WARNING: 

ONE DIRECTION is a very UK popular boy band. 

I had never heard of them until the Olympic Games, but it struck me that amongst less fortunate males, this is the target market at which advertising about careers in the military is aimed. The point is, beware: this short story is probably not quite what your typical One Direction fan would expect to be reading. 

And if you’re offended by bad language and/or explicit descriptions of sexual activity, please don’t read further than the next full stop.

KEEP ON LOVING

‘But I need that one thing.’

(ONE THING)

ONE DIRECTION

‘I think the army’s the answer. That’s the way to go. Security. Money. Action. Fun. Friends.’

They were in the car park behind Safeway. They’d bought some beers. It was late and the last customers were giving them a wide berth as they made their way to their cars.

Lucy stared at Haydn. Young, dark, handsome, wiry. And hers. For the time being, it seemed. Because this was the first she’d heard of his interest in becoming a soldier. Had he considered her when he thought about joining the army?

It was Friday night and school, teachers and the looming exams had drifted into the distance. They were free for the weekend. And Monday was miles away.

Haydn looked at Lucy, a little sheepishly, and went on about this new idea of his. ‘You know, no ordinary career. Fit and mentally tough. A varied and exciting life. Further your education. Travel abroad. Like they say on telly. You get all this in the army. I think it may just suit me. Lucy and me, I mean.’

The boys were playing men. They were sorting out their futures. And the problems of the world. It was sometimes hard to work out which was the most difficult, the international issues they saw on TV, or what they’d do for jobs next year.

Janet said, ‘And a gun. You forgot about the gun. They give everyone a gun. You know, to shoot people. That’s what the army’s for.’ She paused. They were all staring at her. ‘That your testosterone talking again, Haydn? Have you spoken to Lucy about it? An army wife, or even an army girlfriend would not be the kind of life I’d be looking for. Sitting at home, waiting for a telegram. To say the one you love’s been shot. What do you say, Lucy?’

Lucy looked embarrassed. ‘Well, we’ve only discussed it briefly. And no decision has been made. There may be other options.’

She looked at Haydn. He showed her his bright white teeth. ‘That’s it Lucy. Spot on. We’ll decide when the time is right.’

‘Probably won’t be many options next year,’ said Gopal, the geek in the group, and by far the most intelligent. ‘My dad says things will get much, much worse before they get better.’

‘No excuse to go overseas and start killing people,’ Janet was not going to be moved off her pacifist agenda. ‘You boys are all the same. Just so gullible. Joining the army is not like going on holiday with One Direction.’

‘It’s OK for you lot,’ Kevin said, mainly for her benefit Lucy assumed,. ‘All you have to do is find a man to look after you when you’ve finished your studies. Then a bit of housework here and there. Easy. And then, when you’re ready, a couple of kids. Bingo. Out they pop. Easy as that. And everyone’s happy.’

Lucy knew that these were not Kevin’s ideas. Probably his dad’s. And Kevin had just memorized them. To regurgitate at a time like this. Tall, yes. Blonde, yes. Handsome, yes. Intelligent? Well, perhaps not.

Kevin threw a beer bottle towards the skip. It missed and spread bright beads of glass as it burst across the tarmac. Intelligent? Well, perhaps not.

‘Cut it out, mate!’ hissed Haydn as an elderly man stopped on the way to his car and stared at them.

‘Sorry,’ shouted Kevin. ‘Didn’t mean it.’

The man started towards them.

‘Now look here,’ he said as he got nearer, ‘that’s totally uncalled for.’

Gopal decided it was his turn. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off and leave us alone?’ Despite his brains, he sometimes missed the impact this earthy link with older languages has on some people.

‘You filthy mouthed swine. I’ll be calling the police about this as soon as I get home,’ said the old man as he stormed off back to his car.

‘Right. We’ll give them your regards when they get here. Now fuck off! Leave us alone! We’re not doing anything wrong. The bottle just missed the skip. That’s all. Don’t tell me you’ve never broken a bottle in your long life you stupid old codger.’

‘Let it go, Gopal,’ said Lucy. ‘He just over reacted to the broken bottle. He thought Kevin did it on purpose.’

On the way home, Haydn and Lucy stopped off at the park.

‘Gopal shouldn’t have spoken to that old guy like that. He reminded me of my grand dad. And he’s got a right to complain about broken glass.’

‘Yes, well, I suppose you’re right. But he didn’t mean it. Gopal’s not really like that. I don’t think so, anyway. It’s just that his background is not the same as ours. There are cultural differences. And he’s trying to compensate. Trying to be like us.’

Haydn kissed her. They went over to their favourite bench.

‘But I need that one thing. You know, now. That’s what I’d like. Before I take you home.’

He took her hand. She did what he’d taught her to do. Then they just sat on the bench and watched the night descend. Haydn seemed really relaxed and satisfied. He never mentioned the army again.

Lucy felt glad she’d been able to make him feel so good.

***

‘And you pray, pray, pray (oh)

That everything will be okay.’

(SAME MISTAKES)

ONE DIRECTION

Lucy couldn’t get it out of her mind. She phoned Haydn the next morning. ‘What’s this army thing you were on about the last night? What about university? What happened to that idea?’

He was embarrassed. ‘Well, like we said, nothing’s decided. We need to discuss it. That’s all. Don’t worry. Everything will be OK.’

When the met later he didn’t want to talk about it then either.

The fizzy, pink drink helped Lucy to be more understanding when the army thing came up again.

On Friday night. In the car park outside Safeway. It had become a regular thing.

It was Gopal who brought it up. ‘I saw the TV ad again. Get trained and get paid. Sounds good to me. My grandfather was in the army. Because he was a Sikh, I suppose. But he died before we came here.’

