Can Of Worms

I didn’t need to notice the brooding clouds that tipped over the tops of the surrounding cliffs like peeping Toms to know that my chase was futile – or that I was in trouble. I was never going to catch Jack. Not only was he faster than me at clambering over the slick, glistening rocks, at taking such a treacherous route towards the coves, he had the strength to keep up a momentum that required visiting a gym every day; I used to stand and smoke my cigarettes in their doorways, just to show my contempt for those that gave up so much of their time in those places. Another regret? As I leaned over into a clear rock pool, hacking up my lunch of five-bean salad, it was fast turning out to be another one. Not for Jack, but for me.

I recovered enough to call out his name, my voice hoarse as my vomit-burned throat tightened. I coughed again, spitting a caustic taste from my mouth. I’d never wished for a moment that this would happen. What had made me come here, to this desolate place with its amphitheatre of cliffs, endless coves and crashing waves to share such news with Jack? What protection was it really offering me? I’d already made one mistake and, now, another was unfolding in front of me. There seemed nothing I could do to stop the rollercoaster. And I so wanted to get off.

I watched as the rock pool I’d been upending my lunch into rippled and distorted. I felt wetness against the back of my legs, a stinging on the back of my neck. It took me a second or two to realise it was the sea encroaching. Here, amongst sharp, talon-like rocks, was not the place to be when the tide is moving in. I’d venture that it’s not a place to be, full stop. Period, as our American cousins so like to say: as it seemed I was coming to a bloody end it was more than apt, and the irony wasn’t lost on me as I chose to continue clambering. Only when I’d made up some ground did I slow down some, better to prevent any more of the cuts and bruises that mottled my palms and shins. The saltwater was a constant reminder of their presence.

I scanned the grey granite cliffs for some sight of Jack, but I couldn’t locate him against the jagged backdrop. I’d found it so exciting, inspiring and poetic when I’d first laid eyes on the view; how each time I looked at the towering cliffs and the sheer drops that stirred a long-forgotten vertiginous feeling at the pit of my stomach, I found myself falling in love with what this area had to offer me. An escape.

This part of the world is famous. Not just for the job losses when the local fishing industry collapsed in the mid-Sixties, or the rife drug abuse that blighted it for much of the next ten years, but also for its breathtaking coastline. That’s how it’s always described in the glossy brochures: breathtaking. I’d moved here eight years ago, long after the problems had ceased to be and the place had reinvented itself as a holiday destination. I was looking for a change, a break from the city and the way it hurries people to an early grave. And I’d found it; not at first – let’s just say that the locals were distant – but after some time. I felt accepted, at last. I felt I had roots.

Of course, I was saddened to leave behind my good friends, but they all promised they’d visit, and often. And they did. At first. Once it became clear that my new place wasn’t somewhere they could just pitch up, any old time, without prior notice, they stopped. It was a long drive, they said; lots of people from London drive down now and the roads are always jammed, they implored. Because if it weren’t for those two things they’d be around like it had been before, when I had the flat.
There was the convenience of the flat being central, I conceded, but I thought there was more to our friendship than just somewhere to crash, or come back for a quick snort to perk up the night before hitting the clubs. I still believed that, even though no one has come down for over three years. It’s not as if I’ve been banging on their doors, I visited sporadically and always “only for the day”. I wanted to leave the city behind, not the people I loved, but it seemed that it wasn’t going to turn out that way.

Except for Jack.

We’d met one night when Julie and I had gone on a ‘girl’s’ night out. She’d just split from her demonic boyfriend, Colin, and needed some cheering up. Nothing had been arranged, she just turned up, knocking on my door at 9pm, all dressed in glam and glitz, half-pissed, asking if I fancied a drink. As I said, a flat in central London didn’t make for a quiet life.

I’d never really got on with Julie; I was on the periphery of her group of friends and, apart from buying one another the odd drink or her coming up to the flat to drink, smoke and toot into the night, we’d not spent a lot of time together one-on-one. But that night, it all changed. It was the night we met Jack.

I saw him first, standing in profile, his back against one of the glittering pillars in the nightclub. Julie was hammering back the tequilas (free until 11pm on Ladies’ Night) and I was smoking one of her cigarettes.

I didn’t usually smoke, but I found that doing so made making friends easier. Asking for a light was probably the most over-used chat-up line in the world. We’d both had a couple of lines of some powder Julie had in her purse; she claimed it was pure Bolivian coke, but it tasted like shit. It brought my heartbeat up to its peak and that was all I cared about. If I was going to spend the night in the company of someone I hardly knew and wasn’t particularly fond of, I needed something to grease the party wheels.

Of course, Jack didn’t clock me first, that I admit. But later on, back at the flat, as Julie was heaving up those free tequilas, we hit it off. I remember he left abruptly, something about a night bus not running. I really can’t remember. He’d scrawled his number down, asked me to give Julie his best and then was off. I had another of Julie’s cigarettes and went to bed. It was only the next morning that both Julie and the phone number had gone. Two weeks later I ran into them on the tube. They had arms around each other. They looked up; I glared. Embarrassing hellos and small talk followed. I could sense those around us eavesdropping as the tension heightened. I wanted to hit Julie, to scratch at her face. But I smiled, made my excuses and got off at the next stop.

She’d snatched him from me. It was something I could never forgive her for. Never.

But I couldn’t stand there reminiscing, as the sea was closing in quickly again. My shoes – totally wrong for environment I found myself in, although that hadn’t been an immediate concern when I’d left home that morning – were sodden, a squelch leaking out each time I moved over a rock. I tried calling again, scanning the rocks and cliffs for any trace of Jack.

Almost instantly, I was overcome by a feeling of pity for myself; while literal waves were breaking around me, a different kind of wave was crashing on my emotional shore. I sat down, my own salty tears dripping into the foamy sea. I tried to pull myself together, taking deep breaths and holding them to try and reduce my battering heartbeat. I could still taste the sick in the back of my throat and I started to heave again. The water was around my ankles now, capillary action drawing it up my cotton trousers: another ill-considered garment to choose from my wardrobe, in hindsight.

As I struggled against the incoming tide and the sharp teeth of rock jabbing into my hands, I began to think again about what had led me to be here, half-submerged in salt water, clambering for my life. And what I now knew was the love of my life. Calling Jack’s name had made me realise just what he meant to me. I looked back to the thin strip of beach, now some hundred yards away and lapped by a white foaming tongue of waves. There were about twenty people standing, arms crossed, just watching me. No cries, no shouts, no mobile phones being barked into, emergency services called into action by the frantic words of a worried friend, relative or caring stranger.

I recognised some faces, mostly Jack’s friends, interspersed with a few locals – those who didn’t attend the weekly church service – who had seen a crowd gathering and had come down to see what all the fuss was about on this Sunday morning. It didn’t occur to me to wonder why they weren’t rushing to my aid, to rescue me from this predicament. Some of them were still wearing their party clothes from last night’s bash at the pub. Glittery dresses, casual suits, the odd under-dressed person in jeans and sweatshirt who had left after my outburst and gone home to bed, had time to recover and change their clothes.

