she said quietly. After a few seconds of silence she repeated the knock, Mum? She wouldnt walk in as she knew the sight of a strange man in her parents bed would cause her untold distress. She waited. I know youre in there and I wont go away til you respond to my pounding. Michael was now crouching on the step and talking quietly through the letter-box, slightly angered by the lack of response from within. He toppled back, only preventing himself falling by gripping the inside of the letter-box. Sarah heard the voice as she stood on the landing and recognised it instantly. She felt excited, scared and as if she were in a dream. Im going nowhere Sam. Can I have a blanket please? Im bastard freezin. Sarah crept down the stairs, Dad! she said quietly to herself, she had to go and see him. He saw the sight of his daughter tentatively tip-toeing down the stairs towards him, as his eyes peered through the rectangular hole. Saz! he whispered. He was exasperated. Sir! Dad! she whispered as she reached the bottom stair, seeing the fingers of her father on the inside of the letterbox. Sarah, darlin, he said. A wave of happiness flooded his heart. He hadnt seen or spoken to his children for weeks. He wished he could vapourise himself through the small hole and re-appear on the other side of the door to 167

hug his daughter tightly to him. He could only squeeze his arm through the aperture until his upper forearm forbade any further entrance. He felt the constriction of the small aperture on his flesh as he pushed his arm through. The physical pain was irrelevant. Sarahs tiny fingers clasped her fathers desperate hand. She crouched down. Dad, what are you doing dad? You shouldnt be here. Oh Sarah, Ive missed you so much. He could determine the fuzzed image of his daughter through the frosted glass as he couldnt let go the touch of his daughters hand. Howve you been pet? Are you alright? he said to the window. Dad, were okay, but you got to go dad, please? She knew the upshot if her father were to discover the truth of the situation, but she so desperately wanted, needed him to hug her and tell her that everything was going to be alright. She was torn. He was also torn between touching her hand and gazing into her eyes. He crouched down too, gently pulling his daughters hand towards him through the door. Their fingers entwined as they rested in the letter-box, enabling the space to see his daughter. He saw her face and his head jutted forward onto the door as he cried. Dad dont. Please just go and come back tomorrow. He lifted his head. Sarah? What are you doing? Samantha asked from the top of the stairs. Dad I got to go, I love you, she whispered, and pulled her hand away. Nothing mum. Are you talking to someone? No mum, I thought I heard something, she lied as she began to climb the stairs, her hands clasped behind her back waving goodbye to her father. Go back to bed darling. Its late. Sam said, smiling. Saz? Dont go! Michael shouted desperately through the letter-box. 168

Who the fuck? Sam said as Sarah raced up the stairs into her brothers bedroom. She knew what was to follow and was terror-stricken but she had to look after her brother. Mike, is that you? What the fuck are you doing? Youd better go now or Im gonna call the police. Sam, lets just talk. We need to talk, to sort stuff out. Mike, theres nothing to sort out. You and me are finished. Get on with your lifeIm getting on with mine. Youre pissed Im tired...Sarahs scared, please just go away. Can I see my kids? Please Sam, just for one minute, let me hold them? Please Sam? Well sort something out, but not now. Mike, please just go. His mentality suddenly twisted as he said the words with a sinister calm, Youve got some fucker up there, havent you? Mike just go. Ill call the police if you dont. I know you will. But not before Ive put the cunts head through the wall. Right, she said, now agitatedand fearful, Im calling 999. Is everything okay Samantha? Rob appeared at the bedroom door, sleepily. Sams stomach churned as the butterflies awoke too. Sarah trembled as she crouched at the bedroom door; her brother began to stir behind her. Michael heard the male voice and lost his mind. It took just three kicks from his boot before the front door gave in and he burst it open with his shoulder. Dont you fucking! but before Samantha could finish her threat he was half way up the stairs. Oh fuck! she said and had no choice but to get out of the way. He reached the top of the stairs and stopped, panting for breath and inspected the young man; the soon-to-be-victim clad only in his Simpsons boxer shorts.

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Good fuck aint she son? On her day anyway. She suck your little dick? Never did that for me much. Maybe I never washed it enough. You wash yours much? Who the fuck are you? Rob replied, a little bemused, a little scared and still sleepy. Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you, you fuckin skinny cunt, sleepin in my bed with my wife, and with my children here. Ill tell you who the fuck I am He approached the young man slowly and deliberately, Im the man who is gonna make sure you never fuck anyone or anythingagain. And as he grabbed Robs testicles and penis, squeezing and pulling with all his considerable strength, he headbutted him squarely on the bridge of the nose. The sound of the cracked bone echoed through the eerily silent house, as the blood spattered on to Mikes face. STOP IT! STOP IT! You fucking freak! Get out of my house now! Fuck off, I fuckin hate you! Samanthas desperate pleas preceded her violent outburst towards her estranged husband. As Rob lay on the floor, clutching his blood-soaked face, and as Mike stamped on his aching hypogastrium, Sam began to pummel her fists into her husbands back. Sarah and Jonathan were crouched together in the bedroom, hugging each other in a vice-like grip, tears rolling down their cheeks and quaking with a paralyzing fear they did not know was possible to feel.

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11
tiddly-om-pom-pom

Wake up son.
Mike felt the nudges to his back and said, Leave it Sam. Im not going to work todayphone in for me. Come on, time to go. He awoke, bleary-eyed and thirsty and the stark concrete wall in front of his face confused him. He was cold; the paper-thin blanket, pressed tight around his shoulders, had given him little insulation throughout the night. The instant he regained consciousness he knew he was uncomfortable; the wafer-thin mattress may well have been a single sheet for all the cushioning it offered. Bit of an artist are you? the uniformed man asked sarcastically. Eh? He turned his aching body towards the voice and the image formed. Oh bollocks, what have I done? Is this Hell? 171

I said you must be a bit of an artist. He didnt appreciate the flippancy of the man. Sarcastic twat! What dyou mean? What time is it? Where am I? he mumbled. We were watching you last night. You werent doing any harm, apart from wasting a toilet roll. This man was a grave irritation to Michael, but he knew that he had to endure it. He didnt know what he had done or what trouble he was in. He knew he was in trouble, as the four concrete walls, the single toilet and that distinctive cell-smell, which he knew from previous experience, offered enough evidence. The policeman standing over him was the final piece in this menacing, quixotic jigsaw. He lowered his legs to the floor, feeling thoroughly enervated, and sat up on the cold slab which masqueraded as a bed - it may well have been a morgue slab. He wished he was dead. The arrangement of toilet roll pieces on the cell floor was bemusing and surreal. We couldnt figure out what it was until we came in and looked at it this way. The policeman was now stood, arms folded, with his back to Michaels bunk. He stood aside and Mike attempted to decipher the significance of the tissue pieces on the floor. The pieces had been arranged on the floor to spell the words SLUT WIFE. His head plunged as a vague recollection of the previous nights events began to form, hazily, in his painful head. Oh shit! I hope I didnt kill her. And him! That weedy fuck! Did I kill him? Oh good Jesus what did I do? What did I do? Well, officially you did nothing. Youre free to leave. Your wife, or her boyfriend, would not say any violence occurred. You even phoned us yourself and asked us to lock you up before you did anything really serious! You wont be charged. You were drunk and disorderly and a night in the cells is your total punishment. Come on. He felt 172

disappointed. He wished he had killed. He was lead from the cell to the desk outside to collect his belongings and sign the necessary paperwork. On completion of formalities he said a simple thank you and turned to leave. The sardonic policeman stopped him and said, Dont go back to the house. Dont get into trouble and dont cause GBH, because next time you may not be so lucky. Thank you officer, he said as he left, reciprocating the sarcasm of the man behind the uniform. He sat down on the cold steps outside to replace the laces in his boots. Fuckin helmet heads! How could I hang myself with a bootlace? So wheres he stayin? Adam asked. I dont know, Dan said. So you just kicked him out? We didnt kick him out. It wasnt like that, Hilary interrupted. We did babe, we kicked him out, be honest, said Dan. So where is he? asked Adam. Probably in his car, or the cells I reckon, spurted John. How many coats has he got? asked Stuey. Stu? said Adam, shut the fuck up man. Little Stu sipped from his half-pint glass of dog, topped it up again and drank from the bottle. Yeah but how many coats do you have Betty Windsor? And what time will I finish this game? asked Stu and shuffled off to the toilets, collecting his coat in the process. God, he pisses me off sometimes. That mans fucked up, said Jane. Hes a bloody stadbreath, Peanuts interjected. Hes Little Stu, of course hes fucked up, otherwise he wouldnt be Little Stu, replied Adam. Who wants a beer? Dan looked at Hilary, she blinked her eyes in a show of agreement and he said, Ill get em. He trudged to the 173

bar and thought of his friend the guilt he felt was gnawing away inside him. There arrives in every humans lifetime a realisation, a certain moment of clarity. Whether one chooses to heed the moment and act upon it, or to ignore it and continue in the same vein, will govern their path through life. As Michael finished lacing his boots, his moment had arrived. It hit him like a horse, squarely in the chest. I gotta get out of this place. He had to get out of this place. Ill kill her otherwise, or him, or bothor me. He would kill his wife otherwise, or her boyfriend, or both of themor himself. He knew he had the ability to do it. He knew he had the reason to do it. He thought he had the justification to do it. He had, of course, killed before. Nobody knew this, apart from the only person who mattered, himself. It was a secret he had kept hidden from everybody who had touched his life in the previous thirteen years. And as he raised himself from the steps of Brixton Police Station, he knew if he murdered again, this time he would not keep his freedom. He laboured the mile and a half to his car and mused over his past felony Ill find him, the dirty cunt! Ill find him. Ill have him. Ill crush his bastard skull and chomp his nasty chonkers. Michael had been in London now for just five weeks. The raw memory of his beautiful wife with her bit on the side in the cubicle of the toilets still haunted him, causing him anguish every minute of every waking hour. And, even in his unsubstantial sleep, he was not free from its asphyxiation. He had fled Liverpool and was still sleeping in his car in various locations in West London. He had decided against killing Helen he still adored her despite her transgression. He had tried not to, but how does one 174

fight the emotion of love? But he would still find the cuckolding beast and kill it. How could he not? He needed to exact revenge, and he needed a good nights sleep. He entered a shop to buy cigarettes. Twenty Bensons please mate. One pound twenty-five please, the shopkeeper requested. He glanced at the newspaper stand as he waited for his change, reading an article about John Lennons murderer and his heinous crime the previous year, Thank you! the shopkeeper said, impatiently. He continued reading, wanting to kill Mark David Chapman too. THANK YOU! the shop owner repeated loudly, breaking Michael from his hypnotic state. What? Oh yeahcheers mate, he replied, returning to reality. A short man, his dreadlocks also short, entered and stood by his side, a little too closely. He stared at the dreadlocked man, unfazed. The unkempt man stared back. Mike thought how he should be feeling a little intimidated by this potentially crazy fool but he had murder on his mind and his own safety was unimportant. The mans eyes traced Mikes frame. He jerked back suddenly, his long, scruffy coat rustling the crisp packets in the stand and as his wild eyes stared at Michaels wild eyes. The man said inquisitively, Is anything in this shop for sale? No mate, its all for display purposes, Mike replied instantly and the crazy man skulked out through the door, head lowered. Michael collected his change from the shopkeeper, shook his head and left. He saw the man, outside, leapfrog a rubbish bin and land awkwardly as his legs gave way on impact with the ground. Jesus Christ, this is my new home! Its full of nutters! I need an ale. He lit a cigarette and walked to the nearest pub. The Steamwagon appeared within a few minutes, as good a place as any he thought, and he entered, ordered a pint of lager and retired to a quiet corner. 175

Where am I? What the fuck am I doing in this shit hole Cockney pub? Drinkin shit hole Cockney lager, with shit hole Cockney cunts? He was a little unsure of his actual whereabouts, or where he had even parked his car. It was all just London to him a crazy rollercoaster of madness, noise and Cockneys. He was in fact in West Kensington, an area of shops, council estates and pubs not unlike his own home town. A roar of laughter from a nearby table broke his concentration. He sipped his pint and looked at the four men seated two tables away empty glasses on their table testified to the length of time they had been drinking and the torpidity of the bar staff. The drunken laughter tapered off. Michaels daydreaming did so too as reality powered its miserable foot, forcibly, into his midriff. You dirty bastard, you rammed her in the gents? Ssh, not so loud! the story-telling drunk replied. Michael became instantly alert; ears pricked, head motionless and eyes staring he was a large cat again, only, on this occasion he was not stalking flies. He thought of a deer, the moments before it bolted in utter futility, the claws of the large cat ripping it to bloody pieces. He thought of blood. He thought of retribution. His stomach sank to his soles as he studied the man. Hes about the same age, same size. But I beat his head to a pulp! He shouldnt be out of hospital. He should be dead. He shouldnt be enjoying himself in the pub, five weeks after he fucked my wife, and fucked my life. He had lost all sense of what was real, unreal and improbable and what would have been a coincidence of immense proportions, but to him this was the man, the culprit, the agent of his torment. It was not, of course, this was an innocent man, but that didnt matter. This man was going to die. 176

and so, this was it - another defining moment in the tragic life of Michael Madigan. As he slid away from the police station, he knew it. And he knew what he would do, what he had to do. He would run away again - just like that other defining moment in his life thirteen years ago. The man had been running all his life, from what or to where, was unclear. Once a man has the running habit, it is difficult to shrug it off - it sticks to you like a summer sweat and imposes on you like a nicotine habit. Cigarette? Oh Sam, you havent started that filthy habit again? Mum, youve been smoking for nearly forty years. How can you say that? And dont, because I need them. These last few weeks have felt like hell. Yeah, I know love, Im sorry. Rose accepted the cigarette from her daughter and sipped her coffee. So where do you think hell go? And how do you know hell go? Mum, he always runs away. When he cant face up to things, when the going gets tough hell runhe escapes; whether its through his drinking or his music, films, books whatever. But hes done it before with his first wife and I think hell do it now. He wont come back to the house. I havent seen or heard from him for over a week, not since that night when he lost the plot with Rob, so I reckon hes probably gone already. I hope so, I cant take much more. Maybe. Rose suspected the opposite, but refused to divulge her thoughts. Listen Sam, I know hes an idiot and youll never get back together but hes still the father of those kiddies. They must miss him terribly. Yeah they do. But when hes sorted himself out hell ring or something. He wont just disappear for ever. But for now its best for everyone concerned that he does disappear. And when things have settled, Ill let him see the 177

kids. Im not a complete bitch. He doesnt deserve to see them at the moment anyway, not with all the shit hes caused. Its not my fault, its his. Youre right love, and you just keep on remembering that. Rose touched her daughters hand sympathetically and clenched her fingers tightly. The two remained in the coffee shop for another twenty minutes until Samantha had to collect her son from playgroup a part of her secretly dreaded the event, as the behaviour of the two-year old had worsened considerably since the departure of his father. Mike? You never have worked in a bar before have you? I worked one night when we ran the bar. It was through work and they had the bar, and they asked four of us to run the bar for that one night, for fifty quid each. Mud were playing as well, they were shite. Remember them? He was rambling and he knew it. Mike? Youve never worked in a bar before have you? Like you said in the interview? No. Kirsty was the landlady of The Sir Loin of Beef pub. She was an attractive, yet, paradoxically, facially bedraggled woman of thirty-six years. She was stuck in a loveless marriage of less than three years. She had a small child of two from this marriage and three teenage daughters from two previous marriages. She looked at Michael with a steely glare it left him feeling like a scolded child of six as he began to perspire. Dont ever lie to me again Mike, Im warning you. Or youre out the door. Do you understand? Im sorry. I hate being lied to and if I ever find you doing it to me again, I wont just sack you, Ill glass you. Whoa der bitchy boobs! Strong words indeed. Ive only known you since Tuesday. 178

Im sorry. He should have walked out at that minute, but the sudorific womans intensity scared him to the point of intriguing attraction. Her sexuality was overwhelming. Right then, she said, thats that. No more to be said. Get yourself a drink, get me a vodka and sit yourself over there. She pointed to a distant corner table in the bar area. Ill join you in a sec. Giles! Giles! She beckoned her subservient husband, Giles Crabb, with an imposing and chilling shriek. He appeared instantly. Yes dear? Take over Giles, Im having a chat with our new recruit. He espied the new man in the bar and flashed him a fake grin. He already held a suspicious dislike for him. Thanks pet! Kirsty said, as she kissed her husband on the cheek, instantly turning away to approach the more interesting shape of Mike. The mind of Michael Madigan was wandering again. What am I doing sat in this smelly pub, being castigated by my boss, a woman Ive only known since last week, making me feel like a lost kitten? Who is she? Where am I? What the fuck? He was sitting in the Sir Loin of Beef, an unclean public house, apparent home to many unclean, leather-clad misfits. He was in South Wales, in Tenby a picturesque holiday seaside resort, but, in early May, it felt like a ghost town to him especially after the suffocation of South London. He immediately thought of Samantha and the children, and tried to dismiss the thought to ease the pain. He had escaped London a month earlier and had found himself a job. Despite having no fixed abode (he was living in his car) he had entered the pub only a week earlier and had asked Kirsty Crabb for a job. Despite the out of season period and (unknown to Mike) the landlady not requiring any bar help, she had offered him a start. He had detected an attraction between them, the way that he always could 179

(he could always detect a repulsion towards himself too) and he was grateful for the opportunity to work. Have I worked in a bar before? Of course I have Mrs.Crabb. Have I been in Tenby long? Of course I have Mrs.Crabb. How long have I been here? Oh, a few months Mrs.Crabb. Where do I live? Oh, Ive got a shared house with a couple of people on the other side of town Mrs.Crabb. Stop calling you Mrs.Crabb? Call you Kirsty? Okay Mrs.Crabb, sorry, Kirsty. Do I want to start tomorrow night? Thank you Mrs.Kirsty. Oh shit, how many lies is that? She knows the one lie, so thats erthree, three lies, shit! I gotta tell her. But she scares me. Fucks sake Mikey, youre thirty-one years old. I know yeah, Ill strengthen. Ill tell her the whole truth and suffer the consequences. Good lad Mikey, have a cigarette. You want a cigarette? You want a cigarette? Mike? I am asking you if you want a cig? Mike snapped from his self-conversational trance and Kirsty was stood over him, across the table, an unlit cigarette poking from her veined hand, a lit cigarette jutting from her full lips and a heaving bosom planning an escape from her brassiere. He noticed the latter, looking down her jumper as she leaned across. Look downs! Oh heaven! Oh eryes, thanks boss. Dont call me boss Mike. I am, but I told you before, call me Kirsty. Sorry. So? So what? Are you not going to offer the lady a seat? 180

But its your pub. Mike, dont you know anything about what women want? He thought for a few seconds and concluded that he knew absolutely nothing about what they wanted. Oh sorryKirsty, would you like to sit downin your own pub? The landlady laughed and shuffled in close to him, a little closer than he thought she should, especially with her husband observing suspiciously from behind the bar. He felt a little more comfortable for having made her laugh. They raised their glasses and began conversation. The three lies that he had originally told her were put to right. He admitted them as lies, much to her chagrin. He had been expecting a glass in the face and the unemployment office, but had received respect for having admitted the truth, at which point he thought of telling her more lies which he could put right at a later date. But he dismissed the idea within seconds as potentially suicidal. Another drink my wife? Giles was stood at the couples table with a fresh glass of vodka and a bottle of tonic. Id drink your wife mate, drink her fucking dry. Mike thought as he looked up at the pathetic landlord. Giles Crabb was twenty-six, ten years younger than his wife. He was the human product of a smothering, domineering mother and her innocuous husband. He was a tall man of six foot two, good-looking, fair-haired with a boyish freshfaced look of a 16 year old child approaching the bar attempting to purchase his first ever drink. Mike thought he looked like the antithesis of every landlord he had ever met, unlike his wife, who he thought could have been a liquid concoction of bone, sinew and flesh poured into a landlady mould, left to set and jolted into drink-serving life she was made for it. Giles, you are a doll, Kirsty said as she finished off her drink and offered him the empty glass, wheres Mikes? The two menseyes met and for a fraction of a 181

moment Mike detected hatred in the mans eyes, replaced instantly by a wishy-washy puppy look as he asked, Guinness is it Mike? Thanks Giles, he answered, chuckling inwardly as Giles returned to the bar. Quiet tonight Kirsty? Yeah, its the time of year. It gets busier around the middle of May. You still think youll be with us then? Not if I tell you any more lies I wont! he replied. The two chuckled together. So how long have you been out of Scotland Kirsty? Giles returned with a fresh pint of Guinness for him as he continued to exchange pleasantries with his wife.

182

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a severe pounding

AND AS THE POLICE OFFICER ASKED THE

TEENAGE GIRL TO EMPTY THE CONTENTS OF HER PURSE, SHE RESPONDED IN AN ABUSIVE, HINDERING MANNER, THROWING THE PURSE TO THE PLATFORM WHILE REPLYING, DO IT YOURSELF BACON MAN! THE OFFICERS RESPONSIVE ACTION WAS TO RETRIEVE THE DISCARDED PURSE AND PROCEED TO INVESTIGATE ITS CONTENTS. WHEN HE DISCOVERED THE RAZOR BLADE THE OFFICER PRODUCED IT AND, ON SHOWING IT TO THE YOUNG GIRL, ASKED WHAT IS THIS FOR? AT WHICH POINT THE PUNKETTE REPLIED, TO CUT YOU WITH Michael burst into fits of belly laughter as he read the newspaper article and felt a wholesome respect for the girls rebellious attitude. The laughter had interrupted the boredom he was enduring as he sat in the projection room of the Ritzy Cinema in Brixton, reading the newspaper, which he had already read. He was now turning the pages, searching for fresh articles or tiny snippets which he may have overlooked. THE MAN FOUND DEAD, FLOATING IN THE SEA A MILE FROM SKEGNESS BEACH ON 183

MONDAY, WAS TODAY NAMED AS ITALIAN BORN VINCENZO VERMICELLI. HE WAS A FORTY FIVE YEAR OLD ADVERTISING SALESMAN WHO HAD MOVED TO ENGLAND IN 1963. HE LIVED IN LEEDS AND LEAVES A WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN. HIS ABANDONED CAR WAS FOUND ON SKEGNESS SEA FRONT. IT CONTAINED A SUICIDE NOTE. THE POLICE ARE REFUSING TO REVEAL THE CONTENTS OF THE NOTE AT THIS STAGE, BUT ARE NOT TREATING THE DEATH AS SUSPICIOUS. Poor fucker! Michael said, What kind of name is that anyway? and burst into laughter again. He threw the newspaper to the floor and yawned as he thought of his own name, Michael Madigan. Madigan, Madigan, MADIGAN MAD-IG-AN. Mad fucker more like! He had been in London for seven months now since he fled from his unfaithful wife and Liverpool life. He thought back to the night five months earlier, the night of that execrable crime, did the man deserve it? Of course he did, he thought. The ringing of the phone jarred him back to reality and he took a second to figure out where he was. He realized he was in Brixton and how hot he was now in the tiny projection box. Mike? Yeah. Can you turn the fans off please; Ive just had a customer complaining of the cold. Sorry Dave, will do. He jumped from his seat and pressed the red button which controlled the heat in the auditorium. He peered through the glass into the audience and saw a man returning to his seat, looking up at the window of the projection room; he assumed it was the man who had just complained. You little shit! Just watch the bastard film! You wanna be up here in this furnace, eh lad! Interfering cock-knocker! 184

As he returned to his seat he pressed the green button to switch the cooling fans back on. Yous can all freeze for five more minutes, he moaned inanely, and settled back for a snooze, ruminating over his crime of five months ago Youre dead. Michael stalked his prey. Youre dead. His brain was completely focussed. You are fucking dead! The man was wholly oblivious to his lack of future. Within ten minutes he would die painfully. Michael had thought that the crime would heal him to a certain extent. He thought the crime had healed him to a certain extent or at least set him on the road to relative recovery. What he didnt know at this time was that a murderer can never recover from his crime. He can bury it deep inside, he can try and convince himself that it never happened, he can delude himself that it was deserved, but what he can never do is obliterate it from his conscience. The act of committing cold-blooded murder eats away at a humans soul. He noticed how warm and balmy the late August night was. It was a night for ambling in the park with a loved one or making love amongst the tickling grasses of a deserted hillside. It should not have been a night for pounding the skull of an innocent man. Hed been monitoring the man for three weeks since that gut-wrenching moment in the Steamwagon, West Kensington, when he convinced himself that he was witnessing the bragging of the man who had cuckolded him. He had had to be discreet in his mission and he was with every minute detail. He never remained in the area. He changed his appearance regularly day to day. He wore glasses, wigs, shaved his head, wore different styles of clothing, he didnt shave for days. He would never enter a shop, a pub or any establishments in the immediate area; he 185

managed to appear completely inconspicuous, yet he observed his prey meticulously. He discovered his home, his place of work he already knew his local pub and it appeared that the man would be in there like clockwork each Friday from five oclock until he would leave alone at about half past one in the morning to stagger the seven or so minutes to his home. He imagined him to be on a 2am curfew imposed by his unsuspecting wife. How would she know her husband had been unfaithful? Two hundred miles away in Liverpool? With the new wife of this eighteen-year old man who would be his nemesis but the teenage Michael would make it all right. He watched him from his car. He hated him and yet pitied him, and almost felt a warped affinity for the man he had grown to know from afar the man he was about to destroy. I wonder what his name is? Has he got kids? Does he support Arsenal? Who gives a fuck? He fucked my wife and he will die. He felt the hatred rise to the surface again like his flies after the bombardment from the hot-water tap - and directed his mind to the task in hand. He shuffled in his seat and exited the car. He approached his victim without any trepidation. Nobody was around. Excuse me mate, have you got a light please? The dead man turned quickly and suspiciously, but observing Michaels apparently innocent stance and demeanour, proceeded to search for his lighter. Michaels heart fluttered, he now felt scared. He had never killed a significant living being before. Here was this young man, not yet out of his teens and the only living beasts he had ever killed were his flies when he was a young boy. And here he was on the brink of joining the exclusive human life-taking club. Perhaps he should graduate slowly. Perhaps inflate a frog to bursting point or ram a firework into a cats rectum. 186

He knew he could use no weapons at this stage as this would foil his plan. Just his bare hands would be used for now. He knew the final blow would necessitate a weapon of sorts. It had to appear as manslaughter, absolutely imperative. He would deal the drunken innocent a limited amount of blows about the head and torso, which would precede the gladiatorial thumbs down. The victim delved drunkenly in his trouser pockets for a light whilst Michael stood stiff and straight and still, his heart pounding as if it would burst through his skin, his unlit cigarette projecting from his mouth. Shut it heart! Youre gonna give the game away, you thumping piece of not-heart shaped flesh! Here it is mate, I knew I had one somewhere. The man offered a golden Zippo lighter to him, it glinted in the reflection of the dull light in the alley. Nothing but the best for you, wife-shagging scum, eh? No plastic Bic lighters for you! No Swan Vestas for you, you dirty life-wrecking floater! He needed this extra hatred his thoughts generated in order to fuel the blows which would pour forth. As the man lifted the lighter to Mikes cigarette, cupping the flame with his free hand, Mike dealt him a heavy blow to the stomach; this winded him, causing him to double over at which point he lifted his knee sharply into the mans nose. He tottered backwards. Dead Man appeared to try and focus upon his attacker and Mike thought he detected a look of confused hatred, and was amazed when the man charged towards him, catching him off guard, As the two combatants clashed, they fell to the ground in a hug of hatred and self-survival . Mike felt the back of his head hammer into the concrete and a searing pain shuddered through him as an inhumane feeling of wanting, needing to cause death took charge of him. He pushed the man from him and clambered to his feet, proceeding to kick eagerly into the stomach and ribs of Dead Man. As the victim lost 187

all his strength and ability to keep his flailing body from falling flat to the concrete, Michael grabbed him by the hair and landed an almighty punch to the chin of the dying man. The man flew backwards as his head bounced off the floor the cracking thud sickened Michael and he attempted to hold back the bile. Had this blow rendered the final one unnecessary? He approached the man as he lay prone, blood trickling from the head wound and his face awash with red. He glanced around the area, sparrow-like, and observed nobody. He listened to the mans breathing which was gurgling in light bursts. He may die without the blow, but can I take the chance he doesnt? Can I fuck! Mike raised himself, put on his plastic gloves and tried to locate his bearings and the whereabouts of the half-brick that he had strategically placed earlier in the day. He had no difficulty and found it against the fence where he had left it. He picked it up and approached the blood-breathing victim. Again he scanned the area and, on seeing nobody, lifted the head of Dead Man by the hair and forced the half-brick into the back of his skull, using just enough strength to deal a fatal blow without smashing the skull completely as this would have been a clue to actual murder. He lay the head down gently back to the concrete as the circling stream of red from the mouth convinced him that revenge was wholly his. Best eaten cold, he mouthed and walked away stealthily, whispering repeatedlyDead Man dead, Dead Man dead as he rubbed his aching head. the heavy feet on the stairs to the projection room jolted him from his murderous past. Mike, I thought I told you to turn the bloody fans off! The punters are wearing woolly hats and thermals in there. 188

Oh shit! Im sorry Dave. I did turn them off but then I tested the temperature after five minutes and it was really warm again. I think theres some sort of insulation problem in that theatre. Do you know, right, that theres heat emanating within itself in those theatre seats? David Went, the duty manager, stared at him incredulously as if the man were an escaped lunatic. What are you talking about? Dave, trust me right, its all to do with the physical attributes of foam-based furniture and human body heat. Hes gonna tell me to shut up in a minute cuz Im blindin him with science. He is the boss, I am just an eighteen-year old underling and the underling is disallowed to know more than the boss. Ill explain it, right. When the human form comes into contact with a foam-encasing material such as plastic or Mike, just stop for a second and listen to what Im going to say, He stopped, allowing his superior to continue. Margaret Thatcher has been doling out misery to all and sundry since she came to power. When she came in, three years ago, there were five people chasing every vacancy do you know how many there are now? How the fuck am I supposed to know that, beefy breath? And how the fuck do you know that? Are you Robin Day? No, Mike replied, a robotic look of ineducable insouciance was etched on his face as he rotated his little finger inside his ear he pulled it out, looked at it and flicked off a pellet of wax. Thirty-two, young man. Thirty-two people chasing every vacancy. Mike simulated an ineffable admiration for the mans statistical knowledge. So just do me a favour and ensure you keep the customers at a comfortable temperature, otherwise we start to lose business, I lose my job and you lose your job and we both become one of her governments stats... one of the thirty-two. Capiche? Mike detected the element of threat associated with the word. 189

Capiche, my fucking hairy hole! You watch too many De Niro movies, you poncy, fringe-headed head! But clever use of the word dole. Okay Dave, Im sorry...just an oversight. The duty manager shook his head in submission and headed down the stairs from the unbearable heat of the tiny projection box. Michael checked the top reel of the tower and reckoned about twenty minutes of film remaining before he could wrap up proceedings for the night. He looked at his watch and saw the time to be ten past ten; he would have plenty of time for last orders in the Prince of Wales. His mind wandered back again to that fateful, murderous time That kill which he had carried out had been hugely beneficial to Michael Madigans outlook in life. He was no longer depressed or quiet or angry or filled with murderous intent, in fact he felt relatively content. He had found a job and gained a small circle of drinking buddies and acquaintances through the vibrant Brixton life, centred around Coldharbour Lane and cinema-going trendies and had even a small room in a house by Brixton Windmill, shared with like-minded, beer-swilling, drug-imbibing crazies. His Liverpool accent had awarded him a certain raised status amongst his peers and fellow workers and, overall, Michael Madigan the Murderer was feeling generally happy towards the human race. Thoughts of his unfaithful wife back in Liverpool were dismissed as soon as they entered his head. She was dead, as far as he was concerned. He thought that the act of murder may not suit all, but for him it was therapeutic in the extreme. He was astounded by the simplicity of it and the fact that there was very little publicity about it; nobody seemed to care in this evil city. He didnt realize however, that he was still enjoying the 190

honeymoon period of the foul deed. He would yet pay his dues. Kirsty this is not rightholy fuck! Kirsty, please stop. This aint right, youre a married womoh shit! Mike looked down his body at the jet-black hair, the head bobbing back and forth, sucking him to orgasm. She stopped and looked up at him, asking through moistened lips, What? You dont like it? NoI mean yeah, its wonderful, but its not right. So if its wonderful just relax and enjoy it, she responded, her mouth again receiving his hard penis. He was feeling quite guilty. He wasnt concerned about the possibility of Giles observing the lewd act, for if he were to enter the pool room of his pub from upstairs, he would surely witness the sight of Mike standing in the corner as his wife sucked him. She stopped again, pulled down her leggings and knickers simultaneously and proceeded to the pool table where she spread herself face down on the green baize and whispered the words, fuck me Mike. The temptation was too much for the man as the feelings of guilt were chased away by sheer animal lust. This would be his first sexual encounter since he and Samantha had last had sex all those months ago, and he could not would not let this opportunity pass. He stared at the naked legs and bottom of his boss for a few seconds before shuffling like a penguin, his jeans around his ankles restricting the movement of his legs towards the welcoming, moistened sleeve. Shall I go for the pink or the brown? She gasped in delight and relief as the erect penis entered her from behind. He tried to penetrate her with slow rhythmic movements, but it was impossible, and within two minutes he was emptying himself into her, Kirsty biting her clenched fist as she orgasmed. 191

A movement from upstairs panicked the panting duo; they dressed rapidly. Kirsty pushed him back as she replaced her lower garments. He observed incredulously (having great difficulty replacing his jeans over his still hard tool) as she proceeded to arrange balls on the pool table, picked up a cue and started to play a shot. He stood against the pool table to hide the giveaway bulge in his jeans as Giles entered. What time are you coming up pet? Giles asked. Oh hiya love, she replied, as cool as the sea breeze, this will probably be the last, unless, of course, Mike rams his balls home again! She winked at him, her back towards her husband as she stooped to play a shot. He felt himself redden slightly. Okay darlin, dont be too late eh? Giles said despondently, as he kissed the back of her head. He looked at Michael and innocently said Good night Mike. Good night Giles, he replied, feeling as guilty as he had done in many years. After a few moments, and ensuring Giles had returned upstairs, he turned to Kirsty and said, Its almost midnight Kirst, Id better go. She looked at him with that hard-faced countenance and said, Ill see you tomorrow then., as she fondled his crotch lasciviously. He knew at that moment that they had started something which would not finish easily or without hurt for some or all parties concerned. As he began the two mile journey back to his parked-car home the mind of Michael Madigan was swimming with thoughts and ideas, and his heart was churning a myriad of emotions not least the yearning he felt to contact his children. More than a month had now passed since he had spent that ludicrously tender moment with his daughter at the letter box of his former home before the madness occurred. He decided that he would telephone his estranged wife the following day to try and make peace. Perhaps the 192

feelings he had for Kirsty had rekindled a semblance of humility and calm inside him. He reached his home at half past midnight, again relieved that his car was still there and in one piece. He retrieved his toothbrush from the glove compartment and his bottle of Safeway own-brand water, before reclining the front seat to almost horizontal. After brushing his teeth and urinating into a nearby bush, he clambered on to the back seat and mummified his body inside the duvet, his head awash with thoughts fearing the arrival of tomorrow. Sam? Hello? Its me. I know its you. I was with you for nearly ten years. What dyou want? Hows the kids? Theyre fine, why? Sam, I really miss them. Can I see them please? After what youve done? I should put this phone down right now. Yeah I know, and Im really sorry Mike youre always really sorry. Ooh, she called me Mike, I think Im getting through! Keep goin Mikey! Sam, I just wanna see the kids and I promise I wont cause any shit with your man. I havent got a man, I fucked him off. Ohokay. But I wont cause any shit. I just wanna see them, please? A few seconds of silence followed. His heart pounded. Ill think about it. Okay. When will you let me know? Ill let you know. 193

Okay, thank you. Can I just? The phone buzzed its goodbye. Samantha hadnt said goodbye and he had felt a little rejected by this, but his overwhelming emotion of happiness and expectation drowned it. He walked from the telephone box, head high and happy-hearted. He daydreamed of his time with his children and felt alive again.

194

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more truth, less ruth

So where are you living now?

I got a room just by the sea, he lied. Its only until it gets really busy so I got a bit more time left yet. The ladys really nice who owns it, she looks like she just jumped out of a horror movie, wild grey hair, lines all over her face like a road map and the body of a small giant. Were just gonna see how many bookings she gets before I get kicked out. Mike, I only asked where youre livingI dont want a bloody novel. Sorry Sam, Im just a little bit nervous. I get like that when Im a little bit nervous, yknow, when I know, I know what you get like. BREAKTHROUGH! He knew he had broken through at least the outer layers of his estranged wifes substantial, yet gradually-crumbling barriers. Thats all he needed. Listen Mike, Ive been thinking. Yeah? he replied, his entire body stiffened in anticipation - his heart felt like it had temporarily ceased to function. He waited, immobile - his breathing suspended. Well, the kids havent seen you for ages. Jonathan is really badly behaved and keeps asking where you are. 195

Sarah is really subdued, but putting on a brave face and yeahthe bottom line is they miss you and want to see you. And I think I am ready for you to see them. His whole quality of life raised several notches in that instant. I dont want anything between you and me thats over finished but its not fair on the kids, so if you want to see them, you can. A wave of happiness swamped him and he wanted the moment to linger for ever. He felt like jumping into the air and struggled to restrain himself. Sam, I love you! Hang on! Steady on mate! This is for the kids, nothing to do with me and you. Were history. Yeah, sorry, I mean erI love you for letting me see them and stuff, yknow? Anyway, can I talk to them? Mike, its ten to eleven. Sarah is in school, Jons in playgroup and I havent even told them yet. I wanted to speak to you first before I mention it to them. So, you okay with that? Yeah, yeah, deffo! he affirmed with a sincere vibrancy hed not felt since he could remember. Right, well sort out a meeting. Have you got a phone number? Ermno, Im not allowed toermhave phone calls cuz Im temporary, see? He didnt want her to know that he had nowhere to stay not yet. Okay. Ring me on Wednesday, same time, yeah? Yeah, okay. Okay, bye. The phone died before he could utter a syllable. He left the telephone box and sat on the wall outside, thoroughly dazed, confused, daunted, scared, relieved, but overall, happy in the extreme. He would see his children again. After enduring many painful nights of dread, as the fear of never seeing them again lacerated him, he would now be with his children again. He raised his hands to his face and began to weep. 196

Are you alright Mike? He didnt hear the question. His mind was elsewhere. He was not there; he was on the Yellow Brick Road in Munchkin Country with Dorothy. Fuck it, Ill give it to someone else. Who cares? Who listens to what I say, who appreciates a favour? Kirsty leaned across Mike towards the customer propped at the bar, asking him with a voice, loud enough to draw Michael back from his thoughts, You fancy a place to stay where you and me could enjoy a quiet night togetherjust you and me? The soporific drinker lifted his head from the bar, stared at Kirsty, open-mouthed, not believing his luck, as Mike awoke from his dreamland. Ywhat? You and who? What dyou mean Kirst? Wheres Giles? Kirsty laughed a raucous cackle and waved her empty glass in his direction. The two had been sharing each others pleasure for two weeks now and they had begun to get a little careless and over-confident with themselves in other peoples company. They had started to feel like a couple and he wanted nothing more than for that scenario. But he would not say anything. Not yet. Her presence was helping him deal with the loss of his wife, and yet he was beginning to feel new emotion stir. Fill me up big boy, she said suggestively. He leaned across the bar and whispered, Kirst, theres punters in here, theyre gonna hear you and click on. I dinnae care Mike, she replied, her speech slightly slurred, I dinnae care who knows, I just want you. Kirsty, wheres Giles? Giles? Giles who? Oh Giles! My husband Giles. Its okay hun, hes gone on the pish with his mates. Nasty old Scottish witch has let him off the leash. At this, she emitted another howl of laughter which prompted a comment from one of the regulars, who was playing the fruit machine. Someone pass that lady her broomstick! 197

You cheeky cunt Simon, get out of my pub, you fat bollock! The man continued to press the illuminated buttons on the fruit machine with a smile on his face; the line of JPMs enhanced the smile to a laugh. Mike put a fresh vodka and tonic in front of the landlady and retreated to the glass-washer to empty it of its contents, still thinking of his impending meeting with his children. He turned to Kirsty and said, sorrowfully, I got something to tell you. Get out the fuckin phone box you cap-wearing motherraper! Mike checked his watch, it was now 11.05am and he had been waiting outside the telephone box for close to fifteen minutes. He felt his stomach fluttering. He was becoming seriously agitated. The young man on the telephone was standing with his back to him, having detected the mans impatience. Im gonna open that door and yank you out by the goolies if you dont put that bastard phone down in the next one minute! He waited another few seconds, but could wait no longer. He rapped on the window and pointed at his wrist. The man in the box turned around, looked at him with dismissive disgust and turned back. Right. Mike walked to the other side of the telephone kiosk, faced the cap-wearer, raised his fists to the heavens (as was his like) and let out a beast of a yell, staring intently into the young mans eyes. He continued to shout as long as he possibly could, whilst the young man shuffled awkwardly inside his newfound home. He then said a final word into the receiver, replaced it nervously and hurriedly escaped. Mike had jumped one pace towards him and instigated a second roar aimed at the shaken student. So much for that! he said happily, and calmly entered the telephone box. As he lifted the receiver and placed it to 198

his ear he could feel its warmth and smell the students breath on its mouthpiece. He lifted it away from his face and turned towards the now distant offender, shouting, Get some fuckin Wrigleys, you society scaband go and have a bath! He checked his watch - 11.10am - and hoped Samantha had not misinterpreted his tardiness as indifference, the way he thought that shed misunderstood him all these years. He dialled the number, the number that people used to dial for him. They never phonled for me. Everyone always phoned for her. Her sisters, her friends, her mum, even Sarah got an occasional phone call and shes bloody seventnoeight now! I hardly got any. Whats wrong with me? One of Michael Madigans many flaws was the utter bemusement he felt when considering why people could not get along with him. He was completely oblivious to his own insanity. This was imperative for his madness to thrive. The telephone rang and continued to ring. Samantha didnt answer. He felt deflated and wanted to cry. He let it ring until the ring tone changed to a flattening beep. He felt it beckoned his death, flatlined him. He thought of the scene in his favourite book, The Wasp Factory, where the crazy, escaped brother pounded the telephone box to a pulp with its receiver, but he let it fall, leaving it swinging aimlessly as he shuffled out into the street, feeling sorry for his life. Michael Madigan had always been a man of impulsive, investigative behaviour what would happen if I suddenly did this? constantly entered his thoughts. From the day when he was six years old and spat his chewed chocolate log into the face of a local seven year old thug (for which he had received a severe beating), to the time when, as a fifteen-year old, he stuck his foot into the front spokes of his bicycle as he rode along the street (for which hed lacerated his mouth and lost one of his front teeth), to the 199

day last week, when he decided to paddle in the sea, on the first warm yet still chilly day of the yearwithout removing his Doc Martens. And here he was again, sitting alone in this miserable, deserted space that was Tenby railway station. His decision had been made to journey to London. He could so easily have tried to telephone Samantha again, or later, but no, this was Michael Madigan; impulsive, insane, murdering father of two. He checked the clock and registered that he had forty-seven more minutes to wait. He lit his twelfth cigarette of the day and waited. And thought. How the fuck did I get away with that? I beat a man to death with my bare hands and half a brick in public, in broad darkness, and never got caught. What the fuck? I should be locked up. I should be locked up! Im fuckin nuts. No Mikey, he had it comin. He was a dirty cuckolding Cockney cunt and you administered justice. And youre not nuts, youre just misunderstood. Yeah, maybe. No maybe about it, you are a good man, just remember that. I am a good man. The police had conducted their investigations into the killing all those years ago. They had delved into the lifestyle of the victim. He was a forty-two year old divorcee named Monty Whistler a somewhat inappropriate name for a bricklayer. He had no known enemies. He was not involved in any criminal activities. He was not having an affair with another mans woman. He had been arrested just three times in his life, once for urinating in public and resisting arrest, once for football hooliganism and once for being drunk in charge of a bicycle. So why would anyone want to kill this man? He was a well-known, likeable character who had moved to West Kensington from his local area of East Ham fourteen years earlier. He was accepted in his new district and lived a quiet life on his own and had done so since a divorce six years earlier. The police were baffled. He had evidently been involved in a fracas 200

with, what appeared to be, one or two other men, perhaps more. But nobody had heard or seen anything that early morning. The coroner had set the time of death at between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. that Saturday morning. They had conducted interviews with the local people, the customers in the pub that evening, his friends and family, and had come up with nothing. They were convinced it was not premeditated murder, perhaps manslaughter, but anyhow there was still a killer on the loose and they had no clue to his whereabouts. Michael knew his whereabouts. The culprit was sitting at Tenby railway station with, now twenty three minutes left to board a train to London to see his two children. He had no qualms that he may not be allowed to see them as Samantha had given him permission, but maybe he would telephone first to pre-warn her that he was in the area. It was only fair. He can fuck off! Its a good job I never mentioned anything to the kids. Fuckin wanker! I thought hed be desperate to see them. Well thats it now, he can go jump. Donna and Samantha were enjoying a sisterly discussion about Sams husbands inability to stick to arrangements. Donna was wholly sympathetic indeed empathetic towards her sister. Fuckin wasters sis, youre right. Theyre all the bloody same. Hes probably pissed up in a pub somewhere as we speak, feeling sorry for himself, how he got a shit deal, how nobody loves him, drunken bum! I never liked that prick. Sam felt a little put out by the final statement of her sister, and thought how she and Michael had always got along very well. She felt confused but buried the emotion and said, Yeah, youre right. The telephone rang. I got it! called out Jonathan as he threw building blocks up the stairs, trying to headbutt them as they tumbled earthward. 201

Jon, you know youre not allowed to L.O. me here, the boy answered. shit! Hes answered it. I better get it. She left the kitchen and heard her son yelling in delight. Daddy! Daddy! You come home? Sam realised, and on entering the hallway she felt a tear trying to break out. She fought it back and approached her son, her hand beckoning the receiver. The child held it tight to his chest with both hands. Mine! My daddy! Hes my daddy! he shouted hysterically, refusing to give the receiver to his mother. Sam understood her sons reluctance and glanced towards the top of the stairs to spy her daughter sitting on the top stair. Sarah had heard her brothers yelps of joy and brought herself closer, but still at a distance. Jon, please give me the phone. Ill let you talk to him, I promise. But I just need to speak to him first, please son? The boy looked at his mother suspiciously and eased his grip a little. She leaned towards it and gently took it from him. Dont let daddy go way gen. I love my daddy. She caressed her sons cheek and smiled and said, Go sit with your sister for a minute. Im going to take the phone in and speak to daddy. I promise you can talk to him again. She entered the living room as Jon clambered up the stairs to his sister. A rare moment of love passed between them as Sarah put her arm around her tearful brother as he whimpered, Its daddydaddy come home now. Sarah smiled reassuringly at him; the smile was a stark contradiction to her distant, sad eyes. She knew the truth. She knew it wasnt going to happen. Kirsty was not ready for this. Although she felt close to Michael, and the previous three weeks had been extraordinarily exciting (he had made her feel young and alive again), she didnt want to know this. But, for once, 202

she was speechless and all she could do was stare at his eyes and listen in wonderand shock. He had already told her about the suicide intent, the driving over Vauxhall Bridge, the turning of the wheel towards the water, the mounting of the pavement, the rejoing the road as the pictures of his children on the dashboard prevented his watery funeral. Now he was about to disclose the remainder. Perhaps she wasnt ready, but she would know the truth just like shed always asked for.

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another one bites the sand

Michaels head bowed. He and Kirsty were sitting on

one of Tenbys golden beaches. The chilly, dusk air invaded the sleeves of his denim jacket as he lifted his head to continue, but he noticed Kirstys head in her hands. He stroked the jet black hair away from her hidden face, kissed her on the cheek and continued. Im sorry darlin, and I know you probably dont wanna know the rest of this, but I have to tell you. Its like you said when we first met, dont ever lie to me, well, you shouldnt say those words lightly, because Im not going to. I didnt mean you have to tell me every minute, intimate detail about your life. But yeah, okay, okay, just tell me what you need to say, she snapped back, realising the words sounded a little more hostile than was intended. She remained silent. Okay. He was slightly shocked and hurt but continued his parable. So I turned back on to the road, like I said. The cars were beeping like crazy and mouthing off at me 204

but I didnt care. I had just saved myself from death by a second or two. So I thought of nothing else but my wife with that other bloke, a fuckin kid he was, a fuckin kid! (For those unable or unwilling to follow the twisted warblings of this tale, allow me to explain. Immediately after he had been released from the police station he had walked to his car, which was still parked outside his former home, had juggled ideas in his mind about killing his wife, her boyfriend or perhaps himself (again!). He had recognised the parallel between this occasion and the situation twelve years earlier when he had felt exactly the same and planned to do exactly the same. He entered his car and drove with one thought flooding his brain. So, as we know, he failed to follow through his suicide attempt again. And now, Michael will continue) Kirsty stared at her lover intently. So of all the places to go, of all the people I could go to this is fucked up Kirst, but I swear its true I drove to the house of Linda, her fucking best friend! And explained everything to her. She took me in, made me a cup of tea and hugged me when I broke down. She was amazing. And this is my wifes best friend! Kirsty began to become enthralled by the tragic absurdity of the tale. She listened, and, annoyed by the ensuing silence, encouraged more words from him. So yeah, as I was there, literally breaking down in floods of tears in her arms, the phone rings. She has to leave to answer it and, yeah its fucking Samantha! So I heard the door close so I couldnt hear their conversation, but I heard Linda say in a raised voice, Well you couldve waited a bit, and not with the kids in the house. Yeah hes fine, before one of them put, or slammed the phone down. So what happened then? Kirsty, this made me feel even more lost than I felt already, and I said to her, I need a doctor. She tried to dissuade me saying I was okay and stuff and I just needed to go out and get drunk with my mates. But I think she then 205

saw something in me which waswellbordering on insanity. Love, Id lost it completely. I started circling the kitchen table with my head in my hands, wailing. And thats when she said, right Mike, Im taking you to a doctor. Earlier that evening an inebriated Kirsty had become intrigued and somewhat scared by Michaels leading statement. What did he have to tell her? Admittedly, she had only known him a few short weeks, but she had this knack of knowing a wrong un when she met one, yet this one appeared to be a right un she was certain of that. What was he going to say? It was 10.35pm and just twenty five minutes to closing time. Mike was serving. Kirsty was drunk. Giles was out. There were only two people in the deserted bar and Kirsty wanted to know of his revelation. When Kirsty Crabtree wanted to know something she would find out and, moreover she would find out when she wanted. She rushed around the bar and yanked the rope on the bell. LAST ORDERS PLEASE GENTS! DO YOUR TALKIN WHILE YOURE WALKIN! The place was silent, apart from the electronic sound of the moneymunching bandit and the drunken, grunting selfrecrimination of the alcoholic at the bar, who had not found the marbles he had lost all those years ago. He slobbered his dregs into his lined face and shuffled towards the exit, completely oblivious to the premature toll of the bell. Thanks Frederick, Kirsty shouted, safe home love. Frederick raised a customary arm as he trudged away. The face of the remaining customer was a picture of pure shock and bemusement as he alternated his glance between his wrist and the clock on the wall the hands of which, Kirsty had mischievously flicked forward half an hour. Come on Molestino, drink up! Some of us have homes to go to. The landlady bawled. Molestino knew not to 206

question the tone of this womans voice and drank his drink as he waved goodnight, feeling a little hard done by and very confused. Kirsty left the bar area and bolted the door, turned to Mike saying, Right then, out with it! Kirsty, do you mind if we walk down to the beach? I dont wanna tell you hereif you dont mind love? She walked past him, glared at his face, took two Bacardi Breezers, took his coat and threw it at him. Get yourself a beer and lets go! The coupled walked the seven minutes to the beach in total silence. He had sat first. He threw his jacket on to the sand and sat on it, staring blankly out to sea the night waves ebbed and licked at the deserted beach. As Kirsty joined her lover on the sand she felt peacefully terrified as she waited for his revelation. He lit a cigarette and offered one to her, throwing the match into the gentle breeze before offering the woman the matchbox, and began. The first instalment of his story had not appeared to disturb her in any way. He felt appeased and continued with vigour. After I broke down Linda called a doctor and he told her to bring me down immediately to see him, which she did. I was inconsolable, slobbering and trance-like in the surgery as the doctor worried. I learnt all this later as, at the time, I was totally oblivious. Anyway, he recommended no, almost ordered her to take me to the local funny farm as I was in no fit state to be anywhere else. He phoned the asylum people dont like to call it that anymore, they prefer the easier, friendlier sounding term, hospital for those with psychological difficulties. But it doesnt change what it is; its a fucking loony bin, full of nut jobs, no matter what you call it. So, I was led in to see the medical officer at this nut farm. Ive got vague recollections of sporadic moments and people. My overriding memory was the cleanliness and clinically pristine state of the place, and 207

the almost absurd freedom of movement of nutters. I was amazed. I remember as I walked down the ward Linda holding my arm a tiny, bearded man with contorted features jumped into my path, as if hed been beamed down by Scotty. He stared intently up at me and asked, Do you want to lick my fly Walter? I was completely taken aback as he continued to stare into my eyes, waiting for a response. I felt as vulnerable as a wandering child, until a nurse called, Okay Garfunkel, leave them be please. Garfunkel then turned round to face the nurse and skipped away from everyone, down the spotlessly, bright corridor singing were off to see the wizard. Kirsty was tempted to ask what kind of name was Garfunkel, but decided against it, as she judged the interjection to be inappropriate. She took a sip from her bottle. He could have been reading her mind as he continued, Garfunkel! Bloody Garfunkel Trilby was his name, fuckin midget freak! He deserved to be in the nuthouse for having that name. I found out later in the night that hed been committed seven years earlier. Apparently hed been called names all his life to do with his lack of stature, and his final act of freedom was hooking his feet into the front bumper of a stationary car as he held on to the back bumper of the car in front. These cars were parked with no drivers. He was waiting for one or both to move eventually and they would stretch his tiny body as one pulled away. This man was seriously fucked up. She smiled at the thought as he continued his tale. So I remember feeling completely lost and out of my depth when Linda left an hour or so later. I felt the exact same feeling as my first day in school I was late and my mum had been drinking the night before. I remember it vividly. She took me into class and introduced herself to my teacher, then as she left I asked her Where do I sit? and the whole class laughed at me. I felt this exact feeling again, a feeling 208

of utter desolate loneliness in a crowd of intimidating strangers. I thought the staff would have looked after me or guarded me against these weirdos, but they just allowed me to mingle. I suppose I was just another weirdo to them. I remember sitting on a low wall in, what looked like a conservatory. It was very bright and I was surrounded by glass. In front of me was a huge chess board with child-size pieces. At this point he smirked, which was the spark for Kirsty to roar into uncontrollable fits of mirth, which caused him to burst into laughter too. Honest he controlled his outburst, honestly Kirst, I felt like I was in Alice in Wonderland or something, it was totally surreal. Then a skinny lad of about twenty-two came up, touched me on the arm and said, Do you play? I immediately thought he was talking about masturbating and I was about to thrust my forehead into his nose as he nodded towards the huge chess set. I said yes and he got all excited and said, Well, lets play then! He danced towards the chess pieces and started dancing around the King as he drummed his hands on its head. I was honestly feeling like I was in a fucking book. I have never felt sonot thereif you know what I mean? I remember feeling grateful for the guys company and after ten minutes or so I felt a bit more at ease, as he almost constantly talked about himself, the asylum, the rules, the people to stay away from. What amazed me were the two factions within the place. You had your total nutters, people who thought they were Napoleon and stuff, and then you had your depressing suicidal people, who couldnt handle what life had dished out to them, like myself I suppose. Pinky - that was the guys name. He recognised me as one of the latter group, as he was himself. Apparently he had lay down on the railway tracks, completely drunk, as his boyfriend had just left him again and told him he was ugly. He was not ready to leave the place yet, but reckoned in a 209

few months he would be fine. He was on constant suicide watch, as indeed I was. So anyway, he sort of took me under his wing and guided me through this first horrendous night, and what I decided later as I lay down fully clothed in my bed, would be my last. After a couple of hours of settling and meeting others from my half, my faction I was called to see a doctor. He assessed me, asked me questions and the words he spoke to me woke me out of my insane trance. During the assessment he said to me, completely out of the blue, Mike, theres a guy out there who tries to stick his penis into the TV. Theres a guy out there who jumps in the air every ten minutes shouting Baton down your daughters! theres another guy who thinks hes the reincarnation of a Jack Russell terrier owned by the late Doris Dayshall I go on? These people Mike, these people are crazy as a coconut; you are not. I remember feeling shock as he described his patients in such detail, and this brought me back to some sort of reality. I decided that I wouldnt be here the following day. I went to bed that night, fully clothed like I said terrified that I would be bum-fucked by a huge six foot six nutter, as his nutter mates cheered in a circular audience. I didnt sleep one wink as I noticed the hours pass with the appearance of the suicide watchman every hour. Pinky was singing further down the corridor to his Bruce Springsteen tape, Im On Fire I think. I decided to get up at six in the morning. I walked to the communal area and fished out a book from the bookshelves David Copperfield it was as I knew I was being monitored by the nurses. I assumed if they saw me reading a Dickens novel, they would think I was sane and see me fit to face the outside world. I neednt have worried as I was told later by the nurse that I would be allowed to leave later that evening when arrangements would be made for someone to collect me. 210

I spent most of that daysorry love, am I going on a bit? No, not at all. Im intrigued. Please go on. Okay, but tell me if I am, yeah? I spent most of that day with Pinky and his best friend in there, a girl called Rosie. She was small, dark-haired with rosy cheeks - strangely enough and a face like a muskrat. We actually left the grounds and wandered off to the nearest offy to buy some ale. It was ridiculous, the lack of security. Perhaps we were allowed because we werent potentially harmful to the public, I dont know. Anyway I asked for Linda to collect me later on and she did reluctantly, I later found out but she did, with her baldy boyfriend, Tom. I was told to call in and report to my doctor after three days I didnt. I left London before the three days and ended up here, and meeting the most beautiful, entertaining and friendly fucked up woman I ever did meet. She slapped him on the knee and smiled. Phew! Thats a bit of a story Mike, but fair enough, its not that bad, its nothing to be ashamed of and, I must admit, I was expecting something a wee bit more shocking, like you were a mass murderer or something! She took a sip from her bottle and took a cigarette from his pack. I killed a man. The words froze her movement. He said them without hesitation and stared at his lover with piercing, sad eyes. This was his revelation. This was the fact that he had never shared with any other human being, not even after almost ten years of being with Samantha. These were the words that would deflect the life of Michael Madigan down a different path. Why he had chosen Kirtsy Crabb as the first person to know of his misdemeanour, he did not know. Perhaps it was the surroundings? He always felt an excessive detachment from reality when he stared out at the waves and seemingly infinite expanse of water. Perhaps he had never felt more 211

comfortable with another human? Perhaps it was the instinct of the guilty man, a primeval need to admit his fault and cleanse his soul, to exorcise the memory of this foul deed from him. He had known that he would have to tell somebody one day, as of course every guilty person does in some form or another. A murderer will either leave behind (purposefully or not) some clue as to his identity or his whereabouts or will tell someone, at some time, in some way who he is. Michael had just told his identity to this woman who he thought he could have loved. Instead he would never set eyes upon her after this night. She didnt ask why. She didnt ask who. And she didnt ask when or how. She did not ask anything but she knew from the look in his eyes that he was telling the truth. I want you out of my pub and out of my life, she simply said as she raised herself from the sand, brushed her clothes with her hands and walked away. Away from the murderer that was Michael Madigan. Nobody would ever see the tiny indentation in the sand as a solitary tear dropped from her face. He sat alone again, lit another cigarette and stared at the waves. His mouth began to quiver as his lips failed to find the tautness to draw any smoke. His body followed in concomitant sympathy as he howled mournfully into the inert darkness.

