Well, it's not done yet.
I'm starting a new 100 Balloons project. The previous one just wrapped.
But the next one will take some time. I'm actually going to get back to writing. Properly. Not blogging, but actually writing. I've taken a fair bit of time off from doing that, but I want to dive back in.
So, what better way than to *have* to write 100 stories. One for each balloon.
Can't wait.
Monday. Umbrellas discarded, their skeletal remains picked over by the wind.
We had beers with Keith and Gillian; all they could talk about was the weather. Almost as if we'd not noticed that constant rain. Keith's office has been underwater. Riverside, he used to brag. My attic office a winner, for once.
Tuesday. Sorting the bloody broadband, again. Hours, it was. On my knees under the desk. Later, in the pub, Keith made some crude joke. My glare cut him off. Had an early night.
Woke late on Wednesday. Slept fitfully. The sudden scatter of water thrashing against the window brought me round. No electric. Alarm clock dead. Had a meeting with my accountant. Keep my hood up on the bus. Slept fitfully.
Went out Thursday after work. Keith was there; Gillian wasn't. Didn't ask and he didn't say. Unusual. Forgot my mobile, and when I got home there was a green light blinking at me. I knew it was her before I'd even picked it up, its glowing screen casting a blue, sickly haze across my face. Deleted without listening.
Burned the toast for my late-night snack. Smoke alarm pinging loud; a thump from the flat above. I knew I'd pay for it at some point - loud music, noisy sex, high heels on the wooden floor, notes under the door threatening stuff.
I'd run out of butter anyway.
It appears, at first glance, that this blog has been abandoned. But no, it is perhaps best described as a hibernation.
In recent times, I've moved away from writing as a career - commercial writing, that is. When I do 'blog' it is usually about 'work' things and you can find it over at purplesime's ponderings.
I've also done a few side projects, which have seen me write for pleasure at a slower rate than I did before. One of these side projects is built around writing, but it too is in a hiatus due to work commitments and outside forces that have seen me shift the project in a slightly different direction. It will kick off again soon, but for now it's also in hibernation as I write more content for it. You can see the initial work at 100 Balloons.
You may wish to learn that this project is ongoing - and I'm doing it to learn more about writing, my own skills and different ways to publish fiction in the modern world. I'm enjoying it, but let's just say it's been harder work than I originally conceived it to be.
Another side project has taken on a life of its own, and that's My Earliest Memory. For a while, this was a major interruption in my life, which was incredibly pleasing. Now that it's back to being a slow burn project, so I can start to rekindle older blogs. Like this one.
Finally, work.
Yes, that word.
Once upon a time, I wrote adverts and content for brands. Then I discovered I didn't enjoy it as much as I used to and I so I altered my career. And I'm in the middle of that change. This is seeing me work harder than ever before as I learn a new set of skills (or hone them, as it were) and begin the transition from a single-minded creative into a more rounded digital consultant type.
This has also coincided with a decision to go freelance again. I find it's the easiest way to reinvent oneself.
That transition will never stop, but it may have slow periods.
In all, what you can take from this, should you read it, is that I'm happy. I'm writing longer pieces and publishing fewer stories online.
What does this mean for this blog?
Good question. This blog was a place to try stuff out, to get older things rewritten and out to a wider audience. I don't want to kill it. And I won't.
I hope that I will return to it in some form or other. Perhaps use it as a way of 'making' myself write something and put it out there. For no other reason that that's something the internet affords people (and increasingly machines).
Well, I've out-stayed my welcome on this post. Time to get on with all the things I've mentioned above.
The sad people, everywhere.
Even their frowns trudge. Their grief flailing like untied shoelaces.
Every morning they fill up the train with their tears, flowing into stations before tributaries flow on to offices; lit by lights as artificial as my
sympathy for them.
It's cold down here, behind the concrete spiral staircase
clinging like a leech to the bridge, with its drains permanently
blocked and its patina of grime
only London can produce. It's cold
down here.
Just posted this, a further snippet from the longer story.
Small Hands
Small hands, big thighs. That’s what he liked.
‘He’ being Stuart.
The lovable rogue, but only in his mother’s eyes and father’s pub-talk. Hated by most others. An imbecile, according to the graffiti scrawled crazily across the bus shelter up by Maud’s card shop. The gents’ toilets in the Hay & Scythe tell of other names that are not repeatable. Not out loud, in public. I have that on good authority, not having frequented them.
Stuart. A simple man with simple tastes. He likes to strike out, to hit; to offer a beating or two. Especially after a pint of Hamerton’s Ale. Definitely after several pints. Mostly to women. Almost exclusively, as it happens.