Because that’s where things had started to unravel for me, at the party. I can’t even remember what the occasion was, for whom this party was being held. I do recall the free bar for the first hour, how I was determined to pack in as many drinks as possible and then slow down for the rest of the night, keep myself topped up. Except this time there was no flat around the corner complete with mirror, blade and a wrap of powder. And I’d forgotten that as the rum was being gulped down as if my life depended on it. In a weird way, it did. My life did depend on getting drunk, because I’d decided I needed to let Jack know how I felt, what he meant to me and how I’d felt so betrayed when he took up with Julie. I wanted to do the same to her, to show her how she’d hurt me; I wanted to take Jack home and to wake up next to him in the morning.

That’s how it had played out in my head, the alcohol easing me into a comfortable frame of mind, making me feel as if I could do anything, even tell Jack how I felt. Now, with water playing around my thighs and splashing up against my lower back, I realised how stupid I’d been, like some love-struck teenager with hormones surging through my body. I could see it now: I’d been a bit of an idiot.

I’d invited a few old friends down from London, knowing Jack would come with them. They’d readily agreed, assuming, no doubt, that I’d be providing the drugs and a place to crash out and recover. But I hadn’t been able to score and so the mood wasn’t as upbeat as I’d hoped. The free bar was helping, but I was too busy throwing drink down my throat to really take in what was happening around me. The only thing I could focus on was Jack and the message I had to tell him.

I almost took the chance when we were standing together in the toilets, letting out some liquid, but I bottled my chance at the last moment, mumbling something inane about how it was like old times, my sentences stuttering to a halt as I fought to make some sense of the words pouring out of my mouth. Jack told me to slow down on the booze, zipped up, patted my shoulder, washed his hands and left. I remember it took me several seconds to stop grinning like a clubber on an E.

As I left the toilets, a squeal assaulted my ears as a microphone was plugged in to the pub’s PA. They’d hired a karaoke machine and were looking for volunteers. Within a second’s thought I stuck my hand up and was called over. I took the microphone, tapped it like some kind of pro singer, cleared my throat and looked at the song options. I wanted something that could get my message to Jack, something that would set up a chance to tell him how I felt, and to do it with Julie right there. Of course, they were no longer a couple now, their fling lasting only a couple of dates. To me it was obvious why it wouldn’t work: Jack wasn’t interested in the girls.

“Jack,” I shrieked into the microphone, “this is for you!” And the opening bars to Hit Me Baby, One More Time by Britney blasted out of the speakers around me. People were clapping, laughing, pointing. Except Jack. He had a quizzical look across his face and he seemed to be searching my own face for answers. I belted out the song, my eyes fixed and focused, as if I were singing just for him. When I’d finished, I blurted out the words that brought me to the predicament I currently found myself in, chasing him across the rocks, about to drown in the rising tide. “Jack?” I said. “I love you!”

There are some things you never forget: your first kiss, leaving home, the loss of a pet. I could now add the look on Jack’s face to that list. And on looks on the faces around him – some staring open-mouthed at me, others looking at Jack, waiting for his reaction. Someone took the microphone from me, I don’t know who it was. Everything stood still for a split second. The music started again and I physically jumped as I was pulled back into the reality of the situation. And that’s when Jack turned and ran.

Others followed him out of the door. I managed to get back to my seat and I drained the last of my free rum. I felt sick, the floor spun. Why had I opened this can of worms? What had I done? I needed some fresh air and no one tried to prevent me from leaving. No one consoled me.

I wasn’t sick until I’d got home. No one else was there; I had the place to myself. I didn’t know if anyone would come back tonight or whether they’d slip in during the early hours and remove their gear, sleep in the car or leave immediately after collecting the assorted bags of clothes and bedding. Secretly I hoped Jack would come, would make it all better, all right somehow. I pulled myself into bed, dragging the sheets into bunches over my still clothed body and drifted into sleep.

I woke to noises in the kitchen. I thought it was a burglar, until the previous night’s nightmare came back to me. I felt terrible, physically and mentally. I crept through to the lounge, my entrance stopping conversation and making several people examine their toes or the carpet.

“Morning!” I exclaimed with faux cheeriness. A series of mumbles came back. “I’m just popping out for a paper. Okay?” I was lying. I couldn’t face staying in the house and knew they’d take it as their opportunity to get out and back to London. I decided to take a walk, perhaps go down to the beach instead; I was hoping the brisk breeze would help me recover. I hadn’t considered that other people I didn’t want to see would have the same idea.

I popped into the convenience store, grabbed a five-bean salad that I thought might settle my stomach. It was almost lunchtime by now anyway, so I decided to dispense with traditional breakfast food. I parked myself on the bench outside, normally a magnet for local youth, and shovelled half the salad down my throat. It helped a little and I regained some energy and verve. So what if I’d made a fool of myself last night, I hadn’t hurt anyone really. Unless you included me in that, in which case I’d cut deeper than anyone in a long time.

Standing up, I tipped the remains of my lunch into the over-flowing plastic bin next to the bench and took decided I needed to get to the beach, to stand, looking out to sea as I contemplated how I was going to pick myself up, paper over the cracks and get on with things.

I saw them before they saw me; it as Jack, and he was with her, with Julie. Of all the scenes to witness! I called out Jack’s name and they both turned towards me. Julie peeled away from Jack, began walking up the beach towards the town centre; he walked towards me. I smiled and walked over to meet him halfway.

“About last night…” I began to say, but Jack cut me off.
“I want you to stay away from me, to stay away from Julie and the rest of us. We’re not interested, not anymore. Got it?”
He turned to walk after Julie. I kept pace beside him and began pleading with him to rethink what he’d said.
“When things have calmed down, you’ll see it was just a silly drunken moment. I love you, but if you don’t want to admit your love for me, then I underst…”
“Love? What the hell do you know about love?” Jack’s voice was tinged with emotion, the anger bubbling underneath. “I told you to stay away, now don’t make me do something stupid. Understand?”
I did, but somewhere in my brain the part responsible for being sensible was unable to function. I had flicked the off switch. There were tears streaming down my face, my fists were clenched. I told Jack he couldn’t do this to me, I needed to still see him. I told him I loved him once more. And then he took off on a run towards the cliffs and coves. And I followed.

I was being buffeted about more, half-swimming and half-wading out in the increasingly choppy waves. The tide was coming in faster now. I’d made a huge effort to get to the beach and was making progress. I was going to make it! I felt the adrenalin pump again, felt elated that I would survive. I was sure Jack would make it to safety, that this near-death experience I’d gone through would make him change his mind. I guessed he was sheltering in a cove, or maybe he’d got to the cliff path and was walking back to the town.