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15
a mirror cracksagain

Sorry, you cant drink that in here. The young girl

was very pretty, very blonde and very courageous to challenge Michael Madigan a man who was rapidly losing direction, the ability to function normally and the will to live. After Kirsty had left the beach he had returned to his lodgings to fetch a half bottle of Famous Grouse which he had stashed for emergencies, then returned to the very same spot on the beach, where hed remained for the whole night. He had cried himself to numbness which he now felt in abundance. It was 8.15am on an overcast September morning and he had just purchased four tins of white cider from the local Safeway. He pulled the ring as he received his change. I said Im sorry but you cant drink that in here. He stared at the tin with an expression of fabricated confusion, stared at the girl and stared again at the opened can. He lifted the drink to his lips and swallowed a hefty gulp, wiped his lips with his forearm and looked at the young sales assistant. He glanced down at her name badge it read Samantha and he sighed with bodacious agitation; he admired her breasts and said, Listen Sam, I know youre 214

only doing your job but when you get a little older you will realise that thee is timesand thee is places to say that sort of stuff you just said. I have no wish to intimidate you as you are only of immature years, but learn to recognise potential danger and keep your beautiful teenage mouth closed, except when youre sucking off your boyfriends donkey cock MISS PRATTLE! MISS PRATTLE! The young girl shouted for her supervisor as the still drunken man began to mouth obscenities. There is a lack of need for Miss Prattle as I am now leaving the premises of this veritable Safeway supermarket. Lovely name dollface! He took another beer-swallow and staggered the ten yards to the automatic doors. He stopped as the door offered escape, lifted the White Lightning to his lips and emptied it into his belly, depositing the empty can responsibly into the bin by the doors. He turned to the now shaken assistant and winked at her, See? I can! He made his way back to his temporary lodgings (which he had recently acquired) knowing his time in Tenby was short. He needed direction. Michael Madigan had read many books in his lifetime, watched countless films and generally indulged in many hours of artistic escapism a necessary pastime to maintain his relative sanity. As he crumpled the stained sheets of his dirty bed, perusing the seedy, dank surroundings of his South Wales penthouse, he was in a film, in a book. He was not real, did not feel real, this was not occurring. He had just raised the final can of the four-pack to his lips to dredge the contents. This final can would find its way on to the already built White Lightning can tower. He now wished that hed brought his other emptied can from the supermarket instead of putting it in the bin so his tower could be higher. 215

He emptied the can and deposited it gingerly on top of the other two at his bedside table. He pulled his Marlboro packet towards him and drunkenly pulled three from the pack, throwing two in the direction of the table, which both landed on the floor. He sparked the other, bereft of purpose. Where am I gonna go? What the fuck am I gonna do? What the fuck am I gonna do now? Kirstys gone she could have been my saviour, my angel, but I had to go and tell her didnt I. Had to. What if she tells the pigs? What if she dobs me in man? Fuck it, so what if she does? You deserve it Mikey Man, you fucking murdering bastard! But I had extinguishing circumstances, it wasnt my fault, it was his it was them. Its always them! Wheres my beer gone? EXTENUATINGget it right son! And its always your fault, you mollusc! He began to search his room hysterically for more alcohol. After rummaging through every drawer, grasping frantically underneath the bed and even lifting up the mattress and finding nothing, he had an idea. Insignia! Aftershave is, I believe, almostif not purealcohol bring it! He reeled into the bathroom and spotted his aftershave bottle, it was smiling licentiously back at him. He chose it, twisted the cap and lifted it to his lips. The first gulp burnt his throat. The second caused him to vomit. As he stood, his arms supporting his weight on either side of the sink, his streaming eyes glazed and bloodshot, vomit dribbling down his chin, the image in the shaving mirror glared at him. The sight scared him and he shivered. He had lost himself. The sand was irritating. It was everywhere, in his clothes, his hair, even in his fingernails but it would not dissuade Michael from his erotic intentions. He lifted her naked thighs high into the air and pushed himself deep inside her. She groaned as his hard penis gently searched the depths, finally grinding to a halt as their pubic hairs 216

embraced. He began to pump, slowly at first, not caring if they were discovered it was 9.15 pm on a balmy, August evening so there was every chance of discovery, but as his rhythm gradually grew faster the feeling of reality left him, all that mattered was the orgasm. Kirsty was not far from hers and his was pending. His movements were now becoming frenzied; she was groaning and shouting his name, he, grunting like a wild boar. The sea licked like a puppy at his toes as his orgasm arrived and Kirsty squealed as he drained his seed into her as he awoke he became aware of a wet stickiness in his underpants. He hadnt had a wet dream for many years and as he lifted himself from the bathroom floor, his hand squelched into the vomit around the toilet, a cubed carrot wedged itself between his index and middle fingers and he sucked it into his mouth. It felt cold as he chewed it, swallowed it and retched, almost regurgitating anything that remained in his belly. Food! Good! He noticed the bottle of aftershave lying on its side on the mat and wondered how much of it he had drunk. Even in his mentally twisted state he knew this was wrong and he poured the remnants down the toilet in an act of inane rebelliousness. Bog Duck is cheaper! he blurted as he let the empty bottle fall into the vomit-filled bowl and pulled the chain. He stumbled his way into the living-room where he began to wedge his vomit-soaked hand into the folds of the sofa, he needed just one pound, one pound to purchase a white cider and all would be well and good. His fingers felt the roundness of a coin as his soul perked, he pulled it from its sofary home and threw it at the wall as its twenty-penceness registered. The coin cracked the red-tiled mirror and bounced on to the armchair. He admired its tenacity in finding itself an alternative soft furnishing. He grinned as 217

his flailing fingers continued to search for long forsaken beer chits. What do you want? You fucked up Mike, you fucked up againbig style! I gave you the chance to see your kids and you threw it away, you threw it away like you threw everything away. Samantha checked herself as she realised her children were listening intently at the top of the stairs. She glanced up at them and smiled as she carried the telephone into the privacy of the kitchen. She resumed her rhetoric as he interrupted. Sam! he shouted, Just fucking listen for once in your life. He realised he shouldnt have sounded so aggressive as she still held the trump card. His discourse took a lighter path. Sorry Sam but Im outside the Oval tube station and will be at ours OURS? Mike, its not yours its ours, mine and the kidsOURS! she replied angrily. He paused and continued, at YOURS in twenty minutes. Is it still okay? A silence developed as his heartbeat pounded in his chest, terrified of a negative response. She glanced up at the ceiling, imagining the vision of her children upstairs and all her intended harshness evaporated like a summer puddle as she said, See you in twenty. She put down the phone and unconsciously began to fix her hair. Her husband was coming home. Yes, I fucked him. I fucked him many times. I fucked him in our bed. I fucked him on the sofa. I fucked him on the beach. I fucked him in the alley-way round the corner. I even fucked him on our pool table downstairs. Yes Giles, I fucked him. I probably fucked him more times in those four months than me and you have fucked in three years. Giles was not a violent man on the contrary he was one of the most passive individuals any man could wish to 218

meet, but at this stage he lost it. He had never punched anyone in his life, never mind a woman, never mind his loved one, never mind his wife, but as the horrible truth registered in his cells he landed a hefty blow into the vitriolic mouth of Kirsty Crabb his wife, the woman he loved, the woman he thought he would die with (and die for) perhaps in his eighty-eighth year, the woman who had led him to untold and untapped happiness, the woman who had weaned him off his overbearing mother - the woman who now lay on the floor with blood gushing from a hole previously inhabited by a front tooth. He hated himself instantly, and as he ran to the door, tears lining his cheeks, he turned and faced the shocked and bloodied wife on the floor and asked one simple question, a question asked a trillion times by a trillion people and a question which would rarely be answered, and when it was, would rarely be answered truthfully. Why? he mouthed, like a piteous urchin, his vocal chords failing to function properly as he walked through the door, a broken man. Michael Madigan would remain unaware of several more lives that he had wrecked. When he was a child, a small child of seven or eight, Michael Madigan had thought of his future life. Where would he be at twenty-five? At thirty? At forty? Thats ancient! hed thought. Ill never get married. hed thought, this now twice-married, twice separated man of thirty-one. Ill never have kids. he had thought, this father of two. Ill never break the ten commandments, hed vowed to his mother, this lying, cheating, murdering drunk of a man. Much-required Dutch courage sat in front of him in the form of a Guinness and Jamesons chaser. Ill always respect my fellow man. he had once thought, this wrecker of lives. 219

As he fixed his eyes on the upper breast flesh of the barmaid leaning over the bar of the Greyhound pub by the Oval tube station, he contemplated his past a favourite hobby of his. Am I the same person? How can such an innocent and truly angelic youth turn into me? Am I me? Why am I? Who the fuck am I? What the fuck went wrong? Who made me this way? Whos fault is it? Is it mine? Is it my fault? How do I know? How is it my fault? Its them! Its all them! Youre all a bunch o cunts! All o yous! You murderin fuckers! Im not the only onenot the only one who killed! His inburst was loud and extravagant and went unnoticed by his fellow drinkers. He felt strange to be back in London, this busy, beetlebrowed and bustling city of madness. The contrast to Tenby was remarkable. He had felt an air of malevolence on the train into Paddington, the feeling growing stronger every minute and still present at this moment as he sat in this South London Irish bar. Im only having this one, he justified to himself. Its just to calm me. London makes me scared now. Im gonna see my kids in twenty minutes. And, as he thought, his heart leapt, he sank a half-pint of Guinness, dispatched the whiskey, thanked the ugly, buxom barmaid and walked out. He walked into the shop next door to buy some extra strong mints; after all he didnt want to smell of beer to his children (or his wife) after such a long time without seeing them. It wouldnt be right. He walked the fifteen minutes to his ex-home and remembered the many happy times, the many angry times, the many tender, fatherly times he had pushed pushchairs along this path, the sirens of speeding 999s waking them from their peaceful slumber. He remembered the time when Sarah had challenged him to a race to the gate, she was six, fit and fast and dad had the pushchair - she knew she could win. She didnt. Dad couldnt lose his competitive streak 220

and had struggled to win the race and despite the babyfilled pushchair in front of him, he had won. Me win! the one year-old in the pushchair had yelled, and in effect he was correct. Dad called the race a void because they hadnt all started in line. He was very nervous, not quite to the point of sphincterpulsating heebie-jeebies, but more in line with standingoutside-the-headmasters-office anxiety. The first thing he noticed about his previous home was the For Sale sign planted in the front garden and the Sold sign posted across it jarred him, causing him heartache and consternation. Where the fuck is she going? She cant take my kids away! No Mikey, shes probably only moving to another house in London anyway youre the one whos moved towns. Yeah I know but I had to. She wouldnt let me see my children and I had to go. Dont you understand? Yes Mikey, I understand, but will everybody else understand? Theyll all think youve just run away again, just like always, theyll say. Who the fuck are they? And who the fuck are you anyway? Get out of my head, you interfering piece of shit, theres no room for you here. Mikey, you know well always be together, but bye bye bye for now deal with this yourself and Ill just sit back and observe. He shook his head, hit it with the heel of his hand, said cunt and walked towards the front door. Before he could rap upon it, it opened and there stood Samantha, in all her new-found slim attractiveness. She whispered, Before I let you in, you dont cause any shit, you recognise this as my home, not yours, and if I want you to go, you go. Dyou understand? Im serious Mike. He felt like a small child. Yeah, I understand whatever you want. Wheres my kids? Go through. Theyre in the living-room, you remember where that is? He glanced at his wife with a sarcastic smile 221

which made him feel like an adult again, if only for a moment. The packed boxes and sheer emptiness of the house perturbed him, but he dismissed it as he entered the living-room. His heart was pounding like a jack-hammer. As he opened the door and looked at his two children sitting quietly on the sofa they looked back at him and, for just the tiniest of moments, there was an impasse, a lack of recognition, like when you see a familiar face in an unfamiliar place. And then it erupted. Daddy! Daddy! Jonathan squealed as his dungareed body leapt from the sofa. Sarah followed with a beaming smile and Mike crouched down, arms as wide as they could separate, to welcome his not-very-long-lost children into his arms. As they both made contact with their father he lost his balance and toppled backwards on to the carpet. The young humans hugged their fathers neck in a vice-like grip as he lay on his back. He hugged them as tight as a bear would hug his yet-to-be-eaten-dinner, realised the strength he possessed and relented a little, crying a deluge of tears as he tried to enunciate the words, my children. They both reciprocated their fathers tears and the three of them lay motionless and tearful on the living-room rug. The colour scheme was no longer blue, and the rug had been cleaned of sex-juice only two nights earlier. Samantha observed the trio nonchalantly, without a hint of emotion. She then closed the door and left them to their reunion. She began to whistle the tune of Oh Mein Papa. So all signs point to a move? Mike said. Kids, go out and play for a minute or two. Your dad and I need to speak for a bit. Aar! the boy retorted. But mum, dadll be gone soon and we havent seen him for yonks. Sarah said. You havent seen him for ages, mother replied. I know, Sarah said cheekily, I said that just. She grinned sheepishly. Her mother looked at her pleadingly 222

and said, Just for a bit please love. Hes not going just yet. Daddy stayin, daddy stayin! Jon screamed. Jon, Sarah whispered, hes not stayin, hes just not goin yet. But mum said the boy said dejectedly. Jonathan, Samantha said. The boy looked at the floor glumly. Jonathan, look at me please. The boy raised his head the tiniest distance and Sam took his chin to raise it further. Listen son, Im sorry but your fathers not staying tonight or any night, weve spoke before of this Mike was a little shocked by the straight talk of his wife and indeed amazed by the new air of confidence she was showing. He felt insignificant. but he can come back and see you now, when we move. Do you understand? The boy grunted and looked back at the floor. Sarah took his hand and went to walk out with him, he yanked it away, but walked out anyway, turning back to glance at dad. Michael stared at his son. The two pairs of eyes engaged in hopeless bewilderment. Adam was ambling past the Prince of Wales on the corner of Coldharbour Lane and Brixton Road. He was smoking a cigarette and as he lifted it to his mouth, he automatically looked up to see Dan approaching him. The two were not great friends and, indeed had not met since Mike had left. Neither had seen him since that day. Can you sell me a sweaty fish head? Dan looked unbelievingly in the direction of the voice, half recognising it and half incredulous at the ludicrousness of the question. Adam! Dan! Adam! Dan! Oh Danny boy, the pints, the pints are callin! he sang jokingly in the Cork accent of his father. It was an 223

invitation to drink together and Dan accepted, albeit for just the one. Where to Danman? Albert? No, I dont wanna go there. Not been there since Mike was around and I reallywell, yknow what I mean mate. Yeah, I know what you mean, you lathered blood egg. How is the messed up man anyway? Where do you two go drinking now? Not in here surely? (he cast a pointed thumb towards the window of the Prince of Wales, a well known haven for homosexuals). You havent twisted into the arsepumping community have you? Adam, shut the fuck up and lets go and have a pint. If we must, young Danny-me-ladif we must. He feigned resignation as the pair trudged off to The Queen, a short five-minute walk away. They walked in silence. Dan lit a cigarette before they walked through the entrance of the pub and, on entering, Adam piped up. Aaah, that public house smell, dont you just love it? Whatll it be lad? Guinness please Ad. He approached the bar, ordered a Guinness and a lager and pulled up a stool. The bar was completely empty apart from a couple of old, black men playing pool in the corner. Dan pulled up a stool and the pair drank simultaneously from their pair of pints, Adam having waited courteously for his friends Guinness to settle. Dan finished his gulp first, Adam continued a little longer. Listen mate, Dan said, I can only stay for one. Hilarys expecting me back any time. Yeah okay. But when did you last see the bod of Michael? The last time I saw him was when he left ours. He was staying there after his missus kicked him out, about six months ago I think. He reckons he was going away for good, but for all I know he could be up a gum tree in the Tropics. I aint heard nothin. 224

Adam pondered for a minute and said, And by the same token he could well be back in his gaff, tickling the clit of his estranged wife or fighting a losing battle. Dan was unsure what his buddy meant by the final comment but refused to ask him to clarify. I liked him, Adam said, in a rare, serious moment of reflection. The lad was fucked up, should never have got married or had kids I reckon. Yknow what? He always gave me the impression he had a secret something he was keeping from everybody. I dont know what, but somethinyknow? Perhaps he fucked his granny? Who knows? He was a broken man, Ad, when he left. Id never seen him like it. I just hope hes okay and not done something stupid. He was always likely to do something stupid. Maybe hed already done it. Maybe youre right and he was keeping somethin from everyone. I miss the guy but I dont reckon hell be back. I just hope hes okay. Me too Danme too. Up yours! and Adam lifted the remaining beer to his lips and emptied the glass.

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averse to a void

What is it that makes a human being so contrary?

Why does it want that which it cannot have? Why does it not appreciate and cherish what it already has? There are many reports across the globe of individual cases of human beings undergoing life-changing or neardeath experiences. Perhaps Jim Bow from Leytonstone had missed his flight to New York in 1988 to visit his ailing grandmother at Christmas his life changed a little after the reports of the Lockerbie disaster which killed all two hundred and forty-three passengers. Perhaps Tina Sparrowhawk jumped into the taxi on Commercial Road in the East End of London just in time, only realising her luck when she picked up a newspaper some days later and read about a rape/murder incident which had happened on the same street a few minutes after she had been there. Perhaps if Harold Redneck had not been laid low by influenza he would have used his ticket for the Leppings Lane end at Hillsborough on that tragic April day in Sheffield in 1989. These three people have one thing in common one thing which the greater majority of the human race does not have they love life. No matter how trivial or painful or tragic their life may be, they love it because they came so close to losing it. The remainder of us do not enjoy the luxury of that feeling, we know no different because we 226

have always had life. We have not almost lost it. We take these things for granted. We dont think about having legs to walk on because weve always had them. We wont end up like the seventy-eight year old, grey-skinned invalid on wheels, knocking on the shop door because they have no wheelchair ramp. That wouldnt happen to us. That doesnt happen to us. That only happens to other people. But what happens when we become that other person? So where are you goin? Im moving out. I know youre movin out, I seen the For Sale sign sayin SOLD outside, so I know youre movin out. He repeated his original question, So where are you goin? Mike, dont get funny, I Im not getting funny, if I was gettin funny Id say This crab walks into a bar Stop it! For fucks sake can you just be serious for one minute. Me and your children are moving to Shrewsbury, out of London, out of this shit and away from everything. Away from youand starting a new life. He was confused, sad and a little perturbed by his lack of geographical knowledge. He thought: Should I ask? Of course you should ask, you stupid fucker! You dont know where it is ask her! Ask the bitch! Dont be nasty to me no need for that type of language. I will ask, just let me be. So where the fuck is Shrewsbury? Ive heard it mentioned on Final Score but they always call it SHROW-sbury. Where is it? Why are you goin there? Will I still be able to see the kids? He sat on the couch, aghast the very item of furniture where, not less than eight months ago he had lay down with his now-so-distant-wife, watching movies together, battling with each other for space, playfully kicking each other off the very item of furniture where his newly-confident wife 227

had lay open-legged while her boyfriends had lapped up her juice he waited intently for her reply. He shook. Shrewsbury is less than two hundred miles away from here, its in the Midlands, not far from the Welsh border, and we are going there, as I said, to start a new life. I have friends who live there and you are always welcome to come up and see the kids, but do not have any romantic ideas about staying over. Youll have to find a b n b and give me plenty of notice for when you intend to visit. Im not having you just popping in when you feel like it. Do you understand? He sat, inanimate for a second, thinking what friends? but not having the courage to ask and not really wanting to know. His overwhelming sadness was masked by his unerring, defensive attributes. Im not just gonna pop in on my way to buying The Guardian am I? Its two hundred fucking miles away! She looked at the floor thinking that this conversation was going nowhere. She wanted the man to leave. Thats all he was to her now, he was just a man, a stranger who happened to be the father of her children she wished he wasnt. But he was. And he would always be that from now on. She knew that but didnt want to acknowledge the fact. So when are you going? Tuesday. Tuesday? Why Tuesday? What Tuesday? Next Tuesday? She looked at him, Yes Mike, next Tuesday. All the papers are signed, the house is ready to move into and this place is soldso were going next Tuesday. God! Thats a bit sudden innit? No Mike, its not sudden. Its sudden for you, but Ive been organising it for weeks and months. Its sudden for you because you dont know about it. You dont know about anything in my life because you are no longer a part of my life. I have allowed you to be a part of the childrens lives but thats not for your sake that is for theirs. So yeah, 228

for you I suppose its sudden. But I dont care whether you are shocked by this because this move is for me and the kids. She drew breath. Phew! Alright kid, stay calm man! Its just a bit of a shock. He sat back and a moments silence followed. Can I take them out tomorrow please? And then Ill go back to Tenby. Please? Yes. Have them back by six. He was staggered by the instant affirmative and was a little taken aback. Erm, okaythanks. Dont thank me; its for them, not you. He realised at that moment that she was no longer the Samantha Madigan he had shared his life with for almost ten years. She was Samantha Mellie, independent, individual and she, too, was a stranger ossified by the events of the previous months. He went to his children to tell them of their impending day out with him and left the house with an aberrant, happy sadness. As he sat on the train back to his Tenby home he gulped Stella Artois in between puffs of Marlboro and caught the eye of the attractive lady sat on the opposite side of the carriage. He contemplated performing his tooth trick again but denied himself the pleasure as he was not in the mood and the carriage was too empty so he couldnt fade into packed-out-human-concealment. His discordant mind clawed for answers as it whirred and fizzed like a Catherine Wheel. One hour ago he had been kicking a football with his children in Brockwell Park, wishing the moment would remain for always, dismissing the fact that it was a tiny snippet of the life he had experienced, the life he had caused to slip from him and the life he craved again. He harboured nebulous hopes that it would return, but in reality, he knew that it never would. His lifes path and that of his children would be mapped as a result of this 229

separation. He hoped their lives would turn out better than his own for he knew deep down which way his path was directing him and he didnt have the might to prevent it. He sipped his lager, extinguished his cigarette, glanced at the totty and lit another cigarette. Samantha continued to pack as her children battled in the living-room downstairs. She had tried unsuccessfully to calm them down after their day out with father, and a sudden realisation dawned as she forced the final bedroom ornament into the suitcase that this would be happening for many years to come. She knew that her exhusband would not forsake the children - for all his many weaknesses she knew he couldnt do that. She had many future weekends of Sarah and Jons unruly behaviour to endure due to their time with daddy. Daddy was okay, he could see them when he liked and toddle off back to his new, stress-free single life probably straight to the pub to feel sorry for himself while she picked up the pieces. She would be the one who wiped their tears. She would be the one regaining a semblance of order after Jonathan had thrown an ashtray at his sisters head or after Sarah had covertly pinched her brothers nipple on his way to the bedroom. She would be the one who nursed them back to normality. He was fine. Daddy was fine. He would just slip back to his drunken life and looked forward to the next period of quality time with the kids. He would buy them nice things. He would not have to contend with the tantrums and the tears. He was fine. She resented him more than anything or anyone she ever had in her whole life. She zipped up the suitcase and walked into Sarahs room to start packing again. Michael arrived at Tenby railway station at 7.11pm that evening half-drunk and completely miserable. His thoughts on the journey had been all about his children 230

moving away. He had secretly fostered hopes about a reunion with his family. He had thought in time that she would forgive him. Maybe she would want him back to ease the constant stress of life as a single parent, he would accept this, but now he doubted whether it would happen. Perhaps if she stayed in London it would happen and he could return to the life he now wanted (despite not wanting it when he had it), but his doubts were huge and he suspected that his familys new life in what he called some poxy, backward market town in Shropshire was going to be fine without him. He felt unwanted and ultimately superfluous nobody wanted him and nobody cared. He couldnt even return to Kirsty since his admission of murder. How could she not want him after such an equitable disclosure? Thats what shed wanted him to be honest! Whats wrong with these women? Are they insane? I was honest thats what they want from me, honesty and I gave it, and I was spurned, like a rabid dog. We could have had a life together based on honesty and she kicked me into touch hoofed me! The slut! Ill show her, Ill show them all! Ill show them honesty. They want honesty? Ill fuckin show em the greasy harlots! He knew exactly what he meant. His inward ramblings were interrupted by an unkempt, unshaven man who was drinking a can of Special Brew. Scuse me mate, could you spare a bit of change? Mike had not even realised that he had left the station, and was almost at the Esplanade. He turned his face in the direction of the unfortunate, begging man and asked him, Do you want me to be HONESTMATE? The beggar appeared somewhat shocked. Do you mate? Well, I can be honestyeah meI can spare some change but I wanna keep my spare change to spend on me, right? ME! And Ill tell you why the tramp was scuttling away at this point but Mike continued to pontificate, because Ive been 231

kicked in the goolies by the yobbish boot of life and Im crouching into a ball as I get pummelled by the Doc Marten of Destiny and I need ale to cushion these body blows. You think you need ale? You, with your golden can of Special Brew, you dont know the meaning of the word special. Yeah, Ill show you special, Ill show you crucial and Ill show you the tae of me boot if you dont get to fuck and stop trying to rob me By this time the tramp was three hundred yards into the distance, still glancing slyly back at him as he ranted. Passers-by were scurrying past Michael, affording him coy, scared looks from the corners of their eyes, wanting away from this lunatic and hoping he wouldnt start on them. He wouldnt and didnt as he forlornly ended his ramble and continued on his way to the sand.

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childsplea

Mummy, why cant we go to the seaside like everyone

else? Daddy might be there.

18
233

never look a gift horse in the eye

Michael had been back in Tenby for two weeks, since

his excursion to London to see his alienated family. The summer had officially ended but an Indian summer was in full swing and these last two September weeks had gifted the country an explosion of sunshine. He had spent each daytime on the golden sands of the various Tenby beaches, drinking heavily and regarding the playing families with perforating jealousy. He had, however, found an inner strength due to a plan which had formed in his broken brain. This plan, which he would put into practice tomorrow, had given him a new lease of life. He was even beginning to not feel suicidal (which, to Michael, was happiness). He was moving out of Tenby and in to Shrewsbury. The idea had scampered cheekily through his mind on the day of his return but had been dismissed due to the hardship of logistics. Where would he live? Who did he know apart from his erstwhile family? But the notion had gained increasing momentum over the course of the fortnight, culminating at this point in his intended departure tomorrow. He had realised that the logistical problem of habitation would not pose a problem at all, for he already had a home a home he could take anywhere, a home with four wheels and a boot for his wardrobe his clapped out Skoda. The fact that it had no road tax, no MOT or no insurance was pure details to Michael, it still moved, and it kept him warm and dry, so he could use it. The lack of legality only added 234

to his road adventure. If he gave the police no reason to stop him, then they surely wouldnt. He would go easy on the Stella Artois today and would stop drinking at 8pm, have a bath and be prepared for his new life in the morning. His bags already packed in his filthy room; he would renege on his owed rent and leave his forwarding address as simply, CAR. Sorry! Not my fault Catweazel (the endearing name by which his landlady was known to himself, due to her physical similarity to the old wrestler from the seventies). His mind had advanced into so many no-go areas as hed basked on the warm sands during the previous fortnight from the episode in the toilet cubicle back in Liverpool during his first marriage, his intended suicide, his murderous antics, his constant loneliness and depression through childhood, his period in the asylum, his second intended suicide, his time spent in police cells, his second marriage break-up, his second wifes probable partners and his childrens possible stepfather through to his apparent love for Kirsty. He had dredged through all of this and more he thought that wading naked, on crutches, through a quagmire of fiery treacle would have been easier for him and it had felt like an impossible journey but, despite the intense travail and feverish discomfort it had inflicted upon him, he had come through it exhausted, yet somehow enlightened. He was still engulfed by massive guilt, but this had been weighing him down for many years and he had trained himself to lock it away in the safe-deposit box of his warped mind. TOMORROW ISANAAATHERRDAAAY! he sang as he stubbed his Marlboro into the sand and cracked open a fresh can of lager from his cool-box. Life felt acceptable to him and everything was going to be alright.

235

He sat in the drivers seat of his bucket of bolts and studied the road atlas. ShrewsburyShrewsburywhere the fuck are you? Ah! Shrewsbury, fucks sake, how do I get there? Thats what the bloody map is for, you fucking egghead! I know, I knowIm just thinkin aloud. Thinkin allowed? Thinkin allowed? What you on about Mikey boy? Of course thinking is allowed, you wouldnt be able to function otherwise! NO ALOUD! ALOUD, you fucking headmidge, fucking listen! Pfh! He lit a Marlboro and planned his route. He knew he should have done this the previous day, or at least checked the whereabouts of his new home on the map, but he enjoyed the spontaneity. It was 6.45am on a sunny, Friday morning and he was about to embark upon a new stage in his colourful life. He was leaving at this early hour to prevent being discovered. He had stopped drinking at 8pm precisely the previous evening (as he had promised himself) and packed his limited belongings into two suitcases, along with a duvet and a pillow, which were now in the boot of his car. He felt a surge of expectation and hope as he turned the key and began his journey the tiny amount of trepidation he felt should have been a little larger, but he wasnt to know. He was off to see his kids. Samantha had been in her new home for two weeks. It felt good to be away from the memories, the smells and the sight of the rooms in her old house and away from the air of brooding hostility which the city of London offered. She felt fresh and ready to move on with her new life. She did miss her sisters, Donna and Gemma (who both lived in London), but was happy to be closer to her sister Leanne, who lived just fifty-three miles away in Solihull. The telephone rang. Hello? Hello! Sam? 236

Mike. Yeah. Oh, hello. What do you want? She felt uneasy. Can I come see the kids? When? About half an hour. Why? Where are you? Im in a car park of somewhere calledhang on Booker Cash and Carry. Dont know where it is. Mike, where are you? I just told yaBooker Ca No, what town are you in? Im in Shrewsbury. Oh, for fucks sake. I told you before I left that you had to give me plenty of notice before you came up to visit the kids. Im not visiting I live here. You what? I live here. I moved in half an hour ago. She was appalled. Mike, youre fuckin twisted! She slammed down the phone, which began ringing almost instantly. She picked it up instantly. What? Why did you slam me? Why have you fucking followed me? I dont want you anywhere near me, just fuck off! She slammed the receiver down again. He considered ringing back immediately again but, not wishing to alienate his estranged wife at such an early stage in their new relationship, he decided to leave it for at least ten minutes. Eleven minutes later the phone rang and Sam knew instantly who was on the other end of the line. She thought about ignoring it but sometimes found it difficult to avoid the confrontation which she knew was inevitable. Hello, Mike? 237

Yes. Listen Sam, Im sorry but I wont be in your way or involve myself in your life. I just want to be close to the kids. We can work a plan out Im better now! What jew think? I think youre a fuck-up. You almost killed that bloke I was seein in London. What you gonna do when I start seein someone else? You gonna put him in hospital too? Because, be told Mike, I will start seein someone and I wont let you being here put me off, if thats your intention. Its not Sam, honest. You can see who you like I just wanna see me kids. He thought for a second and realised that he didnt exactly mean what he said he didnt want her to see who she liked he would want to pummel him again. But he thought better than to express the sentiment at this present time. I know I can see who I likeand I will, believe me! A rigid silence erupted. It made her feel antsy again and she had to break it. Where are you living then? In Booker Cash and Carry car park at the moment, but theres a Tesco across the road so I might move there, closer to public amenities. He wasnt intending to be flippant. What? Youre living in a car park? Are you takin the piss? No Sam, I didnt have time to find anywhere to live and I cant expect you to put me up; and I know you wont let me have the kids stay over until I find somewhere. She subdued an urge to smile, whether it was at the ludicrousness of the situation or the foibles of her exhusbands personality, she wasnt sure. She gathered her composure and replied, Mike, I suppose youve made your mind up to stay here for a while anyway but if you get 238

yourself a place well take it from there. Thats being fair I think. Okay? He mused. Okay, but can I see them now? No. I gave you my phone number but I dont want you knowing where we live. I dont trust you. Like I said, if you stay and get yourself a place then well talk. Im going to hang up now. Sam! Dont hang up! I promise Ill find somewhere and then well come to an arrangement with the kids, yeah? Sam? Sam? Silence. Yeah. She put down the phone. She had a lot to think about. He listened to the tone for a whole minute before he, too, put down the receiver. He had not even thanked her for the three thousand pounds hed received from her from the sale of the house he was grateful for that (but suspected that he should have had more). He, too, had a lot to think about. The Harlescott? What type of name is that? The fucking harlot, I say! HARLOTSall o yous! Mike looked around the strangely-named pub for any good-looking members of the opposite sex but saw only middle-aged local men who reminded him of farmers. He thought of Kirsty instead. He could never go back to Tenby. He could never take that chance, the chance that he may bump into her again it would probably stir up old emotions, maybe within her but undoubtedly within him. Plus, that dreaded possibility that she may disclose the fact that he was a murderer to the authorities. Why did he tell her? I had to! I had to be honest with her. I loved her, I think? God, what a twat I am! Why did I tell her? Mikey, you had to; you had to take that chance. But you must never return. And, you must never tell anyone, ever again. Promise me! I promise. 239

He still missed her terribly the emotion exacerbated by his loneliness and presence in a strange town. But I will build again. I did it before and Ill do it again. Watch me! He felt an urgency to find lodgings - there and then. He must make himself known, mingle with people and ingratiate with his new neighbours. He finished his Guinness and began his infusion with a ruddy-cheeked, balding man at the bar. Guinness please mate, he asked the barman. He then turned to his drinking cohort and said, Strange name for a pub, mate. The man looked at him disdainfully and replied, What is? The Harlescott. Whats a Harlescott? The man looked at him again. Mike felt no warmth emanating from this man and decided to retake his seat before he could reply, if he intended to reply at all. He felt the mans glare trailing him like a snipers rifle, all the way back to his seat, but decided to ignore it. His first attempt at mixing with the locals had failed miserably and he felt a little alienated. Fuckin bumpkins! he whispered as he sat, regaining his previous composure. His thoughts wandered back to the simple and uncomplicated times he had spent in the Hand and Diamond, the local pub next to his shop in Shoreditch, and to the Isnt It Man. Maybe he was just trying to ingratiate himself? Maybe he was lonely? He felt a little guilt at having ignored the Isnt It Man on all those occasions (but locked it away immediately) and felt meagre sympathy towards him. A lot had changed in Michael Madigans life since the globule of saliva had landed on his lips, courtesy of the Isnt It Man. He had changed. He now wished someone would sit opposite him, to talk to him. It didnt happen. He decided he didnt like this pub and would do his best to never return. 240

Its called The Harlescott because its the name of the area, HARLESCOTT. The man from the bar approached Mikes table on his way to the exit, Its a pretty rough area and we dont really take to strangers criticising our pubs. Be a bit wary cocker! Mike looked up at the red-cheeked farmer type, he could smell his breath as the local leaned towards him he felt adequately scolded He raised his glass and said, Cheers bud! as the man walked out. Cocker? What the fucks a cocker, COCKHEAD! And go and brush your teeth! He lowered his mouth to his pint glass, Welcome to Shrewsbury! He bubbled the words like a child through his Guinness as the froth sprayed on to his face like spindrift.

241

19
gone fishing

Vincenzo Vermicelli stood on the deserted sands of

Skegness beach. The wind froze his bones as he stared out at the North Sea and, paradoxically, felt a calm apprehension, but strangely, no fear. He knew he deserved his watery fate. He could have selected an easier and less painful mode of suicide but he deserved to endure pain. He could also have chosen Hornsea, Bridlington, Scarborough or other nearer coastal towns, but he journeyed the hundred or so miles south east to this wretched place purposely. It seemed somehow fitting that he should perish in such a cold, lonely and godforsaken place. He had experienced an unpleasant episode in this town too, one of the hundreds of towns hed visited throughout his fourteenyear career as a salesman. He had parked his car in a purposely conspicuous place on double yellow lines on the sea front at a slight angle to the kerb. It wouldnt be long before the car was ticketed, clamped or reported to the police. It would be irrelevant when this occurred, as he would be floating. He stood and faced the misty bleakness, turned right and walked diagonally into the water, fully clothed - towards Italy. As the icy, scabrous waters reached his midriff and sprayed saltiness to his lips, he uttered the last two words of his existence directed to whom in particular, he was unsure. 242

Mi dispiace! (Im sorry) When the water level had reached his chest a strong wave knocked him backwards, and his feet no longer made contact with the seabed. He opened his mouth to welcome his doom and was tugged under by the force of the water. Despite his death-welcome, his bodys natural urge to survive activated and he began to struggle underneath the water, while his conflicting mind celebrated both his inability to swim and the heavy weights he had put in his jacket pockets as he was engulfed into obscurity; the harder he struggled, the more he panicked and the more water entered his lungs. Nobody would rescue him. Nobody would lay him down on warm sands, administering lifesaving resuscitation, later plying him with hot chocolate and muffins. Within three minutes he was unconscious. Within six minutes he was brain dead. Within eight minutes he was dead.

243

20
Salopia Utopia

Welcome to Tesco Towers!

Michael had left The Harlescott pub and its surly patrons after two pints and returned to his car, had driven it over to Tescos car park and parked it in an isolated area away from the majority of the shoppers vehicles. The area was sheltered on one side by a large bush. This, he had determined, would be his new home until he found himself one of those house things that conventional people lived in with a kitchen sink and a toilet et al. He was now walking towards his new pitch, having entered the supermarket to purchase two large bottles of Strongbow and a two litre bottle of Evian (the best water in the world, he thought), a pack of Marlboro, two pork pies and a banana. He had inspected the toilet facilities, which were situated just inside the entrance, and they appeared clean and agreeable. He would be using them the following morning at seven before the accumulation of prehensile consumers. He settled himself in the drivers seat and twisted off the cap of his cider. The gassy liquid dribbled down his chin in small rivulets as he greedily quaffed several mouthfuls. His eyes watered excessively as he pulled the heavy bottle from his dribbling lips. He lit a cigarette, opened the window slightly and settled back in his new abode, waiting for darkness to fall and John Peel to announce his Radio One 244

welcome at 10 pm. Welcome to Tesco Towers! he announced again and devoured another gulp of cider. He felt odd. He always felt odd but today he felt particularly surreal. He would have to try and shelve his emotions for the present and concentrate on the practical task of finding employment and that house thing. The money which Samantha had deposited into his bank account would not last him very long and this first night in his new car-home would be difficult, but paradoxically, the easiest. He could not permit the present circumstances to linger for longer than was necessary. The following day he would buy the local newspaper to search for accommodation and employment. He would travel to the town centre and seek out any job opportunities in pubs, shopscinemas even. He would get back on his feet again, for the sake of his children (and himself perhaps?). And tonight he would drain four litres of cider and assemble a programme of regeneration. Despite the feeling of queasy loneliness he felt invigorated in his new Salopian home. At 11.15pm, when the car park was quiet and the remainder of the families had packed away their groceries to take back to their warm, comfortable homes to progress with their warm, comfortable lives he decided to take a final gulp of Strongbow, a gulp of Evian, then opened the boot of his home to extract his pillow and duvet. He urinated into the large bush beside him before retrieving the bedding and dumping them on the back seat. He reclined the passenger seat to a level position and laid diagonally his head resting on the back seat. He wrapped his duvet around himself and closed his eyes, attempting sleep, but not expecting its nourishment. After a night of relentless tossing and turning, a couple of necessary cigarettes and minimal slumber, he was awoken by the slamming of a car door. He lifted himself a 245

little, wincing with the pain in his neck, speculated on his surroundings, and realised he was in a supermarket car park. A young girl in a Tesco uniform was walking away from her car which shed parked too close to Michaels own for his liking towards the entrance to begin her day at work. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard, 7.11am. He thought it best to rise and use the toilet facilities before the onslaught. It was Saturday morning and it was going to be congested around his concrete garden. He returned the bedding to the boot and opened his suitcase to retrieve his toiletries. He put his deodorant, toothbrush and a bar of Palmolive into a carrier bag and walked to the toilet. He hoped it would be open and that he didnt look too conspicuous. It wasand he did. He read the sign, THESE FACILITIES ARE CHECKED EVERY HOUR ON THE HOUR. IF YOU WITNESS ANYTHING INAPPROPRIATE PLEASE INFORM A MEMBER OF STAFF IMMEDIATELY. THANK YOU. Michael Madigan was inappropriate. He hoped he wouldnt be witnessed as he scrubbed his cheesy flesh, brushed his teeth in the public sink and sprayed his armpits and crotch. On this occasion he was not. He returned to his car and opted to search for a less populated car park within the retail park. He decided to investigate the Booker Cash and Carry car park which hed visited before. The building opened for business at 8.30am and appeared quiet. He figured that he had fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before the staff began to arrive. It was now 7.35am. Within five minutes of him changing his shirt, a small red van N-E-SIGNS was written along its side panel appeared from around the corner and parked by the entrance. A stout, dark-haired man exited the drivers seat and shot an inquisitive, intimidated glimpse at a barechested Michael. Mike stared back at him as he scuttled towards the entrance and disappeared inside. 246

He looks like a right cunt! Mike said aloud, Probably got a name like Gerard, Jeremy or Nathaniel. Maybe I should look for a job there? He could be my friend and we could munch Ginsters pasties together in the canteen? Maybe I would meet another wife there, and we could get secretly married on Christmas Eve? He scrutinized the grey, pre-fabricated metal monstrosity of a building and thought how unreservedly depressing it appeared. No thanks, he said, and drove away to seek out breakfast. A month had passed since Michaels first night in his new town and he had still not found himself a suitable place to live. He had looked at five properties but they were either too expensive or too shoddy (he had his selfrespect!). But today he had a positive feeling about this sixth one a one-bedroomed, ground floor flat in a quiet area. He had been to investigate the property and had peered through the windows, also examining the surrounding area and hed had that feeling the one when you know the outcome without any hard evidence to support your conviction. He had an appointment with the landlord later that day at the property, and he would not drink until after the rendezvous. He had also found it difficult to get a full-time job, (his search hindered by his no-fixed-abode status) but because of his previous experience and the cinemas desperation due to the incumbent projectionists unexpected resignation, he had been offered three shifts per week at the local independent fleapit. He found it so reassuring to be back in the projection box the deafening whirr of the projector and over bearing heat brought back happier memories of The Ritzy in Brixton, before hed met the woman he now knew as The Old Dragoon; the woman who now lived in the same town as himself, the woman 247

with whom he was about to build a wholly different relationship. But he felt gladdened to feel part of something again and, most importantly, part of his childrens lives again. His heart murmured with a bracing, intoxicating trepidation. Hi, Im Martin. You must be Michael? Yes hello. He was intending to be on his best behaviour for this, it was hugely important to him and he wanted it fiercely. Martin jangled a large bunch of keys and said, Right, shall we go and have a look inside? Yes lets! replied Michael, like an eager, wide-eyed child, Thats why were here! Ha ha! He felt false and silly and wasnt accustomed to it. Martin waded through a hillock of letters, junk mail, free newspapers, menus and fliers as he entered. As you can see the place has been empty a little while. The flat dispensed a not unpleasant musty odour. Its quite compact, Martin continued, and fully furnished. Its just ideal for my needs, Mike replied. It was small, he thought, but was indeed ideal for his needs. The landlord slid open a door in the cramped hallway. Heres the bathroom. Quite dark in here mate! He walked in for a closer inspection. Hmm, great! he retorted as Martin slid the door closed. The men walked two paces up the hallway and Martin slid open another door. Living-room with adjoining kitchen area, he pronounced with unwarranted pride. It was a medium-sized living-room, about ten feet square, separated from the kitchen area (which was tiny) by a bar fixture, cupboards were fitted above it, leaving a three foot gap from the bar level. The living-room had a front door leading directly to the front garden. Michael approached it and looked through 248

the window. There was no path through the grass. Martin detected his concern. Everybody tends to use the back entrance in these flats. Its a little more private you understand. Indeed, replied Mike. I think the door may be useful for ventilation in the summer? Martin appeared to ignore his inane remark as he walked to the sink in the kitchen area to wash the dust from his hands. Michael sensed his air of disinterest and felt silly again. And the bedroom is through here. He followed Martin and entered a fair-sized bedroom which contained a double bed, two bedside cabinets and a wardrobe. A large window overlooked the front garden. And that, as they say, is that! Compact and bijou. What do you think? I like it. I like it very much. Its clean, modern and well-decoratedand just big enough for myself. So, it will be just yourself I assume? Oh yeah, he lied, just me, myself and I. Ha ha! So, would you mind if I asked why you are looking for somewhere? Mike panicked. Dont fuck it up Mikey boy, you need this place. That car is beginning to get a bit crampedand smelly too! Not at all MartinIve just moved from London (he lied again), recently separated from my wife and I just needed to get away from her. I know people here from previous visits and I really wanted to live in such a peaceful, homely townjust to get on with my life basically. You fucking liar, he said to himself. I have to beyou fucking weird retard! You want me to tell him Im a fucked up, drunken slob, with no job, no direction, living in my car, harbouring grievously mischievous thoughts? No, I suppose, seeing as you put it that way. Can I carry on with my barrage of untruths now? 249

He received no reply from himself and interpreted the silence as an agreement as he continued to fabricate. Ive just got myself a job as duty manager down at the Cinema in the Square so Ill be out most of the time anyway. Less wear and tear on your pleasantly, tiny flat you bigfaced, bearded ponce-nob! Right, okay. Shall I give you some details then, regarding the financial outlay required? Please do. Monthly rent is two hundred and seventy-five pcm as we said payable by cheque to my home address in Whitchurch, every month. I would need a months deposit and a months rent in advance. I dont believe in using estate agents I like to deal directly with people so, no extra fees. Would that suit you? Absolutely. Mike was becoming heartened. We would sign for six months at first, renewable by mutual agreement for a further six months. Tenancy will be subject to references but, if I get a feel for someone, then I tend to follow my gut instinct its never let me down yet. So that person could move in immediately, obviously I would still like to see references. How would that suit you Michael? Very well Martin, he replied, suspiciously thinking him to be a little too keen. Who was playing who? Splendid! replied the landlord. We shall be in touch then. Shall we say before the end of the week? We shall. Thank you for seeing me Martin. Both men left the property in silence. As the landlord locked the door, Mike turned and said, Right then, Ill ring you before Friday. Bye Martin! Bye, he reciprocated, as the keys jangled back into his pocket. The property was his he was certain. His new life was about to kick start, he was about to re-join lifes motorway and mingle back into the traffic, he had served his time at the service station and was back 250

on the road again. An alien feeling of optimism consumed him and he felt, dare he say, happy? NEW DIGS AND PROSPECTS OF A JOBNEW DIGS he sang merrily, walking with a convivial, gentlemanly gait to the nearest watering holeswinging an imaginary cane. Mike pulled the key from the back pocket of his Levis, laid down the bin bag on the concrete and unlocked the door to his new home indeed, his new life. Martin had agreed the six month contract, now here he stood on the doorstep; thrilling wavelets of anticipation ebbed and flowed inside him. It was a sunny, mid-October Saturday morning and the temperature was unfeasibly warm. Michael was unfeasibly content. He had given Samantha his new address the previous day and, inconceivably, she had congratulated him. She had sounded somehow softer and warmer which had made him feel uneasy, but still lightened by this new attitude of hers. He was hoping for access to his children within a couple of weeks. What took place an hour later astounded him. He had carried his pitiful chattels into his new flat and was sifting through them when the doorbell rang. He walked from the bedroom, peered through the window in the kitchen area and saw his estranged wife and two children standing at the back door. His heart pranced like a ballerina and a surge of panic overcame him. He was caught completely off guard and a miniscule part of himself told him to flee through the opposite door and run away. The remainder told him differently and within an instant he sped to the back door and screamed, KIDS! Daddy! they reacted immediately and simultaneously and he gathered them into his arms, almost crushing them with the most powerful hug he had ever dispensed, relenting only when Jonathan began squirming in pain. 251

Oh, Im so sorry kids. I didnt mean to hurt you, he said, guiltily. Daddy its okay, replied Sarah, also wincing from the pain in her back. He hugged them again, lightly on this occasion and kissed them both. He then stood up to face The Old Dragoon. Kids, listen. Do you wanna see my new pad? HAAAAAGGHHHH! screeched the boy in rambunctious reply. Sarahs reply was lost, like a feather in a whirlwind. Mike looked at them both, Well, yous two run in and go investigatemind the step! They boisterously obliged, clambering to be the first across the threshold - both of them tripping over the step. When they were inside the parents began. You look well. She really did, he thought. She had a certain glow about her which he couldnt remember seeing before. Thanks. You dont, she thought but refused to blurt it out. He felt moderately hurt that she hadnt replied you too. He dismissed the emotion. So whats going on? What dyou mean? I mean how come? I thought I wouldnt be seeing them for a couple of weeks at least. He had that familiar feeling of anxious dread, evoked by the tranquil, glazed features of Samantha. Youre not complaining are you? Me? God no! Im dead happy to see them. Im still unpacking mind you, but they can stay as long as they want. Great! said Sam, See you tomorrow about twelve then. Bye. And she turned to leave. He was dumbstruck. Erm, Sam? She turned towards him. Yes? Youre letting them stay overnight? 252

Yes. Whats wrong with that? Youre their dad arent you? I think anywaysorry, not really, just teasing. Eryes, of course butits just that I didnt expect it yet. And I gotta work tonight. I got shifts down at the cinema three nights a week. She was impressed that he had found some work (and the flat) but refused to display it. Oh? Okay, so you dont want them thenSarah! Jonathan! His head flailed. Shhh, dont! Dont be daft, of course they can stay. Well make your mind up. Youre confusing me. Jonathan appeared at the back door, he looked puzzled. Looking up at his father he asked, Daddy? Mike was happy to be able to deflect his attention from Samantha. Yes mate? Where my Chigleys? It was Mikes turn to appear baffled. Your what son? My CHIGLEYSsaid! The boy began to rummage in the carrier bag on the floor. Mike had to look at Samantha for assistance. Chigleys? he whispered. She looked bored and replied, Yeah, little wooden soldiershe plays with them all the time. I put them in that bag with some of his toys. CHIGLEYS! the boy barked with joy, and dragged the bag back into the living-room. Why does he call them? Oh, I dont knowask him. Sam, are you alright? Yeah. Why? You seem a bitweird, thats all. And youre not? she thought, again refusing to say the words. Weird? No, Im fine. I may be a bit hungover tomorrow but Ill try not to be late. Bye then. See ya, he replied. He was befuddled. Thoughts of her going out and enjoying herself, getting drunk (maybe with 253

another man) flooded his head. He killed them and walked inside to see his children. Right little unswho fancies stayin at dads tonight? YEAH! YEAH! they exclaimed, and the young Taz proceeded to dance brutally on the sofa, baring his teeth like a wounded wolf. Mike thought it wasnt the right time to reprimand the child, so allowed him his insane expression of exuberance. His daughter smiled calmly and approached her father to give him a gentle, loving hug. He welled up but fought back any potential tears. She looked up at her dad and asked, But where we gonna sleep Dad? He deliberated. Hmm? Good question my small daughter. I have one bedroom, one living-room with a sofa and one bath. Its okay doll, I got it all sorted out. Ill have the couch and you and your brother can have your dads big bed. You can get away from him easy enoughits big The terrified look of sickened outrage on the eight-year old was enough to cause Michael to turn his face away, before his smirk turned into a guffaw. Dad! There is no way I am sleeping in the same bed as that freak! I cant dadI Mike could control himself no longer as he snorted in merriment, at which point the young girl began to pummel him with her tiny fists. DAD!! she shouted. He twisted her round and hoisted her upside down into the air. I wanna play! demanded the gyroscopic little human on the sofa. The three collapsed together on the sofa in a reunited ball of family. As they settled Mike thought of the sleeping arrangement quandary. He stood up. Right kids, sleeping arrangements. Listen up. The two stopped digging at each others ribs and sat back, attentive. 254

Sir, you will have the bedroom big bed all to yourself. You Jon, youve got the sofadoneorgan-izised. He waited for the howls of jealous derision from his boy but none arrived. It was silent and he was perplexed. Sarah also looked puzzled. But where will you sleep? she asked, concerned for her father. Oh dont worry about me, Im fine. Ill just fix up a bed on the floor I got loadsa blankets. Ill be comfy as numpty, not like Humpty Dumpty. They both laughed, Sarah felt better as dad thought of a restless nights sleep underneath his one remaining blanket a tiny price to pay, he thought, for the presence of his children in his home. Jonathan resumed his tribal rain dance on the sofa and his sister hurriedly departed. Mike went outside to have a smoke and basked in the rapture of having his kids back that which he had not experienced in more than seven months. The joy of belonging with them and the knowledge that they were safe overwhelmed him. He took another drag of his Marlboro and rejoiced as Jonathan tumbled off the settee and began to bawl. Michael was awoken the following morning by a feverish pounding to his back. He had spent an uncomfortable night attempting to harvest as much sleep as possible on the living-room carpet. He had a scatter cushion for a pillow and a sheet for a blanket (he had covered the boy with the extra blanket) and was now faced with these horrendous, violent movements on his aching body. He opened his eyes wearily and said, Jon? Do you mind son? Its a bit early. The boy stopped gradually and said, Soz daddy. He sat on his back, cocked his head towards his fathers and gawped inanely and contentedly into his exhausted fathers face, panting into his nostrils. 255

Whats beakfast daddy? I ungree. Mike thought quickly. Honey nut loops son. Unny nut loop! Unny nut loop! Can I av em now? Can I? Can I? Mike had missed this so much! Ermnot yet mate cuz I gotta go down the shop and buy em first. Ill make you some toast for now. Toast! Toast! I av nut butter on? Can I av it now? He buried his head into the cushion in resignation and knew his broken sleep was now permanently crushed. After rising, waking his daughter, venturing to the local shop to buy Honey Nut Loops, milk, twenty Marlboro and The Observer and sitting with his children watching Pinocchio on video, the phone rang. It was 11.50am. Hello? he answered. Mike, a blatantly hungover head uttered the name, Im afraid Im gonna be a bit late. Can you have them a bit longer? Cheers. Bye. Before he could even form an answer the voice had gone. He felt violated. Fuckin drunken bitch! I knew shed do this. But Mikey, it means you got more time with your kids, you ungrateful fuck! Yeah, I know and Im glad about that but I got another shift at work at half two you should know that, you interfering spunkbubble! Fuck you! No, fuck you! Silence ensued in the mans demented head and he restored himself to the world. Right kids, it looks like we got some more hours together. Who wants to go the park and kick an orb? Me! I do! shouted Jonathan. And me dadbut whats an orm? An orb love, O-R-B. A sphere, a round thing, a ball, footytogger! Lets go take some pennos, Ill go in goal. The motherless family collected their effects and walked the five minutes to the nearest expanse of grass. Concurrently, less than two miles away, the mother was on 256

all fours, being hammered doggy-style by her new boyfriend. It is not events that cause tragedy in the lives of mankind; it is the knowledge of these events the cognizance within the individual that an abominable episode has occurred. A man can perish horribly in the Australian outback at 4.30pm on a Tuesday afternoon and his mother would be munching on her Jaffa cakes, sipping her PG Tips and switching channels to watch Countdown back in England. Evidently there is a school of thought that exists which maintains that, unquestionably, the mother will know at that explicit moment that something tragic has happened to her offspring she may drop her biscuit into her mug of char as her son loses his grip on existence, but she will not unequivocally know that he is dead; it is solely the awareness of the fact that will cause her to disintegrate uncontrollably, and grieve each minute for the remainder of her days. Knowledge is the power. Knowledge is greatly superior to life itself. Without knowledge grief would not exist and life would be Utopia for all. Knowledge has the supremacy to kill and, conversely, to aid survival and prosperity. Knowledge is supreme. If Michael Madigan had known, as he was ambling and laughing contentedly with his children on their jaunt to the park, that his estranged wifes anus was being pounded by the penis of the nineteen-year old Chester Badcock (for the first time) he would not have been laughing. Indeed, he would not be kicking the ball to his kids on the pavement; he would be kicking the balls of Chester Badcock into the stratosphere. He would be doing this because, although his demons were temporarily dormant, they still flourished and he secretly and acutely wanted his old life back. He would not even admit this to himself because he had constructed 257

the necessary bulwark of denial which effectuated his survival. He would perish otherwise.. On the ead son! he shouted to the boy as they ran onto the grass; Jonathan kicking the ball three feet along the damp grass. Sarah giggled as she took charge of the ball to show him how its done; and the trio played together idyllically, as a family should.

