RAY'S SHORT STORIES

SHORT STORIES BY RAY JOHNSTONE

2011-11-30T05:57:00.000-08:00

WARNING - READER BEWARE

This is the cover for a collection of my short stories, and the above copy says it all. What you see on the cover is what you get inside.
Many people will dislike - even detest - my style and what I write about.
So, if your taste in fiction leans towards Agatha Christie, it may be wise to read no further because these stories are far from feel-good fiction.
But if you like what I believe to be hard edge, gritty, contemporary writing, please click on the list on the right to read on.
And if you find any glaring errors, or would like to let me know about anything I've written that you like or dislike, I'd be delighted to hear from you.
If you would like to contact me, please click on this sentence to send an email.

WHO'S NEXT PLEASE?

2011-11-29T02:43:00.000-08:00

A short story about love and death.

WHO'S NEXT PLEASE

The cancer arrived with Christmas. Just when the whole world, it seemed to Peter, was making plans for cocktails and elaborate festive season meals. And everyone was talking about extravagant presents.
Someone at the golf club was taking his wife to New York. Just to see a play.
And there, on the twenty fourth of December, pulsating amongst the daily dose of cards, was a plain brown envelope.
They both knew what it was.
‘Well, I suppose I should open it shouldn’t I?’ Molly said.
Peter looked at Molly. He knew it wasn’t really a question, but he didn’t know what to say.
So he said to himself: ‘Thirty eight years, and I don’t know to say’.

A friend gave Molly a book. It was all about Cancer. Peter thought it was simply about death and dying. ‘Well, the more you know about it, the less there is to be afraid of, I suppose,’ she said. Peter didn’t agree. But he didn’t say so. Because he was afraid.

Molly told Peter she’d heard this program on the radio. She always listened to Woman’s’ Hour. It had become a ritual. ‘A panel of experts. Really interesting and informative, it was. Discussing oncology. You know, cancer,’ she told him
He did know. Everyone knew that word these days. But he didn’t want to know.
‘Their conclusion,’ she said, ‘their overall advice, to help you cope, was to get your house in order. And you do this by writing things down. Getting ready, I suppose.’
Peter thought it was a funny conclusion for experts to come to.
‘In a letter preferably,’ Molly went on. ‘They called it a letter of wishes. Who to contact? And who does the contacting. What music do you want? What flowers? Cremation or burial? What kind of coffin? How you’d like to be dressed.’
Peter thought the question about what clothes you’d like to wear when you were dead quite bizarre. Then he upset Molly by saying, ‘My car fixing overalls will do me. Or my old gardening outfit. You know my tatty rugby jumper with all the holes and the jeans with all the stains.’ He’d meant it as a kind of comic relief. But Molly glared at him. She obviously didn’t see it that way. Not in the least.
Then she went on. ‘A really good, pragmatic way to do things, I thought. There’s even a chapter on what to do with the pets.’
‘We don’t have any pets.’
‘Peter! Stop it! Don’t take everything I say so literally.’
Peter shrugged. She saw that he didn’t like the subject, but she was determined to go on. She adopted a softer tone. ‘Look darling, their checklist is supposed to help you. Well, to help those who remain behind.’ She started to get flustered. ‘You know, darling, after I’m gone you won’t know where anything is. Our will. My list of telephone contacts. All the bank details. You know you don’t know any of these details, and you’ll find it useful if we get all these things together.’
But Peter didn’t want to go on. To discuss it any further. So they didn’t..

Cakes started arriving. With women attached. Others invariably arrived to eat the cake. Peter thought they seemed to be trying to turn cancer into a birthday party.

He eavesdropped at the door one day. He heard them discussing miracle cures based on weird and wonderful concoctions. The kernel in apricot pips. Shark cartilage. Various teas brewed from strange sounding leaves. And how meditation and mind over matter had cured even the worst cancers. He was somewhat relieved when Molly rejected all these ideas. He hoped it was because he’d always called this kind of thing harebrained. But he was exasperated with her fatalism. ‘Well there’s an end to the road for everyone, I suppose.’ He hated hearing that. And he hated the frame of mind she was slipping into.

Penny phoned to tell them she was planning a trip. But it was difficult. School terms had to be respected. And Brian couldn’t get away. The oil crisis had him in its coils. He spent more time at t he office than at home. Even weekends. Strapped to his desk. Or in constant meetings. Or on conference phone hook ups at ridiculous hours. Or traveling somewhere. So she might come on her own, she said.
Typical, thought Peter when Molly told him. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself saying it out aloud.

Peter ducked into a bar near the hospital one day while he was waiting for Molly. All he wanted was a quick drink, but he met Donald and Ralph. They were from the club. They were embarrassed and so was he. Then they asked him about Molly. He saw that they were trying to be kind - not intrusive.
‘Oh, OK, she’s OK, I suppose. She’s with the doctor right now. You know, her weekly checkup.’
There was a long pause. Silence. He tried to think of something to say. Then he remembered a joke about medical tests.
‘Reminds me about that one where the guy goes to a doctor,’ he started telling them. ‘We’ll have to do some tests, the doctor says. I’ll need samples of your blood, your semen, your urine and a stool sample. So I suggested that I just leave my underpants at reception.’ His friends just stared at him. Neither of them laughed.

‘I met Donald and Ralph earlier,’ he told Molly later. ‘I told them that joke about the doctor who wants to do more tests. You know, the one with the underpants. Talk about a lead balloon.’
Molly smiled. ‘I do love you darling, but you’ve never been able to tell a joke,’ she said. ‘They probably weren’t sure if you were telling a true story or not. So there was a time lag until they realized it was supposed to be funny. And by then it was too late. To laugh, I mean. Could that have been it, do you think?’

Peter hid from the vicar. ‘Platitudes and religious mumbo jumbo is not what I’m in need of now,’ he told himself. Then he slipped out of the back door and went on a long walk. It was cold and wet, and Molly laughed at him when he got back. The vicar had gone, and they made fun of what he’d said. ‘Just keeping in touch with his flock, he told me,’ she said. ‘His wayward flock is what he meant. But it’s his job, I suppose.’

January was insufferable. As usual, Peter thought. Such a long haul to the spring. And three long months until the clocks changed. The weather was appalling. Snow and ice with a vengeance. Even driving was dangerous. Or so they said on the television.

Molly was involved in a further series of tests. Presumably they would lead to a further series of treatments. It was a long drive to he hospital. And parking was always difficult. But it was the waiting that got to Peter. He’d go shopping, but that didn’t take long. He avoided the pubs. Driving was difficult enough without the problem of drowsiness. A second hand bookshop became his salvation. He spent hours there while he waited. And he always found several books he wanted to read. He was reading the dust cover of one when he got to the crossing. As he stepped onto the road, he heard the car. It was probably going too fast. He thought he was safe on the zebra’s stripes. He heard a loud crack as his leg broke. He wondered why the bonnet was so slippery. When his skull crashed through the windscreen the light went out in his head.

Ten years went by. Slowly at first, but more and pleasantly as the months slipped past and memories faded. Then Molly moved in with a friend. It wasn’t a sexual relationship, and she often thought of Peter.
They went on several pleasant holidays, Molly and her new partner who wasn’t her sexual partner. Sometimes by bus and once on a cruise. But Molly didn’t like the sea, although she liked the ship. It was expensive, but she had realized that she was a wealthy woman and could do as she pleased. Within reason.

Molly didn’t see the grand children as often as she would have liked to. The tyranny of distance and the rigour of travel were a heavy price to pay. And the boys’ own growing up commitments always manage to get in the way. Cricket tours, school camps, holidays with their friends. And Brian was always so, so busy. ‘Peter had the measure of Brian, I suppose,’ she admitted to herself one day.

But it was a very enjoyable and easy life. Molly read. They played golf, and they ate out a lot. ‘Probably too often, Molly thought, but then, what the hell? I’m not looking for another partner. That would be much too hard at my age.’

One night Molly woke up suddenly. She did not know why. It had never happened before. At first she was a little alarmed. Mainly because she felt slightly short of breath. But only slightly. And then gradually her breathing seemed to return to normal. But her arms were tingling. Or was it only one? Or was it only her hand?

Eventually she relaxed and thought about reading. She put the bedside lamp on and looked around for her book. But then she noticed that the globe seemed to be pulsating. The filament, that’s what it’s called isn’t it? It was glowing brightly. Then it appeared to grow smaller. She watched in fascination as the light moved away from her. Into the distance. Further and further, becoming smaller and smaller. Until it was just a pinprick of brightness in the blackness of her mind.

Then the light went out. Forever.

*****

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THE BULLETS IN THE BAR

2011-11-28T23:52:00.000-08:00

Author’s note: Anton Checkov is said to have said, “If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don't put it there." Although this is a short, short story, and not a play divided into three acts, I’ve tried to stick to his advice.

THE BULLETS IN THE BAR

‘My dad gave it to me just before he died.’
Donald was telling a story he’d told many times before. They were in the bar in a small room just off the lounge. He went on, ‘We never knew what it was for. This little space, I mean. But it makes an excellent watering hole.’
‘And Donald did everything himself,’ Jane said. She didn’t know why, but she was showing her husband off to her new friend, Brian. ‘The shelves, the mirrors, the bar counter. And we got the stools at IKEA. Good Swedish bar stools they are. Or is it Norwegian? IKEA, I mean.’ She gave a nervous laugh, ‘Scandinavian anyway. Let’s just say Scandinavian.’
Brian was from their church. Not Donald’s church, her church and Brian’s church. Because Donald didn’t have a church. The idea had never appealed to him.
‘I remember it from when I was a kid,’ Donald went on.
Brian was on edge. It was the first time he’d met Donald, and he was having difficulty following the conversation which seemed to be jumping about from one subject to another.
‘He told me he’d killed dozens of Germans to get it.’
Brian, as he’d been invited to do, was staring at what looked like a rather battle worn antique automatic. It was in it’s own purpose made, glass fronted display case which was set on a wall above the bar. It was definitely the hero of the room.
‘But, if truth be told, I think he bought it. My father never saw action. I was rather disappointed when I found that out. I’d rather have had a hero as a father. What son wouldn’t? He was in Italy though, and later in Germany. During the war, I mean. But he was an army accountant. Never anywhere near the front line.’
‘Interesting. Very interesting.’ Brian realized that this sounded rather lame, so he went on, ‘Does it work?’
‘Yes, I it does actually. Tried it out a few years ago. At Christmas. Hoped the neighbors would think it was a firecracker going off. Not allowed to discharge firearms in an urban area, you see.’
‘Yes. Well, no, I didn’t really. But it’s a good idea. A good law, I mean. But, anyway, it worked OK? The gun, I mean.’
Donald looked at him closely. ‘Yes, it certainly did. As I’ve just said. But I’ve only got two bullets left now. And they’re rather hard to get hold of.’
Donald reached up and pulled a wad of paper out from behind the bottles on the top shelf.
‘Yes. Here they are. The last two. One for Jane and one for her lover.’
For a moment Brian looked quite startled.
‘I’m away on business quite a bit you see,’ Donald explained. ‘And I wouldn’t want any funny business going on behind my back.’
Brian was relieved when Jane walked back into the bar just then. In fact he was very relieved.
Jane could feel the strained atmosphere as soon as she sat down on the IKEA barstool.
Donald was unwrapping the bullets. He handed them to Brian. Brian looked dubiously at the brass and lead items in his palm. Jane tried to break the tension. ‘He’s been regaling you with his tired old joke, I take it? The one about who the two bullets are for?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Brian. ‘I wasn’t sure what he was getting at, but I see the joke now.’
‘It’s no joke,’ said Donald. ‘When she finds a new man, one’s marked for him and the other’s for her.’
‘Oh stop it darling. It’s not even funny. Not any more.’
Brian offered the bullets back.
Donald took them and started wrapping them up again. He reached up and put them on the top shelf.
‘As I said. It’s an unusual caliber, and there are only two left. Did I say that? I think I did. Anyway, you can’t even get them on the Internet. So many rules and regulations. To import ammunition, I mean. And even gun’s illegal anyway, you see. No papers or anything like that. Dad just brought it back home in his kitbag, I suppose. Very lax they were in those days.’
Jane picked up a bowl of olives and offered them to Brian. ‘Donald’s so boring about his dad’s gun, isn’t he?’
Brian looked embarrassed.
‘No, no. He’s not boring me. It’s very interesting really.’
‘Well, let’s get him off the subject, otherwise he’ll go on about guns all night.’
But Donald was not deterred that easily. ‘Ever tried to kill yourself, Brian?’
Brian said nothing. Jane shook her head in disbelief. ‘Please stop this nonsense, Donald.’
‘Well, in case you ever try, the only other thing I know about a gun is to do with suicide. We had a friend who was a neurosurgeon. Before he died. Of AIDS. Poor bugger. No pun intended. Anyway he told me that if you ever wanted to commit suicide, be sure not to do it like this.’ Donald made his hand into the shape of a pistol and placed his index finger against his temple. ‘This way is only for the movies, apparently. The bullet goes straight through both eyes and completely misses your brain. Which is what you want to hit if you want to kill yourself. My friend said he often got attempted suicides who had failed because they’d fired the gun into the wrong part of their heads. They wound up completely blind, but not dead. So don’t forget. Put the gun in your mouth. Don’t fire it at your temple.’
*

‘Who the hell’s he?’ Donald asked bluntly when Brian had gone.
He’s just a friend. He goes to my church. I’ve never said anything about him because of your attitude. But we see a lot of each other on the church charity committee. We get on well together. As colleagues, I mean. Kindred spirits, I suppose.’
‘Oh, I see. Just a Holy Joe? Just a platonic relationship. Nothing compromising? Well, as long as it stays that way.’
‘Donald! Don’t be so disparaging. If he’s Holy Joe, then so am I.’
‘I know what you are. We’ve been married for thirty years. If I didn’t know what mumbo jumbo you believed there would be something wrong, wouldn’t there?’
Jane tossed her head in anger and walked away.
‘What did you bring him around here for?’ he called after. ‘And what do you mean, a lot of each other?’
‘Oh, Donald, why are you being so difficult? I’m not having an affair with him. Or anything like that.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear that, darling. Let’s hope that doesn’t change. Remember the preacher in The Grapes of Wrath. He always wound up screwing one of the congregation in a ditch outside the church. Just after he’d finished preaching to them.’ But Jane was too far away to hear what Donald was saying.

*

Six months later, Donald came back early from a business trip. He parked the car a block away from the house. He walked home in the warm summer night. It was after midnight. He saw a shiny black car parked outside the house. But it could have been anybodies.
Their old dog came out to meet him. She knew who it was and didn’t make a sound. He pointed at her kennel and she obediently slunk off. He heard her settling down again. He smiled.

Donald unlocked the back door and went inside. He didn’t put the light on. He went to the bar and opened the display case that showed off the gun. He felt behind the bottles for the bullets.

Donald poured himself a stiff scotch. He drank it neat, enjoying the taste as the fumes filled his mouth and nostrils.
Donald went quietly to the main bedroom. It was empty.
‘Well at least they had the good grace to use another bed,’ he said to himself.
He went upstairs. That’s where the guest’s bedroom was.
Donald stopped and listened at the door. He heard the sound of the mattress moving. He heard Jane making muffled cries in her throat. He’d heard these many times before. Whenever they’d made love. He knew she was enjoying the sex.

Donald put on the light and walked into the bedroom. Brian was on top of Jane. He stopped moving, but stayed where he was. He didn’t look round. Jane moved her head away from under Brian’s shoulder and stared at Donald.

Donald walked over to the bed. The bedclothes had been pushed onto the floor. Brian had rolled off Jane. Donald was startled by their middle-aged nakedness. He found it confronting in the bright overhead light. Donald had always thought nudity should be banned for people over twenty-five or so.
He looked down at them. Brian was trying to hide his glistening erection with his hands. Jane just lay there staring back at him. He saw that her pubic hair had recently been trimmed. He saw, as he had so many times before that some of the hairs were starting to lighten. Jane had a hard to define expression on her face. But it soon contorted into fear.
Donald took the German gun out of his pocket.
‘Donald, look, I’m sorry,’ Brian was having difficulty talking. ‘Donald, take it easy. Please. Let’s talk about this.’
Jane added, ‘Please darling, don’t do anything silly.’
Donald had the bullets in his hand. He pulled out the gun’s magazine and inserted the bullets. He pushed it back into the handle.

‘You cunt,’ he said. Jane wasn’t sure whether he meant her or Brian.
Brian started to get up.
‘Hold on mate. Don’t do anything rash. Please. I promise you it won’t happen again. I swear. I’ll make it up to you. Somehow.’

Donald looked down at them. Then he put the barrel of the gun in his mouth. He felt the front sight dig into his soft palette. Then he pulled the trigger.

*****

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THE MAN IN THE YELLOW SUIT

2011-11-27T21:28:00.000-08:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Stress, fear and phobia even when on holiday in an exotic location.

THE MAN IN THE YELLOW SUIT

AIRPORT, said the sign.
The passengers on the bus grew restless.
Some fidgeted.
Some got up out of their seats.
They touched their bags.
Then they sat down again.
The bus slowed down.
Peter: Fuck, just look at this.
Wendy: What? What?
Are we there already?
Peter: No.
But it’s a mess.
Just look at the traffic.
Gridlock.
We’ll miss our fucking plane at this rate.
Wendy. Shhh.
Stop that Peter.
Most of these people speak English you know.

They could see the gray mass of concrete ahead.
As the bus got closer, the jumble of buildings turned into an airport.
Peter: Fuck.
It’s about time.
Wendy: Please don’t swear darling.
It’s so ugly.
The man behind them got up.
He was dark skinned and sweating.
He wore a YELLOW SUIT.
He reached up for his backpack.
It was red and bulky.
But it was obviously not heavy.
As he got it down, his arm brushed against Wendy.
She put her hand up.
Peter: Watch what you’re fucking doing!
Wendy. Peter!
Don’t talk like that.
He didn’t mean it.
Peter: No fucking manners, these people.
The dark man scowled at them.
He said something under his breath
He moved down the aisle.
He joined the end of the queue waiting to get off the bus.

But most passengers simply sat in their seats.
They waited.
They knew it would be some time before they were off the bus.
Peter and Wendy were amongst them.
They’d missed their plane already.
There was no longer any hurry.
They knew they were in a mess.
And it would take hours to unravel.
Queues.
Waiting.
Papers. Questions.
Passports.
More queuing.
Longer queues

Peter saw the dark man get off.
He had his backpack on his back.
The red material contrasted strikingly with his YELLOW SUIT.
Peter thought it looked bulky but not heavy.
He wondered what was inside.
Peter: He’ll never get that through security.
Wendy: What?
What are you talking about darling?
Peter: That prick who was sitting behind us.
You know YELLOW SUIT.
The one with the red backpack.
The guy who bashed you on the head.
I wonder what’s inside?
He seems to be taking great care with it.

There were soldiers everywhere.
The bus drove off in a cloud of fumes.
Peter: Thank fuck that’s over.
Wendy: Peter!
That’s enough.
Peter: Problem is, our problem’s not over yet.
Wendy: Don’t be such a pessimist.
I’m sure we’ll get another flight.
Peter: I’m sure we will.
Eventually.
But who knows when the fuck that will be?
They walked past a pile of sandbags.
Several soldiers were sitting around.
They were all smoking.
The man in the YELLOW SUIT was just ahead of them.
The red backpack was on his back.
He was talking on a mobile phone as he walked towards the DEPARTURES HALL.
One of the soldiers looked at him intently.
The soldier got up.
He took a few paces after the man in the YELLOW SUIT.
Then he changed his mind.
He went back to his friends.
He put down his gun.
He lit a cigarette.
The man with the backpack disappeared into the airport ahead of them.

The DEPARTURES HALL was bedlam.
Long lines of passengers were queuing at the ENQUIRIES DESK.
There was only one official dealing with the queue.
Children were running about.
Their parents were shouting after them.
Women in drab, dirty uniforms were sweeping the floor.
But it was a loosing battle.
Litter was dropped as quickly as they cleaned it up.
All the seats and benches were occupied.
Most by animated groups of dark skinned people.
The noise was immense.
Despite the NO SMOKING signs, smokers were lighting up with impunity.
No one stopped them.
Even airport officials were puffing away.
Peter: Fuck.
What a mess.
Regular announcements were broadcast over the PA system.
It was a loud noise, but Peter couldn’t catch a word of what was being said.

They found the airline desk.
It was deserted.
Posters showed happy, smiling people going on business trips or holidays.
Airline staff were on hand to assist thenm.
No one in the advertising bore no resemblance to anyone in the DEPARTURES HALL.
Passengers were milling about with worried looks.
A sign read OPEN SOON.
Peter: Fuck.
That’s all we need.
Wendy: I’m sure it’s right darling.
I’m sure they’ll be back soon.
Just a little patience.
That’s all you need.
Peter: I wish I had your confidence.

Peter: I need the toilet.
Wendy. Good luck.
I’m glad I don’t.
I can wait.
Until we get on the plane, I hope.
Peter found the TOILET MEN.
But it was locked.
He asked a man sweeping the floor.
The man shrugged.
Peter shouted: Lavatories.
Where the fuck are the lavatories?
A passing passenger said: Toilets?
They’re down in the basement.
And they’re horrible.
Good luck.
And if you find them you’ll need even more luck.

Peter went down a flight of stairs.
The smell was overpowering.
It stank.
He saw why.
The floor tiles were cracked and wet.
There was paper everywhere.
The urinal was blocked.
On a shelf in the corner was a bulky red rucksack.
It belonged to the man who was on the bus.
A man came out of one of the cubicles.
It was the only one that had a door.
It was YELLOW SUIT.
He scowled at Peter.
He fastened the belt on his yellow trousers.
He went to the wash basin.
There was no water in the tap.
He picked up the backpack.
He walked back back up the stairs to the DEPARTURES HALL.

Peter found Wendy sitting on a broken bench.
There were passengers waiting everywhere.
Peter: Whose idea was this?
Wendy looked at him.
Peter: I’d never come back here again.
What a fucking dump.
Wendy: Well, it was your idea darling.
Remember?
You said, EXOTIC HOLIDAY.
That’s what you said.
Your words exactly.
Peter sat down next to her.
He saw the man in the YELLOW SUIT.
He was sitting opposite them.
About fifty meters away.
The red backpack was at his feet.
He was still talking on his mobile phone.
His free had moved wildly about as he talked.
He was obviously agitated.

A message came over the public address system.
It was in several languages.
All of them were difficult to hear.
Peter listened intently.
Wendy: What’s it say, darling?
Is it our flight?
Is it time to board?
Peter: Fuck no.
No such luck.
Just some crap about unattended baggage.
He looked up and saw a paper notice stuck on the wall.
It was also in several languages.
Peter read the English caption: POLICE TO DESTROY ANY UNATTENDED BAGGAGES AND SUITCASE.
Peter: Can’t even fucking spell.

