DOG FIGHT

To paraphrase Checkov’s advice to writers, if you show your readers a weapon at the beginning of the story, be sure to use it before the end.

So, if you’re squeamish about violence in fiction, even though that violence is to highlight the immorality of institutionalized violence – i.e. war - please stop reading now.

*****

‘No, no. Well, no fingers or ears is what I mean. Nothing like that. But one squaddie did bring home something made from a scrotum.’

Hilton was quiet for a while with his portable fixed to his ear. Matt sat on the floor watching television. The Simpsons were arguing, but Matt was listening to Hilton.

‘A scrotum? Yes, that’s what I said. You don’t know what a scrotum is? Even though you’ve got one? It’s… well, you know, a ball bag. The thing you keep your testicles in. Are you sure you know what they are? If you’re looking for them, they’re just under your cock.’

Hilton laughed.

‘No, no, a human one. Or so he said. That’s what they told him anyway. When he bought it.’

He laughed again.

‘And a few guys brought back teeth as souvenirs. But I didn’t bother with that either. You’d never know whose they were. Could be from the army dentist. Same applies to all the souvenirs, I suppose. You can buy them at any market. But mine’s authentic. My reminder of what went on. Because it’s army issue. The thing I brought home is a bayonet.’

Matt put the volume up. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more of the conversation. But then he found that he was straining to hear what was being said.

‘Well, the worst was when we were ambushed. They caught us off guard in a dried up riverbed. Fucking mayhem it was. We thought they were labourers. And I though I was dead. They must have had their weapons in the fields with them. And they’d planted a bomb just where we stopped. We never saw the wires. Stupid leadership it was. But he was just a kid too, the officer in charge. Just like the rest of us. And when it went off.’

Hilton made a sound he thought mimicked an explosion.

‘Fuck. You should have seen it. Body parts flew all over the place. Bit’s and pieces everywhere. It took a long time to clean up, I tell you.’

Matt moved closer to the television where the sound was louder. He tried to lose himself in the action on the screen. But Hilton’s description of what happened kept getting through to him. It invaded his mind and filled his brain with revolting and frightening images.

‘Well we just shot them all afterwards. Some were quite young too. A few even younger than any of us anyway.’

A moment of silence.

‘No, no. We lined them up, hands tied behind their backs with that blue plastic stuff, anything worth keeping taken away from them, you know, money, jewelry, weapons, that kind of thing. Then a few kicks and punches while we were getting them ready. And then, bang, you’re dead, and bang, so are you, and bang, bang, bang until they were all dead.’

Hilton listened to the voice on the other end of his portable.

‘No, no. That’s how it’s done. They just put it down to civilians getting caught up in the action. You know, cross fire and all that. It happens all the time. The officers in charge just have to be careful how it’s reported, that’s all. But they all know the score.’

Silence again as Hilton listened.

‘Yes, that’s it. That’s what the Americans call it. Collateral damage. Sounds quite smart when you say it like that doesn’t it?’

The sound of the Simpsons filled the room.

‘Hey Matt. Stop being a wanker. Put that fucking thing down. My little brother’s watching telly with the volume right up. So I can’t hardly hear a thing.’

Matt put the TV off and went into the bedroom. The one he shared with his brother again. The one that had been his when Hilton was away.

He looked out of the window and down onto the estate below. He saw the some kids kicking a ball. His brother’s voice came through the flimsy door.

‘Well, it’s what we were taught to do. They train you to kill people. Cos that’s what you do when you’re a soldier. That’s what you’re sent there for. To kill them before they kill you. No no. No one ever asks any questions. You just kill them. And that’s all there is to it.’

A short silence and then, ‘Sure, if you’re buying. I’m a bit short. OK. Great idea. See you down there then. Yes. Right away. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

Hilton came into the bedroom. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’

‘Couldn’t be bothered,’ said Matt. ‘Where’s Mum?’

‘How the fuck would I know. Out with her latest pretty faggot, I suppose.’

***

Matt had always wanted a dog.

‘Don’t be silly,’ his mother had said. ‘We can’t have one up here. Who’ll clean up after it?’

He told them he’d seen some kids tying the puppy to a post. Then they started throwing stones at it. These were all lies.

He told them it had followed him home. To the front of the block.  He said it wouldn’t get into the lift. So he carried it upstairs. Seven flights. This was all true.

He called the dog Boy. He didn’t know why. It was just a dog he’d found wondering around amongst the trash and filth in a side street near the centre of town. There were several of them. Stiff leggedly sniffing each other and curling up their lips. They could be quite dangerous, especially at night when they roamed about in bigger packs. The locals tried to ignore them and so did the rare officials who strayed into he area.

***

Matt thought about the hurdles he had to get over. The difficulties of childhood. Some real, most imagined. The really important ones were:

1. His mother’s new lover disliked him intensely. ‘He’ll never get anywhere in life if he slouches around in his room all day and night. And if he doesn’t go to school he’s destined to be a wanker forever.’

2. He found his brother’s return from the overseas posting intrusive. It was an invasion of his personal space. His room. Even when he was on his own, but much more so when his brother was with a woman he’d picked up in some pub or other. And his brother also called him a wanker.

3. He hated being called a wanker because he was doing his best to stop being just that. But it was hard. Success wasn’t in sight. Because the feeling it gave him was so overwhelmingly pleasurable. And the temptation to masturbate was simply far too strong for him to ignore. Such a simple thing to do. And so much fun.