Haydn looked at Lucy. ‘Well, I’m not sure about university anymore. And the army’s better than working in a nursery or a warehouse. Getting up at silly hours. Walking to catch the bus. In the rain. Working all day with some wanker telling you what to do. And what not to do. And what you’re doing wrong. Not doing much right. Coming home in the dark. And earning the same as them who’re on the dole. Almost.’

‘Me, I’d prefer the dole.’ Kevin, it seemed, had made up his mind that looking for a job would be pointless. ‘And it’s sent to you. Your cheque arrives in the post. No need to get out of bed, even.’

As their final exams approached, they talked more and more about what would happen afterwards. When they had their results.

‘I still recon it’s the army. What else is there? Sweeping the streets. Serving in a pub? Shitty work and shittier hours. Assuming you get a job. And short of getting onto X-factor, and winning which is even harder, there’s nothing else around.’

***

‘Don’t be scared, I aint going nowhere.

(GOTTA BE YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

Gopal said they could use his room. His parents were away for the weekend.

He let them in. Lucy was astonished at the décor. A low couch of carved wood with gaudy pillows. Strange paintings of elephants. Framed pictures of beautiful, ornate writing in a script that meant nothing to her. Photographs of men in turbans and women in bright, colourful costumes.

Gopal led them to his bedroom. He said he’d be watching telly in the lounge.

Haydn told Lucy it wouldn’t hurt. That she’d enjoy it. It was the right thing to do. If she really loved him. Everyone was doing it, he said. All their friends. Don’t be scared, he said.

Despite the impression he’d cultivated, it was Haydn’s first time too.

He closed the curtains. Lucy was nervous. And a little embarrassed.

Haydn took his clothes off and folded them neatly over a chair.

Lucy stood watching him. It was the first time she’d seen him completely naked. She said she’d never even seen her father without his clothes on. She’d never been into the bathroom when he was using the bath or having a shower. Even when she was little. Even her mother never changed in front of her.

She thought he looked marvelous. She saw that he was excited.

Then he helped her to get undressed. They lay on the bed and kissed and touched each other. He was overwhelmed at the wonderful sensation of pressing his body against hers. The silky smooth feeling of her skin. Kissing her breasts. The soft, furry feel as he brushed his hand across the warm springy hair of her groin.

Lucy was doing what she knew Haydn loved. Only with no clothes to hinder her. He lay on his back pointing at the ceiling. Then he said, ‘No, no, please don’t do that. I’ll get too excited. And I’m not ready. Not just yet.’

They heard the front door open, and then they heard voices. Lucy froze. Haydn watched as the doorknob turned.

A man’s voice just outside the bedroom said, ‘Who’s in your room. Why is the door locked?’

They heard Gopal say ‘It’s Lucy and Haydn.’

***

‘On the other side of the world.’

(EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

The next Friday night in the Safeway car park Haydn made the most of what had happened. He was quite an actor when he wanted to be. He had them in stitches.

‘Lucy was terrified. So was I, I suppose, but nothing like her. Not so Love? So, his dad says we should be ashamed of ourselves. What on earth do we think we were doing? In his house? In his son’s room? What would happen if he told our parents? Can’t understand why he made all the fuss. We were only doing what everyone else is doing. Even Gopal will be at it one day.’ He laughed, looking at Gopal who was enjoying the story he’d been involved in. So Gopal laughed too.

Kevin phoned him later and asked what it was like.

‘Great,’ he said, ‘Like it always is.’

***

A few days later Kevin phoned again.

‘How’d you change Lucy’s mind? About going into the army, I mean? Because you could wind up on the other side of the world. To her, I mean.’

‘Easier than getting her pants of the first time,’ he said, and then regretted it as soon as he’d said the sentence. He felt disloyal. But the boys talk had just slipped out. He tried to cover up. ‘Well, actually we decided it would be good for both of us. We need to be apart for a while, anyway. So we agreed. So it was mutual. And we’ll both be able to save some money. Which will stand us in good stead. So, that’s it. And I’m off to basic tomorrow. And I’ll soon be on the other side of the world.’

***

Something was happening. He knew his excuses were rather lame.

But, although he was not seeing her during the week as often as he had before, he always saw her in the car park with the others at the end of the week. It had become a ritual.

‘Sorry darlin, not sure I can make that, but I’ll see you at Safeway on Friday. That’s for sure.’

‘Please tell me,’ she said on the phone. ‘Are you getting tired of me? We don’t seem to see each other that much any more. Have you found someone else?’

‘Now don’t be silly, Lucy. But we must talk about a few things.’

So they did.

‘Look, let’s try to see a few years ahead. You’re sure to go to university, but I’m not sure that’s the life for me. And, even if it was, it’s not likely that we’d get in at the same place anyway.’

Lucy’s face was white. She didn’t look convinced. He put his arm around her.

‘Don’t worry darlin. I’m not saying it’s over. Not at all. It’s just that… well, perhaps we need a break. A short one, I mean. And if I go into the army, I’ll get some skills that I’ll be able use for life. You know, leadership and all that stuff. And while I’m away I’ll be able to save. Almost everything I get. Bonuses and all. You know, for being overseas. And so will you. Be able to save, I mean. Then I’ll leave as soon as we’ve got enough for a deposit. You know, a small house. Or a flat, perhaps. So I’ll be out at about the same time as you finish at uni.’

Even while he was saying it, he wasn’t sure he meant it. Was he bored? Had they been together too long? Why was he feeling so restless? Was he making this up? Was it true? Or just pack of lies because he was tired of Lucy?

***

‘Stop the tape and rewind.’

(GOTTA BE YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

The next time Lucy saw him was at the base. He was home at last. She got up early in the morning. She concentrated on preparing herself. She wanted her mind to be off other things. The things she’d heard.