The man in the YELLOW SUIT got up.
He looked around.
He was still talking on his phone.
He moved his back pack under the seat.
He walked off into the crowd.
The bright red colour of the left behind item burned into Peter’s brain.
Peter: Fuck!
I wonder what’s inside.
And why the fuck has he left it behind?
Wendy: What’s wrong darling.
Need the toilet again?
Can’t you wait until we’re on the plane?

Peter got up.
He went across to the back pack.
It was large and bulky.
He looked around.
There was no sign of YELLOW SUIT.
Peter’s heart picked up a pace.
He started to feel agitated.
He looked about in desperation.
Peter: What the fuck do I do now?
He saw Wendy looking at him.
She smiled.
She waved.
She put her hands over her swollen stomach.
She patted it.
Peter knew she thought the baby would feel reassured by her touch.

Peter walked across to a group of soldiers.
They looked at him.
Peter: Suspicious package.
The soldiers stared.
Peter pointed.
They shrugged their soldiers.
One of them offered him a cigarette.
Peter: For Christ’s sake, I don’t smoke.
The man looked disappointed.
Peter: Left baggage.
Back pack.
Passenger gone.
Peter grabbed his arm.
He tried to lead him to the problem.
The soldier pushed Peter away.
He started to shout.
He pointed his gun at Peter.
Peter couldn’t follow what was being said.
A man with some badges came up to Peter.
He said something Peter couldn’t understand.
Peter: Danger.
You fucking idiot.
Can’t you read your own signs?
The man with the badges started shouting at Peter.
Everyone nearby stopped doing what they were doing.
They stared.
Sensing trouble, some people moved away.
The man with the badges signaled to his men.
Two of them came forward.
Peter tried to shrug them off.
But they took him by the arms.
Peter: It could be a fucking bomb.
The man with the badges slapped Peter across the mouth.
They led him away.
Peter was shouting and struggling.
Peter: Leave me alone!
I’ve got a plane to catch.
And I must help my wife.
She’s pregnant.
But the noise of the altercation was lost in the general hubbub of the DEPARTURES HALL.

Wendy was getting upset.
Peter had been gone for quite a while.
Every now and again she got up.
From time to time she patted her stomach.
Wendy: Calm down darling.
We’ll be out of here soon.
Your dad must have an upset tummy.
She saw a man in a YELLOW SUIT walking towards her.
He walked straight on past.
He was no longer talking on the phone.
He was leading a young girl by the hand.
They went over to a bright red back pack.
He pulled it out from under the seat.
He opened the zip.
He took out a large, stuffed black and white panda bear.
He gave it to the girl.
She gave a shout of joy and kissed YELLOW SUIT on the lips.

***

FEAR OF FLYING

2011-11-26T00:47:00.000-08:00

Author's Note.
Fear if Flying is about phobias, infidelity and crash statistics.

FEAR OF FLYING

Lawrence Brice liked this aphorism. He used it regularly. He also liked what he often said about air travel: 'Flying means dying.'

***

‘Flying means dying. Well, to me it does anyway, and I really hate flying’, he said, ‘I always have done. All my life. As long as I can remember that is. I’m constantly terrified in the air, despite the fact that flying is part of my job.
'And I must admit it's worse after that Concorde business. And then that Air France plane with fallopian tube problems.' Lawrence smiled at his joke.
‘But it just has to be done I suppose, when you’re an integral part of a petroleum multinational. A key member of and international team. Like we both are now. Since I took you on, that is. Because now you’re an important member of a worldwide business group too. We’re VIP personnel. Both of us. As you’ll find out on our trip’.

Lawrence Brice liked the idea of being an important person. And he liked the idea of going on a business trip with his new secretary. But most of all he liked talking about how he coped with his paranoia.
‘Fear of flying’s proper name is aerophobia,’ he went on. ‘That’s its medical label, anyway. It’s an anxiety disorder. And believe me, I’ve got it big time. I’m a nervous wreck the whole time I’m in the air. Even though I’ve flown almost every month for the last twenty years.’ He used this rare self-deprecating weakness as a foil to everything else that he was so good at. He thought people would think more of him because of this common human foible. Especially if he laid it on a bit.
‘I have this recurring dream, you see. Well, there are two versions of it really. One is that I’m watching this huge passenger plane crashing. And it’s taking a long time to do so. Excruciatingly long, you know how it is with nightmares. And small, anonymous, black figures are jumping out as it gets lower. Without parachutes of course. Just like nine-eleven.’
He paused and turned towards her. She was sitting up next to him in the enormous double bed.
‘The other version is even more frightening. This is the one where I’m actually on the plane that’s about to crash. And everyone’s pushing and fighting to get to the door. Even though no one’s got a parachute in this account either. And even if they did, they wouldn’t have a chance. Because, although the odds against dying in an air disaster are slight, when your plane actually does crash, the odds against surviving are huge.’
Lawrence was talking to his secretary Laura. His relatively new secretary.
‘She’s been with me now for…let’s see, mmm…how long is it?’ he thought to himself. ‘About four months, I suppose, probably. And she’s really good. In every sense of the word. In the office and here as well. I definitely hope she lasts.’

In the office, Lawrence's affair with Laura was an open secret.

His last secretary had left him in the lurch. Well, that’s what he told everyone. But she did leave rather suddenly, and he’d convinced himself that she’d let him down.
‘Perhaps I’d become too dependent on her’, he’d often thought since she left. Well, he knew there had been difficulties. With their relationship. But he never told anyone about that aspect. In fact he tried to avoid thinking about it himself.

Suddenly Lawrence realised that the pause in conversation had been quite protracted, and he brought his thoughts back to the business trip they were planning. And his well thought out plan to take Laura with him.
‘OK Laura, so what flight have you got us on?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’m not sure that I can make it yet,’ she said hesitantly, and then with more conviction. ‘But you said you like the one that gets in early. It’s a DC10, as I think you know. But I thought you might like to consider travelling on a 747 with Air Pacific. It leaves much later, but it gets in at a more civilised time.’ She turned to the elaborate bedside table and consulted a sheet of paper. ‘Let’s see, yes, the AP arrives mid morning local time just as I said. And it’s much more convenient for me. That’s if I do come. You know, with all the arrangements I’ll have to make. But, as I’ve told you, Peter is being more than a little difficult about it.’

Laura knew that, because of Lawrence’s phobia, she had to give him all the technical details possible about the flights. He’d done an enormous amount of research into the safety issues of air travel and he knew exactly how many incidents and emergencies there’d been for the various makes of aircraft and the airlines that ran them. And she knew that although he was well aware that, statistically anyway, air crashes were usually due to pilot error, he had memorised the safety records of all the better-known international carriers. He was always consulting airline alert Web Pages on the Internet, and he knew what seats the experts indicated were the safest in case of an emergency.
He also knew that the statistics for the ten major world airlines indicated that there was only one fatal accident per two million flights.
‘Which is fine,’ he’d told her, ‘providing you’re not on the one that’s next in line just after aircraft number one million nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine has just taken off. Because that would be a nerve-racking flight, wouldn’t it? No matter how relaxed you are when flying.’
Laura looked at Lawrence to make sure he had finished, and then she went on. ‘So its either the 747 or the DC10 to choose from. Which one would you like me to book us on?’
‘Laura, that’s your department. You make the decision. I can take any flight. Jane never argues with me about that. We argue about almost everything these days. But never about what flight I take. So book the 747 if it suits you better.’
Suddenly Laura decided to show what an efficient secretary she was. Acutely conscious that he was watching her intently, she got out of bed, plugged her laptop into the phone jack and within a few minutes she’d booked two first class seats on the Jumbo.

But very soon after she had made the booking, Laura ran into difficulties with her husband.
‘He’s being very difficult darling’, she told Lawrence. ‘And he’s very suspicious. He keeps asking questions about the rooms we’ve booked, what kind of business we’ll do, and he can’t help making crude comments about why you want me with you. Now he’s started calling it my “monkey business” trip. “You know what monkeys are always doing”, he says.
‘I really don’t think I’m going to be able to make it.’
‘Mmm. Well, if you can’t you can’t. But it might be worth it if you keep on trying. On the other hand, it could be your lucky day. I had my recurring dream again last night. It was terrifying. The cabin filled with smoke. The smell was nauseating and I was so terrified that I couldn’t move. And you got up to go somewhere, so I couldn’t find you to talk to about the crash landing procedures. Even though I knew that there was no point. No one survives air crashes. Not when that monster falls out of the sky from twelve thousand metres. And when I woke up, I was sure someone in my dream had said we were on BA 101. Which is the flight you booked us on wasn’t it? Yes, I thought so’.
Laura wondered for a moment whether he made these dreams up. But she could see how stressed he became when he was thinking about flying.
‘Do you know’, he’d said to her one day, ‘ that they use the most amazing euphemisms for death. The airlines, and their regulators, I mean. There’s this site I found that talks about air turbulence. Well, anyway, in 1981 an aircraft over Holland experienced what they call a “catastrophic structural failure”. Apparently as it came out of some clouds, eyewitnesses saw one of its wings break off. Naturally everyone on board was killed. Some turbulence, I’d call it!
‘And do you know what they call crashing into a mountain? “Controlled flight into terrain”. That’s what happened to that pop star, what was his name? You know the one. Jim or Jimmy somebody or other. You remember the joke. What sings and flies into mountains? Answer, Jimmy Whatever. I know it’s an old one, but they’re usually the good ones. Anyway, he died because the pilot controlled his flight into terrain.’
Laura knew that Lawrence knew the statistical likelihood of all kinds of other euphemisms occurring. He knew that based on the two million figure, problem take offs were the cause of 16% of fatal incidents, whereas 84% were as a result of difficulties when landing.
‘Taking off’s the easy part, you see. It’s getting back to terra firma that’s difficult. Especially when there’s a problem. Like an engine on fire or a hole in the fuselage,’ he added with a diffident laugh.
He’d also told her in great detail about websites offering help for passengers with a fear of flying. ‘But most of them are just money grabbing schemes, he said. ‘Almost everything they say, other than “send lots of money for our CD’s or tapes”, is to do with statistics.
‘According to life insurance figures, the chances of dying in a car are one in five thousand, whereas achieving the same end in a plane the odds are one in eleven million.
‘They all quote the tired old fact that you’re at greater risk driving to the airport than you are in air.
‘And that’s without any knowledge of the danger our petrol tanker drivers face. Because we go to great lengths to hide the facts. Despite all the safety devices, they’re actually sitting in front of a very large bomb as they go hurtling along the roads at break neck speed.
‘But, when you have aerophobia, like I do, you’re twenty nine times more frightened of getting in a plane than you are of getting into a car.
‘By the way Laura, that thing about the petrol trucks, it’s highly confidential, so please forget I said it. Don’t repeat it to anyone. Do you understand? We have enough PR problems without the media getting hold of that one.’

As the day of departure approached, Laura’s problems increased. Her teenage son Sam was in some difficulty at school. And Laura’s husband was deliberately being more and more difficult. He’d told her in no uncertain terms that if she went away on a business junket with her boss, she’d be looking after Sam on her own when she got back.

‘Well, keep on trying,’ was all Lawrence said when she brought him up to date with her problems. She could tell how irritable he was. But she was reluctant to admit it was anything to do with her indecision about going abroad with him.
‘Poor darling, he really is troubled by these dreams’, she thought. ‘It’s probably wiser not to discuss it though. The less said about it the better, I suppose. Otherwise he’ll have me dreaming that the 747 I’ve booked him on is going to crash in flames.’
It was about then that Laura realised she’d already decided Lawrence would have to go on his trip alone. But she chose not to tell him until it suited her. She’d bide her time, she thought, and pick her moment with care.

But when she finally broached the subject, Lawrence appeared less disappointed than she’d expected. When she eventually told him that it would be impossible to go on the trip, all he said was, ‘That’s OK. Only one of us will die in that plane crash then.’
She thought he was making a joke of it.
‘I’ll tell you what though,’ he continued, ‘let’s book this room again on the day I leave. So that we can say goodbye. Properly, like. Well, you know what I mean.’
And she’d agreed.

Outside the hotel, after they’d said goodbye ‘properly like’, as Lawrence had described it, the atmosphere had been a little strained. Was it his fear of flying or was he going to miss her, Laura wondered? She thought she detected a change in his demeanour, and the session in the hotel room had certainly not worked as well as it usually did. He’d not ordered Champaign this time, and even when she was on top of him, he seemed less interested than usual. Or did he simply have his mind on business matters?

Eventually when the time came to part, they went down to the grandiose foyer and went through the huge and imposing entrance. She asked for a cab, and when it arrived it all ended rather quickly. With an uncharacteristically quick peck on the cheek, the door slammed and the taxi pulled out of the bay on its way to the airport.
‘I just wish he’d stop thinking about those awful statistics,’ she mused. But then her mind turned back to office matters and the long list of tasks Lawrence had left her to remember him by.

The next day Laura was up early. Well before six in fact. There was always a lot to do on a Friday. Her husband’s breakfast. Sam’s sandwiches that he was always complaining about. The grocery shopping list. And she usually spoke to her mother for about fifteen minutes on Friday mornings.

In the background Laura was vaguely conscious of the pips on the radio. The 7 o’clock breakfast news was about to come on in her kitchen.

A few seconds after the hour on the other side of the world, the 747 that Lawrence was booked on touched down at its destination. It was almost an hour late due to strong headwinds over the Gulf, as the pilot had explained to the passengers just before landing. But Lawrence was not one of them. Because he was not on the plane.

Laura only started to pay attention to the regional news when she heard the announcer say that a taxi driver and his passenger had been immolated in a horrifying accident involving a petrol tanker on the airport freeway. Their names were being withheld until their relatives had been notified.

Just then her phone began to ring.

***

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PROMISED LAND

2011-11-25T00:21:00.000-08:00

Author's Note: Changing countries. Perceptions of security. Difficult times.
Is the grass really greener on the other side? 'Promised Land' is about the search for a better life.

PROMISED LAND

‘Promised Land… The Promised Land…everyone’s … looking for… The Promised Land…’

‘What? What was that you said, Peter?’ Sandra asked, staring at him with a puzzled expression.

‘Oh nothing, darling. Nothing at all, really,’ he replied sleepily.

‘Yes you did. You should be careful what you say in your sleep, Peter. All those secret things in your murky past. It could get you into lots of trouble.’ Sandra was feigning anger. ‘Now tell me what you said, Peter! It was something about a promise. I want to know what you were talking about in your sleep.’

Peter knew where this kind of conversation invariably lead to, so he tried to change the subject. ‘Well, I think I’m probably in all kinds of trouble already. Doing what we’re doing here today. If any one finds out what we’re up to we’ll both be in deep doo doos. And if Janet ever finds out, the Terrorism Act will seem like… well, like a kid reciting nursery rhymes.’

‘I’ve asked you before, darling, please don’t talk about your wife when I’m with you. Or I’ll get really annoyed.’

Peter groaned inwardly, regretting his mistake. As he’d anticipated, Sandra went on with mounting irritation.

‘And I’m getting cross right now, Peter. So please tell me what you said. I mean it. Tell me what you were dreaming about!’

‘Calm down darling. It was nothing really. Just a poem’.

‘A poem? What do you mean a poem? I’ve never heard you talk about poetry before, Peter. Are you kidding me? Is this some creative part of you I’ve never discovered? A secret literary dimension?’

‘No darling, it’s not that at all. It’s just something that pops into my head every now and again. And when it’s there, it keeps going round and round for a while. Sometimes for days, and I can’t get rid of it.’

‘Recite it for me, please Peter. You know I like poetry.’

‘I’m not sure I can, darling. I can’t really remember it.’

‘Can’t or won’t? Why don’t you try, anyway? Come on, I won’t laugh. Promise.’

‘Look, it’s only a few lines from a poem I once knew. A long time ago. My grandfather used to recite it often. He taught it to me when I was a kid. But I’ve forgotten most of it. Except bits and pieces that pop into my head now and then. It’s something about a band of people looking for paradise. Paradise on earth, that is. Like we all are, I suppose. You know, peace and security and a good life. And happiness.’

‘Well, I’d like to hear it. You’d better recite it for me. If we’re going to stay friends, that is.’

Eventually Peter relented. ‘Well, it goes something like this. I think it does anyway. “Onward goes the pilgrim band… marching…” Well, marching somewhere. “To the Promised Land!”, I suppose.
‘You see my grandfather thought this country was the Promised Land. Given to them by God. They’d just claimed it as theirs. Because their forefathers had settled on it. And fought for it, I suppose. You know, just came along and took it. From the real owners, I mean. Someone else’s land. And they said it was theirs. Their Promised Land.’

‘What?’ He heard the irritation in her voice. He’d fallen into this trap before. ‘What do you mean, “someone else’s land “? You make it sound like it was stolen from somebody. And you know no one was living here then. What a crazy idea, anyway. A promised land? In this place? This god-forsaken country? Peter, you must be mad.’

‘You’re wrong there, Sandra. You know I don’t agree with you. Things are much better now. For us as well as for them. I really do believe that. Otherwise I’d have left long ago. I’d have gone overseas too. Probably when Tony Stein left. You didn’t really know Tony, but like everyone else, he was frightened when the trouble started. So they left. He and his wife and their young daughter, Rachel, who was a real darling. Yes, they just packed up and took off. Within a few weeks they were gone. In fact I seriously thought about going with him at the time. You see I was very close to Tony. And his family. In fact, his wife Ruth and their daughter stayed with me when Tony was picked up by the Special Branch.’

‘What?’ Sandra looked alarmed. ‘You never told me you associated with people like that. Your friend Tony was arrested?’

‘Yes, but he was released after a few days. He said they slapped him around a bit, but nothing serious. It was then that Ruth and Rachel both came to stay in my flat. When he was inside.’

‘How long did they keep him?’

‘I don’t remember really. It was a long time ago. A few days, I suppose.
But when he came out, it wasn’t long before all three of them just up and left. Some people said it was because of the riots. Others said he was scared of the security police.’
Peter was not sure that he was making any headway, but he went on. ‘That’s when I thought about leaving too. Because they left quite a gap in my life. But when I thought it through, I felt things would get better here. And I think they have.’
He paused for a moment dredging up old memories.
‘And I’ve heard that Tony has his regrets. I’ve all but lost contact with him, but he’s apparently done well and they’ve settled in now. But there were all kinds of problems to start off with. Anyway they’ve made it now, and that’s what counts.
Peter looked at Sandra sitting on the edge of the double bed. Then he added, ‘But, when he went, there was a real chance that I would have left as well.’

‘Now you’re romancing Peter,’ Sandra said with an edge of malice. ‘In fact, I think you’re deceiving yourself. Even lying perhaps. We both know why you didn’t leave. And there are thousands of people like you. Because you couldn’t that’s why. Because there’s nowhere to go. Because no country would have you. And because there were all kinds of emotional factors to keep you here.
‘So, I for one am not so sure that you could have just packed up and left. Not a chance. It’s not like catching a bus you know.
‘Like the rest of us, you just had to stay. And face the music. There wasn’t any alternative. And you know it.’

Peter interrupted. ‘I don’t know why you work yourself up like this, Sandra.’

‘Because I don’t like self-deception, that’s why. So, just to be sure about it, the two reasons you stayed were, one: because you had nowhere to go, and two: because there were too many factors, either real or imagined, to keep you here.’

Peter decided it was time to go. In any case the conversation was going nowhere. ‘This is getting out of hand darling, and I don’t think we should pursue it. Because we always end up having the same argument.
‘And anyway, we have to get up now. Let’s get dressed and get going.
‘If we check out any later, they’ll want to charge us for a full day instead of just for the afternoon.’

§

Mavis padded into the dining room as silently as a ghost.

‘Thank you Mavis, just put the potatoes down there next to the meat.’

‘Yes, madam. And can I go now madam?’

Janet couldn’t help showing her annoyance. ‘Yes, Mavis. Go if you must. I suppose I can do the washing up.’

Mavis was hardly out of the room when Betty asked, ‘Why does she have to go NOW, before we’ve even finished lunch? Why do you give her so much time off, Janet?’

‘Well, you know what they’re like. She says she’s going to a funeral. A cousin or a brother or something. I don’t know really. But what can you do? They’re all the same.’

Peter put down the Sunday paper. ‘Let’s not start this again you two. Let’s just try to have our lunch without an argument. Both of you know full well how long she’s worked for us. And you know what I think. So let’s not get into it again. I couldn’t stand it.’

Betty didn’t like being reprimanded, especially by her son. ‘OK darling. But it’s Janet who bears the brunt of it. She’s the one who has to clear up and do all the work.’ She paused, but then added, ‘Well, I’ll be here to help her of course, depending on when you’re going to give me a lift home. If you can call it home that is.’

There was a long silence. Peter was folding the paper, and Janet started serving the lunch. Betty fiddled with her serviette.

‘Well, who is going to say grace?’ she asked when Janet passed her a plate. ‘I hope we can have grace today.’

Peter sighed softly. ‘All right Ma, I’ll say it. Here goes. “One word is as good as ten. Amen”. That OK? Can we start eating now?’

‘Oh Peter! You know I don’t like that kind of joke. Why can’t you say a proper…?’

Janet cut in, hoping to change the subject. ‘You still haven’t settled in at Sunny Ridge then Betty? What’s the problem? I’ve been told that most people take a few weeks to settle down, but then they love it. There’s always company. Always lots to do. Plenty of entertainment. Good rooms. Medical staff at your elbow if needed. Nice food, or so I’ve heard. Apparently their chef used to be at the Mount Drake. And the food there was very swish.’

‘Yes, I know all that, Janet. But I really can’t get used to the communal living thing. There’s no privacy. And just when I want to watch the telly, the maids are at the door wanting to clean up. And they never do it quietly. Jabbering away to each other. I’m always terrified they’re going to break something. They just don’t seem to care.’

‘Well, Ma, I’m sorry it’s taking time to get used to the place. But we did take you to see quite a few. And it was you that said you’d like to try ‘Sunny Ridge’. You thought it the best of those we saw. Within your budget of course.
‘And why don’t you ask if the maids if they can come at another time. You could even put some of your ornaments away. Then there would be no risk of breakage.’

Betty shrugged in exasperation. ‘You just don’t understand dear. Whatever time they came would be a disruption. And I like my things on display. They remind me of the good old days. When we were all together. And when we were all happy. Before all this nonsense started.’

‘Look, Ma, I don’t know what to say. If you can think of somewhere else, we’ll take you there to give it the once over. And if you want to come and stay here,’ he glanced at Janet, ‘you only have to say the word.’

‘No Peter, thank you very much. But I don’t think a mother in law’s intrusion is a very good idea.’

‘We could always give it a try, Betty,’ Janet replied, but without much conviction.

‘Well, yes, perhaps we could give it a try as you say. Then I could help out around the place. And then maybe you could let Mavis go. She doesn’t seem to do much around here anymore anyway.’

‘Ma, please don’t start on that again,’ Peter said, no longer hiding his exasperation. ‘Why do you have to bring Mavis up again anyway?’

‘Well Peter, it’s just that I think I’ve got a better work ethic than Mavis. I’d get things done. Properly and on time.’