***

Matt carried the dog into the flat and tried to hide it under his bed. He was desperate to keep it. But it seemed to develop some kind of fever. Then it started vomiting. And shitting. He did his best to clear things up. A revolting task. And he failed dismally. The smell was appauling.

His mother opened the front door. ‘What the fuck is that?’ She went into Matt’s bedroom and saw the dog.

‘Fucking hell. You’d better do something about it before your brother gets home.’

She helped him clear up the mess. They sprayed all the rooms with deodorizer. They thought they had succeeded but it was just olfactory fatigue.

***

As Hilton reached the seventh floor with his girlfriend he knew that something was wrong.

‘Fucking hell,’ she said, ‘can’t you get a flat on the ground floor? Or one in a block where the lift works.’

‘Shut up. It’s better to walk. Better for your health. Better for your weight. And the lift always stinks of piss even when it’s working.’

‘Talking about stink, what’s that funny pong?’

‘Don’t ask me, I only live here. Come on let’s get inside. We won’t smell it in there.’

He opened the door. The stink was overwhelming.

The girlfriend started heaving and dry reaching. Before she left she told him he must be mad to live in a place like that.

‘Fucking hell, what is it?’ he asked. Then he saw the dog. Then he saw red. Then he started shouting at them. ‘You both mad or what? Get that fucking thing out of here.’ 

He pointed menacingly at Boy. ‘Fucking hell I’d have her pants off by now if it hadn’t been for that thing.’

Then Hilton completely lost his marbles. Anger, alcohol, frustration and the effect of the tablets they’d scrounged took over.

Thinking about the fuck he’d just missed out on, he picked the dog up by the loose skin at the back of its neck. He walked over to the open window and threw it out into space.

It had approximately seven seconds to live because a body that weight takes approximately seven seconds to complete its fall from seven storys.

The dog could have died from severe deceleration forces as its body hit the street. Or it may have been the sudden shock wave causing an increase in blood pressure flowing to its brain that that resulted a massive hemorrhage. Matt never knew which it was. He never went outside to look. He stayed in the flat for several weeks without venturing out again.

He stayed inside. Occasionally he’d watch when his mother’s latest lover took his mother’s clothes off and did those filthy things to her. In the full knowledge that he was watching them from the open door to his bedroom. Which was also Hilton’s bedroom.

***

Hilton arrived home late. He had a girl with him. As usual. They were both drunk. As usual. Matt feigned sleep. They soon had their gear off. As usual.

‘What about him?’ the girl said.

‘He’s asleep.’

‘Don’t look like it to me.’

‘In that case he can watch.’

‘Not sure I like that idea.’

‘Look either you start sucking on this or you fuck off. It’s up to you.’

Matt heard them start the routine he’d been in on so many times. Then they started making the same noises he heard his mother and his mother’s latest lover making when he was watching them.

‘OK. That’s enough. Tired of that. Let’s try something else. Lie down. No. Not that way. On your knees. With your arse towards me.’

‘What you gonna do?’

‘Depends what you want. And where you want it.’

Matt turned towards the wall. He pulled the fleshy parts of his ears across the auditory canal trying to block out the sound.

‘Stop. You’re hurting me.’

‘Shut up it’s supposed to hurt.’

Matt got out of bed. He walked over to Hilton.

A bayonet is designed with two grooves above either side of the blade. Their role is to facilitate the flow of blood from the wound and to allow the weapon to be removed more easily.

The design worked perfectly when Matt took the weapon out of the drawer and plunged it into Hilton’s throat. He pulled it out easily and stuck it back in again.

The woman, fat and white and covered in blood turned over as blood pumped onto her breasts, mingled with the hair and ran down her stomach to pool in her hairy navel. She looked like she’d been swimming in blood.

‘Fucking wanker,’ she screamed. ‘Look what you’ve done.’

A bubbling roar filled the room as Hilton stood up grasping at the foreign body sticking out of his neck. The black blade formed a conduit helping his blood spurt out in several directions. He staggered towards his young brother. His fingers clutched his throat. He pulled the weapon out of his neck releasing a further rush of blood. He sat down on a chair and looked at Matt. He was trying to say something, but forming words was becoming harder as his world turned yellow then grey and then black.

Matt deceided he wasn’t going to be called a wanker any more. 

He walked across to the window. He climbed up onto the sill. He stepped out into the dark black space. 

Free at last.

*****

Please let me know what you think:

ray@johnstonesinfrance.com

BAD FAITH

WARNING: Some people may be offended by some of the themes in this short story.

In bad faith, it is from myself that I am hiding the truth. 

Jean-Paul Satre (1905-1980).

Paul and the boy both heard the vehicle drive into the courtyard. A car door slammed but the engine was kept running. Paul looked at his face in the mirror and went on shaving. He was expecting a visit, but he showed no sign of fear or the pangs of pain he felt gnawing at his bowels.

The boy put down the old enamel jug of water he was holding and went to the window. He looked out and then quickly stepped away from the opening.

‘Well, who is it?’ asked Paul, trying to sound more casual than he felt.

‘It is a jeep, Father. It’s the army. There are three soldiers. One is at the front door. He is speaking to Father Xavier. We must be careful, Father. They might have been drinking, and they do not drink wine with song, Father.’