Certain types, though. Just those with small hands and big thighs.
Not that it’s an excuse I would offer up.
I have a new project. One that is for the writers out there. Is that you?
It's called Tales From The Alphabet. And you can get involved.
I've started things off with the letter 'P' in a new short called Perfect Circles. It's an extract of a longer story I've been working on.
Perfect circles.Alfie could draw them at will. He used it as a parlour trick in pubs, aged 14, winning shots of whisky that he’d share with me and Bird.He could draw the different coin denominations. Perfect, every time.The look on the punters’ faces when they laid down a coin: like they’d been at the Somme.
That was how we passed the days, back then. Before our relationships petered out, became lost in the labyrinth of life. Or maybe purposefully gotten rid of; left at the side of the memory road as we screeched away in a car, the smell of burning rubber assaulting the nostrils.Yep, mostly abandoned.
In those days, we were carefree. Astounding drinkers was enough – or at least the reward of whisky was. Or so I thought. Our history through the eyes of hindsight is not quite as cosy.Then again, whose history is?
In case you wondered, this blog is currently in hibernation.
Not dead, not dying. Sleeping.
I also blog about advertising and digital over on purplesime's ponderings.
We’re 15 years on now, a lot of water has passed under the bridge. Not that Harry was ever angry with his lot, the cards he was dealt or the pain he so obviously felt going through the 20-odd operations. Unlike Sarah, my aunt. Actually, not my real aunt, as in one of my parents’ sisters – Sarah was really an old school friend of my mother. And it was her scalding tea that splashed all over Harry’s face and upper body when he was just a babe in arms, a few months old. He couldn’t even walk, then, could hardly focus on what was going on around him. He must have been, what? Between a month and three months old? Three months at the very most.
I remember the screams. Not Harry’s, though, I think they were what you’d describe as a whimper. Shock, we found out later. The screams came from my mother; Sarah took in a huge gulp of breath and sat, open-mouthed. I took this opportunity to surreptitiously look up her skirt. She was wearing pink knickers. Frilly. In my defence, I was eight at the time. If that’s any kind of defence.
Early evening and London was bustling as people left work and headed to the many bars that litter the streets of Clerkenwell. I was still sat at my desk, trying to turn the tumbling thoughts in my head into some coherent and solidifying entity. It wasn’t going well. I was feeling distracted, flitting between my document and Twitter.
I caught a glimpse of a post: a grand and potent threat. Another nutter, I presumed. I determined that goading this person would perhaps alleviate the challenges I was facing with my work. What seemed so wise then only heightens the stupidity I feel now.
Just a short message, that’s all. A joke, some people would call it. I didn’t give it a second thought as I stepped through the glass doors of my workplace. I darted across the road, the sharp beep of a taxi’s horn reverberating off the yellow brick buildings; I hurried down a side street, the buildings pressed so close together the sun makes only a rare appearance between the hours of 1403 and 1406.
That’s where he must have been hiding, out to shoot this messenger. Or at least cause him some harm. I recall the shiver I gave as his shadow crossed across my back; I faintly remember the sharp pain I felt at the base of my skull. After that, it’s a blank.
When I finally came to, I found myself strapped to a hard wooden chair. I was in small room with a tiny window up high on one wall, which allowed a trickle of sunlight in. My head was sticky with blood at the back and a fresh wound on my forehead was leaking a steady stream of red over my face. There was classical music playing; I think it was Mahler, but the memories are, even now, slightly hazy (I’ve since been sent a letter from Jack containing a link to this site and his name signed in blood – whose blood I know not, but I shudder to think it’s my own). I turned my head to the left and was faced with a hideous creature, a man I now know is Jack the Twitter.
My eyes slowly focused on his revolting form. Without provocation, he pressed his twisted face up against my own and began shouting in German. He switched to English, screaming about his mother. For hours this went on; I was unable to speak out, mostly from horror and shock but also from a parched throat that felt as if it had been burned with napalm and scraped with sandpaper. Occasionally, he would rise from his seat and begin a conversation with his mother, with her ghost. I pleaded with him in the rasp that my throat was able to accomplish, but to no avail.
But there was a light, a pinprick of light at the end of the darkest of tunnels: the straps had a little give in them. I knew, if I could survive this onslaught, I had a chance. A slim one but a chance all the same. This ranting, slathering, monster couldn’t possibly keep this level of ranting up. Surely he couldn’t? I was banking on this being true as I worked slowly to release the straps holding my legs and arms tight against the chair. I had time, I just didn’t know how much; would he lose his temper at me, cause me more pain, more damage? I prayed he wouldn’t.