Peter no longer bothered to hide his irritation. ‘Ma, I know you were born here and you think you know the country well, but it’s people with ideas like you that are part of our problem. Times have changed. Even the twentieth century’s behind us now. You have to try to catch up with reality.’

But Betty refused to be cowed. ‘Well, in seventy-five years I’ve learned a lot about these people. I’ve had to handle many servants in my lifetime you know Peter. Quite often they need to be treated like children. But firmly just the same. Otherwise they start taking advantage of you.’

‘What you’ve just said is exactly what I mean Ma. That’s the trouble. You think you know them as you put it, because all you’ve ever done is give them instructions. But if truth be told, we don’t understand very much about them at all.’

Janet couldn’t help coming to her mother in law’s defence. ‘Peter, now you’re just being rude…’

‘No Janet, let him say his piece.’

‘Yes I think I should. But not in a way you’d expect. I’d like to give you an illustration of what I mean.
‘Let me tell you about a time when I was a kid and I went shooting with dad and his gang of mates. To old man Kruger’s farm. I used to love going with him.’

‘Yes, Peter, the Krugers were quite good friends of ours. I hope you keep that in mind, because I don’t think Janet ever met them. Now you won’t start saying unkind things about Frikkie Kruger, I hope.’

Peter ignored his mother. He went on. ‘You see Janet, on a hunting trip, we would camp in a clearing several miles from the farmhouse. One morning when I woke up, everyone was already out hunting. They’d gone off and left me asleep in the tent. But then I heard a few shots in the distance, and I set off to join them. On the way I passed three young boys herding a few cattle through the bush. Two would have been about my age I suppose, thirteen or fourteen. But it’s sometimes hard to tell exactly. Let’s just say two were teenagers and the third was younger. I said hello to them and they replied politely. And that was all. Or I thought it was all. But later on when we got back to the camp, Dad and his friends noticed that someone had been into the campsite. There was cattle spoor everywhere, and, at first they thought that some cows had simply wandered in amongst the tents. Then all hell broke loose. Some of their ammunition was missing.
I felt obliged to tell them about meeting the herd boys that morning, and we immediately jumped into the cars and drove off to the farmhouse to tell Kruger.’

‘You’ll get to the point soon, Peter, I hope. You’re always so long winded,’ said Betty.

‘I remember that Kruger went grey with anger. He was so embarrassed that something like this could happen on his farm. Because this was Kruger’s Promised Land. His ancestors thought they’d discovered the source of the Nile. The river that Moses had been put into when he was a baby. And they claimed the whole district as theirs. As far as the eye could see. Right here in someone else’s country.’
Peter hoped he was not being too melodramatic. And kids do not steal ammunition in the Promised Land. So Kruger donned the mantle of an Old Testament patriarch and set about putting things right. There were children to be punished for their waywardness.’

‘This is all very well, Peter,’ said his mother. ‘And very colourfully told. But what are you getting at?’

‘You’ll see, Ma. Just wait. Or I hope you’ll see.
‘Anyway, Kruger got out his truck, and we followed him in a convoy of cars to several shacks where his labourers lived. He asked the adults for the names of the kids who were herding the cattle that morning. An old man gave up their names quite readily, even though he must have known there was trouble brewing. It was easy to find the boys. They were all at a nearby hovel and Kruger told them to get into the back of his pickup.
A knot started to develop in my stomach, because although I did not know what was going to happen, I felt implicated and somehow responsible for events.’

‘Still, Peter, if they were the only ones around…’ Janet started to say.

‘Hang on darling. Don’t jump the gun. I’m getting to that.
‘So, when we got back to the homestead, Frikkie took the three kids to an open shed. He bound the two older boys’ wrists together with some wire flex, and tied them to a tractor. But he did nothing to the younger boy, the kid of about eight or nine, who just stood there passively watching.
‘Then Kruger spoke to the boys in their own language. I could understand most of what he said. He told them that my father was a good friend of his. He’d been coming to the farm to hunt for many years. He said the boys’ fathers and grandfathers would remember him well, and what they had done was a terrible insult. He asked them where they’d hidden the missing boxes of shotgun cartridges.
‘But they swore that they had not taken them.’

‘Little buggers.’ Betty couldn’t help interjecting, but Peter ignored her.

‘Then Kruger produced a long sjambok. A rawhide whip. When I saw this I asked my father to intervene. I said although I had passed the boys near to our camp, I had not actually seen them do anything.
But he told me to be quiet. “Frikkie understands these people,” he said.

‘Well it must have been obvious that the boys had taken the bullets, wasn’t it?’ asked Betty.

‘I don’t understand how you can say that Ma. It could have been anyone. There were lots of other labourers on the farm. But, anyway, let me go on.
‘Kruger went over to the boys and gave them each a gentle flick with the whip.
‘The youngest boy began to cry, but he made no attempt to run away.
‘Suddenly Kruger went into a frenzy of whipping. The sound of the sjambok cutting through the air was terrifying. But he did nothing to the kids. He was flaying into a bag of maize. Sweat poured from his head as the sack was torn to shreds. A choking cloud of dust rose up and kernels of corn went everywhere.
‘Then Kruger threw down the sjambok and motioned us to follow him. He told the kids he’d be back soon, because it was the their turn next.
‘We all followed him back to the farmhouse for coffee and biscuits. I remember that my father and his friends were kidding him about having a heart attack.’

‘Yes Jack was like that,’ smiled Betty. He loved to tease people.

‘But what happened next?’ asked Janet. ‘Get to the point. If here is one. What was the outcome?’

‘Well, nothing really,’ Peter was beginning to think he was handling this story badly, but he went on explaining. ‘After an hour or so, we all traipsed back to the shed. The youngest kid was sitting on his haunches. One of the boys had wet himself, but they immediately told us they had taken the ammunition, and then they showed us where they’d buried the bullets in the middle of a field.’

‘And nothing else happened?’ asked Janet. ‘He didn’t do anything to the boys?’

‘No, nothing at all.’ Peter realised that the anticlimax had left the wrong impression. Except for a few cuffs behind the ears when he let them go.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ said Betty. ‘All’s well that ends well you see. And Frikkie knew how to handle the situation. He understood these people. He knew them well. Very well I’d say. Just like I do. It’s all a matter of experience and understanding. And judgement, if you like.’

Peter shook his head. ‘But can’t you see how wrong you are Ma? This is typical and everyday example of the worst kind of intimidation.’

‘But it worked, Peter, the boys were guilty, and the farmer knew it,’ said Janet. ‘He knew it instinctively, if you like.’

§

The eerie glow of the screen reflected on Peter’s face as he picked out the letters with one finger. ‘Jesus! That was quick. Well, well, well. So, he also wrote “Onward Christian Soldiers” according to this. That certainly positions him, I suppose. Completed it in only forty-five minutes, apparently. A fast worker then.
‘And here it is, Grandpa’s poem. Yes, this is it:

“Through the night of doubt and sorrow
Onward goes the pilgrim band,
Singing songs of expectation,
Marching to the Promised Land.”

‘No wonder he liked it.’
Peter paused, deep in thought.
‘Because he thought this country was the Promised Land. And he’d obviously convinced himself that he’d arrived in Paradise.’

While Peter was copying out the verse, the telephone started ringing. It had an irritating tone and Peter waited for Janet to answer it.
‘It’ll be her bloody mother again, for sure.’

But no one answered the phone. Janet played this game from time to time, knowing that Peter would eventually cave in and pick it up.

‘Hello. Peter Lawson…’

A vaguely familiar voice cut in. ‘Peter, it’s Tony.’
There was a pause.

‘Good God, Tony! Tony Stein! How great to hear from you! We were talking about you only couple of days ago. How are things my friend? How is it going over there? And Ruth and Rachel, how are they? The two females in your life as well as mine? On top of the world I hope. Tell me how you all are.’

‘ Well, not so good really, Peter. That’s why I’m calling…’

‘What do you mean, “not so good”? Come on Tony, why such pessimism? You’re living the high life from what I hear. And in the Promised Land, literally, from what you yourself have told me before. On the few occasions we’ve spoken, admittedly. But it’s easy to lose contact isn’t it? And it certainly was before the Internet and SMS messages and so on. Do you understand all this modern keep-in-touch stuff the kids use these days, Tony? Because I don’t. But I suppose Rachel’s still young enough to know what’s going on with technology. And she probably helps you out when you’re stuck, I suppose.
‘But it really is fantastic to hear from you Tony.’

‘Yes, well,’ the voice faltered and then went on, ‘I should have phoned you before…’

Peter cut in. ‘Hey, Tony, the good news is that we’re hoping to pay you a visit sometime. Just Janet and me. Perhaps in a year or two. So you’d better start preparing for it now. Saving up. It’ll be just like the old days. When we were all young, slim, healthy and good looking. I’m dying to see you lot again.
‘How’s Rachel liking university?
‘Hello Tony? I’ll bet she’s having a great time… Hello! Hello?’
There was silence on the other end of the line.
‘Tony? Tony, are you there? What’s wrong Tony? Tell me what’s up?
‘Has something happened? Tell me what it is Tony!’
He held the handset away from his ear and shouted. ‘Janet, come quickly. It’s Tony Stein calling from overseas. But something’s wrong. I think something must have happened.’
And then back into the mouthpiece Peter said, ‘What’s going on Tony? For fuck sake get to the point.’

‘Well, yes, Peter, unfortunately something really bad has happened.
It must have been on your news. Surely you saw it?’

‘Janet for fuck sake hurry up.
‘What are you trying to say to me Tony? Hold on a moment, Janet’s here now. I’ll just pop you onto speaker so that we can both hear you. Speak up please. OK, OK, you’re coming through loud and clear.’

Tony’s distinctive accent filled the room. ‘I’m afraid it’s the worst kind of news. I should have phoned before, Peter. But I couldn’t bring myself to do anything when it happened. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. And Ruth was in a mess. She still is. And so am I.
‘You see, Rachel was in a supermarket one evening a few weeks ago. She just popped in to pick up a few things on her way to see us.’
There was a long pause. Then Tony added, ‘Well she was badly wounded when a suicide bomber blew herself up in one of the aisles.

Peter started shouting. ‘Stop it Tony! Fuck off man. Don’t tell me this! What are you saying?’

‘Rachel suffered appalling wounds, Peter.’

Janet started making soft whimpering sounds. ‘For fuck sake shut up! No not you Tony, Janet. She’s started making stupid fucking noises and I can hardly hear you. Hello Tony are you still there?’

‘Yes Peter, I am. And I could cut my tongue out for admitting it out loud, but fortunately Rachel died a few days ago.’

Peter started crying. ‘Tony! Stop it. Don’t say things like this!’

‘Ruth’s distraught, as you can imagine. We’re both gutted. Our lives will never be the same again. It’s been much more difficult than we expected over here. Although we never admitted it. And now this.
‘Anyway, after Rachel died, Ruth and I have talked a lot about what to do about the future. In the time we’ve got left, that is. Because everything comes to an end, doesn’t it Peter?’

Peter started shouting into the phone. ‘Jesus Christ Tony, what can I say? You’ve been out of Africa for … what is it…Ten? Twelve…? Yes, it must be twelve years now.’

‘That’s right Peter. It’s been twelve years. But perhaps we should never have left. Then perhaps this wouldn’t have happened.
‘We thought we’d found paradise. Like our forefathers, when they came out of Egypt. We thought of this country as the Promised Land. The land of Canaan we’d been promised in the Old Testament. We thought it would be heaven on earth. We thought it would be safe, and we thought that we’d be happy here. But it didn’t work out like that.’

There was another short lapse in conversation. Peter didn’t know what to say, or how to react.

Then Tony went on. ‘Well the problem over here is that other people think of it as theirs just as much as we do. It’s their Promised Land as well. And we don’t want to acknowledge that you see.
‘Giving us a country in someone else’s country was an act of gross political stupidity. And there’s always a price to pay, isn’t there, Peter? So the bill has been presented. And now we’ve paid our share. With Rachel’s life.’

Peter had stopped crying, but he was still shouting. ‘What are you saying Tony? What the fuck are you telling me?’

‘Well, Peter, what I’m telling you is this. There’s another reason for my phone call. In fact it’s the main reason. You see, I’ve finally realised that we’ve been out of Africa for far too long.’
And then, rather hesitantly, Tony added, ‘So now we’re coming home.’

*****

If you would like to contact me, please click on this sentence to send an email.

HAPPY HOUR

2011-11-24T00:42:00.000-08:00

Author's Note: 'Happy Hour' is set in one room and is about an old man contemplating what lies ahead. The stream of consciousness style and the theme may offend some people.

HAPPY HOUR

‘Eighty-seven’s not a bad innings, I suppose, but now it’s time to move on - and it’s the first of April, now that’s appropriate - Fool’s Day - for the end of the line, and the last stop on the last metro.’

Peter is talking out aloud as he does from time to time without noticing it and right now he’s being troubled by an intrusive ringing sound which could be in his head but may not be so he picks up the phone as he continues to talk out loud as he was at the beginning of this sentence.

‘Everything’s in place at last, the die is cast and the end is nigh.’

‘For God’s sake dad, don’t be so mellow dramatic, why can’t you just answer the phone in the normal manner?’

‘We don’t do it like that in France, that’s why.’

On the table next to the window an old-fashioned turntable is playing an even more old fashioned tune that adds to the garbled noises in his head so that every now and then Peter sings along with Vera, the vocalist that is, but it’s obvious that he only knows some of the words.

‘We’ll meet again… Allo again. Peter Mulligan speaking. Don’t know where don’t know when… Is that you Jamie?’

(Italics will show when we’re speaking French as in la lanque Francaise even if we don’t have a cedilla - or more accurately, we don't bother to use it even if it must be somewhere on the keyboard).

‘Jesus dad do we really have to go through this again?’

He glances at the things he’s gathered together on the table, Peter, that is.

‘Give us the tools and we’ll get on with…’

‘Stop it Dad, Christ, I’d just like to just talk to you sensibly for a change.’

Peter looks at the open box and the crystal glass he’s chosen and sees all the ingredients are mixed together. He's already attended to that, he remembers.'

‘So, let’s just add a pack of paracetamol, a widely used antipyretic commonly used for the relief of minor aches and pains, but in combination with non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs and opioid analgesics, also used in the management of more severe pain just in case and just as a precaution I suppose, just because I’d hate there to be any pain - it's the thing I fear most even though the literature states that there isn’t any, one can never be too sure and you can’t exactly claim your money back afterwards can you, not if the stuff’s any good anyway?’ (Is this a question, I wonder?)

‘What? What’s that? What are you talking about, dad?’
(This is definitely a question - maybe it's three).

He picks up a bottle of wine, Peter that is, not James and for your information James is the other person, amongst others, who will be talking from time to time but you must have deduced that or guessed it already.

‘And, most important of all, a good Beaujolais nouveau, one of my favorites, on the other hand, Champagne would have been a good idea too, not that this is exactly a celebration, just the opposite, I suppose.’ As you can see it’s sometimes a problem to work out whether a word’s English or French and in this case we take the easy way out, like we do with so many things. One's in italics - the other's not.

‘But who knows no one’s ever been there and come back to tell us really, but I don’t think so, well, not recently, and all that stuff depends on what you’re prepared believe, or to classify yourself as a believer, although I must tell you that Lorna believes it, almost literally, she loves all that traditional stuff she was taught when she was young.’

Peter is being troubled by a different intrusive sound over his tinnitus which is toiling away as it used to from time to time and now does all the time. As you all know, this is the perception of sound within the human ear in the absence of corresponding external sound, so even if you didn't know, now you do.

He looks at the phone. He puts it to his ear. All he hears is an incessant buzzing. He puts it back on the table. (The phone, not his ear this time, but don’t forget that he is old and confused and he has tinnitus, which I've told you already and which can result from injury, from loud noises, or wax or foreign objects in the ear, or even from those nose allergies that prevent or induce fluid drain and cause wax build-up, so there).

‘OK, so now it’s time for me to get comfortable and to do the dirty deed so I’ll just light the fire to make it nice and warm in here.

‘Now to the hemlock,’ which is simply Shakespearian or, for those of you not old enough to remember, an old fashioned word for something nasty, quite often used by now old fashioned detective fiction writers.

He pours a good few inches of wine and some other liquid into the glass and starts stirring vigorously.

‘Good God what hat a disgusting colour, you’d think these days they’d be able to concoct something that looked a little more attractive, a bit more appetizing for the last round, something that looks like a banana milkshake, or a pina colada or a tequila, or some other attractive-looking cocktail.’ (No italics here because they’re not French).

He stops talking out loud, and reprimands himself.

‘But now’s not the time for jokes, Peter, Jesus, I do so whish Lorna hadn’t left me because I’d feel much more confident if she was still here and we were doing this together. That would be the way to go because she’d know exactly what to do and no matter where or when on this sunny day.’

LORNA STARTS SERVING LUNCH WHICH MEANS THERE’S BEEN A TIME SHIFT WHICH IS WHAT I WANTED HERE AND THE BREAK’S BEEN EMPHASIZED WITH CAPITALS TO MAKE IT EASER TO FOLLOW.

‘There you go darling. Bon appetit.’ (Remember what italics mean?).

But he was expecting something else.

‘Jesus Christ what’s this, Lorna? I thought you said we were having…’

‘Now don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Peter your language is getting worse and worse. Why don’t you try practicing not blaspheming? Then maybe you’ll swear less when the kids get here. Anyway, to answer your question, it’s osso bucco (no italics) darling, and it’s east European. Well, I think it is anyway, and I’m sure it’ll be very nice, just try it, and here’s a drop of red wine for you, just one glass, remember what the doctor said to you.’ (Once again, the meal is not French).

‘Jesus again, Lorna, why spoil a good glass of wine, even such a small one, by contaminating it with this… this… whatever it is you know I don’t eat this kind of thing, I’d rather eat fish even if it’s not Friday.’

‘Peter, you know that’s not true. If I’d cooked fish you’d have made an almighty fuss and I’d never have heard the end of it, do you really think after all these years I’d cook fish for you? Now just eat up. There’s a good boy.’

To break up the dialogue, imagine the sound of knives and forks scratching around on plates.

‘I’m sorry Lorna, I’ll just stick to the wine.’

Lorna: Peter! You’re becoming an alcoholic, you can’t skip your food and just drink alcohol and think about what you’re doing to your body and your liver must be in a terrible state already.

‘I’m not sure about that, but my stomach certainly would be if I eat this… this osso… whatever you called it.’

Lorna: Bucco, Peter. Osso bucco.
But, Peter, you are impossible. I hope you’re not going to carry on like this when Molly’s here, Molly and the boys that is.

‘Ah, yes, Molly, is she bringing … you know… I suppose he’s coming, is he? what’s his name to spoil the holiday… you know… the grease monkey?’

Lorna: Yes, Peter, she is. But I’ll thank you not to call him that. You never know when you could make a mistake. Or someone else could hear you. Someone you wouldn’t want to hear what you’d said. Like the boys, for example. Because that would be very hurtful to Molly. If it was passed on to her. Even innocently.
He’s her partner, Pat is. And he’s very good… well, quite good to her as well. And He’s been with her for…? Mmm… let’s see now. It must be almost ten years I suppose. So I’m sure they get on very well together. And he’s been very good to the boys. He tries hard, anyway.

Peter remembers what he said in reply as the sound of the cutlery on plates competes with other noises in his head and Ms Lynn goes on about meeting again and this is what Peter said or thinks he said: Well, I’m not as sure as you are about him trying hard, he doesn’t seem to make much of an effort with me, does he?

Lorna: That’s not right Peter. He has tried with you, but… It’s just that you two have so little in common. And you can be quite difficult as well. As you know, I suspect.

‘Well, it is quite difficult for me to get excited, enthusiastic even, about loud bands and about changing the exhaust pipe on one or other of his cars but the point is, I just don’t see what she sees in him and that’s all there is to it if all he’s going to talk about again is horse racing and hotted up motor cars, we’re in for a hard time, he and I because I’m not the least bit interested in either.’

Lorna: I can tell that you’ve decided already that you’re going to be difficult if they do come.

I wonder what they talk about when they’re alone together - divorce pipes as I remember it because Molly’s not really interested in bands and motoring either, is she? When do they arrive anyway and, just by the way, what did you mean, if they do come?

Now pay attention dear reader so that you can see who is saying what in Peter’s head.

Peter remembers Lorna saying next month or in about four and a half weeks time, when Vera was singing don’t know where, don’t know when. That’s when it should be, anyway. And I hope you’re going to be nice to them when they’re here. All of them that is. Molly, the boys and Pat. Try to remember his name Peter. It’s really simple. Pat. Short for Patrick. Use your word association technique. And do give some consideration to the fact that his career is tied up in the petroleum industry. Don’t let’s get into any of that heated stuff about global warming. Or economic imperialism. Or any of those other favorites of yours. That you trot out whenever you want to goad someone. Or to be controversial. Not everyone enjoys an argument, dear. Not like you do, so please say hello to the folks that I know and we’ll meet again some sunny day.

Peter: OK, darling I’ll try but…well…seeing is believing, I suppose and from what you’ve just said, and I quote, ‘that’s when it should be’ unquote, I’ve got my doubts because I know from experience that you can listen between the lines, so to speak, and I’ve now got a hunch that we’re in for another surprise, just like what happened last year.

Lorna: Oh Peter, last year was an exception. Molly was very upset about it. So were the boys. But Pat had to go to America at the last minute. That’s why they had to cancel their….

Peter’s bored with remembering this conversation but luckily that intrusive singing enters his consciousness again and his mind changes direction as he sings along, ‘Don’t know where… don’t know when…’

GET READY FOR A TIME SHIFT AS HE PICKS UP THE TELEPHONE.

‘Allo, oui, bonjour’, he says in French, but you know that already. As you can see, if you go to the next line, it’s Jamie again.

Jamie: Hi. Good morning again Dad. How are things?

‘Oh, hello Jamie, did you ring a short while ago? Yes, yes, I’m fine, I suppose, how are you? As well as can be expected for someone as old as me so, yes, I think I’m OK, if you’re really interested for the moment, anyway, but, in the end it really depends what you’ve called for.

Jamie: Come on Dad, you sound perfect. If you just stopped thinking about your age you’d be one hundred percent. And yes I did ring but I got cut off…

‘Well, yes, I suppose so but time marches on you know, and there’s the inevitable toll to pay, sooner or later you have to pay the…you know, the rower.. We all have to…eventually.’ (He’s Greek, I think – the rower, not Jamie - and more correctly known as, I think, the Ferryman or Charon).

Jamie: You really are hard on yourself, you know. But I’ve come to realize that a large part of this is pessimism and it’s put on for show. Isn’t it?

‘You’ll find out when you grow… I mean get older, now there was almost a Freudian slip Jamie, did you spot it, I nearly said grow up and you wouldn’t have liked that would you?

Jamie: Well you have said it Dad, as I’m sure you always intended to. But, don’t you think there are certain benefits related to getting older? Perhaps you should try to focus on them. Like no mortgage to worry about. Cheap travel. Financial security. Things like that.