‘Don’t worry, my boy. We have nothing to fear. It’s probably a routine visit. Perhaps Father Xavier will give them something and send them on their way. Now, more hot water please. I must finish my face.’

There was a soft knock at the door. And a brief conversation in Kingala. Paul did not understand what was being said. But he understood the wide-eyed look on the boy’s face. He turned to Paul and said, ‘I will pack some things for you. You must go with them.’

In the courtyard, Paul tried to insist on traveling in the seat next to the driver, but a young soldier slapped him across the face with an open hand and pointed to the rear of the jeep. Paul felt the blood in his mouth, but he turned the other cheek and climbed into the back of the vehicle. He sat on the floor. Two soldiers got in with him. One of them drew his finger across his throat and laughed. Paul did not think it was funny.

***

Four years earlier, Paul was told to meet a man in a black suit at the airport. Some request. All but impossible he thought as he went into the congested international terminal. But the man found him easily. No trouble at all, it seemed. Seek and ye shall find, he remembered, was one of his mother’s favourites.

The man immediately asked for Paul’s passport. He put it in his briefcase and handed Paul a new one.

‘It’s completely legal and legitimate. Which means it’ll take a little longer to work out where you’ve been, etcetera. Not a huge advantage, but one never knows. Don’t forget though, if they really want to find out about you, they will. On the other hand, maybe they won’t bother to check.’ The man stopped. He reflected on what he was about to say. ‘But you must be very careful. It’s always best to play it safe. Eternal vigilance and all that. Not everyone is on our side. In fact some people will be vehemently pitched against you. And where you’re going they may even try to kill you.’

Paul looked at the document. Where they got the photo from he had no idea. But it looked fairly recent.

‘Now listen carefully, because this is very important.’ The man handed Paul a brown envelope sealed with tape. ‘Don’t open it now. Only when you get to Bangala immigration. You’ll be in for a long wait. There will be only one official on duty. So, just as you get to the counter, take all the dollars out and put them inside your passport.’

They shook hands.

‘Ite in pace.’ Paul was surprised. He had not been addressed in Latin for a long, long time. ‘And may you have a long life.’

The man in black was soon lost in the crowded concourse, and Paul was on his own.

***

On a hot day in the rainy season, but with no sign of rain, the small aircraft circled Bangala’s airport. On a metal seat next to a window, Paul, his white knuckles clutching the armrests, looked down at the ribbon of runway in the land of his new posting. In the far distance he could just make out a large open pit mining operation. On the horizon, a ring of purple mountains reached out of the jungle marking the frontier. Despite their closeness to the equator, some of the higher peaks were white with snow.

A slight change of course brought the capital’s handful of skyscrapers came into view and Paul caught sight of the notorious haze of smoke that rose from the city whatever the season.

The pilot’s approach was complicated because of the proximity of a series of rocky outcrops. Years ago questions were asked about the airport’s location. Mist and smog were common, it was pointed out, and wasn’t it too close to the mountains? But no answers were forthcoming. Construction inevitably went on to completion but well behind time and millions over budget.

As they descended several military vehicles floated into view. Then the aircraft banked suddenly as it overshot the pockmarked tarmac landing strip. Father Paul instinctively clutched at his favourite silver rosary in his pocket. He looked down again and saw that many bomb craters still lined the edges of the black apron. Ten years after the end of the civil war they had still not been repaired.

The pilot had told Paul his conditions. He wanted full payment in advance. He said Paul must disembark immediately on landing.

When the plane stopped, the pilot left the engine running. He lowered a flimsy ladder onto the runway. As Paul touched the concrete, the metal frame disappeared back into the fuselage. He handed down Paul’s backpack. The door slammed and the aircraft did a U-turn. It stopped for a moment before accelerating down the concrete apron towards take off. It was soon a spec disappearing into the heat haze. Then it was gone, and Paul was alone in his new country.

***

It turned out to be exactly as the man had said. It was a long wait. Crowds of people sweating in the corrugated iron customs and immigration shed built onto one side of a concrete mass that was Bangala International. Piles of baggage. No signs to say what to do or where to go. And soldiers with guns everywhere.

There was only one man at the immigration desk and it took a long time to get to him. He looked bored even when he took the money out of Paul’s passport. ‘OK, pass through.’

‘No stamp?’ asked Paul. ‘No entry visa to say how long I can stay?’

‘Go! Nothing more.’

Paul went through into the filthy main building. He was met by a young man in a white robe with tribal scars on his face and perfect white teeth that positively beamed when he smiled. But he was not smiling now.

‘Father Paul?’ he asked and then introduced himself as Simon. ‘We must hurry. This is a bad place. There are many soldiers. Please come with me, and don’t look at or speak to anyone. Let us be like the prudent man who foresees evil and hides himself when the simple pass on and are punished.’

As they neared a splintered glass door, they passed a group of armed men in uniform several of who were sitting on their haunches smoking and drinking. One of them called out. Simon ignored the shout, and taking Paul by the elbow, led him towards the exit. But the sound of a bolt assembly being pulled back and a round being loaded into the firing chamber made Simon stop and look at the group of ragged men surrounded by empty plastic beer cartons. One of them got up and sauntered towards Simon and Paul. He spoke to Simon who answered in a language Paul didn’t understand. Suddenly the man raised his rifle and hit Simon in the chest with the butt. Simon collapsed and lay on the floor. Paul stepped forward and grabbed at the gun. This infuriated the man who turned on Paul shouting for his comrades to help. The man from immigration appeared suddenly. He was holding a short swagger stick. He hit the soldier across the face. They all obviously knew who he was, because they immediately backed off. The man he’d struck was fingering the bright pink weals on his ebony cheeks.