She told her mother she’d rather go alone. Her mother seemed relieved. She gave Lucy money for a taxi to the bus station. Then it was a long journey right out into the countryside. But it was spring and everything was looking beautiful. Wildflowers everywhere.

She remembered the last time she’d seen Haydn. The night before he left.

And how she’d felt when the truth had dawned. Because the next day he was gone. Swallowed up by the army.

***

She remembered the small hotel room. He was so good looking, and that’s how she wanted to remember him. Now that she was on her way to see him again. 

‘Just relax,’ she’d said to herself. ‘You’re trying to hard. Everything will be alwright.’

She wanted to stop the tape and rewind. Back to that night just before he went away.

He’d drunk too much beforehand. ‘Just one thing. To remember you by,’ he’d said, but it hadn’t really been a success. They’d both tried to make it work. They didn’t even stay the night.

When they went out past reception, she could see he was upset.

‘I don’t know what went wrong. It’s always been so good. Before tonight I mean.’

‘It’ll be fine next time,’ she told him. ‘You’ll see. When you get back, I mean.’

He kissed her outside her front gate. She felt that he was aroused.

‘Not much good now, is it? An hour too late, it is. What’s the use of that?’

She put her hand inside his trousers. ‘Let’s go to the park,’ she said. ‘That’s our favourite place.’

It was cumbersome and difficult. Sitting on a bench in the early morning light. And he was embarrassed by the amount of love he spilled into her hand. He gave her his handkerchief. She said she’d keep it as a memory of their last moments together. Before went off to war.

***

On the bus, Lucy remembered how startled she’d been the first time he’d shown her what to do. ‘Well, I was quite young, I suppose,’ she thought.

He’d taken her hand and placed it on his groin. Then he’d loosened his belt and pushed it down inside his underpants. She felt a pleasant mixture of soft, warm and firm flesh. After a while he’d moved her hand with his. And that’s how she learnt how much he enjoyed it. And so had she. The anticipation of the short, quick breaths, a tightening of the chest. Excitement. Intense feeling of pleasure. Involuntary spasms. Climax.

While she was doing it, Lucy felt her own rhythmic contractions running in tandem, and she felt a strong affinity with what Haydn was feeling. She knew they were in love.

‘In a strange way he sometimes seemed to prefer that to real lovemaking,’ she remembered thinking. ‘Perhaps because the real thing was just so difficult to organize.’

***

Just outside a small village, the bus driver said, ‘This is it love.’

The base was the usual nondescript affair. Flowerbeds were trying hard to add some luster to the entry point. Two young men in uniform stared at her. They could see she’d been crying. One was quite handsome. He other had a face covered in spots. ‘Just God playing his cynical trick,’ she thought. ‘Making one man’s life a social breeze, and the other’s a social nightmare.’

There was no problem getting in. They pointed out where she had to go. To see Hayden.

***

Lucy went to reception. They told her he was on the first floor.

As she went upstairs, she remembered the freckles across his nose. And the soft hair on his top lip that he shaved so often in the hope that it would get thicker. And the slight imperfection in one iris that made his eyes look slightly different colours. And the long pale hair that was always so unkempt. His perfect skin. The warmth of his pubic area. How it felt in her hand. And how it felt inside her on that one occasion. So long ago.

***

‘Hoping for the best but expecting the worst.’

(FOREVER YOUNG)

ONE DIRECTION

She walked down a long corridour, looking for a number. Hoping for the best.

Eventually she found it. She knocked softly, then a little harder. She went in. He was lying on the bed with the TV on, but there was no sound in the room. He looked fragile and vulnerable.

Same icy blue eyes. One slightly different. Same thick blond hair. But shorter. Much shorter. Cut short by the army. An overall air of being smaller. Much smaller. Same hard, wiry body. But shorter. Definitely. Much shorter. The insurgents had seen to that. With a bomb.

There was, in fact, very much less of Haydn than the last time she’d seen him.

And he just didn’t look quite the same without any legs.

*****

Wikipedia gives the number of civilian deaths as ‘tens of thousands’ and the number of coalition soldiers killed as almost three thousand since the launch of Operation Enduring Freedom in 2001.

It is well nigh impossible to work out the number of wounded, but it must be lots and lots and lots… 

COME FLY WITH ME

PLEASE DON'T READ THIS SHORT STORY IF YOU HAVE A PHOBIA ABOUT AIR TRAVEL AND ARE ABOUT TO FLY

COME FLY WITH ME

Jessica always turned Brian’s photograph to the wall when Clive was in bed with her.

It was as if she didn’t want him to see what they were doing, and turning the strikingly blond, good-looking young man away from the action, so to speak, was some kind of spectral or superstitious means of preventing him from finding out what she and Clive were up to. What they were doing, that is. Between the sheets. Behind Brian’s back. When he was away. With nothing on but the CD player. In other words, as naked as the day they were born.

Brian, the man in the picture now facing nothing but the cracks in the plaster, was her fiancée. But he was away so often recently that she found herself spending more and more time with Clive, her new friend from the office. And most of their time together was spent in bed where what they got up to was always more stimulating, daring and exciting than anything she’d ever done with Brian.

For example, right now, he was standing at the foot of the bed with an amazing looking battery-driven contraption. ‘Just wait,’ he said, ‘you’ll love this when you see how it works. And when you feel how it works. Which is going to be as soon as I can get it going. Are you sure you’re ready for a new and exciting experience?’ They both knew that they both knew the answer to that rhetorical question.

Had this been Brian, she thought fleetingly, he would probably have used a euphemism to ask if she minded taking her clothes off. Despite his beautiful body, one that most men would have grasped at every opportunity to show off, he was embarrassed by nudity. Especially his own.