I lost any notion of time during this episode, this madness. I may have fallen into unconsciousness at some point; I may have begged like a child wishing his parent would stop uncle Jimmy doing those things; I may have turned on the anger. All negotiations failed.
Without warning, he left the room. This was, quite possibly, my only chance. I pulled my wrists free, yanking at the straps to free my legs. I stumbled through the door, searching frantically for a way out. Through several doors I crashed, not caring if the noise brought my jailer forth. If I couldn’t break out then death was a consideration I would happily embrace. I was lucky, I finally broke out into the night. I ran, just ran.
The next moment I remember was the cold steps of this church where I’d collapsed, pressed against my face, the hands of a paramedic touching my neck to see if there was a pulse. There was pain in my back (the surgeon informed me this madman took some of my liver!), my head ached and my wrists were sore from the straps. Mostly, it was the visions that I couldn’t rid myself of.
I still wake most nights, the nightmares so horrible I cannot bring myself to describe them; the tickle of his facial hair against my cheek, the stench of his breath, the wild, unfocused eyes. It’s haunting me even now. My doctor assures me that, once my wounds have healed, so too will the abrasive thoughts which scour my brain.
But take heed from my tale, for I have been made an example of. I have many questions about my experience. I just never want to meet Jack again, to have an opportunity to ask them.
And I pray that he’ll never cross your path, either.
Find out more about Jack the Twitter or follow his Twitter feed.
The leaves were fluttering in the summer breeze, casting brittle shadows along the path as Jim and I rode our bikes down to the rec. We were both screaming our heads off, not just to release our youthful exuberance but also to warn anyone on the path of our imminent arrival; Jim had caused Mrs. Bothol a mild case of concussion last year, ploughing into her at top speed on his Raleigh Grifter. We’d been told by our parents to take more care before someone got killed.
Or something.
Because it was a something that caused Jim to spill it on the path on this particular day. I was following, at speed, too closely, so I wasn’t able to stop myself careering into Jim, my front wheel skimming the back of his head.
It says on the Word document that this was started in July last year. I may well expand it, but for now let this be my first post of 2010.
Among the clothes of trees, tossed aside
All in heaps of brittle ingots,
A lone flower; petal sentinel.
A memory.
A scar.
A mark.
Stop. Just listen. You may need to hold your breath, the walls here in this apartment are thicker than your average 8-year old (if you believe the tabloids). Did you hear it? Footsteps; slippers on carpet. I can discern the static click as the man shuffles - yes, it's definitely a man, perhaps five eleven in height, weighs 170lbs, I'd wager. He's at the door of his apartment now three floors above mine and to the right; number 16 it is, the apartment. It's the last one in the block, top floor. The door lock is sticking. I can hear him twisting the handle (probably brass and rounded like all the others in the block, but I can’t be sure) back and forth, pulling hard to budge the door from the jamb. Finally, it gives. I can hear him wrench it open in one swift movement, but it doesn't put off his visitor who, perhaps, was expecting such a vicious action.
That was the beginning.
After that it all went quiet for a split second, followed by a sharp intake of breath. There was a distinct thump; the sound of a man slumping to the floor, a man who is five eleven in height (approximate) and around 170lbs.
Then the elevator groaned into life, struggling to lift itself from its sitting position on the ground floor. It’s the visitor that had called it; I recall catching the soft click of a finger pressing the call button. But they didn’t wait for it. It was covering the visitor’s own footsteps. If I concentrated I could pick the footsteps out; they were not rushed, but measured and confident. Black slip-on shoes with a worn down heel on the left foot. There was a squeak as their hand gripped the handrail of the back stairs, which they took two at a time. But by then my ears were drawn to the spreading of the blood, the thickening and pooling of Mr Gates’ life on his carpet. If he weren’t dying he’d be really pissed that his new carpet (laid last week, a Thursday – that was the 20th, wasn’t it?) was being sullied in such a way.
I counted 12 minutes and 15 seconds before the alarm was raised. A scream, sudden and shocking, even though I was half expecting it; another 20 minutes before you knocked on my door and, well, that brings us bang up-to-date, to the right now.
Did you get it all down? I can go over it again, should you need me to. I’m always here, except Tuesdays when Mrs Fowler from number 6 takes me shopping. It’s hard for me to do it on my own; I get swamped easily by the cacophony in the supermarket, the tannoy announcements, the metallic clatter of the trolleys, and the endless babbling of the shoppers (talking to themselves or to ‘friends’ they’ve bumped into and need urgently to exchange gossip with).