‘Oh, Jamie, I’ve heard all this before, and anything positive you read about old age is written by people who are already old, i.e., someone with no alternative, or it’s written by someone with a vested interest, like someone in advertising where the objective is to sell something to old fogies, you know, holidays for the over whateveritis or health care when it’s too late, or insurance so that your dependants will live happily ever after, after you’ve gone, that is, and the only thing I can think of is cheap bus tickets for old codgers and you don’t get caries because your teeth stop growing and holes only develop in teeth that are still developing which is not much compensation is it?’

Jamie: You really do have a penchant for looking on the dark side don’t you?

(LET’S GET THIS THING MOVING AGAIN – LET’S MAKE PETER SAY SOMETHING MILDLY RISQUÉ WHICH IS NOW CONSIDERED ENGLISH AND REQUIRES NO ITALICS).

‘Well, perhaps, but let me give you an insight into the brighter side that I was reminiscing about the other day because when I was younger, I used to have really exciting dreams so Freud would have had a field day with them, was it Freud who did all that stuff on dreams or was it Jung? Well, no matter, whoever it was he would’ve have loved my dreams because I certainly did always have very exciting, not to say stimulating dreams and always in a room full of seductive young people, and me with only my shirt on and no underwear Jamie and I found the men as exciting and attractive as I did the women.’

Jamie: Dad! Dad! I’m not sure I want to hear about this kind of thing.

‘No, you’re right, Jamie, I don’t suppose you want to hear about my reminiscences do you but you should know that at about thirty something I suppose is when it all starts happening and you realize that you’re getting older and you have to get up to urinate in the wee small hours of the morning but once it sets in it soon increases at what seems a rapid pace.’

Jamie: Look Dad, if it makes you feel any better, it’s already happening to me and I’m not even half your age. I can’t get through many nights without getting up to go to the toilet. But so what?

‘So what? So everything… you seem to have missed my point, because of course there are sometimes more serious versions, accidents and so on, especially when you’ve had too much to drink, but luckily, I must say, it only happened very rarely, only once in fact, before Lorna left me and I’ll leave it to your imagination to work out what she said.’

Jamie: I’m sorry, Dad, I still don’t see your point. If this happens to everyone, and it happens gradually, then it’s not the end of the world, is it? Just exactly what are you getting at?

‘Well, Jamie, you’re right and wrong - it could be the end but as you say and I agree the odd bladder failure is hardly a capital offence, embarrassing, no doubt, but not much more than that, but what happens if, and more importantly, WHEN it gets to the other kind of incontinence that’s much less easy to pass off as a simple mishap, because it’s much more visible and much more… much more… well, messy, I suppose you’d say.’

Jamie: Dad, I’m sorry, but I really can’t follow your train of thought. Whatever mishaps you might have in bed is not a really big deal in my book.

‘Well perhaps not at your age, Jamie, that’s because it’s not on your radar yet but when it becomes a regular occurrence you may change your mind although it’s not happened to me yet, but it’s on my mind all the time because I can’t help thinking it must be the most embarrassing and undignified situation you could ever find yourself in.’

Jamie: I say again Dad. Who cares? It’s not that big a deal in the overall scheme of things.

‘As you say, from your perspective but from mine, it’s started to worry me and I’m sure it’s just around the corner, but… I AM DETERMINED TO AVOID THE NIGHTMARE SITUATION OF BEING TOTALLY INCAPACITATED, AND TRAPPED BETWEEN INCESSANT BOUTS OF MORPHINE-INDUCED CONSTIPATION AND GERIATRIC-INDUCED DIARRHEA.’

Jamie: So what are you telling me, Dad? What are you planning to do about it? Is there anything you CAN do? I don’t think so.

‘Oh, Jamie, you’re so wrong and there’s one obvious thing you can certainly do and the point is that you must never lose control of your ability to act so act in good time is the key phrase.’

Jamie: Dad, just what are you getting at. Please use plainspeak. So that I can understand.

‘I’ll let you know in good time Jamie, don’t worry, anyway, this is you calling me, and you must obviously have a reason so what can I do for you?

‘But please be brief, I’ve got lots to do today.’

Jamie: Hang on Dad, what’s the hurry? Are you in the middle of something? Don’t you want to talk to me? Busy on other more important things, and no time to talk to your son?

‘It’s not that Jamie, but I know from experience that you don’t usually phone for a social chat, so here must be an ulterior motive, if you’ll forgive me, for saying so that is.’

Jamie: Hell Dad, that’s a bit rich. You complain that I don’t phone you and then when I do, you think it’s only because I want something. I wonder why I bother?

‘OK, OK, I’m sorry, Jamie, how are you anyway, and how’s the… well, you know, are you working because the last time we spoke you were thinking about finding a job, weren’t you?’

Jamie: Well, if you must know, I’ve got a few irons in the fire, Dad. So I’m sure I’ll get an interview soon. But nothing as yet. Nothing concrete anyway. But, Dad, I didn’t phone you to talk about my job prospects…

‘I know you didn’t Jamie, I know it’s a subject that never seems to have interested you that much.’

Jamie: Look, let’s stop this right here Dad. It’s always the same. My job is my concern. It’s got nothing to do with you.

‘That’s the point, Jamie it is your concern, but you’re never concerned or not concerned enough in my opinion is the trouble, if you ask me.

Jamie: Well, no one’s asking you Dad. I didn’t phone to get into an argument about my personal life philosophies. Or yours for that matter.

There’s a long pause because Peter hears something strangely familiar but can’t immediately work out what it is, thinking it’s someone saying or singing, you’ll be happy to know, until you saw me go, I was singing this song, until the noise in Peter’s head becomes the front door bell ringing and he tries to ignore it but fails and gets up to answer same.

‘Sorry Jamie, just a moment, hang on, there’s someone at the…’

Jamie: No Dad, I can’t hang on… After all, it’s my call to you Dad! Dad! Don’t just keep me hanging on, Dad, for Christ’s sake!

But he’s talking to himself because Peter’s not there he’s gone to answer the door which you’d know if you’ve been concentrating on the dialogue, but when Peter gets back he’ll be saying out aloud:

This is Jamie, not Peter: Jesus, he’ll never change.
He just does what he likes. He never thinks about anybody else. Dad! Dad! Pick up the phone please! I can’t hang on all day!

And then to no one because, as we know, no one’s listening, but we’re reading:

‘What the hell do you do with someone like this?’

Peter remembers opening the front door that morning.

‘Ah bonjour Madame.’ ‘Goot morning Monsieur Mulliga, a parcel pour vous.’ ‘Thank you Madame. And congratulations on your English. It’s getting better every day. Do I have to sign anything?’ ‘Sank you Monsieur. Yes please, you sign here please. So many English so we must learn it. It’s from Olland. Ow you say? Amsterdam. You have friend zere? It has glasses in. I read on custom’ paper. To dring with not for eye glasses.’ ‘Yes, it’s from Holland. But it’s not glasses Madame. You either drink out of those or you read with them. Bottles. It’s a mail order purchase from an organization I found on the Internet, and it contains bottles.’ ‘Sank you monsieur. Bonne journée.’ ‘Thank you Madame. Bon appetit.’

Now, just to avoid any confusion, this is Peter:

‘Mmm. Looks very complicated but at least the instructions are in English, as well as various other languages it seems, even Arabic, or Sanskrit – or something anyway, and, let’s see, what is this all about, ah, some very practical information on how to actually carry out the terminal with your mind at rest, mind over matter, you’d have to say, good grief... Jamie, I’d forgotten about him.’

Peter: Hello Jamie, are you still there?

Jamie: Jesus Dad! You can’t do that! Just leaving me hanging on like this. It’s my call to you, remember. It’s costing ME money, not YOU. And I really can’t afford it.

Peter: Sorry, Jamie, I am sorry, really but that was le facteur avec mon colis.

Jamie: And don’t talk that foreign stuff to me dad. You know I don’t understand a word of it.

Peter: OK, Jamie, le facteur is the post lady, because although ‘le’ is essentially masculine, it’s been changed, only recently though because the gender laws have been relaxed, if you like, and previously, even if the person delivering the letters was a lady, you used a masculine noun…

Jamie: Stop this Peter! For Christ’s sake stop it! I didn’t you phone for a French grammar lesson. I’ve got something to say to you.

Peter: Sorry again, Jamie, but after all the money I spent on private schooling for you I would have thought you’d know that I was simply saying that it’s the post lady with a little something I’ve treated myself to and she’d arrived with my parcel from Amsterdam.

THE KIT I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR IS REALLY WHAT HE MEANS ALTHOUGH PETER DOESN’T EMPHASIZE IT LIKE I HAVE BY USING CAPS BECAUSE HE’S NOT SURE THAT HE WANTS JAMIE TO KNOW ABOUT HIS PLANS.
YET.

Jamie: Dad, I really phoned to find out how you are. And I want to say something to you. Well… I’ve got something to ask you really.

Peter: Yes, Jamie, I know you do and I know what it is but it’s just that after what I shelled out on your education, I’d have thought you would known the facteur from La Poste, and a very attractive postie at that who even wears high heels because we’re very chic we are here with my parcel which only took two days to get here all the way from Holland.

Jamie: Let’s just put the French lesson aside for the moment Dad.

But he can’t contain his curiosity, so this is Jamie again:

‘What on earth have you got from Holland?’

Peter: Ah well, only a little thing I found on the Internet, nothing to get concerned about though.

Jamie: Look Dad, let’s not play ducks and drakes with each other. Tell me what you’re buying on mail order.

Peter: Nothing to worry about Jamie, just a little kit I read about when I was ‘surfing’ as you call it and when I found some really interesting and comprehensive sites on a subject that interests me more and more these days, I suppose at my age, is what I mean.

Jamie: Dad, I know all about those sites. I’ve seen some of them myself…

Peter: Why would you be looking at them Jamie?

Jamie: Well I have, and most of them are rubbish. They’ve got the wrong morality. Contorted ethics if you like. Many of them are run by charlatans or quacks. And lots of the products are suspect. Bogus at best and ineffectual at worst. They’re just money-making scams cashing in on a trend. Tell me what you’ve bought Dad.

Peter: No need to get so het up, Jamie but it seems to me that at my age I’ve got a legitimate reason to look at these things because I need all the information I can get on the subject although why on earth have YOU’VE been researching the subject I just can’t work out.

Jamie: Please cut out this nonsense Dad. It’s my business what I look at. My point is that most of the sites are awful.

Peter: I can’t agree. I found them. Very helpful. I wish. I wish I’d found them. Before. Before Lorna left. Some of them were even quite funny. Even she would have thought so. In fact. Some of the stuff I found was really VERY funny. Well. The amusing ones were rubbish really. I suppose. And certainly not always serious. And you would think. That some people would find it really offensive. As it already seems to have done. Like you Jamie. Like you.

Jamie: Funny? Funny? Dad are you losing your marbles? Suicide is nothing to laugh at.

Peter: Wrong again, Jamie. And right. In a way. Anyway. There’s a very funny one. What’s it called again? ‘HUNDREDS OF WAYS TO COMMIT…’
Or something like that. No. That’s not it.
‘ONE HUNDRED AND ONE WAYS TO COMMIT SUICIDE’. That’s it. And it’s hilarious. Really. Even if whoever wrote the copy had a really warped sense of something. Humour. I suppose.
For example, what about the
JUMPING OFF BUILDINGS
method? With the caveat warning that only 9 out of 10 people die, and those that don’t might find the next attempt more difficult. Because what they mean of course is… What? Oh yes when you’re confined to a wheel chair. And paralyzed. From the neck down it’s hard. To launch yourself that is. Into oblivion from a tall building. In a wheelchair.

Jamie: Dad, I’ve seen that site, and I don’t think it’s funny at all.

Peter: Which just proves it. What I’ve always said. That you’ve never had a sense of humour. Anyway, did you see the
JOIN THE ARMY
suggestion. It was about number ten. Or eleven. It recommends you apply for a posting. To a war zone. Like Iraq. Or Afghanistan.
Just by the way, Jamie, did you know that we’ve had troops in Iraq for over twenty years now? Because you were just a teenager. When we first went in and got rid of Saddam Hussein.

Jamie: Look Dad, I’ve never heard of Saddam Whoever. I don’t know who he is and I really don’t care. Just tell me what your kit consists of. And what you intend to do with it.

Peter: You keep missing the point Jamie joining the army is like a suicide pact whether you like it or not and it always amazes me to see those teary eyed TV interviews with soldiers’ wives, or their widows, I suppose you’d say, you know, after one of their husbands has been shot, usually dead and they always seem so surprised that someone on the other side the enemy we used to call it in my day has had the audacity to fire back or to counter attack in one way or another because they always seem to forget that soldiers are taught to kill and that’s their raison d’etre and that’s what soldiers both sides are for and it’s their job to get shot at.

TO ANNIHILATE EACH OTHER.

But they somehow think it’s unfair if the enemy retaliate no that’s not on that’s dangerous’ is in effect what they’re saying but anyway I’m getting off the subject did you see the one where you
PUT TWO SIX-INCH NAILS UP YOUR NOSE
one in each nostril, and then you bang your head down on the table
HARD!
but this method might just be there to tease us, so I’m not sure about this one.

Jamie: That’s not the least bit funny, Dad. I can’t believe you’re reduced to reading this kind of trash. And that you find it amusing. It’s amazing.

Peter: Easy to say Jamie but what else do you suggest I do, since Lorna left, my life has changed quite dramatically, as you know anyway, it’s research and I’m broadening my mind by imbibing information amongst other things and using modern technology and I find it funny, to boot, plus I thought it was really creative as well and that’s always a bonus. But the other one I liked suggests
CLIMBING INTO A MAN-EATER’S CAGE AT THE ZOO
with the Hot Tip, as they call it maybe they mean a caveat that’s Latin not French so no italics, to look for a lean, hungry looking animal i.e. one that’s obviously not been fed recently because you can’t take the chance of only getting half eaten can you, Jamie.’

Jamie: This is really too much Dad. Please stop this nonsense. And stop reading this rubbish. Please!

Peter: Hang on, hang on Jamie, stop interrupting, and what about
SLEEPING WITH SOMEONE WHO IS HIV POSITIVE
did you read that one because as you know I’m sure this method is available almost everywhere and depending on your personality experience or sexual predilection all you need to do is find and seduce an HIV positive partner but they do explain though that the time frame is open-ended so beware not you personally Jamie but anyone who’s thinking of trying this method because it could be several decades before your suicide is consummated if that’s the word and another thing you are warned about is that a cure could conceivably be discovered in the meantime while you’re waiting so to speak and if you’re not careful this could be administered after you’ve gone to all this trouble so it’s quite complicated isn’t it?

Jamie: Fuck! (That’s number one if anyone's counting).
What’s come over you dad?

Peter: Don’t be such a wowser Jamie and Lorna wouldn’t like that kind of language if she was here but she’s not so I don’t suppose it matters but I thinking it’s an amusing suggestion that you sleep around without protection until you find a sexual partner who has AIDS just to commit you know what and they do have the good grace to point out that statistically these days it
shouldn’t take long, especially if you live in Botswana or India and the gender of the person you’re in bed with is not material any longer these days meaning Jamie that if you want to catch aids you can sleep to use a euphemism with a boy or a girl whichever you like so long as they’re of consenting age which is a bizarre notion in itself.’

Jamie: For Crist’s sake!
What’s happened to you Dad?

Peter: Don’t you think it’s funny and again Lorna wouldn’t like your blaspheming but I’m sure it’s supposed to be funny and I thought
GETTING KIDNAPPED
was another great suggestion and I must tell you Jamie I soon found that I was dreaming up ludicrous things to add to their list so in my mind you see I’d become a co-author of the site as a creative exercise and I started making up my own methods like buy a Rolex and go out for a stroll in Soweto or in the jungles of Columbia but I suppose the downside to the kidnap option is that your captors may not kill you immediately or they may try for a ransom or they might just cut your arm off to get the watch although you could still presumably bleed to death and you’d have to remember to make sure the money wasn’t paid I mean if you wanted your plan to succeed.’

A strange buzzing noise cuts across the conversation and blanks Vera’s droning on about meeting one day although she doesn’t seem to know exactly where or when and Peter wonders what she’s on about.

Jamie: Dad, can I please ask if we can forget all this rubbish. I need to speak to you about something really important.

Peter: As I said, I know you do, but sorry, Jamie, it’s the doorbell again, hang on for a moment will you or would you prefer I call you back?

Jamie: There’s no point Dad. You’ll forget. Or you’ll say you couldn’t find the number.

Peter: No no I will I promise I’ve found where Lorna hid she’d say kept them and they’re always at hand these days so I’ll call back shortly OK?

Jamie: Well I don’t have any alternative do I? You’ve obviously made up your mind that whoever’s at your front door is more important than talking to me.

Peter: I’ll only be a few minutes Jamie and I’ll ring you back right away truly you’ll see you just wait right there next to your phone.

‘Ah bonjour Ma Petite. You’ve come for your English lesson. I always manage to forget that you come around at this time. And it’s your last one isn’t it…? Mine too. But come inside and I’ll say goodbye. Not to you. To Jamie. My son. Please wait a few minutes through there, Darling. I’ll be with you right away. This sunny day.’

Peter picks up the phone: The number you have dialed is not available. Please check the number and dial again. The number you have dialed is not available. This is not French and it is only italicized to indicate that it is not dialogue but represents a digitized telephone message in print.

‘Damn! Oh, excuse me Darling. I shouldn’t use bad words. You call them gros mots when I’m teaching English. But I wonder what his new number is? Why do they change their phones so often? We must have it somewhere, I suppose. I wonder where it is though? But, well, maybe I should call him later. After the lesson. Yes that’s what I’ll do. He won’t mind.’

The following is Peter talking as he goes to pick up the phone.
AFTER THE LESSON.
It could be Jamie. We’ll soon know.
He picks it up and says:

Allo, oui, bonjour.

Jamie: I thought you were going to ring me straight back?

Yes it is Jamie.

‘Oh, hello Jamie, I am sorry because I really did try but I
kept getting a recording so it must have been your old
number and then I had my English student, I mean my French
student who I teach English, you know I’m always confusing
the two when I tell people…’

Jamie: Please Dad, can we not go through all this again, please!

‘OK Jamie let’s not talk about my problems, what is it you wanted to ask me?’

Jamie: Well… you’ve made it very difficult for me now Dad. I feel awful after what we’ve been talking about.

‘OK again Jamie I’ll make it easy for you so you’re down on your uppers again aren’t you and you’ve got no money and no job and I don’t think you’ve got much prospect of getting a job have you because it’s still all play and no work that has made you a dull boy Jamie and now you want more money from me don’t you am I right?’

Jamie: Well, yes Dad. You are right. But only a few thousand pounds. That will last me until the end of the year… It should anyway. Yes, I think it will. And then I’ll try for a job, Dad. I promise you, once I’ve got my degree. And then I’ll pay you back. That’s a guarantee, Dad, I promise you. All the money I’ve ever borrowed from you, Dad. Really.

In his head it’s that bloody song again, I used to know the words when Lorna was with me when you saw me go I was singing that song… where the hell did you go where the hell is Lorna these days?

Peter: OK Jamie, I’ll see what I can do…

For a moment Peter imagines he is being reprimanded by Lorna again. He stops to listen, but then the phone starts ringing. He’s not sure whether it’s in his head or on the table, but lets add a space here to show another time shift and some asterisks just to make sure.

***

This does not happen often and, without thinking, Peter answers in French.

So this is Peter: ‘Allo. Oui? Bonjour.’

A vaguely familiar voice says: ‘G’day Peter, is that you? I don’t understand your italics, whoever you are. Speak English please. I don’t know what you’re saying. This is not Peter Mulligan I’m talking to is it?’ Whether or not this is a question or the answer, Peter says:

‘Yes it is. I’m Peter mulligan. Who’s calling please?’

‘It’s Ronnie, mate, Ronnie Barker, your next-door neighbour. Well, your next door neighbour when you lived next door.’

‘Ronnie! Yes, of course I remember…’

‘Yes, of course you do. But look here, Peter, I was clearing out some papers and I found that letter you, or Lorna probably, sent me a few years ago. That’s where I got your number, so I thought I’d just give you a quick ring you to tell you my news. I’m going away for a while.’

Things are coming back to Peter. They had some good times with the Barkers although Lorna thought Ronnie who’s calling now was Barkers mad. But that was a long time ago.

‘Ronnie! Ronnie Barker. How great to hear from you. How long has it been, fifteen – twenty years? Are you all still…?’

‘Actually, mate, it’s twenty-two years. And a lot of beer’s been pissed down the Yarra since then. And yes, I’m still living in the same house. Next door to where you used to live. And, by the way, your place is worth a mint these days. You got out too early, mate. But now I’m also leaving. For a few years anyway. The bastards are putting me…’

But Peter wants to do the talking. He has lots to say, and Ronnie finds it hard to get a word in edgeways.

‘Look, Ronnie, wherever you’re going, we must keep in touch. You can phone me anytime. And I’ll phone you too if you give me your…’

‘Easier said than done, mate. I’m not sure what rules they have about telephones. Especially phoning overseas. It may not be possible once I’m ...’

‘Where are you going, Ronnie. You’re not moving abroad are
you?’

‘No, no. That’s not what I mean. Where I’m going it’s pretty… well, ordinary I suppose. You know what it’s like once they get their claws into…’

Peter: I don’t quite understand what you’re getting at Ronnie.

Ronnie: I’ll explain in half a sec. But first, how are you. I mean all of you? How’re the kids and how’s Lorna?
(Slow this answer down a bit because it’s important and it’s not supposed to be funny and although we’re beginning to suspect there’s something fishy about Lorna’s whereabouts, we’re not quite sure so here’s the rub).

Peter: Well, the kids are fine, or at least I think they are, Ronnie, but I’m not so good. And well, LORNA’S LEFT ME.

(What on earth does he mean 'Left Us'? But let Ronnie make a French faux pas in italics anyway, even though it's English).

Ronnie: You’re kiddin’ me? What do you mean left? You mean she’s run off with some other bloke? Or on her own? Ronnie pauses, thinking about another possibility. No! Not with a woman surely, Peter? The italics mean it’s to be emphasized not because it’s French because it’s not. It’s happening more and more often lately, you know. Wives leaving their husbands to live with other sheilas. I really don’t understand…

HERE’S PETER’S EXPLANATION:

‘No, no. It wasn’t that, she just went off to hospital one day and never came back and I’ve been going downhill fast ever since even the local priest has started showing an interest in me I suppose he must think there’s a conversion or funeral opportunity in the offing.’

Ronnie: Jeez mate, that’s bad.
I really am sorry, I mean about Lorna. Well, I mean I’m sorry for both of you. Heck, I’m making a cock up of this conversation aren’t I? That bit about the priest takes the cake though. Just when you want a bit of peace and quiet, some holy Joe comes calling. Why don’t you just tell him to piss off? But how are you coping otherwise, mate? With all this that’s happened to you?’