Paul helped Simon to his feet.

‘Very pleased to see you again,’ he said, attempting to make light of a difficult situation. ‘Thank you very much for interceding.’

The immigration officer stared at them. ‘Why don’t you just get out of here before you both get hurt?’ Then he walked off, glaring at the young soldiers and gesticulating at them with the rattan cane he’d just used with such effect. And with such authority.

***

Beneath the surface the mission station and school had changed little since its founding in the colonial days. Old fashioned or politically incorrect concepts and words like ‘assimilation’ and ‘tribal development’ were no longer used, but that was about it. Very few of the locals had the view that the missionaries had taken their land in exchange for a book - the concept had just not crossed their minds. Perhaps because they were too busy eking a living out of the soil.

This was the milieu Paul fitted into so well from the day he arrived and he took to his new teaching situation like a duck to water. Always willing to help his peers – and of course the pupils.

Paul was a very good teacher. He had a natural rapport with young people, in this case boys, because there were no girls at the school. He knew his subjects well, spoke fluent French and Spanish and had studied European and colonial history. He went to great lengths to ensure that the mission school boys liked his lessons.

One boy, Naftali, the son of a minor tribal elder, caught his eye. He was a bright kid. Very bright. And he spoke good English with hardly a trace of an accent, and he was handsome, self confident and amusing. He could be the class jester whenever he wanted to. He asked probing questions in class and was never slow to spark a debate on testy matters. Paul liked him a lot.

‘How can it be that our Bengala style of animism is not considered in the same league as European religions,’ asked Naftali. ‘Despite the fact that it’s been looked at from all angles and upside down by anthropologists for generations. Experts with their own religious leanings declare it to be pagan, and those who call themselves freethinkers give it disparaging labels like animism or totenism. At best it’s considered a cult – at worst it’s dismissed as primitive native mumbo jumbo.’

Paul realized he was on difficult ground on many occasions. But he tried. And he kept trying. In the end, he found this uphill battle to be gratifying and stimulating despite the deep-seated doubt and anxiety it sometimes provoked. He’d not thought about religion so much since he’d taken orders.

Sometimes the questions were even more difficult. Especially one that one occasion when he brought the house down. Paul was never able to work out if Naftali was being deliberately provocative or simply playing the clown.

‘Forgive me for being intrusive, Father Paul, but how can the church prognosticate on the matters that, in theory anyway, none of it’s adherents should know anything about. For example, Father, why are we taught that something we all do and which is so much fun is considered to be so bad? Why is such a simple pleasure condemned as a mortal sin?’

This question was like a runaway train, and, although Paul saw it coming, there was no way it was going to be stopped. Naftali saw to that.

‘So what we’d all like to know Father Paul, is how often do you yourself masturbate?’

***

It was obvious from the start that Naftali was extremely precocious. He was good at all subjects, and his mind was quick, alert and receptive. He grasped new ideas and he was open to new concepts. So of course the time came when it was obvious that Naftali would benefit from extra instruction.

Paul wrestled with the situation for a long time before making up his mind. But how to couch it? How to make the offer?

Finally Paul decided. It would be encouragement and more face to face contact. ‘Naftali, you’re a very bright boy. Here’s a key to the front door of the building. Feel free to use it any time at all. I am always available if you feel the need to talk. On any subject you might wish to discuss.’ After all Paul told himself, this was solely in the spirit of developing a young mind. So that’s how it started, regular visits from Naftali. Sometimes at night. And sometimes quite late.

***

They came to get him well after dark. A group of men in shabby clothes with sullen faces. He recognized most of them. Two uncles and four cousins. They all carried pangas. Several had been drinking. He recognized the slurred speech and bloodshot eyes. His father’s brothers did not speak to him, and the others refused even to look at him. They would not meet his gaze. His father said he must go with them. His mother was not present. This was mens’ business. He told Naftali it was to prepare for an initiation ceremony. A right of passage that all boys went through. Although he knew it was a lie, he realized that it was important to be seen to obey his father. So he went with them from the dark night into the darker forest. But he knew it was more than circumcision they had in mind.

***

When Paul was pushed into Major Kimani’s office, a saying his mother had used flashed into mind. Black as your hat, is what she would have said in those days when that kind of metaphor was tolerated. And that’s what he was, but with a mind as sharp as a razor. As Paul was about to find out.

‘Stop! Leave him alone,’ he shouted at his men. And, ‘My apologies, Father,’ to Paul. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard that old colonial expression, You can take an African out of the jungle, but you can’t take the jungle out of the African. Well, although it’s a racial slur, I know why the original settlers thought along those lines. But my people continue to exasperate me.

Although his mouth was badly swollen, Paul relaxed somewhat in the Major’s presence. He did not know why he’d been brought in but he knew he’d have to be on his toes when answering any questions. But he felt reasonably confident that he’d be able to work his way out of it. Because he’d been here before. The situation had not been quite the same. But very similar. Not in this country. Not in Africa. But in Ireland, it had been. Picked up and interrogated by Garda Siochana. And then exonerated and apologized to in a sudden change of direction. Or a change of heart.