258

21
Salopia myopia

Mandy Pinhorne and her husband of ten years were

two of the hundred-strong audience at the compact Cinema in the Square engrossed in Oliver Stones Natural Born Killers. Each person was oblivious to the harsh censuring (and threat of unemployment) that was being handed out to the projectionist, who was standing less than twenty-five feet from Mr. and Mrs. Pinhorne. You are one lucky man Mike. Youve only been here two minutes and youve missed two shifts already what are you playing at? Its lucky for you we were able to find cover at such short notice, because I guarantee, if one of those shows wouldve had to have been cancelled, then your job wouldve been cancelled too; youd be straight down the road. Do you understand that? Oh fuck! Here we go again. Another power freak of a boss tryin to make me feel small. Get it over with, you rotund little Scottish four-eyed waste of skin. Ive only known you less than two weeks and I fuckin hate you already. Blah, blah, yeahsorry..! Yeah, sorry Magnus. It really was unavoidable. My exmissus had gone awol and I had my kids with me and I 259

really couldnt do anything else I did phone in. He was staggered that hed told the truth. Its a good job you phoned in because if you hadnt have Yeah, yeah fuckchops, Id be straight down the road youd be straight up the road. Down, cuntflake! You said down last time! You said Id be down the road, now youre sayin Id be up the road!? Which direction, on the road, would I be going? Up or down? Thats two different directions with two different probable destinations you know? TIT! Really sorry, honestly Magnus. It wont happen again. For a while. Make sure it doesnt! Now get on and buck up! Get on what? Get on the bus? Get on in life? Get on your goat? Get on your birds bones? Michael had already got on he had got on with ignoring his superior by attending to an unnecessary faultfinding task in the gate of the projector. Magnus Ferguson, the front of house chief, returned to the box office and commenced to question the two females seated behind the glass. What do you think of this new projectionist Becky? Becky, a small, stunningly pretty brunette with tiny bosoms, replied with an impassive shrug of her delicate shoulders and said, Oh I dunno, only seen him twice, seems alright...I spose. Well, I think hes a bit weird, Lorraine, an older, more wrinkled version of a pretty brunette (also with tiny bosoms) interjected abruptly, He looks at you a bit strange, like hes gonna do something to you. I cant explain it but thats my opinion anyway. She hunched and sourpussed herself back to her duties. Hmm? Well Im not sure about him. I think we should all keep a good eye on hima good eye! Magnus waited fifteen seconds for a response which was not forthcoming. 260

He shuffled back to his office to finish his half-eaten cheeseburger. Mike was sitting in the cold, dank room which was situated downstairs from the projection box. It was below street level, which he had discerned from the air-grill close to the ceiling. He had craned his neck at the grill, on occasions, attempting to peer up a passing skirt (in vain) and had called himself a pervert each time. He had just extinguished a cigarette and was waiting for the film to end. He was bored and felt jaded. He had watched the film previously and had purloined several interesting-looking single frames from the celluloid (but only on the beginning or end of the reels the reel changes, as they were known; he would not cut them from other sections within that wouldnt be moral). He had learnt to do this in his time at The Ritzy cinema in Brixton all those lifetimes ago, and was disconsolate that he had lost his collection at some point along his wretched path. But, he would rebuild it. He currently owned six frames. The reel of film runs through the projector at twentyfour frames per second. The average movie has a total length of one hour and fifty minutes. This constitutes an average of 158,400 single frames per movie. There are nine-hundred and eighty-seven cinema houses in England each with an average of five different projectionists. The film itself is transported (by courier) to another cinema after the conclusion of its run. On average it will show at fortysix various cinemas before it is deemed unexhibitable due to wear and tear. These facts imply that the film would pass through the hands of a maximum of two hundred and thirty projectionists. If there were two unscrupulous projectionists, extracting (on average) five frames from the film at each establishment, then, that particular film (at its final cinema) would be lacking four hundred and sixty frames from its length this would curtail the time-span of 261

the film by no less than nineteen seconds; Michael had researched and calculated this data and judged it to be more than he would have thought, and yet insignificant thus continuing his frame elimination and consequently, his assemblage. He heard the door opening from the auditorium and a person running up the stairs to the projection box. He lifted himself laboriously from his perch and observed Zak the young student who had originally trained him running down the stairs. This twat runs everywhere! Just walk man, its much easier! And go and wash! Oh, hi Mike! I wondered who was on tonight. Hello mate. I am I forgot my bag. Okay. Zak was about to bid adieu when he said, Theres two or three of us having a pint in The Crown. Well still be there when the flick ends, so after youve broken it down, why dont you come over? I reckon you should be out by twenty past ten. Which ones The Crown then? Thats the one just oppositein The Squareon the left? Thats the one! Just oppositein The Squareon the left. Yeah, okay ta I might do that. Cheers. Okay, cool! See ya! See ya lad. Run along son, you sarky fucker! Despite him disliking the sardonic, young tearaway, Mike felt a pocket-sized sense of belonging again he could develop something here. He could rejoin society again, be like he was before. He could have a life again. He wanted it. Hed spent too many dark months clouded in a self-consuming bubble of alcohol-infused derangement. Perhaps it was time to resurface. Perhaps it was time to leave his darkness? 262

The Central Library in Liverpools city centre was a vast, somehow demonic edifice a hub of study, research, erudition and a general congregation for the highly intellectual sort. Michael Madigan was not an intellectual sort he aspired to be, but today he was simply a child, feeling thoroughly out of his depth. The soaring verticality of the huge stone pillars, the masses of balconies, the vast expanses of space intimidated him and the books! Books were everywhere. Books leapt out at him like playful children, pranced by him and gamboled gaielly about his feet like hardbacked spring lambs they swarmed around his young head like summer midges. As he shuffled meekly from room to cavernous room, he felt like he was drowning, suffocating. Why (or how) he was here, he did not exactly know. It was a bitterly cold December afternoon and he had decided to leave school immediately after the last morning lesson earlier that day. He would miss double-Geography and Maths in the afternoon. This caused him tremendous elation, for the two teachers of these subjects were more daunting than any of the Christian Brothers who minced their course through the corridors of their school GEOGRAPHY Docker Dunn, a relatively small man, about five foot eight inches tall with greasy, jet-black hair. Always donned a creased, grey suit. Always reeked of alcohol. Always opened the lid of his desk at least every ten minutes of his afternoon lessons failing to disguise the relentless consumption of Bells whisky. Always spoke of the Aberfan disaster of 1966 practically ending in tears. Always became excruciatingly domineering towards the end of his lessons. And, always concluded the lesson with a warning to his petrified students not to end up lying in the gutterpot-bellied, scruffy and drunk. (Michael had 263

always wondered why hed warned them not to be potbellied? What was wrong with it aside from being fat? He had seen many smart, respectable pot-bellied grown-ups.) MATHS God Green, aka The Gob. This man, to Michael (and ninety percent of his fellow classmates) was a fearsome, tyrannical demon. Mike would rather brave the wrath of Idi Amin than upset this rebarbative barbarian, for he was an unmitigated, insupportable bully of a man. Mike didnt know who had nicknamed him God but it was evident that he held this position with the majority of his fellow teachers too. He was bone-chillingly, spinetinglingly, piss-pantingly terrifying. He was six foot four inches tall and built like a string bean. He had short, cropped grey hair, a huge balloon of a nose and thick rubber lips which reminded Mike of cod. He was consistently immaculately dressed in a spruce, grey tweed suit each day he would appear in this identical apparel. Did he own five different suits? Did he clean and press them each night? Probably the latter, Mike thought. But the overriding aspect of the beast which caused Michael unimaginable terror was the voice. When this man shouted (which he did more than a town crier on overtime), the vocal ferocity was of sonic boom proportions it had the power to cause the penis of the hardiest, rebellious youngster to seep urine So Michael eagerly awaited the mid-day bell the potential consequences of failing to appear at his afternoon lessons were overridden by the joy he felt for not attending. Why he found himself walking the three miles to the city centre, he didnt know. His father had left the family home permanently only the previous week and the young Michael didnt know why he did anything anymore. As he reached the centre he was directed towards the substantially-pillared Central Library. He was going to get a book. He wasnt going to borrow a book; he was going to steal a book 264

He stared wide-eyed at the surroundings of the circular Picton Room in the main building, he felt lost. Are you lost son? a librarian asked him. Erm, yeaha little bit. Shouldnt you be in school? Schools closed cuz the heatins not workin so we got off early. The falsehoods were inherent even at this early stage in his development. Okay, what are you looking for? Hypnosis booksbooks on hypnosis, he replied weakly. Right, let me take you there its a bit of a maze this place. After walking through two vaster, columned rooms the librarian said, Here you are. Theres quite a choice so if you need any help? No, Ill be alright, interrupted the boy, Thanks mister. After browsing through the array of hypnosis books for ten minutes he saw the title he was seeking; THE PHENOMENON OF AUTO-SUGGESTION AND ASTRAL PROJECTION A PRACTICAL GUIDE, Phenomennommmm! he spoke as he read the title the word amused him. He felt a surge rise from the pit of his stomach. He pulled it from the shelf and read a few excerpts as he flicked through it. He closed the book and imagined the utter gratification of projecting himself to the stars; but that would have to wait. His main priority was to fix himself to rid himself of the pain and confusion which was devouring his very soul. Of course, nobody would need to know what his plan was to heal himself it was girly and weird! After checking in both directions and with nobody present, he furtively slipped the paperback down the front of his grey trousers and walked to the exit his heart thumping like the drum of a marching band. His naivety and fear caused him to overlook the electronic alarmed frame which he passed through and the intermittent high-pitched bleep made his heart sink to his 265

shoes; he froze. The hand on his shoulder failed to defrost him. Okay son, come with me. He began to cry as he was led to a back room he thought he would go to prison. He was unable to answer any questions as he pulled the book from his Y-fronts. The giant security guard checked the title and appeared curiously amused. He stooped to read the school badge on the boys blazer and picked up the telephone. As a result of his misdemeanour Michael had not been gaoled, he had been given sixteen hours community youth service and a mighty slap to the face from his vodkaswilling mother, Bringin shame on dis famly! Ya fuckin eedjit! His sentence was spent serving the Christian Brothers at his school not with sexual favours (which alleviated his substantial fears), but with grass-cutting, leaf-collecting, tea-making and other such menial tasks -this isnt serving the community, hed thought. And, after being asked why he wore a razor blade so tightly around his neck and warned of the dangers of it, Brother Neville ordered him to remove it and showed him where the rake was stored. The young boy stared at him, and his malformed, wispy beard, in bewilderment, baffled that a human being could so closely resemble a rat. Zak, is he alright? I dont know. Ive only known him just over a week. No, I mean is he alright now. Ask him. You ask him. No! Hes your mate, you ask him. Hes not my mate. I said Ive only known him a week. The three friends stared at Mike as he stared at the fruit machine. 266

Why doesnt he go and play it? Hes been looking at it for five minutes. LAST ORDERS LADIES AND GENTS! Right then, whos having a last one? Mike asked, aroused from his memories by the clatter of the bell. No thanks, wed better be getting off Mike, Zak replied. Yeah, the two others agreed, promptly. They rose from their stools in unison, wished him goodnight and walked through the exit. Suit yourselves lads and lasses, Ill have two meself! He approached the bar. A pint of Guinness and a JD please love? He smiled and thought how good it was not to be a child. Ice? No, straight. Outside, the three friends were sat on a bench. Emma asked the same question, Zak, is he alright? What do you think? Zak answered. Kevin remained silent. We should not be doing this here! Samantha repeated. Yeah we should! No-ones gonna come in. Sam removed her final piece of clothing her panties, as she lay back on the double bed, opening her legs sufficiently to allow his legs between them his sturdy erection crushing her formidable pubic hair. After some minutes of kissing and intimate probing she pushed him gently away and slowly turned around onto her knees she clutched the headboard with both hands. He required no more invitation as he grabbed his throbbing member and directed it between the lips of her dripping vagina. No, she sighed. What? Whats wrong? Not that one, this oneslowly. She licked her forefinger and inserted the wet tip into her anus. For a second time, he needed no encouragement. He re-directed 267

the missile three centimetres higher, squeezing his penis to force out extra lubrication. He introduced it gingerly and continued to squeeze the lubrication inside her anus, gradually thrusting deeper as the constricted orifice widened, until it accepted his total length. We didnt do this last time! Last time was last time, this is this time! She panted, Fuck me hard in the arse! Fuck me hard now! Im confused! Fuck off mind, not nowIm busy! No, Im confused! She was never like this before? She never spoke like that before? She would let you nowhere near that starry orifice. Whats happened to her? Shes changed. Maybe you should wear a johnny? You dont know where shes been. No! Fuck off, Im nailing it! Michaels penis was now pumping fully up to the hilt. Her moans of pleasure/pain caused him additional arousal and the tautness of the chamber caused him to hold out no longer than thirty seconds as he stocked his estranged wifes poo-store full of semen. They remained motionless, four hands now clutching the headboard. He unclenched his fingers from it as he eased his pacified penis free; it was slightly brown. Sam followed and they lay side by side on their backs, she, still breathing hard, he, gasping for air. She broke the silence. Well, she said, you always used to last a lot longer than that! He attempted to catch his breath and replied, Well I havent had it for over two months, plus you never let me fuck you in the arse before its a bit different for a bloke. They lay silent again for some moments. He broke the silence on this occasion. Anyway, you mustve learnt a lot in the last ten months or so, we never did that in our nine years together. He waited for a reply which didnt arrive. She had learned a cornucopia of different sexual techniques in their time apart. She had felt sexually stifled with this man, but since 268

the separation she had experimented. She wouldnt, however, divulge this information to him. Mike? What? Dont think that this means were getting back together, because were not. He felt a trifle used but demonstrated predictable male bravado by replying, No. I didnt expect it anyway its just a fuck. Maybe we could do it again sometime? She faced him, smiled a frosty smile and kissed him on the head. Right, can I use your shower? He felt a stronger feeling of being exploited as she hurriedly jumped from the bed. Yeah, its in there, he replied splenetically, pointing through the wall of his bedroom. She walked nudely through the door as he studied her newly-formed shapely behind his loins stirred again. He felt sexually gratified and yet emotionally barren. She returned seven minutes later wrapped in a towel, carrying her casually strewn garments which littered the hallway (the couple had not waited to disrobe in the bedroom the sexual frenzy had begun at the entrance to the hallway), and without a cursory glance in his direction (as he lay naked on the bed, hoping for seconds), lifted her panties from the floor and returned to the bathroom to get dressed. Three minutes later she re-entered the bedroom, fully dressed and drying her hair with a towel. He had not moved. Mike, get dressed. Seconds were not on the agenda. He sat firmly upright on the bed and covered his flaccid tool with the duvet. So, what dyou think? Weve had three weeks now and the arrangements with the kids are working out okay arent they? Actually, you can come and pick them up sometimes, instead of me always bringing them down here. 269

I cant use the car its got no tax or MOT stillbut yeah, I spose I could. I still havent seen your place. I think its best, replied Sam, that if you do pick them up, you stay outside. If I arrange the time then Ill have them ready for you when you get there. Why? he asked, puzzled and hurt. Why what? Why am I not allowed inside? Youre not seeing someone are you? She hesitated slightly, she was caught off guard. No! Dont be stupid, its just bestthats all. Best for who? You? Me? The kids? Mike, dont get like this. Were getting on fine, the kids seem a lot happier since seeing you and weve just had a shag! Happy days! Lets not spoil it? Glacial silence. So Ill drop them here on Wednesday for tea, then you can start picking them up on the Saturday after, yeah? Yeah, he mumbled, disgruntled. I still dont know where you live, he murmured inaudibly, like a child chastised by his mother. Pardon? Speak up Mike! She was now losing her nonexistent patience. I said, I-STILL-DONT-KNOW-WHERE-YOULIVE. She fought her natural tendencies and refused to get embroiled in his childish tantrums. She awarded herself some seconds of calm attempting to refrain from spewing out her usual tirade of expletives but couldnt help the aggression in her voice, replying, Right, I lost the house because I couldnt pay the mortgage! I did start looking for a lodger but they were mostly males applying and Im not stupid I wasnt gonna share my house with some strange bloke, especially with the kids being there; y dont know what they may get up to and I like my own space now and anyway, it wouldnt have been fair to you (she omitted to mention the four men she had slept with in their time apart) 270

Oh thanks! he interrupted sarcastically. Was flushing me down the toilet like a used piece of shit roll being fair to me? Was taking my kids away from me being fair to me? Was fucking that kid who could hardly been out of school - in our house in our bed with our kids there, being fair to me? And only a few weeks after you kicked me onto the street! Me with no job too! Freezin my nads off in that car! Drinkin myself to sleep evry night! But Mikey, that was Tenby, and you fucked Kirsty about 28 times while you were thereand you lost your own job! And you put the lad in hospital! Who asked youwhose fuckin side are you on anyway? Fuckflake! Sorry! he said, insincerely. She assigned him a steely glare. Did I actually say any of that out loud? She continued. Apparently not! I wanted to get a council house anyway, so then I could get the rent paid and it would just be me and the kids and we would be secure. And, the only way was to get moved into a hostel! So me and your kids are living in a hostel! In the rooms down Monkmoor Road! She felt a little guilty about her verbally aggressive tone and continued in a calmer, more rational manner, But the council reckon we should only be there for another two or three months before we get offered a three-bedroomed house. He fell silent, thought about a reciprocal rant but didnt want to upset the tenuous stability of their situation he did want to upset that dog which was now yapping outside his bedroom window (and did so constantly day and night) by compressing its miniscule head in a vice, but not the equilibrium; the equilibrium was what he had craved for so many months it would not be upset nownot yet. What number Monkmoor Road is the hostel? he asked, dispirited. Number seventy-nine, my room is on the ground floor, number two. Cheer up! You just got your end away! See ya 271

Wednesday. And she left, without even a touch. He heard the back door slam shut. Youve changed, he whispered, sullenly. Slut!

272

22
a soldier to cry on

Mandy Pinhorne had lived in Shrewsbury for many

years now. Since she had married and settled with her family, she had grown to love the town and its people. The bucolic, medieval charm of the towns buildings never ceased to enrich her soul and the down-to-earth conviviality of the inhabitants imbued her to rectitude. She had moved to the quaint market town from her home city of Liverpool to escape a series of traumatic events; the death of her brother from a heroin overdose, the death of her best friend whom she had known since infancy and the death of her grandmother (whom shed adored), to name but three she had not been blessed with the best of fortune. She had chosen the town for its radical contrast in character from her home town. She enjoyed visiting, what she still called home, and would do so at least twice annually; she would always initiate a conversation when she detected the unmistakable 273

twang of the accent which occurred frequently in Shrewsbury due to the large amount of Liverpudlians living in the Shropshire town. The distance between the two places was just fifty miles as the crow flies, yet the distinction between the culture, the outlook and character of the inhabitants and the physical appearance of the two places was remarkable; they could have been a thousand miles apart. Mandy knew that she would, no doubt, spend the remainder of her days here. So, have you met him yet? I havent met him yet but Ive seen him go in a few times, and just said hi outside. And hes been there how longa month? Sue, youre slow, shame on you! No, its not that! Hes got a couple of kids who stay over quite a lot, so hes probably been married before. And also LivI think he might be gay! Gay? Hes got a couple of kids you said? Yeah he has. But hes got this one guy goes in all the time when his kids arent there andget thisIve seen the guy come out a couple of times in the morning so he mustve stayed over! And listen to that music hes playing now The girls fell silent and listened. Madonna? asked Liv. Yeah, Madonna! Definitely gay! Liv said. The girls laughed. No, Liv resumed, theyre probably just mates getting drunk, and he crashes out there. But Liv, its a one-bedroomed place, exactly the same as mine. Yeah well, hes got a sofa hasnt he? Yeah, I suppose, butI dont knowhe just looks a bit effeminate too. 274

Well maybe he is gay? Lets go ask him, invite him round! And she moved towards the door, as if she were going to ask him to join them. Olivia Crill! Dont you even Im just teasing, dont worry babes. Sue exhaled a plangent breath of relief. Anyway, if he is or not, hes got two kids and I dont really fancy him anyway. And he lives next door no way could I get involved with a guy living next door. I need my space. Especially a divorced, homosexual father of two living next door! Liv joked. They giggled again and continued to drink their Lambrusco. Mike was seated just six feet away from this conversation, but even without the separating wall he would not have heard it. He had consumed three cans of Guinness, two bottles of Newcastle Brown and a bottle of Valpolicella and was absorbed in the lyrics of Open Your Heart by Madonna. They reminded him of his reluctance to open his heart when Samantha had held the key, after those first months together almost ten years ago. He wished he hadnt relented. He wished he had closed his heartto all of themeveryone! Whores and bitches! All o yous! he grumbled, sitting on his drinking throne at the bar in the kitchen area his back to the kitchen window and gaping paralytically through the opposite window. All had not transpired as he had thoughtor hoped it would since his arrival two months earlier. Notwithstanding the elation he enjoyed by the presence of his children (each Wednesday, Saturday and half of Sunday) he never imagined the desolation that 5pm Sunday would impose when they had gone it was akin to an organ being wrenched from his innards each week. Every Sunday he would obscure all evidence of their presence: 275

1 Toys in boxin cupboard. 2 Plates cleaned, dried and put away. 3 Bed made up. 4 Makeshift bed/couch resumed to former couch. 5 Crumbs dustpanned away (due to lack of Hoover) 6 Small clothes binbagged with dirty washing ...the list was almost endless. And, after completing the weekly, hour-long ritual he would visit The Comet, destroy a pint of Artois and a Jameson chaser and visit the Londis on the way home to purchase a bottle of red and whatever beers he could afford. When he arrived back at his flat the silence was eerie and harrowing, and his heart sank shortly followed by the alcohol. Tonight was one such night. It was 9.30pm and he was half-slumped over the kitchen bar, about to hollow his penultimate bottle of dog. Madonna had finished warbling on his new CD/cassette player and Elvis was about to take to the stage. He was a birrof a fat bastid that there Elvis P. Decent voice tho lad, but you wuz jus like all of uz addictd t shit which caused dead. Mus be a yuman self-deshtrself dishshelf de-shtucshin trait. Make way f the innocent an all that dyazz. artbreak otel, Teshco TowerzJUS LIKE ALL OF UZ LAD!! After these drunken gems of psychological sapience were uttered, the head that expressed them toppled forward onto the forearm; it would probably rise again around midnight. Come on Mike you alcoholic virgin! The films supposed to start in half an hour you gotta make it up yet. Fuck off Kev, its Monday! This is its last showing it must be already made up? Usually mate, but every now and then they start the new feature on a Monday here, not often, just now and 276

then. And now is then, if ya know what I mean, so you better get a grease on! Ive taken all the reels out the box for ya and set em up in order; all you need to do is splice em all together. I reckon you can do it in twenty minutes remember how I showed you to make it up so its at the start? Dont, for fucks sake, do it properly or youll have to rewind it on the tower thatll take another six..seven minutes off you its a long film. Fuck! What we got? Barnabo of the Mountains. Never heard of it. Cheers Kev I better do one, see ya! He ran up to the box office to get the keys to the projection room. Its open, Lorraine said, a false smile masking her hidden scowl. Thanks Lo! Dont call me Lo, you weirdo, she thought a look of indignation now transferred to her features. She quickly resumed her specious, toothy grin as a customer approached. Kevin ambled off to The Crown. He had just completed his day shift at the Music Hall Theatre (which housed the cinema). He doubled as a part-time projectionist and parttime lighting/sound operative in the theatre. He had finished his shift by giving a cup of sweet tea and a packet of fig rolls to Ken Dodd; Tatifillerious! Dodd had said in thanks and Kevin had thought, what a cunt! Kevin Lamb was one of the three friends in The Crown the first night he had met Michael Madigan. Two of the trio thought that Mike was not quite right but Kevin had hoped he wasnt, just as he, himself, wasnt quite right. They had met the following night for a beer just the two of them and now, after two months, they considered themselves good friends; Kevin had even slept on Michaels sofa on several occasions when fantastically drunk and unable to stumble home. 277

He, too, had two children (of similar age to Michaels) and had divorced their mother the previous year so they had much to discuss together. Michael was living Kevins life of nine months earlier and Kev helped him through the mire. He, too, lived alone and had a penchant for inebriation and he was about to yield to it. Its showtime! shouted Mike (nobody was able to hear him in his soundproof room). It was 7.28pm and somehow, he had succeeded in preparing the film with two minutes grace. He was experiencing a true sense of achievement and a desperate yearning for a cigarette, but he would have to wait another ten minutes. Music down maestro! He softened the music to a silence. lights down labia-licker! He lowered the lights. and projector on pissflaps! He switched on the projector. and fishy fingers crossedwe have lift off! The film whirred noisily through the gate of the projector and he waited nervously as this was the most crucial period of the process (similar to an aeroplanes take-off as the most dangerous spell) if this element of the operation was successful then there would probably be no difficulties (although Kevin had forewarned him that undoubtedly he would experience a mid-film split, which only experience would allow to correct. Thanks Kev!). Ill have a Guinness you drunk fuck. What you doin here? Have you been here since seven? Shorely av Mickely, my newfound drunkbud! And didgu manj to get the film on starton time? Yeah, two minutes to spare thanks to you mate settin those reels up for me did me proud. Id have been fucked otherwise. Nay, nayflickMick, tis what mates is for! 278

Kev, can you stop leaning into the punters at the bar please or youre gonna have to go. Kevin skimmed around, as innocent as a fledgling, ignored the barmaids plea and observed a stern-faced woman distancing herself from him. He was on the point of attempting some type of incoherent apology when Mike interjected. Come on Kev lad, lets go sit down. Cheers Mike! the barmaid expressed her relief and gratification toward the rarely-sober man. Kevin slumped onto the nearest available stool, which stood two feet away at a table occupied by a silent couple. Not here mate, over theresorry lad! Michael winked at the peeved punters in apology and thought they should separate if they couldnt even converse. His drunken friend approached the laconic couple, intending to apologise directly to the grim-faced man Mike dragged him away. The two men sat at a corner table away from (and out of sight of) the bar. Kevin miraculously pulled a cigarette from his pack with his teeth and attempted to repeat the feat but failed miserably he threw the pack across the glass table to his friend. Wharracunt! Mike took one from the pack, temporarily ignoring his friends imbecilic remark, lit it, and then motioned to light the one in Kevs mouth, which was stuck to his bottom lip, dangling like a useless snapped twig. Kev! Light! Mike kicked his toe to gain his friends attention. The kick and the flame in front of his face caused him to lift his heavy head from his chest and Mike pulled the cigarette from his lip; Kevin expelled a screech of pain as the dried tip claimed several layers of lip skin - he eventually managed to light it. Whos he then? Mike asked. Kevin looked bemused. Whoozoo? Warwick Hunt, Mike replied with a glimmer of mischief in his eye. Kevin thought for a second. 279

Aaaaaaah yeah, I know, and es got a brother called Isaacyoure a funny, funny guy mate, dya know that? A funny fuckin guy, you are. He took one drag and steadied himself with both hands on the table top, took another and asked, So, ave you shagged er yet? Mike took a drag of his own and replied, Who? Who? Who? Dont who me mate! The missus, the exmissusyou knowthe ex? Mike fell silent for some seconds, was about to respond when Kev spoke again, pointing his cigarette in Mikes direction. Evrybody shags their ex at some stagean if you anna done it yet, then make me words, you will! Honestly, you will. I did. Took me six months matesix month! But I did itevrybody does, an youre no diffrent soyou will. Wise words from a drunk! Wish I was fuckin drunk too, you jammy bastard! Michael was experiencing intense fatigue from Sunday nights indulgence; he had roused from his stool-slumber at half past midnight and instead of choosing the sensible option and stumbling into bed, he had chosen to open another Newcastle Brown Ale. He had consumed over half the bottle when he felt the bile rising from his belly and had picked himself off the bathroom floor at 7.15 earlier this morning. He was bored with the present scenario and necked half of his Guinness. It was useless to bid a fond farewell to his chum as his left cheek was hugging the glass of the table. Mike took his cigarette from Kevs flailing arm and walked through the back exit two lit cigarettes between the fingers of his right hand. Every single member of the 5.7 billion or so human race reaches the end of their individual tether at some stage in their life it is not dependent on sex, age, disposition or 280

personality. The majority reach this point on many occasions throughout their lives and a few, only one time. Some reach it very early in life, some late, but it happens it always happens, to everybody. It is that moment when they say to themselves, Thats it I cannot and will not take this anymore! Oh, hes alright, leave him be. Hes a bit of a mummys boy, come here lover. The couple embraced inside the doorway. The stench of yesterdays cabbage lingered in the cold, dark house as they kissed passionately. The womans hand snaked downwards in an attempt to enlarge the tiny penis of her drunken partner she felt no reaction as she kicked the front door shut with the toe of her stiletto. They separated. Shall we have a drink? Ive only got the vodka Im afraid, is that alright? The man, a forty-seven year old, wizened wreck of a human remained against the wall near the front door, unable to move; his feet shifted in sharp, sudden movements - as if attempting to crush ants to keep his wastrel frame upright. A rolled-up cigarette wisped smoke into one eye as it dangled precariously from his shrivelled lips. Yeh, he muttered. On hearing no reply she continued to fix two vodkas, ensuring her own was the larger. Come and get it lover boy! striving to sound provocative. Lover boys drooped eyelids raised slightly and the crumpled ruin endeavoured to progress along the hallway. Michael was seated on the floor of his bedroom, his back to the wall and his hands covering the earphones on his head; the Sex Pistols Bodies blasting a necessary cacophony of angst into his teenage ears, drowning out the sounds from downstairs which had traumatized him on so many previous occasions. He knew the sequence of events so well; the Irish Rover would resonate through the 281

floorboards, he would hear a crashing sound followed by the inevitable raising of voices, his mothers Cork accent would unleash a tirade of profanities and a silence would ensue (he imagined her to have been slapped, but never witnessed it) and the sound which caused him the most anguish chilling his bones and gnawing at his innards was the creaking of the old brass bed in the bedroom adjacent to his own. As he recollected these incidents his veins suddenly surged with razor blades and he threw his headphones to the floor. Fuck this! he shouted and flung open his bedroom door. He reached the bottom of the thirteen steps in less than two seconds and erupted into the living-room. His mother was lay, spread-legged on the sofa; a dirty Mackintosh raincoat was covering most of the man lying on top of her. Michael witnessed two thrusts of his hips before he grabbed the mans lank, greasy, thinning strands and with all the force which the fifteen-year old could assemble, he charged his knee into the nose of the astonished drunk. His mother scrambled upright, pushing the bleeding man away from her. She struggled to pull up her knickers (but managed it) and exclaimed, What the fuck? Mikey? What the? You! Shut the fuck up you slut! He very rarely talked back to his mother she scared him. He then re-directed his attention to the blood-soaked man on the sofa; he was holding his weeping nose and was completely bewildered by what was happening to him. Mike grabbed him again by the hair and pulled him off the settee, dragging him like a heavy sack of coal towards the kitchen. Mikey? What the fuck are ya doin? mother called. He wasnt listening to his mother; he was focused on one detail, one idea, one destination the kitchen drawer, and one of those large, brown-handled bread knives which his mother used to slice bread and had sliced his soldiers with when he was a young child. He seized one. The drunk was 282

beginning to appreciate the peril facing him and, despite his meagre frame and inebriated state, he managed to extricate himself from the boys grasp and tumbled backwards against the wall. His filthy underpants were, amazingly, still around his ankles. Michael was fully aware of his target; it was awkward to reach as the man was sitting on the kitchen floor, back to the wall, legs together. Mike knew he would only have a second before the man bolted he went for the bulls eye. At that juncture his mother burst through the door, crashing into her son and throwing him off balance as he lunged knife in hand for the testes. The knife pinned his stained Y-fronts to the linoleum floor, at which point Lover Boy emitted a high-pitched yelp, managed to scramble his tiny feet through his spiked underwear and clattered, as fast as he had ever moved in his life, through the door, down the hallway and out into the street. Michael was attempting to push his mother from him as he reached for the knife the compulsion to sever the mans testicular sack still blazing inside him. No! I want my mum to do it, get off! Whats wrong Sarah? Samantha approached her livid daughter, who was standing stationary on the bridge, arms folded and one foot purposely extended in front of the other; her face was a picture of juvenile discombobulation. I cant do it! she bellowed, gazing down at her foot. Samantha looked down. Your lace? What dyou mean you cant do it? Youve been tying your laces for ages, darling. Well, cant do it now. Come here sweet. Samantha crouched down to tie her daughters shoe lace. They were on the bridge across the Severn, making their way to the park where they would play football and eat chips with onion vinegar. 283

Why does he always have to be with us? Sarah asked solemnly. Samantha stroked her daughters cheek. Babe, he is Chester, mummys new boyfriend. You like Chester dont you? Mm. What dyou mean mm? Is that yes? No? Mm. Sam gave her daughter a hug as Sarah said, But mum, hes with us all the timeand night I heard him. Yes darling, but mummy likes him and he likes mummy. And he likes youand your brother. After suffering Sarahs rejection, Chester had moved away towards Jonathan, who was sitting in his pushchair, gnashing his teeth at flying birds. You alright mate? he asked the boy as he stooped down. Jon turned his face away and whispered so softly, it was scarcely audible to himself, uck off. Chester smiled at him, ruffled his hair and stood up. Samantha drew near, glimpsed at the sky with a look of resignation and hugged the new man in her life. Sorry about that, she said, shes still a bit touchy its understandable. Yeah, I know. Its okay. Listen, do you really want to go the park? Its a bit coldfor the kids I mean. But weve got chips now! And the kids are looking forward to it, Sam replied. Chester Badcock was a nineteen-year old, lean, handsome-faced boy (despite his mild acne). He was six-foot one inches tall, and had a vampire-like sallow complexion, which was exacerbated by his jet-black hair. He had been born and bred in Shropshire and had achieved little in his short life. He had had several girlfriends (none lasting more than three months) and he lived at home with his father, who he secretly cursed for providing him with such an unsuitably refined name. The couple had first met on the very day Michael had moved in to his flat (she had allowed the children to stay with their father that night due to her and Chesters date 284

that night). She was not aware whether Mike knew of him (but she doubted it) but she was dreading the inevitable discovery due to his hospitalising a previous partner she had had some months earlier in London. But she refused to hide him away she was doing nothing wrong. If Mike didnt like it, it was tough. She felt some degree of concern regarding her indiscretion with her ex that particular morning, praying that Chester wouldnt find out, but she would have to deal with that, when and if. But she had only just started seeing him it wasnt like she was being unfaithful. She hadnt done anything wrong. Mum! Im coldWANNA GO OME! detonated from the small body in the pushchair. Sarah smiled with thanks. Samantha smiled with love. Chester frowned with irritated relief. Hi. Hi. An awkward silence ensued. Im Sue. Hi, Im Mike. A further awkward silence followed. Youve moved in next door then? Ermyeah, a while ago nowbut youre right, I have. Mikey, dont be sarky, its not an attractive trait especially to a sort who youve just spoke to for the first timeand lives next door. Think on son, she may run out of sugar one day. You know what? Youre fuckin right. For once, youre right! Mikey, Im seldom right but Im never wrong. What the fuck dyou mean? That dont make sense fuck up! Me? Fucked up? Youre the one arguing with yourself, you weird cunt! Re-evaluate!! Yeah, moved in about two and a half months ago now nice to meet you, finally. Sorry if Ive kept you awake sometimes, with my music and stuff Ill calm it down. 285

No, its fine, honestly. Im just not a great fan of Elvis or Van Morrison. Mike smiled. Well normally its not my type of music but for some reason I just found it and it sort of makes me feel better, yknow? Sue fumbled in her bag for her keys to open the door. He sensed the embarrassment. She opened her door and said, Anyway, Im sure Ill see you again. See ya. Yeah, see ya. Mikey, youre a cunt! When will you realise? No Mikey, youre not a cunt. Fuck off you, I am a cunt! Okay bye, you are. Right, hes gone so I shall continue Mike, youre a cunt. Dont say stuff like that to a fit bird you just met and make her feel like a twat so she cant wait to get away from you! Say stuff which makes her wanna stay in your company. Yknow stuff like whats the other neighbours like? or have you heard that dog next door? Not stuff like, it makes me feel better, yknow. Only cunts say stuff like that on occasions like this. See, I told ya, youre a cunt! He took out his own keys and entered his scruffy home. December had strengthened its gelid grip it was one week before Christmas and the temperature inside his flat was below freezing. He switched on the central heating and the television and settled on the sofa. He espied a single toy soldier on the carpet underneath the video recorder and darted from his seat to grab it and return it to its home in the toy box behind the settee out of sight. Chigleys, he said, sadly. The fact became apparent. He had effectively been eliminated from his childrens upbringing. The loneliness was growing on him like sphagnum and he cried, as his soul saddened and his insides gnarled.

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23
The crispness of Christmasthey wanted his presence

Sam, youve got to tell him, really. I know hes a

fuck-up, but you really cant not tell him. Come on sis! I know, youre right but Im actually feeling a bit sorry for him. And, I know him, hell break down, start crying and pleading, and I dont know if I can handle it Leanne studied her sisters face and listened intently. no, no way I cant tell him face to facenot a chance. Itll have to be over the phone. The telephone rang in the projection room of the Cinema in the Square. Today would be quiet in the cinema people tended not to visit the cinema on Christmas Eve. They wanted to finish work early, wear silly red hats with flashing lights on the white trim, and get hopelessly drunk. 288

There was a great expectation of a white Christmas in Shrewsbury this year, the weather had been bitterly cold on the days leading up to the main event and this caused excitement in the majority of the population of the town, especially, of course, the children. The town centre was awash with last-minute shoppers, early revellers and Santa hats as the clock in The Square chimed it was 2pm. Hello? Hello? Whos that? asked Becky from the box office. Whos this? replied the projection box. Zak, stop messing about. Is Mike not there? I thought he was on this afternoon. Who? Him? No, hes a waste of space got the whole day off. Its little ol meZakky baby. Zak had forged a jealous dislike for Mike after training him, due to his close friendship with Kevin and his apparent tendency to work the better shifts. Zak, can you take this phone call from me. They want to speak to the projectionist and theyre being a bit pushy. Sure thing babes put it through! Becky transferred the call and Zak answered. Hello? Hello, Im trying to contact a Michael Madigan. I dont suppose he works there by any chance? Zak thought for a second and replied, He sure does. Why? Who is this? Oh great! Hi, Im a friend of Mikes and I just wanted to contact him again after losing touch. Is he there? Nope! He sure aint. Hes off today lucky man. Zak said, enviously. He was unsure whether the person on the phone was being genuine, but didnt particularly care. I dont suppose you could do me a huge favour could you and give me his phone number? I do really need to speak to him and to wish him a merry Christmas. Could you do that? Zak was forbidden to disclose fellow employees personal details but the resentment he felt 289

towards Mike (especially today) rendered this rule null and void in this specific case. Shonuff my man! At which point the spurious Yankee student divulged Michaels telephone number. Thanks very muchand a very merry Christmas! was the reply and the telephone fell silent. Here goes, she thought. She gulped, and ensuring the children were out of earshot, she telephoned her husband. She knew it was short notice 10am on Christmas Eve but how could she refuse the offer from her sister? It would be unfair to the children they deserved as normal a Christmas as possible after the traumatic year they had endured. The telephone rang five times before a gruff voice answered. Hello? Hello Mike? Its Sam. Hi Sam, hows things? Merry Christmas! She remained silent for a moment, thinking it inappropriate to reciprocate the greeting. Mike, listen. I know we arranged for you to have the kids at three tomorrow Yeah, greatand theyre stayin over too! Yeah, well Oh dont tell me, youre goin out on the piss again tonight and you want me to pick em up early. Well, this time I dont mind Sam I mean its Christmas Day for fucks sake itll be great to have em here in the mornin of course. But I can stick a photo of you on the telly and feed it bits of mince pie every few minutessorry, Im just teasing God, why wont he just shut up, Sam thought this was tough enough already. so, what time shall we say? I pick em up at nine? Sam? You still there? She swallowed hard, audibly. This was going to destroy him, she knew. 290

Were going away. His brain fumbled for scenarios and a fluttering panic developed in the pit of his stomach. Denial appeared. Ohermokay, so you wont be back in time for three? Thats a bit shit but youll be back by five or six yeah? Ill come and get em then. At least theyll still be with me for part of Christmas Day. Ill just watch a video or have a long soak in the bath or something, just kill a couple of hours and Mike, will you shut up for one second please? He shut up for one secondand more. The oh-so-familiar feeling of dread rose from the pit of his bowels, appearing like an old adversary. He waited. She heard the deafening silence and continued. Were going away for a few days. The deafening silence advanced to a cacophony. Mike? You still there? Mike? The voice that replied sounded meek and dead like a squashed mouse. So where you going? it asked. She answered instantly, trying her best to appear enthused and breathe some life back into the flattened rodent. Oh, Leanne has invited us all to stay with them in Solihull over Christmas. Brian is going to come and collect us tonight and drive us straight back, its only about fifty miles. I thought itd be good for the kids to have, like, a normal Christmas, yknowand with her two kids there It was Samanthas turn to ramble as he interrupted his voice regained its power and a semblance of vitriol. So you thought it would be good for the kids to have a normal Christmasaway from their father for the very first time in their lives? Away from their fucked up drunken loser of a fatherand I suppose youll be away for Jons birthday too? Yeah, Im sorryI knew youd be upset but Upset? Yeah, Im upset, Im fucking upsetin fact Im so upset Im gonna call you a selfish cunt! Her 291

burgeoning sympathy for him suddenly burst like a pricked balloon and her infantry sprung into action. Well fuck you! If you cant handle not seeing your kids for one day of the year then thats not my fault! You need to grow up and get some balls, you pitiful piece of shit! (Sam didnt like to be called a cunt) Im trying my best for these kids, to give them a decent Christmas, after the shit theyve been through this year! He held the receiver at arms length away from his ear, pulled a childish expression and mouthed the words Im not doing anything wrong. He returned it to his ear and began his own tirade. Yeah, if you were doing the best for the kids you wouldnt have discarded their father and flushed him down the bog like a soiled piece of shit roll! You wouldnt have fucked every cock you grabbed in the last ten months. You wouldnt have dragged them up to this shit-shovelling town away from their school and their friends, you selfish dogturd twat of a Harpie! But youre not doing anything wrong are ya Sam? He hesitated for an instant and heard the monotone drone of the telephone line she had not heard one word of his outburst, having slammed the receiver down after her own. He hammered the receiver of the telephone in to the carpet as if he were nailing floorboards and started to circulate the small space in his living-room. He walked into the kitchen area and rested both his hands on the sink, glaring ferociously through the window at his postage stamp lawn. His eyes focussed on the long-seen-a-picture television set in the corner of the garden. He stormed outside and, with one swift motion he hoisted the set above his head and projected it into the air. It bypassed Sues stamp garden and landed with a resounding explosion of shards and twisted metal onto the concrete of the car park. He returned inside to search for alcohol.

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Two hours had passed since the jettisoned television set had spread its structure into the path of four cars. Mike had lurched himself to The Comet after emptying the half-bottle of Rioja that hed found into his needy gut. He was now leaning on the bar, demolishing his pack of Marlboro at an astonishing rate. With these bloody Ninja Turtle things over the last few years, all the kids are wantin bloody turtles as pets. And yknow, with pet tort-oices and pet turtles bein instinct now, apart from, I think, those big bastards they ave out there in those Greek islands or somewhere hot like that, theyre all gettin these terror thingserpins, theyre called. Theyre wrappin little ribbons round the heads of these poor fuckers, expectin them to turn into some green fightin monster heroes, and when they dont turn, they get bored. Well ah! replied the fellow drunk in agreement, as he sipped his insipid bitter. So when they get bored the parents have to get rid, so they end up lettin these terror-pins out into the wild into ponds and lakes and even flushin the sorry little bastards down the ol bog. Ah! he sipped again. An I tell you what Fred, in fifteen, twenty years time cuz these fuckers live for a hundred years they will turn into monsters, natural surroundings see! Its like a fish. These little goldfish things cant grow because theyre stuck in a bloody bowl. You stick em out into the ocean or somewhere and they grow the size of a bloody whale cuz they got the space to grow, see! Its the same with these terror-pins. Arnie paused for breath, and to taste his own pallid brew. So whatll appen to these pin things in twenty years? Arnie was still gulping his ale. He wiped his thick, wet lips with the back of his hand and continued. 293

Good question Fred. Ill tell ya whatll happen, these fuckers will grow the size of sharks and start feedin on your ducks and your bloody swans. Theyll all turn out to be the mewtons that the kids wanted in the bloody first place! Well ah! replied Fred, astounded by his friends insight and intelligence. Mike had listened to every single word of specious wisdom spoken by his fellow reveller and was now gaping incredulously, mouth inadvertently open in total disbelief. Look! said Arnie to his friend, Even he cant believe it. directing his glass in the direction of Mike. This awoke him from his bullshit-induced stupor. Isnt that right mucker? Arnie asked him. ErmyeahI spose. Mike lit another cigarette to hopefully deflect the mans attention from him, which failed. Arnie continued. Youre not from round these parts are ya mucker? No, replied Mike, thanking his good fortune. So where you from then? London, he lied. Ah, that London! Thats where all them niggers live innit? Mike despaired. Well, they dont call em niggers, he replied, black people, I think you mean. Bloody black people, brown peopletheyre all bloody darkies! I seen one of them the other day, interrupted Fred, walkin down the Telford Way he was bold as brass with all these bright clothes on, he had! Mustve been visitin, replied Arnie. He directed his attention towards Mike again, We dont tend to get em round here see Telfords got em, we dont. But anyway, Ive got one for yacome on Fred, shift out the way. And he scuttled towards Michael. Are you a sportin man? 294

Yeah, sort of, Mike retorted, I like sport anyway. He berated himself instantly for adding the extra words which could be misconstrued as an invitation to continue. He feared what was coming next and guzzled his Strongbow. Well, you answer me this one then. Whats got more skill involved? A nine dart finish in darts or a one-fourseven in snooker? You answer me that one then! He returned his ugly, swollen body to the stool and sipped his drink, pointing to Mike with one of his glass-holding fingers, and a look of satisfaction on his weathered features. Thats actually not a bad question, you fucking boring, bloated old farmer boy! But if you think I am entering into rhetoric with a crusty old fuck like you, then youve got more problems than me. Michael emptied his glass, collected his cigarettes and raised his hand to bid farewell, and left. A look of perplexed wonder was etched on the countenance of Arnies drinking buddy as his tiny, beer-addled brain attempted to wrestle an answer to his companions question from within. Michaels next destination was the off-licence. He trudged, half-drunk, down the gravel path towards the Maltings, a behemoth of an old flax mill. The crunch of his Doc Martens on the stones relaxed him and he closed his eyes as he walked, imagining himself on Brighton beach, which he had visited on many occasions with his wife and daughter (before Jonathan was born). This brought his present plight and lonely Christmas back to the forefront of his imagination, and the freezing wind swarmed at his numb face, dumping him back to harsh reality. He almost walked into a dog, coated in red fur to protect his shivering torso. Careful boy! the terriers owner warned. Dont call me boy, you old carrot-crunching fart! 295

Sorry dog. Mike lowered his hand to stroke the canine in peaceful apology. The dog yelped at the olive branch and bared his unintimidating fangs, as his owner yanked him away. No Barney! Come away! Fuck you Barney! I was only trying to say sorry. I should have crushed your ungrateful paws. Oh Lord, what the fuck am I doing here? I want my kids with me. You ropy old whoo-er, why did you take them away from me? She didnt take them Mikey, you took yourself away from all of them. You, with your complacent drinking bouts and your latehome-from-works and your weekends away to see your mates and your periods of silence and youroh shut the fuck up, who are you anyway? I still dont know who you are or where youve come from? You never used to be here when I was okayand anyway, it wasnt all my fault. She didnt change enough like she said she would sticking kebabs in my face, throwing plates at the wall, fucking off to festivals with her mates while I looked after the kid, turning up pissed at three in the mornin it wasnt just me. Tell it to the judge, Mikey! Yes? He found himself inside the shop, at the counter, faced with a menacing look of disdain from the middleaged, blotched face of the sales assistant. A queue had formed behind him. How the fuck did I get here? Ermermoh, forty Marlboro please and erI gotta get some ale. Got no Marlboro! Sorry? No Marlboroermokay, forty Bensons then please. He turned towards the beer section and, as he observed the six impatient Salopians behind him, chose not to. Fuck it, he whispered. And a bottle of Bells please. The man behind him in the queue exhaled impatiently as he cradled a single bottle of pale ale. Mike turned around and looked him in the eye. The mans face was wrinkled and 296

yellow and looked like rubber the long hair (at the back of his head only) was almost as yellow and Mike thought he looked like a mask. Alright mate? he asked the mask. The mask turned its head away from the question and looked out of the window at the huge, brown building opposite its expression hadnt altered. Mike followed his gaze. The first iron-framed building in the WORLD that, mate! Did you KNOW that? The expression now showed a sickly foreboding and Mike could smell the fear on the mans yellow flesh as the assistant interjected. Thirteen pounds and thirteen pence please? Mike fumbled in the pockets of his overcoat for change, silently cursed the woman for the plethora of thirteens and pulled a ten pound note from his jeans. He was intending to provoke a higher degree of impatience in the Salopians as he pennied for the exact coinage of three pounds and thirteen pence. Thank you! snorted the peeved assistant, sarcastically. Happy New York! replied Mike as he left the shop his unhealthy booty packed safely into his deep pockets. Brixton town was also flooded with humans. The bustle of the melee was chafing the patience of Dan and Hilary. They had foolishly chosen to venture to Iceland to purchase a last-minute turkey for the Christmas Day shindig, and were regretting their decision, considerably. Another human collided with Dan and he turned to Hilary. Thats it babe, Im out of here. Lets just open a tin of spam. Go on Dan, get off. I can see youre losing it. Ill get the turkey myself. I honestly dont mind, she lied. Are you sure? Thanks hun! He kissed her on the lips and hurried away before she changed her mind. He crossed Brixton Road to walk beside the railings of the central 297

reservation which split the two lanes of heaving traffic. Sanctuary, he thought. That was quick! Dan exclaimed. He had been in his house for twenty minutes when Hilary walked through the hallway with a single 5lb chicken. Thats all I could get babe, theyd all sold out. Yeah, I thought they might. Never mind, well just have to ration it and pile on a few extra potatoes. He returned to his newspaper then realised he had news to share. Oh yeahHil? Guess what? he shouted through to the kitchen, rising from the settee to share it face to face. What? she replied. I got Mikes phone number, he smiled. She frowned. Mike who? Mike Madigan of course, what other Mikes do I know? I bumped into one of Sams old mates down Acre Lane on the way home and she told me that shed moved to Shrewsbury. Shrewsbury? Wheres that? Thats what I thoughtits up in the Midlands apparently. Why there? Oh, I dont know. Anyway, I got my Sherlock head on and figured he would follow her, yknow, because of the kids and that. So I guessed he might go back to the cinema projection business, so I found out the cinemas in the town there was only three so I phoned them all and guess what, I found him! How weird is that? God, youve been busy. Ive only been away half an hour. So what are you going to do? I phoned him already. What? Youve spoken to him? How is he?