It had never occurred to me that he’d be on the beach, not until I spied him, his arm around Julie’s shoulder, draped like a fine silk scarf. I stopped kicking my legs, I felt so dumbstruck. A wave took me, slamming my legs into the rocks, grazing my hands and knocking the wind out of me. But I didn’t feel it. I was numb from the cold salt water, numb from the sight of Jack and Julie moving up the beach, leaving me to my fate. I could hear the coastguard’s sirens, so someone had had actually alerted the authorities. But by then I’d lost the will, lost the fight, lost it all.

I (Re)Opened A Can Of Worms

I didn’t need to notice the brooding clouds that tipped over the tops of the surrounding cliffs like peeping Toms to know that my chase my futile – or that I was in trouble. I was never going to catch Jack; not only was he faster than me at clambering over the slick, glistening rocks, at taking such a treacherous route towards the coves, he had the strength to keep up a momentum that required visiting a gym every day. I used to stand and smoke my cigarettes in their doorways, just to show my contempt for those that gave up so much their time in these places. Another regret? As I leaned over into a clear rock pool, hacking up my lunch of five-bean salad, it was fast turning out to be another one. Not for Jack, but for me.

I recovered enough to call out his name, my voice hoarse as my vomit-burned throat tightened. I coughed again, spitting a caustic taste from my mouth. I’d never wished for a moment that this would happen. What had made me come here, to this desolate place with its amphitheatre of cliffs, endless coves and crashing waves to share such news with Jack? What protection was it really offering me? I’d already made one mistake and, now, another was unfolding in front of me. There seemed nothing I could do to stop the rollercoaster. And I so wanted to get off.

I watched as the rock pool I’d been upending my lunch into rippled and distorted. I felt wetness against the back of my legs, a stinging on the back of my neck. It took me a second or two to realise it was the sea encroaching. Here, amongst sharp, talon-like rocks, was not the place to be when the tide is moving in. I’d venture that it’s not a place to be, full stop. Period, as our American cousins so like to say: as it seemed I was coming to a bloody end it was more than apt, and the irony wasn’t lost on me as I chose to continue clambering. Only when I’d made up some ground did I slow down some, better to prevent any more of the cuts and bruises that mottled my palms and shins. The saltwater was a constant reminder of their presence.

I scanned the grey granite cliffs for some sight of Jack, but I couldn’t locate him against the jagged backdrop. I’d found it so exciting, inspiring and poetic when I’d first laid eyes on the view; how each time I looked at the towering cliffs and the sheer drops that stirred a long-forgotten vertiginous feeling at the pit of my stomach, I found myself falling in love with what this area had to offer me. An escape.

This part of the world is famous. Not just for the job losses when the local fishing industry collapsed in the mid-Sixties, or the rife drug abuse that blighted it for much of the next ten years, but also for its breathtaking coastline. That’s how it’s always described in the glossy brochures: breathtaking. I’d moved here eight years ago, long after the problems had ceased to be and the place had reinvented itself as a holiday destination. I was looking for a change, a break from the city and the way it hurries people to an early grave. And I’d found it; not at first – let’s just say that the locals were distant – but after some time. I felt accepted, at last. I felt I had roots.

Of course, I was saddened to leave behind my good friends, but they all promised they’d visit, and often. And they did. At first. Once it became clear that my new place wasn’t somewhere they could just pitch up, any old time, without prior notice, they stopped. It was a long drive, they said; lots of people from London drive down now and the roads are always jammed, they implored. Because if it weren’t for those two things they’d be around like it had been before, when I had the flat.
There was the convenience of the flat being central, I conceded, but I thought there was more to our friendship than just somewhere to crash, or come back for a quick snort to perk up the night before hitting the clubs. I still believed that, even though no one has come down for over three years. It’s not as if I’ve been banging on their doors, I visited sporadically and always “only for the day”. I wanted to leave the city behind, not the people I loved, but it seemed that it wasn’t going to turn out that way.

Except for Jack.


We’d met one night when Julie and I had gone on a girl’s night out. She’d just split from her demonic boyfriend, Colin, and needed some cheering up. Nothing had been arranged, she just turned up, knocking on my door at 9pm, all dressed in glam and glitz, half-pissed, asking if I fancied a drink. As I said, a flat in central London didn’t make for a quiet life.

I’d never really got on with Julie; I was on the periphery of her group of friends and, apart from buying one another the odd drink or her coming up to the flat to drink, smoke and toot into the night, we’d not spent a lot of time together one-on-one. But that night, it all changed. It was the night we met Jack.


I saw him first, standing in profile, his back against one of the glittering pillars in the nightclub. Julie was hammering back the tequilas (free until 11pm on Ladies’ Night) and I was smoking one of her cigarettes.

I didn’t usually smoke, but I found that doing so made making friends easier. Asking for a light was probably the most over-used chat-up line in the world. We’d both had a couple of lines of some powder Julie had in her purse; she claimed it was pure Bolivian coke, but it tasted like shit. It brought my heartbeat up to its peak and that was all I cared about. If I was going to spend the night in the company of someone I hardly knew and wasn’t particularly fond of, I needed something to grease the party wheels.

Of course, Jack didn’t clock me first, that I admit. But later on, back at the flat, as Julie was heaving up those free tequilas, we hit it off. I remember he left abruptly; something about a night bus not running. I really can’t remember. He’d scrawled his number down, asked me to give Julie his best and then was off. I had another of Julie’s cigarettes and went to bed. It was only the next morning that both Julie and the phone number had gone. Two weeks later I ran into them on the tube. They had arms around each other. They looked up; I glared. Embarrassing hellos and small talk followed. I could sense those around us eavesdropping as the tension heightened. I wanted to hi Julie, to scratch at her face. But I smiled, made my excuses and got off at the next stop.

She’d snatched him from me. It was something I could never forgive her for. Never.


But I couldn’t stand there reminiscing, as the sea was closing in quickly again. My shoes – totally wrong for environment I found myself in, although that hadn’t been an immediate concern when I’d left home that morning – were sodden, a squelch leaking out each time I moved over a rock. I tried calling again, scanning the rocks and cliffs for any trace of Jack.

Almost instantly, I was overcome by a feeling of pity for myself; while literal waves were breaking around me, a different kind of wave was crashing on my emotional shore. I sat down, my own salty tears dripping into the foamy sea. I tried to pull myself together, taking deep breaths and holding them to try and reduce my battering heartbeat. I could still taste the sick in the back of my throat and I started to heave again. The water was around my ankles now, capillary action drawing it up my cotton trousers: another ill-considered garment to choose from my wardrobe, in hindsight.

I Opened A Can Of Worms

I didn’t need to notice the brooding clouds that tipped over the tops of the surrounding cliffs like peeping Toms to know that my chase my futile – or that I was in trouble. I was never going to catch Jack; not only was he faster than me at clambering over the slick, glistening rocks, at taking such a treacherous route towards the coves, he had the strength to keep up a momentum that required visiting a gym every day. I used to stand and smoke my cigarettes in their doorways, just to show my contempt for those that gave up so much their time in these places. Another regret? As I leaned over into a clear rock pool, hacking up my lunch of five-bean salad, it was turning out to be. Not for Jack, but for me.