Kimani spoke to the soldiers for a while in Kingala. He never raised his voice, but it was obvious he was livid with them. Then Paul heard a word that he recognized. An English word. It sent a chill down his spine. They were talking about a laptop. His laptop.

Then, obviously for Paul’s benefit, he switched to English as he bundled the soldiers out of the door. ‘Now get out. Go and do your jobs. Properly. Fetch his computer and bring it back here.’

***

An hour went by. They talked about all kinds of things. The politics of post colonialism. How global warming and overpopulation appeared to be the major burdens Africa would have to come to terms with in the twenty first century. The influence of various United Nations institutions and the role of NGO’s. Kimani pointed out what he saw as similarities between the Bangala tribe’s primitive religion and Paul’s. The influence of the spirit world and an entrenched heirachy of men with influence. The role played by magical or supernatural powers. Paul chose not to refute any of the hypotheses proposed by Kimani.

Eventually, there was a knock at the door, and a soldier came in with Paul’s laptop. Even at that stage, he felt reasonably confident. But not for long.

Major Kimani picked up the phone, and a few minutes later a man who was not in uniform entered the office. He spoke to the Major, but took no notice of Paul.

‘This is Philemon, our very own black faced white hat hacker. He’s rather uncommunicative as you can see, but he’s a whiz with computers. An expert with software. Even protected software. As you will see. And shortly, I hope.’

The major spoke to Philemon in Kebanga, but Paul recognised one word that caused a burning sensation to start churning in his stomach: photos.

Philemon went to work on the laptop. Then he pointed out something to the Major. He wrote a few notes on a piece of paper, and when he’d left the room, the major started scrolling through Paul’s files. Although Paul could not see the screen, he knew what the Major was looking at. Downloaded pictures that he kept in what, until now, he thought was a safe place.

The major switched off the laptop.

He got up and walked over to Paul. He deliberately stood over him. Up close. ‘Well, now that I’ve looked at your photos, I’ll show you a few of mine.’

He handed Paul a folder. Inside were five glossy colour photos. They were all of Naftali. He was naked. And covered in blood. With dozens of gaping panga wounds. And obviously dead.

***

A few days before Paul’s arrest, the old mission panel van stopped outside a large colonial era mansion surrounded by high walls. Some Bugambian soldiers sat outside a metal security door. Paul said good morning to them in Kiswahili which he knew they understood, but they ignored him. He pressed the intercom and the gate was opened by two much paler soldiers in battle dress. They said good morning politely and he stepped over a barrier into the embassy. They saw immediately that he was in a highly distressed state.

One of them escorted Paul to the Ambassador’s office where he was received by Sir Richard Campbell and his assistant.

‘I am sorry to trouble you, but I need to phone those one hundred and ten acres in Rome. And I need a secure line. Well, I know it’s not a line any more, but what I mean is your satellite phone. As per our arrangement.’

‘Certainly Father, it’s your right. We’re at your disposal. And we’re happy to honour our country’s agreement with yours. Well, I know it’s not really your country you’re phoning. I suppose it’s more like a… well, a club, perhaps. But you know what I mean, I’m sure.’

Paul telephoned the unlisted number. He was sweating profusely. The man who answered asked him a question. ‘Quo vadis?’

Paul searched through the dark labrynth of his mind for the code he’d been given so long ago. Eventually he dredged up the answer. A phrase he’d once been given to commit to memory. When he’d first had dealings with these people. Paul remembered. He gave the answer that was required. ‘Ad vitam aeternam.’

He was immediately put through to a man who called himself Gregory. He had an Irish accent. He told Paul to calm down. They’d arrange something. He said not to talk to anyone about anything. Not even at the school.

After Paul had made his call, he felt much better, and he left, thanking the Ambassador profusely. ‘Everything in order?’ Sir Nigel asked. ‘Nothing we can help with? At the school I mean.’

‘Thank you Sir Nigel, that’s very kind of you, but I think I’ve got it sorted now. The person I phoned was very helpful, and he knows what to do.’

During the whole exchange, Lionel had said nothing to the priest.

When Paul was gone, the Amabassador asked,‘Why so glum, Lionel? Something on your mind?’

‘No sir. Well, yes, I suppose so sir.’

‘Well, what is it. Cough up now. We’re both in this together. We have to know what each other thinks.’

‘I’m sorry sir, but it makes me sick. Why do we do it? Because this kind of thing sends the wrong message to everyone. About what we stand for. You know, white hats versus black hats. Just who’s side are we on exactly? After all, we know who he’s phoning and we know why. Two of the most corrupt governments in the world colluding with each other, and we simply stand by. I know the standard rationale is that there is a chance we can influence this one for the better. But the one he phoned… It’s a lost cause isn’t it? With a hold on millions of people around the world. It’s more corrupt than corrupt.’

‘Now, now, Lionel. I can see that you’re passionate about it. And distressed perhaps. But ours not to reason why.’

‘Yes sir, and into the valley of death rode all those who thought that.’

***

The taxi owner-driver couldn’t believe his luck. He’d never had a fare like this before. And, because the distance was so great, there was no problem with the deposit he’d asked his passenger for. Forty miles from the airport through built up areas to the start of the interstate road and two hundred and fifty miles on the Great Western Highway. Then another hundred or so, through several small spread out towns with unpronounceable names. Up into the mountains to the mission and the school. A very remote place indeed.