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No, there was no answer, and no answer-phone, so Im going to ring him later tonight wish him happy Christmas and see how he is. He wont be in tonight Dan, hell be out on the piss Its Christmas Eve. Dan was brimming with eager excitement at the prospect of speaking to his erstwhile friend. Yeah, probablyknowing him. But Ill try anyway. What do you fancy doing tonight? Oh, I dont know, but I know what I fancy now. She approached him slowly and grabbed his crotch. You! she whispered, sensually. He forgot about his friend as he kissed her and caressed a jutting breast. The constant thudding of the bass drum and the thrashing guitars were pulsating through Sues bedroom wall and she was becoming agitated by the intrusive drone. She turned to her friend as she finished painting the last of her toenails. Hes really starting to piss me off with that shit music booming through my walls its never usually that loud. I might go round there. Claire put down her mascara brush on the dressing table and replied, I know, it is a bit loud isnt it. What is it anyway? She concentrated for some moments to determine the identity of the band she enjoyed challenging herself with trivia. I know that! Its Nirvana, good choice mate. It may be a good choice Claire, but its really doing my head in. Im going round there. Mate, its not worth it, its ten past sevenwell be going out in twenty minutes. Think of all those pissed up guys buying us drinks tonight. Anyway, you dont know him do you? I mean, he might get funny Id leave it mate. She followed the advice of her friend and resisted the temptation. 299

It is loud though, Sue said in one final expression of indignation. Hello? Silence. Hello, Mike? Further silence. Mike, are you there? Its Dan mate. Dan received a barely audible reply. Eh? Mike its Dan, mate. How are you? Merry Christmas bud, what you up to? And turn that bleedin music down, I can hardly hear you.! Eh? Who? Dan? Yeah, its Dan long time no hear. How you keeping? What you been doing with yourself? Michael was lay prone on the carpet of his living-room. After picking up the receiver he had collapsed, but managed to scramble the receiver back to his ear. Took pills mate. Dan had to crane his ear as the voice of his friend was incredibly quiet. You what mate? I cant hear you properlysay again! Mike tried to raise himself on one elbow but failed miserably. He gave up and lay down again. He repeated the words a little louder. Took pills mate. Dan thought he recognised the words took pills mate. He was incredulous and thought he must have misunderstood the words. He waited for more but none came. Did you say you took pills? Mike? Mike? Answer me! Turn that fuckin music off! He answered feebly. Yeah. What? Eh? Yeah, he repeated, a little stronger. You stupid cunt! What pills? How many? Tell me for fucks sake! Mike felt a little more revived as he responded. Dno, fifteen? Twenty? Parrots-eat-em-all. 300

Youve taken what? Twenty paracetamol? And have you been drinking too? Mike, can you please turn that fuckin music off! He dropped the receiver and reached towards the CD/cassette player, pressing any button he could reach - the silence felt oddly reassuring. He regained his place on the floor as his head lay on the telephone receiver. He picked it up and said hello. Thank fuck, Dan said, thats better, now Mike, tell meyouve taken twenty paracetamol and have you been drinking as well? Hmm, bottle o whiskyalesnot feelin too good. Right, Mike, you fucker, you get yourself on your feetstart walking around Dont lie down and dont fall asleep! Can you hear me? You fucker! Hmm. Im going to phone 999 and get you some help. Give me your address, now! Where the fuck do you live? Mike grappled with the concept of living somewhere, as he thought he was still in his car. A modicum of reason regained a hold and he lifted his eyelids to form a picture of his surroundings. His whereabouts registered. ShixshteeniPalmer Close, Shooz..shooz..oozbree. Yeah I know youre in Shrewsbury did you say sixtynine? What road? Farmer Close? He was recapturing some form of consciousness and realised that he wantedand needed help. The voice of his friend had made him not want to die. He didnt want death now as he fought to fend it off. He managed to raise himself to his knees but had to support his weight with the settee. PalmerPalmer ClosePA Palmer Close? P? Palmer Close, Mike? Yeah. Right, sixty-nine Palmer Close, Shrewsbury. You do like I said, get yourself up walking around and dont the fuck you fall asleep. Im ringing an ambulance for you 301

now; itll be there in five minutes. You listening Mike? Do you understand? Yeah. Danelp me matedont wanna die. I am mate, you hang on in there and youll have help in five minutes. Hang on mate! Dont you fucking die on me! After Dan had telephoned for an ambulance for his friend, and now convinced they would contact their fellow Shropshire paramedics, he settled back on the sofa and poured himself a brandy. Hilary came prancing down the stairs in her celebratory outfit, accompanied by a similarly celebratory mood. What do you think? she questioned enthusiastically as she floated into the living-room. Danny was gazing blankly at the television screen, swirling his brandy subconsciously. Its A Wonderful Life was showing. Hilary felt deflated by his lack of attention. Dan? Hun? Whats wrong? What do you think? She regained some of her former verve, like a cat detecting attentiveness from a previously disinterested master. He raised his eyes. Oh yeah, thats really nice babe, he replied dispassionately. He was about to inform her of the events of the previous five minutes when she sarcastically replied, Well, thanks for your enthusiasm! Prick! she whispered as she turned through the door, the feeling of rejection fuelling her anger. He raised himself and followed her. Mikes taken an overdose, he told her. Her heaving anger subsided, and disappeared. Mike? You spoke to him then? Hes what? Hes taken an overdose? What do you mean? What do you mean what dyou mean? The-man-hastaken-an-overdose! She chose to ignore the patronising tones due to the sensitive nature of the news. Explain! she asked, and took his hand. He elaborated as she listened intently. 302

Ive got to go up there. Oh dont be so stupid Dan, its half-past seven on Christmas Eve! Youve done everything you can and, as you just said yourself, the ambulance will be with him now. What can you do? I know, youre right, he said resignedly, but hes my friend, Ive known him for years. Ive got to be with him. What if he dies? He started to well up but fought against the tears. She recognised it and held him tightly. He wont die. Dont think that. Hes probably exaggerating and only taken three or four, and hes crying out for help, she said reassuringly. He hugged her and worried anyway. Michael closed the door and put his bag on the bar in the kitchen. He sat down on the stool in his freezing flat and poured himself a whisky the minus two temperature failing to perturb him, he was perturbed enough already. The previous four pints of cider and substantial gulps of red wine he had poured down his throat had taken the edge off the depression he had suffered earlier. He was feeling surreal. He began to speak to himself. Fuckin bastard shitty-arse mother raper! He was thinking of Samantha. Look at the fucking state of me, sat here drinking whisky on me own, on Christmas Eve, in this fuckin freezin cold boxhalf-pissed already. What the fuck? Whats it all about? Thats what I keep askin meself! The last ten words were spoken with a Cockney accent, Michael Caine-esque. He downed his whisky and poured another as his thoughts wandered to previous Christmas Eves in happier times. He thought of last year. What was I doin this time last year? He looked at the cheap, plastic clock on the wall it was 4.22pm. Twenty-two minutes past four, twenty-fourth of December, nineteen-ninety-three? What the fuck was I doin then? He couldnt remember, the time was too 303

specific. He imagined what he probably was doing on the day and attributed the 4.22pm time to this. I know! I was down Brixton town in Boots buying a bottle of Samsara bog water for the wife the old boot! Fifteen quid that fucker cost mefifteen quid! And two months later she gives me the old boot the fucking old boot! He laughed out loud which accelerated a coughing fit after recuperating from the bout he lit a cigarette. Four more Bensons, one third of the whisky and an hour later he was fixed in precisely the same position as when he had first entered the flat. The only difference between then and now was the rapid depletion of his cigarettes and alcohol and Nirvana booming from the stereo. He studied the album cover in the cassette case and the swimming baby of the image reminded him of his once-baby children. This caused a sadness to return so he guzzled another shot of whisky he had abandoned the idea of pouring it and was now drinking directly from the bottle. He sparked a cigarette and thought of Kurt Cobain and his suicide earlier that year. Why did he do that, I wonder? He mustve been one fucked up lad he had everything; money, fame, a missus, hero statusand he goes and shoots his own face off? Its easy for those cunts out there; they can get themselves a gun and just end it, painlessly, in one secondgone! Us fuckers down here, bottom-feedin, have to use less certain ways like bloody pills or bridges to jump off we have to take the chance that we might survive but get bloody liver damage or end up in a wheelchair for the rest of our miserable lives. Oh well, never mind Nevermind Kurt lad, heres to ya! And he hoisted the Bells high into the air and enjoyed another gulp. He thought of other high profile deaths of the previous twelve months and continued his soliloquy. Who else popped off this year then? Roy bloody Castle! He was an unlucky fucker lung cancer and he 304

never even smoked a ciggie in his life! Jus goes to show all the best Roy lad! Whisky. Bill Hicks! Its always funny til some fucker gets hurt then its fuckin hilarious funny guy Billyboy! Whisky. Dicky Nix, the lyin bastard! Fancy a pardon? Pardon me Dicky lad! Whisky. He became bored with the game and straggled himself the short distance to the bathroom. He steadied himself with his left hand on the wall as he aimed into the bowl unsuccessfully as the first spurt of urine landed on the wall behind. He returned to his throne, instantly rising as he thought of one specific track he must find amongst his collection. He rummaged hysterically through the carrier bag of cassette tapes. Where is it? I know Ive still got it I must have! He grabbed clumps of tapes and, after studying them, hurled them aside with disillusioned abhorrence, continuing the hunt. He flicked through, what would have been the penultimate cluster, becoming frantic. Aha! I knew you were in there, you little tapey freak! The picture of the young boy in the woolly hat, smoking a clay pipe, caused a smile. He checked the track listing, absurdly suspecting that the track may have been taken from him. It hadnt. Frankies Flipped. He sighed with relief as he ejected Nirvana, and placed the compilation cassette into the player. It took him four minutes to locate the beginning of the track; he pressed play, staggered back to his throne, gulped a shot and listened with amplified anticipation. This ones for all the manic depressives out thereits called Frankies flipped - At fivefifty four on the fourteenth of February, Frankie Finbar finally found the fervour to further fuel his fatalistic fantasy. The first effort had failed. The fourth was flawed. The fifth would fail to fail. Frankie had 305

figured to film the forthcoming feat and had fabricated his photographic fittings. He fixed his befuddled faculties on his fateful fate. The only fleapit of a flat he could afford was filled with festering filth; fifty vacant flagons of Firkins finest filled the floor, fifteen full remained. Frankie filled his fat face with further quaffs and flippantly flipped through the fabric of his physical vicinity forsaken frozen food fare, fag ends and foetid faeces. Fledgling flies had formed from the silverfish, the fully formed now fervently flying from feast to feast. Frankie farted and fingered his fatty foreskin; further fumes to fascinate the furious foragers. He had formed his friendships, fulfilled his fetishes, fisted and filled his fannies through his feeble philandering and fathered his family, but now had fought a fight too far fate now frantically buffeting. He fell further into the folds of his flea-ridden fixture of forty winks. The familiar feel of the firearm felt fulfilling in his fingers. The phone rang, Fuck em! he fumed, feigned a fond farewell and felt no fear as he fired. And at five-fifty five, this former fine fellow Frankie Finbar finally fellfractiously sad one that, sad one! True story! Michaels eyes were streaming from overwhelming hilarity as the poem finished; a dirge began as the next track played and he jumped from his stool to end it, replacing the cassette with the angst-ridden voice of Cobain. He resettled himself and thought about the creator of the poem and who he was. Where was he? Why wasnt he famous? 306

Was he still alive? Would the great Bard of Salford, John Cooper Clarke have enjoyed the ditty? He took another gulp of whisky and imagined himself to be Frankie Finbar. And deliberated. Christmas fuckin Eve, he sighed, and then the moment he had dreaded but knew for certain would happen happened. He thought back to Christmas Eve fourteen years ago; pre-Samantha, pre-kids, precomplications and pre-misery. Helen, his first wife materialised in his aching head, and the Christmas Eve of their first meeting. Tears accumulated in his eyeballs again this time they were not tears of hilarity, they were tears of morose despondency - and he struggled to contest them. Get the fuck back in, you watery little cunts! he cursed. But they didnt; they proceeded to meander down his face like raindrops on a window and Michael Madigan began to bawl. After recovering a soupcon of composure he rubbed his puffy, red eyes and drank more whisky. OH GOD! Where are you now my love? God, I loved you so muchI adored you. We was gonna be together til death. I thought we would grow old together and die at the same time. I remember the words so well, Dont never leave me! I would say; I could never leave you, you would say. And even if I said it to you, dont believe me because I could never leave you I love you so much, you would say. We wouldve been so happy babe I wouldve been happy; I wouldve been normal. Why couldnt everything just be alright? Thats all I ever wantedjust everything to be alright. Whisky. He thought back to the first meeting between them and that all-consuming feeling he had after only one hour with her; and feeling a little silly about the emotion that he could truly fall head over heels for thisstranger. And the Boxing Day when they had rendezvoused, it was like they knew each other so well; they had walked down the street 307

hand in hand and he knew then that he never wanted to be apart from her. Her very presence filled him with a colossal joy and passionate contentment which he had never felt before - only ever feeling it again towards his two children; but never had he had that feeling since with another female, and he knew indisputably that he never would. Ohhhhhh.why, why, why? Why didgu have to go fuck that greasy lookin twat? And in a fuckin pub bog? The hideous image manifested itself and he cried more. He pined so much for her that his very soul felt like it was rupturing. As the tears streamed he went to the bathroom. He took his disposable razor from the sink, returned to the kitchen, pulled a fork from the drawer and prized the blade free from its plastic casing. He threw his coat on the floor and sat down, rolled up the left sleeve of his sweater and rested his bare arm on the surface of the bar. He felt no pain as the flesh parted and the red liquid oozed and rivuletted onto the Formica surface. The circular section of the D he etched into his forearm was difficult to complete in one sweeping movement; he stopped halfway into the arc and rejoined the point to spell the letter. The second letter was easier, one swift, deep slice straight across his arm as he spelt the letter I. This letter caused a larger amount of blood to flow and it formed a small pool on the bar surface. The final letter was simple too, one vertical cut with three horizontal, creating an even larger pool of claret. DIE! he howled. He was unsure as to whom this exclamation was directed; Helen? Samantha? The greasylooking twat? Samanthas teenage lovers? Himself? Or perhaps all of them. As the blood exuded freely from the wounds he grabbed a tea towel to stem the flow and held it tightly to his arm. He did this, not as a clumsy attempt at first aid, but merely to soak up the blood in order to read the word DIE which hed etched into his forearm. He lifted the cloth after half a 308

minute but was unable to read his work as the arm was a large smeared blotch of red. The wounds began to spew claret again as he replaced the towel and held it firm for a longer period he would examine it again after a few minutes. He thought back to the previous incidents of selfmutilation and when he had sliced his arms in his teenage years; all occasions had been preceded by a traumatic event which his under-developed mentality had been unable to cope with. He refused to entertain these thoughts as his malformed brain was already replete with horrific images. He took another gulp from the whisky bottle, panicked at the dearth of liquid inside it and lit a cigarette. The self-mutilation had diminished his depression slightly and he actually felt invigorated by it; as if the release of the life fluid had caused a miniscule release of misery. Mikey! Thats the mother of all cuts, you weird fucker! Thats gonna smart in the morningand think of the scars youll get from it youre gonna look like Iggy Pop, you twat. What morning? Who gives a shite about the scars? Who says Im gonna see the mornin? Fuck off, you interferin piece of mind. Tonight is when me and you go our separate ways. You enjoy Christmas day cuz Im off! What dyou mean Mikey, youre offoff where? Me and you can never be apart were conjoined, like these babies you see with their heads stuck togethernever to be partedbecause if we do, we die. Were not gonna die are we MikeyMikey? He declined to answer himself as he lifted the cloth from his arm for a second inspection of his gruesome work. The blood had dried a little although the letter-wounds were seeping in sporadic places. He dampened the tea-towel from the tap in the sink and gently and purposely wiped away the dried blood, careful not to impinge on to the red lines which would instigate another spell of bloodweep. He 309

perused his artwork appreciatively, feeling fractionally impressed. He threw the blood-soaked cloth onto the pedal bin and took a fresh one from the drawer. He wrapped it around the mutilated forearm and fastened it tightly with Sellotape. And now for my next trick! He feigned a magicians gesture and snatched a bottle of paracetamol from the cupboard above his head, put down the bottle on the bar and drank more whisky this was his third attempt at suicide in his life. Three strikes and youre out son! he called. Now, ladies and gentlemen, if its good enough for Ken Barlow its good enough for Mikey Madigan. Bottle open please maestro! He removed the lid (with some difficulty) from the bottle of pills and emptied its contents onto the surface a couple finding their way into the pools of blood. He thought back to the episode of Coronation Street which he had watched back in the days of a thousand years ago as hed lay on the sofa with Samantha in happier times. He created a circle with the fourteen pills that remained and revisited his death game of earlier. He took the first pill from the circle. For Kurt Cobain! He dropped it into his mouth and washed it down with whisky. Aaargh! he expressed, in insane satisfaction his mind had gone. He took a second pill, For Roy Castle! and repeated the exercise. Third pill, For Cab Calloway! Whisky. Fourth pill, For Telly Savalas, the baldy fucker! Whisky. Fifth pill, For erBill Hicks! Whisky. Sixth pill, Foroh yeahCharlie Bukowski, good work son! Whisky. Seventh pill, For Dicky Nix! Whisky. At this stage in proceedings he paused and studied the remaining semicircle of white tablets. He stared at the dregs of whisky and worried whether he had enough liquid to wash down the 310

remainder of the magnificent seven. He was beginning to feel slightly queasy as he returned to his suicide attempt. Eighth pill, Forwhats that bloke who snuffed it a few days ago? Some Yankee secretary of state lad, I think for that Yankee some secretary of state lad! Whisky. His alcohol was now dangerously whittling away and he still had six more tablets to dispose of it concerned him. Smaller swigs required! he blurted, to the wall. Ninth pill, Foroh yeahgood ol whats-her-name Annie! Annie with the smelly fannyDoris Speed! Godspeed Doris love! Whisky. He was starting to struggle for more deaths of the year, whilst losing some control over his body. He forced himself off the stool and staggered back against the kitchen sink attempting to keep his balance and prevent tumbling to the floor. He succeeded. He lurched forward, grabbed the remaining pills and forced them into his mouth, For Frankie Fuckin Finbar! He wobbled into the living-room (for what reason, he did not know) as he chewed the pills, but couldnt support his pathetic frame any longer, and disintegrated into a drunken, pill-induced heap of slumber. The telephone rangonce, twicefive, sixeight times. Michaels head was two feet away from it on the living-room carpet and it revived him a little, to a semiconscious state. He reached across and lifted the receiver but failed to raise it to his ear. Hello? Silence. Hello, Mike? the receiver said, tinnily. He mustered up the will to lift it to his ear. Mike? Are you there? Its Dan, mate. Eh? Mike its Dan, mate. How are you? Merry Christmas bud, what you up to? And turn that bleedin music down, I can hardly hear you.! Eh? Who? Dan? Yeah, its Dan long time no hear. How you keeping? What you been doing with yourself? 311

Took pills mate. Samantha sipped a glass of Frascati in the kitchen of her sisters house. The short trip from Shrewsbury had been quite stressful. The children had been playing up on the back seat of Brians Peugeot 309 they had not wanted to go. Although they were happy to leave their tiny tworoomed home and Chester Badcock, they longed to be with their father at Christmas and they wanted his presents. Their spirits had lifted considerably after ten minutes at Auntie Leannes. The gigantic Christmas tree was ostensibly decorated. The life-size Father Christmas, with his huge gut and black-rimmed glasses halfway down his red nose had filled them with childish Christmas cheer, and their two cousins had injected them with Christmas zeal Sam took another sip of her own adult Christmas cheer. She suddenly and inexplicably felt a strong urge to call her husband and felt a wave of guilt, which she suppressed. I havent done anything wrong. She repeated the words in her head over and over again. Come on sis! Its Christmas Eve, lets party! Leanne enthused. She recognised the pensive countenance of her sister and laid a sympathetic hand on her arm. Hes fine sis. Who? Mike. Youre thinking about him arent you? I can tell stop it, hes fine. Sam smiled at her sister. Yeah, youre right, sorry. Its just that Im feeling a bit guiltyyknow, taking the kids away at Christmas and with him on his own in that tiny flat. She took another sip of wine. Yeah, well stop ityou havent done anything wrong. Anyway, whats he gonna do? Kill himself? Hell just go out on the piss, get drunk and crash out. Leanne refilled her sisters glass. 312

Yeah, youre right again. Come on then, she said, reinvigorated and reassured, lets get ready. Yes lets, replied Leanne, Brian doesnt mind babysitting, hes a treasure. Old, fat, ginger and bald but hes amazing. The sisters laughed simultaneously and left the kitchen to paint their faces.

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24
its only just begun

Christmas Day had not delivered the anticipated flurry

of snow. It had provided a thin, sugary layer of frost which gave the streets a Christmas card appearance which people longed for. The pale sunshine added to the ambience of Christmas happiness. And who am I talking to? Davehi. Hi Dave! A very merry Christmas! What are your plans for this festive day? Michael was festering underneath his stale, coverless duvet suffering the worst hangover of his turgid year. He didnt wish to listen to the flaky, Christmas inanities of the local radio phone-in, but the freezing temperature and his exhausted bones caused him to remain still and refrain from switching off the jocundity. Well Lee, Im just about to cook a big fry-up for the family. The kids have been up since half-past five; theyre playing with their toys in the living-room and the wife is just pouring us both a Bucks Fizz. 314

And whats your wifes name Dave? the goodhumoured disc jockey asked. Carol. Well Dave, I hope you and Carol have a great Christmas Day today and enjoy the turkeyand whats the kids names? Sarah and Anthony. Mike thought of his own daughter Sarah and buried his head deeper into the malodorous duvet. Okay, cheers Dave, and look after each other! So, theres Dave and Carol enjoying a great family Christmas morning down there in sunny Sundorne. Youre listening to Lee Sheepshanks with the Christmas breakfast show on Beacon FM, its eight fifteenwhos on line three? Mike turtled his head from the quilt. Yeah, cheers Dave, he said sarcastically and bitterly, Enjoy it while you got it son, cuz next Christmas she may be drinkin the jiz of some other fucker and youll be openin a tin of corned beef for your Christmas dinner. An overwhelming sense of jealousy engulfed him as he thought of the happy family and foetussed his ramshackle body. Aaagh, I want that! Mom! Sarahs got that! I want that! Samanthas head hurt as she put on a brave face and approached the discarded wrapping paper and packaging that littered the living-room rug. Well, youve still got more presents to unwrap son, and its your birthday on Thursday so youll have more then, so you might get one of them. Whats this one? She picked up one of his unwrapped gifts and handed it to her boy. And we still got dads presents yet Jon. Sarah offered enthusiastically, temporarily shelving her own enjoyment. Jonathans fabricated grimace instantly transformed to a beaming grin as he snatched the gift from his mother. She smiled at her altruistic daughter and kissed her hair. Can we ring dad later mum? Sarah pleaded. 315

Of course darling, she replied as she returned to her paracetamol. Mike cursed the ringing of the telephone in the livingroom but thought he should answer it it may be his children. He stretched his legs, unfurling himself from his foetal position, dragged himself from his bed and steadied himself as he put on his dressing-gown. He rubbed his head and slid the door open. He entered the living-room. Hello? Mike, youre still with us. Thank fuck! What are you doing shit like that for? Oh, hi Danyeah sorry to put you through that. And thanks for ringing the ambulance, but I was more pissed than anything. Id only taken two or three. He doesnt need to know the truth nobody does. Well dont do anything like that again, you silly motherfucker! Whats wrong anyway? What happened yesterday? He explained how he was just suffering a weak moment due to his children going away and there really wasnt any need to worry. How the paramedics had arrived fifteen minutes after Dans telephone call. How he had astoundingly gathered himself after their conversation, convincing them that there had been a misunderstanding (remembering to wear a sweater to cover the evidence of his maladjusted flesh-splitting exploit) and how he had been violently ill when they had disappeared. They talked for over half an hour and caught up on old times. They promised to keep in touch and Mike felt good to know he still had a true friend. He made himself a sugary coffee and convinced himself that he was still alive for a reason, so he would live his life. The guilt and stupendous shame he felt for the attempted suicide was overbearing but he tried to place it aside. He took a sip of his coffee and ran to the bathroom to vomit. After switching on the heating (for the first time in two 316

days) he took a shower, masturbated in it and devised a plan on how to get through Christmas Day and Boxing Day. Alcohol would evidently play a major role, but he would ensure it would be a steady intake as opposed to a substantial binge like the day and night before. He didnt want to feel like this tomorrow and the beer fears would be worse. He dressed and decided to conduct a hopeful search for an open shop which sold alcohol. The hunt ultimately proved a success although the two mile round trip and the weight of his haul had afforded his weak body excessive hardship. He entered the flat with his medicine and put the sixteen cans of Stella Artois into the fridge, to accompany the three bananas, half-pint of milk and the opened pack of curled-at-the-edge, solidified bacon. He absolutely refused to watch any programmes on television as the incessant barrage of Christmas music and Christmas films would remind him that it was Christmas. He wanted to be bilked into feeling that it wasnt Christmas so he chose five videos to watch throughout the day and night and settled on the settee, he would only move to make sporadic journeys to the fridge and the bathroomor (hopefully) to answer the telephone to speak to his children. He elected Reservoir Dogs as the first show of the day. After Pulp Fiction, Raging Bull, five Stellas, eleven Marlboros, a phone call from the children (which exacerbated the guilt he felt for the suicide attempt but also heartened him) and his Christmas dinner which constituted a tin of tuna for starters, a bacon sandwich for the main course and a banana for dessert, it was almost 7pm and the approaching end of the day elated him. He opened the fridge for Stella number six, lit Marlboro number twelve and slotted video number four into the needy letterbox of the machine. This would see him through to 9pm.

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He had been looking forward to his return to work after his alcohol-fuelled, self-imposed three-day exile from society and his suicide attempt. It was necessary to integrate with humans again. It was a Tuesday, the day after Boxing Day, and the only occasion he had left his flat in three days was to ferret the streets for alcohol. As he walked through The Square to the cinema he was weary but felt enlightened and somewhat rejuvenated. He entered the building and approached the box office hoping Emma was working. They had developed an amicable relationship in the two months since he had started his employ (the others still retained their suspicions, especially Lorraine) and, despite her original taciturnity towards him, she had found herself feeling more attraction towards him she thought he had a quirky, glowering originality. Mike had an uncertain suspicion that she may have felt a degree of appeal for him but dared not hope for it. Why would anybody fancy him now? Mikey, Merry Christmas! Emma yelled. She opened the side door of the box office to volunteer a festive kiss on the cheek and he accepted gratefully. She smelled the alcohol on his skin, which was seeping through his pores and felt a little sick. She closed the door and returned to her seat. Hiya Em! he replied zealously. Hi Lorraine! he shouted, greeting her colleague with a disingenuous conviction. She forced a smile in response, said nothing and returned to her duties. So, did you have a good Christmas? Emma asked him. It was alright, he lied, Im glad to be off the beer for a few days now though it almost killed me! he truthed. Yeah, she replied, I could smell it on you, completely unaware of the veracity of his statement. Really? he asked, feeling self-conscious. Well, Im off it now. Im gonna allow meself a bottle of Asti Spew on 318

New Years Eve and that will be it for this year. And 1995 is gonna be my year. Lorraines grimace went unseen. So are you not going out on New Years Eve then? Emma asked him, a little disillusioned. No. Im gonna ask Magnus if I can work it. Im not really in much of a mood to socialize. Ive not seen the kids, see. Shes took them away until after New Year. Oh no! Emma said sympathetically. Thats a bit unfair isnt it? Well, I got to accept it I spose. What ya gonna do? He splayed his arms in a New York, Italian gesture. Anyway Em, seeing as you live so close to me, you could always call in for a cup of char...if youre passing. Lorraine felt like retching. Emma felt a tiny flutter of excitement and speculated whether he was being flirtatious, she reddened slightly. He noticed and also felt a minor embarrassment, and reprimanded himself. Stupid fuck! Dont show your cards, keep them under the table stay mysterious Mikey boy! Stay aloof! A loof? Whats one of them? Yeah could do, maybe. I could always pop round for a cup of sugar! she joked. It was his turn to feel excited, as he pictured them against the living-room wall, ripping each others clothes off with lustful vigour. An awkward silence ensued for a moment until he broke it. Well yknow where I am number sixty-nine, Palmer Close. Just in case ya dont know! I got loads. Emma looked confused. Loads of what? Sugar! he replied nonchalantly and picked his keys off the counter, sauntering away to the projection room. Lorraine turned to Emma and put two fingers in her mouth to feign vomiting.

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Each seat in the hundred-seater cinema was empty. Nine Months had been running for almost fifteen minutes when Michael, gazing dejectedly through the window of the projection box into the auditorium below, saw a door opening. Hoo-fucking-rah! he mouthed. A filmgoer! He then recognised the portly shape as, not a filmgoer, but Magnus Ferguson, his boss. Oh fuck, what does he want? he said and moved his face away from the window. The two had enjoyed a frosty, civil working relationship since their disagreement but Mike still disliked him intensely. He heard the stairs creaking under the weight of Magnus and he turned to face him. Well Mike, its not looking good is it? A bit sparse in there, he replied with a hint of sardony and indignation. Well, weve taken no bookings for it and it doesnt look like anyone is interested in watching this tonight, so I think you may as well pack up go and enjoy New Years Eve. Mike was uncertain whether he was disappointed or relieved. It was not his intention to go out and celebrate (notwithstanding the invitations from Kevin and Emma) and hed figured that he would have been leaving work at 10.30pm, not 8.30pm as it was now. But the boredom was unbearable and any film that featured Hugh Grant (or Huge Grunt as Mike called him) deserved to be switched off prematurely. Okay, youre the gaffer. Ill wind up proceedings, cheers. Now what the fuck am I gonna do? I refoose to go out and revel so, fuck it, Ill go home and sleep. After the twenty-five minute amble back to his flat trying to ignore the chill in his iced toes he would uncork his bottle of Asti Spumante (solely to be sociable to himself), drink it quickly and retire, in time to escape the 320

midnight celebrations hopefully asleep, unable to hear the explosions of fireworks. It took forty minutes to empty his bottle of sweet bubbly (listening to Elvis Presley whilst sat at the bar in the kitchen) and at 9.50 pm he opted to turn in. The alcohol had inoculated him with a shot of warmth and he felt merry as he entered the bathroom to brush his teeth. After emptying his bladder he entered the bedroom and undressed. As he closed his bedroom door and switched off the light he said goodbye and good riddance to the ludicrously darkest year of his entire life, wholly confident and even insisting that 1995 would occasion lighter fortunes he would guarantee so. He lay down, closed his eyes and decided that next year he would indulge his body in radical promiscuity his attitude to the female of the species having been somewhat tainted in the previous twelve months. Stayin alive in ninety-five!! he shouted, and within minutes he was dreaming of nubile flesh.

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25
little green boy

When a human being sinks to its lowest depths there

are two avenues of escape one could either perish in the darkness and decompose like the green flesh of a battlefield corpse or stand tall and ascend towards the inspiring lustre of sunlit skies. Michael Madigan had attempted the first option, but for a reason he would never know, it hadnt happened for him he had failed. He was accustomed to failure but, conversely, this particular failure had been a success. He had faced the gaping maw of Hell and now he was climbing. The first two months of the New Year had brought him renewed vigour. He was still working at the cinema, doing just two shifts per week and he had also gained a full-time position elsewhere. It was only temporary for six months but the extra money he was earning and the responsibility and routine of actually hoisting himself from his bed each morning had imposed a structure back into his life. Admittedly, the position he held (warehouse operative at Tesco the Tesco where he had originally lived) was far 322

from fulfilling and he did have to endure the company of countless dullards and life-forms unlike himself but it had delivered a true sense of reality and shape back into his wrecked life. The similarity between his resurgence in society and the previous occasion when he had left his home town to live in London, where he was also desperate for direction, was astounding. But he had managed to pull himself off the floor and rise from the pitagain. He was succeeding with his New Year resolution to be promiscuous. He had set himself a target of twelve conquests in twelve months and was, at present, one ahead of schedule. He had bedded three women since the turn of the year and had felt no emotion towards them he refused. If he had warning of the tiniest potential feeling for any female, he would resist it and remove himself from their company as much as possible. He would disallow himself from enduring the heartache and anguish of separation again. He was an island, emotionally frozen, and he liked it that way. It made him feel strong and in control. Emma had been one of the three but they no longer spoke to each other, despite the fact that they both worked in the same building. They had grown closer throughout the month of January from the time when she had actually knocked on his door with an empty cup, asking for sugar. He had said he had none but he did have a bottle of white chilling in the fridge, would she care for a glass? She agreed, and they opened a second bottle which they had finished in the bath together. They had slept together on three occasions since and Mike was sensing a boyfriend/girlfriend scenario developing. He extinguished it like a candle by telling her that they should not sleep together again, and offered no explanation. She was shocked and hurt and had refused to speak to him from that moment unless it was absolutely unavoidable at work. He had demonstrated uncharacteristic rigidity and a self323

survival instinct. He missed her company and he missed her sex but he was safe again and that was his only priority. However, this renovated existence of his brought with it inevitable dilemmas. His ex-wife (he had received his decree absolute in January, which he had kissed, framed and hung above his bed) had been showing signs (before Christmas) of unreliability regarding arrangements with the children. She would often telephone him at short notice to alter the collection or return times for the children. She would sometimes tell him to collect them from her friends house. She had even been absent when hed arrived at her hostel doorstep. He would predominantly disregard these events and refuse to confront her about them, but since he had rediscovered himself these occurrences had escalated and was beginning to invoke a skulking annoyance in him. He didnt enjoy being annoyed, as more often than not it would evolve into a dramatic conclusion. He was trying to find a balance between the responsibilities he had to his children and living his own life, but the imbroglio was becoming increasingly difficult to abide. As he walked up the slope to her front door he was dreading another of these disarrangements. He rapped on the door with his boot and lit a cigarette. He heard Samanthas voice from behind the window and it sounded a little panicked as it wavered. Ill get it Ches! it said. She was in the bathroom, cleaning herself up after having just brought herself to orgasm (over the years she had learnt to bring herself to orgasm within one minute). She and Chester had just finished having sex and as usual she had not come. Chester had within the obligatory four minute period and she had enjoyed it, but she had never had experienced an orgasm with him. 324

She had, in fact, climaxed during the sex act on a mere four occasions in her life, three times with Michael (one of the occasions was three months earlier in his flat, the other two were aided by her own clitoral stimulation) and the one of three infidelities shed had whilst with Michael, the only one that he knew about, and the one which had caused their separation. One that he didnt know about occurred on the night of the very first orgasm of her life. It happened just six years earlier she was twenty-two. She and a hippy friend had just watched The Pixies on stage at Glastonbury and had gone for a necessary lie-down in their tent. They were both drunk and half-stoned, having just shared a reefer. This was their conversation: When was your first orgasm? Rachel asked. Sam didnt like to talk about the subject as she felt a little embarrassed about the uncertainty she had whether she actually had experienced one, but the alcohol and drugs discharged this embarrassment. I think it was when I was about sixteen, she replied. Rachel raised her head. What dyou mean you think? Dont you know? Well yeahsort of, Sam said unsurely. Rachel now sat upright. Oh Sam, believe me, theres no sort of about it. When youve had one, you know! Well, it was nice, responded Sam. Sam, it wouldnt just be nice, it would be explosive! I dont think youve had one yknow. Sam thought she was probably right. The girls had known each other since before Mike had appeared on the scene four years earlier, and they felt very comfortable together. Yeah maybe youre right. And she moved to turn her back and was about to say goodnight when Rachel uttered. 325

Why dont you have one tonight? Sam was shocked but felt an uncontrollable anticipation. How do you mean? she asked. Ill help you, Rachel replied, feeling somewhat excited too. Ill help you have your first orgasmic experience. They were both feeling oozy from their alcohol/drug intake and Samantha was astonished to hear herself say, Come on then. Rachel had had one lesbian experience in her life and had found it to be exhilarating she thought that most females had probably dabbled in one way or another, at one stage in their lives. Show me what you normally do, Rachel said. Sam felt silly and shy but unzipped her skirt anyhow. She licked her index and middle fingers and began to slide the moistened digits down her panties. Rachel slid closer to her and kissed her on the lips it was unlike any other kiss that Sam had experienced; it felt fresh and unique, somehow cosmic, she thought. She felt her friends hand snake down her torso and begin to remove the panties; Sam helped her by raising her back from the tent floor and she stopped gyrating her fingers. No, Rachel said, dont stop. Show me. Sam resumed the vigorous circular movements of her fingers. Slowly, Rachel whispered, start slowly, like this. She removed Sams hand and replaced it with her own. Her vagina felt too dry so she sucked her own fingers and commenced a slow, rhythmic and soft circular motion on Samanthas clitoris. After a few seconds she asked, How does that feel? Oh yeah! Sam replied, her head laying back on the pillow. Much better, dont stop! She didnt. She moved her face towards Sams throbbing vagina, pushed up her legs so her feet were flat on the floor and pulled her knees gently apart. She continued to stimulate her swollen clitoris with a wet thumb before replacing the thumb with her tongue. 326

Sam exhaled in unmistakable pleasure as Rachels smooth, wet tongue lapped at her clitoris the movements of it remained slow as she alternated it from the clitoris to inside her, now flooded, vagina. Sams breathing was becoming louder and faster; she had never experienced such intense, sexual pleasure in all of her life. Dont stop! she repeated. Rachels tongue speed increased slightly, lapping up in ice-cream fashion and it was causing wetness in her own vagina, but this was for her friend. She paused to suck her index and middle finger and gently inserted them into Sams sopping, welcoming sleeve and continued to stimulate her clitoris with her tongue. Sam responded with an OHMYGOD!! Rachels pumping fingers remained slow, yet constant. Shes close, she thought. Sam was biting her arm to prevent herself from crying out, the bliss was overwhelming. Her head rolled from one side to the other as she expelled the words through her bitten arm, Im gonna come! Im gonna come! Oh my God! Her panting was now erotically intense as she pulled the pillow from underneath her head to muffle the sounds. Rachels stimulating had increased in velocity and her little finger entered Sams anus, ever so slightly. She heard a muffled jumble of screams, grunts and wholly unintelligible noises emanating from Sams pillow-covered face as incomprehensible spasms of insane ecstasy swept over her like an ocean wave, and she experienced her first ever orgasm. The tingling sensation that Sam had felt after the orgasm had not subsided for twenty minutes as she simply lay there, motionless; legs still apart and staring intently at the roof of the tent. It had frozen her. It had curled her toes. And the pleasure that she never realised was possible to feel had sent her to heaven. As she turned slightly to face Rachel, face reddened and glistening from the perspiration, Rachel said to her, Now thats an orgasm! 327

She had wanted to experience another by her own hand the following morning, but both girls were not as candid as the previous evening and they acknowledged the activity with a solitary comment and a smile. She did, however, come close to enjoying another climax later that night, with her first unfaithful (male) encounter whilst in her relationship with Michael. And now, as she sat on the toilet waiting for the semen to trickle out of her, she was an expert. She could reach her orgasm (from a cold start) in sixty seconds or less. She still failed to climax through penetrative sex but she could always finish it off herself if she wished, as she had just done so on the bed, while Chester had spent forty seconds in the bathroom, wiping his flaccid, jism-dripping member. Chez? Who the fuck is Chez? I knew it! I knew she had a fuckin bloke on the go! Fuck it Mikey, its her life, leave it. He knew that he wanted to leave it but could he? She opened the door, in the same manner as usual, revealing the tiniest gap possible and pushing her head through it. Mike diverted his gaze from her face instantly and could just make out the oversized T-shirt she was wearing; it reached down to her knees and was evidently not her own. He tried to decipher the lettering on the front of the T-shirt; he decided that it read TOUCH HERE! and had an arrow pointing downwards. It perturbed him that she was wearing another mans garment and he wished she was wearing the one (her own) which he had seen before which read, SOME WILL, SOME WONTI MIGHT! despite the disquiet which that also caused him. Oh hiya, she said, did you not get my message? No. What message? I was round your way yesterday and I put a note through your door saying to pick them up from Kyms. Didnt you get it? He sighed. 328

Sam, there was no note I didnt get any note. Why didnt you just phone me? He knew she was lying. Yeah I did, but there was no answer. You should get an answer-phone. She was trying to deflect attention from the imaginary note. He despaired and was beginning to lose patience. He tried to regain inner calm. So, he sighed, the kids are at your matesagain. So Ive now got to walk another twenty minutes to go down thereagain! Sorry, she replied insincerely. Sam, he said calmly, when are you gonna stop doin this? Doing what? she asked innocently. You know whatthis! Breaking arrangements all the time, fucking me about basically. She thought for a second but refused to acknowledge the truth as her stubbornness and immaturity shone through. What do you mean, breaking arrangements? I just told you I left a note. How is that breaking arrangements? she grimaced and he thought how ugly she looked at that point. There was no fucking note, he said, a little louder than intended. He heard a movement from inside the hostel room. Everything alright babe? Mikes anger soared like a hot thermometer as Sams stomach sank like a cold stone. They both knew. They both realised that theyd been here before. Mike was the first to respond, he desired confrontation. Everythings fineCHEZ! He spat the name out with sarcastic venom. Dont Mike, pleasenot again. She tried to close the door to prevent a repeat of a previous harrowing incident before Chesters hand stopped it, as he appeared behind his girlfriend, hairlessly bare-chested. Ive seen more meat on a butchers pencil kid! 329

Oh, hello son, Mike said, you must be Chez? Can I call you Chessington? Chesters teenage face appeared confused and the only repartee he could think of was, Are you takin the piss? Sam interjected. Thats it, she said, Mike, go and get the kids, Im going in. Come on. The second demand was directed to her boyfriend as she patted his thigh. Ill come on when I want to. Get in! Michael observed his ex-wifes face and thought he recognised fear. Was she scared of her boyfriend? Or was she scared of the situation? He opted to push the boy a little further. Oh, okay, Ill come in if I must, he said sarcastically, but only if youve got jam doughnuts and herbal infusions, okay? Sam, put the kettle on love. Chesters features contorted as he continued to stand behind his girlfriend. You are takin the piss, arent you mate? he said to Mike. No,no,no,noyes! I like it. Do youMister Zoo? At this point Chester Badcock appeared to make an attempt to squeeze past Samantha in an effort to reach Michael. Sam spread out her arms to prevent him there was no need as Chester had no intention of reaching him. Come on then fucker! Mike blurted in angry reaction to Chesters apparent threat. As Mike gestured to push the door fully open the two lovers slammed it shut in unison. Mike kicked it and shouted cunt. He waited two minutes before hammering on the frosted glass of the bathroom with a clenched hand. He listened to the silence, kicked a binliner full of rubbish into the air and left. Chester sat on the bed, smoking. Five minutes had passed but his heart was pounding with twice as many beats per minute as usual. He had been frightened but wouldnt allow his girlfriend to know that.

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Hes the cunt! And a lucky cunt too! If youd let me past She knew his effort to reach Mike on the doorstep was a feeble one but she humoured him. I know Ches. Come on, lets just forget about it. Were going out tonight, she said reassuringly, as she placed the palm of her hand on his cheek. He lifted it off angrily and rose from the bed. Im going for a pint, he tantrummed. He put on his shirt and coat, silently prayed that Michael was not loitering outside and slammed the door behind him. Samantha fell back on the bed and gazed at the paint peeling off the dirty, yellow ceiling. She cried. Why did she love him? He was just a boy, but perhaps that was the reason. She reflected on her previous love Michael Madigan. The anniversary of their split had passed a few days ago, the anniversary of the night she had confessed to the affair and the night he too had admitted his infidelity. How could he? And in her own bed! How could a man be so callous and nasty? Was it her fault? She had suspected that something was amiss at the time of his affair. Hed been going out with his friends from work much more than usual. Hed been staying out longer and she was sure that he had smelt differently as he dropped his clothes onto the bedroom floor and clambered over her before creeping under the duvet falling asleep immediately and snoring as he faced the wall. She had tried to glean as much information from him as possible. Who was she? How many times had they had sex? And in our bed? Was she better at it than me? How long had they been fucking? How old was she? Was she pretty? Prettier than me? Did they talk about me? In bed? Did Sarah see her? Did they love each other? After their split Michael had admitted that the affair with Michele was fictional but had confessed to a transgression earlier in their relationship. He had allotted her titbits of information, clearly uncomfortable and 331

embarrassed by the barrage of questions. Her name was Dina. She worked at the Ritzy. It was just a bit of fun it didnt mean anything. It only lasted a couple of months. It was years ago. It doesnt matter, were not together any more. The picture of her husbands tongue, penis, fingers stained with the bad-juice of that trollope had ripped her apart and the fact that he had used these body parts (albeit unsparingly) on herself during the same two month period had forced her to vomit violently. But what was worse than the knowledge, the facts that she did know, were the facts that she didnt know the missing parts of the whole sordid business. The information which he kept to himself, the gaps that she filled in herself. Their closeness. Their friendship. Their romance. Everything that she had wanted from a husband but never received from him. Their pleached fingers as they fed the ducks in the park. The light, sensual back tickles he gave her in our bed. The jokes and the laughter they shared. Chasing each other lovingly down the street and him catching her and sharing passionate, public kisses. The intimacy between them which she had invented had riddled her and, for many weeks after, she had thought that she may implode into perforated madness. After the disclosure, she was approaching her house in a taxi and had noticed a dark shape on the shaded doorstep (it was past midnight) and she knew it was him instantly. She had paid the taxi driver and without a solitary glance at the man on the doorstep, had inserted the key in the lock and entered, leaving the door ajar. After two minutes she had said, You coming in then? and Mike had sheepishly and childishly skulked into the hallway. Mike, stop being a fucking idiot, (she knew he despised any verbal abuse, especially that particular vituperation) Just come in. Shut the door. He obeyed. 332

Well? What do you want at this time of night? She had been a little drunk despite leaving the club early, and had to control her anger and the sickness she still felt towards him. She had vague recollections of the gist of a three-hour conversation: MIKE - Wheres the kids? You look nice, have you been out? Is there any chance we can work this out? Sam, I still love you. Lets give it a go before its too late. I can forgive you for Barnsley, but if you just even snog someone else, I cant come back from that (it was too late as she had done this less than an hour ago). SAM Its finished Mike. Weve both got to move on. Who knows what will happen in six months, a year, two years time. We need space apart to see how we both feel. (I know how I feel, he had replied.) You hurt me really bad and Im sorry but I cant forgive you. After two hours of relative civility the discourse had taken a more sinister, accusation-oriented twist. MIKE You hurt me too. You shagged him while we were married, we werent married when I shadid what I did. Anyway, you didnt change enough either. You wouldnt tolerate anything you didnt like. You nagged at me. You tried to control me constantly. Always needing what you want. Always needing more, never content. Always demanding. Always pushing. I should have ran a mile when I seen that bag of yours with Me, Me, Me printed on it. I did most of the chores. Id get up most in the night to feed the babies. Youd come home late too. You went away at weekends too. You were tired all the time. You werent interested in sex. You werent interested in trying anything different in bed. You slammed doors. You punched me in the face. You spat in my food. You threw kebabs in my face. You just didnt change enough and you didnt understand me. SAM You had an affair, I had a one night stand, whats worse? You did it first. You did it in our bed. You 333

wouldnt do anything unless I nagged you. You couldnt be bothered with the kids half the time. You went away at weekends. You would come home late. You wouldnt better yourself for us, for the family. The sex was shit, it was boring and predictable, youd come in five minutes. I had to get the vibro out and put the videos on when you werent around, and do it properly for myself (what vibro, hed thought). You kicked doors down. You put your fist through the door. You punched a wall, and broke your hand, fucking idiot! You were quiet. You sulked. We never made up like normal couples. And I gave you so many chances, but you just couldntor wouldnt see. You didnt change enough either, and its over Mikeaccept it. The longer we stayed together, the more we fell apart. Im going to bed, do what you like tonight, but dont even think about coming near me. And, with the calm, pragmatic conversation well and truly over, Sam had slammed the door and stomped upstairs to bed convincing herself, ordering herself that the next time she fell in love, it would not be with a waste of skin loser like Michael Madigan. The key in the door wrenched her from her memories as Chester entered, reeking of lager. The Tesco staff canteen was unexpectedly full of breakfasters at 7.30am on this Monday morning, and Michael was feeling unusually healthy in mind and body. His children had stayed with him on Friday and Saturday night and he had worked a shift in the cinema on Sunday night. He had enjoyed one solitary drink on the walk home from the cinema, his only alcoholic drink of the weekend. He gratefully accepted the sausage onto his plate from the metal tongs of Yvonne, one of the canteen staff. You okay today? she asked (she had usually seen him unhealthy on most Mondays). I am actually, thanks. How are you? 334

Yeah, good thanks. Ill be better at two oclock when I get out of here though! See ya later. You may be quite fit love, but you need to do some homework on your humour and repartee! He shuffled along the queue and winked at her in response; she reciprocated with a shy grin. Yvonne was his forthcoming target and a little older than himself. 35?36maybe? A bit porky mate, but she gets it! He walked across to a table of dullards who he knew quite well and sat down. After an exchange of Monday morning pleasantries, (and a flirtatious comment to Debbie, who was the intended conquest after Yvonne) the mundane, compulsory, what-we-did-at-the-weekend conversation materialised. Did you go to The Buttermarket at the weekend Charlotte? No, I was skint, replied the simpleton. Mark, another cheerless drone, interceded. I did! And youll never guess what happened! Pray tell, you dreary, spotty virgin. Mike was wholly dispassionate. This bird started undressing, just outside the womens bogs it was great! Mikes eyes lifted slowly from his egg as his interest level had been raised and all the attention of the five other staff at the table (including Mikes) was centred on the speaker. Undressing? What, in the club? asked Debbie. I wouldnt mind undressing you and using my club, you horny sex beast! Yeah, dullard replied, she got down to her knickers then whipped her bra off, threw it in the air and shouted something to some bloke. She was well pissed. A bit flabby for me like, but nice tits though! The two girls returned to their breakfasts. Michael felt a little envious that hed not witnessed the unusual sight. Free blimps! 335

What happened then? Mike asked, Did she get the lady garden outand was it groomed? He glanced coyly and apologetically at the two females. Sorry girls, he said. Their chewing heads remained perfectly still as the eyeballs rose, awarding him a glimmer of disgust. No, Mark answered dejectedly Mike felt a little sad too, the bouncers covered her up and threw her out. Never seen that before though! What? retorted Mike, Youve never seen a naked female? Everyone laughed including the young tale-telling fool, acknowledging to himself the sad truth of Mikes question. The grinding bass-beat of heavy dance music was incessant. It made conversation practically impossible. However, the vision which was unfolding at the edge of the dance floor caused many a discourse it was incredible. What is she doing? I dont know but Im glad she is, and Im gonna watch! The two drinkers had just been served their extortionately priced pair of pints and the lack of ABV in the drinks would not perturb them (for the next few minutes at least) as they observed the incident unfurling, with joyous bewilderment. Chester and Samantha had just had a supreme argument with each other on the dance floor; Chester having witnessed another man whispering something into his girlfriends ear as she bopped around her handbag. He had been at the bar ordering drinks as he continued to gape at them, shrinkwrapped with insane jealousy. He was slightly more inebriated than he thought he should have been due to his three pints earlier in the day after his altercation with Michael on the doorstep. He saw her smile in reaction to the mans comment as his anger rose like an aeroplane. He relinquished his place in the queue of sweat-drenched 336

bodies and marched onto the dance floor. Ignoring the man, he approached Samantha, noses almost in contact. What did he say? Who? she asked genuinely. HIM! He shouted, nodding his head towards the culprit who had scampered back amongst the frenzied gesticulations of the dancing torsos. Sam stopped her dancing. That twat who just came over to you! What did he want? What did he say? Was he chatting you up? She stared at him incredulously, feeling slightly fearful. He wouldnt do anything here, would he? She thought. He didnt want anything, and no, he wasnt chatting me up Chester interrupted. Well what did he say then? This is bloody ridiculous! she said, and picked up her handbag, turning to return to her seat. Chester grabbed her arm to prevent her, pulled her back and asked the question again. WHAT DID HE SAY? His cheeks were now reddening fiercely and Sam turned to face him. She could scarcely contain her own anger despite her fear levels rising somewhat. Have you got the time! she blurted. Chester looked baffled and Sam had recognised it on numerous occasions on his teenage physiognomy she repeated the words. Have-you-got-the-time he asked me thats all Chester, grow up! she scowled. He contemplated her in disbelief. Haveyougotthetime? he repeated, slowly and sarcastically. You expect me to believe that? So why did you laugh? What was so funny? He folded his arms and gave her a look of boyish satisfaction, thinking that hed caught her out. She thought quickly, fishing in her river of untruths. She could not divulge the second comment which the man had made after her reply of I 337

dont know which was, I do, its time I bought you a drink. Shed considered the line to be so cheesy but she loved the attention, which caused her to smile in gratification. So, why did she smile? What could she say to appease her boyfriend? Thinkquickly, she thought. The only thing she could think of was, He told me a joke. He what? replied Chester. He told you a joke? Why would he tell you a joke? Why you? And what joke? Chester thought he was now getting clever at getting clever. He was telling everyone jokes, she lied, he was going round to lots of peopletalking to them. This would deflect Chesters attention from the specific joke which didnt exist; she knew her man wasnt very bright. So youd been watching him then? What dyou mean watching him. No! By this time a noticeable distance had formed between the warring couple and the dancing bodies. Well how do you know he was going to lots of other people? How do you know, if you werent watching him? She exhaled deeply, pleased to be in a public place and was on the point of abandoning the angry discourse as she knew it was hopeless when a bouncer approached Chester and whispered something into his ear. He appeared to calm down immediately and raised his two hands, palms forward, in peaceful contrition. The bouncer breathed another comment and walked away. But now, twenty-five minutes later, as the two drinkers at the bar stared in disbelief, Samantha had already removed her top and was wriggling free from her skirt. The two men hurried from the bar area to gain a better view of proceedings hoping the bouncers wouldnt reach her before it became really interesting. They could now hear her shouting to what must have been her boyfriend, who had re-entered the club from his visit to the toilet. The woman was evidently very drunk. 338

Well now everyone can see cant they? Everyone can get an eyeful of what youre shaggin! She put her arms behind her back to unclip her bra. As she hurled the lacy garment into the air a huge cheer erupted from the semicircle of lustful youths which had formed around her. Chester started to run towards his girlfriend but (luckily for her) the bouncers reached her first. One removed his oversized, black overcoat and wrapped it around the knicker-clad shape before shuffling her towards the exit. A large communal sigh of disappointment echoed around the area, and the chorus of GET YA TITS OUT, GET YA TITS OUT, GET YA TITS OUT FOR THE LADS!! swamped the sound of the music. The two clubbers returned to the bar. Shame we never got to see the bush! one said. She mightve even pulled the curtains wide! Nice tits though! said the other, as his hardening penis began to subside. Im so sorry babe, please forgive me. Ill never do it again, I promise. What can I do to make it up to you? Samantha was lying in bed with her back to Chester it was the morning after the night before. Chesters morning breath invaded her nostrils like ammonia as he leaned his face over her shoulder. He caressed her face as she winced in pain, and took a sharp intake of her own morning breath. Oh, sorry SamIm sorry. Are you okay? Yeah, she replied, subdued, and Chester hugged her from behind. His penis stiffened but even he thought it to be an inappropriate moment; he would get it later, when she had forgiven him. Everythings gonna be alright, he reassured her, and this will never happen again. I promise. She continued to lay still, numb. She moved her hips forward slightly to escape the touch of the obstinate member which she could feel on the back of her thigh, but 339

only slightly, as she didnt want him to feel rejected. She winced again as she moved, feeling an ache in her hip; she would check the bruises later, alone. How could she allow this to happen to her? Why did she put up with it? And it was getting worse, he was becoming more violent. She had never experienced this before in any relationship. Mike had certainly been no angel, but he had never hit her, never beat her. He did grab her by the throat one time, she remembered, but that must have been her fault for spitting in his food as he ate. All this must be her fault. What was she doing wrong? She must change, thats what she must dochange. And this will never happen again. She closed her eyes as tears formed and thought of childhood picnics. Chester and Sam had spent the Sunday together in relative harmony. They had remained in bed until midafternoon, eating bad food and watching worse television. They had had sex once. Chester needed it to happen for proof that she had forgiven him; Sam had hated all one hundred and eighty-seven seconds of it. The first violent outburst had occurred just before Christmas. Sam remembered the small signs which had happened even earlier; abusive comments, an occasional twisting of a wrist in apparent jest, a little too heavy-handed contact. But she had dismissed these clues as solely her own paranoia Chester was a lovely lad, she thought he wasnt like that. But after the previous nights beating she knew he was not a lovely lad, and, indeed tragically, he was like that. She recollected the event of before Christmas: The two lovers had been for an Italian meal to celebrate their one month anniversary. Chester looked so handsome and she had felt so proud to be with himto be seen with him. Why would this good-looking boy of nineteen be 340

interested in a slightly overweight, divorced mother of two, and almost ten years older than himself it didnt make sense. They had chosen to have a drink, to break up the walk home from the restaurant, and visited a pub on the way. Chester was ordering the drinks at the bar while Sam went to sit at a free table. Within the space of a minute a man approached her table and she recognised him as a man who shed met about a week after she had moved to the town. They hadnt slept together but they had kissed. Hello again! Sam isnt it? Yeah, hi. Youre erNeil isnt it? She wasnt concerned about talking to him, nor about Chester returning during their conversation he was a lovely lad and he wouldnt mind. Who are you with? Neil asked her. Oh, my boyfriend, she replied, hes getting the drinks in. At that moment Chester started to approach the table, holding a pint of Stella and a vodka and diet coke. Lucky man! Neil whispered. Sam smiled. And as Chester put down the drinks, he looked at Sam, looked at Neil and seated himself next to his girlfriend, even closer than usual. Well, said Neil, it was nice to see you again, see yaround. He ignored Chester completely. Yeah, see ya! replied Sam, still smiling. Chester ruminated as he sipped his lager for a few moments and Sam took his hand. He unclasped their hands as he fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes. He lit one. Whos he? Oh, hes just some guy I met ages ago, replied Sam. Nothing more was said about him and she had thought nothing more about it, despite her noticing the slight mood change in her boyfriend. When theyd arrived home later that evening, a little doe-eyed from her wine, and shed closed the front door behind them, she leaned to kiss him as he pushed her violently onto the bed. She was startled and 341

thought it may be a type of sex game which they hadnt yet attempted the twisted contortions of his face told her differently. What are you doing Ches? Someone you met? Yeah, I dont think so, someone you shagged you mean. Someone youre probably still shagginfuckin whore! And he released a barrage of punches to her torso, her arms and her legs in a frenzied assault (he would leave the face bruise-free as he knew it would cause too many awkward questions). Samantha knew that she should have ended their relationship there and then, but she didnt she loved him. The following morning he had been so contrite, hed cried many bouts of tears and pleaded with her not to leave him (as shed said she would). He couldnt live without her. It would never happen again. He didnt know what came over him. He would kill himself if he couldnt be with her. And shed felt so sorry for him, weeping bundles of tears onto her jeans as he crouched pitifully at her feet he was like a small, vulnerable child. She had decided to forgive him on this occasion but if anything like that ever happened again, that was it, finished. This had made Chester the happiest man alive, he loved her so much and it would never happen again, he promised. They made passionate love that night and the previous nights onslaught faded away as if it were just a nightmare. But the pain from the bruises did not subside for days after. Now, two months later Sam was lost. She felt so helpless, so small. He had not changed. He had, in fact, become more violent and more abusive and she had detected an overspill of abuse towards her children the play fighting had become a little too aggressive and would sometimes end in floods of children tears. Im only playing! hed said when Jonathan ran to his mother. And if Michael ever discovered that he had hurt his children, whether it was unintentional or not, she knew he 342

would bludgeon Chester to pulp. If he knew that he had hurt them intentionally she thought that he may even kill the boy. She had always nurtured a gnawing suspicion that her ex-husband was capable of murder it was silly, she knew that, but it had nagged at her throughout their relationship. As she lay in bed at 7.17am on this Monday morning, her children fast asleep in the corner of the large room and Chester sleeping next to her, so angelic, she needed to escape this whirlpool of abuse, but didnt know how. The guilt, embarrassment and stupidity she felt for her Saturday night striptease overwhelmed her. But it paled into insignificance compared to the desperate isolation she held for her plight.