Peter marvels at the accent because he’s forgotten how distinctive it is.

‘Well, I’ve found a few things on the Internet that I think will help me over the next hurdle but I must admit it was difficult, you see, with Lorna not being around any more, I had to do everything myself and I hated that.’

‘I’ll bet.’

That was Ronnie so now this is Peter:

‘Anyway, I got onto my computer, and most things just fell into place because it’s amazing what advice you can get if you do a bit of surfing is what I’m getting a, but not your kind of surfing you do at Bondi I think you call it but I got heaps of info about avoiding pitfalls when dealing with funeral companies.’

Ronnie: Yes, well, as I said, I’m really sorry about that. I always had a soft spot for Lorna. A very soft…

‘Yes I know, but, as I was saying, the internet is very helpful with funerals for example let me give you just one example where I very quickly learned that funerals can be amongst the most expensive purchases you will ever make especially if it’s a traditional funeral and even if it’s not including a coffin costs it can be as much as ten thousand pounds… mmm…let’s see that would be about twenty-five thousand dollars to you down there at today’s exchange rate plus there are all sorts of add on sales like flowers and acknowledgement cards and so on and on so there’s always another catch and the bastards can add thousands of pounds to their bottom line with things like the hearse and extra cars that they tell you are always needed and of course they love the viewing it’s probably an Irish influence you know VISITING THE DEAD PERSON IN A CHAPEL OR SOMETHING SIMILAR to say goodbye and I’m sure Lorna would have agreed with me but perhaps not but we’ll never know because she’s not here to have her say.’

Ronnie tries again: Yes, I see what you mean but the reason…

‘Then obituary notices can also add heaps to the bill and many funerals run to well over thirty thousand pounds apparently if you let sentiment run away with you.’

Poor Ronnie: Jeez, that’s a lot of money, mate, especially in dollars. But what I was calling for…

‘And you also have to remember that many people grossly overspend on funerals because they think it’s a reflection of their feelings for the deceased but luckily or unluckily for Lorna I suppose I’m not one of them.’

Yes, I know what you’re getting at, this is Ronnie trying to get a look in, you’re right mate, you always were a bit of a tight arse Peter…

‘Hang on a sec Ronnie I must just get this in because you must also remember the medical people want you to take charge of the body and pretty damn quickly and in my case it was midsummer and you can’t just have it lying around in the house or keep it in the freezer because that’s not allowed and as I said, Lorna would usually have handled all this kind of thing but she wasn’t around was she so if I hadn’t found out what to do so quickly it could have cost me heaps and let me tell you Ronnie if it ever happens to you as it will one day you must make sure you’re well prepared.’

Ronnie’s getting desperate: OK Peter, but I’ve got other problems. More immediate ones, which is why…

‘For example you need to know whether you want a burial where the coffin actually goes into a hole in the ground which is very popular over here and bloody expensive I tell you or a simple scattering of the ashes but bear in mind that there will certainly be a charge for the urn or whatever other kind of container you decide on so you have to be a quick thinker when they’ve got you in their clutches.’

Ronnie has all but given up with his reason for calling.
But he’s trying again: Yes, as I said I know what you mean by clutches. That’s why I’m…

‘So, be warned, Ronnie, there’s heaps to consider.’

But Ronnie tries one more time: Look, Peter, sorry to interrupt again, mate…’

‘Don’t worry, you’re not interrupting, but I’ve just remembered something really important you went to Vietnam didn’t you, yes you did I remember now, well, this could save you quite a bit of money because in some countries war veterans are entitled to a free burial so you should contact your department of VETERANS AFFAIRS you never know your luck unfortunately for me Lorna was never in the army but in any case or in Vietnam for that matter so my advice to you and what I think the best thing to do for you is to get a quote several quotes that is long before you need anything and you just go to Google and type in funeral and you’ll be amazed at what stuff you can pick up.’

Ronnie has all but given up so he says: Yes again mate, but what I wanted to say is the older we get…

‘Yes I know every day means more wrinkles and less hair.’

Ronnie is sucked in by this remark and can’t help himself trying to say something he thinks is funny but not everyone will agree: Well, it doesn’t matter about the wrinkles on your face, mate, it’s the wrinkles on your old fella you have to worry about. Especially if they’re from lack of exercise… If you get what I mean?

‘What? Oh, yes, I see what you’re getting at. Well, mate as you say down under no worries (he’s never used these expressions before and doesn’t know why he uses them now or used them then because he’s already done so) everybody has to die one day.

Ronnie: Yes and all I can say is that I’m at the age where I’m lucky enough to be too old to die young. But look mate, as I say, this call will ruin me. I’m going to have to ring off now, but I just wanted to tell…

‘OK Ronnie I’ve got things to do myself and I’ve got the gist of your call so I’ll let you go and I’ll tell Lorna you phoned when I see her so remember to give my regards to…’

Ronnie: Sonia, Peter. You probably mean Sonia. But she’s not with me any more. She’s one of them sheilas that did run off with another bloke. I don’t even know who he was. At least he wasn’t a she. Never bothered to find out. Don’t know where they are. Don’t care either. I’m better off without her. I do my own thing now…’

‘Well I’m sorry about that Ronnie but thanks for phoning anyway.’

Ronnie: That’s OK Peter, I’ll be in touch again when I get out in a few…’

‘Much appreciated so, it’s goodbye for now Ronnie goodbye…goodbye.’

ALWAYS REMEMBER THAT ASTERISKS MEAN A CHANGE IN TIME BUT BY THIS TIME I SUPPOSE YOU KNOW THAT. BUT THIS THIS TIME I MEAN DATE RATHER THAN TIME

***

Hello Daddy says Molly brightly sorry about yesterday I really was stressed which means if you think about it that she’s spoken to her father without our knowledge.

Peter: Yes Darling, so you said in your email but it was my fault as much as yours and I don’t want to rub salt into the wound by attempting to be
lighthearted or to reopen the argument for that matter but you must see at my age we see things somewhat differently quite differently in fact so you have to make allowances for our old age and our senility brought on by the disappearance of brain cells and overindulgence in alcohol and Alzheimer’s too probably the three big problems when you get to my age not to mention Lorna’s disappearance.

Oh stop that Daddy she replies you’re not old and we don’t see you as old anyway you’re just our parents which implies by the way she’s speaking that Lorna hasn’t left Peter yet but she could be talking euphemistically so as not to hurt his feelings.

Peter: Well I’m not sure you understand Darling so let me give you my idea on the subject that probably starts when you’re a teenager or in your twenties when you absolutely KNOW you’re going to live forever and the idea of mortality never enters your head and even when you get to thirty plus the idea of dying is still quite remote because by that stage you still think you’re immortal but by the time you reach middle age and by this I mean when you enter the forties or fifties things start to change because people you know and many of whom are about the same age as you start dying all around you and suddenly you realize that you’re not actually going to live forever and then when you reach my ripe old age you finally understand that you’re going to die one day and that every morning could be your last?

You know I don’t like to hear you talking like that she replies and you’ve told us that silly stuff so often I can almost recite it myself.

Peter: But it’s the truth Molly darling and that stuff as you call it is all true because you can’t hide from reality and everyone has to accept the idea of death.

Please Daddy, stop this shit, a word that doesn’t count because it’s so common, she tells him you wonder why I phone you less and less, I’m sure, well here’s your answer a long, drawn out morbid conversation, who needs it and this is not why I phoned.

Peter: OK I’m sorry Darling but it’s how I feel and at my age I can’t help it and your mother Lorna leaving so suddenly has made it even harder which must mean that Lorna has left and Molly knows it but I’ve got it in hand at last and I’m going to do something about it.

Molly says she’s relieved, that’s really good news Daddy what is it you have in mind and have you found a counselor or a good place to move into, somewhere you’ll like because that would be really good and you’d have company.

Peter: Well it’s not quite that but it’s rather difficult to talk about at this stage and I don’t think you’re ready for it darling so I’ll have to get back to you when it’s all sorted out.

Molly is quite an anxious soul and tends to go off like a cracker in case you haven’t noticed and she demonstrates this by asking WHAT DO YOU HAVE IN MIND DADDY we don’t want you doing anything stupid so tell me what you’re talking about. PLEASE! Please don’t let what happened to Mummy cloud your judgment she says revealing now that she knows Lorna is dead. Then she adds most people have a gentle… But she’s not sure what to call it… A ‘gentle passing’… Or just a ‘moving on’, perhaps? Or some other silly phrase we use to hide the disgusting thought of DEATH.

Peter: Hang on a moment Molly you’re making it sound like a soft landing so I must ask do you really believe the end is… well soft and painless because I have to tell you that it’s NOT either psychologically or physically in my experience and it’s the ultimate and most evil bad joke ever to befall us and I mean all of us unfortunately and although ALL DEATHS ARE JUST PLAIN AWFUL, some are excruciatingly so.

But Daddy, from what I’ve read, I believe… But Peter cuts her off by saying: Well don’t Darling don’t just don’t believe any of that rubbish because it’s simply religious, medical and legal propaganda and it’s largely spread via an uncritical media or by those with vested interests who want to spread tear jerking ideas created to keep the gullible happy with misinformation.

Molly: But Daddy….

‘No hang on Darling let me finish and let me have my say because believe me anyone who tells you that death is anything other than ignominious undignified always dreadful often drawn out and sometimes very very painful that person is a liar or a fool or both so don’t believe anything you hear or read about happy endings with modern palliative care and all that bullshit because there’s no painless way past St Peter’s doors and unless you’re one of the luck, yes the very lucky few who who have a sudden and severe heart attack or stroke that snuffs them out quickly you’re going to be handicapped in more ways than one so what I mean is you have to hope you depart before any doctors or lawyers get their talons into you or your relatives for that matter.

‘Molly? Molly? Hello. Are you there Molly? is a traditional way to indicate the line has gone dead, which is the same as Lorna’s position as we now know, but no, it hasn’t gone dead because after a long pause Molly says:

Yes I am Daddy she answers just when he thinks she’s gone, but I don’t like talking to you when you’re in this kind of mood.

Peter: But it’s true Darling and even Lorna came round to this point of view just before she left me.

Molly: Us, Daddy, say ‘us’. She left us. All of us. Not just you. You were so time jealous when she was alive, and you still retain that. You go on as if she was yours and yours alone. As if no one else deserves a look in.

‘OK Molly I get your drift as the saying goes but she was my wife for a long long time and we lived together very happily even after you kids went your own way.’

Molly: Oh Daddy, you say that with such resentment. You yourself have always said that the nuclear family is designed to split up when it reaches a certain stage.

‘That’s right Molly it is otherwise we’d all live in cumbersome extended families and all that eating and sleeping together not to mention other things would certainly get me down and probably all the others too before long but going back to where we were a few moments ago when you and Jamie left it came as quite a shock I suppose even though we’d always said we would encourage you to go when the time came.’

Molly: So what’s your point Daddy. What are you trying to say?

‘Well as you’ve asked Darling I’ll tell you because in a way it got to me more than it did to Lorna but when Jamie started bringing home girlfriends…’

Molly: You’re making a meal of this Daddy, and I can’t quite see where you’re getting at. Nor do I think I have the time really. The boys….

‘No no hear me out Darling because I’ve often wanted to explain this to you and never had the opportunity nor the courage I suppose because you see from my point of view the traditional male perspective of sanctioning your son sewing his wild oats was the norm but it had never crossed my mind that in the modern world the same right was passing to daughters and I found that very difficult to swallow.’

Molly thinks: What on earth is he getting at?

‘You see, Darling how do I explain this but Jamie had been bringing girlfriends home to stay for a few years before you introduced us to what was his name remind me please Darling his name what was it again?’

Molly: Daddy I really must go. Pat. His name was Patrick.

And we can tell she’s getting angry because of her clipped sentences.

‘Ah yes that was it I should have remembered anyway all he could talk about was cars and horses and betting and bands.’

Molly: So, what was wrong with that? You’re not the easiest person to talk to. And we found lots of other things to talk about. Especially in bed if you must know!

‘That’s just it Molly that was the hardest part because you were only half way through high school when you found this petrol head yes I mean it petrol head that’s all he was you brought home a petrol head that was ten years your senior and you expected us all of us and me to swallow it.

Molly: Are you sure it wasn’t a class thing that upset you Daddy, rather than my age? Or his age? Even though you might not have been aware of it, you always were so class conscious. In fact I have to say – and I’ve never said this to you before – but I’ going to say it now you’re just a common or garden fucking snob. That’s all.

(But it’s not all as far as that word is concerned because she’s referring to what she’s saying to her father and not the number. So that makes it two and I’ll tell you the total here: it’s five).

Then she adds, but I’ve had enough of this Daddy and I really must go.

No no just let me finish because this is the important bit you see Darling because it’s a very difficult relationship the one between a father and the man who’s fucking his daughter. (That makes this three out of five).

‘No matter what age he is he adds as she slams down the telephone and the line goes dead leaving a RINGINGRINGINGRINGING

tone in his head competing with Ms Lynn’s we’ll meet again some sunny day and all that sentimental claptrap.

You’ve just seen this and for your information even if you know it, it’s called onomatopoeic:

Ringringringringringringring!

It’s another way to separate the action in time or to put a ruled line between two scenes which is basically the same thing I suppose.

For a moment Peter thinks the phone is ringing again, but he’s mistaken. Someone has rung the front doorbell.
It’s Father Paul. Peter has always kept out of his way, but he used to call regularly to see Lorna.

‘Bonjour Monsieur Mulliga’. I’ve just come to offer mes condoléances. I would like you to know how sorry I am, following your tragic loss. I only heard about it on my return to the village. I have been on a sabbatical in Rome.’

Peter goes over their conversation as he remembers it:

‘Ah, bonjour Père Paul, thank you, thank you, well, it’s all over now and I’m over it too, very resilient aren’t we, we human beings but that’s how we’re made isn’t it so, everything’s cut and dried as we say in English, did you have a good holiday, by the way?’

‘“Cut and dried?” Err, well, yes, I sink I see what you mean, I suppose and, well yes of course, but a kind of a working ‘oliday, I think you say "buzman’ ’oliday” in English, yes?’

This brings the pedant out in Peter who is having difficulty hiding his irritation at being disturbed and his personal dislike of the priest and all he stands for i.e. the teachings of his church which he firmly believes the priest’s mission is to spread about as often as he can.

‘Yes…and no…, because actually, and please forgive me for being picky, but we say “busman’s” with an ‘s’, it’s plural you see, and, “holiday’ with an explosive ‘h’.”

The priest chooses not to pursue the matter of explosives.

Priest: ‘Err… May I come in? Just for a few moments I assure you.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so but I must warn you, things have deteriorated here since Lorna left and the place is in a bit of a mess, I’m afraid but, please, entrez s’il vous plait.’

Priest: ‘Thank you, and don’t worry. I too live alone. Always have done, you know. Well, yes you’d know that I sink. Silly of me to mention it even though you are not a Catholic, I sink. Not like your wife. And she was a very good Catholic, I believe. Because Mme Mulliga’ was always at mass. And confession. She was a good example to everyone.’

‘That’s right, Père Paul, Lorna was certainly a churchgoer and she believed everything you lot tell your flock, Mais prenez garde, not only am I not religious, but I classify myself as a militant atheist so you’ll have to be on your toes if you’ve come to try and convert me.’

Priest: ‘On my toes?’ Ah, yes, I see what you mean. Probably originally a French ballet expression, I suppose. Or maybe athletics, perhaps? I should have known it. Well, in fact I have come to talk to you about your wife. Your late wife, that is, and I’m very sorry that I was not here when she passed away. Things might have been different if I was. Mistakes might not have been made. You know, with the body.

‘Well, I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but, yes, she certainly did pop off quite suddenly while you were away but death always has a habit of being somewhat what shall I say - inconvenient perhaps - don’t you think?’

Priest: I must say I’m surprised at your flippancy, Monsieur Mulliga’. Is this a way for you to deal with your loss, perhaps? I suppose it is, but I must register that I find it somewhat surprising.’

‘Père Paul, if I may remind you, Lorna was my wife, not just a member of my flock so I do not see my remark as being flippant, whether it’s a way of dealing with death or not.’

Priest: I meant no offence, Peter. But I must also say that I was surprised that you chose a cremation rather than a requiem mass for Mme Mulliga. She was a good Catholic. Did she not deserve more consideration?’

‘Look here Paul, you have doubtless had a good deal of experience in counseling, I’m sure you probably even undergo some course or other when you’re doing your articles, or whatever you call it, but may I point out to you that your method is predicated on dealing with religious people, but because I myself am not a believer can you not see that we approach the situation from diametrically opposite directions?’

Priest: Yes Peter, I do understand what you’ve said. But knowing Mme Mulliga, albeit not nearly so well as ‘er ‘usband…

He pauses, wondering ‘Is this is couched correctly'?

Then he adds, ‘I do have a slight feeling that
SHE WOULD HAVE PREFERRED A DECENT CATHOLIC BURIAL.’

‘Well, that’s interesting, Paul, and you’re entitled to your opinion but I’m interest in the logos rather than the mythos of death, and after Lorna died, as far as I’m concerned, she was no longer in the equation, from my perspective the issues were simply economics and convenience so I looked for and found, I believe, a seamless way to end a difficult situation with a contemporary and highly civilized solution, if I may say so.’

Priest: I’m sorry you felt like that Peter. And I’m still not sure that it was the right decision. Perhaps Mme Mulliga’ would have chosen something different. Something more fitting… more elegant perhaps.

(SLOWLY FOR EMPHASIS):

‘I mean no offence, but quite frankly, I don’t care what you think, and I don’t need you to try to pull any mumbo jumbo wool over my eyes, thank you very much, you see, I believe that Lorna and I had a wonderful time while it lasted but now all that remains is happy memories and when I die, they’ll die with me and after that there’ll be nothing left, no nothing at all, just eternal blackness, if you want me to put it in simple terms.’

Priest: Gently now Peter. I can tell you find my comments intrusive. But I feel it my duty to continue. Would you like to pray with me? It may bring you some solace. Some relief.’

(If there was a formal way to show surprise turning to irritation with punctuation it would be used here).

‘No thank you. Not at all. Neither with you nor on my own. I see no point. And I don’t think it would help. Not one jot. In fact, I know it wouldn’t. And I’d no more consider it than I’d talk to one of your statues for consolation. In your church (he remembers wondering if he should go on at this point, but what the fuck in for a penny, in of a pound) or on Easter Island. Or anywhere else for that matter.’ (That word’s only going to be used five times, so even the most prudish reader can now read on without any further anxiety and there’s not far to go now so keep at it).

Priest: ‘I’m sorry you take this line, Peter. Are you sure you’re right? Do you not think that there’s something more to life? Some divine force? Or someone, more likely, who controls our lives?’

‘Well of course Paul, it’s obvious that something makes the grass grow and it's probably all those bodies you refuse to cremate and when you stick them in the ground, “the worms crawl in and the worms crawl out”, and that makes excellent compost so the grass grows well and you could therefore claim that some good does come from burials, I suppose.’

Lorna: Peter! That’s abominable. And insulting. How can you say such a thing to someone in your own house? You should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘Well I’m sorry darling… err, Father Paul, I apologize, I should never have said that… but I’m tired of this mumbo jumbo so why don’t you take your primitive ideas and just fuck off there’s a good chap.’ (How many’s that?)

But Père Paul stays for quite some time talking about the power of prayer and the importance of belief and the role of confession, and how with faith we can overcome everything, and lots of other stuff with Peter only half listening and then Lorna and Vera get louder in his head and start talking and singing over each other and babbling on about meeting him again in sunnier climes. But Peter is hardly listening any more when he eventually closes the door behind the priest and he goes back to his collected paraphernalia where he picks up a letter he’s been drafting and starts reading aloud while he goes along with Lorna and Vera who are still going on about somewhere when but not knowing where exactly.

”Dear Molly and Jamie,
By the time you get this letter I will have been dead for some time,” Hmm… well, let’s think about that one for a bit. Must try to let them down gently, and maybe that’s just a little bit blunt for an opening. Perhaps I should change it to something more palatable, let’s see now what about, “By the time you get this letter I will have been gone for some time.” Yes, that’s much better, I suppose, even though I’ve always avoided these syrupy euphemisms, but I think perhaps we do need one here, anyway, moving right along. “The funeral will be over, and my body will have been disposed of.” Well, once again that’s pretty harsh, but I can’t see how it can be avoided, ah, well, let’s plough on, no one should ever shrink from the truth. “You both know I’ve always believed that funerals are for the living and not the dead, but with an eye to (or on) costs, distance and inconvenience, I decided to exclude everyone - except myself, I hope you don’t think this too selfish or churlish, but it will at least obviate what would probably be a very tiresome journey for you both, so, please don’t worry on my behalf, everything’s been done in the cold light of day and with a clear and rational mind and there won’t even be any urn or box of ashes to collect, you have the Internet to thank for this, all I had to do was tick the appropriate square, and I chose "no ashes" which I thought was the best option.
There’s not much else to say, really, except that I’ve spent the last few days thinking about the good times we’ve had and there were many of those, especially when we were all together, in the old days before Lorna left.
Lastly, and I hope this does not come as too much of a shock to you when I say that, apart from a few thousand pounds which will be transferred to your respective accounts, I’ve left all my other assets to SAGE, the group I used, it stands for, well, it doesn’t matter really, but despite their not very clever name, they have been very helpful to me and they’ll even be in here tomorrow to clear up afterwards, in case there’s any mess which I hope there won’t be, anyway, my bequest to them includes Bellevue, which I felt would not be a problem as it’s been a very long time since either of you were here and I therefore assumed the house would be of no interest to you because there was little of value amongst the contents, and whatever I’ve not given away has gone off to the tip so there’s nothing really left for you to worry about and certainly nothing further to attend to.
Please don’t dwell or my ending, even if you don’t agree with what I’ve chosen to do because I am completely relaxed and at peace with my decision and I am convinced that it’s the correct one, so finally I encourage you both to get on with your lives and – this part is very important - to try and enjoy yourselves as much as possible and remember the good times, all my love and a fond goodbye.
Your father,
Peter Mulligan”.

There’s a time shift you can’t see on paper but take my word for it because I wrote it as Peter’s thoughts come back to the present.

Peter: Mmm. I wonder if it’s worth saying a prayer just in case because it would be like taking out insurance I suppose but I wonder if I remember any?

Now a TV quizmaster starts competing with the buzzing and Vera and Lorna and their incessant meet again don’t know where don’t know when.

Peter: Well here it comes Peter Mulligan so here’s the big one the sixty-four thousand dollar question is… well what is it really?

‘Ah well, the big question I suppose is this: When the moment critique arrives, will I have the courage to put my happy hour drink to my lips and say cheers, this is it, the end is neigh, and this is the absolute finish?’

Peter: Yes. I’m sure it’ll be easy. All that’s called for, is a simple toast. and that’s it. But… Will I be strong enough to say Skol!? For the last time. Because that’s what it all boils down to. The whole of one’s life distilled down to a single word.