This puritan streak was probably because Brian came from a dreary, prudish and narrow-minded family, and he’d been unable to throw off his upbringing. So he rarely swore, he was disappointed that Jessica didn’t like going to church with him on Sundays, he avoided talking about their bodies, and although he’d had a few steady girlfriends, his attitude towards sex could only be described as plodding.

Even though he was now her fiancée, she had known him from childhood. So perhaps because they had grown up together had something to do with it, or it may have been because they knew each other too well, or maybe they saw their relationship as that of virtual brother and sister, or, well… whatever it was, their physical relationship was not up to scratch. No, not by a long chalk.

Clive was, in many ways, just the opposite, and her new relationship with him had certainly stimulated her sexual appetite. With a vengeance, as even she herself was inclined to conclude.

By now, it must be obvious surely, that this is going into areas where some readers may not wish to go. In other words, it’s not a conventional love story. So, although there’s no bad language, please don’t read any further if you are offended by the exploration of sexual matters, certain of which may be considered by some, perhaps more conventional people, to be a little off the wall.

Jessica had initially been attracted by Clive’s graceful, dark, and, despite his age, still youthful-looking, androgynous, almost beautiful body. In Jessica’s limited, but not exactly inexperienced opinion, he was quite well endowed, but even he could never truthfully use a word as simple as big. What he did with it was another thing. Something else altogether. And he was adept at using other parts of his body too. Not only his hands and toes either. She soon found out that his tongue was a worthy collaborator and he used it to compliment his erectile muscle to a… well, what other word is there? To a wonderful degree. And he had and cultivated a natural way of deriving pleasure out of giving as well as receiving sexual stimulation.

LET’S TAKE OFF ...

Clive’s two passions in life were sex and food.

His particular obsession within each of these categories were the exploration of what is commonly known as BDSM in one, and meat, particularly the cooking of steak, in the other.

Although armchair psychologists might find it interesting to explore hidden, overt or subliminal links between, say, a T-bone and what might be considered by some as somewhat unusual sexual activities, that is of no consequence and it is not where this narritive is going.

Fortuitously for Clive, and for Jessica, probably, his metabolism had thus far protected him from the problems sometimes associated with eating. And luckily for Clive, Jessica was not put off by what some would consider a bizarre interest in the particualar sexual activities he was intent on exploring. On the contrary, she seemed to find them stimulating, interesting and enlightening.

On the downside, and there’s usually a downside, Ciive was not particularly career-driven, his promotional prospects were poor, and he had no wealthy relatives and not a penny to scratch his arse with. So, short of marrying, winning or stealing money, his life was destined to be middle-class-mundane. And his future would always be on a rung at the lower end of the accounts department ladder. He did have some responsibility for handling fairly large amounts of money, but he never took decisions, and everything he did was always scrutinized by others.

But Jessica did notice one thing: although he’d held the same position for years, despite his pedestrian job, and his apparently mundane background, he always seemed to have the wherewithal to indulge the two obsessions that interested him. Clubs and restaurants were constantly on the agenda. And he was never short of a new sex toy or gadget he’d found on the internet.

Let’s take time out here, several paragraphs into Jessica’s story, to take stock of where we’re at. From what’s gone before, it’s obvious that sex plays an important role in her life. And it’s a moot point whether what she and her lover are about to indulge in is normal or not.

Although some hold the point of view that these particular sexual adventures are outside of the norm, others believe that we have simply been misled by those who, for whatever reason, would prefer sex to be quick, mundane, unadventurous and exclusively for procreational purposes. The missionary position (face to face, lights out, curtains closed, minimal removal of garments, etc, etc) did not become a jocular metaphor because of the unpopularity of the modus operandi. Just the opposite. At one time, most couples knew no other positions, experimentation and discussion were rare, and they almost always did nothing else.

However, thanks probably to blue movies, dirty books and information from the internet, attitudes, ideas and practices have changed. Although there is a fine line, and not every whim or predilection or new idea can be condoned, many practices remain off limits, and are probably illegal, even as far as libertine ideas are concerned. But the point of this long and fast-becoming boring paragraph is to warn that some of what happens here could offend. It’s up to you whether you read on or not. But if you’re a wowser please don’t go past this full stop.

Now that you’ve had your second warning, let’s go back to Jessica’s lover.

Clive also had the attribute to be able to tell sexually stimulating anecdotes.

‘I find it really interesting that so many people are so inhibited by their backgrounds,’ he told Jessica one day. ‘Their narrow mindedness. And their unadventurous attitudes. To sex, I mean. You know I told you about that holiday I had a few months ago, just before we got together. Well, I met this couple.  James and Sonja, I think their names were, but it doesn’t’ matter. It was great. We had such good fun. And now it’s over. We’ll probably never see each other again. No harm done. Everyone enjoyed what we did. No one was coerced into doing anything they didn’t want to do. A great time was had by all, and now we’re back to our separate routines. And we’ve taken up our own lives again.’

I'LL BE HOLDING YOU ...

  

Despite his peculiarities, and predilections, and he had many, Clive had also recently discovered that there was another dimension to sex, one that had eluded him for many years. Prior to this revelation, he had been intent on his own pleasure. He did what interested him. Things that he found stimulating, and he made sure hat his partner did what she, and if truth be told, on one or two rare occasions, what he, his partner, that is, was encouraged to do to enhance Clive’s stimulation and enjoyment. He found now that he got a large dollop of gratification out of giving sexual pleasure to others.

One of his favourite subjects in a repertoire of many concerning his love affair with food, Clive was prepared to speak for hours on beef and the preparation thereof. Jessica remembered the first time he described his passion for garlic steak. Succulent. Spicy. Pungent. Juicy. Rare. ‘It’s almost a love affair,’ she though. ‘As if he’s describing a sexual contact in detail.’

‘And my life’s ambition,’ he added, ‘is to have a few steak meals in South America. Grass-fed beef is the best in the world, and I intend to get down there one day.’