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the horse that broke the camels back

Six weeks after struggling up to the thirteenth storey

of a bleak, Liverpool tower block, rupturing with concrete desolation, Michaels own desolation seeping through each individual pore and intending to take his own life, and one week after taking anothers, he had decided it was in his best interests to leave the West London area. He would, to some extent, regret it as he had grown accustomed to the area and (against his better judgement due to the homicide which he had committed) had forged cordial relationships with two or three Park-Life- Paddies, as he called them. But, in order to evade capture, he would have to relocate to a different area of London. He was missing Helen nauseatingly, but had vowed never to return after witnessing the sleazy, putrid act which still haunted 344

him, like a ghost with a grudge, every hour of every day, and at times, every minute of every hour. The riots earlier in that year had a great influence on his decision to choose Brixton for his new home. His wedding day had been one week after the Brixton riots in April and he had left Liverpool one week after his own home town riots in Toxteth in June he thought there was a certain odd, twisted karma involved; so Brixton it was where he would begin his new life. And, with the police force having become more sensitive in their approach to the man on the street (especially the black man) he thought this may help him to avoid detection for his heinous crime. Perhaps he should boot-polish his face, he thought, to further enhance his cause. As the onrush of air invaded his face, Mike turned his body from it and lit a Bensons on the platform (he enjoyed walking on to the tube train, smoking a cigarette in order to upset the non-smokers). He sat in one of the no-smoking carriages and waited for the inevitable Joe Cleanlung. He thought of his wife again. He never knew it was possible to hurt so much from the absence of one single human being. The departure of his father had hurt him of course. Several aunts and uncles had perished too, which had caused him some degree of grief, but the feeling he had at this time (and had for six weeks) was still so excruciatingly unbearable. He likened it to a high-powered, vigorous kick to the testicles, when the pain is so acutely intense that one thinks that it would never subside. The murder had eased his agony a little, but he would rather endure that physical pain for eternity than the emotional anguish he was now suffering. Admittedly, he felt slightly better than he had on his first night in London; and he had succeeded in blocking much of the pain through constant drinking bouts, but why would she not leave his head? His teenage brain couldnt understand. Would she ever leave his head? He thought 345

about the mellifluous love songs he had heard beforeI think about you every minute of the day, will my aching heart ever heal?and now knew that they can be literally true. However, he was about to enjoy a moment of temporary respite. Do you know it no-smoking here? The smoking cyarriage is troo der son. He pointed right. Mike gawped at the old, black man opposite him, with the pork pie hat and the scruffy suit. His eyes fixed onto the other two travellers seated further away in the compartment; he thought he detected relief in their faces before they hurriedly averted their gaze. He took another drag of the cigarette before standing up. Sorry mate, this way is it? He walked right, past the two non-smokers, the opposite direction to which Joe Cleanlung had pointed. He pulled down the window of the adjoining door and opened it to walk through to the adjacent carriage, which happened to be a smoking compartment. He felt disappointment that it was and took a seat. The murder hed committed had made the young Michael feel a little more mature amongst his fellow humans; akin to the feeling hed had three years earlier, walking home alone after losing his virginity (literally seconds after his fifteen-year old next door neighbour had lost his to the same seventeen-year old bike). He felt no remorse for his crime as he had rendered a service to himself (and society). How many more poor, innocent cuckolds would the floating-flotsam, dead human have created? The grief. The alcohol. The new surroundings. The living arrangements. These had all caused, in him, an immense feeling of detachment from society, like he was acting a role in a film, a character in a book or a verse in a song he was not flesh and bone, he was ethereal. He 346

recognised this detachment but he knew he was still a killer, he knew it was wrong. So why did it feel so right? Ill kill him. Dont be stupid mate, its not your place anymore. Let it go. Ill kill him. Ill fuckin kill the cunt. And if he hurts my kids Ill torture himslowlyand then Ill kill him. Kevin hadnt seen his friend this way before. Despite the time they had spent together the previous four months, he had never seen him intent on causing pain to anyone, and certainly not death. Come on Mike, you wouldnt. You wouldnt hurt a fly mate. Mike action-manned his eyes from the window and glared into Kevins. Kev wondered whether his words had been foolish. Michael was not aware of the other occurrences; the first beating before Christmas, the second, after the club strip, nor the third time which happened two weeks later on Sams doorstep the first time he had struck her in public; he only knew about this fourth occasion. She had escaped relatively unscathed this fourth time, as she was sober and had succeeded in freeing herself from his drunken grasp; hed still managed a few hefty blows to her ribs but a milder beating than the ones she had undergone previously. She had run and hidden herself in the gloom and the eeriness of the nearby abbey; shed then curled herself into a ball on a cold and wet stone slab, buried deep in the murky shadows of the thirteenth century building. But something had stirred in Michael Madigan, something which had lay dormant for many years, something dangerous; an evil malevolence was waking in him, like Nosferatu at sunset. Its coming back again Ma!

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As she lay there, feeling the fear, feeling the cold and shivering from both, the realisation dawned upon her that Jonathan wasnt at home tonight. She had taken Sarah but the boy had stubbornly refused to go and expressed his reticence with the habitual stomping tantrum. Sam had succumbed and asked Diane (another separated mother of two who lived in the room above her own) if he could stay with her until she and Chester returned; they would not be long, no more than two or three hours, and Dianes innate amicability had caused her to agree. Sam unfurled herself from her sodden ball of sorrow and checked her watch 10.27pm more than three hours since the boy had gone upstairs to Dianes. Panic supercharged through her whole body as she thought what if she takes him back home and leaves him with Chester? And what if Chester? The idea was too horrific to envisage so she curtailed it, darted upright, flung herself from the spookslab and sped the five hundred yards to the hostel. As she ran, the freezing drizzle chilled her gums and blinded her eyes. She had no thoughts of her own safety (after their fracas on the doorstep fifteen minutes earlier) as her son was the only one that mattered. If he had touched him She reached her home in little more than three minutes and fumbled in her bag for the key; she realised that shed given it to Diane in the event of her needing access to her room downstairs. She rang the buzzer and Diane answered immediately. Yeah? Hi Di, its Sam. Is Jon still with you? Diane detected panic in the voice of her friend. No Sam, Chester came for him about ten minutes ago and carried him down to yours he was fast asleep, bless him. Where have you been? Sams alarm resurged. It doesnt mattercould you throw me the key down? A mystified Diane unpressed the intercom buzzer and five 348

seconds later her head was peering through the small window, and Sams front door keys lay on the concrete floor at her feet. She picked them up and peered up at her friend. Thanks Di! she blurted with utmost sincerity. Whats up Sam? Has something happ? before she could complete the question Samantha was inside. The scene that faced her as she walked through the door created a relief of such intensity that she sank to her knees and thanked a God which shed never believed in. Her son was sound asleep in the left corner of the room; his young face one of peaceful serenity. Her boyfriend was sound asleep in the opposite corner of the room; his young face one of an open-mouthed drunkard, ten years his senior. That was it, never again. She was leaving him. She packed a small holdall of toiletries and clothes for herself and the children, and literally tip-toeing through the living-room/bedroom she opened the front door and placed it gently on the damp concrete outside. She then returned inside to pick up her sons folded pushchair and assembled it outside. She re-entered and checked to her right there was no need, as the snoring should have reassured her. She then lifted her boy in his blanket who stirred slightly; she whispered a shush and its-only-mummy as the childs head fell back asleep on her shoulder. As she walked towards the exit she glanced malignantly at her unconscious boyfriend and sinister thoughts danced fleetingly through her brain as she realised the unmitigated vulnerability of him; but it faded as soon as it had surfaced. She pulled the door closed behind her gently, placed the cocooned boy into the pushchair and wrapped the straps of the holdall around the handle of the pushchair. She was free. Who the fuck is that at this time of night? he asked, pointing his head closer to the television set; directing his question to the face on the screen. 349

How would Harry Dean Stanton know who that is? Hes a quirky American actor with a weather-beaten face of sixtyodd years, and hes inside your telly set. Answer the phone and find out for yourself, lazy fuck! Im going to! Fuck off! Hello? Michael had fallen to the floor from his reclined position on the sofa to answer the telephone. Nobody replied, but he heard, what he thought may be sniffs? A sob maybe? Hello? he repeated, Who is this? Mike? He was stunned to hear the voice of his exwife. It was 11.05pm and immediately his thoughts turned to his children as his stomach chewed. Sam? Is that you? Are the kids okay? She responded after another couple of snuffles. Yeah, the kids are fine. He released a sigh of relief, which she must have heard. Whats up then? How come you ringin so late? She gathered herself, feeling a little disappointed that he hadnt responded sympathetically to her sniffs. Can we stay at yours for a bit Mike? We? Who the fuck is we? Her and the kids? Her and Chessington Zoo? All of them? The kids can stay as long as they want although Ill have to sort things out with work. Whos we anyway? Dont think that poncy-named vampire boy is coming anywhere near here! Its me and Jonathannow. Wheres Sarah? Panic. Shes at Kyms. Relief. Why? Why now? Where are you? Im in the phone box round the corner from you. Oh, so you were gonna come and stay anyway? Ermokay, yeahwhats up anyway? Ill explain everything when I get there. And she hung up. 350

Hed already opened the back door before she arrived, five minutes later. He was standing at it as her head appeared around the corner into view, pushing his sleeping son. He had been speculating during those minutes whether this was a good idea. But how could he turn his own son away? It just so happened that he had his mother in tow and unfortunately they came as a package, in this particular instance. But this may cause him grief. This may cause me grief! I know that if she asked me back, I would snap her hand off no other fucker knows it and no fucker will. I know it Mikey boy! Fuck off you! He was unsure about the reasons why he would return to the family fold. Whether it was to be with his children; to raise them, like fathers were supposed to do? Or whether it was to be with Samantha again? Or to belong again? Or to be normal again? But this line of self-analysis was pointless; she wasnt going to ask him back. Was she? Hiya! he said. She replied with a solitary thin, weary smile. He found himself staring at her for too long the gaze evidently distressed her as she directed her eyes towards the slumbered boy, as if to tell him, Go on then, do the fatherly thing and put him into bed, you staring weirdo! He twigged. Oh yeahIll put him to bed. Ill stick him in mine. And he lifted his son from the pushchair and carried him through; the toddler failed to raise an eyelid. He closed the bedroom door quietly and walked into the living-room where his ex-wife was already seated. She looked feeble, insignificant, small and bedraggled as she hugged the arm of the two-seater settee. So, he began, whats been? Mike, can you just go and bring the pushchair in please? Its getting wet. God, you dont change do ya, bossy bitch! Dont Mikey, now is a highly inappropriate time to disagree. Yeah, youre right highly! Selassie-eye! Do you think Im 351

schizoid? Go and get the bloody pushchair, you odd fucker! God, not you as well, okay, keep ya tits on! He returned to the living-room after folding the sodden pushchair and putting it in the tiny porch; it dripped its rain onto the jumbled array of junk mail leaflets, menus and free newspapers which he had ignored from his moving-in day, as they mountained in the corner. So, he motioned to sit down again, whats been? Mike, do you think I could have a cup of tea? Im a bit chilled and I need something warm inside me. Fucks sake girl! Are you takin the piss? Ill give you somethin warm inside you! Stop it Mikey, not now! He stood straight, from his crouched mid-air position (as he was about to sit down) and walked the seven feet to the kettle. He filled it and sat on his throne at the bar, observing the dishevelled sight on the sofa. She returned his gaze and said, I suppose you want to know whats going on? It would be nice, he replied with ossified sarcasm, and waited. Fucking hell Sam! Why dont you leave him? I know hes only pushed you against the wall, but how long will it be before it turns into a slap? Or a punch? Or even a pasting? Youve got to kick the cunt out! She had purposely omitted to mention the slaps, the punches and the beatings; she had told him that Chester had only pushed her against a wall and fortunately, again, he had left no marks on her face. She felt a little proud that her acumen for falsehoods was alive and kicking. And I tell ya what, if he does that shit in front of my kids, then I am gettin involved and I wont hold back Sam. I wont. She knew that he wouldnt, which was the reason why she wasnt divulging the whole truth. No, dont worry, she reassured, he wont. Its just that hes got a bit too drunk and I wound him upyou know what Im like. Hes not like that, honestly. And he 352

dotes on the kids. Mike was unsure whether he wanted to hear that last comment. It made him feel unnecessary replaced. I just need to stay here tonight and well get going in the morning thanks Mike. He felt a little disappointment. But I thought you said you wanted to stay a while? You can if you want. Its too late obviously to go and get Sarah now, but I can get up early in the morning and walk round to She interrupted him, for the third time that night. Honestly Mike, its fine. Everything will be alright tomorrow hell sleep it off and be all over me, apologising. He didnt want to hear that comment either. Well, its up to you, but youre welcome to, yknow that. Yeah thanks. Well I think Ill turn in, its been an eventful night. Ill sleep in your bed with Jon, yeah? Yeah, sure. I hope youve cleaned those sheets, she joked, dissecting the tension in the air, I dont know whos been there! Well youve been there love you were the first one in it. Theres been a few more since, like! He replied with a simple Ha! She raised herself from the settee, instantly wincing in obvious discomfort. He observed. Whats up? You okay? She ignored the pain and stood anyway. Yeah thanks, I get a bit stiff when Im cold and wet and sat still for a while. Remember how I used to suffer like that before? He thought. Oh yeahright He didnt know whether he remembered or not. She hobbled through to the bedroom like an arthritic pensioner, not daring to mention the excruciating pains in her ribs.

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you wouldnt hurt a fly mate! After Mikes steely gaze he pondered. Now, do I trust this bloke enough to tell him stuff? Obviously Im not gonna tell him Im a murderer, but he seems to think Im some sort of pussy. Ive known him long enough, Ill tell him a bit. Kev, theres stuff you dont know about me, he said mysteriously. His friend was intrigued. What dyou mean mate? What stuff? Youre not a murderer on the run are ya? Ha! Ha! replied Mike, not denying it. Its just that Ive had a few scrapes in the past not always comin out on top, but Ive learnt a little. Well blow me down with a pubeyou bad-ass mofu! Kev retorted in attempted black-speak jive. He took a sip from his lager and changed the subject radically. So have you fucked her yet? Fucked who? Your ex, Sam isnt it? Everybody fucks their exs at some stage its the rules! Kev, youve asked this, and said that beforenot too long agoin this very pub. Dont you remember? Kevin appeared mystified. No. When? Tchah! Mike replied, using the Brixton black-speak. Ages ago. When, ages ago? No, AGES AGO! Ages ago I fucked her! Kevin guffawed and said, I told you mate, everybody does it! and took another sip of his lager. Mike leaned forward across the table towards him. and up the shitter as well! Kevins unswallowed lager spattered his friends face as he attempted to keep his lips together. He almost choked on the remainder as he punctured into uncontrollable fits of mirth. 354

Oh Mandy! You cameand you cameand you came! The married couple considered each other lovingly; her naked atop him, him caressing her thighs and they burst into laughter. She always came when she was on top and the fun in their sex had never diminished in the ten years since theyd married. They enjoyed a naked cuddle for three minutes in complete silence when John Paul Pinhorne slapped his wifes flabby behind playfully as he said, Go and make my breakfast thenslapper! This instigated a naked play-fight underneath the duvet which would culminate in the couple making love again - and John Paul, undoubtedly, making the breakfast. True to her word, Samantha had left her ex-husbands flat the following morning. He had telephoned his workplace, fabricating a story of a dental appointment; he would be in later. As he awoke on his settee it felt satisfying to know that two-thirds of his ex-family were ensconced in his bedroom next door; it caused him to miss the other third Sarah all the more, but he savoured the moment, until his thoughts twisted to the teenage Chester Badcock. I wonder if he really is beating her up. Remember that frightened look she gave him on the doorstep those weeks ago? And the way she moved last nightor could hardly move, more like she wouldnt put up with that surely? Ive known her for 10 years. No, she wouldnt, she would leave him. But she was no longer Samantha Madigan, she was Samantha Mellie again. And Michael didnt know Samantha Mellie anymore, for, since their separation fourteen months ago she had altered drastically. She was helpless and friendless. She was scared and she was scarred. She was destroyed. She was lost. 355

He had detected the change in her during last nights conversation; she was no longer the confident - even arrogant - woman with whom he had fornicated just three feet away from here last October. Last night she had presented herself as unguarded somehow childlike and undeveloped. She had always possessed certain immature traits throughout their marriage but these were endearing; he had even discovered her sucking her thumb on two occasions, which she had vehemently denied both times, passing it off as innocently biting her thumbnail (Mike had let it drop to keep the peace), but he knew from the multitude of occasions when hed walked in on her and observed the hurried movement of hand from face, coupled with a look of embarrassment. But this he found somehow cute and wished she would share it with him. The Samantha of last night was a paradox of the domineering, authoritative and socially assertive woman who he had married. I dont get it whats happened to her? Shes soulless! Your soul is doomed Mikey boy, DOOMED, I TELL YOU! Sorry...see ya! He had showered before 8am and, because there was no indication of any movement from his bedroom, had opted to knock and enter; for three reasons: 1 He wanted to see his boy. 2 He wanted to see Samanthas naked flesh. 3 He wanted to see evidence of any bruising on her. But, as he was approaching the door his son exploded through it, glowing and bellowing maniacally. DAD! DAD! I WANT UNNY NUT LOOPS! AAAAAAARRRGGHHH! and he leapt into his fathers towelled torso. Mike hugged him, simultaneously preventing the towel from falling to the floor. Sam and his son had left his flat within the hour which had cloaked him in a heavy sadness, like a shroud of stale emptiness. He had also harboured tiny aspirations that she 356

may have returned to the living-room, in the wee hours, to have sex with him; and even tinier hopes that she would ask him back. Neither of these hopeless scenarios had materialised, but she did depart with an unmitigated vow that she and Chester were history; this had lifted an encumbrance of gargantuan proportions from Michael Madigans weighty soul. A teenage kid bringing up my kids? I DONT THINK SO, SONNY JIM!

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demon seed

Hi! I see you had your kids over again last night?
Sue said, inquisitively as she closed the bonnet of her 1964 Morris Minor, which she had affectionately named Jemimah. Michael had the bonnet of his own car open, spraying WD-40 onto the spark plugs and radiator leads; hoping this uneducated and futile act would breathe life into his defunct Skoda. The two neighbours cars were parked side by side in the car park adjacent to the block of houses, now modernised into flats. He was pleasantly surprised by her attention towards him, and his life, as he was convinced that she didnt like him, despite her acknowledging him each time they met; his inherent negativity and insecurity causing this feeling. Yeah, I like to have them over as much as I can, but I cant do it as much as I did at first because of my jobs. Sue thought whether she should continue the conversation as she didnt want to give him the wrong impression that she 358

may be attracted to him; she was not nave, but she continued anyway. What is it that you actually do anyway? You never seem to be there much and the music has calmed down a hell of a lot! She smiled a friendly, sincere smile and lit a cigarette, offering one to him. He noticed it to be menthol and politely declined. Ive got some in me glovey. I dont like the menthols thanks anyway. He walked around the car to the passenger door and pulled a Marlboro from the emergency pack which he always kept in the glove compartment. He was excited and a little sexually charged by this conversation with her. Could she be number four? (He had failed miserably with Yvonne in the canteen at work, making his intentions a little too clear and mentioning her excessively bushy eyebrows had not helped.) He had never spoken to her at length before and he realised how stunningly attractive she was (despite front teeth which receded as if shed walked into a door). Her clothes were a little scruffy and loosely hippy-like, and her hair questionably unkempt, but they could not detract from her striking facial beauty. No tits though! Shame. Its not all about the tits Mikey! Or the arse - its about the inner good of the lady and how wholesome, understanding and caring she is you disappoint me. You piss me off get off my back Jumpety Jack if I want it to be about the titsand the arse, then thats what it is about. Get em done, then get on to the next one - use your prick like a gun and fuck anything that moves! Youve changed, but youre right! He discussed his work with her; how the supermarket job bored him silly but how much he enjoyed his cinema work. She didnt ask about his main job (as it would have bored her silly too) but she was intrigued by his projectionist job.

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Thats a really cool job! I always wondered who was up in that box I go there quite often; so thats you is it? How odd! He smiled, feeling a little proud. I only do two or three shifts a week there now cuz of me job. I also do a bit of follow-spotting now and again in the theatre part. Her brow furrowed in confusion he recognised it, and elaborated. Follow-spotting is where they stick you right at the top in your own little box; they plant you behind a huge spotlight and you have to keep that spotlight on the act while theyre on stage. I shone Phil Cool the other week. She looked quizzical again but this time she spoke. Whos Phil Cool? Hes some crappy comedian from the eighties pulls stupid faces of aliens with a torch in his face I dont think you should bother. I dont think I will, she replied with a frown. There was a small, awkward silence but he was not intent on allowing this opportunity to bed number four to escape. He continued. Yeah, soI could get you in for nothin if you wanted to see a film or watch Danny La Rue. Just let me know and Ill let you know if Im workin theres no problem gettin you in at all. In fact I think Ive got a programme indoors; Ill stick it in your box. Stop it Mikey boy, dont get lewd. Just when its going rather swimmingly. She could be one for your list. Yknow, I was just thinkin that same thing myself, and yeah youre right, that was a bit mischievous, cheers! Always here to help. She failed to recognise (or chose to ignore) the innuendo and appeared sincerely excited. Really? Oh I love going to the cinemaand the theatre that would be great thanks! I know who Danny La Rue is but I dont think Ill bother with him either. 360

Shes picked up on my flippancy and returned a joke breakthrough is possible Mikey lad! No problem Sue. This was the first time he had called her by her name and he hoped it would have the effect of establishing a feeling of trust between them. She was about to enter her car when she stopped and rested her folded arms on its roof, facing him. Listen, Ive got this fold-away bed thing which I hardly ever use. Maybe youd like to borrow ityknow, use it for when your kids stay over? I know how cramped these places are. Yeah great! If youre sure, thatll save me waking up with a broken back every time. She looked confused for a third time. Sleeping on the floor when they stay, see. He said this to elicit sympathy from his new friend, which he received. No you dont! Well you can definitely use this bed then. Cheers Sue, I will. She smiled again and said, See ya then, as she entered Jemimah and backed out of the car park. The crunch of the tyres on the gravel captivated him; the spell broken only by the feeling of a droplet or two of seminal fluid emanating from his slightly swollen member. Shes deffo on the list! he said too loudly. A neighbour scrutinized him from afar with repugnance. Thats etiquette Mikey! Get em shagged boy! He tested the key in the ignition and a pathetic whimper issued from the engine in obsolescence, confirming the cars refusal to wake. He cared little as he pondered this new target. He pulled another cigarette from the pack and remained in the drivers seat, lit it, reclined his skull and mused The walls of his tiny room in Brixton were methodically closing in on him. This box was now his new home and it 361

seemed minimally more spacious than his car-home (which he had evicted himself from one week earlier). Bleakness beckoned as Helen barged her way through to his consciousness again he showed her the exit. But the cubicle episode of eight weeks ago threatened to replace her, and he bounced that one out too. Instead he thought of the things he would not now have with his teenage wife, the eighteen-month plan which they had forged for their immediate future: The three-bedroomed family home in the middle-class suburb of Liverpool, its long hallway leading from the front door through to the kitchen the blown-up image of the Liver Building (which they would have both chosen together) would not now be hanging on the far wall to greet him. His beautiful, dark-haired spouse would not be washing up in the kitchen sink and he would not gently hug her from behind she would not recline her head back to nestle into his shoulder, not flicking soap suds mischievously into his face. He would not wait for her to finish, when they would not walk through to their spacious garden not sitting by the large kidney-shaped pond which he had recently not built, which he had not filled with eighteen goldfish (one for each month they would have been together). He would not admire his Jungle Bar which he would not now have built three weeks earlier. And Helen would not now want him to build the two corner benches where they wouldnt entertain their friends with long, hot summer barbecues; she would not watch her husband drinking red wine and she would not now fear for any stranger to which he took umbrage. Thats my man! she wouldnt say, loving him in the extreme, despite his faults. Mikey? What the fuck are you doing? Why are you wallowing in these not-thoughts that you cant have anymore? Its just makin you worse you silly twat think positive lad. I havent fucking finished yet so get to fuck. Your choice saddo. Exactly! My choice. 362

Helen would not now call down from their newlyinstalled and decorated bathroom, in her throaty Wavertree twang Its ready luv! But give us five minutes to wash me air will ya! which would not be Mikes cue to bolt upstairs and passionately ravage his naked wife; not culminating in Helen bent double, over the steaming bath as she did not feel her husbands hot seed inside her. And, the not that truly rankled and ripped his soul into tattered fragments of regret was their first child which they would not now have. She would have been a daughter but she would not now be called Mersey and she would not be bursting with brightness, laughter and alluring charisma; and Michael and Helen would not now adore her endlessly like no other child had ever been worshipped. All of this would not now take shape in the world of Michael Madigan and it left him grimly morose. But the eighteen-year old had matured immensely in the previous three years and he could, and would, continue. He would think of what he did have: He had a cold, draughty blue-grey space to live in which measured six feet three inches wide, nine feet long and ten feet two inches high. He had a chair and an old, battered chest of drawers which he could not fill. He had a toothbrush. He had a stack of bin liners, haphazardly stuffed with personal belongings, piled in the corner. He had a small fold-up single bed, the mattress of which could have been made out of corrugated cardboard. He had suitcases under his eyes like a wrinkled newsreader. He had whelks on his face as if hed kissed a colony of leeches. And he had breath which had developed the stench of a festering carcass and filled a room with poisonous clouds of mephitic vapour within seconds of entering. And, as he squelched the crumpled, semen-filled sock into the threadbare rug, he had a plate of food to consume; one tin of pork luncheon meat - sliced into cubes, eight black, pitted olives, a wedge of French bread unbuttered, one 363

banana and a bag of Smiths Salt n Shake all ready to be flushed away with a litre of cheap, Italian red. Youre a lucky man Mikey, so yare youve got lots! Dont I know it! How could she do this to me? How could she force me to live this fucking shit life? I thought she loved me, but obviously not the fucking whore! The resentment he felt towards her was still mandatory in order to fuel the anger which would pave the path to recovery, which one day he would embark upon. But not yet, he had a litre of wine to imbibe. You still there? Mike noticed the green Morris Minor and Sue standing at his car window. Cant get it fixed then? she asked, realising the banality of her first question. He awoke from his memories. Ohhiya again! I havent really looked at it properly yet, he replied in macho denial, Ive only tried the ignition and sprayed some leads. Well if thats all youve done in the last half an hour, it may take you some time to get it fixed, she answered good-humouredly. Half an hour? I thought youd only been gone about five minutes. Whip em out and poke the nips into my eyes, you horny sex-beast! He had not lost his ability to lose track of time nor his prurience. Ill go and get that bed for you, she said, and he decided to abort his quest to be a mechanic and closed the door of the car behind him. Okay thanks, he said politely and succinctly. She walked the fifteen yards to her home, thinking about asking him in for a coffee but not feeling completely at ease. He walked the further five yards to his home, averting his gaze from her wiggle as she unexpectedly glanced back, disgruntled that shed not asked him in for a coffee. 364

It was an unusually warm Saturday morning in midMarch and Michael detected an inexplicable air of optimism in the pre-Spring ambience. He could hear sparrows whistling incessant tweets and the clear, blue sky which would normally provide a chill at this time of the year lent it the appearance of a late-April morning. Incredibly, he felt rather spry as he ambled through the modern estate; the spring in his gait exacerbated by the knowledge that Chester Badcock would be absent this morning when he collected his children. Chester Badcock had been disposed of (if he was to believe his ex-wifes pledge of three days earlier) and he felt not a single ounce of sympathy for the boy; on the contrary, he wished untold misery and exorbitant abominations upon him. He smiled at the three ducks on the front lawn of an approaching house and as he closed in on them, crouching down as he pulled an imaginary cloak across his face, all three quacked at him and shifted further away from him. After they had resettled he approached a step further and they repeated their bizarre actions. He suppressed a howl of laughter for fear of dispersing them. He noticed the twitch of a net curtain in the front window of the house and a blue-rinsed head appeared at it. The heads wizened face demonstrated a humourless anger and a wave of her hand told him to remove his Doc Martens from her grass. He administered several quacks of his own to the head-in-the-window and stepped back on to the pavement. He reached the hostel seven minutes later and rapped upon its door. Habitually, he lit a cigarette and turned away. He heard the creak of the door opening. Ill just get them. Mike swivelled his body, aghast at the male voice he had just heard. The front door closed. Babe? Wheres the kids? Their dads here. The muffled words injected him with a staunch hostility and fury. 365

What the fuck is he doin here? She said she was kickin him out! Bottled it, hasnt she she has fuckin bricked it. You stupid, stupid bitch! The door re-opened and Samantha appeared at it, clad in a white tracksuit and brand new white Reeboks; attire which she would have unquestionably spurned one year earlier. Her countenance was one of a content automaton. Hi Mike! she greeted, a little too fervently. He ignored the welcome, and leaning towards the door he whispered, I thought you were kickin him out? She glanced behind her and the robotic face now showed concern. Seeing nobody behind her she replied, in a quieter whisper, Its okay, we sorted it out. Ill explain it when I see you tomorrow. And as she heard the Dad! Dad! behind her, she resumed her original artificial composure. So well pick them up at two tomorrow. Bye kids! Have a good day! She then closed the door. He made a concerted effort to mask the disbelief, deflation and rancour which had etched into his features; his effort must have been a failure as Sarah touched his hand lightly as perhaps an angel would. Are you okay Dad? Yeah fine pet, he lied, Where dyou wanna go today then? Wacky Warehouse? Waki ouse! Waki ouse, I said!! young Jonathan shrieked from the pushchair, into which he had already hurled himself. Sarahs eyes gazed dolefully into her fathers as he stared ahead. She thought she witnessed an expression on his face which she had never seen before in her tender years, and it frightened her. Mike knew that he was behaving abnormally as he made the two-mile sojourn back to his flat, his two children accompanying him. He made a concentrated effort to put on an act smile and joke but they knew; even the young, usually oblivious Taz was quiet in response to his fathers 366

subdued demeanour. And Sarah knew for sure that something was afoot. Snap out of it son youve got your kids with you. Michael was a type who found it extremely difficult to snap out of it. Eventually he would (and he recalled the many occasions when his wife had said those words to him, causing major arguments; why couldnt she just have left him alone until he was ready, he thought). But the man was pondering he was not sulking. He was not brooding. He was hatching a potential egg, a plan of action; and one that would alter the course of his life, yet again. Youre right, Ill sort this out later when the kids are asleep. Ill open a bottle, switch on Saturday night prime time pap, switch my conscious brain off and thinkand plot. Come on then you little headfries! he bawled. He stopped pushing his son, lifted his glum faced daughter on to his shoulders (who was a little heavier than he would have wished) and tilted the pushchair back, one-handed; his free arm clamping his daughters legs securely to his chest. And he pounded along the pavement a little too quickly for all their safety. The children didnt care for their own safety, they were with dad and dad would always keep them safe. They howled simultaneously in excited trepidation, as if they were on a fairground ride. They had their father back. It was approaching 9.30pm later that evening when Michael Madigan received the telephone call which would choose his destiny. The children had been in bed (and sofa) for two hours and he was seated on the carpet in the livingroom; his back resting against the settee. He leapt across to the telephone to prevent the sound from waking Jonathan, who was sound asleep on the sofa. He paused the video player as Richie was about to pound a frying pan into the 367

face of Eddie (the dross on TV had turned his brain to mush, choosing instead to watch an episode of Bottom). Hello? A voice which he did not recognise answered his greeting; a voice riddled with panic and fear. Hello, is that Mike? it said. Yes it is who are you please? A small silence, a whimper and a reply followed. Its ChesterChester Bad Yeah okay, I know, he interrupted. He was on the point of delivering a tirade of profanities. What the fuck are you doin callin me here? My kids asleep! Who the fuck are you, cuntsludge, to be callin me? He had no chance to, as Chester asked, Is she there? Mike thought that he could only be referring to one person, Samantha. What the fuck is going on? He was undeniably perplexed. He contemplated lying to Chester to increase the evident anxiety he was suffering. Yeah lad, shes gone the bog to wash her pussy. I dont fancy felching my own jiz from it, see. But he didnt lie he felt a tad concerned himself. No, he answered stoically. Why? Dont you know where she is then? Mike thought he could decipher the words Oh God no. Okay, Chester said, If she turns up can you please let me know? Mike lowered his voice to a murmur as his son began to stir on the sofa. What the fucks goin on son? Please? Just let me know. And he put down the telephone. The cheeky cunt! Hes put the phone down on me! He couldnt believe the impudence of the boy. He stood upright and began to pace the floor frantically. He was seeking a possible scenario. Where was she? Why didnt Chester know? Why was he, himself, so concerned? Maybe shes done something stupid? He was now seriously 368

worried about her. He had to do something. He had to find out. Whos that I wonder? Sue said to herself. She placed her mint matchmakers on the coffee table and paused the video, irritated at the interruption. She walked to the back door. Oh, hello? she said. Whats up? Sue, Im really sorry to bother you, but this is a bit of an emergency. She was shocked by the obvious agitation he was displaying, and invited him in. Im sorry, I cant. I got the kids with me. And thats the reason Im here. He paused, and explained. so is there any way you could come and sit with them? I wouldnt ask normally but Mike, calm it. Its a bit of a pain, but I will. Ill be round in a couple of minutes have you got a video recorder? His face quizzed her. Im in the middle of a film, you see and Oh, yeahyeah I have. Thanks so much Sue. I really appreciate this and Ill make it up to you. She smiled, closed the door and cursed herself for being so accommodating. He had asked her to sit with the children while he visited Samanthas he had to know what was happening. He also had to know if she was safe. He berated himself for the latter, but couldnt deny it. He was gravely concerned. After calling four different taxi firms, and been informed of a minimum wait of twenty minutes, he slammed them all and decided to walk. He couldnt stand idle; he could be there in twenty-five minutes. He heard a shy knock on the back door and looked through the window. He saw Sue and loved her for it. He reached the door in five paces. 369

Oh thanks Sue, you are a star, believe me. Jons asleep on the couch but he shouldnt wake up and Sarahs in my bed. Ive left a contact number on the table if you need any help for any reason, but honestly, once theyre both asleep they usually go straight through. He said all this whilst stood on the doorstep. Sue raised her eyebrows in a Can I come in then? manner. Oh, sorry, come in. Im just in a bit of a state. Im really worried yknow? Mike, just get off. Ill be fine here, dont worry. He thought about kissing her, called himself a cunt and decided, resolutely, against it. He grabbed his coat. Thanks again Sue. He ran through the back door. She felt a little disappointed by the sight of the fold-up bed, folded up, unused. He arrived at his ex-wifes abode exactly twenty-two minutes later. As he had hastened through the dark estates (and even jogged along the towpath) he had reached a decision. He was going to take control of the situation a situation that could no longer be allowed to continue. As soon as he saw the flashing siren of the police car parked on the main road outside the hostel, he knew the scenario. He walked past the car, directly to the front door, which was ajar. He entered, forgetting any etiquette or pleasantries. Just calm down Chester, the young police woman was telling him, as he paced the floor with his head in his hands, Tell me again, when did you last see her? The other police officer, who was male and older than his partner, attempted to bar Michaels entry with a sudden step towards him. Whoah! Who are you? he uttered, as the other two people in the room darted their gaze in Mikes direction. He stopped. 370

Im her husband, he said curtly, purposely omitting the ex in Chesters presence. The two police officers scanned him sceptically and turned their heads to Chester, awaiting confirmation and clarification of this unusual scenario. Chester removed his hands from the top of his skull and entwined the fingers of both hands behind his head, exhaling loudly as he turned his face to the ceiling. Ex, he said, this is Sams Ill tell em who I am! Mike retorted angrily as the constabulary readied themselves for a potential fracas. They gawped at each other as the senior one took charge. Okay boys, lets just all calm down for one minute and establish who is who here, and what needs to be done. Everybody fell silent and listened. Right, he said, directing his gaze to Michael and taking out his notepad, you are? Mike despaired. Michael Madigan. Recently divorced husband of Samantha Madigan, father of her two children, he replied somewhat sardonically, whilst glancing at Chester. The younger officer interjected. And where might they be? the female officer interrupted. He despaired again. They might be under the bed behind you! They might be visiting my Auntie Aggie in Cork! They might even be riding the Ghost Train at an all-night, twenty-four hour theme park in the Outer Hebrides with the children of Bruce Forsyth! You soft hat-headed, uniformed pilchard! They are at my flat, being looked after by a friend of mine, he replied disdainfully and assuredly. The woman raised an eyebrow, but was placated. Her partner continued. And are you aware of the situation here Michael? Yes. Silence. Sams gone awol. Correct, he intoned, and our only concern at this stage is to discover her whereabouts and ensure that she is safe. Are you willing to help us do that? 371

Yes. Silence. I-will-do-everything-I-can-to-help-youfind-her. He said this much too sarcastically, which he realised when the two pairs of police eyes stared at him, as a teacher would stare down an irksome child. Yes, I will, he confirmed, a little more maturely. Okay, the policeman said. He turned to his partner. Pauline, Michael and I are just going to have a little chat outside. Pauline closed her eyelids in concurrence and turned to Chester. Come on Chester, sit down. But we should be out there, looking for her! he agitated. He sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands. The young drunk had left the club early at 11pm to walk the mile and a half back to his bedsit. He usually left these places early, as, whilst there, the failure to couple himself with a suitable female made him feel relentlessly dejected and the subsequent misery portrayed on his face rendered his quest almost impossible. He attributed it to his severe acne and his inability to hold a conversation with members of the opposite sex; or even look them in the eye for any length of time. He was at a loss to understand the reason why he continued to frequent such establishments. He approached the old abbey and needed to urinate. He stole around the back of the edifice, to the darkest area, unzipped his fly and relieved himself against the ninehundred year old blocks of the original Benedictine monastery. As he staggered from the steaming pool of urine, zipping himself, he noticed something unusual in the shadows; a figure was lying on the stone seat. Was it dead? Was it drunk? He squinted in the gloom and approached it with trepidation. He saw a glint on, what appeared to be, a bottle which was lay on its side on the ground next to the mysterious figure and, on closer inspection, recognised 372

the slumbering shape as that of a woman. She was not dead. Her chest was lifting and lowering with her breathing, but she did appear to be hopelessly drunk. He felt a surge of perverted excitement as he perused the darkness around him checking on any unwanted presence. There was nobodyall was still. The woman looked older than himself, about thirty, he thought, quite good-looking and dressed in a white tracksuit. Both sides of the black overcoat she was wearing had fallen either side of the stone bench and the zip of her tracksuit top revealed a tantalizing cleavage; it moved as she breathed and he felt a stirring. The legs of the woman were not resting on the stone; each leg had fallen either side of the bench and the welcoming sight of the convex bump between her legs was asking him to fondle it; as if feeding a pony. His arousal was intense as he slowly slid a hand inside her top she didnt stir as he ventured further. With great care and gentleness he manoeuvred his roving hand inside the lace of her bra cup and located the nipple; it was erect from the cold and, as he rolled it tenderly between his thumb and forefinger, the bulge in his trousers threatened to burst through the material. The pleasure was intense as he felt wetness on the end of his growing member. The womans mouth opened slightly and her head moved as he panicked and withdrew his hand, preparing to flee. He paused for a second as she settled whilst emitting a moan of, what he thought of as satisfaction. He chose to renew his depraved sexual assault. He pulled the zip of the tracksuit a little further, enabling his shaking hand to grope as much of the breast as possible; he kneaded it as more fluid seeped from his penis. The woman lay still. The sexual desire raging through him was overwhelming as he surveyed the immediate area, seeing nothing but blackness. His courage raised a notch as his free hand caressed the area between her open legs; his 373

middle finger seeking out the crevice of her slit through the cotton material. The perverts digit rubbed the slit in circular motions, as the woman stirred again; but on this occasion the abuser did not retreat, on the contrary, the womans whimper increasing his ardour. He slipped his hand inside the tracksuit bottom access was simple through the loose fitting garment and he praised the Lord above as his fingers foraged through the pubic hair, having decided to probe inside the panties. He pulled his other hand from the flesh of her breast and used it to release his throbbing member from its trousered prison. It sprang through the opened fly as if catapulted, as his investigative fingers rubbed the clitoris of the drunken woman. He now began to masturbate his fully erect penis and he felt a small globule of liquid inside the womans vagina. Her head moved slowly from one side to the other and her mouth opened again. Mmm, not now hun it mumbled as he straddled the stone bench, still wanking his welcoming tool through his opened fly. He withdrew his moist finger from her vagina, stopped masturbating, and, as he stood over her, legs either side of the bench, he lifted one of her legs, then the other to rest on the bench which would enable his next perverted move. He used both hands to grip the elastic of her tracksuit bottoms coupled with the lace of her panties, slowly pulling them down over her hips. He first pulled them past her buttocks, and then pulled them down from the front. The bush was now exposed and as he laid himself on top of her, about to push his now desperate member into her, the woman awoke with a start. She took one second to register the loathsome, debauched truth of the situation and, as he prematurely ejaculated into her pubic hair, she emitted a harrowing, high-pitched howl of abhorrence. GET THE FUCK OFF ME YOU FILTHY CUNT!! she wailed, and the terrified, orgasmic would-be 374

rapist attempted to fumble his semen-sodden tool back into his trousers as he fled, crouching, into the darkness. Samantha raised herself upright and, as she lifted her panties back over her thighs, she felt the wetness of her attackers ejaculated seed in her pubic hair, and vomited violently. She fell to the damp grass and with her tracksuit bottoms still around her upper thighs; she continued to disgorge vigorously as the tears streamed from her eyes like a river through a broken dam. The policeman re-entered the premises, standing back to allow Michael through before him. Right then, he said, were all going to take a trip to the station. We will drive around the area to look for he checked his notepad, Samantha. Theres no need for handcuffs is there boys? The two men shook their heads simultaneously. Chester sat in the front passenger seat with the male officer behind the wheel; Michael sat in the back with the female, immediately behind Chester. So, Samantha is how old again? the driver asked. An awkward silence developed, both men unsure about who should reply. Just turned twenty-eight. Michael said, deliberately precise, in order to aggravate the pantywaist in front of him. And shes wearing? Again, silence. She was wearing a white tracksuit top and bottoms, with lovely new Reeboks, Mike answered again, somewhat sarcastically. And what was she wearing when you last saw her Chester? The same, he replied disconsolately. The sound of his voice and the sight of the back of his head instilled, in Michael, equal measures of anger and pain. He wanted to embed a long, sharp knife into Chesters bony head. He thought of mentioning his ex-wife staying with him a few 375

days earlier, and the reason why she had, but he fought the urge. So neither of you would have any idea where she would go? Youve tried her friends house where her daughter stays regularly, youve tried her friend upstairs Shes got no friends lefthe wont let her have any. Mike could not prevent the insinuating outburst. What do you mean by that Michael? At that point, a thought occurred to him, an imaginary switch clicked in his head as he recalled his and Sams conversation when she had stayed a few days earlier. Shed told him that shed run away from Chester and gone to sit in the abbey churchyard. I know where she might be, he said calmly, leaning towards Chester, and if shes harmed I will fucking kill you son! Whoah! the female shouted, putting her arm across Michaels chest to push him back and dissuade him from potential violence. I will be putting these handcuffs on you mate, if you carry that on! Now just calm down, sit back and tell us where you think she might be. The intervening event had deflected the male officers question. He continued. Go on Michael. Try the grounds of the abbey. She told me she goes there sometimesto get away from things. Chesters face showed horror and incredulity. When did she tell you that? the policewoman asked. Last Wednesday. She came round with my son, stayed at mine the night. He didnt specify that they had stayed in separate rooms, purposely to heap more angst on to the disconcerted Chester. The truth was out. Did you know about this Chester? the policeman asked him. The boy appeared bemused, angry and hurt and not a little scared, fearing that the physical abuse he had inflicted upon her would be divulged. Did Mike know, he thought had she told him? His stomach wavered a little. 376

I was asleep. It was late when I woke up in the morning so I just thought shed gone out with the kid. I didnt think nothing of it, but I didnt know shed stayed at his! He spat out the last word as he jerked his head backwards in the direction of his nemesis. Michael smirked. The plot thickens, the policeman grinned as they pulled up at the abbey. Ill go and take a look, the female said. The three remained in the car as she exited to investigate. She heard nothing as she shone her torch into the blanket of darkness. After a minute she noticed, in the murky recesses of the grounds, an empty bottle glinting in her torchlight; it had toppled onto its side underneath a stone bench. Imagining it was probably evidence of an old drunk, she approached it anyway to investigate further. Another empty bottle of cider was upright, partly disguised by the stone, and a cluster of cigarette ends lay strewn around it. She shone the torch closer and picked up one of the stubs the circle of lipstick around it confirmed the previous presence of a female, and she was able to discern from the condition of it, and its counterparts, that the presence had been recent. She shone her light further underneath the bench and saw a mittened glove obviously owned by a female. She picked it up, spun the torchlight around the area and continued her investigation. On discovering nothing she headed back to the police car. Anyone recognise this? She held the glove aloft. The three men turned to face it and Michael took it from her. Thats hers, I bought her them the Christmas before last shes been there. Nobody noticed the tiny speck of dried semen on the gloves thumb.

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The Squirrel Man in the Quarry Park was surrounded by his only friends. He was feeding them peanuts from his fingers. They retreated hastily in sharp movements as they gladly accepted their repast. Dad! Its the Squirrel Man, look! Sarah squealed in delight. She adored the small rodents and yearned for them to befriend her, but they just ran away. Even when she had offered them morsels, shed had to throw them on the ground. She was jealous of Squirrel Man. Michael smiled at his daughter. Go and have a look then darling, but dont get too close and scare them off. Me go, me go too! shouted Jonathan as he struggled to escape the confines of his pushchair reins. Sarah sighed outwardly, called him a spoon and ran delightfully towards them. Michael pondered on yesterdays events. The foursome in the police car had returned to Samanthas room after finding the evidence and discovered her sound asleep on her bed; it was 1.13am. The assault on her had sobered her up instantly and shed stumbled the sixminute journey home in a deluge of tears. She had been approached along the route, on two occasions, by concerned single men, who had scurried away immediately on hearing the words, FUCK OFF AWAY FROM ME! After saturating herself in the shower shed gone to bed trying her utmost to come to terms with the filthy violation she had just endured, and, astoundingly, had fallen asleep. The police officers had entered the hostel and, observing her sleeping soundly and unharmed, had decided to take no further action against any party as it appeared that no crime had been committed. They did, however, transport Michael back to his flat and warned him to refrain from any threatening behaviour or possible repercussions towards Chester Badcock they would be watching him closely.

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As the two children viewed the bushy-tailed vermin from a safe distance, dad continued walking slowly whilst talking to himself. Ive got to kill him. I have just got to kill him there is no other way. He was finding it incredibly difficult, almost impossible, to deal with the continuing situation; it was consuming him, weighing down on him like a solid sheet of steel and suffocating him like a pillow. Or her? Should I kill her? He reprimanded himself immediately for entertaining such a thought how could he kill the mother of his children? Fuck off Mikey! He knew at that moment that the urge to kill Chester Badcock was far too powerful to battle. He hoped that this second murder would be his last. He had to devise a strategy, and would. The warnings from the police had not even entered his mind the intent to commit murder hijacking his thoughts like an obsessed terrorist.