Is there anything else?
This short piece is in response to a request from Caffeine Goddess whose blog you really should read. You can follow her on Twitter, too.
Some of this is fiction, the seven listed items are fact (with some fiction rolled in to keep the thread going). Enjoy.
"Okay, I admit there have been some inconsistencies. But it's nothing major, get over it!" I eyeballed the doc over the oak desk; his fingers are tapping the green leather blotter, glasses slipping halfway down his nose. He inhales deeply, the grey nostril hair quivering like a cell's flagellum, and then speaks in his deep baritone voice.
"That's okay, we just need to check a few facts, make sure we've covered all the bases. Once that's sorted out you're free to go. Hmmm?"
"Sure. Yeah, sure." I reply. "Let's get on with it." I sit back. I know it's time to fill in the gaps. I don't want to stay in this sterile place any longer than I have to. Doc's pen is poised above his jotter; it's almost as if he's about to perform a surgical procedure rather than take notes. I close my eyes and start.
The following is taken from the notes of Doctor Michael Slater, MD on January 31st, 2009.
1. Before I got into my present career - that's a copywriter in the world of advertising - I had a number of career choices. I did kind of fall into this job, but I'll come to that later. I trained as a baker and chef after school. I enjoyed it, it was creative and I've always loved to cook. However, the wages and hours of the job were not compatible with my life. Who, at 19, wants to start work at 2am and finish at 2pm, only to have to find time to sleep, eat and socialise? Not this one. I took myself off to University and got a degree in Environmental Management. After graduation I moved to Bournemouth, Dorset and shared a house with a graphic designer. Through her, I got a gig writing for an English Language School and Bournemouth University's first website. I ran a design business for four years and then hauled myself back to London to make it in advertising. 9 years on I'm currently on an extended break from work. What happens next is anyone's guess. I do still help friends out with concepts and ideas and do a number of email newsletters to give me some spending money. You can hire me too.
2. I once wrote a novel of 120,000 words. It sucked. My friends were too polite to tell me that, but I read it myself and thought it amateurish. I'd like to be able to write something that compels someone to pay money for a book, but I'm not sure it's in me right now.
3. Considering I've done work for almost every car manufacturer in the world (except VW - come on guys, ask me!) I used to be a 'road protester'. I have camped in a tree, stood in front of diggers and probably broke the law several times over. In spite of my own ideals, I realise that I can't stop people driving and that any money I spend from earnings is always spent on better causes. In the past 5 years I've had over 200 trees planted in Scotland to help rejuvenate the ancient forests, even digging some holes myself while on honeymoon in the Highlands.
4. I hadn't used a PC until 2000, when, at my first job in London they sat me at a PC. I'd ever used a Mac and, too embarrassed to admit it, spent a considerable time trying to get it to move from a blank desktop screen with no shortcuts on it. In frustration, I started pressing keys from the left-hand bottom corner; the second one was the Start key. I probably blushed at that point and felt a right idiot. I still prefer Mac, but I'm not a Fan Boi in any sense. It's just what I started on and what feels most comfortable. If you love PCs, good for you.
5. I don't suffer fools. Gladly or otherwise. Some people probably think this makes me an arrogant twat. They are probably right. [Doctor's handwriting is illegible, but a comment is made at this juncture. We can only surmise it's not a positive one judging by the number of exclamation marks.]
6. I'm allergic to bananas. And glucose sugar (such that you find in fondant icing). I can eat sugar, but my skin is allergic to it. [Doc notes that these allergies have been certified by medical professionals. Another illegible comment appears after. No exclamation marks this time.]
7. I've been blessed by the Pope. Even though I'm not interested in religion, I was visiting the Vatican in 1994 and couldn't get in because I was wearing shorts. However, a kind person informed me the then Pope, John Paul II, blessed all visitors on a Wednesday morning at 5am if they were in the basilica. So, I got up very early, went along and had my head patted and some Latin mumbled at me by an old guy in robes. [Doctor's notes suggest he believes this to be an hallucination of some sort or an expression of a deep-seated love for religion. We know the Pope did bless a large public congregation on Wednesday mornings and that the subject spent almost two weeks in Rome in 1994, so there is no reason to believe he has made this up.]
This concludes the interview with the subject. The full transcript of the conversation has been lost, but we still have the paper published by Dr. Slater in Clinical Psychology 2009, titled "Enquiring the Inquiring Mind". Copies are available in the College Library, please ask at the Reference Desk.
THE RULES:
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 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 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.
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.