I recovered enough to call out his name, my voice hoarse as my vomit-burned throat tightened. I coughed again, spitting a caustic taste from my mouth. I’d never wished for a moment that this would happen. What had made me come here, to this desolate place with its amphitheatre of cliffs, endless coves and crashing waves to share such news with Jack? What protection was it really offering me? I’d already made one mistake and, now, another was unfolding in front of me. There seemed nothing I could do to stop the rollercoaster. I wanted to get off.

I watched as the rock pool I’d been upending my lunch into – not a bad place for it to end up, as it hadn’t been much tastier going down than coming back up – rippled and distorted. I felt wetness against the back of my legs. It took me a second or two to realise it was the sea encroaching. Here, amongst sharp, talon-like rocks, was not the place to be when the tide is moving in. I’d venture that it’s not a place to be, full stop. Period, as our American cousins so like to say; as it seemed I was coming to a bloody end it was more than apt and the irony wasn’t lost on me as I chose to continue. Only when I’d made up some ground did I slow down some, better to prevent any more cuts and bruises that mottled my palms and shins. The saltwater was a constant reminder as it was.

This part of the world is famous. Not just for the job losses when the local fishing industry collapsed in the mid-Sixties, or the rife drug abuse that blighted it for much of the next ten years, but also for its breath-taking coastline. That’s how it’s always described in the brochures: breathtaking. I’d moved here eight years ago, long after the problems had ceased to be and the place had reinvented itself as a holiday destination. I was looking for a change, a break from the city and the way it hurries people to an early grave. And I’d found it; not at first – let’s just say that the locals were distant – but after some time. I felt accepted, at last. I felt I had roots.

Of course, I was saddened to leave behind my good friends, but they all promised they’d visit, and often. And they did. At first. Once it became clear that my new place wasn’t somewhere they could just pitch up, any old time, without prior notice, they stopped. It was a long drive, they said; lots of people from London drive down now, the roads are always jammed, they implored. Because if it weren’t for those two things they’d be around like it had been before, when I had the flat. There was the convenience of the flat being central, I conceded, but I thought there was more to our friendship than just somewhere to crash, or come back for a quick snort to perk up the night before hitting the clubs. I still believed that, even though no one has come down for over three years. It’s not as if I’ve been banging on their doors, I visited sporadically and always “only for the day”. I wanted to leave the city behind, not the people I loved, but it seemed that it wasn’t going to turn out that way.

Except for Jack.

A Starting Point

I knew that following Bill up the hill was a mistake; he was far fitter than I have ever been and before too long he’d disappeared over the nearest summit while I was struggling to catch my breath. I was bent over a large boulder, my hacking cough disturbing a nesting pair of buzzards, resting nearby this early morning. I took a deep breath and pressed on.

Just Some Words

Clambering for the crowd clamour,
The kiss of the lifetime rushes through my head and she’s all teeth and smiles and saliva and

I’m feeling a rush from the toes to the top of my head and the flashing lights are brighter, brighter and then I’m in my own space, she’s away from me, arms waving and…

A tune a tune a tune a tune, he cries in to my ear. I don’t know him, but he’s hugging me. All I want is water and

Somewhere to sit_stand_lie down.

Latest News

yeah, so it was over. now it's not. well, sort of.

i don't have anything to post, but i don't want to stop blogging. i'm adding sites to the sidebar so might as well post something, even if it's just one line in my head:

his voice honked at me like a bassoon, a syrupy elongated voice that hypnotised and repelled me all at once.

or ideas.

okay, enough now. this space: watch it.

It's over. For now.

That's it, this blog is no longer being updated.

There is a new site, in progress.

But it won't be for average fiction. Oh no, that part of purplesimon's life is over. For now.

So, my suggestion is that you take a look at the links in the sidebar and follow one. There is nothing to see here anymore.

Thanks for dropping by, though. It's real kind of you, even if it was by mistake.

Now, hit that back button or click a link. I can guarantee you won't be disappointed if you do the former; I can't guarantee that if you do the latter.

purplesimon out...

Holiday

I'm currently in the process of updating my work portfolio (which is taking some time after 9 years in advertising) and then I'll be busy sorting out my life: work, etc

Now, read on.

--

I'm back from holiday, but not posting anything just yet, so the message below stays for now.

purplesimon out...

For those Internet users that stumble across this site and don't hit the back button immediately - why not? Is there something wrong with you? - then I'm off on holiday.

Not that I publish every day, mind you, but in case you thought some new writing might appear and were worried I'd fallen off a cliff/been hit by a strange alien bug that caused my eyes to swell and my limbs to drop to the floor/given up*: I haven't.

For those that wish I had fallen off a cliff/been hit by a strange alien bug that caused my eyes to swell and my limbs to drop to the floor/given up*: apologies, the time will one day come. Until then, stop visiting.

Thanks.

purplesimon out...

*delete where not applicable

Lottery - Opening Paragraph

“Come on my little beauties,” Roy said as he straightened up, his left hand supporting his lower back, a slight gasp escaping from his tight, puckered mouth as his knees cracked to a locking position. He raised his right hand to shade his face from the sun as he admired his handiwork: five straight, thick-as-your-arm cucumbers sat in front of him. They were nestled in rich, dark soil and glistened in the midday sunshine that spilled through the open slats of the greenhouse roof.

The Crowd - Final Draft

I can hear the car horn screaming, a constant. Faces swarm, buzzing about me, encircling like vultures. Several people ask if I’m okay, they’re spoiling the enjoyment of the clouds scudding across the sky but I don’t say that; I sense in the disquieting looks that it’s bad form to do so. Right now, at least.
There is a sticky wetness around my head and I reach with my arm to brush it away, but someone tells me to stay still. Without being told I know it’s my blood, it’s something I can sense but I’m unsure of how it came to pillow my head. I imagine it as a red halo, a radiance of my life as it flows from an unseen wound.
It’s then that I look at the faces crowding around my prone form: a woman with a shriek of red in her hair; a man with testudinarious specs on, their stippled form catching the rays of the morning sun and forming macula on his face – they look like liver spots although he can’t be more than twenty years old; an old couple, holding hands as if to stop them falling into the abyss that contains me, their lachrymogenic faces a mixture of pity and shame. I also see angry faces, a gamut of visages irritated at my holding them up, my getting in the way of their daily routines. My first thought was fuck ‘em. I could feel the shudder of laughter travel through my body, but tight-lipped kept it down like the sickness of pregnancy.

Can you talk? What’s your name? Can you hear me? A barrage of questions. I think: at least I’m wearing clean knickers.