When the taxi had gone, Father James took him on a quick orientation tour of the institution.

‘Please don't hesitate to ask if you need anything, Father Paul. It's my job to make you welcome, remember. To take care of you. You have nothing to worry about here. We're a very closed community. Close-knit you might say. We have to be, being so far from everywhere. But this isolation brings with it certain benefits. Which I’m sure you’re aware of. Let's just say it's nothing like where you were before. No, not a bit like that at all.

‘You see, we've been here a long time, and we have established very good relationships with the authorities. It's a well developed partnership if you like. Right from the earliest days, we got things off on the right footing. And we’ve been at pains to keep it that way. So, no, there's no problem with the government. None at all. We're all in this together, if you like. A symbotic relationship the scientists would say.’ He smiled at what he saw as an amusing metaphor.

Then he went on. ‘And we do our best here at St Luke's. For the boys I mean. We believe that these boys should be treated with love and care.

‘So I'm sure you'll fit in. To be sure, I know you'll like it. We have a fine bunch of boys to take care of. You’re going to like them Father.’

The priest beckoned to a handsome boy in his late teens.

‘Oh, Martin, come over here for a moment, will you.’ Then he turned to Paul and added, ‘I’d like to introduce you to this young lad. He’s been assigned to help you. To show you around, that sort of thing.’

Paul shook hands with Martin who flashed back a disarming smile. He appeared to take little notice of what Father James was saying about him. Father James put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and shook it slightly.

‘Martin is, how do I put it? Well, he’s only very slightly…er…handicapped, as we used to say. Almost normal, one should say I suppose. But he comes from a desperate family. And he’s much better off here. Where we can look after him and give him all the love and care he needs.’

Paul picked up his rucksack and handed it to the boy. ‘Perhaps you can help me with this to start off with please Martin. Your first chore. It would be really helpful, because I’ve been carrying it around for a long, long time, it seems.’

Martin smiled at Paul. ‘Of course Father, I’m at your disposal.’

Pauls spirits rose. He felt elated. Exhilirated.

And why not? He was about to start a new life in a new world. And from what he’d been told, he had a feeling he’d be very happy in this strange but stimulating environment. Here where the faded sign on the wall proclaimed: St Luke’s School for Boys with Special Needs.

*****

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CUT AND RUN

The blade went in easily. Into the soft pale tissue on his wrist. He worked it deeper to make a firm incision through the thew or muscle or subcutaneous tissue or whatever it was inside his arm that was impeding the compliant passage of the cutting edge. Asher watched. Fascinated. The memory of his father carving away at the breast on a Sunday turkey sprang to mind. Denzil looked at him in the mirror and then down at his arm again. His fingers gripping tightly just above the cut as he applied pressure to the handle and found pleasure in the pain.

*

It doesn’t take much to work out that some of what follows is about self-mutilation. Sometimes called self-harm. It’s also going to touch on self-deception. And because it’s about young men, sexual practices are sure to crop up sooner or later. Also, because one boy goes off to war, it’s going to get violent. With bad language in the dialogue. Especially when someone gets killed. So, if you don’t like any of this kind of thing, ‘STOP!’ as a king once said to a White Rabbit. Close your mind and go and lie down somewhere. Read Hello magazine if you can find anything to read in it. Or Mills and Boone. Or something like that.

*

That same king also said ‘Start at the beginning and then go on to the end.’ So let’s take that good advice and do just that.

Starting with Asher then, despite his strange name, he was just your regular everyday boy next door. But as their young years drifted idly by, Denzil and Asher got to know each other really, really, really well. This may sound salacious, but it’s meant to show that their relationship was commonplace. Because there was nothing much out of the ordinary with these boys. Other than cutting for fun, that is.

By their mid teens they’d smoked and drunk and taken mild drugs together and regularly shown each other their erections and demonstrated the same to several girls and once been in bed in a ménage a trois with the neighborhood bike who was called Janet who would take her knickers down if you gave her half a crown. If anybody remembers what that is. And whenever she felt like it she’d regularly get her clothes off for a lot less. Sometimes with nothing changing hands. The exchange of certain body fluids aside. Just for her own self-gratification, and as a result of the rhythmic contractions resulting from the rubbing of certain body parts usually in close contact with other people’s otherwise described as the stimulation of various erogenous zones which invariably leads to orgasm. Also known as fucking pleasure.

And while passing through puberty the boys had regular competitions to see who could spit or piss or shoot the furthest and who could fart the loudest or the longest. In other words, just everyday regular common or garden kids growing up together in the same middle class milieu.

*

When Asher walked out of the bathroom that day he’d seen enough. So he left Denzil to get on with his job. Which is exactly what he did. Cutting pleasure from his arm.

For a while, nothing showed. Just creamy white unblemished skin. But with some evidence of a few granulating scars. Healed former attacks always covered up with sleeves.

He applied more pressure. Then tiny beads of red when he parted the skin like opening the lips just above the perineum. As he’d succeeded in doing for the first time yesterday. To discover a different kind of delicious ecstasy.