‘But it’s such a foul looking concoction and without making a fuss and without Lorna being here to help me because if I do there’s no going back you can’t unscramble an omelet can you especially a suicide omelet and without her here there I go using a mixed metaphor again but I can’t think of a suitable alternative?’

Peter: So, do I finally have the courage?

‘Now that I’ve taken the first step and taken the first analgesics and now how long to peak blood levels and how long will they last and when will the effect wear off and what if I’m not here to know they’ve worn off and and and who knows what will happen then?’

Peter: Well I think I will anyway. I’ll give it a go.

‘Well come on give me the tools and I’ll get on with the job which shows that my imitations and impersonations are still quite good which means nothing’s started to happen yet as far as the numbing effect of paracetamol is concerned on my brain or nervous centre if you like.’

Lorna: Procrastination is the thief of time, Peter. Let’s just get on with it.

Peter: Well, yes, OK darling, but just hang on a sec.
Because I’d like to pause for a bit. Think about it. Wait a few minutes and see what happens…
Am I really ready to cross over do you think?

Lorna: The trouble is sooner or later you have to pay the Ferryman, Peter. We all do. Just like I did when I left you.

Peter: Well yes, OK, so perhaps I should just say down the hatch and we’ll meet again some sunny day and get it over with.

SO LET’S SEE IF I’VE FINALLY GOT THE GUTS.

*****

If you would like to contact me, please click on this sentence to send an email.

THE KILLING OF FAT BOY KOEN

2011-11-23T08:55:00.000-08:00

A WARNING FOR READERS
PLEASE NOTE:

This is a novel about corruption in high places and drug-fuelled violence. Nasty characters do terrible things to their enemies. Some readers may be offended by the gratuitous violence, the expletive laden dialogue, explicit descriptions of sex acts and the sexual predilections of some of the characters.
It is not for the faint hearted. If your taste in crime fiction leans towards Agatha Christie, it may be better to stop reading now. But if you feel up to a tough, violent, gritty gangster story, please read on…

DEDICATION

Once again this book is for Lynne, even thoughshe probably won’t read it.

Well, maybe when I’m dead.

But even then she certainly won’t like it.

I have written a wicked book, and feel spotless as the lamb.
Herman Melville (1819-1891)

THE KILLING OF FAT BOY KOEN

CHAPTER 1 - BOYS WILL BE BOYS

If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.
Niccolo Machiavelli (1469 -1527 )

Mercy? What’s that mean?
You must be kidding.

What Terry Cain saw those animals do to Koen’s overweight young brother at the far end of Queer Street that night proves that there is no such thing as mercy.
Not in their lives, anyway.
Because things are different in that twilight place on the fringe of that dirty city. So the idea of forbearance or compassion would not have been understood. The concept just doesn’t exist in this world that thrives at the edge of civilized society. Pity or compassion shown to enemies is simply not on.
No one who witnessed the murder would have heard of mercy. They wouldn’t understand it, and no one would expect it.
And what MD Smith did to the Fat Boy Koen before killing him confirms this point in spades.

The only possible exception was Terry Cain. Perhaps. But this was by no means certain, because he too had lived in the shadows all his life. He’d grown up with MD Smith in that penumbra of violence and terror on the mean side of town. Not far from that place where Queer Street loses itself, and where Smith proved that night that evil lives among us. In a fevered display of cruelty and barbarism.

Queer Street started out as Queen Street at the industrial edge of the concrete tenements, crumbling factories and slum housing that ran down towards the river. But where it ended was hard to determine. It meandered through a wasteland of trash and detritus. A maze of abandoned white goods, smashed televisions, builders rubble, household waste and burnt out vehicles. A few miles from the last warehouses and wire-fringed lots, it became known as Queer Street where it degraded and eventually lost itself somewhere in these vast acres of junk. In a polluted marshland that separated the grimy metropolis from the gloomy river. So Queer Street was really a cul de sac. A no through road. A dead end. And this was where the Fat Boy ended up dead.

It was then, and still is to this day, a remote and desolate space where bands of deprived kids and scavengers scratched and sifted and fossicked through the rubbish. Territorial competition resulted in savage pitched battles fought out regularly by various gangs, who practiced their skills, hoping to rise up the social ladder to enter a more productive life of crime. But even they stayed on the periphery and rarely penetrated this far into the dump where mounds of debris, piles of plastic, rusting metal and rotting beams gave off the smoke and fumes of spontaneous combustion. Where the Fat Boy was going to meet his maker. If you believe in that kind of thing.

Somewhere near the centre of this god-forsaken space, a man was chained upright to a wrecked car. He was stout and in his late twenties. Since childhood his body had managed to produce just enough melanin to avoid being classified albino. And the lack of pigment in his irises gave them a red appearance that caused rapid and irregular eye movements. Using a somewhat modified aphorism, someone had once said that he looked like a hyena caught in the headlights of a truck.

This was the Fat Boy, whose real name was Bobby Koen. He’d been caught, and he would soon be in the headlights. Literally. On this occasion looking more like a scared rabbit than an African scavanger. And on that bitter night in the wasteland he’d soon be everyone’s focus of attention. Except, perhaps, Terry Cain. Because Terry Cain was different. Well, not much really, but a little different, perhaps.

Fat Boy Koen had blood dribbling out of his mouth and snot running down his cheeks.
He was also naked, and his ample, protruding stomach almost covered his genitals. Almost, but not quite.
Several cars, bright, shiny, top of the market cars, were drawn up facing the wreck that was serving as the Fat Boy’s stake.
A band of men was watching the Fat Boy who was pleading and promising and appealing.
But they were not listening to him. They were waiting for things to happen. As they waited in anticipation of a memorable evening.
And Bobby Koen’s fate was not in their hands.
The Fat Boy was begging and beseeching them to do something. ‘It wasn’t me. Let me go. I’ll do anything.’ But to no avail.
Because everyone present, including the Fat Boy himself, knew it would never happen. He was surrounded by deaf ears. And his words fell on them. They were not listening to him. He would not be set free. Not that night. Nor the next day. Not ever. Never.
Even Terry Cain knew it was not possible. No one would dare to deal with the exposed man before MD Smith arrived.

Terry Cain watched a few gulls as they rose and fell from the rubbish piles in the murky surrounds. They flew in jagged, random patterns ignoring the decadent odours that seeped up through the trash and defiled the night air. A cold wind had picked up bringing with it the sound of an approaching vehicle. An expensive black car drove slowly down the rutted road carefully avoiding the cavities and potholes as it picked its way towards centre stage. It was spattered with mud and grime and it made scraping noises when its low clearance grated over protrusions in the track.

Terry Cain felt in his pocket for a tablet. He pressed one out from its silver wrapper and chewed well before swallowing. Just like it said to on the pack.
He liked watching birds. Even gulls, but they suddenly flew off into the deepening night. He wished he could disappear like they had. He wanted to be out of there. Somewhere far away. For a moment his mind wandered off to exotic locations. ‘Take me away, silver bird.’
But when the car door opened, his mind came back to the Fat Boy - and the new arrival.
Things were about to happen. Bad things.

Michael Douglas Smith, also known as MD Smith, and another name, got out of the car. His eyes swept quickly over his men. They were his, because over many years, he’d made every one of them beholden unto him. They were loyal, they all relied on him, and they all did his bidding. But no one should ever forget that loyalty always has its limitations. As we shall see.

When it was his turn to be scrutinized, Terry Cain thought Smith’s eye contact with him had slowed - perhaps stopped for a moment - and before they had moved on to the other men. He hoped this fleeting moment was an extra token of recognition, like an instructor’s wispy smile on receiving a half intelligible answer from an apprentice. But he was not sure. He’d never been sure with Smith. Although he’d known him all his life, he knew Smith was capable of forgetting. Yes, all bonds are tenuous. And finite. And Terry Cain knew that Smith could and would forget everything. Including Terry Cain and the long years they’d known each other. Instantly, if it suited him. And if it was expedient to do so.

When he was out of hearing distance, most of the men called him the Mad Dog Smith.
Where this epithet had come from no one knew.
Except Terry Cain, who had been there when it was applied. All those years ago.

Terry Cain had seen Smith in action many times. Including when the epithet stuck. So, although the nickname was only used behind Smith’s back, even his best friend Terry Cain thought they were appropriate.

Why?
Well, here’s why.

When he was a kid, MD Smith had been a leader of kids.
He’d caused havoc in the lower grades at school. He had intimidated the teachers and bashed and bullied his classmates. He’d caused mayhem in the playground. The rough tar coating was regularly spattered with blood as he fought for control of disparate groups of kids, just as he would fight his way through his formative years, and then, eventually, he would go on to fight his way to the top. Right up to the summit of a profitable crime syndicate. A very profitable enterprise indeed.

When he became the head of a teenage gang whose violence and ruthlessness were notorious, they’d terrorized the neighborhood with mindless vandalism and petty crime. And Smith had devised ways and means to force other gangs to disband, or they were driven into oblivion.

And then MD Smith became a leader of men.

He’d done time in his early twenties. And he’d made many useful contacts inside, both amongst his fellow inmates, but also with numerous crooked prison officers.
All screws have their own influence and contacts, and, once out, Smith had retained and nurtured this network of connections. It soon flourished and became part of a complex grid that criss-crossed power and politics and reporting and policing - and, of course, crime.
It had proved very useful very often. And to all concerned.

But what about the epithet?

Well, the name was pinned on Smith by a dying man. A tired man. A man who had been tortured to the point of wishing for death. ‘For the love of God get it over with. Kill me now. You’re a fucking mad dog Smith.’

If the boot or the name fits, wear it, and from that day on, Smith became permenantly associated with a denenour symptomised by hallucinations, delusion of grandeur, suspiciousness, aggression, and sometimes, catatonic behavior.

CHAPTER 2 - THE GARDNERS WORLD GUARANTEE

Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in him.
The Bible

As everyone knows, a guarantee is something that gives a certainty of outcome, and the Mad Dog certainly had a certain outcome in mind that grimy night, so, back to that twilight location which had now turned into a very grim scene indeed.

MD Smith had a box in his hands. It was from a garden centre. And like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat, he took his time opening it. He wanted everyone’s attention. Their full attention. This was a moment of high drama. It was going to be very dramatic indeed.

‘OK. All set?’

He wanted everyone to see. He wanted them to speculate on his intentions. When they saw what he had. In the box. Especially the Fat Boy. When he realized what lay ahead. What was in store for him. What the Mad Dog had in mind for his victim that night at the end of Queer Street. That terrible night that would have such horrible repercussions.

This was retribution, and Smith wanted the fat man’s blood to pound. His vision to slow. A tachycardia to set in. For the pound of flesh demanded. He wanted panic to grip the naked man’s throat. And his testicles. And his anus. The thought of involuntary muscular movement of urinary and anal sphincters excited the Mad Dog. Especially the idea of their sudden relaxation. And expansion. With the resulting outpouring of urine and faeces - that dreaded smell of incontinence - and the pervading stench of piss and, if you’ll forgive the scatology, shit, that would surely follow. Just like the last time.

Smith went on with the show. ‘Great place, Gardeners’ World. The shop - not that poncy, high class TV show. You know, the gardener’s store? Great gear they have. Good prices too. And everything’s guaranteed.
So, OK? Ready?’

MD’s gaze passed over the ring of men again. Most of them avoided eye contact. But Terry Cain stared straight back at him. He thought about making a barely perceptible shake of the head. A tiny indication of dissent. At what he knew was about to happen. But expedience made him decided otherwise.
So Smith’s line of vision moved on uninterrupted until his eyes came back to the Fat Boy. And his mind focused on the Fat Boy’s fate. And the task ahead.

‘Bloke there said I could bring these back if they don’t work. So long as I’ve still got my receipt. And provided they’ve only been used for what they're designed for.’
He sniggered. The others sniggered. Everyone did except Terry Cain and the Fat Boy. Terry Cain turned away so that no one noticed. He was trying not to be with them. He was willing himself not to be there. He wanted to fly away just like the scrawny gulls had done.

But the Fat Boy couldn’t turn away. Because he couldn’t turn at all. In any direction. His chains held him firmly in place. And when he moved his broken lips, no sound came out, but more blood ran down his face onto his chin. Then it dripped into the fine hairs sprouting out of the freckles on his chest and onto the pale white skin that lacked the melanin to protect it.

Ben and Marge were both being intrusive. Just when they were definitely not wanted. There they were skulking about on the fringe of Terry Cain’s thoughts. With all their usual baggage. ‘Not now,’ he tried to get across to them. ‘Fuck off and leave me alone. I’ll handle this.’
They’d just get in the way. Which was not a good idea. Not now that Smith’s dander was up. With adrenalin and other stuff coursing through his veins. And his bloodshot eyes a precursor to what was on his bloody mind.

‘Come on, let's get on with it,’ said a black man who was sweating slightly.
‘I want to get back down the pub.’
He had a girl to meet. So to speak. In other words, to use a euphamism.

Smith gave the man a glittering eyed withering look.
‘You go whenever you like, Jim. That's OK. You can go right now if you want to.
Back to your tart. Your black tart. Or is she creamy white? What is she Jim? Which do you prefer? To give things to. Your thing.’

Black Man Jim looked at his feet.

‘You’ve got something in mind for her tonight, have you? Is what you mean, I suppose? Something dirty, I’d guess, judging by the hurry you’re in. You’ve got something to give her, I believe. Black or white, something she’d like. Am I right Jim? You’re going to give her something tonight, are you?
‘Off you go then. We can finish the job on our own if you like.’

Black Man Jim hesitated. ‘No, no, MD. No problem, there’s no hurry, really. It’s all right. I can stay. As long as it takes, anyway. There’s no problem at all. I got the time. I assure you. She can wait.’

Black Man Jim put the idea of meeting the girl in the pub out of his mind. He knew that this could take a while. This business was important. The business of a white boy, a very white boy, who was due his comeuppance. Which was about to be realized in a ravaged landscape where even Queer Street eventually gave up its existence.

MD Smith nodded. ‘OK Jim. That’s better. That’s good Jim. I’m glad you’ve found the time. To stay with us, I mean. She can wait can’t she? You’ll still be good when you get there. To give her one.’ He gave a thin, stained cracked tooth black mouth smile.

Then he moved towards their focus of attention.
‘But don’t worry, Jim, this won’t take long. Will it Fat Boy? Jim will soon be down the pub. Giving his girl friend whatever she wants.’

Smith opened the Gardeners World box.
‘It won't take long at all. I'm sure our friend here will cooperate. Won’t you Fat Boy? You'll sing won’t you? Yes, I’m sure you will. Because I know you know what’s good for you, don’t you?’

He started reading from the carton.
‘Pruning roses. That's what they're made for.’
Then he pulled a shiny green pair of secateurs out of the box.

‘They usually tell us what we want to know quite quickly, don't they Fat Boy?
Like last time. It was over in half an hour, it was. Just thirty minutes or so and we knew all we wanted to know.
So, it shouldn’t take much longer this time should it Fat Boy?
And then you can get back down the pub, Jim. We wouldn’t want to slow Jim down, would we Fat Boy? He wants to show that chick what he’s got. Because that’s what she’s waiting for isn’t it? That’s what she wants. That’s right Jim, isn’t it?’
He sniggered. Black Man Jim sniggered. Bashfully.
Some of the others thought it prudent to snigger too.

Smith snapped the pruning blades together several times as if testing them.
He smiled.
‘OK. Let’s see what else it says.
Quality product. OK? Stainless steel. Razor sharp blades.
That’s good, you’ll appreciate that, won’t you Fat Boy? Yes, I’m sure you will. The sharper the better as far as you’re concerned.
Ideal for trimming roses.
That all OK with you Fat Boy? Your rose ready for some pruning?
Take a bit off shall we?’

MD Smith laughed out loud. Most of the men laughed out loud.

Terry Cain did not laugh out loud. He turned his head away so they wouldn’t notice he was not laughing out loud. His hand moved involuntarily to the tattoo on his neck. He ran his fingers along the slightly raised edges left by the old scar tissue. It was a habit he couldn’t stop himself doing. Especially when he was tired. Or scared. Or both. And Terry Cain certainly was on edge. He’d seen this all before. Several times. Well, if truth be told, many times in one form or another. He felt in his pocket for a tablet.

As Smith walked towards him, the stout man struggled with the chains that kept him hard up against the wrecked car. Through blood and broken teeth he said, ‘Sweet Jesus. It wasn’t me! I swear! I wasn’t there! I was nowhere near the park. I never go up The Punjab. Why in God’s name would I?’

But the Fat Boy was there the day it happened. They all knew that.
The kids had seen him. The Fat Boy and his girlfriend. Who’d run away. Yes, the Fat Boy certainly was in The Punjab, the park that served, if that’s the word, the high-rise slum buildings that looked onto that pitiable space.

‘Jesus, Smith please. For Christ’s sake unhook me. I’ll do anything. Just let me go.
My brother will pay you. Whatever you want. Just name your price.’

But the Fat Boy had a problem. A real problem. It was the reason he was chained to the wreck. And it was a problem that would prove hard for him to overcome. Because it was an insoluble problem. As far as the Fat Boy was concerned, there was no way out from his problem. Because he was chained to a car. And that was it. Any possible answer to the problem was out of his control.

So what exactly was his problem?

Well, this was his problem. He had something of theirs. He had taken it. Or, more accurately, he had had something of theirs. But now he no longer had it. Because it had gone out of his possession. Ergo he was now no longer in a position to give it back. The plastic bag he’d taken from The Punjab. The day he’d killed the kid.

But of course they didn’t believe him. MD Smith didn’t understand ergo. When the Fat Boy told them he didn’t have the bag anymore, and therefore couldn’t give it back. And MD Smith called him a liar. When he said he didn’t know where it was. Or who had it.
Smith had gone white with anger. He swore. Which was very unusual for Smith. ‘You’re a liar, Fat Boy. A dirty bloody porky pie liar.’

But Terry Cain had a different perspective on what was about to happen.
He knew the bag the fat boy had taken from The Punjab wasn’t what Smith was looking for. There wasn’t much in that bag. Small pickings. Not worth all this fuss to get it back. It made no difference. No difference at all. Not a jot.

No, what Smith really wanted was… well…entertainment. To be the centre of attraction. To show off to his men. To be the star of an event. Something they would talk about afterwards. Down the pub. And laugh about. Something that would endure. Something they’d remember. Something that someone somewhere would say ‘Now that was entertainment.’
It would be a reminder of something that could happen to anyone. Easily. Especially if they fell out of favour with the Mad Dog.

Terry Cain had known Smith for a long time. Certainly long enough to know that he was mad. A complete psychopath in fact. And Marge agreed. On the rare occasions they’d discussed it. So did Ben.
Marge?
For Christ’s sake, why did she - and Ben - keep creeping back into his thoughts? To ply him with theirs. Those trivial ideas of theirs. About Smith and tattoos. Even though he was sure they both knew they were not wanted. Neither of them. Not if they knew what was good for them. Now was not the time to talk about Smith’s madness. Or getting rid of tattoos. Or how exotic the tattoo was.
So, now Terry Cain was doing his best to shut them both out. To get them away. Out of the way. To leave his thoughts like the drab grey gulls had done. They could talk about getting rid of his tattoo at some other time. Or about cutting his ties with Smith.

So he changed tack. Instead of being somewhere else, because he couldn’t get there. So he tried to focus on the nightmare. He concentrated on what was unfolding in front of him. But without Marge and Ben to complicate matters. And where the Mad Dog and the Fat Boy were the only players.

‘My brother will be after you lot. If something happens to me. I’m fucking warning you. Cos he’ll fucking kill you. All of you.’

‘OK. OK. Enough of that! You know I don’t like bad language. You know it upsets me. And when I’m upset I lose concentration. And I could slip when I’m doing my job. My pruning. Couldn’t I? And you wouldn’t want that. Would you now? You don’t want me to make a mistake, do you? You wouldn’t want me to cut off the wrong thing, would you Fat Boy?’

The cold wind was gathering strength as it blew across the rough ground where Queer Street lost its way. The fading summer twilight turned the derelict factories into inky silhouettes. A few black stacks hovered on the skyline, throwing their secret filth into the darkening sky. The traffic noise on the far away motorway competed with a few trains shunting aimlessly about in the marshalling yard on the edge of the city.
It was a bleak place and it had a feeling of remoteness and isolation. It felt as if no one had ever been there before them. And it was about to get bleaker and more remote that night.

‘OK. Now let's see how long it takes,’ Smith said as he walked towards the Fat Boy.

The tattoo on Terry Cain’s neck started sweating. It was a poor effort done long ago by an amateur artist, and the blue pigment had fused and spread, blurring the image and distorting the design.
So why the fuck did they keep coming back to talk about it? When he was doing his best to shut them out. To prevent them being present at what was about to happen. Marge and Ben. Two shrill voices when Terry Cain was trying to be somewhere else. Or trying not to be somewhere else. But willing them to be elsewhere. Anywhere but there.
One who was intent on telling him how he should get it removed, no matter how much it cost. The other to say how exotic it was. Because Ben would not acknowledge that even a pitiably bad indelible design that had caused extensive subcutaneous damage on Terry Cain’s neck was unattractive. And nothing was likely to change this. Beauty, after all, was in the eye of Ben, the beholder.

Smith was toying with them. Reading the blurb out aloud. Spewing out rubbish about garden maintenance. This was the prologue to dying. The antechamber to death.
They moved forward in anticipation. They wanted to take in the action. The detail. This was the stuff that fables were spawned from. It would be talked about for a long time. Perhaps forever.
But Terry Cain now concentrated on turning his mind into a blank. He was intent on thinking about nothing. He wanted his thoughts to stop working.

The fading light made it quite hard to see. It was an out of focus scene. Exactly what was it that Smith was going to do? Now that his body was so close to the Fat Boy that a tiny degree of static electricity passed between them.

Then Pete The Hat had an idea. He walked over to the ring of parked cars. The smart cars that belonged to the ring of excited men. He got into one and turned on the headlights. The about to be performed spectacle was flooded in light.

‘Yes, Pete!’ said Smith. ‘What a good idea. Now everyone can see what’s going on. You all want to see this in detail, don’t you?’
A few of the others wished they’d thought of the idea. To pick up an accolade from Smith was always a good idea. In actual fact, to be on side with Smith was always a great idea. Even though staying there for any length of time was quite hard to accomplish. Only Terry Cain had managed that.

‘In glorious Technicolor. And the Fat Boy can provide the stereophonic sound.’
MD Smith smirked at his joke.
Most of the men smirked when they saw MD Smith smirking. It was always worthwhile at least sniggering at Smith’s jokes. It was a good way to stay in his good books.

Smith bent over and scrutinized the Fat Boy's genitals at close quarters. His groin was covered in wispy genital hair. Thanks to Pete The Hat everyone could see quite clearly now. The Fat Boy was not that well endowed. No not at all. Not by any measure of the imagination.
Or so it seemed to those watching. But perhaps this was just fear doing its job of tightening sphincters and contracting tissue. Especially erectile tissue, because an erection was not on. No, not right now, anyway. A palpable all pervading sense of fear had seen to that.