A FLYING HONEYMOON 

 

‘I’ve been a thief since I was very young,’ Clive said after a rather energetic and hectic round of lovemaking. Jessica was just coming down from her cloud, and she wasn’t sure weather she was tired, disconcerted by, or had miss-heard what he’d said.

Clive studied her reaction. ‘Yes, you heard correctly. I said I like stealing things. I’ve done it all my life.’

‘I remember stealing trinkets from my mother’s dressing table.’

He got out of bed and poured himself a glass of wine. He stood naked at the window drinking and looking out across the sprawling city. ‘Then I took my best friends most prized possession. A set of collectable cards of cowboys given out by our local cinema at Saturday morning matinees. At he time he was devastated, and he only found out who’d taken them many years later when I eventually told him. And even then I think he always held it against me. Until he died, anyway, because he’s dead now.’

ONCE I GET YOU THERE... 

They’d been in the swank latin American hotel for about a week when he described another of what he called turning point in his life.

‘I remember when I bought my first dildo,’ he told her as he placed batteries into a sleeve in a long, black, lumpy apparatus. ‘Not for me, I mean. No, no, nothing like that. I know it’s becoming fashionable for men, but I’m not quite there yet. No, I mean for one of my first girlfriends. In those days it was illegal to advertise this kind of thing, so the manufacturers called them neck massagers.’ Clive laughed. ‘Can you believe that? Who on earth needs a neck massage?’

Jessica lay enjoying the unseen charges flowing from the mental stimuli and anticipation that preceeded and unlocked the internal fluctuation of hormones and anticipating the arousal that always followed the physical stimulation of erogenous and physically sensitive zones.

Clive was biting at the packaging that housed the batteries. ‘Of course I’m talking about long before the days of online shopping, which is where I got this interesting looking little number. Well, not so little, I suppose. In those days you’d see small classifieds, that’s what they were called. Advertisements, that is, in local newspapers. In amongst ads for used cars, paint, carpets and cheap holidays. Anyway, there they were. These old, black and white photos of women holding a weird looking thingo up to their faces. So, in fact, they were massaging themselves as far as possible from the area they’d been designed for.’ He sniggered. ‘If you get what I mean.’

So. When he’d first shown it to her, she had difficulty hiding her surprise. ‘What on earth’s that, Clive? Something to tether a horse to?’

While he was preparing to make it work she studied his no longer quite so slim brown body. He was dark, velvety brown, with curly, long, black hair and a perfect complexion. His mixed ancestry had provided the genes that resulted in a well-built but wiry physique. His face had the chiseled appearance of a rugged, perhaps slightly unfinished ebony carving. His eyes were almost black. And he was circumcised. For whatever reason, but certainly not religious, he’d been ritually deprived of his foreskin soon after birth. Perhaps it was simply the custom in his country. Jessica never knew whether this aspect was a positive or negative in other men, but in Clive, weather or not there is any relationship between sexual prowess and this ritual assault on the male body (as it’s deemed to be today), he was certainly pretty good in bed.

And now he was ready, she could see that quite clearly. In more ways than one. Because the machine was buzzing. Ready for action, as they say. And quite excited about it. That was abundantly apparent as well.

One doesn’t have to be a member of MENSA or president of the crossword solving society to discern that this kind of extended holiday is destined not to last. Especially when it’s been paid for with money that should rightfully have still been in a pension fund.

Eventually everything started to go pear-shaped as cracks developed in their relationship. Money was no object because it was not theirs, but even other people’s money has a tendency to run out.

They moved into a cheaper hotel, and not long afterwards were forced into a really cheap hotel.

And then their physical relationship started to unwind. Perhaps it was because Jessica decided she didn’t like something he did, or maybe she thought involving other partners was not quite her thing at that particular time, or it’s possible that she decided that sexual activities with too much alcohol or chemical substances or too many mechanical sex toys or just too much sex was beginning to pall.

Whatever it was, when she woke up one morning in what was a rather dingy room, Clive was gone. Which meant she was in trouble. A long way from home. A foreign country. Poor language skills. And, worst of all, penniless.

To cut what’s getting to be a long short story short, Brian came to the rescue. Humble pie behind her, and after several weeks of very trying experiences, he provided the wherewithal and Jessica eventually flew home on a budget airline. He was at the airport to meet her.

Please don’t enquire whether they lived together happily ever after. That’s beside the point. And who cares anyway? The important issue now, is to find out what happened to Clive.

Well, he stayed on with what was left of the money he’d extorted which seems a little euphemistic, because stolen would probably be a better way to describe it. But eventually he decided that he’d return home, hoping he’d find a way not to face the music. 

PACK UP LET’S FLY AWAY 

But one never knows what’s round the next corner in life, and Brian wasn’t ever going to answer any questions about missing money. A small mechanical contraption invented by and named after the French scientist Henri Pitot over two hundred years ago would see to that.

Here’s how and why.

Using the last of his ill-gotten gains, and his ability to chat up women easily and glibly, Clive put on a long face and explained to the Air France ground hostess that his partner had died on holiday. He persuaded her to redeem the two return tourist tickets and upgrade them for a business class seat home. He paid a nominal surcharge.

Amongst the many people Clive knew or had known, there is still a wide range of attitudes and conclusions concerning what happened next. Because of his ingrained and sanctimonious upbringing, Brian said it was retribution. He talked Jessica into believing that it was some kind of divine justice being handed out. A vengeance treasured up to be delivered at a suitable time.

Some of his colleagues saw it as just desserts for having taken their and the company’s money. A few simply shrugged. They perceived it as something that just happens. Like waste building up in living creatures until it’s released. An everyday event in the normal course of events. Like believing in a fixed, predetermined or natural order. In other words, fate.