Of course, it’s all Jeremy’s fault. I mean, if it wasn’t for him, his actions, I wouldn’t be here lying in the road wondering if my brain is going to stay inside my skull. The fucking deadbeat. I imagine him now, sitting at his desk toying with his bloody Blackberry – about the only tool he knows how to use properly. Actually, that’s unfair. I used to think Jeremy was amazing, the clichéd best thing since sliced bread, et-cet-ter-rah. And he was.
It’s true to say that Jez – he likes it when I call him that – and I have history. Goes back about 18 months. I’d just started at the publishers where I’d been employed to be his personal assistant. I had no previous experience, but I obviously struck a chord with Jeremy because he hired me there and then, no second interview, no meeting the partners, HR or anyone else. Just said to me: you start tomorrow, unless you can start right now? When I asked what he meant, he asked me to follow him.
I got up to walk out after him, but he stopped me short, told me to wait two minutes and meet him on the corner by the Starbucks – he held up two thick fingers in a victory sign; that’s Jez, he likes to gesture to make his point. Well, intrigued as I was, I knew where this was leading and I wanted to be led.
Within ten minutes of leaving the office, I was naked on a bed, Jez’s head buried in my crotch. Afterwards, I asked if this was paid overtime. Jez laughed, said he knew he’d hired the right girl for the job and that the job was right for me: I was good at it. Then he smiled; a twinkle in his eye, a wrinkle in his jaw. See you Monday, he called.
I’d fallen on my feet. Or rather, my back. Either way it was good.

Friends were monitive. That I expected. But the ferocity some displayed, well, it was almost as if I’d committed some heinous crime against their children or something. I steered clear of a few people, shall we say. Shame I hadn’t steered clear of the car that’s currently casting a shadow across my prone form. Bloody Jez, the bastard, I completely blame him for my present predicament.
You see, all had been well. I knew about his wife. Admittedly, finding out about his kids had been a mule-kick to the stomach, but I’d hidden my dismay and surprise well, considering he had me pinned to a hotel bed in Soho. None of that prepared me for the bombshell which led to me being surrounded by strangers, my brain leaking on to a London street during the lunchtime rush.

I’d gone into the office as I usually would. I knew there was nothing on my agenda – and soon to be nothing on me whatsoever, apart from a sheen of sweat and a naked Jeremy. As soon as I stepped through the swishing glass doors I knew something was up. There was a charge to the atmosphere, beyond the normal hatred directed at me by other female employees – and a couple of male ones, too; seemed Jez was more metrosexual than even he’d considered. I tried to ignore it, head held high, stilettos striding forward, back straight, skirt smooth. I poured myself a coffee from the percolator in the staff kitchen and took it through to my desk in Jez’s office. Before I even had a chance to take off my coat, sip my coffee and place my pert bottom (Jez’s description, I hasten to add) on my seat when Jez came in. I smiled, but he told me to meet him in the usual place. While Jez wasn’t one for routine, even I sensed something – it was rare that Jez wanted to screw first thing in the morning, preferring to take long lunches over which to savour my body.

And that’s why I find myself here, lying on tarmac instead of silk sheets.

I gulped my coffee down, grabbed my purse and mobile and headed out after Jez, not wanting to keep him waiting if he was feeling needy. I got in the car, no word. It was only after we’d been in the usual room for twenty minutes that he broke the news: it was over. I didn’t know what to say, found it difficult to speak – mainly because I had a mouthful of Jez’s cock. I’d blotted that out before, only remembering it as the ambulance man pulled out a piece of flesh stuck in my teeth
You’re lucky we were here, love, he said. We were responding to a call over at the hotel when we saw the crowd. Seems some bloke got his just desserts, he chuckled, glancing at his partner. Hang on, love, what’s that? Say again.

Can you get someone to turn that bloody horn off? It’s giving me a headache.

The Crowd - Later Draft

I can hear the car horn screaming, a constant. Faces swarm, buzzing about me, encircling like vultures. Several people ask if I’m okay, they’re spoiling the enjoyment of the clouds scudding across the sky but I don’t say that; I sense in the disquieting looks that it’s bad form to do so. Right now, at least.

There is a sticky wetness around my head and I reach with my arm to brush it away, but someone tells me to stay still. Without being told I know it’s my blood, it’s something I can sense but I’m unsure of how it came to pillow my head. I imagine it as a red halo, a radiance of my life as it flows from an unseen wound.

It’s then that I look at the faces crowding around my prone form: a woman with a shriek of red in her hair; a man with testudinarious specs on, their stippled form catching the rays of the morning sun and forming macula on his face – they look like liver spots although he can’t be more than twenty years old; an old couple, holding hands as if to stop them falling into the abyss that contains me, their lachrymogenic faces a mixture of pity and shame. I also see angry faces, a gamut of visages irritated at my holding them up, my getting in the way of their daily routines. My first thought was fuck ‘em. I could feel the shudder of laughter travel through my body, but tight-lipped kept it down like the sickness of pregnancy.

Can you talk? What’s your name? Can you hear me? A barrage of questions. I think: at least I’m wearing clean knickers.

Of course, it’s all Jeremy’s fault. I mean, if it wasn’t for him, his actions, I wouldn’t be here lying in the road wondering if my brain is going to stay inside my skull. The fucking deadbeat. I imagine him now, sitting at his desk toying with his bloody Blackberry – about the only tool he knows how to use properly. Actually, that’s unfair. I used to think Jeremy was amazing, the clichéd best thing since sliced bread, et-cet-ter-rah. And he was.

It’s true to say that Jez – he likes it when I call him that – and I have history. Goes back about 18 months. I’d just started at the publishers where I’d been employed to be his personal assistant. I had no previous experience, but I obviously struck a chord with Jeremy because he hired me there and then, no second interview, no meeting the partners, HR or anyone else. Just said to me: you start tomorrow, unless you can start right now? When I asked what he meant, he asked me to follow him.

I got up to walk out after him, but he stopped me short, told me to wait two minutes and meet him on the corner by the Starbucks – he held up two thick fingers in a victory sign; that’s Jez, he likes to gesture to make his point. Well, intrigued as I was, I knew where this was leading and I wanted to be led.

Within ten minutes of leaving the office I was naked on a bed, Jez’s head buried in my crotch. Afterwards, I asked if this was paid overtime. Jez laughed, said he knew he’d hired the right girl for the job and that the job was right for me: I was good at it. Then he smiled; a twinkle in his eye, a wrinkle in his jaw. See you Monday, he called.

I’d fallen on my feet. Or rather, my back. Either way it was good.

Friends were monitive. That I expected. But the ferocity some displayed, well, it was almost as if I’d committed some heinous crime against their children or something. I steered clear of a few people, shall we say. Shame I hadn’t steered clear of the car that’s currently casting a shadow across my prone form. Bloody Jez, the bastard, I completely blame him for my present predicament.