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28
bless me father for i have sinned
killed a man. The policeman was wholly oblivious to the presence of the man as he examined his notes behind the grubby, glass screen which was smeared with handprints. The words caused his eyes to raise slowly, a curiosity expressed deep within them. Im sorry? he said. The man repeated his confessional in a consistent, monotone voice, duplicating the emotionless expression, I killed a man. The officer shifted his notes aside and stood, his interest having been stimulated by the stark admission. You killed a man? 380

Yes. Would you like to come through sir? Yes. The officer unbolted the sturdy, brown door to the left of the screen the austerity and clinical practicality of the door reminded him of what lay on the other side of it - and escorted the confessor inside. As he re-locked it, he invited him to take a seat and went in search of a colleague. The face of the man, as he sat, showed a humble, yet proud, longanimity he knew the freedom that he had just relinquished would not be his again for many years, and he shuddered at the thought. After three weeks of relative tranquillity in the tempestuous life of Michael Madigan, he had devised his plot. The familiarity of the whole scenario felt comfortable to him, like a pair of worn out slippers, as the memories of his first murder flooded back to him He had gleaned essential information from Samantha and discovered that Chester slept at his fathers house (a short distance from his own flat) on a Monday and Friday night. In order to ensure that the information was true, and to discover the whereabouts of his fathers house, Mike had trailed him on the following Monday night. He was able to observe the house from a small, discreet park situated approximately fifty yards diagonal to the house. And, after regular explorations of the surrounding area (and the park itself), he rejoiced in the dearth of wandering people; this was extremely advantageous to his iniquitous plan. On the Monday (the quietest night of the two) he would lurk in the darkness waiting for Chester to appear, and, praying to a God that he once believed in, that the area would not be peopled, he would call his name from the shaded obscurity of the park. Chester would hear it, stop, and peer towards the park area; he would see nobody. He may choose to dismiss it as a trick of the brain and continue on his way, if this occurred he would not ignore the second 381

call. He would approach the park, tentatively. As he drew near, Michael would call out his name again, in a ghostly, more menacing tone, and Chester would cry out, Whos there? Michael would ensure he was within earshot and whisperslowly, IfuckedyourgirlfriendChesterme-old-fellow-me-lad. I fucked Samantha up the arse, Chester. He would then head towards the voice, seething with curiosity, repudiation and perhaps rage, at which point Michael would pounce like a panther, plunging the nineinch blade through his chest, repeating the action as many times as necessary. The upstart would be gone for ever, Samantha would return to her former confident, effervescent self, ask him to return, ask him to forgive her, she would forgive him and he would have his family back simple! The critical aspect which had not occurred to him during the hatching of his twisted, murderous plot was the fact that he had threatened to kill Chester three weeks earlier, in the confined presence of two police officers; and had been warned to desist from threatening the teenager. This fact had only sparked into his consciousness the very night before he walked into the police station. And so, he had lay awake in his bed until sleep took hold as dawn appeared, considering his options. It was impossible for him not to kill Chester he knew the urge, had experienced it on precisely one occasion in his life; and it was too substantial for him to overpower. If he did kill him, he would undoubtedly be the number one (and perhaps only) suspect; he would be detained, questioned and most probably charged with pre-meditated murder. A life sentence would ensue, and this option did not suit. The solitary choice he had was to ensure that it was impossible for him to kill Chester. Suicide would make this task insurmountable, but hed had enough of that. He could not change towns (or even countries) as he knew he couldnt rest and would return to implement the deed. He 382

had to remove himself from society, to a place where it was inconceivable how the murder could happen. That place was prison. He would miss his children terribly and yearn for them every single day, and this nauseated him and was a harrowing thought, but he knew it would have to be either ten years maybe, without them (possibly less) or probably twenty years without them (possibly more). He had no choice. He had opted to admit to the killing of his victim fourteen years ago; but he would not admit to murder it would be manslaughter. He knew from reading the news articles after the slaying that the police were probably not treating the crime as a murder, so he may escape with a charge of manslaughter possibly involuntary manslaughter due to provocation. Even if it were deemed to be voluntary manslaughter it was worth the gamble, so he had decided to roll the dice. Two plain clothes officers approached him as he sat, impassive, in the dirty, grey, plastic seat; he was sure they used to have the very same ones in his junior school. Would you like to walk this way please? Yes. He raised himself an immense effort after his one hour of sleep and walked, sandwiched in between the two detectives. They led him to an interview room. It was stark and reprehensible and contained within it a battered, heavily scratched wooden table (on it sat a tape recorder), three plastic chairs encircled it and a wastepaper bin stood forlornly in the corner. The necessary legalities were adhered to; he was officially cautioned and told he was not under arrest. Did he want legal representation? The interview would be recorded etc. This all bored Michael. He just wanted it finished. The sooner it was over, the sooner he could sleep, and the sooner he would be out of prison. With all three men seated, the moustached officer started the recording, stating 383

who was present and introduced himself (unnecessarily, as hed just said his name into the microphone) to Mike as Steve and his colleague as Dave. Dave nodded towards Michael, certified and stern-faced. So, you say youve killed a man? Mike replied with his fourth solitary yes; the only word he had uttered in the previous five minutes since his freedom had ceased. Who did you kill Michael? He told the story, displaying no emotion whatsoever (omitting the intent of the act) and, after seven minutes of unbroken monologue, fell silent. The interview lasted for two hours and thirty-six minutes, during which, one or both of the officers left the room; returning each time carrying sheets of paper. They continuously asked him open-ended questions, to establish whether the confession was genuine and to glean more information from him about the incident. So many questions, he thought. Just do me, rozzers! He was held in custody overnight while the detectives continued their research into the killing, interacting with their Metropolitan Police counterparts, and at 3.26 p.m. the following afternoon, Michael Madigan was formally charged with voluntary manslaughter. He felt a little relieved that it was not murder but had hoped for a lesser charge of self-defence (he had stated that his victim had attacked him first), but this was not accepted. The wound to the back of the head (which Mike had caused by slamming his head onto the brick) was deemed to deep and excessive to have been caused by a simple fall, however, intent would be difficult to prove. Silly mistake Mikey! After his court appearance the following morning, and bail having been refused, he was sent to Shrewsbury prison on remand, pending his trial.

384

After three months of attempting to come to terms with her ex-husbands confessions and subsequent incarceration, Samantha was still shocked and confused. What she found so difficult to comprehend and subsequently deal with was the fact that she had been with this man for nine years, lived with him for eight of those years, mothered his two children and yet, was thoroughly ignorant of the knowledge that he was a killer. This fact tore her to shreds and rendered the whole period (and marriage) a farce, a preposterous sham. It shouldnt have mattered as she didnt love him any more but it did. How could she tell this to her children? Shed decided to protect them (temporarily) by telling them that hed had to go away again, like before. She would wait for the outcome of the trial in two months time before choosing her next step. He would surely be found guilty if he admitted the confession at the trial, but she would await the sentence before telling them anything about it. She was dreading the impending day. Her life had improved dramatically since the attempted rape. She had chosen not to inform the police about the incident but knew that she could not have dealt with it (and her abusive boyfriend) alone. She had opted to attend counselling, which, after a month or so had helped her immensely. Shed also left her tiny hostel room, having been offered a three-bedroomed council house. Admittedly, it was not in a healthy state of repair but it was a mansion to Samantha and her children. It was situated in a small village situated four miles outside of the town and it offered her sanctuary from the opprobrious Chester Badcock; it was highly unlikely that he would ever find her if he decided to search for her. And this generated a huge relief and comfort within her. She felt completely free and prepared to rebuild her soured life. She missed the presence of her ex-husband solely because of the upset and confusion which it had instilled into the children, but she did not miss him. And 385

she did not miss Chester. She was fully aware that the journey to a complete recovery would be a difficult and arduous one, and she may never recuperate fully, but, with her ongoing counselling sessions and the disappearance of the two major scourges of her recent life Michael and Chester she felt more in control. The state of limbo regarding Michaels impending sentence was not ideal but when he was sentenced, she knew she would cope. It was the fact that she had married, and given almost a third of her whole life to a killer, that she could not yet cope with. As Michael Madigan stood in the dock awaiting the judges decree, he trembled slightly. He thought of an old film he had seen as a teenager where the last request of the doomed, soon to be hung murderer was for a warm shirt, so the wind would not cause him to shiver, as any shivering would be construed by the gaggle of observing human vultures as fear; but Michael was not as fearless. Hed had a colossal amount of time to ponder the future years of incarceration and had tried to mentally prepare himself for it, but now, as his imminent future was about to be determined, he felt the fear. He was petrified. The voluble articulation of the decrepit pensioner in the silly wig droned into Michaels bones, the man reminded him of an old, sleeping shark. The voice faded away and the ludicrous thought entered his head that hed not fulfilled his one-amonth-sexual-conquests for the year ahead. The words twelve years registered and he stood, ashen-faced, using all his strength and will to prevent him from crumpling as the two burly police officers held on to him. He picked up his possessions which he would take into prison and was escorted to the cells downstairs. Mikey, you simply are a cunt. He said the words aloud, aware at that moment of the egregious mistake he 386

had made. He resisted the urge to run and acquiesced to yet another stage in his recrudescent existence.

Samantha had chosen not to attend the court hearing she did not feel strong enough. She couldnt reconcile herself to set eyes upon the man who shed once adored, had spent almost a decade with, and had fathered her children and, despite the resentment she felt towards him, she could not witness his ruin. She knew that he would have been imprisoned for a substantial amount of time, but twelve years? It was more years than they had spent together, it was more years than the combined ages of her children it seemed like an eternity. Sarah would be a woman, Jonathan a teenager, on his release. How would they feel about losing their father for such an extensive and critical period of their upbringing? He was such a selfish man how could he do this? She felt intense hatred towards him. But, despite this venom lurking inside her, she had accepted his phone call in which hed informed her of the sentence and, against the might of her will, shed agreed to contact his landlord and help drain the flat of his insignificant effects donating everything to charity. She wanted no part of this man any longer, but she would do him this one, final favour. He had blubbered piteously throughout the length of the telephone call, apologizing for everything he had put her and the kids through. The guilt was consuming him for depriving the children of their father, but he would return an altered man and would try to reconstruct, what would no doubt be, a tattered relationship between them if that is what they wanted. She felt no pity towards him, only animosity. And the sound of his pathetic, quivering voice, which she had deemed so sexually attractive at one time, made her feel physically ill. Shed 387

ended the call with a simple bye Mike as he whimpered something unintelligible. And now, only hours after hearing the news, and still unable to digest it herself, she knew she had to tell her children of their fathers fate. She could have made them stay absent from school and playgroup to prevent them hearing the news, but this was just delaying the inevitable; and what if Sarah found out by accident or picked up a newspaper, Sam knew she would never forgive herself. She had to tell them today, and she would. The very concept of instigating the conversation knotted her stomach and she pictured the misery on their usually glowing faces as they learned that their father would not be around for twelve long years. She suspected that with good behaviour he could be out in maybe seven, eight, nine years? But was this man capable of good behaviour? She didnt know. She didnt know the man who shed shared her life with for so long he was an imperfect stranger. She would, however, soften the hammer blow to them by informing them of the probability that he would be free sooner than the sentence dictated, but it would still feel like a lifetime to them. She heard the back door burst open, glanced at the clock 3.25pm and knew it was Sarah arriving home from school. Jonathan was in the front garden practicing a dance routine with a like-minded E-number guzzler from two doors down. Mom!! she heard, Guess what? I got a certificate, look! She exploded into the living-room, frantically waving a piece of paper; the delight and excitement etched into her features was going to make this so much harder than it was already. Sam put on a brave face and contemplated postponing the decision to tell them, but it was impossible, she had to tell them now. Whats that for darling? she asked, encouragingly numb. 388

Its for swimming! I swumswamdont know, anyway I did two lengths of the pool, look! Theres the proof mumtheres my name, Sarah Michaela Madigan! And she held it with both of her hands, two inches from her mothers face. Sam backed away slightly and took it from her, and, looking closely into the beaming face of her daughter said, Well done Sarah, Im so proud of you. Yay! she exclaimed, I got a certif-ee-cat, I got a certif-ee-cat! And she embarked upon a merry jig around the room, as if she had adopted her brothers hyperactive genes. Samantha simply could not tell her at this moment. She decided to postpone it, but only until teatime it surely had to be today. Jon! she called from the window, Tell Aaron to go home now, your teas ready. Come on in! The boy was ravenous and neglected to offer his usual, obstinate objections. My mom say tea ready, so you gotta go now. See ya. And he bounded towards the open front door. Aaron said, Bye! as the metal flap on the letter-box clattered loudly with the slamming of the door. Dont forget to take your trainers off son! ucks sake! the boy whispered as he sat on the stairs. He prized one off with the opposite foot and yanked the other off, as if laces had never been invented. Whats tea? Whats f tea? I starved! Burger and chips. Go and sit at the table. Jon appeared confused. But Mom, wanna watch telly - always watch telly Dangermouse on now. Not today son, were all going to sit at the table for a change. Mummy wants to talk to you both for a bit. I never did nothin! he bawled, imagining the talk would be a scolding. Sam smiled a wafer thin smile. 389

I know son, Im not going to tell you off, Im just going to talk to you and your sister. Appeased, he raced into the kitchen, now totally oblivious to the intrepid, cartoon rodent. His sister was already seated at the table, waiting patiently, knife and fork standing to attention in each hand. Jon copied her but proceeded to slam his utensils violently into the placemat. Jon! Dont, Sarah chastised. Fannies! he replied, twisting his features. Sarah lunged at him, trying to stab his arm with her fork, but he was ready for her and swivelled away in time. MOM! SARAH STAB ME!! You little shit! she murmured, as mother entered. Dont you two start tonight because Im in no mood. Behave, the pair of you! They muted, but continued to pull ugly, contorted expressions at each other as Samantha fetched their plates from the oven. The faces transformed to angelic as she served them at the table. Dont touch the plates because theyre hot. Jonathan immediately touched his plate with his index finger, retracting it within a micro-second. Jon, what did you do that for? What did I tell you? Donttouchtheplate. The boy pulled a sad face and venomously speared seven chips onto his fork. She allowed them a few minutes to settle and chew, and to gather her own thoughts. How would she tell them? It had to be gently but, by the same token, ruthlessly forthright. After three minutes of deliberation and uncharacteristic silence, and as Jonathan was on the point of imbibing his final portion of burger which was lanced on his fork (he had munched around the whole burger without removing it from his fork) she gazed at her daughter, pitifully. Sarah returned the look, suspiciously. Samantha spoke. Listen kids, she said, Ive got something to tell you both. She swallowed hard, as they instantly looked towards her, both knowing that this was no normal 390

situation. Sarah felt timorous, Jonathan, confused. Sam gulped again as Sarah thought about speaking, deciding against it. Mother resumed. Its about your dad. Daddy comin back! Daddy comin back! When? Mummy, when? She fought back a tear and pinched the bridge of her nose. Sarah remained hushed, she knew he wasnt. No son, nohes not. She gripped his tiny hand and glimpsed at her daughter; Sarahs tears beginning to well. Mum continued. She had to show strength. You know hes been away for a while? Neither child uttered a sound. Well, hes going to be away for a while longera lot longer in fact. Sarah rubbed away a solitary tear with the heel of her hand. Why? she asked dejectedly. Jonathan was now showing signs of diffidence, he did not like this. Samantha gulped a mouthful of water. Your dad she hesitated, your dad did a very bad thing, a long time before you were born and even before I knew him, he was just a child himself really. Jons openmouthed glare was one of puzzled uneasiness as Sarahs nine-year old stomach fluttered. Is he in gaol mum? she asked, both eyes had now formed tears; Sam thought that her daughter was too clever for her tender years. She inhaled deeply and clasped her daughters hand; the other was still clutching her boys across the table. Im afraid so darling, yes. Your fathers locked up. She continued to combat the tears as Jonathans activated. The thought went through her head at that moment that this was the most difficult thing she had had to do in her entire life. She would willingly endure ceaseless physical beatings than to have to go through this. But she did have to go through this they both needed to know. She composed 391

herself and continued, wondering when the inevitable question would arise. Your dad, when he was very younghe got in a fight. It was an accident, it was just a fight, but the other man she exhaled and clenched her eyes tightly for a second, the other mandiedand your father, because hes a good man and wanted to do the right thing, told the policeand now theyve sent him away. Im so sorry kidsbut I, I will never, ever leave you. You will always have me, I promise. I promise you both that. There was an eery silence as young eyes streamed tears; palms rubbed and reddened the eyes, as more tears followed. Daddy not comin back? Jon whimpered, like a lost dog. Sam swiftly replied. He will come back son, he will. But it wont be for a very long time. Howhow longmum? Sarah sobbed. This was the question she had been dreading. This was getting no easier, she thought. Im afraid they gave him twelve years Im so sorry. Both young mouths opened wide in sheer astonishment and dread as their mother hurriedly interjected. But these days, if you are good in prison, they let you out earlyso he could only be in for seven or eight years. And we can go and see him once a month, so you will see him. Seven years? Eight years? Twelve years? It was all the same to Sarah, it was simply a lifetime. But mum? she sniffed. But mum, if it was an accidentthen, why? Its not fair. Sam squeezed her daughters hand tighter. I know darling, I knowbut thats what they decidedand Im sorry, but theres nothing we can do about it now. Weve all got to be strong. Jonathan began to bang his crying head on to his plate. 392

Jon! Jon! Dont, dont be silly mate! She tore a piece of kitchen roll and wiped the brown sauce from his forehead, took another and wiped his streaming eyes. Sarahs eyes were swimming in their own pools; she knew nothing would ever be the same again. Shed seen the TV programmes where they go to visit people in gaol you couldnt even touch them. You sit behind a screen and speak through telephones and put your hands on the glass. That would be worse than not seeing him at all, she thought. She raised herself disconsolately from the chair and approached her mother she hugged her as tight as shed ever done before. The adult tears finally arrived in silent rivulets and dropped from her chin on to the head of her daughter as she reciprocated the bear hug. She beckoned her son towards her with a waving gesture of her hand and tried to speak, but the power of speech was temporarily disabled. The boy pushed back his chair and ran around the table. She gathered him into the embrace with her left hand as her right arm continued to squeeze her daughter, who was now wailing uncontrollably. Jon was still feeling a little confused but thought he understood as his tears soaked his mothers clothes. He pulled his weeping face from her cardigan and gazed up at her, and through whimpers, sniffs, mucus, tears and saliva he pleaded with her, Can we go see im now please mummy? Please? She glanced down at him adoringly and felt, at that moment, as if her entire insides had been vacuumed out. She then erupted into a deluge of tears and the three of them clenched one another in a human lump of unadulterated grief. Kevin Lamb brisked his way through the doors of the Music Hall intent on ignoring the two receptionists. He had heard the news earlier in the day and knew that the pair of meddlesome popinjays would be relishing it and would take incredible enjoyment from rubbing his nose in it he 393

wouldnt allow it. He considered scampering past them to the control room of the theatre but instead he walked upright like a parading soldier, staring blankly ahead of him. And then it arrived, like he knew it would. I told you he was wrong, the murdering weirdo! the shrill, vastly irritating voice of Lorraine exploded like shrapnel, tearing through his eardrums as she hoisted the newspaper like a victorious flag into the air, pressing the headline to the glass for him to see. Twelve years! Twelve years he got, and he got off lightly. Kevin couldnt disregard her gnarled succour. Yeah, yeah, I knowIve read it. And you just love it dont you Lorraine. Dont give a thought to his kids will you? Or give him the credit for owning up to it. You always hated him, you twisted harpie! You just enjoy it and revel in the guys misery and go back to your insignificant little life I pity that husband of yours. She instantly felt a nudge of humility and hurt but refused to show it as the munchkin voice re-surfaced in characteristic defence. Up yours Kevin! she spewed and returned to her hypocritical and hyper-critical world. Emma remained silent throughout the disagreement and felt dirty for having shared herself with the villain; also feeling slightly sorry for him. But she too would not display her true feelings. SHREWSBURY KILLER GETS TWELVE YEARS A Shrewsbury man was gaoled for twelve years yesterday at Shrewsbury Crown Court. Michael Madigan, 32, of Palmer Close, Darville admitted to the manslaughter of Monty Whistler, 42, of West Kensington, London in 1981. Madigan, who was 18 at the time, said that he had been approached by Whistler, who appeared to be intoxicated. After suffering verbal and physical abuse from Whistler, Madigan admitted to lashing out in selfdefence, and, in the ensuing fight, Whistler fell to the 394

ground, receiving a fatal blow to the head as he fell on to a brick. The judge took into account the confession of Madigan and the fact that he had walked in to Shrewsbury Police Station voluntarily to admit his part in the incident. But, he had also to take into account the length of time since the attack, the fact that Madigan had lived the following fourteen years unpunished and that, had he called for an ambulance at the time, the dying man may have recovered fully if he had received early medical attention. He will serve a maximum of twelve years, with eligibility for parole after eight years. Michael Madigan was refrained from collapsing as he heard the sentence and was led away by two policemen as he muttered uncontrollably to himself. He had recently divorced from his wife of five years and has a daughter, 9, and a son, 3, with her; she was unavailable for comment. A spokesman at Tesco Superstore in Sundorne, where Madigan worked for four months as a warehouse assistant, said, He seemed such a decent man, he would do anything to help anyone around the place, but a lot of the staff here thought there was something not quite right with him. I liked him, but now I know hes killed a man, I know what they mean. Sarah Madigan! Can you please put down the lid of your desk! I shant tell you again! Miss Lovering was becoming impatient with her pupil. Sarah had not heard her previous warnings as she read every single word of the newspaper cutting, which had been pinned to the inside of her desk lid. A tear began to form in her eye but she refused to give them the satisfaction, as she fought against it. She heard a giggle from two desks behind her and she knew who had spitefully put the cutting there it was that evil Maggie Thaxter, and she was going to suffer. Sarah calmly closed the lid of her desk, after surreptitiously removing the newspaper article. 395

Sorry Miss, I didnt hear you. Miss Lovering eyed the ceiling in resignation and proceeded with the story. Sarah remained poised despite the outrage which was surging through her. She took her cartridge pen from the groove on her desk (Thaxter had also mocked her for using a granny pen, calling her old-fashioned; Sarah hadnt cared.) and unscrewed it. She pulled out the ink cartridge and crumpled the newspaper cutting into a ball. She began to squeeze as much ink as possible from the cartridge onto the paper ball; it was a new refill so it flowed quite freely and in large globules. As she extruded the final droplets onto the newspaper ball the ink on her fingers caused no concern; the ball was now soaked in thick, black ink. She glanced up at the teacher, who had turned towards the blackboard to write the word SALMON. Sarah threw herself from her seat as if shed been physically ejected from it, and in one swift, sleek movement she leapt towards her malicious classmate. She wrenched back her mousy-brown curls and, as she yelped in pain, rammed the inky orb into her gaping mouth. She prodded it deep into her tongue and tried her utmost to poke it down her throat. The gurgling noises of her enemy and her tear-filled, retching face injected Sarah with a fulfilment she found difficult to suppress. She smiled, pulled her inky finger from the mouth (fearing a bite), and wiped it into Maggies hair. SARAH MADIGAN! she heard. The chunky, varicose-veined legs of the teacher hurtled towards her to snuff out the violent act of revenge. Sarah was pulled away from her victim, and as the black-tongued Maggie spluttered and spat out the inky ball, Sarah screamed venomously as she was herded towards the classroom door, Youre gonna die of poison, bitch! Every solitary pupil gawped, open-mouthed, at either Sarah or Maggie or both of them, as Sarahs features expressed a deep malevolence of which her imprisoned, delinquent father would have been proud. 396

She had been suspended for two weeks for the incident, the headmistress taking into account the trauma which she was suffering. Her victim had received a suspension of one week for instigating such a rancorous misdemeanour. Samantha had not meted out any punishment to her daughter, on the contrary, she had praised her reservedly for standing up for herself; and inside she felt a glorious respect and adulation for her daughter. Daniel and Hilary were seated in the shady enclosure of the Prince Albert beer garden. Dan was gazing through branches at a mosaic sky as the sun netted its rays through the canopy of leaves, failing to provide any substantial warmth to the back of Little Stuey as he ferreted amongst the shrubs. Adam set his pint glass on the wooden table, purposely clinking the half-empty glass of his friend. Salaam fishpeople! Whats this big news then that you wouldnt divulge via the telephone receiver? Is it top secret? Has Little Stuey turned into a termite? He sipped his headless lager, peering over the glass at Dan and awaiting a rejoinder. Little Stuey withdrew his face from the soil, a globule of damp earth pimpled the end of his nose. Hey Adam, man! If your headache is causing you pain, cut it off! he advised, returning instantly to his quest, whatever that might have been. Adam took a drag of his roll-up and shook his head in confused resignation Dan remained stone-faced as he twisted sideways to face his friend. You remember Mike? he asked Adam. Mikey, Mikey Madigan? Of course I do, the fucked up Irish mother-raper! How is he? Is he back? Have you seen him? I know you spoke to him at Christmas didnt you? 397

I did, yeah, replied Dan solemnly. He skimmed a look at his girlfriend who was sitting opposite; the secret they knew regarding Michaels attempted suicide would remain untold. No, hes not back. In fact he wouldnt be able to come back if he wanted to. Adams eyes sunk to a grave concern. Oh no, youre jokinhes dead. I blame that bitch of a wife of his; I never liked her, the fuckin rag-end! Ad, no, hes not dead matehes got himself sent down. Sent down? Why? Whats he done? Hes not dead Stu! Stuey had aborted his burrowing and was now collecting dog-ends off the concrete floor; he ripped the tobacco from them and deposited it into his tobacco tin, which had a cannabis leaf emblazoned on its lid. Well thats good news Adam, how is Daniel? Have you seen him lately? He was disregarded by all. He got twelve years, Dan resumed. Adam shuddered as his features knotted with shock and disbelief. He put down his glass. Twelve fucking years? What the fuck? Whats he donekilled someone? Daniel took a sip of his lager. Yeah, he simply replied, between mouthfuls. Adams eyes widened, as did his mouth. He remained frozen for several seconds before gulping half of his own drink in two mighty swallows. He wiped his lips with the sleeve of his leather jacket and began rolling another cigarette for once in his life he was lost for words. Apparently, Dan continued, he killed a guy years ago, before we even met him, killed him in the street. Adam regained the power of speech. How dyou know all this? Hilary finished her Coke and stood. Dan, Im going babe if you dont mind. Ill let you two talk it over; Ive got stuff to do anyway. She crossed to 398

him and kissed him on the lips. See ya back indoors babe, soon yeah? glancing at his pint. Bye Adam, bye Little Stu! Adam said goodbye as Stuey farted. I wont be long Hil, Dan replied, about an hour. Adam supped the remainder of his drink and rose from the wooden bench. Another? he asked, nodding his face in the direction of Dans lager. Yeah, fuck itRed Stripe please mate. He returned three minutes later with two pints of Red Stripe and a bottle of Dog, sipping his as he re-entered the beer garden. He asked the question which had remained unanswered. Yeah, sohow do you know all this? I got a phone call yesterday from his ex-missus she found my number in his flat as she was going through his things The nosy, old ropy fuckpiece! Whats she doin going through? Ad, Mike was locked up then, he asked her to sort his stuff out with the landlord so she must have found it then. Adam paused, his friend continued. So yeah, she phoned me and told me he got twelve years for manslaughter; I knew when I spoke to him at Christmas that something was going down. But you didnt think it would be himand for twelve bastard years? Daniel failed to appreciate the intended humour of his friends comment. Little Stuey replaced himself at the table to nuzzle at his half-pint glass of Newcastle Brown, hed heard every word. Hell be out in millennium year if he doesnt break any mirrors, the diminutive Geordie stated assuredly. The pair regarded each other, bemused as usual by Stueys fatuous footnotes. How dyou work that one out Stu? Stuart stared at Adam objectively, replying, Listen man f fucks sake, y 399

get seven years bad luck for breakin a mirror, true or false? Superstitiously so, yeah. So, if y divnt break any they take seven years off ya sentence! Twelve minus seven equals five in my book, man 1995, 96, 97, 98, 99millennium! Ive got the gout and Mikey boys out. He topped his half-pint glass and, without drinking any, skipped merrily to the toilet. Michael Madigan slouched on his bed, the upper bunk, in his tiny cell his new home, his home for the next few years. His cellmate, a Jewish shop owner from London named Steven, had just defecated on the toilet and the distressing stench caused Mike to submerge his head into the stinking pillow. The fumes from the Jews stools would amalgamate with the constant foul air which the man breathed out through his nicotine-stained dentures (he smoked more cigarettes than Mike himself). The cell was a farrago of loathsome, nauseating aromas which hung in the dank air like a malodorous shroud. He had lived here for two weeks now since his transfer and was deploring every desperate, gnarled minute of his existence; he condemned himself for plunging his body into this frightening babel of confusion. You fucking smelly, big-nosed fuck! Why cant you never hold it in til the mornin you fuckin cap-wearin, tightfisted, pony-tailed whoremonger! Oh Mikey, Mikey, Mikey! Why, oh why did you have to tell the truth you silly cunt? Honesty has destroyed you, again! Youve only got another eleven years, eleven months and two weeks to go; how the fuck are you gonna cope with that? Aha my bad me friend take a few months off that for the time weve already doneand, I will cope and do you know why Ill cope? Because I have toIve got no fuckin choice thats why! And youre locked up as well, I thought you might have stayed on the outside instead of coming into this hell-laden, 400

doom-filled hole of Satanic misery? Mikey, Ive told you before, we will go down togetherwe will never be parted. No matter what you have lost or will lose again, youll always have me. Thank you very much! Youre welcome Mikey, now get some sleep, youve got an early start in the morning. Ive always got an early start, you fuckin freak! He etched another faint mark into the wall with the zip of his discarded trousers (thinking hed seen Steve McQueen doing something similar in the film Papillon) and tried his utmost to remain strong as he lowered his eyelids; thoughts of sun-drenched beaches and long cocktails swam through his head as he encased his nostrils into the threadbare blanket the stench of human feculence almost choking him.

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Man, happy...returns
BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR SARAH, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!! She reddened subtly at the attention lavished upon her by her family and friends and attempted the impossible task of extinguishing the seventeen candles on her triple-layered birthday cake with one solitary blast. She knew she was too old for this childlike scenario and felt an embarrassment which she didnt welcome; but her mother had had the cake made especially for the occasion, and she enjoyed making her mother happy. Eleven flames disappeared with the first puff from her lungs and, at the third attempt, with all candles now producing wiry chimneys of smoke, a 402

HAPPY

mountainous roar of appreciation and festivity reverberated around the living-room. Her boyfriend kissed her on the cheek and she wanted a cigarette. Happy birthday babe! he felicitated, fawning like a needy puppy. Shed been seeing Tony for seven months and thought she loved him. The age difference was a concern to her (and her mother) but she dismissed it as much as possible for he was a wonderful man and treated her like a princess. Tony Brighton was proverbially tall and dark but the handsome part was lacking he would always try to disguise his Wheres Wally? face with a permanent three-day beard growth. He was twenty-five years old. Sarah was fully aware that her father would have fervently disapproved of him, undoubtedly preaching to her about the potential pitfalls of such an older partner for a teenager, but she hadnt seen him for almost a year, and there was no guarantee he would return to her life. Her last visit to the prison had driven her to tears she barely recognised the man shed adored as a child. He had lost weight throughout his time in prison but on this last occasion he had appeared gaunt, his skin sallow and his eyesthe memory of his eyes haunted her, they were soulless and grey, they were dead. Shed had to leave prematurely, disintegrating into tears as she begged the officers to let her out. She clenched her boyfriends hand and gestured to him her intention to go out for a cigarette he followed her. As they made their way to the garden she tried to calculate the number of days her father would have remaining in prison. Whats todays date? she asked Tony, cheekily. He appeared baffled. Its the twenty-eighth of Aprilits your birth! Of course its the twenty-eighth you free-ack its my birthdaydurr! she paused. So how many days in April, thirty or thirty-one? Thirty days hath September, April, June and Novemberall the rest 403

Yeah, yeahknow-it-all, she replied, I only wanted to know April, double durr! Tony could be a little patronising at times which she disliked but she had to endure it as it was part of his character. My dads out on the fifteenth of May, how many days is that? Seventeen, he answered, without hesitation. She looked at him, startled by the speed of his retort. How did you do that? Speedfreak! she commented. He shrugged as if it were nothing. So, hes out in seventeen days, how many weeks is thattwo and a half! she sipped from her Corona bottle. and I am shitting it. Is it that soon? he replied. So he would have done just under eight years. I wonder how hes going to adjust. Never mind him Tone, what about me? How am I going to adjust if he comes back into my life again? Its gonna be sooo weird with him being out, especially if he comes back to Shrewsbury. Ive got so used to him not being around, itll just beweird! Dont worry babes, Im here for you. And I always will be. He kissed her on the head. And when I become a TV presenter well buy a big house and settle down in the country and never be apart. She thought him a bit of a geek at times, but wouldnt dismiss the possibility of them building a home (and a life) together. He was unlike any of the boyfriends shed had before, they were only kids but he was different, he was grown up and he had ambition and drive and she loved that part of him. They would not, however, be talking about these possibilities if she knew of his shameful secret. But he would never divulge to her the fact that hed been dismissed from his previous job for sexual harassment having trailed his hand up the inner thigh of a female colleague at a Christmas party and there were several episodes in his past which he would not disclose. 404

She glanced through the French doors into the kitchen and caught her mother eyeing them suspiciously she suspected that she didnt like Tony but knew that she wanted her daughter to be happy, with whoever made her happy, and Tony did. Sarah smiled at her mother who returned it as she walked through to the garden to join them. Sarah darling! she called. She approached her daughter and brushed her bottle against hers. Dont you have too many of them eh? Youre still only seventeen remember. Yay! Seventeen today, seventeen today! she sang, disregarding her mothers warning. Mum? she said, When my dad comes out in a couple of weeks, do you think hell come back here? Sam deliberated for a second or two before responding. I bloody well hope not! she discerned a certain disappointment clouding her daughters features. Im sorry love but I dont even know the man anymore; and what kind of father puts himself away for eight years and misses out on his kids best years? Sam regretted the final criticism as she was aware that any attempt to sour her childrens relationship with their father would result in the opposite outcome. I know mum, but hes still my dad and I think I would like to get to know him a bit when hes out. And I know Jon still adores him, even though he wont admit it. I think Id like him to come back. Sam appeared a little disheartened shed always believed that Sarah would want nothing to do with him on his release. She rubbed her daughters arm as a show of affection and reassurance. Whatever makes you happy darling. Well wait and see when he gets outno doubt hell get in touch. Samantha had re-married four years earlier. The first three years after Michaels incarceration had been relatively peaceful and unexciting for her which shed welcomed 405

unequivocally. The first year had been an upheaval for the children with the loss of their father, but as all children do, they adapted. Sam had absorbed herself in the task of being a good mother to them; they were all she had, and after losing their father, she would have to take on that role too. She had stayed strong for them, more than for her own sake. She had had boyfriends several of them and even one engagement (which had been an error of gargantuan proportions) throughout the three-year period but shed decided to always put her children before them, and no man would enter their lives if either of the children disapproved; they were her greatest priority and would always remain so. But now, more than four years into their marriage, and despite many arguments and periods of silent hostility between her and her husband, she was still hopelessly in love with him. Jody Goodbody (he insisted on being called Joe as the name Jody tended to conjure up an effeminate image) had also been divorced, twice. She secretly hated the fact that hed been married twice before and she often thought disturbing thoughts of him and his former wives but she had taken him on with this knowledge and would have to deal with it. She never imagined that she could feel so much love for a man again after the tragic events with the others, and she knew she would be a complete fool to ever let this man go. He was her rock and she trusted him implicitly. She had arrant respect and admiration for him and she worshipped him. Her thirty-six years had taught her that if she ever found that man who made her feel something which she could neither understand nor describe, had never felt before (and probably never would again) and had never thought possible, then she had to hold on to him, no matter what. Notwithstanding his faults (his lack of ambition, his relaxed attitude to most situations, his constant consumption of bags of Chocolate clair sweets, his apparent lack of enthusiasm and, on some occasions, his 406

explosive temper) and the twelve-year age difference between them, he made her feel alive and so unmistakably special and she would never let that go. Their three-year old daughter, Natasha, was a tiny, female replica of him and Sarah and Jonathan doted on her. They had also grown to love their stepfather for they knew that this man was good for their mother, and after all the misery shed endured at the hands of other men (including their own father) she deserved the happiness that Jody had brought into their family. Im going for another, said Tony, Can I get you two anything? Sarah checked the level of the lager in her bottle and drank the dregs. There you go babe, Ill have the same again. Samantha scowled at her. Take it easy, she advised, a little more seriously than the previous warning. Oh mum, its my birthday! Its my birthday, yippee-yiyay! She was beginning to feel slightly tipsy and her mother knew it. She looked across at her mothers grave countenance and agreed to have a lemonade next time. A minute later her phone buzzed the arrival of a message; Do you want a lime in it? God, hes so gay! she remarked to her mother. Who? Tonyasking me if I want a lime in my beer. Drip! She ignored the message, felt guilty for denigrating him and returned the phone to her pocket. Mum? What doll? Do you think Im copying you? With Tony I mean. Sam claimed a few seconds to register the unexpected question. How do you mean? Well, yknowJoe is a lot older than you, and him and Tony are sort of similar and I even think they look a bit 407

alike, Joe looks a bit like an older version of Tony. And even their names are almost the same, Jody and Tony. Sarah! Theyre completely different and dont you go calling him Jody to his face, you know he hates it. Your stepdad is calm, laid-backtoo laid-back sometimes, but hes not like Tony, hes all hyper and excitable and ambitious and stuff, yknow? And they look nothing like each other! Youve had too many Coronas. The teenager shrugged and coolly flicked another Lambert and Butler from her ten-pack she knew she was right. As she lit it she spied her young brother behind her mothers back as he drank from an unclaimed bottle of beer; he raised the bottle to his lips with his left arm as he simultaneously raised his stiffened right arm, hiding the bottle behind the right arm as he drank. She knew he wasnt right. There were no colourful streamers. There were no waving arms and happy, smiling faces. There were no banners rippling in the breeze heralding WELCOME BACK MIKEYWE MISSED YOU! There was nobody. But as he waited for the clinical sound of the heavy steel door and the clunk of the lock the very sound hed heard seven years, ten months and eleven days earlier it felt joyous to him; starkly contradictory to that previous time. He set his grey holdall on the ground beside him and stood motionless, transfixed. The space of liberation which surrounded him overwhelmed him and an outbreak of sheer rapture surged through his veins, as his heart leapt like a breaking wave in his chest. He was free. Freedom was finally his, and he relinquished himself to the unmitigated pleasure which it offered. He lowered his eyelids peacefully and welcomed the air of the city through his flaring nostrils; he wanted to reach out and grasp it, forcing it into his hungry, damaged lungs. This wasnt prison air. This wasnt dank, foreboding, broody air. This was the air of 408

emancipation and it smelled and tasted so fresh and unauthorised. He listened intently to the sounds of birds, the wind rustling the leaves on trees; a bus hurtled past, he listened to the traffic. And an aeroplane jetted overhead. He had seen a multitude of aeroplanes in the previous years when hed exercised in the precious outdoors with his fellow inmates, but they were not normal aeroplanes, they were prison planes (and hed imagined himself travelling on them as hed stared into the vast, open sky). But this one was different, this was a free aeroplane and he felt no compulsion to project his soul onto it, because he was free. Maybe this is how you feel when you leave the womb? Its like a rebirth. What a shame! Every single person in history has experienced it but not one of them remembers it! Holy shit, this is true fucking bliss! True bliss indeed Mikey boy, breath in your freedom, youve done your time, paid your dues and you deserve it son. Thank you mate. Youre welcome mate. The warring factions inside his head had become relatively good companions throughout his prison life; they had maintained each others strength, pulled each other through the loneliness of the iron days and the steely nights. For four minutes Michael Madigan remained fixed in the same spot, inhaling his freedom as he savoured every special breath. He had jigged. He had sung songs of freedom, FREEEE-EEEE MIKEY MADIGAN! to the tune of the Free Nelson Mandela song he must have appeared like a demented lunatic to any passer-by but he didnt care because he was free. He was thankful that he didnt have to stay in a probation hostel as it was not one of his conditions of release and he knew precisely where his destiny lay; he would return to Shrewsbury. He would rebuild the relationship with his grown children, again. He would rebuild his life, again. He had become accustomed to this 409

during the past twenty-two years of his life and he had every faith in himself that he could achieve his goal again. The renaissance of Michael Madigan would start here. He felt alive. He picked up his bag and embarked upon the lucid, enlightening journey back to reality. He had his discharge grant and travel warrant but was aware of the few hundred pounds which was remaining in his bank account and he wanted it - so his first destination was the bank. He knew that he needed photographic identification to re-open his account (as it would have been suspended after so many years of inactivity) and he ensured that he had this. But how would he get to the bank? He would walk. How would he find it? He would ask. He would ask a free person, talk to a free person. Where is the nearest Barclays Bank please free person, he would say, whereby the free person would shuffle past him without reply, awarding him a look of fearful distaste. Maybe I should leave the free person out of the question? He practiced the question as he spoke, Excuse me, do you know where the nearest Barclays Bank is? Got it! Simple! Leave out the free person bit and be polite. Go for it Mikey boy, go and ask those free people where your money is. He turned left out of the prison grounds and noticed a middle-aged woman approaching. He caught her eye. Excuse me lady? Do you know where my money is free person? The woman regarded him with a look of disdain and fear and hurried past. Mikey! No, stop it! Youll get yourself bloody locked up again. Be normal, its easy, Excuse me, do you know where the nearest Barclays Bank is? No lady, no free personshe is those two things but she didnt wanna be told that by a scruffy ex-con with a manic look in his eyes dickshit! Fuck you! He hesitated. 410

No, sorry, dont fuck youyoure right. I can do it. I have to do it. He walked for a further three minutes, passing several people but failing to muster the confidence to approach them in the correct manner, until he saw a young man. Sorry mate, but do you know where the nearest Barclays Bank is? The passer-by appeared disinterested as he replied, Dunno mate, try the town centre, that way. and ambled away youthfully. Mike now had direction and ventured the way the youths thumb had pointed as he commended himself for his normalcy. As he boarded the National Express coach to Shrewsbury, his four-pack of Stella Artois pint cans nestled safely inside the blue carrier bag, he smiled at his fellow passengers as he walked down the aisle to the rear seat, hoping it would be vacant. The three pints which hed imbibed in the The Dolphin, opposite the bank, would be easier to dispose of due to the proximity of the toilet facilities and he would have relative seclusion. He settled himself in the corner and gazed through the window, thinking where he would lay his head for the night. He contemplated returning to his old flat and perhaps knocking on Sues door, but repudiated the silly notion immediately. He had told the probation officer that he would be staying at his old friend, Kevins, house in Shrewsbury (having kept in touch with him throughout the years) and he knew that Kevin would cover for him if he chose to stay elsewhere, which is what he wished to do now he would visit him in a day or two to organize a plan with his friend. But now he wanted to think so he had to find somewhere to stay. Sensibly, it would have to be a bed and breakfast hed have to tolerate the expense. But it would be glorious to sleep in a comfortable bed, in an actual room with furnishings, curtains and privacy. He opened a beer and felt sultry and fulfilled. Prison life had altered him physically 411

and spiritually, but the mental change was minimal. It had toughened his emotional resolve and had taught him a newness of maturity; and oddly, a self-worth which hed not experienced before. The first year of his confinement had almost broken him; hed had to learn his place in prison existence, with inmates and guards and Michael was not adept at having to do this, but a certain amount of physical violence towards him had ensured that hed learned quickly. Hed understood the people to stay away from and be respectful with due to the plethora of inmates who appeared much more insane than he thought himself to be (and more dangerous) and hed learned a humility and necessity to accept orders without demonstrating his inherent rebelliousness. This had caused him great discomfort at first as he had an innate inability to accept discipline and for the first few months had indeed rebelled, soon understanding that the system would always prevail. But he had finally succumbed and learned to play the system to his own advantage by acceding to it. He knew that if he were going to survive the cruel years ahead he would have to lose a part of himself (or partition it inside his brain and cryogenically revive it when his liberty had been granted). And now, as he pulled the tab on his second beer, his freedom had indeed arrived and he luxuriated in its mollifying novelty. He rested his head on the headrest, feeling a little aggrieved by the prohibition of smoking, but accepting it begrudgingly (acquiescence had been chiselled into his personality throughout the past eight years). The pre-prison Michael would have smoked in the tiny restriction of the washroom, blowing the fumes into the toilet bowl and suffering any potential consequences but that man had disappeared, replaced by a new Michael, replete with compliance and abject, confused conformity. But it hadnt crushed his spirit. It hadnt altered his personality to a great extent where he couldnt recognise 412

himself. And it had not repressed his love of alcohol and escapism, his necessity for escapism had indeed been enhanced by his incarceration. After his arrival in Shrewsbury he had trekked in search of bed and breakfast vacancies and had been successful at the fourth attempt. The opulence of the mattress which invited his weary bones to slumber, the embryonic warmth of the duvet and the quaint arrangement of a kettle accompanied with individually wrapped packets of bourbon creams enamoured him. He knew sleep would be minimal as he was intent on savouring the luxury, the lack of a wake-up call and the freedom to doze after 6.30 a.m. and, if he wanted to take a stroll at three in the morning, he could; he could smoke a cigarette while shining his face to the moon the choice was his. The smile on his face was etched, it would not subside. He thought of the practicalities which tomorrow would present; finding work and a home, but he refused to let it daunt him. He would use the vast amount of experience hed had in this field. Admittedly, his criminal record would hinder him substantially but he had every confidence in his success. He would reconstruct his life as he had done so many times before. Jonathan lay hunched on the top bunk, intent on violently exterminating as many enemies as possible he was in Vice City. It was his PS2 console but he did allow his older stepbrother to use it whenever he wished. He knew hed be joining him in fifteen minutes; he would entrench himself into the bottom bunk with his obligatory bag of sweets clenched firmly in his fist. Why did he get to have sweets all the time? Why did he go to bed half an hour later? He secretly despised his stepbrother, but he loved his mother and Joe, and the eleven-year old Jonathan had developed a maturity whereby he would not cause unrest amongst the family. Twice per week (when Jeremy visited) 413

Jon would demonstrate a stupendous effort to keep the peace. He thought about his own father knowing he was out of prison tomorrow and felt a wave of excitement which drowned the exasperation of electronic slaughter; he desperately wanted to see him again, although he wouldnt show it. He still pretended to everybody that he hated him but he knew this was not the case, and when he saw him (if he returned) he would have to show his true feelings for he knew he wouldnt be able to prevent it. He heard the footsteps on the stairs and Jeremy arrived, sweeping into his bedroom like a force ten gale he was chewing loudly. What you playing? Jonathan sighed as the question was asked. GTA, he replied. Can I play? He sighed again. Yeah, just let me finish this level and you can have it. Cheers, Jeremy said, Do you want one of these? He offered him the crumpled bag of sweets and Jon selected a solitary one from the dozens enclosed within it. Hed attempted to take two or even three on other occasions but Jeremy always checked his stepbrothers hand, and if it was clenched Jon would have to open it and show him. He may be offered another before they were told to turn the machine off, but probably not. How come, Jon asked, you get to have sweets in bed and I dont? Because Im two years older than you, he gloated. But its not fair. Jeremy munched on his cola bottle and shrugged his shoulders with indifference. He swallowed the fizzy confection and singled out a Cherry Lip for his next bout of masticating frenzy. Hurry up, he ranted impatiently, Dadll come up in half an hour to turn it off and I wont get a go! Jon obliterated his last victim of the night and dropped the controller on to the mattress of the bottom bunk. 414

Have it then, he muttered resentfully and turned to the wall, pulling the duvet over him, loathing Jeremy more than before and hoping that he would have a father again soon. Samantha closed the living-room door, relieved that all the children were finally in bed she sat down next to her husband, nestling her head into his chest. She traced one finger affectionately down the length of his bare arm, he reciprocated with a similar gesture; this was their personal show of attachment. Joe? Yes doll? Y know Mike is getting out tomorrow? He was dreading this. Would this man get in touch with his children again, upsetting their family unit? He privately hoped that he wouldnt but would have to accept it if it happened; he loved his stepchildren and wanted the best for them. I do, he replied. I really think hell come back here and get in touch and try to rebuild his relationship with Sarah and Jon would that bother you? He didnt enjoy these types of questions. He knew that she knew the answer and wouldnt want to hear the stark truth, but more often than not he told it, as he did this time. Yes love, it will bother me. She moved her head from his chest and gazed into his eyes with a look of surprise and trepidation. What do you mean? You wont do anything will you? She could never let go of the memories of her ex-husbands violent confrontations with boyfriends shed had after theyd split, and this would be the first time that Joe and Michael would have met. And, with Michael having been so long in prison, how would he have changed? Would he be more tolerant? More mature? More violent? She felt scared. 415

Of course I wont! The man is their father and has a right to be in their livesif they want him to be. I would never do anything to stop that or jeopardize it, I love the kids like my ownyou know that. What I mean is that itll bother me because obviously it will change our lives and the kids lives completely, and we dont know how it will change, but certainly it willfor ever. Ive become used to it just being us five apart from when Jeremy stays, obviously but this is our family, our secure unitand we may have an unknown factor, a potentially upsetting factor, thrown into the mix. And, to be honest, its a bit scary, but well cope with itif it happens. But, yeah if Im honest, I dont want it to. She mused, digesting his wise words. And, if Im honest, she replied, I dont want it to either but dont you ever tell the kids that, will you? But yeah, I know what you mean; it is a bit scary isnt it? She paused. Well be alright Joe wont we? He wrapped a reassuring arm around his wife, caressed her hair and said, Of course we will love, Ill make sure of it. They heard caterwauling, followed by a heavy thud, from the upstairs bedroom; they darted from the sofa in unison. As Joe raced up the stairs another high-pitched yelp pierced the oncepeaceful ambience. He barged into the bedroom; Jon was ensconced atop Jeremys back, slamming his forehead into the carpet. Dont you ever call my dad a criminal, dyou get me? Ever! Cunt! Jonathan! Joe exclaimed, Get off him now! And get back into bed, whats going on? Jonathan leapt from him and climbed the ladder up to his bunk (after stepping on his back) and curled his whole body into the duvet, head included. Sam entered seconds later and regarded her prone stepson; tears flooded his eyes as he attempted to gather the strewn sweets which Jonathan had hurled spectacularly around the bedroom. She had heard her sons vitriol and she feared, dramatically, for the future. 416

417

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a probable prodigal
MICHAEL, FURTHER TO YOUR INTERVIEW ON TUESDAY, 6TH JUNE, I HAVE GREAT PLEASURE IN INFORMING YOU THAT YOUR APPLICATION FOR THE POSITION OF TROLLEY ASSISTANT HAS BEEN SUCCESSFUL. THIS POSITION IS OFFERED TO YOU, SUBJECT TO SATISFACTORY REFERENCES (evidently, due to your circumstances during the previous eight years, we would accept personal references from people who may know you in an official capacity) AND WILL BE REVIEWED AFTER A 3 MONTH PROBATIONARY PERIOD. I WOULD LIKE YOU TO COME IN TO THE STORE (address above) ON MONDAY 12TH JUNE FOR AN INDUCTION AND TO UNDERTAKE THE TWO DAY COURSE NECESSARY TO GAIN THE RELEVANT LICENCE TO ENABLE YOU TO DRIVE THE VEHICLE WHICH YOU WILL USE TO COLLECT THE TROLLEYS. YOUR EMPLOYMENT IS SUBJECT TO YOU PASSING THE COURSE AND WILL BEGIN 418

DEAR

ON THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, 19TH JUNE, 2003 AT 7.00 a.m. CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR SUCCESSFUL APPLICATION AND I WISH YOU EVERY SUCCESS IN YOUR EMPLOYMENT WITH SAINSBURYS. YOUR S SINCERELY LOUISE BUBBY (Personnel Manager) He threw the letter into the air in triumphant celebration and screamed an elongated yell of exaltation and, indeed, relief. After almost four weeks of daily visits to the Job Centre, scouring the local newspapers and constant letterwriting, he had been offered a job, incredibly after his solitary interview and (more inconceivably) they were fully aware of his criminal record he was astonished. The sheer honesty which he had written on his application form (and demonstrated in the interview) regarding his prison sentence must have been advantageous to his application. Admittedly, the job was very poorly paid and was the lowest ranked of all the staff positions within the supermarket (which made it very difficult to fill) but it was now his. His plan was almost complete, he now had his job. Hed found himself a bedsit situated above an Indian takeaway which would act as his new home; the confined space and the constant vindaloo fumes which permeated the floorboards didnt disconcert him, however, the view of the bare, red brick wall which faced him through the solitary window was a little depressing. But, compared to his home of the past years, the room was implicitly sumptuous to Michael. He would now enact the final part of his resurgence plan and undoubtedly the most difficult. He felt a seething sense of shame that hed not summoned the courage to 419

contact his children in the three and a half weeks since his release and he acknowledged his abhorrent weakness and cowardice, justifying it to himself by the feeling of debilitating panic and fiery timidity which enveloped him when he thought of the reunion with them. He was terrified of the possible rejection, their potentially negative reaction to him and wary of his own feelings (and reactions) to Samanthas happy family. Although he had no lingering emotions for his ex-wife, he knew that he would always bear an abstruse resentment and cluttered envy towards the man whod replaced him in the family hierarchy. But hed promised himself that, upon successfully finding a home and a job, he would shelve his selfish trepidation and undertake to contact the children. And now the time had arrived, the fear which he felt was multiplied, but he would face that aversiontomorrow. His eyes were stinging and the bags underneath them felt as heavy as school satchels, as he made a colossal effort to open them fully. He opened them wide, then closed them tightly, continuing the ritual until, after a minute, the pain was too much to bear and the striking flashes of colour and abstract shapes before his eyes made him feel nauseous. He tortoised his aching head from the intrauterine sanctuary of the duvet and breathed in curry, coughing up a distressing globule of rubbery goo (which he slimed into the neck of the empty Stella bottle); this, too, made him feel ill and he had to retract his head into the comforting warmth and the inky darkness of the duvet womb. He wondered what time it was, imagining it to be between five and 6a.m. He summoned the courage to protrude his head again and fumbled for the remote control of the portable television. The appearance of the picture hurt his eyes as he flicked it into life and he felt the need to close them again a few seconds later he switched to BBC2 and the Ceefax pages told him it was 5:39am. He congratulated himself as he 420

grasped for the bottle of tap water which lay on its side on the floor next to his bed; he drank from it for a full twelve seconds and replaced the filthy lid. Despite his hangover he was happy that hed had five and a half hours of unbroken sleep, for the sober nights would only allow him an average of three hours continuity; he would wake three to four times throughout the night, rolling himself a cigarette on each occasion. Now that it was almost six oclock he knew that sleep had finished until he returned to bed that night. He found solace in the fact that hed given his dangerous lungs a tiny health boost by refraining from the ceremony of smoking through the night. He reached for the Golden Virginia and thought of the previous days good news as he rolled a thin one he had a job. This caused him to smile and he ignored his erection and smoked, coughing merrily throughout. He lay there for a further seventeen minutes until the sharp pain in his bladder caused him an irritating discomfort. He tottered towards the sink, turned the cold tap and urinated. The unusual light which paled into the stinking room was provided by the morning sunshine and he walked to the open window, ignored the brick wall in front of him, poked his painful head through the aperture and peered left into the lambent street. The brightness of the day made him happy and the chino islands which were soaked into his boxer shorts grew larger as a little more urine seeped from his japs eye. He pitched back into bed and rolled another cigarette. Right then Mikey lad, are you going to do it today you weak individual, you? You know you should. Yeah, yeahIm gonna do it today you naggin bastard give me a chance to wake up; you remind me of my ex sometimes. That was a long time ago, what you doin thinkin of her? Im not thinkin of her, Im thinkin of tryin to get back to sleep when you stop nudgin me with your demands. Im not demanding Mikey, just askin you a simple question. When 421

are you gonna stop smokin anyway, it might be killin ya? When you fuck off and leave me to sleep! Oh well, never then - smoke well! His head fell silent. He suspected his brain would disallow any peaceful slumber, at which point he rose to wash himself in the sink in which he had urinated the fact did not register with him. Right then, wheres that fucking phone number? He fumbled in his bag for the telephone number of his ex-wife he knew hed thrown it in there somewhere on his release from prison. He spotted the folded, yellow post-itnote and unravelled it. Aha my little beastly beauty, here you are! Shit, do I really have to do this? Mikey you fucking freak, of course you do its what kept you going for all those years, remember?...the thought of seeing your kids again? Stop being a gayboy and get down to that phone box, you fucking woman! Yeah, I spose youre rightagain facefuck! I wish I had one of those mobile phone things that everybodys got now. You see them everywhere, people talking to themselvesthats what I first thought anyway, when I got out. I thought everyone had turned into me, which made me think Id better stop talking to myself, but then I realised they were talking on little phones, little fuckers these machines are too! Not like before I got locked up when they were like fuckin concrete blocks and you needed a wheelbarrow to carry em round tiny fuckers they are now! Mikey? What? Will you stop rambling and stalling for time, I dont give a fuck about tiny phones, just get dressed, shut the fuck up and get down the bastard phone box! Michael punched his head and dressed in silence.