Whatever it was, this is what happened.

INTO THE BLUE

Unbeknown to anyone at the time, Air France was about to experience a problem with their pitot tubes on AF447 from Rio to Paris.

Just over three hours into the flight, Clive was sipping a scotch and soda, playing with the ice cubes with his finger, and chatting about this and that to a very attractive young woman while he was thinking about asking her to join him in the toilet. Although this is not that common a subject these days, it was what was once jocularly described as the mile high club.

They were both startled by an unusual sound. Only the flight crew recognized this as a stall warning as the aircraft shifted into a nose up position. Inexperienced flying training and badly chosen attempts to correct the problem then caused it to start a rapid descent.

The woman he was talking to smashed into the seat in front. Blood and mucus flew in all directions.

The glass flew out of Clive’s hands as a forest of plastic masks and tubes released themselves automatically.

Overhead lockers burst open and baggage shot around the cabin at lethal speeds. Several passengers died immediately as flying luggage smashed into them. Seats became dislodged and huge gyroscopic energy forced even strapped-in passengers up towards the ceiling and then down again with tremendous force as the plane rolled over and started it’s descent. People were shrieking and shouting and praying. Children were crying and babies were floating about as gravity was neutralized and turned on its head. Those who fainted or were knocked out could be considered the lucky ones. Being unconscious, they were spared the expanding nightmare as the airbus went through an aerodynamic stall and into a dive. Clive was amongst those who were still awake, terrified and overwhelmed with fear, their sphincters grappling to prevent bodily discharges, an adrenalin rush and additional dopamine pumping around their bodies and priming them for fight or fleeing neither of which was an option because all that was left was to wait it out as time slid slowly by and they passed into the long dark passages of living hell and the next few minutes expanded in their minds into hours of an extended nightmare.

And all this, According to the French Aviation Authority’s report, because the failure of the tiny aforementioned pitots resulted in a fatal loss of air speed causing the Air France aircraft to experience a disasterous loss of power which caused it to hurtle towards the ocean surface at 90 miles per hour and completely break up on impact.

*****

BLACK AND WHITE BLOOD

BLACK AND WHITE BLOOD

There is a lovely road that runs from the airport to the hills. It passes through the sparsely populated rural uplands on its way to the capital, built during the colonial era on a high plateau. The countryside surrounding the city for hundreds of miles in all directions is designated rural and farming. Almost all of the land is owned by farmers.

Only the capital and its slums are considered urban. This is where most of the population lives.

The scenery is spectacular, the climate serene and the living conditions despicable.

*

The boy in charge of the cattle saw the dust in the distance thrown up by the vehicle. He left his herd and ran down the hillside towards a group of ramshackle dwellings shouting. ‘Wake up! Wake up! The farmer again. He’s coming!’

Two men came out of one of the ramshackle huts. They stared at the approaching vehicle and then walked quickly into the bush.

The boy’s name was Jabulani. The farmer’s name was Kruger. He was looking for Jabulani’s father, whose name was Paul Delani.

The huts were on Kruger’s land. Land his forefathers had found empty before they settled on it. That’s what they said, anyway.

Paul was in one of the crude buildings. He did not know yet what the farmer wanted. So he was only mildly apprehensive about the Kruger’s sudden appearance. Paul thought it was probably to do with the men who had just left. And he’d had nothing to do with them. He’d ignored them when they were there.

As he watched the approaching truck, he formulated what he’d say. He thought that, if asked, he’d simply tell Kruger that he did not know the men. So he felt that if this was what the farmer wanted, information about the strangers, he would be reasonably safe.

But that wasn’t the case.

Although Paul was not aware of it, Kruger was on his way to get Paul because Paul had killed Kruger’s wife’s pet dog.

Since her baby had died, the dog had been the light of her life. She’d carried it round with her everywhere. A beautiful looking, but snappy and thoroughly spoilt fox terrier called, of all things, Nipper. It was white with a brown head, and she’d named it after the dog listening to a phonograph on her mother’s collection of old black-with-red-labels seventy eight His Master’s Voice records.

Kruger didn’t like the dog much and often referred to it as Shit Head. Of course he said this mainly when his wife was not around.

But now the light had gone out of her life again. A dead baby and a dead dog. Both in the space of a year. What had she done to deserve this? ‘Die Here, please give me back my dog,’ she pleaded in prayer.

And all because Kruger had asked Paul to set a trap for the small buck that were eating the vegetables in his wife’s garden. But the wire snare had trapped Nipper instead of the thieving dik dik or duiker. So Shit Head, or Nipper, if you like, had died an agonizing death meant for a dwarf deer.

*

When Kruger had found his wife’s pet, the dog had been dead for some time. The sick smell of death filled the air.  Bloat was forcing fluids to escape from its bulging eyes, mouth, nose and anus. Flies were buzzing and fighting to get at the putrefying orifices.  When he picked it up, the stench was revolting and maggots covered the underside that had been in contact with the soil.

So much for his wife wondering around the property for several days and nights calling it’s stupid name.

‘Nip! Nip! Nippy, where are you? Nipper, mummy’s waiting. Come on, Nippy, come home to me my baby.’

He put the dog’s body in the back of his truck and drove home to confront his wife with the news. He was anticipating a crisis.

And he got one.

*

Kruger’s wife was in the kitchen. ‘Bad news about the dog, I’m afraid. Caught in a trap.’

They went out to the truck. He pointed at the dog lying in the back, flies swooping and swarming across the lifeless body.

She stared at her darling in disbelief. Then she started to hit Kruger. She struck him on the face and chest with balled fists. ‘You… you…’ She was lost for words. ‘You bastard. You fucking bastard,’ she shouted as she let fly at him.

‘What are we doing here? Why did you bring me to this godforsaken place?’