‘OK. OK. Not much here really. Not much to work with. Quite small. Rather thin really. For someone so fat. This could be quicker than I thought. We'll all be tucked up in bed quite soon.
And Black Man Jim can get down the pub. To get to work on his lady friend. Same bits of anatomy involved, I suppose, but somewhat different work.’

The Mad Dog bent over. His left hand went out towards the rose stem. The flower of the Fat Boy’s youth.
His right hand was snapping the blades open and shut.

Terry Cain looked on without seeing anything. The tattoo on his neck glistened with sweat as the Fat Boy's shrill voice rose into the air. He felt in his pocket for another tablet. But he couldn’t bring himself to put it into his mouth.
MD Smith let out peals of laughter. ‘That’ll teach you. Not to steal. Not to take other peoples stuff. That’ll learn you a lesson.’

‘Yes, you fat fucker!’ added Black Man Jim, keen to make amends.

The Fat Boy’s torture and the Mad Dog’s fun turned into the furious sounds of both men screaming. But their screams were overwhelmed by industrial noise. And then they were absorbed by the night as Smith’s pleasure and Fat Boy Bobby Koen’s pain were sucked out together and forced upwards to join and merge with the rising muck that emanated from this filthy place. And up higher and higher to where the vibrations of agony dissipated in the thinner air and finally disappeared into the dirty night sky.

Never to be forgiven by one who was not there.

Because those memories of that night would become a problem for Smith and the others who were in attendance at the emasculation and murder of Fat Boy Bobby Koen. When the Koen family got into gear. Into retribution mode, that is. When this thing would escalate. And get out of hand. With dire consequences for all concerned.

Terry Cain’s eyes were shut. But then he opened them. He looked at Smith who was standing in front of the limp grey corpse with the gaping cavity. As The Fat Boy’s life force was forced out of his groin by ever-fainter heartbeats to ebb away in a thinning, dripping, dribble of gore.

Smith then added a revolting primaeval conclusion, mimmiking the religious beliefs and practices of half the world by involving parts of the Fat Boy’s body and his blood. A Eucharistic big mac.

And there in front of him, indelibly and forever etched onto a zinc plate in Terry Cain’s memory bank, was the Mad Dog, with bloody secateurs and crimson smears on his arms and palms.

And with blood stains all over his fingers and mouth.

CHAPTER 3 - BREAKING NEWS

Life’s a bitch and then you die.
Anthony Cruz (b 1972)

In the beginning was the word. And the word spreads. It says so in the Bible. Have a look. It’s in there somewhere.

It didn’t take long. Naturally. Of course it didn’t.
Because even in the tangled jungle of underground crime there’s a law. The law of reprisals. But in this dismal zone, if someone takes an eye it’s not a talion that’s required. It’s more than an eye that’s wanted in compensation. Two eyes, for example. That might just do. But three eyes would be better. Which means escalation. And things go from bad to worse and then to a situation that can only be described as fucking mayhem. But that’s the way it is.

Reports swept across the city. And beyond. The word spread like wildfire.
But the word was always whispered, and never mentioned out loud when they talked about the killing of Fat Boy Koen at the end of Queer Street.
Everyone shied away from that word. That one particular word. Even the media. Although they danced around the edges, vaguely alluding to what had actually happened when the tortured man died, no one said the word out loud.
They used euphemisms. And innuendo. But the actual word was never heard on the airwaves, nor was it ever translated into sound or image or print.
As if this underworld, this underclass, this nether region of gangs and criminals and organized crime had some…well, some sense of decorum. But no, there must have been some other reason. Decorum? You mad? What the fuck’s that?

the more cynical suspected that this was not so. The criminal classes, they surmised, simply resisted saying it. That word. In the same way some, but by no means all, did not mix religious images with nouns relating to sexual organs or sexual acts when they swore. Even though others did.

And MD Smith, as we have seen, did not like swearing at all.

So why the word was avoided and never, or rather very rarely, spoken out loud, will have to remain a conundrum.
But there was no such reluctance to spread the news when the violence began. The bad news. It followed on the heels of the word spreading. The reports of what had happened.
For some it came quickly.
Sooner or later it reached out to many more.
Some, like those in the firing line, waited a little longer for news of their bad news. But their luck always ran out. The bad news eventually caught up with everyone. Gradually this gang warfare spread throughout the underworld.

The Queer Street killing was seen by some as simply a short byline in the protracted saga of a long-bubbling underworld dispute. And to a few it seemed like just another routine crime. For those who had never descended into this murky world, it was difficult to work out exactly what was going on. And for most, because they were not directly affected, it was easier to ignore the issue than to get involved. To stay at arms length was the order of the day.

But close observers of the gangs saw it differently. Those whose job is was to watch those involved in crime. They predicted that the Fat Boy affair was destined to spark a dramatic and measurable increase in violence and death.
And they were right.
They’d guessed correctly. Or they’d worked it out. From experience.
Because there was an immediate, protracted and bloody upsurge in lawlessness. And it soon ignited into a citywide war of attrition where even a few who thought they were not involved, or imagined they were out of sight and at a safe distance, were caught up in the mayhem.

Of course there were cynics amongst the law enforcement agencies who thought gang wars didn’t matter.
The Koens and the Smiths had been at it for years.
‘Let ’em kill each other as long as they like,’ was a sentiment often expressed amongst the ranks. ‘It’s a bonus for the taxpayer. And, for a change, we’re not in the firing line.’
As far as they were concerned, the more the killers killed each other the better it was for everyone.

But Koen didn’t see the killing of his brother in the same light as the authorities.
Fat Boy Bobby Koen was close family, and that was one of the few tenets of humanity that Koen harboured. Albeit a rather old fashioned idea. As we shall see, they all lived together in an enclave. A suburban territory that had seen terrible things. Where terrible things had been done to those seen to be the Koen clan’s enemies. Or perceived as enemies. In the cellars and garages and bathrooms and even back yards of the extensive conglomeration of dwellings belonging to the Koen’s at the end of that once leafy dead end road in that once desirable suburb.

Saliva dribbled down Koen’s chin as he spoke, and he kept rubbing his large, rubbery nose. Then he compressed his nostrils with his thumb and forefinger. It was a nervous habit. He’d had it since he was a kid.

‘That fucking Smith! I knew it. It’s the Mad Dog. Of course it was Smith!
It’s got his fingerprints all over it. Fuck him! And his gang.’
Koen’s hand moved up to his nose again.
‘I’ll kill every one of those perverts. That’s what they all are. Fucking perverts. What they did to my brother proves it.’ But he never mentioned the word.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He closed his nostrils with his fingers again.
‘Even if I have to kill the whole family! Everyone in his whole fucking family.’ By which he meant the Smith gang. Because Smith didn’t have any family anymore.

Koen’s other brother and his half brother said nothing. They were both very wary of Koen when he was in this kind of a mood. They both knew that anything could happen. They said nothing, knowing that whatever they said would be the wrong thing. They were acutely that anything could be misconstrued. Anything couls go wrong. With him in this frame of mind. For someone with his demenor one never knew what would happen next.

Koen slammed his fist on the desk. ‘Don’t just stand there! Do something!
Get after them you fucking idiots!’

Although the Koen family had limited members and limited skills, they did have plenty of money. And money has a habit of providing resources.
Although no one in the Koen family could claim to be head of the crossword solving society or a member of MENSA, the family swung into action. Koen had demanded action, and action he would get.

The Koen family enterprise was based on the free flow of stuff, and they had contacts and friends, so called, amongst those with other kinds of power and in all walks of life and whose collective interests were to maintain the status qou. So perhaps a quick outline of how the stuff of commerce flowed and how power was distributed throughout he city is in order.

The pecking order was this: politicians, bureaucrats and other government hangers on and all kinds of blood suckers in other prestigious walks of life sat on top of the pile. Then, not on the bottom, but at the working end of society, two main gangs and several other small criminal organizations controlled all the stuff that was distributed amongst their clients who came from all quarters of society.
Right down at the bottom of this schematic triangle of social strata were the dregs. But they were just as important as the clients at the top. Their custom soaked up any excess. Any dud stuff. All that not quite quality merchandise. Anything that was contaminated. Tat went to the bums the deadbeats, the down and outs and the dispossessed. Hardly worth mentioning really. They had been clients of those higher up the social ladder, but they were now beyond redemption. And they were customers who thrived on whatever was over.

You must have worked out by now that Smith and Koen controlled the two main gangs. Naturally they each had their respective contacts amongst the representatives of the other part of the triangle, but it was very difficult to work out who was in whose pocket. Let’s just say it was a morass of corruption. Yes, that should paint a broad-brush stroke image of everyone being on the take, which was the case. They all understood the symbiotic relationships that held the fabric of the city together and allowed the stuff to flow freely, and this loose commercial structure from which everyone benefited was maintained and supported at every level.
In short, imagine a city, metaphorically designed as a triangle, built on a foundation of corruption. and held together by immorality and sleeze.
Well, almost everyone, because those at the bottom, as we have seen, were beyond benefit. But the bottom line is that there was an endemic desire to maintain the status quo throughout the city.
Yes, yes, of course things went wrong. Of course things broke down. Of course tensions broke out. Of course there was rivalry. Of course there was greed. And excessive greed. To disturb the balance. And there were killings. And deaths. And worse. But that was always the case. And provided none of these things got out of hand, the commercial life of the city went on…and on…and on.

But every now and again the equilibrium of this rosy picture was disrupted. Some, who were prone to use bad language said some cunt had upset the scales. In this instance, those with foul mouths meant that the cunt was Smith. When he did what he did to the Fat Boy. Perhaps, they indicated, the cunt didn’t know what he was doing. Or he didn’t realize what the consequences would be. Or he didn’t think ahead. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care.
But from the perspective or the point of view of an third-person who knows all, it’s quite simple really. The omnipotent observer knows that what he did he did on purpose. If this needs justification, the narrator would point to Smith’s form. His background. His track record. In other words what he’d done before. Because the third-person omniscient narrative indicates motive, which has already been documented, as well as intent.
But, all this psychobabble aside, what MD Smith did to Bobby Koen that night certainly upset the apple cart. As we shall see.

So, as you might have guessed, and as you have seen above, Koen gave instructions. Retribution was on the cards. Revenge was demanded. And mayhem was the result.

Terrence Teddy Bear Green was one of the smaller fry who tried to stay as close as he could to a few of the Mad Dog Smith’s cohorts. He thought this would buy some kind of protection. But he was wrong. Pityably wrong.
Poor Teddy definitely was one of the minions. For example he’d never been in the Warehouse. He’d never spoken to Smith and Smith had never spoken of or to Teddy Green, who had occasionally driven a car around distributing some of the Smith stuff to kids. A small time hood if ever there was one. Selling candy to babies.
But they grabbed him anyway. Two of the Koen brothers just picked him up off the street and dumped him into a car.
They drove him to a slum high rise and hung him over the parapet on the seventeenth floor. When his pleading and shouting and screaming and crying had attracted enough people onto their balconies to see what all the fucking noise was all about, they let him go. Teddy Green only stopped screaming hen he hit the ground.

(To be continued)
If you would like to contact me, please click on this sentence to send an email.

FIT ENOUGH TO DIE

2011-11-08T00:14:00.000-08:00

FIT ENOUGH TO DIE

Sam started jogging at about the time that Mabel decided it wasn’t worth looking at her wrinkles any more.

‘Jesus I look old,’ she said to herself when she caught the bathroom light emphasizing the bags under her eyes. She was looking in the mirror to do her makeup.

And it was true. She looked old because she was old. Well, everything’s relative, but she was certainly passed her prime, as the saying goes.

Wrinkles had merged into awkward and tenacious folds and creases that had beaten even the most expensive cosmetic concoctions, magic lotions, rejuvenating potions and other skin wonder creams. Mainly on her face it’s true, but on other parts of her body too. But we won’t go into that right now.

Mabel and Sam had been happily married for seventeen years, and the kids had finally flown the nest.

‘Free at last. After half a century of bringing up children,’ is how Sam liked to put it.

When this raised eyebrows, he explained. ‘Well, three kids. Multiply each one by the roughly eighteen or twenty years that they’re with you, and that makes fifty or sixty. So that’s more than half a century of wiping bums and noses and handing out pocket money in ever increasing amounts.’

‘Oh stop it darling,’ Mabel would say. ‘Everyone’s heard it before. And it’s not very funny anymore. If it ever was, that is.’

‘Well, it used to be both. Funny and true. But that was in the old days. When you used to laugh a lot more. When we used to enjoy ourselves. And you were fun to be with.

But, somehow, we seem to have lost all that.’

Then a dark day dawned. Mabel’s mother moved in.

Something was happening in her head, and no one knew what.

She’d always been good to them and the kids, and she’d never been any trouble.

But not long after Grandpa Jack died, things started to change. She had boyfriends. Or she thought she did. She went away on ocean liners. In her imagination.

But she did go out at night. And that was a fact. Late. And people, usually the police, had to take her home.

‘Just imagine their faces,’ Sam said in the Mitre.

‘This old dame walking down the road at midnight. In her underwear. And you should have seen the underwear. She’d bought it from one of those mail order companies that advertise in catalogues. I think they’re great. But Marge throws them out as soon as they arrive. She thinks they’re disgusting. And I start getting a stiffy whenever I read them. When I can get my hands on them first that is.’

Not long after the rather sobering mirror mirror on the wall experience, Sam and Mabel’s relationship seemed to deteriorate. That’s what the neighbors thought anyway.

‘Maybe it’s her mother’s fault,’ said some of them.

Others had noticed Sam’s fitness routine. Jogging around the block. Working up a sweat. Smart new tracksuit. Obviously intent on reducing weight. And keeping fit.

‘I wonder what that’s all about?’ they asked.

Sam and Mabel, and most of their neighbors, had moved into the area at roughly the same time. Years ago, when the suburb was newly developing.

Young couples with aspirations for themselves and their kids. Mostly yuppie ideas they more often than not didn’t have the wherewithal to fulfill.

As the years passed, some became firm friends, some remained friendly no matter what, some fell out, some made up, some moved away, and others moved in.

It was a microcosm of modern, urban middle class living.

And, as one would expect, some succumbed to their inner emotions, their secret drives and hidden vices. Inevitably, a few wound up contravening a stricture of the scriptures.

The seventh sin. The most difficult one to subscribe to, some think. And the one, it seems, that hardly anyone remembers anymore. Or, to put it slightly differently, the one we most readily choose to forget.

‘So, Sam’s joined a gym, they tell me. What’s happened to him?’

This was in the Mitre, a good place to be during daylight hours if you had a thirst, and a good place to be out of at closing time when the atmosphere was alive with tension.

A group of regulars was buying rounds.

‘The closest I get to exercise is thinking about it.’

‘Good idea. And when you get the urge, you should sit down until it passes.’

Someone said, ‘It makes you smell.’ Another added that, ‘You only get a set number of heartbeats in your life. So why waste them on running?’

‘I recon Sam must’ve found a Sheila, that’s what I think.’

Many a true spoken in jest.

Sam had found someone, and when Marge found out she was devastated.

Days dragged into years, but they managed to adjust to Mabel’s mother’s intrusion. And Sam’s fitness regime was never mentioned.

The kids grew up and granny grew older. In a way it got easier as she added on the years, because she was asleep more often than not, heavily sedated to keep her where they wanted her.

Not wondering around the neighborhood at night in her underwear.

And luckily they could afford home-helpers.

‘They’ve saved our lives, those nurses or whatever they are,’ Sam told the guys at the club.

‘Couldn’t have done it without them. It’s one thing cleaning up kids when they’ve made a mess…’

‘OK, OK, Sam,’ someone interrupted. He didn’t want to hear the vivid, techincolour descriptions again. And, intent on changing the subject, ‘Hey, what about the cricket then? Their bowlers are amazing.’

One day Mabel’s mother passed away and it was all over.

Sometimes Mabel thought the old lady was dead long before she actually died. She was often in such a deep sleep Mabel assumed it was a coma.

But it was only part of her regime.

And when she asked the doctor about it he admitted that it was a routine procedure.

‘Well the tablets are partly to reduce the pain. And partly to keep you sane. Partly to ensure a good night's sleep and partly to keep her sedated and to stop her getting fractious or agitated.

So they’re prescribed to make your life easier too.

Quite safe really. But it's important she sticks to the dosage. Or you do, that is, because it's really strong stuff. Don't leave the tablets lying around where she can get her hands on them. And never give her more than six a day. That's the absolute maximum. Otherwise we’ll have ourselves a problem. A real problem, in fact.’

‘I find jogging relaxing,’ Sam would tell anyone prepared to listen.

One of his neighbors didn’t agree. ‘Jogging’s the pits. It should be banned.’

The bar was busy and they’d all been there a while.

‘It’s neither running nor walking. And it’s bloody boring to boot.’

‘Yea, I agree. It never got Jimmy Styxx anywhere either.’

‘What? Who? Who’s he?’

‘James Styxx. You know. The guy who invented jogging. Died of a heart attack. Early fifties, as I remember. In the sixties. Died in his fifties, is what I mean. And he made it popular in the sixties. So I rest my case. That should be warning enough for anyone. Because Stixx got himself fit enough to die. Through jogging. So whenever I feel like some exercise I have a vigorous sit down. And that’s about it.’

Sam kept out of the discussion on jogging after that.

The afternoon was settling into its usual boring pattern of well-worn jokes and anecdotes.

Then he left, pretending to go to the gents’, but not going back to the bar.

As soon as they realized he’d gone, someone said, ‘He'll soon be fit enough to see Barbara more regularly.’

‘Who's she?’

‘You know, his next-door neighbor. The one who helps him out from time to time. With his books, I think. And other things I’m beginning to think as well. Well she doesn’t live next door exactly, but round the corner. I think he's always fancied her, I do. It’s obvious. You just have to see them at a party. Like magnets they are. And you can see it written all over Mabel's face. It burns her up it does. She doesn't like him chatting her up. Not her, I mean Barbara. Not at all.’

‘So do you think Mabel knows what’s going on?’

‘Must do, I’d say. Can’t have missed it. Blind Freddy wouldn’t.’

Sam was cutting things fine, and Marge appeared not to have noticed. Or so it seemed.

But she had noticed several changes. She’d noticed his special high fruit and high fruit diet. She saw that he’d even cut down on his alcohol. Which he'd always loved.

And there were other changes. His business got busier. Much busier. And then he was away a lot. On trips.

Mostly overnight. Or even a few nights. And then weeks away became routine.

When Mabel finally worked out what was going on, she was devastated.

Of course there were some, a few, but not many, days when the equilibrium was OK. When they weren’t at each others throats.

There were even days when they got on reasonably well. Not quite the good old days, but not far off.

One afternoon they shared a bottle of cold white wine. Mabel felt relaxed and Sam seemed to unwind to a certain extent too. They appeared to have re-established something that had been lost between them. They sat close together. They brushed against each other from time to time.

The wine started to take effect. Sam streached. It was body language that Mabel had seen so many times before. ‘I’m ready when you are,’ was the underlying message.

‘Are we expecting anyone?’ he asked.

‘Not that I know of.’

They went inside.

But the spell was soon broken. She saw him looking at his naked body in the mirror. ‘Jesus. That’s not bad. What jogging’s done for me, I mean.’

‘Has jogging done it for you or are you jogging for someone else’s sake?’

‘What on earth do you mean by that.’

‘Well, you must know what all the neighbours are saying?’

He stared at her. He knew what was coming. He put his hand on his erection. ‘OK, so what are they saying?’

‘They say you’re fucking Barbara Black at every opportunity, that’s what they’re saying.’

Mabel brooded on her alternatives for a while. They all seemed bad. Or worse than that. Then she suddenly made up her mind.

She went into the storeroom. It had once been a large bedroom, but had gradually filled with old bicycles, tennis racquets, boxes of papers, dusty books and all kinds of the cast off detritus of urban living.

She found a chair and climbed up it to see onto the top shelf of a built in cupboard. There was a pile of magazines in the far corner. Not exactly hidden, but well out of the way. She opened one and stared at the photos. ‘Well, well, Sam certainly has some hidden dimensions. Never would have guessed he was into this kind of stuff.’

Right at the back Mabel felt the gun. She took it down and looked at it.

It had been Sam’s father’s father’s.

She got off the stool and went outside.

It was in a beautiful canvas cover with leather seams. His father had given it to him, but he’d never used it.

She was expecting Sam to come home from a trip that night, but she was also half expected a phone call to say, ‘Don’t expect me.’

She remembered how he’d showed the shotgun to her one day. A long time ago.

It was a twelve-gauge with intricate designs on both the stock and the barrels.

‘This is how it breaks open. This is how you put the cartridges into the firing chamber. These are the hammers that release when you pull the trigger. They hit the firing pin, which strikes the primer that explodes and forces the shot down the bore. Which we call the barrel. Two barrels, as you can see, but you don’t pull both triggers at once. Great weapon.’

But he got bored quickly and never showed any further interest in his grandfather’s gun.

‘If I was interested in guns I’d have joined the army.’

So it went back into the on top of the cupboard and was soon forgotten.

Until Mabel climbed up on the stool to look for it that fateful day.

She broke open the mechanism and put two cartridges into the blue-black chambers.

If Sam was coming home, he’d be due any minute now.

She lifted the stock to her shoulder and looked down the barrels. She pointed it at the garage door. At the neighbor’s pantry window. Her car windscreen. Then at Juno, the old family dog who had stirred and was now walking slowly towards her, wagging its tail.

Mabel put down the gun. She patted the dog. ‘Don’t worry darling. I’d never do anything like that to you.’

Mabel put the gun back into its case and went into the house. Back it went on top of the cupboard in the storeroom that had once been a bedroom.

In the kitchen she poured milk into a cup and put on the kettle.

The radio in the lounge was on and the presenter had just announced a cello concerto that she loved.

Mabel put some instant coffee into the cup.

When it was ready she sat down on her favorite high-backed chair and listened to the music. She closed her eyes.

Then she got up and went into the bathroom. She looked at her wrinkles in the mirror.

‘Jesus, I’m getting old,’ she said as she took a plastic phial out of the mirror-fronted cupboard.

She went back to her chair and sat down with her milky coffee.

The cello concerto was slowing as it neared the end of the fourth movement, preparing for the tension of the finale.

Marge heard Juno barking in the back yard.

She read the label on the medicine bottle. It contained her mother’s sleeping pills.

WARNING. MAXIMUM DOSE 6 TABLETS IN ANY 24 HOUR PERIOD. DO NOT TAKE MORE THAN THE PRESCRIBED QUANTITY.

The dog was scratching at the back door.

The cello was rising towards the final chords.

Marge carefully counted the pile of tablets she’d emptied onto the table next to her cup.

The total was many more than the prescribed dosage.