A slight burning sensation. And a modicum of pain.  Followed by outright bleeding with blood pooling on the side of the basin. And running down the ceramic edge into the warm clear liquid. Ready to run down the plug in due course. Into the world of effluent, cigarette ends and human waste and female hygiene products and used and unused condoms and ejaculate and sometimes even far far worse. But now to make wonderful intricate patterns and effects as it mixed with water, like cigarette smoke curling upwards in an old TV interview. Or like strands of semen refusing to dissolve in tepid water and clinging instead to adolescent pubic hair as evidence of the pleasure of playing with his penis when his grandmother had flown in through the obligatory-to-prevent-temptation open door when-boys-bathed to find him with exposed glans as proof that he would burn in hell forever for this mortal sin. The gore then fusing and blending to become a rich rose hue. The envy of any vigneron worth his salt. Or his wine.

So that’s how it felt the every time he did it. Visually stimulating, physically engaging, fascinating and a little bit exciting to boot.

Trouble is, it was quite gratifying as well. And he couldn’t wait to do it again.

*

But what more of Asher?

And the grandmother, last seen storming in through the open door to catch Denzil red handed with a right hand covered in creamy semen?

Well, we’ll get back to her later, because she too had several worth-looking-at skeletal frames hiding in her cupboards. Exempli gratia: she had full faith in what the civilized choose to call mumbo jumbo when found amongst those it’s de rigueur to look down upon.

*

It was Asher who first suggested it. That harebrained idea where it all started.

‘Let’s go along and listen to what they’ve go to say. If it’s bullshit, we’ll leave. We’ve got nothing to loose. And nothing else to do anyway. Probably for the rest of our lives if we can’t get jobs next year.’

The recruiting officer looked like he was smiling. But there was no mirth. He’d simply trained himself to do so by flexing the muscles at both ends of his mouth. Perhaps he thought it took the edge off the core idea he was committed to and doing his best to commit others to. Any unsuspecting young minds that drifted into his orbit. Talking to kids about a career in killing people. As quickly and efficiently as possible. And at great, in fact enormous cost, to the taxpayer.

‘If it’s a job you’re looking for, you’ve come to the wrong place. Because what we offer in the army these days is careers, not jobs. High tech, state of the art equipment used and maintained by efficient, well trained modern soldiers. If I were you, I’d get my name down now. Get in while the going’s good. Because next year it might be too late. And you may not be able to get anything then.’

He showed them exciting boys own videos and gave them expensively printed brochures and pamphlets. He spoke of courage and loyalty. Brawn and brains. Split second decision making. Being in the thick of the action. Training that gives qualifications for life.

Asher said, ‘Does any of this include the chance of getting your balls shot off in action in someone else’s godforsaken country?’

The recruiting officer was shocked but didn’t show it. This is not how things worked in the army. Remarks like this were not on. Not in the hallowed halls of the defense forces. But he’d heard it all before. One immature kid showing off in front of another. He said to himself as he’d done many times before, we’ll fix him. He won’t be so fucking cock sure of himself when we’ve got him in our clutches.

As it happens, the army never got hold of Asher. It was Denzil who signed up.

Just before he went off to training and to war, they got drunk together for the last time. They phoned Janet late and promised her lots. They didn’t all get into bed together that night. Janet agreed to a special one-after-the-other deal. Asher went first. Denzil watched. Then it was his turn and Asher sat on the end of the bed playing with his already once satisfied but still half erect penis. Moving the prepus across the glans in a gliding action just as he had done inside Janet only moments before.

Then Denzil came and then he went off into the army and they never saw each other again.

*

His grandmother was frightened. So she prayed for him. Just as she did to prevent cancer. And for her daily survival. To the panoply of saints who had the interventionist power to succor and protect her and hers. There are thousands of them just hanging about waiting for prayers so that they can tune in and then start their good work.

She fervently believed in the power of prayer. She absolutely knew that Denzil would come back safely if she prayed to the saints to intervene. They would look after him. And return him in due course like a prodigal son coming home in triumph with ribbons and medals. She set in train a long and complicated and regular and daily regime of beseeching supernatural powers to ensure the right outcome. She knew it would work. It always had. She was never disappointed. Why should things change now?

*

Heat. Dust. Darkness. Fear. Out on patrol Denzil found himself mimicking his grandmother. Part remembered part improvised. Any port in a storm. Protect me against trepidation. With rod and staff or helicopter gunship when necessary. Rid me of idea of death and dying at the hands my enemies. Through the valley of Helmand. Help me to fear no evil. For Christ’s sake do whatever is necessary to comfort me.

*

The blade went in easily. Into the dark tissue. He worked it deeper, making a gaping incision and revealing the muscle in the man's neck. He twisted the handle forcing the cutting edge through the cartilage and tissue that was reluctant to give way and expose the secrets of the life sustaining carmine fluid coursing up through the artery and back down in the veins in the insurgent’s throat. He applied more pressure to the handle and felt the pleasure of the gushing as the blade went thought the carotid pipe and blood poured out of the gaping cut. This time not at all like vaginal lips, but aping a wide-open gushing vulva. Denzil held on tightly for moments that were hours in his life as the man’s existence pumped away through his fingers, spilling and pooling and congealing on the desert sand. Then the man stopped writhing. Denzil pushed the filthy thing away. He stood up. He was surrounded by fucking bedlam. Firefight skirmish mayhem. The aftermath of an ambush by militants, insurgents, nationalists, Islamists or whatever the fuck they were. Screaming, shouting, shooting. Cries of desperation. Calls for help. Cursing. Swearing. Blaspheming. And prayer. Calling on Allah, God, Jesus, mother, friends and others.