Why indeed? He had no answer. What were they doing there?

*

Kruger looked at the huts in disgust. ‘These people,’ he thought. ‘No self-respect. Just look at the fucking mess.’

He called out for Paul who had once been one of his farm labourers until he got too old for regular daylong work. But he had to earn his living in order to remain on the farmer’s land. So he looked after the farmer’s wife’s extensive vegetable patch.

Kruger saw an old man come shuffling towards him from one of the shacks. Paul took off his battered hat.

Kruger immediately detected a sullen look. He knew how to read these people. He’d been amongst them all his life. And he was sure that Paul looked both truculent and guilty. He’d done it deliberately. That was obvious from his surly manner.

Times were changing. Things were different now that times had changed. But the changes were not for the better in Kruger’s opinion. Some of his neighbours, and worse still, even some of his relatives, allowed these people to ride in the cab with the owner of the vehicle. But Kruger prided himself on one of the old guard. ‘Get in the back!’ he told Paul. The old man climbed up onto the bakkie and sat on the metal seat over the rear wheel.   

*

When he got back through the automated gates in the perimeter fence, Kruger told Paul to go to the machine shed. Then he went to fetch his wife. He told her to stand by the door. He told Paul to take off his shirt and lean across one of the tractor wheels. He took a sjambok off a hook on the wall.

He had a few practice swings. The animal hide whip made a swishing sound as it cut through the air.

Kruger’s wife stood with her legs slightly apart, watching. He began his work. 

Paul made no sound. The only thing that could be heard was the sjambok in the air as it arched towards the cuts it made in the flesh on the labourer’s back.

After a few minutes, Kruger’s wife shouted, ‘Stop. Stop Jannie. Stop now. That’s enough.’

Kruger stopped. He told Paul to get into the back of the truck. He drove the man back to his hut.

*

Jabulani was staring at Kruger from where he lay on the earth floor of his father’s hut. He was looking under the gap in the door. He saw Kruger grab Paul and pull him off the back of the truck. The old man’s shirt was covered in blood. When Kruger had driven off, the old man put his hat back on his head.

*

Kruger’s sister-in-law lived with them. She was a widow. His brother had been killed when he was still a young man and she’d moved in with Kruger and his new wife.

Kruger found her in the middle of the milking shed one day. She was dressed in denim shorts bleached almost white with a ragged hem. Her blouse was not buttoned, but tied in a knot that showed her underwear. And she was wearing cheap canvas Dunlop tackies.

The milkers stopped smiling as soon has he came back to the shed. He told her to get out of the building. ‘The only females allowed in here are the cows,’ he said.

When she’d gone, he walked up and down the rows of heifers dodging the dung and piss and wagging his finger menacingly at the milkers. He shook his fist at some. They felt his ugly mood and concentrated on squeezing teats and expressing milk into silver pails.

*

Kruger didn’t really like his sister in law. She had the wrong attitude. He thought she was far too familiar with the servants. And the farm labourers. He told her to stop speaking to them when she walked around the farmyard.

‘You never know what they’re thinking. And you know by just looking at them that they have evil things on their minds. I don’t trust them. Any of them. Because they hate us. You can see that written all over their faces. So you don’t have to be Einstein to work that out.’

*

Kruger had once propositioned his sister in law.

It happened only once.

It was as if he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t like the woman, he didn’t respect her, but she had an effect on him. So he wanted to show off to her. His male prowess. He wanted to establish a relationship. Where he could show her what he was made of.

‘Shall we… Well… I was thinking… do you feel like…? Well… You know what I mean, don’t you? A bit of fun, perhaps. You can’t had any for quite a while.’ He laughed. ‘I hope not anyway.’ He laughed again.

He stepped right up next to her. He could see the faint moustache on her lip and a few minute cracks where her makeup was leeching into the surrounding epidermis.

He put his hand around her waste. He pushed his pelvis up against hers so that there was no mistake about what he had in mind.

‘Fok, Jannie,’ she said as she pushed him away. ‘Your brother’s not dead a year and you try to sleep with me? No way man. What do you think I am?’

As the unexpected rebuttal sunk in Kruger felt crushed. Demeaned and affronted. Humiliated, in fact.

‘You ungrateful bitch,’ he muttered as he left the room.

*

A few years before Jabulani would automatically have entered the labour force on Kruger’s farm, he was playing outside the milk shed waiting for one of his brothers to finish milking. But Kruger gave orders to one of the younger milkers, Dixon, to go and look for a missing heifer before he could go home.

Jabulani went with Dixon who was in his late teens. As they walked they chatted and Jabulani was fascinated at the older boy’s attitude. He didn’t like the farmer or anyone in his family. He didn’t like farmers, period. He didn’t like the conditions he lived under, but he had no other options. He didn’t like the government. It had changed little in fifteen years. The signs on the toilets had changed. And on the railway stations platforms. And on the front of the busses. And everyone was allowed to sit on the same benches in the park. But very little else had changed. Very little indeed.

A prominent priest had said the gravy train stopped just long enough for one set of politicians to get off while the others - the new lot - got on.

Well, perhaps some people’s attitudes had changed, but there were not many of them. Most simply masked their innermost thoughts and feelings because they had not changed at all.

Dixon talked about some people that had plans to change things at a faster rate. They would be visiting all the labourers on Kruger’s farm over the next few weeks, he told Jabulani.

*

They found the missing heifer in a field of maze and chased it back onto the dirt road leading to the farmstead. It knew the way and walked in front of them.

They saw a white Japanese car parked just off the track. They both knew it belonged to Kruger’s sister in law. Dixon ran up to the car, gesticulating frantically. He was pointing to the fact that it was unlocked. A very unusual situation. A ladies handbag lay on the front seat. They both looked around. A path led through the reeds down to a dam surrounded by willows.