You see, all had been well. I knew about his wife. Admittedly, finding out about his kids had been a mule-kick to the stomach, but I’d hidden my dismay and surprise well, considering he had me pinned to a hotel bed in Soho.

The Crowd - Early Draft

I can hear the car horn screaming, a constant. Faces swarm, buzzing about me, encircling like vultures. Several people ask if I’m okay; they’re spoiling the enjoyment of the clouds scudding across the sky but I don’t say that. I sense in the disquieting looks that it’s bad form to do so. Right now, at least.

There is a sticky wetness around my head and I reach with my arm to brush it away, but someone tells me to stay still. Without being told I know it’s my blood, it’s something I can sense but I’m unsure of how it came to pillow my head. I imagine it as a red halo, a radiance of my life as it flows from an unseen wound. Vascular tabefaction.

It’s then that I look at the faces crowding around my prone form: a woman with a shriek of red in her hair; a man with testudinarious specs on, their stippled form catching the rays of the morning sun and forming macula on his face – they look like liver spots although he can’t be more than twenty years old; an old couple, holding hands as if to stop them falling into the abyss that contains me, their lachrymogenic faces a mixture of pity and shame. I also see angry faces, a gamut of visages irritated at my holding them up, my getting in the way of their daily routines. My first thought was fuck ‘em. I could feel the shudder of laughter travel through my body, but tight-lipped I kept it down like the sickness of early pregnancy.

Can you talk? What’s your name? Can you hear me? A barrage of questions. I think: at least I’m wearing clean knickers.

Work In Progress - A Rewrite

I is lying
In the sun, feeling its warmth spread over me
A heat I ain’t felt in a long ago time. I bathing in it
Letting its radiance thaw out my bones.
Now a clear, warm rain
Is falling upon me, like showering morning-time.
I dreaming.
I not want to wake, but laughter draws me to consciousness.

When I come to I’m not sunbathing, not showering.
I’m surrounded
Grinning faces
Black boots
Dark slacks all around
They aren’t here to help me, to be nice.
Song runs through my head and I can’t resist a whistle
Even as the first kicks arrive like London buses: in threes.
Singing: “There may be trouble ahead, but while there’s music and moonlight and love and romance.”
Not the latter. Though. Anything but.
I close my eyes, try to picture
Nat King Cole
Singing smooth on telly-vision, but
The pain starts to bring me back to…
Subway
Cardboard
Half-empty bottle of something caustic yet alcoholic.
That’s where I am.
Fenced in a ring of boots
Of fists
Of violence.
After numerous kicks, punches and a smattering of urine streams hitting my face
It stops
And I’m somewhere between sleep and consciousness again, but
The reverie of Nat has gone
The sun has passed behind a black cloud and
Won’t come out again until it feels the morning calling it.

It’s strange
Really weird: you’d think that a beaten old man like me might get more change in his cup;
You’d think that people would feel pity
See that life can be cruel
Perhaps even help that beaten person report incidents to the police
But no.
See, the police were my antagonists not louts
Youths, lads, kids; hoodies as referred to in large print headlines – for the hard of seeing so they can understand that the world is to be feared.
Life ain’t what you think, what’s reported.
You try living it, just once.
Reckon you’ll be shrinking back under your rocks
In your shells
Behind your doors; pretty darn quick.
So would I, choices be provided.
What you won’t be doing is throwing pretty circles of metal
Into a poly-something cup.
Dried blood is scary
A concept not seen in the ‘burbs where they prefer
To sweep their hideousness beneath carpets imported from Turkey or Iran
Or wall-to-wall plush pile.
Not even my girl comes to cheer me today.
P’raps she’d not recognised me?
The suck-cess-full success from long time-back. Me, the high-flier touching down.

Or maybe I’m still in the throes of a crash-landing?

Work In Progress - Quick Update

I is laying in the sun, feeling its warmth spread over me, a heat I ain’t felt in long ago time. I bathing in it, letting its radiance thaw out my bones. Now a clear, warm rain is falling on me, like showering morning-time. I dreaming. I not want to wake, but laughter draws me to consciousness.
When I do come to I’m not sunbathing, not showering. I’m surrounded, grinning faces, black boots, denim all around. They aren’t here to help me, to be nice. Song runs through my head and I can’t resist a whistle even as the first kicks arrive like London buses: in threes. Singing: “There may be trouble ahead, but while there’s music and moonlight and love and romance.” Not the latter, though. Anything but. I close my eyes, try to picture Nat King Cole singing smooth on telly-vision, but the pain starts to bring me back to…
Subway, cardboard, half-empty bottle of something caustic yet alcoholic. That’s where I am. Fenced in a ring of boots, of fists and violence. After numerous kicks, punches and a smattering of urine streams hitting my face it stops and I’m somewhere between sleep and consciousness again, but the reverie of Nat has gone, the sun has passed behind a black cloud and won’t come out again until it feels the morning calling it.

It’s strange, really weird: you’d think that a beaten old man like me might get more change in his cup; you’d think that people would feel pity, see that life can be cruel, perhaps even help that beaten person report incidents to the police, but no. See, the police were my antagonists not louts, youths, lads, kids; hoodies as referred to in large print headlines – for the hard of seeing so they can understand that the world is to be feared. Life ain’t what you think, what’s reported. You try living it, just once. Reckon you’ll be shrinking back under your rocks, in your shells, behind your doors; pretty darn quick.
So would I, choices be provided.
What you won’t be doing is throwing pretty circles of metal into a poly-something cup. Dried blood is scary, a concept not seen in the ‘burbs where they prefer to sweep their hideousness beneath carpets imported from Turkey or Iran, or wall-to-wall plush pile. Not even my girl comes to cheer me today. P’raps she’d not recognised me? The suck-cess-full success from long time-back. Me, the high-flier touching down.
Or maybe I’m still in the throes of a crash-landing?

Work In Progress - An Update

Amy rolled over in her bed, burying her head into the pillow, a low groan radiating from her mouth as her left hand reached out to silence the screech of the alarm clock. It was 6am.
“Five more minutes,” she said, to no one in particular. Amy lived alone, in a third-floor flat in a not-too-salubrious part of the west London suburbs. Within what seemed to Amy as mere seconds, the screeching began again in earnest; this time she flung back the duvet, its cover of embroidered flowers sliding to the floor. She lifted her legs out of the bed, rubbed her eyes with closed fists and reached over to a small chair, on the back of which was draped a silk gown. As she pulled the gown tight around her petite frame, she pushed her manicured feet into a pair of fluffy pink slippers.