And then it was over. Except for the heat and dust and heat and dust and orders and obscenities and the sound of organized chaos.

Sitting in the wadi, Denzil saw soldiers shooting into bodies. Kicking the dying. Cursing the dead. Crying. Searching for souvenirs. The micro thin veneer of civilization abandoned. Atavistic traits in the ascendancy. And stopping just short of eating the enemy dead.

He looked at the body again. Dark hair, pale skin for these parts. Dirty. Bloody. Stone cold dead. And little more than a boy.

A saint had obviously done his work. Responding to a prayer. Right was in the ascendancy. Evil vanquished. Irrespective of the age of the kid.

***

More patrols. More mines. More deaths. Every day for months and months and months. The daily routine.

Fear and bile and hate and then at last the bliss of being back inside the perimeter. They sat down in the sullen safety of high walls and barbed wire protection. Exhaustion. Depression. Despondency. Most men took off their helmets. Then some of them their battle dresses. Some even stripped down to their underwear. ‘Have any of you worked out what the fuck we’re doing here?’

‘Shut up. Don’t start that shit again. It’s bad for moral. And it’s against regulations.’

Those who had the energy, ordered drinks, and one of the locals employed as a waiter sauntered off to get the order. When he came back he was carrying a machine pistol instead of a tray. Denzil heard the sound of shots being fired, but not the one that flung the lump of steel tipped with brass towards him. Apparently no one in the vast cast of saints and other hangers on up there was listening because the white hot projectile went through his throat severing the silver chain he’d taken from Janet that night and ever since then had hung around his neck. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

Some show of gratitude from the man who should have had a tray instead of a gun for introducing western democracy to his fucking country. 

When they’d shot the waiter, the medics came in to clean up the mess. An officer who was writing notes in a book frowned when he heard one say, ‘Jesus Christ, how many times does this need to happen before we work out that they just don’t want us here. Not at fucking all.’

But better here than on the local High Street, as the saying goes, and we don’t cut and run

*

Asher had been in the pub long enough to know he was in the wrong place. He’d attended, as they say, an interview. Warehouse assistant manager. In a factory in a not very nice area. There had been several dozen other applicants. He’d waited several hours. The personnel officer took an instant dislike to his accent. ‘Not exactly a career for someone with your kind of background.’

Hard to give a response to this kind of remark. ‘Well, I’m a hard worker. Keen to learn. And to be honest there’s not much around. Wherever you come from.’

‘That’s it. That’s exactly what I’m getting at. You see us as a stopgap, don’t you? You’ll do the job until something better comes along. Be honest with me Asher. That’s how you look at it, isn’t it?’

‘No, no. Not at all. I hope I’ll be promoted internally,’ he said thinking quickly. ‘It’s a highly respected company. I’d like to make a career here. Near to where I was brought up.’

When he left he knew he didn’t have a snowball’s hope in hell of getting the position. It was the tenth or eleventh interview he’d been to in as many weeks. There was just nothing around.

‘Maybe Denzil was onto something when he joined the army. I wonder how he’s doing? Probably a bloody general by now. Making decisions. Giving orders. Defeating the enemy in close combat. If he’s got the time in between fucking other officers’ girlfriends and wives.’

As he walked through the door, he knew it was the wrong thing to do. Get out now, a voice in his psyche said to him. But testosterone drove him on. He went up to the counter. The ambiance in the bar was not that friendly. There were no women customers. He tried to avoid the long stares. And some pointed remarks that he pretended he didn’t hear.

Assistant warehouse manager. Imagine telling someone that’s what you did. They’d think you were mad.

They sent a kid over to him to ask for money to buy fags. The kid was probably underage. He gave the boy a tenner. They sent him back to say it wasn’t enough. He said he didn’t have any more. The kid said, ’You’d better find something, if you know what’s good for you.’

The barman started to pull down the shutters across the counter. It wasn’t anywhere near closing time. Several men got up and left the bar.

He knew he should have too. Such a small price to pay. But pride told him that he had the right to stay. He listened to the message. He weighed it up. He tried to calculate the odds.

Then expediency helped him to decide to leave. Before things deteriorated any further. He should have left earlier. He would now anyway. Right now. He finished his drink. He got up and walked to the door. Everyone in the room stared at him. A knot of them got up and followed him outside.

The kids found Asher lying on the grass across the road from the pub. What grass there was, that is. He was on his back amongst the pizza packs, burger boxes, broken bottles, crumpled beer cans and dog shit.

One of the kids said, ‘Hey wake up, you prick.’ When they didn’t respond, they went through his pockets. There was not much of value.

‘Dead as a door nail, I’d say.’

‘But look. There’s a silver coin around his neck. Nah, it’s a charm. You know, like plastic wristbands the ones that say how you like to fuck. Something to bring you good luck.’

‘Well it didn’t help him much did it?’

One of then pulled the St Christopher free.

Then they left him in peace, with fixed dilated pupils in pale blue irises staring up at the cerulean sky.

*****

Ray Johnstone

LA PETITE GALERIE

1 rue Docteur Sorubes

47170 FRANCE

© Ray Johnstone 2012

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ray@johnstonesinfrance.com