Jabulani was apprehensive. He beckoned to Dixon to get back to the cow and their mission. Dixon started down the path. Jabulani hesitated for a moment then followed him.

Smith’s sister in law was lying on a blanket. Most of her clothing lay in a neat pile next to her. She was in her underwear.

She was with a man the boys both knew. He was from the work force on the next-door farm. He was completely naked. And it was obvious that he was ready to make love.

Jabulani was terrified. He pulled at Dixon’s shirt and motioned him to leave. Dixon shook his head.

Jabulani crouched down and walked quickly back along the path back towards the car. He looked back once. He saw that Dixon had taken out his penis and was started to masturbate while staring at the couple involved in this frightening situation.

Miscegenation had, until recently, been a serious crime. Jabulani probably didn’t know what that meant, but knew that there would be serious consequences emanating from what they had just seen. Love played no part in the equation. Because he knew intuitively that the social convention was as powerful as ever. The consequences were inevitable, and that the couple they were spying on were fucking across the so-called colour bar. A very dangerous thing to do in this area.

*

Dixon came to see Jabulani the next day. He showed Jabulani a brilliant gold lipstick. He took the cap off and, by twisting the shaft, Dixon made the bright red make-up protrude from the top of the container. Then, by reversing the action, he made it retract. Just like a shiny wet glans moving in and out of a golden prepuce.

Dixon made a mark on his skin with the crimson colouring. Jabulani thought it looked as if Dixon had slashed his skin with a blade revealing the bright flesh beneath. He looked away.

Dixon took Jabulani to a rocky outcrop. He moved some large stones from the front of a small cavity to show Jabulani where he had hidden Kruger’s sister in law’s handbag in amongst the dassie shit.

*

The boy in charge of the cattle saw the dust in the distance. He knew it was Kruger’s vehicle. He ran down the hillside towards the huts shouting. ‘Wake up! Wake up! It’s the farmer. He’s coming!’

*

Kruger stopped his truck and got out. ‘Where’s Jabulani?’ he asked.

Paul took off his hat and went across to speak to the farmer.

He came back and told Jabulani to get into the back of the bakkie.

‘Where’s Dixon?’ Kruger asked the Jabulani.

They drove to a nearby group of crude dwellings and asked for Dixon. Dixon’s parents sent him out to the farmer.

‘Where’s the handbag?’ he asked the boys.

They looked at him blankly and shook their heads. But Kruger knew they were lying. He could see it written all over their faces. He’d lived amongst these people all his life. He could read any one of them like he could read a magazine.

*

When they had driven through the automated gates, Kruger told the boys to wait in the machine shed. He told Dixon to take off his shirt and his trousers and to lean across one of the tractor wheels. He tied the naked boy’s wrists and ankles to the machine’s axles. He told Jabulani to stand next to Dixon.

‘Take your pants off. You’re next,’ he told Jabulani.

‘No. Not there. Closer to him. I want you to feel this too,’ he instructed.

Kruger took a sjambok off its hook. He touched the tip of Jabulani’s foreskin with the whip.

Then he struck Dixon viciously across the buttocks. Once. Twice. And again. And again and again.

Jabulani wet himself.

Dixon was bleeding and screaming. The farmer’s wife came to the door of the shed. She stood there with her legs apart.

‘Fok, Jannie. Be careful. You don’t want to kill him.’

Jabulani told the farmer he would show him where his sister in law’s handbag was hidden.

*

Dixon shot the farmer through his bathroom window. Then they drove the tractor through the front door. Jabulani found the farmer’s wife in the kithen. She was crying without making any noise. He stabbed her in the throat. She slid down onto the floor.

There was no sign of Kruger’s sister in law.

When they left the farm, they each took half the money.

Dixon held a shotgun over his shoulder. Jabulani had a revolver in one hand.

With their free hands, they lifted a large television between them and started walking. Dixon helped Jabualani to carry it away from the burning buildings and up into the hills. 

It was old, very heavy and cumbersome to carry with one hand. They plodded on holding onto the TV and their guns.

After a few miles, Dixon said he was tired, and that they should abandon the trophy.

Jabulani said he would handle it alone. Dixon went off without further comment.

Jabulani managed to manhandle the set down the rocky hillside to a dirt road where he sat on it and waited.

It would have been a long walk home, but a priest gave him a lift in a bakkie. Jabulani loaded the television set into the back and sat alongside the driver who wore a dirty black suit with a soiled white dog collar. He said nothing to Jabulani about the TV.

Jabulani tried to engage the priest in conversation, but he could see that the old man was afraid. He replied in monosyllables.

Eventually Jabulani asked him to turn off the road they were on.

‘To where I live,’ he told the priest. ‘I want

you to take me to my house.’

‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t do that I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I’m on the way to a meeting. And I can’t be late.’

Jabulani stuck the muzzle of his gun into the priest’s neck. ‘Jou fok! Just do what I tell you.’

*

Jabulani dragged the large lump of old-fashioned electrical equipment into his hut. He placed it on the earth floor in the corner. He stood a wooden chair in the centre of the room and sat down.

He looked at the TV, but there was no picture or sound because there was no power. Nor was there any for miles around. The nearest available electricity would have been the farmhouse he’d just left. Which used, or had used until recently, a diesel generator, and was not connected to an electrical grid anyway.

So the stolen television set would never work.

Jabulani sat in the near dark and stared at his distorted reflection on the screen.

He waited for the police to arrive.

*****

FOOTNOTE

Although he is long dead, and my thanks are therefore futile, I would just the same like to thank Dr Alan Paton, albeit posthumously, for starting a process that eventually completely changed my political perspective.

Anyone who has read his book Cry the Beloved Country will recognize that it is his road to Ixopo in disguise at the beginning of this short story.

*