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So, have you thought about what you want to do for your fortieth next year? Mandy pondered a while. No I havent John. I dont really want to think about it to tell you the truth. Me? Forty? I just cant be no, Im not celebratin it, Im just gonna let it pass without a thought. Come on love, said the husband, its a special one, well get all the family down from Liverpool and rent a hall and have a big party. The girls will come up from London; Holly will come over from Brumeven Josh might want to get involved! (Joshua was their six-year old son hed been conceived on the very night of their reconciliation). Well all have a big family knees-up. Im going to organize it anyway so you dont have to worry that pretty Scouse head of yours or do anythingjust leave it up to me. This year well do our normal meal together, eh? But you just wait til next year, Im going to make it extra special. John Paul Pinhorne kissed his wife on the cheek and went to the utility room to remove the washing from the machine shed heard it stop a few minutes earlier and knew that hed sort it out. After eighteen years of marriage she knew his every move. They had both forgotten about their five-month separation seven years earlier, and were now stronger together than theyd ever been before, or since. At that tragic time they had been bickering for months and shed seriously contemplated leaving him and returning to Liverpool, but his redundancy had been the final straw. Hed known about it for two months before his final day but hadnt told his wife until a month later. He had found it difficult to cope with at first and had started drinking regularly and showing her very little affection, which had caused more arguments and she had no idea what was going wrong. On his final night at work shed gone out drinking with her friends and on her return, seeing him drinking again in the kitchen, she had vociferously and drunkenly told him to leave the next day she had had 423

enough. A monstrous row had ensued and he left the family household two days later on the Saturday, lodging with his mother and her husband. The appointment with Relate that theyd organized was cancelled and the subsequent guilt which shed felt since that night had gnawed at her for weeks after. Eventually they realised that the love they held for each other was too strong, too precious to give up and Mandy had swallowed her pride, dismissed her stubbornness and asked him back. He agreed without any hesitation and they now rejoiced in their decision, for they knew that the last seven years of bliss (and the birth of their only son) would never have happened. They never discussed the independent lives theyd lived during the separation period or whether theyd been with other partners she would never tell him about her one night stand shed had while on holiday and she had no wish to know about any sexual companions which he may have had, for they both knew it would tear them apart. Its raining outside love, so Ill have to put these on the rack by the radiatorsare you alright? You look deep in thought. Im fine babe, she reassured, come here, let me help you with those. She lifted herself from the settee and helped him hang the washing, loving him implicitly. Joe and Samantha were indulging themselves in their daily fix of Jerry Springer. Two topless trailer trash females were childishly playfighting in an oversized bowl of baked beans their breasts blanked out due to the 6.15pm time slot. Jonathan had ventured downstairs to investigate the source of the thunderous laughter when the telephone rang. Ive got it, Joe shouted, still chuckling as he lifted the handset. Hello? he grinned. A small pause was followed 424

by a meek voice, Hello, is Sam there please? Joes smile dissolved and the expression he gave to his wife as he turned his head told her, indubitably, who was on the other end of the line; she knew instantaneously that it was her exhusband and she breathed a laborious sigh of resignation as her head bowed on to her chest, hoping that the repentant wastrel would disappear but knowing that he wouldnt. Michael Madigan had only seen two of the old, red telephone boxes since his release he missed them dreadfully. The new ones were soulless and the glass design gave them a hackneyed appearance that looked foreign to him and they had buttons instead of a dial. Mikey, what the fuck does it matter? They all do the same job, just phone your fucking ex youve put it off now for nearly four weeksdo it now, phone the number! He knew he was right but couldnt help himself as he replied. Fucking philistine. His bottom lip was protuberant as he thought the two words. He was intent on postponing this as far into the future as he would allow himself and he started to fidget adolescently, prodding his Chelsea boots through the gaps at the bottom. Fuckin gaps, what are they for? Youd bastard freeze in here if you had to sleep in it! Not like them red ones, eh? They were all enclosed, no built-in gaps in them fuckers...missing windows yeah, but they werent supposed to be missing, they were vandalisedfucking built-in gaps! What dyou need them for, in case you suffocate? Mikey just get on with it lad! He poked his anxious fingers into the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve the piece of paper with the number and shivered. His nerves were shredded as he slotted the pound coin and slowly and reluctantly jabbed the silvery buttons. 425

Within two rings a man answered it sounded to Mike like hed been laughing. Hed better not be laughin at me! Hes never even met me, the fucker! I wonder what he looks likeor if hes a teenager. He paused after the hello as he tried to generate sufficient moisture in his mouth to enable him to ask if Samantha was there. The hollow silence which followed made him contemplate slamming the receiver and scurrying to the nearest pub, but he knew he had to do this. If he deferred now perhaps he would never go through with it. He continued shaking and commanded his voice to not quiver when she spoke to him. He had not seen her for more than a year, nor spoken to her in the previous eight months. The only contact hed had from his family in that time had been a birthday card for him in April. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CONGRATS ON GETTING OUT SOON! was Sarahs greeting; he recalled the disappointment hed felt that she hadnt mentioned the possibility of seeing him when he was released. And hed received an even shorter message from his son, HI, HAPPY BIDET..PA, the acknowledgement of PA had counteracted the sadness hed felt by the curtness of the message. And now, as he stood waiting for Samantha to speak to him, he felt a warm satisfaction glowing within him, despite the ravaging terror. I reckon shes gonna ig me, slam me or tell me to fu Hello. oh fuck! Hello, Sam? Weve done this before eh? The inane comment was intended to break the ice but only succeeded in riling the woman. Done what? What are you going on about? You knowrenewed old acquaintances over the I suppose you want to see the kids? she interrupted, determined to quash any conversational banter which he 426

may want to develop. She felt no anger or bitterness towards him; she felt a genuine nothingness, apart from a slight irritation that hed not had the courage to contact her sooner knowing that the children were secretly desperate to see their father, having spoken of him most days since the date of his release. Do they want to see me? he asked tamely. I guess youd better ask them that Oh God, shes gonna put them on! Bag of nervesbag of! face to face its the least they deserve from you an explanation as to why you removed yourself from their lives for eight years? Dont you agree? Is that what they want? She was becoming increasingly impatient as she retorted spikily and sardonically, Mike, I think its what they need, dont you? Think about it! What a wimp, she thought. Have you got a phone? she asked What? One of those little mobility ones? No. I dont care, just any number where I can reach you. He gave her the telephone number at his bedsit she recognised the dialing code. So youre in Shrewsbury then, I thought you would be. Leave it with me and Ill tell them both that youve phoned. Ill be in touch. Bye. She would now make him wait, but not for weeks like he had done, perhaps just a day or two. Michael hung the receiver on the clip, despondently. Well that didnt go too clever, did it son? Joe pulled his wife to him gently, embracing her with a tight reassurance. As the sixteen-seater bus trundled cheekily through the open countryside, it reminded Michael of an excerpt from a childrens television programme he imagined Postman Pat to be cycling serenely, somewhere up ahead in the distant meanderings of the sun-drenched road which led to 427

the village. He noticed a garage in the distance and thought that this must be where shed said the village was situated. Hed been told to look out for the garage and the bus would carry him directly into the village shortly after it, but he decided to alight prematurely. Thank you! said the driver, in a pleasant, bucolic manner. These bumpkin bus drivers are polite I should reply. I will reply! Yes, Mikey you shfuck off you! Thank you indeed, he replied as the doors opened. A summer blast of heat hit him as he stepped off the bus, as if hed stepped off an aeroplane into the thirty-degree heat of a Greek island. He decided to go into the garage to try to find gifts for his children the very least they deserved, he thought. He expected them to be cold and awkward with him and the presents may also help as a placatory peace offering. He selected a gigantic, stuffed Winnie the Pooh for Sarah, a large replica Subaru for Jonathan and a pack of ten Marlboro Lights for himself, which would no doubt be required during the remainder of the evening. The early evening sun was still scorching as the shadows grew longer; beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. He considered wiping his sticky brow with the prodigious Pooh but quickly elected to use the palm of his hand. He checked his watch 6.13pm. He was too early; hed arranged with Samantha to be at the house at 7pm. He wanted a drink but decided against hunting for a pub. He could see the village in the hazy distance and figured that it would take him ten minutes to reach if he walked normally so he opted to walk abnormally. He placed the heel of his right foot to the toe of his left and continued in this preposterous manner as if he were measuring a distance with his steps until he reached the first house in the village, by which time he could regain his usual gait. Several vehicles tooted their horns in annoyance with the toy-laden, ill-ambling figure (especially when he crossed the road, when he had to move quickly); 428

Michael retorting to each one with a Fuck you and a jut of his buttocks in a feigned endeavour to pass wind. He arrived at the village at 6.47 pm and sat on a low wall to rest his aching calf muscles, which were now throbbing due to senseless overuse. He was aware that he was barely minutes from the house, as shed told him it was five minutes walk from the school, the wall of which he was now resting on, rubbing his unnecessary soreness. The anticipation of seeing his grown children suddenly rushed over him, but this was soon replaced by a lingering terror which clung to him like the sweat-sodden T-shirt he wore Michael Madigan was utterly petrified. What if they change their minds and dont wanna see me? What if they dont wanna know me? What if they start to shout at me and slag me off for being a shit dadand a killer? He thought of all the what ifs and acted out all possible scenarios in his head, which increased his clammy fear substantially. Stop it Mikey! Youve just got to accept whatever they do, you cant change the way they feel. You took yourself from their lives and now its pay back time. Oh yeah, thanks for your moral support you twisted freak! No problem. It was 6.53 pm when he stopped outside the gate, regarding the house of his children with misty, tentative eyes. As he gazed at the windows, thinking about them, about her and about him the husband he rolled a cigarette. His hands were trembling and his hot, stubby fingers were as clumsy as lumps of wood as he attempted to spread the tobacco across the length of the Rizla paper and, realising the outright implausibility of the task, he aborted and prized the packet of cigarettes from his pocket and smoked a tailor-made. Three and a half minutes later his foot extinguished it and he took the plunge and opened the garden gate, his mouth as dry as a desert storm. 429

What dyou think little bro? Think about what? About meeting Dad again tomorrow? Jonathan shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. Not bothered, he lied. Not bothered? What dyou mean not bothered? Of course youre bothered! You lie, you little headfry! I know youre bothered. Im absolutely shittin it and I bet you are too. The boy shrugged again and continued to press the buttons on the controller as the car raced into the hoardings at 167 mph. She decided to leave him to it and headed downstairs to seek the comfort of reassurance from her mother. Will you answer the door to him tomorrow Joe, when he comesif he comes? Jody glanced up from his newspaper and contemplated his wife for several seconds. Me? Yeah, of course love, but I thought you would have wanted to? I did, but then I thought, I want him to see you firstto realise that this is your homeour home, and he has nothing to do with us apart from being the father to the children. He nodded in full agreement. Yeah fine, he said. Thanks babe, I love you, she replied. I love you too, gorgeous, he responded, feeling a touch apprehensive about the following days events and how they would unfold. Michael rapped his knuckles on the heavy, oak door, ignoring the bell and wanting another cigarette, two minutes having elapsed since his last one. It opened almost instantly, too quickly he thought. Hello, you must be Mike? the man greeted. He seemed old to Mike (too old to be with Samantha) and his garb was hoary and congenial; he half expected to be 430

offered a Werthers Original. Michaels heart murmured as the man extended a welcoming hand. Im Joe, Sams husband. Michael continued to stare at him, a little longer than was comfortable for Joe, and then grasped his hand in a friendly, yet over firm show of macho reciprocation. Yeah, nice to meet you mate, he replied. Are the kids in? Yes, theyre in the back gardencome on through. He followed Joe through the house and was astounded by its cleanliness and tasteful decoration. Shes moved on a bit, posh cowbag! I thought shed still be living in a shithole! Is that for Sarah? Joe asked him, glancing down at the stuffed toy. Yeah. Shell like that, he said. Mike thought it sounded smug. I know shell fucking like itshes my daughter, you fucking wooly-jumpered yokel! Why dont you jump in my grave you fuckin grave-robber! And take that bloody jumper off the suns crackin the flags out there! He then realised, sadly, that this strange man probably knew his children far better than he did himself; it made him feel insubstantial, like a child at a gathering of adults. Go on through, Joe said, pointing to the French doors leading out into the garden. Can I get you a tea or a coffee, or a beer? Mike felt disorientated by the hospitality of the host and politely declined all three, although he craved a beer. He skimmed a shy peep through the glass panes into the garden and saw four human figures; the two smaller ones were his children. His stomach churned in apprehension as he barely recognised them even in the fourteen months since hed seen them they had grown so much. Samantha appeared no different, but who was that other one? That man? And why was he so close to Sarah? 431

The reality of the situation became evident as it disembowelled him this man was Sarahs boyfriend and Michael wanted to deal him a severe blow to the head. His mouth felt like sawdust as his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth he wished hed accepted the offer of a drink, or at least a glass of water. He looked around the kitchen for Joe but hed disappeared so he leant his face over the kitchen sink and drank directly from the tap, hurriedly wiping his lips with his forearm. Here goes Mikey boy! Four heads turned simultaneously and eight eyes fixed upon him as he stepped into the garden; he summoned all his inner strength to remain an adult and not regress into his childhood as the memory of his first day at school raced through his brain. Samantha was seated on a circular, wooden bench which had been constructed around a sawnoff tree stump she was the first to speak. She stood up and approached him speculatively. Hiya! she called, expressing an enthusiasm which she barely felt. Hi, he replied, wheres my kids? he joked, scanning the garden in nervous pretence. None of the four mouths smiled in appreciation which made Mike feel sickly. He approached the children (and the man) shyly. They stared at him in silence as he tried to decipher a relevance lurking behind the gazing eyes which pierced him like spears. He extended the two gifts, one in each hand, towards them a barrier, as well as a peace offering. His brain told his mouth to form a cohesive sentence. Hi kids! I got you these. Its great to see you both, youve grown so much since I seen you last year howve you been? The cumbersome serenity and lack of movement reminded him of the moments before a solar eclipse; it terrified him and he wanted to scarper. Sarah stepped forward after several seconds of deliberation and 432

accepted the gift. Thanks, she whispered and briskly backtracked to the haven of her boyfriends hand. Thats okay love, her father replied. He offered the car to the boy with a small jerk of his hand and a hysterical smile; Jon hesitated for a second but then repeated the actions of his sister, without speaking. The air in the garden felt thick like treacle and Mike was beginning to suffocate. He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, hoping that a sudden storm would erupt and a bolt of lightning strike his bald patch. Dyou mind if I smoke? he asked Samantha. She replied instantly, grateful for the break in the tension. No, go ahead. He bit one from the pack and offered the pack to his ex-wife. No, I gave up years agothanks. Good for you! Ill do the same one day, he said, knowing that he never would. He offered one to the man who was stood opposite him, holding his daughters hand. You must be Sarahs boyfriend? Tony took two cigarettes from the pack and gave one to Sarah. Michael was shocked and upset but appreciated that her smoking habit was just something else that he didnt know about her. This is Tony...dad (the word felt alien to her). Weve been going out about six months now. Tony found his lighter and flicked it into life as he offered it to her; she took it from his hand and lit her own cigarette. Dad! She called me Dad! Hoo-the fuck-rah mofushe called me Dad. The word injected him with elation as he shook Tonys hand, still wanting to punch him in the head. And what about you son? You got any girlfriends? The boy was struggling to extricate the model car from its packaging. Here, let me do that, Mike offered. Jonathan withdrew from his fathers helping hand. I can do it! he bellowed obstinately. And no, I dont like girls, they do my head in. 433

Reply! A reply! Were gettin somewhere Mikey boy, so we are no physical contact yet but were movin along. So, howve you been? asked Samantha. Youve lost weight. She thought how old and battered he appeared. Yeah Im okay; they dont feed you very well inside. Dont believe the reports you hear about three square meals a day the food is slop and you have to leave half of it on the plate sometimes. Im gonna start building myself up again. I got a job now too, start on Monday Sainsburys, collecting trolleystrolleyed! Ha Ha! Not great but its a start, yknow? He looked at the grass, embarrassed. Well done, she replied, completely disinterested, unimpressed with his intended humour and not wishing to be in his presence. So are you staying around? Sarah asked hopefully, but masking it well. Yeah, if thats okay with you and Jon? He stepped forward to ruffle the boys hair affectionately; Jonathan saw it coming and eluded it purposely. Yeah fine, its your life, she replied. Her brother didnt. Sam! called Joe, your mothers on the phone! She felt a delirious release as she now had an excuse to remove herself from the unwieldy proceedings and did so immediately. Dont leave me. As he thought the words and looked at his ex-wife, he realised that he must have begged that question so many times in the past. But that was a faraway life in a faraway world. This was now and he had to stand strong like a man. So how long have you been smokin love? Michael asked his daughter. About a year why? Dont give me the irrits about it, how long have you been smoking fortwenty years? He felt chastised. 434

No, noIm not going to! Its just you should think about packing up before you get seriously addicted Like you, she thought. and dont you ever start that habit will you little man? I aint little, the boy replied, pushing his new car around the tree-bench. Listen mate, Mike was now addressing Tony, dyou mind if I have a bit of time alone with I want him to stay, interrupted Sarah, hes my boyfriend. Tony felt a little awkward but clenched his girlfriends hand tighter, remaining still. Yeah, yeah thats fine Saz, if thats what you want. His loathing for the man was growing with each passing minute. The hatred filled him with a renewed sense of maturity as he took charge of the situation. Right kids, listen to your ol Dad. Jon, come over here a sec please son I want to talk to you and your sister. Jonathan thought about disobeying but couldnt; this was still his father. He ambled towards the trio, scuffing his trainers into the grass as he rotated the wheels of the car with an annoying digit. Mike crouched down, looking up at his children. Listen, I know Ive done a bad thing and I hate myself for doing it, but I thought I was doing the right thing by owning up to the crime I committed. And Im so sorry Ive been out of your lives for so long and nothing I can do can ever make up for that. But I want to try, and I want to beson, look at me The boy was looking at his car; he looked at his father until he looked at Sarah, and then looked away again. I want to be involved in your lives and be a father to you again, just like I used to be, remember? Sarah was staring directly at him, Jonathan was peering through the tiny windows of his toy; Tony shuffled in embarrassment. I know itll take time, he continued, and a lot of work - and you probably wont trust me for a while 435

- but we can do this. Trust me kids, Ill never leave your lives again. What do you say? Shall we give it a go? Thats it, Ive done it! Laid it on the line and set myself up for a huge fall treat me nice kids! Dont worry Mikey, if they tell you to fuck off and die Ill be here for you! He studied their reactions with impetuous desire and simply waited. Jonathan was pretending not to look at his sister for guidance; she pined for the presence of her mother. What should she do? She was just seventeen; she wasnt able to deal with stuff like this, she thought. She diverted her gaze from the compelling, desperate eyes of her father as her own searched the ether for hopeless inspiration, finding none. She gazed blankly at Tony whose doe eyes blinked in uselessness. She felt a tiny hug from her brother who had moved to be closer to her; they shared a rare moment of sibling love as Joe and Samantha observed from behind the safety of glass. Sarah stepped forward impetuously and hugged her father tightly eventually (and slowly) followed by her brother, who hugged him loosely. All Michaels reservations and fears flooded out of him (as did the tears) as he clenched his children to him. Joe and Samantha turned to each other as they witnessed the scene from the kitchen; she lifted an expert finger to her eye as she refused to allow a tear to ruin her mascara. It looks like hes in our lives then, she said miserably. Shed known deep down that this would be the upshot the scene saddened her as an avalanche of uncertainty cascaded around their family.

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effacing the fear

Hes a murderer yknow!

What? How do you know that? Julie ignored the purposely audible whispers of her two work colleagues as they guzzled sweet tea and gossiped in the staff canteen; she wasnt interested in petty conversation. She was treated as a bit of a pariah by her fellow employees but she refused to let it trouble her she had always regarded herself as a loner. My daughter Louise goes to the same college as his daughter and the word around the place is thats him. Remember that man who got sent down years ago for killing someonein London I think, well thats him; weve got a bloody murderer working with us! NO! Oh yes Doreen, Im telling you! Doreen was speechless and she shook her head as she crumbled another portion of malt loaf into her wrinkled mouth. Julie couldnt sit quietly and allow this to continue. Shed heard the rumours developing around the store and shed spoken to the man on just three occasions; she thought he deserved a chance and he wasnt bad-looking for his age, shed thought, a little thin perhaps, but not bad. As she stirred her cappuccino on the adjoining table, she intervened. 438

Hes not a murderer, she said calmly. The two fishwives sparrowed their heads in her direction, an aporetic look of alarm creasing their aged faces. The instigator of the conversation (and the boldest of the pair) retorted. Im sorry? Julie sipped her drink nonchalantly. I said hes not a murderer he killed someone, yeah, but I did some research when I heard all these rumours going around this place and he got gaoled for manslaughter, not murder its a different crime altogether. She took another sip of her drink and eyed the pair through the steam with a certain gratification. Murder, manslaughterits all the same, she replied ignorantly. He killed someone so he must be a weirdo Im staying away from him anyway. Me too! Doreen exclaimed, endorsing the judgmental sentiments of her friend. Julie dismissed the comments and redirected her attention to her Martina Cole novel. The two flibbertigibbets, feeling a little awkward and embarrassed, altered the subject of their conversation to last nights episode of Emmerdale. Julie Morris was an unmarried, childless woman of thirty-six years. Shed lived a florid life and had moved to Shrewsbury from her home town of Torquay two years earlier, having left the fifth fianc of her life; he, like two of the previous four, had drank too much but she knew deep down that she was looking for an excuse. She always seemed to be searching for a reason to end her relationships and often wondered why she bothered with them; they were too much hard work and she suspected that shed never fully commit, but she craved the company of men. She was an attractive woman who could easily be mistaken for a woman six or seven years younger, but like most women she concentrated too much on what she decided were her undesirable physical attributes; her nose was too large, her bingo wings jellied when she prodded 439

them, her bum was bigger than her sisters, her breasts were too small. Despite these insignificant (apparent) deficiencies in her physical appearance she had never experienced any problems when she wanted to have a boyfriend. She possessed Irish, brown eyes which sparkled with a bewitching depth which was rare. Her 5 4 frame exhibited an innate sexuality which the opposite sex found almost impossible to resist. Her slender, feminine build was often used as a sensual tease and, oddly, her proudest feature was her perfectly flat stomach which had not potted in all of her adult years; the piercing through the navel adding to its attraction. But the overriding trait of Julie Morris which men found intoxicating indeed, addictive - was her personality. It was captivatingly vibrant, it was loud yet not irritating, it was affectionate and caring, it was generous, humorous, quick-witted and highly intelligent; it was her most potent weapon when she wished to inveigle a male companionand she adored sex. She had remained celibate since beginning her employ at Sainsburys two months earlier intentionally so, but she now wanted something extra to add to the joys of the vibrator and the pornography shed decided that she was ready for the throb of a man inside her again; and she knew who it would be. The two bloated colleagues of hers wobbled from their chairs to resume their shift on the checkouts they ignored her completely as she failed to notice their departure. Michael had thoroughly enjoyed his first months employment. Notwithstanding him being regarded as peculiar by much of the Sainsburys staff, and even detecting fear in some peoples approach to him, the feeling of belonging again was forming inside him. He suspected everybody was aware of his villainy and subsequent incarceration, he knew the personality of the town (despite 440

the short time residing in it) and its incestuous need to know anything odd or outstanding about its inhabitants. And it had not changed in the previous eight years, and probably not since medieval times, he thought. The job itself was mind-numbing, but he drove around the grounds, a proud and assured collector of the five hundred and seventy-nine trolleys contained on the premises (hed counted them on a particularly quiet shift). He acknowledged his good fortune to have been offered this job and it was essential for his acceptance back into society, his mental health and, most importantly, the reconstruction of the relationship with his children. The loneliness of the past eight years had enabled him to cope with the rejection from the majority of the workforce and his breaks and lunch hours were spent mostly alone (which he enjoyed) reading books from cover to cover. The manager of the superstore, a forty-two year old grey-haired waif of a man, had constantly inquired about his welfare (Michael thought he was checking up on him) but he appeared to be mildly acceptable, and he gave him the reassurance that his criminal past would remain a secret; Mike was fully aware of it being the worst kept secret since Iraqgate and it didnt bother him. He knew the people to ignore; he knew those he could simply acknowledge and a select few had shown him favourable attention one had even mentioned and asked him about his crime which had felt oddly invigorating and mysteriously intriguing to him. Her name was Julie and hed felt an instantaneous attraction towards her. He doubted whether she felt anything similar towards him but he took immense pleasure from their candid conversations theyd had in the car park. He would stand confidently on his vehicle one arm leaning casually on the dashboard while she looked up at him, asking probing questions which hed thought would only be suitable topics of conversation after months of familiarity: What was it like in prison? How did he get 441

through it? What was it like when he got out? And, the biggest eye-opener of all the questions, whats it like to kill another human being? He felt a little uncomfortable talking about prison life for (as hed been told by many inmates who toggled between release and imprisonment) he would forget about it very soon after his release, so the questions brought the life back to him, but he couldnt resist answering her questions honestly. But this last question had caught him off his guard and even he, as honest and open as he was, had found it difficult to respond to, but he had responded. He told her that it felt like an out-of-body experience, that it wasnt actually him who was committing the crime, but he was observing it. Did he regret it? No. Did his conscience bother him? Sometimes. Would he change it if he could? No. Did he mind that everyone knew about it? No. Was it really an accident? (Hed thought for a second before hed answered.) Yes, of course. The woman fascinated him. She was unlike anyone hed ever met before. But he dismissed any notion of a possible romantic development between them. The old, familiar insecurities emerged what would she see in him? Julie Morris eased the vibrator from her soaked vagina it glistened in the shadowy light from the bedside lamp. She felt exhausted after her third orgasm of the night as she fumbled through the drawer of the bedside cabinet for the wipes. She rubbed the phallus clean; hoping the male lodger in the bedroom next door was asleep and hadnt heard her muffled groans. She pulled a fresh wipe from the packet and awarded the dildo a final cleanse, imagining an erect penis as she held the wipe to her sodden slit. She switched off the Black on White pornographic DVD and the television picture re-appeared; an obscure black and white B-movie was showing, which she decided to switch off. She removed the damp wipe from between her legs and threw it on the floor, turned to one side and reached a 442

decision; the next orgasm she experienced would be effectuated, not by a rabbit, but by a man. So, youre a vegetarian? You like rabbit food? I am, yes - have been since I was twenty. I couldnt imagine eating meat again it seems all wrong to me. I know a nice little veggie restaurant out towards Kidderminster. We could drive there on Friday night thats if youre not busy or anything? Julie pondered for several seconds why not, she thought. Yeah, why not? Ill see you through the week anyway, well arrange it. Great! Id better get back Ill see you later. Bye. Michael entered the canteen seconds before the man rose from the seat opposite Julie. He felt a twinge of jealousy although he had no right to. His eyes scanned the room, in vain, for a free table where he could put down his book (marking his territory) before he went to grab a coffee. He noticed the man leaving Julies table and, seeing that she remained still, he approached. Hiya, mind if I do? nodding his head in the direction of a spare seat. Dont mind if you do! she replied. Im gettin a coffee, dyou want another one? She looked at her almost empty cup, drained the remnants and repeated, Dont mind if you dothanks. He spotted the lengthy queue and chose the vending machine, returning with two plastic cappuccinos. He set one down in front of her and pulled a seat out, parking himself upon it. That guy? he said. Who, George? Yeah, George, thats his nameworks in the warehouse I think. Yeah, I think he does. Why? What about him? I seen him drinking cans of beer behind a roll cage, generally on Friday afternoons. He pulls the cage out and 443

crouches down behind it, pulling it back to hide and mask his crimes. She giggled and toyed with the plastic stirrer provocatively between her full lips. How do you know that? I seen him do it a few times. Im going out with him this Friday. Hes driving us to Kidderminster so hed better not do it this week. Oh sorry, are you two He wiggled his fingers, implying that they may be an item. God no, not at all! I just fancied a free meal and a bit of male company thats allGod no! she repeated, Hes got a fit body though. Mike felt a little insubstantial. Has he? Lucky him. I used to have one of them before they sent me down. Used to is no use. Why dont you get it back? Go to the gym, buy some weightsit does wonders for your chances. It shows youve got self-esteemas well as a fit body! Good God, what is it with this woman? Get it shagged mate! I cant get it shagged, shes gonna be shaggin the pumped up secret drinker. Well y never know, he might have a one inch dick, yknow what these weight-lifters are likethey got massive biceps but a knob the size of a green bean dont lose hope Mikey! She reminded him a little of Kirsty Crabb, the woman hed had an affair with all those years ago in one of his previous existences; she was so intriguing, so interesting and straight to the point, but lacking the harshness of the Scottish landlady, and he wanted herbadly. But he was too late. George Windass, the insidious drinking man with the inflated arms had beaten him to it as if hed had any chance anyway, he thought. She sipped her drink, stood up and said, See ya! Before she left the canteen, she turned around, called his name (fully aware that most of the canteen would observe her) and flexed her arm muscles in a Charles Atlas imitation, smiled and left. He wondered 444

whether she was gloating about her muscle-bound catch or was it a gesture to him to work on himself? She gasped in delight as his erection entered her. The feeling was sublime. Her Rabbit was a wondrous tool but nothing could replace the sensation of the rock-hard penis inside her, the scent of the man above her, the bulge of the biceps she now held in each of her hands; she laid her head back and exhaled a rasp of inflamed, blissful breath. She lay still for several seconds, embedding her false nails into the flesh of his arms as he nudged his stiffened member into her. The feeling was intense but as his rhythm escalated she pushed him off and out of her. Lie down, she whispered, Im going to fuck you. George succumbed to her wishes as he rolled on to his back. She straddled him, guiding his glistening helmet back inside her. His hands reached for her breasts as she slowly and sensually grinded into him, riding him greedily. She knew that her orgasm was imminent and continued the dilatory pounding of her hips into his tool. His fingers left her swollen nipples as his hands grasped her hungry hips, forcing them into his. He ejaculated into her seconds later and she quickened the pace of her movements, willing the penis to remain hard inside her for just a few more seconds before it shrivelled to a floppy, useless piece of tissue. She maintained her grinding and her hand lowered to her bulbous clitoris as she rubbed and hammered herself to her second climax of the night. As she lifted herself from him, allowing the spurted semen to drip into his pubic hair, she thought Roger Rabbit would be remain in his box a little more than usual, for a little while at least, she wanted more of thisand she would have it. He lay there, breathless and satiated as she reached for her trusty wipes, handing one to him. 445

Whats that for? he asked. She stared at him blankly, responding indignantly, I dont want your fluids seeping on to my sheets, can you wipe yourself please? He looked surprised but acceded to her wishes. Do you mind if I smoke? he asked. Well, Id rather you didnt could you go outside and have one? He reached for his discarded trousers on the floor and selected a Silk Cut from the pack; he was about to put on his boxer shorts when she said, You know what George, Ive had a lovely time and the meal was fantastic, but would you mindIve got to be up at the crack of dawn and its now she glanced at the clock, God, is that the time? Twenty past one Im sorry George but would you mind going home? Ill see you at work eh? He observed her incredulously, but the milky, innocent expression on her face removed any feeling of rejection he felt. Yeah, sure babe do you fancy going out again sometime? She smiled sweetly at him, leaned across the bed and kissed his back. Ill see you on Monday. Thanks for tonight, it was lovely. He finished dressing and on completion, bent down to kiss her on the lips. She subtly turned her face as his lips made contact with the corner of her mouth. See ya on Monday Jules. Bye, she replied. And, on hearing the front door close, she switched off the bedside lamp and within minutes sleep had enveloped her. The month of July fizzled out with a whimpering gesture of damp warmth the fifth continuous day on which the clouds had opened. The summer had so far been a wash out but Michael Madigan hadnt even noticed it. Hed been too busy restructuring his forty year old existence to pay heed to the insignificance of weather. 446

His children were gradually accepting him into their lives again but not yet as a father they both held too much bitterness and resentment towards him for the vacuum in their childhood which hed created. It would take a lot more than two months for the wounds to heal if they ever did. But the outings which hed taken them on, trips to the zoo, Alton Towers, the Welsh seaside (amongst others), had cemented a certain camaraderie between them all, despite Sarahs reluctance and, indeed, refusal to accompany her brother on several jaunts. Her relationship with Tony had suffered since her father had returned and she felt a little torn between the two of them. He had also shown her a part of his character which shed not witnessed before, or been aware of in the first six months of blissful accompaniment. He had made a number of suggestive remarks to other girls in her company, hed asked her if shed consider having anal sex with him (which disgusted her) and shed even caught him sniffing a pair of her thongs; he was turning into someone she did not know, or love. She was confused. And the presence of her father in her life confounded her to the point of agitation. Jonathan, however, was warming to his newly discovered father. Although he loved his stepfather, he was exactly that, a stepfather. He couldnt remember his father being like a father to him, but he knew that he wanted one. Even his friends, whose fathers no longer lived with them, saw them most weekends. Hed had to endure eight long fatherless years. He felt a little guilty and disloyal to his stepfather when hed first gone on trips with his father but Joe had reassured him that it was right and he should go and enjoy them. Jonathan had been cold towards his father at first, purposely ignoring him and making it difficult for him, but now, two months after their reunion he looked forward to his visits and their trips away; he didnt particularly care whether Sarah accompanied them for he was beginning to feel at ease in his company and, dare he 447

say, care for him? He dared not love him but the feelings which were developing were different from those he had towards his stepfather. He was beginning to enjoy his company but still would not show him his genuine feelings. The one thing that bothered him acutely was his fathers constant smoking, it irritated him and he hated the smell, but he bought him presents, took him to exciting places and was nice to him and that was what was important to Jonathan. Shes thirty-nine. Shes forty! Shes not forty, shes thirty-nine shes forty next year you little fry! Joshua was annoyingly obstinate and knew his mothers age she would be forty in a weeks time, he was certain. Forty, he said again. His sister, Holly, humoured him. Yeah whateverforty, if thats what you wanna believe. Anyway, where is mum? Shes in the garden. Why dont you talk to me? I am talking to youstop peckin my head! Okay bro, Ill talk to you. She thought of a topic of conversation to assuage the boy. Are you going to make mum anything for her birthday? Its only a week away. I know it is its ages. Ill make her a card and I saved two pounds pocket money so far. Two quid? Is that it? Jew! And make her a proper card this time, not a message written on a chipstick like you did last year! She liked it! And I got another week yet, Im gonna get four pound and buy her a big box of chocolatesanyway, why you bein horrible to me? Im not being horrible, youre so sweet and generous for a Jew! Not really, thats really nice bro go and be a darlin now and get mum for me. He pulled a face at the handset, said okay and went to fetch his mother. 448

She was soaking up the early August sunshine. It scorched the crinkles on her stomach (the legacy of bearing four children) as she applied a generous squeeze of Piz Buin to it. She squirted it accidentally on to the towel as her son ground to a halt beside her and dropped the telephone handset between her feet. Holly, he said, and herded off towards the gate, leaving it open as usual, as he raced into the street. Dont go too far Josh! his mother shrieked, Its teatimesoon. She knew hed not shown the slightest attention to her words. She picked up the telephone. Hiya love! she greeted enthusiastically. Hi mum, how are you? Mandy and Holly Pinhorne proceeded to chat for a further one hour and five minutes, catching up on the previous two weeks events. Holly would telephone her again on her birthday. Sheep that shear themselves? Well they wont actually shear themselves, they wont grasp the shears between their hooves and shave each others wool off. Theyll just shed their fleece naturally and the rosy-cheeked farmer will drive up in his tractor or his JCB or whatever they use these days, and chuck the wooly deposits into the JCB bucket, bidding good day to his baldy flock and saving him hours of his precious time simple! But why? Julie asked, sniggering. Because, Mike continued, wool is getting more and more worthless; who wears wool in 2003? So theyre working on these self-shearing sheep breed. She never ceased to be intrigued by his bizarre stories, she thought him such an interesting man. How do you know all this? she asked. He jumped out of bed, over her naked body, lost his balance and toppled into the art-deco dressing table causing her make-up to clatter across the mirrored surface. She howled with laughter as he lay on the carpet motionless, gazing at the 449

ceiling. One of the gamut of lipsticks rolled menacingly towards the edge of the surface, dropping painfully on to his forehead; he winced as he let out an exaggerated yelp. I read it somewhere, he chuckled, rubbing the pain from his head. As her laughter subsided he picked himself up and, leaning his forearms on the mattress beside her, delved into her deep, brown eyes. What? she asked, engaged by his solemn demeanour. He hesitated for a second, and asked. Can I ask you a question? Yeah, sure, she replied. Its not something like how do they make Quorn taste like real meat? or why dont they make lipsticks with square edges so they dont roll on to peoples heads? He chuckled. No, I know the first one already, he joked. She thought that he probably did. Not sure on the second onegood idea though. Well I do too, she said, so youll have to ask me something else. Youre such an oddity, he thought. She was growing on him, much too fast for his liking. What then? she asked. He felt a coyness stiffen him but continued with the question, without any qualification. Are we boyfriend and girlfriend? The question sounded childish as it left his lips - as if a teenager had asked it and he regretted it instantly. Ah, thats so sweet! Do you want us to be? He thought for a moment, but not too long. Yeah, I think I do. Her eyes widened in playful shock. You think you do? she asked, impishly. I know I do, he replied without hesitation. Then yes, we are. She held out her hand in a feigned greeting. Nice to meet youboyfriend! He stared at the hand, stared at her face and at the hand again. Fuck off weirdo! he mocked good-humouredly, and hurdled back on to the bed, nuzzling his head between her legs as she howled with glee. 450

The pair had been sexual partners for almost three weeks. Julie, having slept with her ill-fated date, George, had opted to avoid him in the workplace; she knew he was not right for her, despite the muscles. However, she was now unwilling to spend months without the touch of a man; he had renewed her vigour for the physical and orgasmic joy and she wanted more of it but not from him. She and Michael had started to talk to each other constantly at work and neither would admit to the other that they had even gone out of their way to bump into each other. They shared a sense of ostracism from their work colleagues which sharpened their connection, solidifying it. And he interested her. This was critically necessary to her for a potential relationship; not that she was searching for a relationship, but she knew when she wanted to be with a man. And shed never gone to bed with a killer. How exciting, shed thought. Their first sexual encounter had been a disaster, Michael having ejaculated within twenty seconds of entering her. Shed lay there, prone, sweatless, deflated and so bitterly disappointed, believing that sex would never happen between them again. But, after hed apologized profusely and explained that his teenage-like performance was due to a dearth of sexual activity throughout the course of the previous eight and a half years, (he had purposely omitted the two acts in which he had been involved during that period; the first one when hed been overpowered in the prison showers by four burly, prison-hardened inmates, and lucky to have been penetrated only twice the second, just some weeks earlier when hed invested eighty pounds of his remaining funds in full sex with a prostitute his ejaculation having occurred even quicker on that occasion.) they had tried againand again, with a gradual improvement each time. She was astonished by his sexual appetite that night and as the sun rose hed finally fallen asleep, much to the relief of her throbbing, raw vagina. 451

For the following three weeks the sex between them had been regular and exhilarating for her he had chased the boy away and the comfort that cradled between them felt natural and easy. Michaels emotional defences had already begun to establish themselves which was a dangerous sign but he attributed it to the feeling of belonging with a woman again, which hed not dared to hope for in almost a decade. But she did feel special to him and he was wary; something inside him was trying to warn him but he didnt want to heed the caveat. She, too, experienced something which felt a little different from her other partners, when she was with him. They laughed together like summer lovers and the mystery and alluring danger which he generated was something that she didnt want to let slip. But, despite their sustained sexual antics, it was not a relationship; it was at that early stage are we or arent we? Neither one knew. She was hoping that he wouldnt try to constitute their affiliation as if they were a couple, but also aware that if he did she would have great difficulty in denying it. Did she want this to develop? With an ex-con? A killer? With this killer, she thought, she did want it. Mandy was dressed in a figure-hugging black dress which shed purchased earlier in the day with the New Look vouchers shed received from her sisters. It felt a little too tight on her but she still attempted to pour herself into a size twelve. John Paul wore the same suit he had worn on the three previous occasions theyd eaten here for her birthday. After introducing himself as their waiter for the night, David (he pronounced it Dav-eeth) the Spanish-looking English waiter showed them to their table and, before he could pull out the chair for the lady, John Paul swiftly interjected, as he did each year. 452

Allow me! he said to his wife as she seated herself, smiling knowingly. John Paul scampered to the opposite chair, draping his jacket over the back of the seat as he settled. Anything to drink? the waiter asked as he offered the menus and the wine list. John Paul scrutinized the wine list for a few seconds but Mandy knew he would close it almost immediately and order a bottle of Faustino Rioja Rose. The usual? he asked her. She nodded happily in predictable agreement. A bottle of the Faustino Rioja Rose please. Muy bien, senor, the waiter replied, taking the wine list from them. They studied the menus in a comfortable silence when John Paul asked, Are you having what you always have? I dont know, she replied, I might try something different, maybe squid, I ad squid in Widnes onceyears ago. She knew shed be ordering a variety of tapas and a paella main dish he also knew it. She deliberated for a minute and a half saying, Nah, fuck it, Ill have a paella. The couple laughed together, him replying, Yeah, me too. The waiter returned with the wine and poured a small amount of the chilled liquid into John Pauls glass; he sipped it and nodded in approval at which point Dav-eeth upturned Mandys glass and poured a full glass for her. John, you know you like it, so why do you do that? He smiled, shrugged boyishly and held his glass out for it to be filled Dav-eeth smiled too. John Paul swallowed almost half of his glass as the waiter embedded the bottle into the ice bucket and left. Sorry dear, but Ive got to go to the los lavabos I wont be a sec. As he walked to the bathroom she inspected the familiar surroundings. The room was large, yet intimate. It contained twelve tables which, she felt, were a little too close to each other for complete privacy. In the centre of the restaurant stood a huge oak barrel and on it lay 453

three small candles, contained in what appeared to be handmade, earthenware candle-holders; they each had a small finger hole for a handle and shed always wanted them for herself. (John Paul had discreetly offered the owner twenty pounds for them the previous year, but he had politely declined the offer.) She looked at her fellow diners mostly romantic couples enjoying an intimate Spanish meal together on this very Spanish of nights. John Paul exited the bathroom three minutes later, his eyes were fixed on his wife at their table as soon as he reentered the restaurant; he loved her deeply. He was a little perplexed as he noticed her strange appearance and demeanour she was turned ninety degrees to her left with a look of stunned disbelief and alarm etched into her countenance. Her jaw had dropped and her mouth was agape as if shed suffered a stroke. Her eyes were transfixed like the eyes of a sniper. He returned to the table and sat down. Are you okay darling? Youve gone completely white! What are you staring at? He felt a little scared as he turned his head in the direction where she was gazing. She did not respond, indeed, failed to acknowledge his very presence as the gaping intensity increased.

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32
dont know where, dont know when

Ive got the kids over on Wednesday, sorry Jules.

She exhibited a shrug of professed apathy. Never mind, maybe another night then. She purposely spoke the words as a statement and not a question. Yeah, sorry. Ill make it up to you, I promise. You can come over if you like; the kids would love to meet you. Ive told them about you and they said you sound really nice. Why dont you come over? No pressure though. She mused for a second but knew that the whole family scenario was not for her she couldnt relate to children; she even feared whether she was doing the right thing by becoming involved with a father of two, especially one who was rebuilding a relationship with them. She discarded the thought and would open a bottle of wine and nestle into the settee with an overstated box of Black Magic for birthday comfort. Michael felt a sizeable guilt but he couldnt renege on any arrangements he had made regarding the children; not at such a sensitive stage in proceedings. Sarah may not come to visit but he was sure that Jonathan would.

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Wednesday arrived with a stifling humidity and Michael wiped the late summer sweat from his wrinkled brow as he asked his son what his sister was doing tonight. Gone t Tonys hed replied curtly. Late August had brought with it a mini heat wave which was to continue for another week. Ive got nothing in for tea son, Mike pronounced, Shall we go shoppingMorrisons or Tesco? Jon enjoyed food shopping with his father as he could throw whatever he wished into the trolley and dad wouldnt notice until hed reached the checkout, or so he thought. After returning, and Michael having spent over twenty pounds more than hed envisaged, the boy finished his unconventional dessert as he drained the dregs of his third bag of cheese Doritos into his gormandizing mouth. He opened the fourth bag and reconvened. Four bags? His stupefied father marvelled. Jonathan smiled as the tasty crumbs escaped onto his lips, having crammed too many in to his mouth. He attempted to word a reply to his father which was wholly unintelligible. Chubby Bunnies! Michael exclaimed immediately (this was a reference to a food-munching game hed mentioned to him earlier whereby the players pack as many marshmallows as possible into their mouths without swallowing and try to utter the words chubby bunnies after each marshmallow). The boy tried, in vain, to prevent himself laughing openly as small triangles of Doritos exited his mouth like starlings, showering the television screen. Mike howled in merriment as he went to fetch a cloth. After Jonathan had regained composure and swallowed his remaining snacks he shouted to his father, DAD! What son? he replied, twisting his head from the sink. The boy demonstrated an unlikely sadness as he asked, You wont go away again will you? He saw a desperation in his sons beseeching eyes as they looked up at him; it thrust into his soul like a javelin with an overwhelming 456

force that weakened him. He launched the damp cloth at the television screen playfully and knelt down to face him. Dont you worry about it son, Im not going anywhere ever again. Father and son embraced in a steely grip and the only thing lacking in Michaels life at that moment was his daughter. I told you Id make it up to you. So where are you taking me? Ah, now that would be telling, and it wouldnt be a surprise then, would it? Now come over here and slap one on these choppers you horny gagger! They kissed passionately as Julie spidered her fingers through the gap in his towel, cupping his aching testicles. He responded as his hand flirted with the zip of her jeans. She pulled away with a smirk. Youll have to wait for that join me in the shower Mr. Lovermangive me ten minutes. Ive just had one, he sighed. Well dont join me then, she teased. Ill have another one, he said as his growing member remained protruding through the damp towel. After making love they dressed in preparation for their dinner date. She donned a fashionable brown outfit shed bought from Marks and Spencer. Michael heaved on garments which may have been in vogue fifteen years earlier. Is that what youre wearing? she asked. Yeah, why? Whats wrong with it? He smoothed his dark blue, three-buttoned Donnay tee-shirt with the palm of his hand in self-regard and peered down at his Wrangler drainpipe jeans, looking a little besmirched by his girlfriends question. Everything, she muttered. Mike, well definitely have to get you a complete new wardrobe. He was slightly hurt but made light of the situation. 457

Why? Theres nothing wrong with my old onethe doors falling off it but it still works. She tossed him a sarcastic sneer of thinly disguised humour and clambered from the bed. Never mind old man, as she patted his bottom, these will have to dofor now; well go shopping tomorrow. So where are we going tonight again? Ha! Im not falling for that one. Its a - surprise! He kissed her lips, gently pushing her on to the bed. No way Shabba! And Im not falling for that one! she exclaimed, Youve had yours for nowmaybe later if you play youre cards right. Th th th th thhigherlower! Mike shouted as he jutted his chin, offering a poor impersonation of Bruce Forsyth. He breathed in the duvet as she wriggled from underneath him. He lay there a while as he revelled in normality. What the fuck has happened to me? Im normal! Im Joe Average. Ive got a job, a girlfriend, my kids come and visit me regularhavent got a house but I dont live in a fucking cell even my mate Mikey Mind Machine doesnt speak to me much anymore. He waited for a reply from himself but none came. See! Hes not even here anymoreAh, dont you believe it Mikey lad, Im just a little bit dormant, you crack on with your normality, enjoy it sonyou deserve it. Ill just fade into the backgroundand observe. He thought about Julie and how she was beginning to stir some sort of feeling in him again. He still held her at a certain distance (as she did with him) but they both knew that there was something developing between them, which, if it were left alone to progress, would take hold of them. But they both denied it to themselves as they continued their relationship with amicable banter, howling laughter and regular sex. Emotions would be thwartedfor the moment. 458

He lifted his body from the bed and felt a cautious serenity which seemed alien to him it felt like a welcome impostor and it brought with it a equanimity which hed not felt since he could remember. Oh I know where were going! Julie announced. Michael smiled graciously as they held hands in the back of the taxi. Three minutes later it drew to a halt outside the restaurant. The bald, obese taxi driver requested six pounds and bored them with another of his interminable sexist quips which hed subjected them to for the entire sixteen minute journey. So, do you know why all women should be born with flat heads? He directed the question towards Michael. Havent got a clue mate. So you can rest your pint on it while shes giving you a blow job during Match of the Day have a good night kids! Michael smirked a genuine smile of humorous acknowledgement as his girlfriend opened the door hurriedly and without reply, feeling heavily peeved by the misogynistic Salopian. Mike handed him a ten pound note and uncharacteristically said, Keep the change. Cheers mucker! the driver replied appreciatively. Heres one for ya mate He nosed his ruddy features over the seat, about to churn out another of his epigrams. Sorry lad, gotta gosee ya! He tore out of the taxi like a trapped hare and joined Julie who was waiting with an impatient and irritated stance outside the restaurant doors. What a horrible man! she complained. Yeah, he agreed, disingenuously, vile behaviour. She eyed him suspiciously as if he were being sarcastic (which he was) but the sombre face which he displayed placated her. After taking their seats inside Julie scrutinized the menu for several minutes as she searched for suitable vegetarian 459

dishes; the Spanish, she thought, were not renowned for being particularly vegetarian friendly; she considered them meat-loving, bull-torturing heathens but regarded herself as something of an epicure. Why Spanish? she asked him across the table as he guzzled a San Miguel. Why not? he answered. Weve not eaten Spanish food together before. I thought itd make a nice change. Why? Dont you like it? Yes, I dont mind where wed eaten its a lovely thought. She grasped his hand across the table and he felt assuaged. He glanced sideways and listened to the dominant opinions of one of his fellow diners; the mans voice was too loud for his immediate surroundings as it infiltrated the peaceful ambience of the room. So yeah, the man continued, theyre now working on a prototype of this gas mask where they install tiny fans inside the headpiece. Mike and Julie caught each others eyes as they both smiled with fascinated scepticism; they pricked up their ears. What for? asked the bored-looking partner. To clear the air inside your mask of course! These little fans will be powered by the movements of your legs, so when you walk, the fans power up. The partner of the bore remained impassive and unimpressed. Oh, I see, she thought shed better say. Mike leaned his face closer to Julies, Theyd be great for mowing your lawn if you had hay fever, he said. She thought hed said it a little too loud purposely; she lowered her head and played with her napkin as she masked a developing grin. Their heads rubbernecked the room in searching investigation as they sniffed out potential victims for their plundering amusement; they both enjoyed mocking their fellow humans to each other, laughing together at their odd foibles or ludicrous appearance. Julie homed in on a couple seated two tables away they were looking away from each other, 460

each one demonstrating an awkwardness and apparent torment with each others company. If we ever get to that stage, she murmured, jutting her thumb discreetly in their direction, lets just split up eh? He studied the miserable couple and replied, We will never get like that loveI wouldnt allow it. A tiny portion of her emotional bulwark crumbled with the comment as she continued investigating. So whats her problem? she suddenly asked, her features immediately losing the look of insouciance. Who? he replied. He turned ninety degrees to his left and looked in the direction which she had shown him and was somewhat astounded to see the face of a female gaping zealously at them. He suddenly felt remarkably and inexplicably uncomfortable as it made him shiver. I dont know, he said. Is she looking at us? You babeshes looking directly at you, and if she doesnt stop Im going to have to say something. Julies defences kick-started and the iota of possessiveness she felt shocked her. Michael wished the mad, staring woman to disappear; the look on her face expressed a malevolent eeriness and it was beginning to intimidate him. It cant beit just cant be. Cant be what, who? Whats going on Mandy? she couldnt deflect her gaze from the man seated directly to her left. There was an empty table between them but the distance was short enough for her to be able to hear his voice and that of the female companion, and to decipher the unmistakable Liverpool accent. She was oblivious to her husbands concern as he lengthened his deep solicitude; his words sounded muffled, wrapped in a farrago of letters and tones inside her head. Mandy? He clenched her hand across the table; the obvious gravity of the situation was causing him a great 461

deal of uneasiness. Mandy? Whats wrong? Stop it, youre freaking me out! It cant becan it? The touch of her husbands hand brought back a semblance of reality but also incited her movement. She lifted herself from the chair and, without a glance or an explanation to John Paul, she simply said, Im sure its himisnt it? He put his head in his hands and wondered what he should do; he had never witnessed this look of perplexed stupefaction on his wifes face in all their years together. Should he follow her? Stop her? He chose to observe scrupulously and discreetly from a distance to see what transpired he knew she would resent his involvement at this stage. Oh God, Mike said, Shes coming over shes heading straight for us JooJoooo! Stop hersomeone stop her! he pleaded in mock terror, his voice lowering slightly as the crazy woman approached. Julie braced herself, she was prepared for a disagreement this woman was not about to ask for the time of day or a light for a cigarette, she was intent on discussing serious matters; the face told her that. Michael sipped from his bottle nervously as she reached the table. Julies eyes daggered into the woman, but she knew she had been obliterated from the lunatics field of vision. As she spoke Mike swallowed too quickly and spluttered a cough into his serviette. Im sorry? he said to her after recovering his composure. What did you say? Mandys face had lost some of its harsh intensity and the expression was one of curious astonishment. She remained polite. I said Im sorry to bother ya. He detected the accent but still had no inkling as to what she wanted with him. What part of Liverpool are you fromif you dont mind me askin? she asked. It was his turn to appear confused. 462

Ive only said six words, you weird, staring crazee. What dya wanna know that for? She may be a long lost sister you never knew about Mikey. Maybe daddy had been sticking it in and shaking it all about all those years ago? She looks a bit like you. She looks nothin like me you freaky fuck! I thought you were fading away anyway. Never said that Mikey boy, I said I was a bit dormant and would fade into the backgroundand observe...it was only temporary, you may need me soon son. This sounded ominous to Michael as he continued his inner dialogue. How can you be a bit dormant, you fucked-up fanny fart? Youre either dormant or youre not dormant, you cant be a bit dormant! Shut the fuck up you obstreperous cunt and concentrate on the task at hand, youve got a crazy Scouse woman challenging you, deal with it! Obstreperous? Where dyou get that word from? You swallowed a dic? Mikey! Dealagenow! He resumed his place in reality and replied, Im sorry love, but I can tell youre a Scouser by your accent, and I know we tend to ask each other this question on chance meetings, but Im havin a quiet meal with my girlfriend here and we dont really wanna be bothered at this timeif you dont mind? Julie felt a little proud of him as her shoulders raised her eyes were still fixed on the woman. Mandy was pleased that hed spoken at length as it offered her more of an opportunity to watch him closely, listen to him steadfastly and perhaps determine a recognition of sorts; she was still unsure. He would be about the right age, there was a definite similarity in the looks despite the evident ageing and loss of weight, the voice was a lot deeper but that was natural as a man ages. Was it him? It would be a coincidence of monumental proportions but she had to find out; she would be unable to rest until she knew for sure. She fired a shot across the bough. 463