Amy’s morning routine was always the same: kettle on for her coffee; shower on, the steam rising up to the inadequate extractor fan and billowing out into the rest of her one-bed flat; a rush to find clean clothes which she could wear that day. In fact, Amy’s morning ritual was typical of most of her friends, all twenty-somethings working in offices across London. This morning was no different.
After slurping her way through a lukewarm coffee, Amy grabbed her (fake) Gucci clutch bag, slipped on a pair of heels and her coat and slipped out of her place, heading for the stairs that would lead her to the outside world, one that appeared to be frosty and uninviting.
It was just a short two-minute walk to the station for Amy, her main reason for investing in such a small place to live at such an exorbitant price. She grabbed a copy of the Metro, the free newspaper that contained yesterday’s news, and stood stamping her feet on the concrete platform. The display said the train would be there in 1 minute; the platform soon became crowded with other, late-arriving passengers, all jostling for space, trying to determine where the train doors would stop. Regulars like Amy held their ground in the same place every single day; not even a nuclear bomb warning would budge them. Thirty seconds later, Amy was squashed against the sweaty armpit of a fellow commuter and the luggage of a visiting American family who, unbeknownst to them, had decided to travel into the capital during rush hour. She tried to read her paper but couldn’t; Amy had to experience her daily commute with the sound the tinny sound of drums and cymbals teasing itself out of someone’s headphones. Amy wished she’d bought an iPod.
The train driver crackled his announcement over the distorting Tannoy system of the train; soon they would be arriving at Waterloo station, please would passengers remember to take their luggage with them. Amy said the words verbatim in her head, her way of coping with the cattle truck conditions endemic on Britain’s railways every weekday morning and evening, a situation she had to pay a large proportion of her monthly salary to experience.
Amy alighted from the train, sucked along with the outpouring of people that flowed towards the barriers flanked by bristling ticket inspectors with their machines at the ready, their posture suggesting that all passengers were guilty of fare evasion until proven otherwise. Amy hated this part of her daily journey the most. She endured it because she was able to take 15 minutes on the other side to compose herself, grab two steaming cup of frothy milk and dark, rich caffeine and exit the station long after the majority of commuters had streamed out, forming their queues for the buses and taxis that huddled like black and red penguins along York Road.
And she would was also able to spend some time with the homeless Big Issue seller who was always positioned at the bottom of the steps that led Amy towards Hungerford Bridge and the grey, 70’s concrete of the South Bank Centre. She would hand him the spare coffee she’d purchased from the station, slip some coins or notes into his seen-better-days polystyrene cup or his shit-stained palms, holding her breath to avoid the stench of decay all homeless people seemed to exude in vast quantities; a street-scent; a vagrant aftershave.
Amy was not the type to do this. Not usually. But there was something about this man that seemed familiar to her, although she was unable to put her finger on it. Somehow, he made her feel like a daughter loved by her father. Except Amy’s father had disappeared when she was just 14 years old, at the same time her mother was dying from a pernicious cancer that had ravaged her body for years. No one had seem him since and Amy was left to be brought up by a strict aunt, a cliché she thought was only in books, but sadly for her was something that could be found in abundance in the outside world. But that didn’t stop Amy from searching for him, looking at the faces of all the men she met who were over 50 years old.
There was something about this man, the huddled rag of a man, who sat day-after-day outside the station, waiting for something other than money, recognition or pity. It seemed he was searching for someone too.

Lights. Camera. Action

Steve is telling his story.

He’s quiet spoken, his manner pensive.

Lines crease his forehead as he thinks, as he articulates exactly what happened, how he ended up sitting at the side of the road, the four heads of his family splattered like watermelons; no, like weeping pustules; no, like a snail crushed underfoot back at his home while he was sitting on a busy overpass, rocking back and forth, whimpering like a puppy, tears streaming down his face.
He says he has no recollection of these events we present to him, no ideas how he came to be sitting on the overpass, how he came to have four pints of blood splashed on his clothes, yet no discernible wounds. Some sort of amnesia, we get to thinking, perhaps selective on account of the trauma.
It’s not unheard of. People blot stuff out, erase it from the mind when it becomes too much to handle, too difficult to store for long periods of time; it’s volatile, inflammable.

Steve is being capricious. The Doc says he’s had a bang on the head, even though he can’t find any puncture wounds, no bruising. Even the Doc admits he’s not seen anything like it in almost 30 years of work. Never. It’s unprecedented. So the Doc says.
C’mon Steve, spit it out, open the gates of the dam, unleash the confession. He looks at me, unsure. It’s not what he’s expecting. But he does his best in this uncertain situation.
I find myself almost hypnotised by Steve’s drawl, the way he hangs on certain vowels. I watch as his mouth twists, the left-hand side lifting, streaking lines across his face. His eyes are darting. Brown liquid pools, occasionally stopping like a burglar trapped in the torch beam of a police officer. Usually when we show him photos he stops, words stuck in his throat, choking him like chicken bones. No one goes to help. We all watch, transfixed. He turns red, raspberry, beetroot, blackberry. A slap brings him out of it, the mark of my hand tattooed on his cheek, a slime of his blood smeared from lip to ear.

He continues his story, the same as before.
Donotknowdonotknooooooooooowwwww.
I have to believe him.

I stand, the orange plastic chair tacked to the backs of my knees scraping its metal legs against the concrete floor as I straighten up. We’ve all had enough, especially Steve. Our eyes lock; his pleading, mine judging.
It’s stalemate.
Get rid of him, I whisper to my colleague. He nods in approval.
I leave the room, I need air.

Outside I hear muffled words as I push my forehead against the vending machine, waiting for the slap of the plastic cup as it drops. People are milling around me, some pause to say hey. The sound of the hot liquid hitting the cup makes me want to piss and I leave the steaming coffee sitting in the metal tray as I make my way towards the toilets.

I re-enter. Steve is telling us his story. His manner is quiet, pensive. His voice: ditto. I look about for a chair: take the plastic, orange-coloured monstrosity, scarred with a million cigarette burns, spillages of sugary coffee, of unknown fluids. I remember my own cup, apologise and leave the room. It’s no longer on its metal tray, so I wait for another one to be poured before coming back to Steve.
I move the chair on my return. I look at Steve as I place the four spindles of metal on the floor, teeth gritted as the scraping plugs the flow of words mumbling, tumbling from Steve’s mouth. I nod. Steve carries on, telling us his story.

I look about, distracted. Paint peeling, blue shards undulating in the breeze of the desktop fan that sits on the Formica table in front of me, the barrier that separates me from Steve. I can hear him. Donotknowdonotknow. A keening whisper, a sound that will haunt me. I have to believe him. He says he has no recollection. Amnesia brought on by trauma. It’s not unheard of.
I write down notes on the events as they currently stand, throwing paper in front of the fan so it blows into Steve’s face. He stops, shock painting his face, powdering it white, ghost-like. It’s a technique, to wake them, to shock them.

Them = person + guilt.

Hand dug deep into my faded 501s, shirt tails flapping as the fan oscillates towards me. I stare. I tell Steve I know of people who blot things out, erase them; these things are too much to be contemplate, to replay like the Super cine 8 films of our youth. These things can’t be stored for long periods of time; they’re volatile, thrashing about, verbally. It’s the trauma; it has a medical name just so that courts can apportion blame, costs, damages.