Are you from The Dingle? (This was a district of Liverpool where Mandy herself was from.) Good guess you stary-eyed freak! Go on Mikey, talk to her and find out who she is. Maybe you shagged her when you was younger, she might have a little baby Mikey for us whos not a baby anymore, hed be a fully-fledged biped. What the fuck? What the fuck you goin on about? Whats a bipede? Biped Mikey, biped! Get it right son! Anyway, fuck biped, get this sorted out, dont worry about your tart, this could be important. He listened to his head and decided to play along with her she would disappear back to her table soon enough. Yeah, I am actuallygood guess. How about you? Julie sighed. The Dingle too, she replied bluntly. The percentage of probability grew. She calculated in her head how old he would be if it were him, and asked, Are you forty? This stunned him a little but she could see that he would be approximately that age. Good guess again, he thought, and remained outwardly relaxed. Another good guess! he said, moderately annoyed and now extremely intrigued. Mandy was now seventy percent certain that this could really be the man so she decided to go for the killer blow. Youve got a home-made tattoo of a fly on one of your legs. She said this with a burning assurance and remained stoical. He looked down instantly at his right leg to verify that he wasnt wearing shorts. He was not. This left him shaken and it began to show. Julie recognised it in his face and stood up. Come on Mike, were going. But he was going nowhere. Hang on love, just give me a minuteplease? She sat down, as angry as shed ever been with him and drank her vodka through pursed lips. 464

How do you know that? Who are you? It was his turn to show her gaping astonishment and when the realisation hit Mandy like a runaway truck she bowed her head and simply uttered, Oh my God. She raised her head seconds later, saying, Its Mike isnt itMike Madigan. The agitation he felt hullaballooed around his mixed up head as he repeated the words a little more aggressively. How do you know that? How do you know my name? Who are you? Who are you I said? Her eyes showed him a scurrilous, menacing hatred. Mandy, she replied. Mandy? Fuckin Mandy? Mandy who? Mandy fly me? Barry Manilows Mandy? Mandy lifeboats? Who the fuck are you? Mandy PinhorneIm married now. You might know me as Mandy Popejoy. And with the announcement of the preposterous surname, an imaginary light bulb flickered into life inside his head and the jigsaw was complete. The voice was not dissimilar to what it used to be, the face was a little rougher and shed put on a fair bit of weightbut it was her. Jesus Christ! he exclaimed, Is it you? Youre MandyMandy Popejoy! He took some seconds to gather himself then asked, How is Helen? I suppose youve kept in touch, being best mates an all. I suppose shes happily married, got rugrats I spose, well, I guess theyd be grown up rugrats now? He tried to place the memories of his first wife aside but they wouldnt shift. Mandy merely stared at him with sceptical incredulity. You dont know do you? she said. He took a mighty gulp of beer. Know what? he asked, nonchalantly wiping his lips with the back of his hand. Mandy gulped and stifled her emotion. Shes dead. The bottle which he had began to lift to his lips again failed to reach its destination; his mouth 465

opened, his body remained motionless, his face whitened and his bones felt like they were rattling inside his flesh. Helens dead, she repeated as solemnly as a graveside priest. She killed herself. Eight days after you abandoned her she jumped in front of a train. They identified her from dental records, there was nothing left of her; I cant believe you didnt know. Julies eyes examined those of her boyfriend and saw a hideous, sunken lifelessness which shed never seen on the face of another human being. He tried desperately to say the word dead but nothing came out. Julie spoke, but knew as soon as she had done, that it was a grave error. Mike, whats this all about? He couldnt hear her. He couldnt hear anything. The word gripped him like a death rattle. Dead. He couldnt shake it from his brain, it was as rivetted as an anchor. He attempted to speak the word again but the power of speech was still hopelessly impractical. Julie considered remaining quiet but couldnt help herself. Mike? He looked at her; his face was as dead as the love of his life. Whats going on hun? she asked him, pleadingly. Who the fuck are you? Youre not HelenHelens dead. Youre not her. What the fuck are you doin herewho are you? Julie understood the severity of the situation but couldnt help becoming impatient. Just speak, say something, she thought; she willed him to tell her what was happening. Dead. The word sounded pathetic as it finally slithered from his cold, dry mouth like a placenta. Helens dead. Whos Helen? she asked. He ignored her and gazed up at Mandy; he saw a steely repugnance in her eyes. Mike, please tell me whats going on? If you dont tell me whats happening Im Youre what? His head darted from Mandy to Julie. What will you do? he spat venomously, Youll leave? Youll go? Just like the rest of them? Youll up and leave? 466

Well fuck you! Fuck off and leave then, I dont careI dont give a flying fuck what you do Her hand reached for him imploringly but he flinched from it. The staff were showing concern as the scene escalated to an ugliness which perturbed the diners. A waiter approached the table and spoke quietly and calmly to Michael. Im sorry sir, but would you mind keeping the language down otherwise Im going to have to Otherwise what? he uttered vehemently, Otherwise youre gonna have to ask me to leave, is that it? Is that what youre gonna say, you fucking Anglo-Saxon pretend spick! With your yellow rice and your little dishes of funny tasting foodLEAVE? Yeah, Ill show you leave. At this point Julie rose from her seat. Im going, she said, with or without you. She took her cardigan and walked towards the exit. There goes another one! he shouted, addressing the whole restaurant, Another one that kept me breathin! Another one bites the dust! BYESHES GOING NOW! BYE JULES! Its been lovelydont you wanna try some orange potatoes before you go? Im sorry sir, but would you please go now? The drinks are on the house but please Did you hear that everybody? THE DRINKS ARE ON THE HOUSE!! He just told me, order what you like because its all FREEEEEEEEEE!! He was now being bundled gracelessly towards the exit by two of the burliest waiters and the owner of the premises. They barged him through the doors and remained blocking the entrance, arms folded in the event that he may try to re-enter. He didnt. He trudged a short distance from the entrance, sat on a bollard and began to roll a cigarette. At this point Mandy, having maintained a dignified silence at his table throughout his bombastic rant, returned to her husband who had also demonstrated immense self control by remaining seated throughout the expletive-ridden episode. 467

Come on love, she said, were going. Sorry, but Im not hungry anymore. John Paul understood. He pulled a twenty pound note from his wallet and threw it tactlessly on to the table, grabbing his jacket from the back of the seat. He took his wifes hand and led her out, ignoring the apologies from the restaurant staff and the glaring alarm on the faces of the diners. Ill phone a taxi, he said as he fished for the mobile phone in his jacket pocket. Oh God, hes still here, Mandy rumbled to herself desperately. Ten minutes, John Paul said, pressing the red button on the phone, Hes over there, look. I know, she replied, Im goin over. Amanda, hes a lunatic! Dont, just stay with me. He rarely addressed her by the full version of her name but thought the occasion merited it. John, Ive got toIve got to show him something. He deserves this, the bastard! Trust me love, Ill be okay. Michael had calmed down as he sucked the smoke into his heavy lungs; he glanced upwards as he heard the heels clip-clopping towards him, approaching him at a rapid rate. Before she could speak he simply asked, Why? Why what? Mandy replied. Why did she kill herself? Ask yourself that question! What dya mean? What did you expect me to do? You cant blame me for it! Did you think Id take her back after that? I had to goI didnt know shed do something like thatyou cant blame me! Its not my fault. Tears began to mist his eyes. She raised her head to the sky and exhaled a despairing gasp. HA! Thats exactly what Idve expected you to do, to take her backyou twisted freak! Something like what anywaywhat dya mean by that? He looked up at her through a glaze of forced-back tears; the cigarette burnt his 468

fingers as he tossed it to the ground. She continued as his pathetic eyes probed hers, craving a sympathy he didnt expect to receive. Youve got no remorse have you? She was dumbfounded. You beat the rapist to a pulpthats the only credit you deserve in the whole tragic business His eyes saucered in dubious bewilderment as the word registered. Had she really said it? then you abandon your wife of three months the love of your life, apparently to cope with it on her own! You make me fuckin sick! He gestured the palms of his hands towards her in conciliation also a plea for silence. His brow furrowed. The what, he asked, the rapist? You said the word rapist. She paused. A chilling hush descended as it cloaked them in ruthless uncertainty; she was the first to break it. Yeahthe rapistyou beat the living shite out of him in the toilets! Dont tell me... The look of probing bewilderment on his face registered. No, you mustve knownyou saw it happening. She told meshe told me everythin. The rapist? he repeated, a look of pronounced astonishment sculpted into his features. Hang onare you tellin me my wife was raped? I saw my wife getting raped? Is that what youre tellin me? Yes materaped Helen was raped; why dyou think she killed herselfbecause of you? Because you left her? Ha, shedve got over that in time, what she couldnt handle was losin you, gettin raped, seein you watching her get raped and then you do one! Leavin her to cope with it on her own! No. Nonoshe mustve been lyin! I saw it. I saw it allshe was enjoyin it, Im sure of it. Shes lied to ya. I was her best fuckin friend you twat! Id known her since infant school we spent almost evry day together! 469

Herelook at this She rummaged hysterically in her handbag for the newspaper cutting which shed carried with her constantly, painfully for the last twenty-two years. She read it at least once per week, and had done for that length of time; she knew the words verbatim. When she thought of Helen (as she did often, even now) it eased the pain a little to know that he was dead too, and that he would never inflict the suffering hed inflicted so callously and with such enormity on her dead friend on another human ever again. She finally located it and thrust it rancorously into Michaels outstretched palm. Read thatthats the cunt, and dont damage it! she warned him. He unfolded it, punctiliously, and with a gripping fascination he began to read: THE MAN FOUND DEAD, FLOATING IN THE SEA A MILE FROM SKEGNESS BEACH ON MONDAY, WAS TODAY NAMED AS ITALIAN BORN VINCENZO VERMICELLI. HE WAS A FORTY FIVE YEAR OLD ADVERTISING SALESMAN WHO HAD MOVED TO ENGLAND IN 1963. HE LIVED IN LEEDS AND LEAVES A WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN. HIS ABANDONED CAR WAS FOUND ON SKEGNESS SEA FRONT. IT CONTAINED A SUICIDE NOTE. THE POLICE ARE REFUSING TO REVEAL THE CONTENTS OF THE NOTE AT THIS STAGE, BUT ARE NOT TREATING THE DEATH AS SUSPICIOUS. As he finished reading the article he felt an indescribable bond with the man a perverted connection borne from their mutual partaking of Helens flesh; the dead mans by violent force and Michaels through requisite and pure demonstration of his boundless adulation for his first (and only) true love. He despised this attachment he now felt with the dead rapist as much as he despised the man himself. He abhorred the tragic irony and he resented, 470

monumentally, the fact that this man - a man born almost a thousand miles away in a foreign land, a man he had never known nor met (apart from when he had smashed his skull to a bloodied pulp) had had such a substantial influence on the iridescent and lamentable path which his life had followed. What right did he have? What right did he have to deflect Michaels life direction? What right did he have to deny him a life of fulfilment and happiness with his true soulmate? He wanted to cry but all he felt was a frigid, benumbed nothingness. An odd feeling came to him it was like a dawning, a Eureka moment; he knew that this had happened. He recognised the mans name and hed already known he was dead. And he knew hed drowned himself not just killed himself but specifically drowned himselfand he knew the place where it had happened. How could he know this? Had he read the newspaper cutting before? How could he have? Dj vu? A premonition? Helens spirit informing him? The ghost of Vincenzo Vermicelli telling him? The confusion swirling around his befuddled brain was overpowering him; he was sinking into it like quicksand slowly, torturously and inevitably. He unconsciously folded the cutting neatly along its original creases and meticulously handed it back to Mandy; she had calmed a little while hed read but continued to express the chagrin and bitterness she felt. You were the best thing that ever happened to her, she worshipped the fuckin ground you walked onyou fuckerand you left heryou left her to cope all alone She was now holding back her own tears as the painful memories flooded back into her. and she killed herselfbecause of you; she died because of youyou killed heryou The words tapered off as her tears overcame her and her husband ran across to her, enveloping her in his arms. He led her away as she sobbed mercilessly. youyou killed heryou bastardit was you 471

Come on darling, lets go, John Paul soothed, dealing Michael a look of caustic hatred as they huddled away from him. Michael stood alone, unable to cry, unable to feel, unable to believe. This isnt happening, he said, this isnt happening Julie emerged from behind a shelter as the two taxis pulled up in unison. She quickly glanced across the car park at him as she entered the first car; her final image of him was of him tearing at his thinning hair as he pulled clumps of it from his skull. Mandy and John Paul entered the second taxi; she was pressed inside his jacket by his consoling arms. Neither of them awarded Michael another look as he continuously head-butted the trunk of a tree, trying to ram the pillaging events of the previous fifteen minutes (and the last twenty-two years) from his poisoned, bloodied head.

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33
a cute disorder

Come on you lot, get your back passage cleared!

The roll cages were accumulating with relentless monotony. The main aisle of the warehouse area of the supermarket was clotted with freshly delivered goods as Mr. Drinkwater, the store manager, bawled his customary humourless quip, directing it towards the drones who were attempting to keep the area clear. Julie Morris continued scanning the barcodes of the goods the words of her boss hurried her movement temporarily until he had passed out of sight. Dyou think hell ever stop saying that? Julie raised her eyes towards the voice and the expression of cold indifference was the solitary response that she was intending to offer; she resumed her banausic duties without a word. Look Jules, the man said, slightly irritated - she continued to study the buttons on her handset, its been two or three months since we got it on - are you ever gonna speak to me again? Im over itand so should you be. She looked up at his face again, the same indolent expression was etched on her face, and decided to grant him the first dialogue between them since shed discovered him broadcasting their business to the majority of staff at Sainsburys. Over it? Over what, you weird shit! Theres nothing to get over; get over yourself and just leave me alone! 473

Come on George, youre not clearing your back passage! Shake a leg! Mr. Drinkwater had returned suddenly, bringing George and Julies frosty conversation to an abrupt halt. He shuffled away awkwardly, wheeling the basket of cardboard with a grim demeanour and wishing hed kept the business of their one night stand a secret. The store manager stopped on seeing Julie. Ah Julie! How are you? She smiled an insincere, thin smile. Did you ever find out what happened toerm what was his nameMichael wasnt it? You and he were becoming quite close werent you, if you dont mind me asking? She did, but chose not to show it. I dont know what happened to him Mr. Drinkwater, sorry, she replied, a little too sharply. Hmmstrange business, he muttered. Come on you lot, he shouted, sauntering through the warehouse, these fireworks should be in the container by now lets get this point of sale outits Bonfire Night! Julies attention refocused on the buttons of her handset as her mind returned to this coming Thursdays appointment, 11.15am, November the eighth would be a time and date she would try to forget, but never would. She had already arranged the time off work and still wrestled with her conscience as she wondered whether she was doing the right thing. It almost paralysed her to the point of petrifaction each time she thought about it, but abortion was the only course of action that she could envisage. She hadnt seen Michael since the night at the restaurant and, if he were still around then she may have considered keeping the child, but she would not be a single parent. She scanned the cage of sanitary towels like an automaton, as she struggled to shift the impending abortion aside, trying instead to concentrate on her dream of running her own sewing business; nothing would stop her from fulfilling her ambition.

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The explosion of colours and the bone-jarring tumult of bangs, whizzes and shrieks which hullaballooed through the black, November sky had Jonathan transfixed. He was especially bewitched by the way the sky would light up, it was fantastic and unreal and it transported him from the misery of reality. The dampness of the wooden bench seeped mischievously through his Kappa tracksuit bottoms, as he exhaled burger fumes into the misty darkness; he chewed the food excessively loudly knowing that nobody could hear him and tell him off. He had been told off the night before (after his stepfathers game of duck apple) when hed been caught throwing apples into the fire in the back garden embers had showered everywhere as he shouted FIRECOX, FIRECOX! After swallowing the bogus meat he blew his warm breath from his mouth like smoke it made him feel like an adult, like his father when he exhaled the smoke from the countless cigarettes he used to smoke. He looked at the fire and wanted to hurl straw on to it. The final fireworks fizzed into life as they shot into the air, then died too soon as the crowd cheered. Jonathan watched his stepbrother, Jeremy, dancing an excited jig of delirium next to his father as the unfairly, premature pain of desperation, loss and jealousy clouded over him; he wanted to know where his father was. Why had he gone? Where had he gone? Would he ever come back again? He hated him. He chomped at his last piece of burger and chewed it to a mush, then spat it out with considerable force on to the back of Jeremys eighty-pound Armani coat. He would purposely wet the bed again tonight, hoping his urine would seep through on to the sleeping stepbrother below; it hadnt happened yet, but if he drank enough water before he went to bed, it may happen one night. He felt an arm around his shoulder and suddenly flinched. He looked behind him at his mothers face and weary smile, and relaxed. 475

You alright mate? she asked, trying to show enthusiasm, Why dont you go and stand with Joe and Jeremy? Her tone was one of regret but bursting with concern and love for her only son. Its okay mum, the fireworks have finished now. Whens Sarah coming down? I dont think she will now son; she said if shes not here by the time the last fireworks have finished then she probably wont comesorry. The boy sipped noisily through the straw a disingenuous look of apathy on his face. His and his sisters mutual hatred for their decamped father had brought them closer during the previous two months; he was missing his sister at this moment. Samantha sat beside him and gently pulled his head to her chest. She knew exactly what was going through that young head of his and kissed it delicately subconsciously sharing the loathing her son was feeling. Half a mile away Sarah and Tony waded doggedly through the thick, spiny chill, hand in hand. She pulled her hand from his again for the third time in the last two minutes and needlessly adjusted her beanie hat, a fabricated excuse to end contact with his cold, fleshy hand. Are you alright babe? he asked. She tightened the Burberry scarf around her mouth and muffled a response. She couldnt put this off much longer she had to tell him. Shed ended relationships with other boyfriends on many occasions, even by text message she hadnt cared, and even looked forward to it at times but this felt different, this was scary. However, the outcome would be similar, she would spend a few weeks on her own until another came along. But she knew she would never forget Tony; she had loved him (and still did love him) but things were not the same, didnt feel the same as they did a few months earlier, and she blamed her absent father for it. There would be no big house in the country for them; there would be no future 476

together for them. He would be fine following his career path and she knew deep down inside that she was not what he really wanted not really. She just had to find the courage to tell him it was over, and tell him tonight. She felt like crying as the piercing wind drove into her eyes; she would use it as an excuse for the tears that would surely follow. She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her Helly Hansen coat, away from the curling, spidery fingers of her ex-boyfriend to be, and hummed an Eminem tune to herself. Is that you? Is what me? Daniel asked, turning his head to face his wife who was rummaging aimlessly through a box of old photographs on the living-room rug. The spoonful of baby food was enveloped hungrily by his six-month old daughter, who was too impatient to wait for her father to feed it to her. I thought you were supposed to be packing? he asked. I wasI amI just found these old photos so I thought Id go through a few. Ive never seen this one before, is that really you? Hold on. Danny shovelled the final spoonfuls into his daughters hungry mouth. The photograph depicted a gaggle of cider-guzzling youths as they sat in a circle in a public park one of them was squirting a jet of red wine into his yawning mouth from a continental wine-skin. He craned his neck and struggled to recognise the young faces in the picture. Ahyep, thats mehandsome arent I? She grimaced, benignly. Well hun, I wouldnt have given you a second look in those daysmoose! Dan smiled. That must bewhatsher-name again? That ex of yours. You were with her for a while, werent you? He moved his head a little closer. Hilary, he replied casually. 477

Hilary! Yeah, what a name! Dan ignored the bitchy comment. What happened to her again? She moved abroad, to France. She wanted the family thing, but I wasnt really ready then too impetuous we just grew apart. I still get an e-mail from her now and then. She got married again about five years ago to some French geezerJacques or Gerard or something, theyve got two kids. Louisa continued to study the photograph, not wishing to know any information about her husbands ex, and peeved by the flow of it. And who are these others? They all look like drunken freaks! Danny scooped his daughter from the high-chair and sat her down on the play-mat. He snuggled up to Louisa to study the picture more closely, pointing to the faces as he named them. Thats Adam, you know himI cant remember him (pointing to another face), Alan maybe? Mikey! Fucks sake, Mikey, what ever happened to him? I loved that guy; we were best buddies, him and me. Ive never heard you talk about him, whos Mikey then? Dan pondered as memories of his once best friend peppered into his head; Louisa nudged him impatiently. Whos Mikey? His nostalgic thoughts dispersed. Mikey. Real name, Michael Madigan one fucked up product of a fucked up Irish family from Liverpool, poor lad! What happened to him? God, I last saw him about ten years ago, I think. I spoke to him on the phone about a year or so after that, and he erhe got sent down. He omitted to mention the circumstances of their last conversation as they had both sworn to never reveal the secret of his attempted suicide despite him telling Hilary at the time, he had regretted it instantly and never told another human being. Sent down? What for? 478

Oh, I dunno, he replied, murder or something. She slapped him playfully as he made a gesture to stand up. What do you mean, murder or something? Sit down and tellgo on Dan, tell mewhat did he go down for? Twelve years, I think, he joked. She slapped him again, with a little more force. Okay babe, he killed a guy in his mad youth, he got done for manslaughter after he confessed it to the police. Louisa looked shocked. No way! Serious? Yeah, really. As I said, he was a little bit fucked up. Where is he nowstill in prison? No, he wont be now, hes probably out. They never do the full term. Louisa was captivated and slightly ashamed of herself for being so. Did you never go to visit him? No. I wrote a couple of times but we just sort of fizzled out, yknow, as people tend to do. I havent a clue where he is or what hes doing now. I do miss him thoughhope hes okay. He rolled towards his daughter who was beginning to whine for attention and shook his head from side to side, playfully uttering, Shaky, shaky!. She giggled and reciprocated by shaking her torso as she sat, tumbling backwards as her legs hoisted into the air. The two parents laughed together and Louisa checked that she was okay. We could have taken her to see the fireworks tonight, for the first ever time, Dan offered. Louisa turned back at him, askance, Dan! Shes only six months old, shed be terrified! Anyway, were too busy packing. Were finally getting out of Londonat last! He agreed and kissed her on the cheek. He picked up Mr. Conky, the Wonky Donkey and nuzzled it playfully into the stomach of his daughter as she attempted, in futility, to lift herself upright. Shaky shaky! he mumbled again as baby Lucia chuckled with glee. 479

As the London night sky appeared to vibrate and the Big Ben Bombs whizzed and fizzed their colours into the blackness, the exits of Mile End tube station oozed streams of people onto the streets. Nobody paid any heed to the man on Mile End Road who was grieving over the death of his friend. Hes dead! He shook the body but it felt as stiff as cardboard. Hes dead! he moaned again. Mikey Madigans dead! He passed the rigid form, which was slouching against the railings, an opened can of White Lightning, but he didnt take it from him. He thrust it further towards the inanimate arm but it failed to react he, himself, drank from it and buried his head in his grubby hands, which were etched in filth. Mikey, dont go! Dont leave me! He studied the face on the ground, pathetically it bore no expression. He felt the hand, it was cold but not as cold as a dead hand should be but why would it? Only minutes had passed since the tramp had been swapping opinions with him and Mikey had been responsive a little tiredly admittedly, but you couldnt just die like that, could you? He nudged the still shape and it tumbled from its resting position against the railings the head fell against the cold, blue concrete of the public bin. He was right. Michael Madigan was indeed dead. He grabbed hold of the lifeless form and shook it hysterically by the shoulders. Shaky! Shaky! Waky! Waky, hands off fucking snaky!! He lifted the inert arm and jiggled it, the hand quivering with the vibrations as he brought it towards the can of 7.5% white cider. HES ALIVE!! Look! Hes trying to grab the can! Go on Mikeyyou can do it! Drink boy, drink itll revive you! The tramp continued to move the arm and as it made contact with the can, wrapped the cardboard hand around it and raised it to the hole in the head, which had been torn 480

out to constitute a mouth. He allowed the tiniest dribble of alcohol to slip into the hole not wishing to waste too much. HE LIVES! MIKEY MADIGAN LIVES AGAIN!! he bawled to the bustling migration of faceless bodies hurriedly passing him and casting him glances of contempt as they looked back. Dont you ever do that to me again, do you hear me? You scared the living shit out of meyou fucker! I need a drink, give that can back, you greedy twat! And dont you ever die on me again! Michael unravelled the cardboard hand from the can and quivered it to his own face the dry, cracked lips quaffed it greedily and he pulled the cardboard cut-out of himself back to a sitting, upright position. He had arrived on the streets of London over two months ago and had been advised by fellow homeless unfortunates to hunt around the goods-in areas of local shops for large sheets of thick cardboard, lay it on the ground before he settled for the night and this would offer him some insulation from the cold and the damp. Good idea Mike had thought and had thanked one of the tramps, offering him a sip of Tennents Super for his troubles but only one sip. So, Michael had procured three large pieces of cardboard hed used two to lie on and used the third to tear out the dubious shape of a human being (hed reckoned on needing some company over the coming months and who better to keep him company than himself, another Mikey?). He called him Mikey Too. He could talk to him at leisure and he wouldnt thieve from him or drink his precious medicine; he would just sit with him or lie with him (or underneath him), keeping him company, keeping him sane. The two-month old cardboard human shape was now a little bedraggled, having undergone the constant movement and continuous touching, slapping, punching and general man-handling from the grimy hands of Michael Madigan, 481

his creator. And, the fact that he rolled it up, carrying it in a carrier bag or underneath his arm did little to give the shape a fresh look. But Michael loved him hated him too but he would never be without him; he would go insane otherwise. He picked up the shape and, placing the head in front of his own, spoke through the mouth-hole. Ah, I had you there Mikey boy! Thought Id snuffed it, didnt ya? Just playin sonjust playin. Give us a swig of that cider ya greedy cunt! He replaced the shape against the bin and steadied his drunk, emaciated frame as he attempted to stand, wagging his finger at his cardboard friend his other hand clutched the can as he jigged, unintentionally, in front of his friend. No more for you! he shouted, You dont deserve any more after playin a mean ol trick like that! He guzzled the cider as several passers-by glanced at him in baffled disgust, shaking their heads in disbelief as they thought what could possibly happen to a man to make him appear so grotesque and behave in such an absurdly demented manner. What a poor, sorry waste of skin! Michael was oblivious to them and their thoughts as he danced comically in front of his one and only friend. Mikey, why dont you give me a swig? I need some alcohol to flesh out the corrugates on my shape. If you stopped rolling me up all the time and shovin me under your stinkin armpit, I might be in a bit of a better shape! Oh, stop your whimpering, you whinin fucker! I created youI brought you to lifeMikenstein I amyou can call me Mikenshteen! Mikey, I was always alive, I was always inside your head, you just threw me into this tatty shape. Ah, but now people can see you! And they dont think Im a nutter anymore cuz Im talkin to youanother man! Mikey, you are a nutterIm not a man, Im a fuckin cardboard shapenutjob! Please Mikey? Just one swig? 482

He relented and, hoisting the shape from its seated position again and standing it on its frayed feet (which had been formed at one hundred and eighty degrees, Charlie Chaplin-esque) placed his bearded face behind the cardboard head and drank an almighty gulp through the mouth-hole. The passing Londoners were aghast as he hurled the cardboard man to the ground, screaming, ONE SWIG, I SAIDYOU GREEDY MOFE! That was nearly a whole throatful! Thats it now, youve had yourscunt! He caressed his tin of cider lovingly and stamped on his friends cardboard nether regions as it lay flat on the frosty ground. He turned his frozen face towards the hoards of normality as they gawped with sickened stupefaction. Ill show them! He turned to face the exiting multitude from the tube station, and grumbled malevolently to himself. Ill show em, with their nice suits and clean hair and white teethall they want is moneygoldPOTS OF GOLD! He shuffled his unclean body past several people as they exited, giving him a wide berth, and entered the tube station. He stopped at the steps, scanning people drunkenly with his one eye as they advanced towards him up the steps. GOLD? he screamed, IF YOU WANT GOLD, ILL GIVE YOU GOLD! he raged, and as the shocked crowd looked up at the drunk, he proceeded to fumble with his fly. After several seconds he managed to pull out his shrivelled penis his mission to shower the oncomers in a majestic arc of golden spray failed pitiably as a pathetic trickle of urine seeped bashfully onto his discoloured jeans. The exiting commuters, who had all shifted to the opposite side of the staircase to evade the expected sprinkling, were nauseated in unison as they expressed their outrage to each other. One maverick opted to deliver retribution and punched Michael in the face as he left, receiving a 483

supportive cheer for his effort Michael felt nothing as he tumbled to the ground, shocked but still conscious. Michael Madigan was no longer aware whether his conversations with himself were audible or inside his head; he had lost the capacity to control and he would often find himself communicating aloud with himself or his rigid friend, or sometimes both simultaneously. He no longer possessed the wherewithal to mask his oddness from his fellow human beings nor the cognizance that he was demonstrating that very oddness in full view of them he was just being himself. His whole existence was a horrendous cyclone of seething confusion. He was not an unmitigated lunatic despite his bizarre delusions that he was one of fourteen captains of an ocean liner, (he would often discuss with Mikey Too his fanciful seafaring antics and his constant struggles to prevent contraband and tarantulas from boarding his ship) he was still capable of surviving the harsh realities of street life; he had no home, no job, no friends, no family (of which he was aware), no direction, no apparent future and, to all intents and purposes, no past. His alcoholism only added to his clouded existence. One day had not passed in sobriety since his disjointed arrival in London, two months, one week and three days ago. He had periods where he thought he remembered random fragments of his shredded past (the multitude of sirens he heard would always rouse a germ of recognition), but these moments ebbed and flowed in a hazy, unreal swirl of alcohol-induced uncertainty and were robbed from him by the grim, cynical realism of life on the streets of London. But, the need to survive was inherent; it was almost impossible to shake off. He had learned the tricks quickly. Hed fitted the plastic shopping bags inside his bobble hat and boots, hed bought womens tights from a charity shop, and cut the crotch and toes out, slipping it like a bodice over his wasted torso. Hed used natures resources too by growing his facial hair which, coupled 484

with his alcoholic way of life, contributed to his aged appearance of a man fifteen years his senior. But he was not unhappy. He drank excessively. He smoked incessantly. He smelled of cider and stale urine. He mumbled to himself like a rumbling volcano. Hed acquired a tic whereby his right elbow jutted into the air every few seconds. He slept on cold concrete or wet soil sometimes night and day. He felt gravely ill most of the time. He wore a patch over his left eye (the opposite eye to Mikey Too) for no reason. Hed lost his dentures and two of his own teeth had fallen out in sympathy. Hed lost two stone in weight. And he couldnt find his marbles. If hed had a parrot on his shoulder and a peg leg he could have doubled as an emaciated Long John Silver. But, he was not unhappy. He had managed to crawl from the Underground exit back to the place where hed left his friend, writing off the blow to the head it was a customary occurrence. He knelt on the pavement, apologized for leaving him and crushing his groin, and began to roll up Mikey Too, beginning from the head as always. The folds formed naturally into themselves after countless days of performing the ritual. Nooooooooooooooooooo! Mkhumphyflooginflo he uttered incomprehensibly, pretending to be his rolled-up friend, grumbling about returning underneath his armpit. Theres no use fighting against it Mikey TooIve had enough of your funny business tonight, were goin home. And he wedged him underneath his arm and steadied himself as he rose. He thrust the rolled-up Mikey into the carrier bag which contained his yet-to-be-opened three litre bottle of Frosty Jack cider. He fell backwards against the railings, dropping the bag onto the pavement and fumbled in his overcoat for the Amber Leaf tobacco, eventually finding it in the lining of the coat through the hole in the pocket. He rolled a cigarette and lit it. He picked up the bag of cider and friend and stumbled up Mile End Road, 485

cigarette in mouth, bag in hand, jeans soaked in urine and fat-lipped his way home. At present, he lived in a churchyard in Shoreditch, in a thicket of bushes where he could not be seen from the street; it was not ideal but he had recently moved, out of fear. He had lived around the corner for five days, in the grassy area of Hoxton Square. After six weeks of floundering and coughing his way around the streets of London, living in doorways in the West End, various parks, a pedestrian walkway next to Vauxhall Tube Station, The Embankment (he hadnt enjoyed it there as it was too crowded and he felt claustrophobic, he couldnt breath) and the odd night here and there in a hostel for the homeless (when hed remembered to queue up in time and if he wasnt too drunk), hed had enough and wanted to lay down some roots. He knew hed visited the city before, in which lifetime he was unsure, but something lurked inside his beaten brain which told him so; his head ached, craving to recall the tiniest memory, any snippet of recollection. It wasnt a memory, but a vague recognition, and it arrived unexpectedly. He had just passed through Bank on a Saturday morning the lack of people on the streets mystified him. He had found a deserted sleeping place in the area the previous night but the large, office buildings of Threadneedle Street had upset him so he decided to vacate the area, never to return. As he walked up Liverpool Street, obligatory drink dribbling into his mouth, he passed the station, and the name sparked a tiny splinter of recognition in his head, Liverpool hed thought, I know that name. ONWARD AND UPWARD! hed shouted, and continued walking, believing that he would arrive at a place that he had known in the past. His unsteady path eventually brought him into Shoreditch High Street; it had seemed familiar to him, yet somehow different. Have I been here before? hed thought. He recognised the area, he thought, continuing past the church. The Ladbrokes across the street 486

stirred another vague memory, and as he tried, in vain, to grasp it, it escaped from him like an eel. He continued studying the buildings and shops, That kebab shop shouldnt be on the corner there, wasnt that a pub? Whats this pub? That rings a bell end! (He had thought of entering but knew he wasnt welcome in them anymore.) He walked on, passing a derelict shop its grills dusty from inactivity, a railway bridge; he turned left and passed underneath it. The feeling of familiarity was strong and becoming stronger. He entered an area of flats; there were offices, cafes and pubs which felt alien to him, but the grassy area in the middle of the square was somehow familiar. He entered it and sat on one of the benches, hed sat here before. He knew it. And so hed decided on Hoxton Square for his new home, just ten days ago, moving out just five days later the incident which caused his upheaval had frightened him: It was a crisp, bright Halloween morning he was feeling tranquil as he imbibed Blackout cider and munched on bacon fries on his bench in Hoxton Square he had just bored Mikey Too with an imaginary tale of his captains adventures on the high seas (a murder of crows had swarmed on to the top deck and were attacking the crew), and hed become upset when his friend called him a liar. But now, he was settled back and planned to watch the square becoming busier throughout the day and when the Blackout cider was empty he would start to demolish the four-pack of K cider. The cafes and bars filled with people using Halloween as an excuse to drink copious amounts of alcohol. Some of them noticed him as they sat outside at the tables but just ignored him as an irrelevant, useless old tramp. Michael was sitting quietly on the bench, guzzling his can of K cider, minding his own business whilst having a quiet conversation with Mikey Too who sat beside him, clutching 487

an empty can, limp-wristedly. They were trying to jog their memories. We have been here before Mikey Too, we haveI know it! He glanced sideways at his friend and saw no reaction from the eye-patched cardboard shape. Well? Dont just sit there givin me the one-eye, you ignorant fuck! Have we or havent we beenherebefore? Im thinkin, shut the fuck upand youYOU put this eye patch on me so thats all I can give you is the one-eyeI cant give you the two-eyesand theres nothin even wrong with it! Well, Ive got one so youve got to have one, its the ruleshis and his, innit. Theres nothing wrong with yours either, so why dyou wear it? It adds to the om beyonce my friend, dont you know nothin? And did you know, those Indians, they all wash their feet in the kitchen sinks in the afternoon before they open upyou wont catch me buyin a chicken curry from those people, I can tell you! The three teenage drinkers were all leaning against the railings, gawping unbelievably at the talking madman. Whos he talking to? one asked. Himself, replied his friend, incredulously. Come on, lets go. Whats that hes got with him? the third one asked, approaching the gate to enter the area and take a closer look. Come on Scott, leave it mate, hes just a mad drunk hes not doing any harm. Where shall we go next? The two were about to leave but Scott was advancing towards Michael as he sat. He stood over him, menacingly. Alright mate! he greeted. Mike looked up at him through bloodshot eyes, ignored him, took a sip of cider, and continued the conversation with Mikey Too. The drunken boy spoke again, a little more aggressively.

488

I said, alright mate! His two friends called to him from across the railings, Scott! Leave it, were going round the corner for another beer, come on! This cunts ignoring meyou alright mate? he asked him for a third time, kicking over his can which Mike had rested on the ground while he rolled a cigarette. Whats this? the boy asked, flicking the cardboard cut-out with his knuckles. Dont touch him! Mike shouted. I am an honourable citizen and you can call me CITIZENand this is my friend. Dyou drink schnapps? Schnapps the name of the game, y knowOKAY? Never gonna get itmight get ittough un What are you goin on about you drunk fuck? And what dyou mean, your friend? Its a piece of fuckin cardboard you nuttergive it here! Mike grabbed his friend, eagerly and clasped him to his heaving chest. Scott! Will you just fucking leave him! Come on! He turned to his companion and they both walked away, leaving Scott with the tramp. Dyou want some thenyou filthy cunt? Still clutching the cardboard, Mike looked at his aggressor timidly and asked him, What have you got? Green golf balls? He picked up his drink, which lay on its side, and sipped the remaining liquid, feeling fearful. What have I got? What dyou mean, what have I got? Green what? You drunken piece of shit, youre lucky I dont knock you out of your shoesyoure not worth it fuckin pisshead! And, as he left, he kicked the can out of Michaels hand as Mike remained gripping his friend in protective fear. As he walked away to rejoin his friends, checking back for any response from the tramp, Michael attempted to totter to his feet with the shape, taking over half a minute to do so. He stood behind his cardboard companion and, lifting both cardboard arms in a simulated punching stance and hiding behind it, he stared, wild-eyed, 489

through the eyeholes, I dont wear shoes, I got boots! he exclaimed, and poked his yellow tongue through the mouthhole in infantile mockery. He was lucky that the young thug had already turned the corner. Now, Michael Madigan was happily ensconced in his new churchyard home it was secluded and it felt safe to him. It was the Thursday after Bonfire Night and it brought with it unfeasible warmth. He had cast off his overcoat, folding it neatly and placing it next to his blue carrier bag which was laden with tins of Special Brew; he had been to visit the Centrepoint to collect his giro earlier and this was his special treat each fortnight. He would purchase eight cans of Special Brew for ten pounds from Ghandi Wines, the local Indian off licence situated two minutes from his bush, and then wander next door to buy a tin of pilchards in tomato sauce and a bag of salad. He settled back to prepare his breakfast. He had taken his tin-opener and fork (necessary equipment for street life and a godsend when he chose to eat healthy food) from the lining of his overcoat and started to open the pilchards; these tins had no ring-pulls which is when the tin-opener had its use. He plucked a pilchard from the tin, extended his arm upwards and dropped it into his open mouth, like a chick in the nest awaiting a tasty morsel; he chewed it audibly and hungrily, the red sauce dribbling into his greying beard. Aah! he moaned, in satisfaction, as he picked up the salad bag. He struggled for fifteen seconds to wrench it open and, after succeeding, poured the fishy gobbets into the bag. He clamped the opening shut and shook it violently and demonstratively, like Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Happy with his mix, he prepared to devour the breakfast. Right then! he called to Mikey Too, who was still ravelled in the carrier bag adjacent to the red, fishy amalgam. Ill let you out for breakfast but youre goin 490

straight back in after it yknow how these little swimmers bring out the worst wind in the world from your bumhole. Mikey, I havent got a bumhole you never gave me one. You gave me eye-holes and a mouth-hole and two little snot-holes, but no arse-hole. How do you speak like that when youre not even unrolled? I never understood that. Mikey, I cant speakIm a piece of a boxIm in your head, you drunken fuck! Yes, I knowand I am in it too! Where would you expect me to bein Hong Kong? Anyway, its breakfast time and youre comin out. He lurched towards the bag, in an over-excessive manner, and grabbed hold of the cardboard, unrolling it on the seat beside him. Now, as usual, I get firsts, you get aftersme first because I invented you. Greedy fuck! I shall ignore that, and if you want feeds then you must respect me. Sorry. Three minutes later he had eaten half of the outlandish meal and allotted the remainder to the cardboard human. A young boy ventured into the churchyard to investigate any possible scenarios; his mother was oblivious outside as he walked through the gate. He walked the seven yards towards the odd spectacle and stood in front of Michael, assuredly; he showed no fear, just curious, boyish intrigue. Give us that forkIm fuckin starving! Give it here, youve had yours! Michael was still seated on the bench but had placed the cardboard over himself. He was shovelling forkfuls of pilchards and salad through the mouth-hole into his own mouth; the tomato sauce stained the mouth area and masked the dried-in stains of previous meals. The boy had never witnessed such an incredible episode and continued observing as if he were hypnotized until his mothers voice from over the hedge broke the spell. Rory! Rory! Where are you gone now boy? He turned his head towards the call, turned his head back to the madman and shouted at him in a thick, Cockney accent, 491

Your mothers got dreadlocks on her cunt! He ran away instantly, looking back every few steps, and returned to his grateful mother. Whats she got? Michael asked, bewildered, to nobody. Dont run away from me, boy! How many time I need to tell you, innit? But mom, I saw somethin weird, innit. I saw a man feedin himself through cardboard it was the shape of a man! She dealt him a swipe to the head. Roryya gotta stop livin that dreamworld you gotta stop boy! But mom! He knew it was no use as she wouldnt believe himagain. He decided to resume chomping his pickled onion Monster Munch as he prized the bag open. Why you av to call me Rory? he bemoaned, dropping the subject of the cardboard man. She sucked through her teeth. Why, its your name innit? Its what your father name youcome on! He silently cursed and crammed one of the bulky corn snacks into his mouth. Why couldnt he eat meat-flavoured ones, he thought, like everyone else does? The time was approaching midday and Michael sat, replete, against the back of the bench, he belched through the mouth-hole; he hadnt even seen the boy watching him. He suddenly felt a murmur where his heart felt like it had stopped or missed a beat for a second or two he stared into space and felt an inexplicable, sad bewilderment; he finished off his third Special Brew of the morning and attributed the momentary lapse of concentration to the brew and the fact that it was special. He rolled up Mikey Too and returned him inside the bag and continued his conversation with the carrier bag. Anyways, did you feel that? No, feel what? Like a stab and it all went quiet for a bitlike a spike in me Spiky Mikey! Spiky Mikey boy! Spiky boys! Spiky boysspiky 492

boysSPIKY BOYS! And Michael pranced an insane jig around the churchyard repeating the ludicrous words spiky boys, spiky boys. He would never know that thirty-five seconds earlier his unborn child had just been aborted. So, despite his recently acquired insanity, Michael had grown accustomed to street life very quickly he had had to. The survival instinct was still alive and kicking; something told him that he wasnt fit for death, something in his subconscious, battered brain told him that, despite his failed suicide attempts (or because of them?) throughout his garbled life, his number wasnt up. The tips from his fellow down-and-outs were invaluable and the streets offered a smorgasbord of free booty whole, untouched kebabs, jewellery, countless coins of varying denominations, boxer shorts and even a whole suit which he had found draped over the standing foot of the Eros statue in Piccadilly Circus. Michael used everything that he found, he had no shamehe had no choice. But, he knew that the most important thing for him was to keep himself as warm as possible through the coming winter months; then, when March arrived next year and springtime slowly melted the ice, everything was going to be alright. He would enter the local caf (Coffs Caff) five minutes before it closed, where Pauline Coughlin, the silver-haired, genial proprietress would fill his Thermos flask with hot water; he would then take out the inner pod of the flask and wrap it in his sleeping bag, warming it as he walked the streets. When he settled for the night, he would unroll the sleeping bag and the warmth of it furnished him with a feeling of peaceful, childhood satisfaction as he thought of hot water bottles, jelly babies and toy cars. He would hug the still-warm pod as an infant would his favourite Teddy, until sleep finally granted him temporary respite from his grim existence the life he, himself, had insanely chosen. 493

The month of November passed without any major travesties for Michael; hed fallen over in the street on numerous occasions, hed been accosted twice by tramphating drunks and hed wiped his bottom with Parazone bleach wipes which hed found and mistakenly thought were baby wipes, but apart from the bruises, knocks and severely scorched sphincter, nothing major had occurred. Thoughts of his previous life never drifted into his head his loves, his children, his dead mother or his erstwhile, long-forgotten father; all he had now was himself and his cardboard companion. As mid-December arrived, the temperatures dropped dramatically as winter obliterated the memory of the relatively mild temperatures of the previous month, and, as Christmas approached, Michael felt something was different as he spluttered his way around London. People treated him differently they were generally kinder towards him. His begging bowl filled quicker than it used to and some folk even smiled at him. The looks of disgust diminished and Mikey and Mikey Too shuffled about the snowbound streets with a jauntiness which belied their plight. He would still tumble to the ground as he walked; he accepted this as normality and put it down to the heady concoction of Special Brew, Tennents Super, white cider and his fifty-a-day cigarette addiction making him feel tired. The blood he coughed up did not perturb him and the mind-warnings which he received regularly from his friend didnt register. Mikey, you smoke too much, the cardboard face would say to him. Fuck off! was his retort, And anyway, he would say, why dont you cough up shit? What makes you so special; you smoke as much as me! Ive got no lungsMr. Smoketoomuch! he would reply to himself. 494

His body was telling him something, his demolished mind was telling him something - but Michael Madigan wasnt listening, he was too busy staying alive and drinking himself stale. Another week passed and the thought of Christmas Eve, the following day, stirred something in him; he couldnt quite grasp what it was, it was a perplexing, fuddled significance and he tried his utmost to remember but, when he clutched at it, like a fly it would escape. But, an obscure sense of recognition of the day told him that he should venture the six miles to South London to Brixton. And tomorrow he would consent. He would stumble and cough and drink and smoke his way through Bank, Elephant and Castle, past The Oval and up Brixton Road towards Brixton Town Centre. He tried to project himself onto the journey as he lay, curved into a doorway. What would he encounter? Could he last the trek? Did he know the way? Why was he doing this? How many times would he fall over? How many sirens would blast into his ears along the route? Would he get beaten up on the way? He felt scared as the alcohol he tried to put into his mouth seeped down his cheek as he lay. He sobbed with frustration and fear as his mind wrestled with the relevance of tomorrow unable to remember that on that day nine years earlier he was clinging to life after a failed suicide attempt and on the same day twenty-three years earlier he had first met his beloved, and ultimately tragic, Helen. He was cold, bitterly cold. He cursed the absence of his Thermos hot water bottle as he awoke in a strange place. This was not his grassy home. This was somewhere else. The steely taste of blood in his mouth, and the sharp pain in his lungs as he coughed, reminded him that he was not a well man. But he was still alive not exactly kicking, but alive. He instantly delved into the deep pockets of his 495

damp, objectionably stinking overcoat and prayed to a Lord which he had long lost that he would find a bottle. His frozen fingers felt glass and he rejoiced. But was there any liquid remaining? He prayed again and, with gargantuan effort, prized it from its safety. The half-bottle of Glen Ganley whisky (the cheapest brand hed purchased from the off-licence the previous night) was, astonishingly, just three-quarters empty. His trembling, nicotine-stained digits, which were now coated in an eruption of tobacco flotsam from his pocket, managed to circle the top off the bottle and he gorged his medicine into his craving, eager throat; he swilled it around his mouth to take away the taste of the blood, and to savour the glorious taste, and swallowed. He gasped in rapture. Despite his gnarled, wizened frame, ill health and fullyestablished alcoholism, the battered mind of Michael Madigan was, surprisingly, relatively functional. He perused his surroundings and toiled to think back to the previous night, and where he actually was. He was lying, strewn on the pavement outside the gates of Brockwell Park in Brixton he huddled into the railings and clung to them as if he were about to fall overboard. He remained still as his mind thought for many minutes, in an effort to understand why he was here in South London. He was quite certain that he lived in East London. Merry Christmas you drunk cunt! Mike winced sharply as he felt an intensely painful blow to his head, then one to his back the youth who had dealt the kicks ran away towards the junction of Brixton Hill and Tulse Hill, sniggering with not-so-festive glee. Michael tensed his frozen, embryonic body in preparation for the onslaught. It didnt happen, and relief overcame him he was in no mood for a Christmas Day kicking. A tear fell down his cheek as he tried to rub away the searing pain in his head. Aah, Christmasits Christmas! And, as his mind leapt back to childhood for not long enough, it returned as the 496

grim reality of his situation hit him like a truck. He had staggered his way through festive London the previous night to bring himself back to the area where hed decided to settle, all those years ago when he abandoned his home town and, unwittingly, his raped wife. His presence here was a subliminal, twisted tribute to his one, true love - the teenage girl whose tears hed helped dry twenty-three Christmases ago, the teenage girl hed married three months later, the teenage girl hed witnessed being raped three months after that, the teenage girl who took her own life eight days later, unable to deal with the loss of her soul mate. He raised himself painfully to his aching feet, his toes felt numb and absent as he steadied his still-drunk shape against the frost-covered metal railings. He made his way towards the old George Canning pub, now re-named Hootanannies. The wind blew specks of snow into the faces of the scattering of people he passed on this bleak, Christmas morning their faces appeared to be lined with pain as they looked at him. Were they thinking the same as him? Were they wishing they were not alone at this time? One particular man reminded Michael of himself as he approached, he, too, was hunched into his black overcoat, trudging his tired limbs along the frosted pavement. His ten-to-two feet almost brought him into contact with Michael as they attempted to pass each other, both unsure about which side the other would pass. The walk to Hootanannies a five-minute amble for the average human was a twenty-five minute trek for Michael and, on reaching the establishment, he settled his weary bones at one of the numerous tables outside to rest and roll a cigarette, and unroll his friend. He heard music. He looked up from rolling his cigarette, thinking it may be coming from a car which had stopped at the traffic lights the road was empty. He listened closer and deduced it was 497

coming from inside the pub. He thought it very peculiar that there would be music playing inside a pub at such an early hour on Christmas morning, but thought no more of it. He lit his cigarette and listened as The Temptations My Girl muffled its melody through the closed windows into his freezing ears. He listened to the track. It began to rekindle something in him; a warm, comfortable feeling of recognition made him smile. The tranquil eeriness of the streets, coupled with the music made him feel surreal, as if he were in a film; he recognised the feeling. And smiled again. He took a drag of the cigarette, coughed and reached for the whisky. The song ended, and returned. He turned his body, which was facing the street, to look through the window as Mikey Too asked his master, Is someone avin a laugh? The inside of the pub was dimly lit and there was no movement, yet the music continued, My girl, talkin bout my girlmy girl. He then did something which hed not done since his unexpected arrival in London almost four months earlier, he thought of his past, particularly the women he had loved in his pastand his daughter, and, did he have a son too? Did he have children? He thought of names, his disordered, throbbing head was awash with names; Sarah SamanthaJodymore names barged their unexpected, uninvited entry into his befuddled brainJonathan KirstyJulieMandy. And, as the track finished and started playing again, the lyrics etched their significance into his consciousness, and he thought of Helen. Destiny was dealing him a slice of its contorted humour at his expense; he didnt want this, he wanted the peaceful innocence of ignorance. The tears poured out of him in torrents of guilt and regret. IM SORRY!! he bawled, as he continued to weep. Nobody heard. The streets of Brixton were deserted. The atmosphere was ghostly and unnatural and Michael Madigan was scared. As he stabbed his dead cigarette into 498

the dirt with his tired boots, the ember burnt the sole of his foot through the hole in the boot; he ignored it. His head drooped. The music finishedand re-started again. The same song. It was on a continuous loop on the jukebox and he laughed hysterically; his broken, yellow teeth welcomed the cold, Christmas air and he guffawed, coughed and guffawed more. He could bear no more repeats of the tune and he raised his tired flesh to attempt the journey home to his East End bush. He walked, stopped, coughed, spat, drank, smoked, and walked again. He stopped, exhausted on Effra Road to empty the last dregs of whisky and, as he held the bottle motionless above his opened mouth, waiting for the final drop to enter it, he looked up to see the message above the entrance to The Fridge club, it read, THE FRIDGE IS WISHING EVERYBODY A VERY MERRY XMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR. He smiled at the absurdity, swallowed the last drop of spirit, and, after swallowing, coughed an almighty cough. He felt a coagulated mixture inside his mouth, it felt like wet bread, and attempted to spit it in the direction of the festive greeting. His lungs had nothing left, his weakness was supreme, and the intended thrust of sputum failed miserably to reach even the pavement. An abhorrent cross-breed of phlegm, saliva, blood and regurgitated whisky trickled from his cracked lips, onto his beard and down his chin. And, as the farrago of offensive spurge tried to reach his threadbare sweater, he hurled the empty bottle vertically into the air, not caring whether it landed on his balding skull it smashed on the ground beside him. He scanned the area around him, frantically, for his cardboard friend; he had temporarily disregarded him when his newfound sense of reality had dawned. He spotted him, littering the street, ten yards behind. The frenzied performance to reach him caused his feet to tangle and he 499

fell, head first, on to the pavement. The force of the stumble broke his remaining front tooth and, through lacerated lips, he howled with twisted glee as he crumpled his only friend into his arms. DONT LEAVE ME! he begged, DONT EVER LEAVE ME! and he smeared the cardboard head with blood as he kissed it affectionately. He didnt hear the siren of the ambulance as it pulled up beside him. He did not see the green uniforms of the two paramedics dashing towards him. He did not feel the touch of the female paramedics fingers on his pulse. He did not hear, see or feel anything. Hes alive, she said to her associate. It looks like hes fallen, she announced, as she perused the bloodied mess that was Michaels face. As they stretchered his crumpled body into the ambulance he regained consciousness. He removed the mask as his body convulsed into a coughing fit. He tried to raise himself onto his elbow but a gentle gesture from the paramedic told him to desist. He was wheeled into the ambulance and hooked up to the machine; his heartbeat and pulse were weak. Its okay, she reassured him, youre going to be finejust lay back and rest. His bout of spluttering ended and he pointed to the mask on his face, asking permission to remove it temporarily from his face. The young paramedic darted a look of concern at the monitor, at which point he removed the mask. Whatsyourname? he asked her; the freezing, swollen lips, lack of teeth and blood in his mouth made it difficult for him to form the words, but she understood. She looked at him and replied, Sallynow just lie back and rest, well get you to the hospital. He lay back and coughed again; she took the mask from his face. The coughing subsided and, before she could return the mask to his face, he beckoned her to come closer and, as she did, mouthed the words, Ride Sallyride. And, after an 500

attempted howl of manic laughter, which again manifested itself into a coughing fit, he lay back painfully. She was too concerned about his welfare to take any offence shed heard it a thousand times before anyway and the faint smile on her face disappeared swiftly as she thought, Im losing him. The CPR which she administered failed to resume any cardiac activity. The siren of the ambulance, the sound that had caused him immense stress and ludicrous disquiet over the years, the sound that had awoken his babies as he pushed them along Brixton Road, caused him no anxiety on this occasion as the roof of the ambulance clouded into mist, a comforting darkness enveloped him and he left the world. It would be uglier and safer without him, and Michael Madigans face drained to an eerie paleness as he flatlined, painlessly, into peaceful oblivion.

THE END

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