I stand, quickly. The chair scrapes on the floor. Steve winces. I wink at him, tell him it’s time to replenish my cup of coffee, for a break; it’s a chance for him to remember, to recall, to reminisce. It’s his last chance to impress me.
I leave the room. I need air.

I can hear Steve, telling us his story, but now his voice is muffled by the chipboard door, its surface littered with the scars of so many confessions and a good deal of frustration. There’s a lot of it in this job, it goes with the territory. There’s no hiding from that fact. It’s what they term as an occupational hazard, a way of avoiding that blame, those costs, the damages.
I need air.
I pull aside a young man whose name I wouldn’t remember even if he were to say it out loud that moment I pulled on his shirt sleeve. More fans in here, I tell him. He runs to do my bidding. I need a coffee, I need air.

I re-enter. Steve is silent. No one is asking questions, eye contact is avoided. All eyes are on the tape recorder, the old, battered tape recorder; it had been mine, when I was growing up, when I wanted to be a singer and I recorded myself tunelessly bawling out the hits of the Jackson 5. I wanted to be black. If I’d known what I know now, I’d have written to Michael - hey, Mikey. Wanna change colour now? And gender?
I wipe these thoughts from my head. Concentrate, I say to myself. Over and over: mantra number one. Breathe, it tells me, calm. I reach over towards Steve, see his eyes flinch, his head involuntarily jerk backwards as if I were about to hurt him. It’s a sign; the first. He is remembering. Wrist flicks, tape turns. Recording, the red light indicates. I pick up the paper on which the events are documented.
I look for another sign that he remembers. There is nothing. It’s not working.
Something’s not right, I say. Let’s try again. From the top.
It’s time for another break, more coffee. The new fans come in, leads extending across the floor, dividing the concrete into islands, countries, continents. I need air.

I wait again while the whirring machine delivers me another cup of extra black with no sugar. There is a commotion behind me as Steve readies himself, but I try to ignore it, to clear my mind and stay fresh. It’s time to try again. I wait five minutes more, wait until the fans have cleared the cling of the heat, wait for my cup to fill.

I re-enter. Steve is sat, waiting for me.
Let’s cut the crap, get to the point, I say. Let’s begin.
I can hear Steve telling us his story. His real story. His confession is coming out of him like the voice of a bullied schoolboy who’s decided it’s better to come clean than to be beaten for being different. But I know he’s holding something back. I stare, he stops. It’s a technique, to wake them, to shock them. The red light is in on, it’s a focus.

I stand. Steve is shouting now, wanting to unburden himself of his crimes, telling us how he shot his wife, his kids. He shows remorse, wants to right the wrong. I tell him I don’t believe him, that he doesn’t look like the kind of man that could pull off such a crime, wouldn’t be able to squeeze his pinky around the cold steel of the gun’s butt, his index finger curled like a cat around feet, feeling the trigger, feeling its tightness.
You are nothing.
I say.
Nothing.
He starts to cry again, head buried in his hands. I see the red light on the tape recorder, that little LED shining, the colour of the blood oozing from Steve’s family in the photographs.
Better, I say.
I need air.

I can hear Steve telling us his story, wailing his confession through the concrete walls, through the chipboard door, the steel door. Through the vacuum of his nightmare. I bring to mind Steve’s features, the way the skin pleats on his forehead when I show him the photographs, the four heads of his family, they blood sprayed like graffiti on a billboard, bathing him in a scarlet rain. The way his hands clasp and unclasp, the fingernails chewed passed the nail bed, dried blood staining the edges. He shakes when I tell him how he was found rocking back and forth, whimpering like a child locked in the dark and dust beneath the stairs or chased by an imaginary monster from under the bed. How there were hot, stinging tears caressing his face, bringing a flush to his cheeks.

I can hear Steve, telling me his story. The moment he woke and things had irrevocably changed. The stillness in the house, the malevolent silence stalking through the rooms. I can hear Steve telling me how he’d woken up, an uncomfortable lump sitting in his chest, a hard lump taking residence in his heart. How he’d called out for his mother, his father. How he’d heard no reply.
I can hear Steve saying it, speaking the words. I listen to him tell us how he stepped from his bed, his feet warm on the soft carpet. He says how he felt sick, as if he knew opening the door was wrong. He says how he couldn’t stop his hand, rising to the handle, pulling down hard and letting the door swing open toward him. I hear Steve tell us how he’d called again for his mother, quietly, as if he were intruding on some private moment a child shouldn’t interrupt. I can hear Steve saying how he saw his family, their heads splattered like watermelons, like snails crushed underfoot, how he ran and ran from the house. How he ran until he came to the overpass.
We can all hear Steve, the words coming out quicker than his tongue can form the necessary sounds. We can hear him telling us my story.

I pull open the door, the strength of my entry stopping Steve’s tears, the only sound is his snot being snuffled back into his sinuses every few beats of his heart. His eyes, wet, expectant as a mother with her swollen belly cupped in her arms, they stare at me, hopeful.

I’m sorry Steve. I say.

My name’s Iain.

Yes, Iain. Of course. You’ve not made it this time. Please can you leave the set now.

Thank you. He replies.
We’re calm now, the acting over. His acting over.

Iain speaks. Thank you for the opportunity.

Iain.
I call him back.
Get your teeth fixed.

Work In Progress - New Year, New Post

I sitting at the bottom of the grey expanse of stone steps reaching into the mouth of Waterloo station, a bustling terminal spewing people and eating them at the same time; a yawning maw of carved granite. Even among all those faceless faces you spot familiarity. Y’know what I mean? A streak of blonde hair; a flicked brolly and discarded paper fluttering from hands while eyes look away, not bothering to notice any detritus – paper or otherwise. They never see me, me think-so. ‘Cept one.

It’s like she knows me somehow. But those drug-fugs made me wired different now, in the head-like. She could be anyone: Mum, nurse, counsellor, fellow Issue-er selling-type. Or none of ‘em. Prolly all. I recognise her every day she come by, not just ‘cause she smile at me or drop jangling, clanking coins into me cup or press crumpled, soft paper into my grease-streaked, pavement-stained palm – paper with The Queen’s head on. For none of that; she just familiarity in clothes, her heels click-clacking on the concourse as she approaches me. Sometimes, if I’m still sleep in me bag, she gently shakes me, drops coins or paper and walks on; sometimes she just leaves a note or two. I don’t know her name, but I do. Weird-like. As I say: familiarity in a skirt. But not today she isn’t. Today, like yesserday, she gone not here. The last of her coins slump in my cup, which not floweth over my Lord. She prolly found out ‘bout me, ‘bout me past.

Which is good. ‘Cause I need someone to explain it to me. I been trying to blottit out, even the suck-cesspit, like I was. Back in the day. Back when they called me Alan, when I-ad a name.

All just memories I forgetting, all just a river of my thoughts flowing to the sea of forgotten. I’m just kidnapped by the current.