THE KILLING OF FAT BOY KOEN

2011-11-07T03:35:00.000-08:00

PLEASE NOTE

This is a novel about corruption in high places and drug-fuelled violence. Nasty characters do terrible things to their enemies. Some readers may be offended by the gratuitous violence, the expletive laden dialogue, explicit descriptions of sex acts and the sexual predilections of some of the characters.

It is not for the faint hearted. If your taste in crime fiction leans towards Agatha Christie, it may be better to stop reading now. But if you feel up to a tough, violent, gritty gangster story, please read on…

THE KILLING OF FAT BOY KOEN

By Ray Johnstone

I have written a wicked book, and feel spotless as the lamb.

Herman Melville (1819-1891)

DEDICATION

Once again this book is for Lynne, even though she probably won’t read it. Well, maybe when I’m dead. But even then she certainly won’t like it.

CHAPTER 1 - BOYS WILL BE BOYS

You have to show violence the way it is. If you don't show it realistically, then that's immoral and harmful. If you don't upset people, then that's obscenity.

Roman Polanski (b 1933)

Mercy? What’s that mean? You must be kidding.

What Terry Cain saw those animals do to Koen’s overweight young brother at the far end of Queer Street that night proves that there is no such thing as mercy. Not in their lives, anyway. Because things are different in that twilight place on the fringe of that dirty city. So the idea of forbearance or compassion would not have been understood. The concept just doesn’t exist in this world that thrives at the edge of civilized society. Pity or compassion shown to enemies is simply not on. No one who witnessed the murder would have heard of mercy. They wouldn’t understand it, and no one would expect it. And what MD Smith did to the Fat Boy Koen before killing him confirms this point in spades.

The only possible exception was Terry Cain. Perhaps. But this was by no means certain, because he too had lived in the shadows all his life. He’d grown up with MD Smith in that penumbra of violence and terror on the mean side of town. Not far from that place where Queer Street loses itself, and where Smith proved that night that evil lives among us. In a fevered display of cruelty and barbarism.

Queer Street started out as Queen Street at the industrial edge of the concrete tenements, crumbling factories and slum housing that ran down towards the river. But where it ended was hard to determine. It meandered through a wasteland of trash and detritus. A maze of abandoned white goods, smashed televisions, builders rubble, household waste and burnt out vehicles. A few miles from the last warehouses and wire-fringed lots, it became known as Queer Street where it degraded and eventually lost itself somewhere in these vast acres of junk. In a polluted marshland that separated the grimy metropolis from the gloomy river. So Queer Street was really a cul de sac. A no through road. A dead end. And this was where the Fat Boy ended up dead.

It was then, and still is to this day, a remote and desolate space where bands of deprived kids and scavengers scratched and sifted and fossicked through the rubbish. Territorial competition resulted in savage pitched battles fought out regularly by various gangs, who practiced their skills, hoping to rise up the social ladder to enter a more productive life of crime. But even they stayed on the periphery and rarely penetrated this far into the dump where mounds of debris, piles of plastic, rusting metal and rotting beams gave off the smoke and fumes of spontaneous combustion. Where the Fat Boy was going to meet his maker. If you believe in that kind of thing.

Somewhere near the centre of this god-forsaken space, a man was chained upright to a wrecked car. He was stout and in his late twenties. Since childhood his body had managed to produce just enough melanin to avoid being classified albino. And the lack of pigment in his irises gave them a red appearance that caused rapid and irregular eye movements. Using a somewhat modified aphorism, someone had once said that he looked like a hyena caught in the headlights of a truck.

This was the Fat Boy, whose real name was Bobby Koen. He’d been caught, and he would soon be in the headlights. Literally. On this occasion looking more like a scared rabbit than an African scavanger. And on that bitter night in the wasteland he’d soon be everyone’s focus of attention. Except, perhaps, Terry Cain. Because Terry Cain was different. Well, not much really, but a little different, perhaps.

Fat Boy Koen had blood dribbling out of his mouth and snot running down his cheeks. He was also naked, and his ample, protruding stomach almost covered his genitals. Almost, but not quite. Several cars, bright, shiny, top of the market cars, were drawn up facing the wreck that was serving as the Fat Boy’s stake. A band of men was watching the Fat Boy who was pleading and promising and appealing. But they were not listening to him. They were waiting for things to happen. As they waited in anticipation of a memorable evening. And Bobby Koen’s fate was not in their hands. The Fat Boy was begging and beseeching them to do something. ‘It wasn’t me. Let me go. I’ll do anything.’ But to no avail. Because everyone present, including the Fat Boy himself, knew it would never happen. He was surrounded by deaf ears. And his words fell on them. They were not listening to him. He would not be set free. Not that night. Nor the next day. Not ever. Never. Even Terry Cain knew it was not possible. No one would dare to deal with the exposed man before MD Smith arrived.

Terry Cain watched a few gulls as they rose and fell from the rubbish piles in the murky surrounds. They flew in jagged, random patterns ignoring the decadent odours that seeped up through the trash and defiled the night air. A cold wind had picked up bringing with it the sound of an approaching vehicle. An expensive black car drove slowly down the rutted road carefully avoiding the cavities and potholes as it picked its way towards centre stage. It was spattered with mud and grime and it made scraping noises when its low clearance grated over protrusions in the track.

Terry Cain felt in his pocket for a tablet. He pressed one out from its silver wrapper and chewed well before swallowing. Just like it said to on the pack. He liked watching birds. Even gulls, but they suddenly flew off into the deepening night. He wished he could disappear like they had. He wanted to be out of there. Somewhere far away. For a moment his mind wandered off to exotic locations. ‘Take me away, silver bird.’ But when the car door opened, his mind came back to the Fat Boy - and the new arrival. Things were about to happen. Bad things.

Michael Douglas Smith, also known as MD Smith, and another name, got out of the car. His eyes swept quickly over his men. They were his, because over many years, he’d made every one of them beholden unto him. They were loyal, they all relied on him, and they all did his bidding. But no one should ever forget that loyalty always has its limitations. As we shall see.

When it was his turn to be scrutinized, Terry Cain thought Smith’s eye contact with him had slowed - perhaps stopped for a moment - and before they had moved on to the other men. He hoped this fleeting moment was an extra token of recognition, like an instructor’s wispy smile on receiving a half intelligible answer from an apprentice. But he was not sure. He’d never been sure with Smith. Although he’d known him all his life, he knew Smith was capable of forgetting. Yes, all bonds are tenuous. And finite. And Terry Cain knew that Smith could and would forget everything. Including Terry Cain and the long years they’d known each other. Instantly, if it suited him. And if it was expedient to do so.

When he was out of hearing distance, most of the men called him the Mad Dog Smith. Where this epithet had come from no one knew. Except Terry Cain, who had been there when it was applied. All those years ago.

Terry Cain had seen Smith in action many times. Including when the epithet stuck. So, although the nickname was only used behind Smith’s back, even his best friend Terry Cain thought they were appropriate.

Why? Well, here’s why.

When he was a kid, MD Smith had been a leader of kids. He’d caused havoc in the lower grades at school. He had intimidated the teachers and bashed and bullied his classmates. He’d caused mayhem in the playground. The rough tar coating was regularly spattered with blood as he fought for control of disparate groups of kids, just as he would fight his way through his formative years, and then, eventually, he would go on to fight his way to the top. Right up to the summit of a profitable crime syndicate. A very profitable enterprise indeed.

When he became the head of a teenage gang whose violence and ruthlessness were notorious, they’d terrorized the neighborhood with mindless vandalism and petty crime. And Smith had devised ways and means to force other gangs to disband, or they were driven into oblivion.

And then MD Smith became a leader of men.

He’d done time in his early twenties. And he’d made many useful contacts inside, both amongst his fellow inmates, but also with numerous crooked prison officers. All screws have their own influence and contacts, and, once out, Smith had retained and nurtured this network of connections. It soon flourished and became part of a complex grid that criss-crossed power and politics and reporting and policing - and, of course, crime. It had proved very useful very often. And to all concerned.

But what about the epithet?

Well, the name was pinned on Smith by a dying man. A tired man. A man who had been tortured to the point of wishing for death. ‘For the love of God get it over with. Kill me now. You’re a fucking mad dog Smith.’

If the boot or the name fits, wear it, and from that day on, Smith became permenantly associated with a denenour symptomised by hallucinations, delusion of grandeur, suspiciousness, aggression, and sometimes, catatonic behavior.

CHAPTER 2 - THE GARDNERS WORLD GUARANTEE

Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in him.

The Bible

As everyone knows, a guarantee is something that gives a certainty of outcome, and the Mad Dog certainly had a certain outcome in mind that grimy night, so, back to that twilight location which had now turned into a very grim scene indeed.

MD Smith had a box in his hands. It was from a garden centre. And like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat, he took his time opening it. He wanted everyone’s attention. Their full attention. This was a moment of high drama. It was going to be very dramatic indeed.

‘OK. All set?’

He wanted everyone to see. He wanted them to speculate on his intentions. When they saw what he had. In the box. Especially the Fat Boy. When he realized what lay ahead. What was in store for him. What the Mad Dog had in mind for his victim that night at the end of Queer Street. That terrible night that would have such horrible repercussions.

This was retribution, and Smith wanted the fat man’s blood to pound. His vision to slow. A tachycardia to set in. For the pound of flesh demanded. He wanted panic to grip the naked man’s throat. And his testicles. And his anus. The thought of involuntary muscular movement of urinary and anal sphincters excited the Mad Dog. Especially the idea of their sudden relaxation. And expansion. With the resulting outpouring of urine and faeces - that dreaded smell of incontinence - and the pervading stench of piss and, if you’ll forgive the scatology, shit, that would surely follow. Just like the last time.

Smith went on with the show. ‘Great place, Gardeners’ World. The shop - not that poncy, high class TV show. You know, the gardener’s store? Great gear they have. Good prices too. And everything’s guaranteed. So, OK? Ready?’

MD’s gaze passed over the ring of men again. Most of them avoided eye contact. But Terry Cain stared straight back at him. He thought about making a barely perceptible shake of the head. A tiny indication of dissent. At what he knew was about to happen. But expedience made him decided otherwise. So Smith’s line of vision moved on uninterrupted until his eyes came back to the Fat Boy. And his mind focused on the Fat Boy’s fate. And the task ahead.

‘Bloke there said I could bring these back if they don’t work. So long as I’ve still got my receipt. And provided they’ve only been used for what they're designed for.’ He sniggered. The others sniggered. Everyone did except Terry Cain and the Fat Boy. Terry Cain turned away so that no one noticed. He was trying not to be with them. He was willing himself not to be there. He wanted to fly away just like the scrawny gulls had done.

But the Fat Boy couldn’t turn away. Because he couldn’t turn at all. In any direction. His chains held him firmly in place. And when he moved his broken lips, no sound came out, but more blood ran down his face onto his chin. Then it dripped into the fine hairs sprouting out of the freckles on his chest and onto the pale white skin that lacked the melanin to protect it.

Ben and Marge were both being intrusive. Just when they were definitely not wanted. There they were skulking about on the fringe of Terry Cain’s thoughts. With all their usual baggage. ‘Not now,’ he tried to get across to them. ‘Fuck off and leave me alone. I’ll handle this.’ They’d just get in the way. Which was not a good idea. Not now that Smith’s dander was up. With adrenalin and other stuff coursing through his veins. And his bloodshot eyes a precursor to what was on his bloody mind.

‘Come on, let's get on with it,’ said a black man who was sweating slightly. ‘I want to get back down the pub.’ He had a girl to meet. So to speak. In other words, to use a euphamism.

Smith gave the man a glittering eyed withering look. ‘You go whenever you like, Jim. That's OK. You can go right now if you want to. Back to your tart. Your black tart. Or is she creamy white? What is she Jim? Which do you prefer? To give things to. Your thing.’

Black Man Jim looked at his feet.

‘You’ve got something in mind for her tonight, have you? Is what you mean, I suppose? Something dirty, I’d guess, judging by the hurry you’re in. You’ve got something to give her, I believe. Black or white, something she’d like. Am I right Jim? You’re going to give her something tonight, are you? ‘Off you go then. We can finish the job on our own if you like.’

Black Man Jim hesitated. ‘No, no, MD. No problem, there’s no hurry, really. It’s all right. I can stay. As long as it takes, anyway. There’s no problem at all. I got the time. I assure you. She can wait.’

Black Man Jim put the idea of meeting the girl in the pub out of his mind. He knew that this could take a while. This business was important. The business of a white boy, a very white boy, who was due his comeuppance. Which was about to be realized in a ravaged landscape where even Queer Street eventually gave up its existence.

MD Smith nodded. ‘OK Jim. That’s better. That’s good Jim. I’m glad you’ve found the time. To stay with us, I mean. She can wait can’t she? You’ll still be good when you get there. To give her one.’ He gave a thin, stained cracked tooth black mouth smile.

Then he moved towards their focus of attention. ‘But don’t worry, Jim, this won’t take long. Will it Fat Boy? Jim will soon be down the pub. Giving his girl friend whatever she wants.’

Smith opened the Gardeners World box. ‘It won't take long at all. I'm sure our friend here will cooperate. Won’t you Fat Boy? You'll sing won’t you? Yes, I’m sure you will. Because I know you know what’s good for you, don’t you?’

He started reading from the carton. ‘Pruning roses. That's what they're made for.’ Then he pulled a shiny green pair of secateurs out of the box.

‘They usually tell us what we want to know quite quickly, don't they Fat Boy? Like last time. It was over in half an hour, it was. Just thirty minutes or so and we knew all we wanted to know. So, it shouldn’t take much longer this time should it Fat Boy? And then you can get back down the pub, Jim. We wouldn’t want to slow Jim down, would we Fat Boy? He wants to show that chick what he’s got. Because that’s what she’s waiting for isn’t it? That’s what she wants. That’s right Jim, isn’t it?’ He sniggered. Black Man Jim sniggered. Bashfully. Some of the others thought it prudent to snigger too.

Smith snapped the pruning blades together several times as if testing them. He smiled. ‘OK. Let’s see what else it says. Quality product. OK? Stainless steel. Razor sharp blades. That’s good, you’ll appreciate that, won’t you Fat Boy? Yes, I’m sure you will. The sharper the better as far as you’re concerned. Ideal for trimming roses. That all OK with you Fat Boy? Your rose ready for some pruning? Take a bit off shall we?’

MD Smith laughed out loud. Most of the men laughed out loud.

Terry Cain did not laugh out loud. He turned his head away so they wouldn’t notice he was not laughing out loud. His hand moved involuntarily to the tattoo on his neck. He ran his fingers along the slightly raised edges left by the old scar tissue. It was a habit he couldn’t stop himself doing. Especially when he was tired. Or scared. Or both. And Terry Cain certainly was on edge. He’d seen this all before. Several times. Well, if truth be told, many times in one form or another. He felt in his pocket for a tablet.

As Smith walked towards him, the stout man struggled with the chains that kept him hard up against the wrecked car. Through blood and broken teeth he said, ‘Sweet Jesus. It wasn’t me! I swear! I wasn’t there! I was nowhere near the park. I never go up The Punjab. Why in God’s name would I?’

But the Fat Boy was there the day it happened. They all knew that. The kids had seen him. The Fat Boy and his girlfriend. Who’d run away. Yes, the Fat Boy certainly was in The Punjab, the park that served, if that’s the word, the high-rise slum buildings that looked onto that pitiable space.

‘Jesus, Smith please. For Christ’s sake unhook me. I’ll do anything. Just let me go. My brother will pay you. Whatever you want. Just name your price.’

But the Fat Boy had a problem. A real problem. It was the reason he was chained to the wreck. And it was a problem that would prove hard for him to overcome. Because it was an insoluble problem. As far as the Fat Boy was concerned, there was no way out from his problem. Because he was chained to a car. And that was it. Any possible answer to the problem was out of his control.

So what exactly was his problem?

Well, this was his problem. He had something of theirs. He had taken it. Or, more accurately, he had had something of theirs. But now he no longer had it. Because it had gone out of his possession. Ergo he was now no longer in a position to give it back. The plastic bag he’d taken from The Punjab. The day he’d killed the kid.

But of course they didn’t believe him. MD Smith didn’t understand ergo. When the Fat Boy told them he didn’t have the bag anymore, and therefore couldn’t give it back. And MD Smith called him a liar. When he said he didn’t know where it was. Or who had it. Smith had gone white with anger. He swore. Which was very unusual for Smith. ‘You’re a liar, Fat Boy. A dirty bloody porky pie liar.’

But Terry Cain had a different perspective on what was about to happen. He knew the bag the fat boy had taken from The Punjab wasn’t what Smith was looking for. There wasn’t much in that bag. Small pickings. Not worth all this fuss to get it back. It made no difference. No difference at all. Not a jot.

No, what Smith really wanted was… well…entertainment. To be the centre of attraction. To show off to his men. To be the star of an event. Something they would talk about afterwards. Down the pub. And laugh about. Something that would endure. Something they’d remember. Something that someone somewhere would say ‘Now that was entertainment.’ It would be a reminder of something that could happen to anyone. Easily. Especially if they fell out of favour with the Mad Dog.

Terry Cain had known Smith for a long time. Certainly long enough to know that he was mad. A complete psychopath in fact. And Marge agreed. On the rare occasions they’d discussed it. So did Ben. Marge? For Christ’s sake, why did she - and Ben - keep creeping back into his thoughts? To ply him with theirs. Those trivial ideas of theirs. About Smith and tattoos. Even though he was sure they both knew they were not wanted. Neither of them. Not if they knew what was good for them. Now was not the time to talk about Smith’s madness. Or getting rid of tattoos. Or how exotic the tattoo was. So, now Terry Cain was doing his best to shut them both out. To get them away. Out of the way. To leave his thoughts like the drab grey gulls had done. They could talk about getting rid of his tattoo at some other time. Or about cutting his ties with Smith.

So he changed tack. Instead of being somewhere else, because he couldn’t get there. So he tried to focus on the nightmare. He concentrated on what was unfolding in front of him. But without Marge and Ben to complicate matters. And where the Mad Dog and the Fat Boy were the only players.

‘My brother will be after you lot. If something happens to me. I’m fucking warning you. Cos he’ll fucking kill you. All of you.’

‘OK. OK. Enough of that! You know I don’t like bad language. You know it upsets me. And when I’m upset I lose concentration. And I could slip when I’m doing my job. My pruning. Couldn’t I? And you wouldn’t want that. Would you now? You don’t want me to make a mistake, do you? You wouldn’t want me to cut off the wrong thing, would you Fat Boy?’

The cold wind was gathering strength as it blew across the rough ground where Queer Street lost its way. The fading summer twilight turned the derelict factories into inky silhouettes. A few black stacks hovered on the skyline, throwing their secret filth into the darkening sky. The traffic noise on the far away motorway competed with a few trains shunting aimlessly about in the marshalling yard on the edge of the city. It was a bleak place and it had a feeling of remoteness and isolation. It felt as if no one had ever been there before them. And it was about to get bleaker and more remote that night.

‘OK. Now let's see how long it takes,’ Smith said as he walked towards the Fat Boy.

The tattoo on Terry Cain’s neck started sweating. It was a poor effort done long ago by an amateur artist, and the blue pigment had fused and spread, blurring the image and distorting the design. So why the fuck did they keep coming back to talk about it? When he was doing his best to shut them out. To prevent them being present at what was about to happen. Marge and Ben. Two shrill voices when Terry Cain was trying to be somewhere else. Or trying not to be somewhere else. But willing them to be elsewhere. Anywhere but there. One who was intent on telling him how he should get it removed, no matter how much it cost. The other to say how exotic it was. Because Ben would not acknowledge that even a pitiably bad indelible design that had caused extensive subcutaneous damage on Terry Cain’s neck was unattractive. And nothing was likely to change this. Beauty, after all, was in the eye of Ben, the beholder.

Smith was toying with them. Reading the blurb out aloud. Spewing out rubbish about garden maintenance. This was the prologue to dying. The antechamber to death. They moved forward in anticipation. They wanted to take in the action. The detail. This was the stuff that fables were spawned from. It would be talked about for a long time. Perhaps forever. But Terry Cain now concentrated on turning his mind into a blank. He was intent on thinking about nothing. He wanted his thoughts to stop working.

The fading light made it quite hard to see. It was an out of focus scene. Exactly what was it that Smith was going to do? Now that his body was so close to the Fat Boy that a tiny degree of static electricity passed between them.

Then Pete The Hat had an idea. He walked over to the ring of parked cars. The smart cars that belonged to the ring of excited men. He got into one and turned on the headlights. The about to be performed spectacle was flooded in light.

‘Yes, Pete!’ said Smith. ‘What a good idea. Now everyone can see what’s going on. You all want to see this in detail, don’t you?’ A few of the others wished they’d thought of the idea. To pick up an accolade from Smith was always a good idea. In actual fact, to be on side with Smith was always a great idea. Even though staying there for any length of time was quite hard to accomplish. Only Terry Cain had managed that.

‘In glorious Technicolor. And the Fat Boy can provide the stereophonic sound.’ MD Smith smirked at his joke. Most of the men smirked when they saw MD Smith smirking. It was always worthwhile at least sniggering at Smith’s jokes. It was a good way to stay in his good books.

Smith bent over and scrutinized the Fat Boy's genitals at close quarters. His groin was covered in wispy genital hair. Thanks to Pete The Hat everyone could see quite clearly now. The Fat Boy was not that well endowed. No not at all. Not by any measure of the imagination. Or so it seemed to those watching. But perhaps this was just fear doing its job of tightening sphincters and contracting tissue. Especially erectile tissue, because an erection was not on. No, not right now, anyway. A palpable all pervading sense of fear had seen to that.

‘OK. OK. Not much here really. Not much to work with. Quite small. Rather thin really. For someone so fat. This could be quicker than I thought. We'll all be tucked up in bed quite soon. And Black Man Jim can get down the pub. To get to work on his lady friend. Same bits of anatomy involved, I suppose, but somewhat different work.’

The Mad Dog bent over. His left hand went out towards the rose stem. The flower of the Fat Boy’s youth. His right hand was snapping the blades open and shut.

Terry Cain looked on without seeing anything. The tattoo on his neck glistened with sweat as the Fat Boy's shrill voice rose into the air. He felt in his pocket for another tablet. But he couldn’t bring himself to put it into his mouth. MD Smith let out peals of laughter. ‘That’ll teach you. Not to steal. Not to take other peoples stuff. That’ll learn you a lesson.’

‘Yes, you fat fucker!’ added Black Man Jim, keen to make amends.

The Fat Boy’s torture and the Mad Dog’s fun turned into the furious sounds of both men screaming. But their screams were overwhelmed by industrial noise. And then they were absorbed by the night as Smith’s pleasure and Fat Boy Bobby Koen’s pain were sucked out together and forced upwards to join and merge with the rising muck that emanated from this filthy place. And up higher and higher to where the vibrations of agony dissipated in the thinner air and finally disappeared into the dirty night sky.

Never to be forgiven by one who was not there.

Because those memories of that night would become a problem for Smith and the others who were in attendance at the emasculation and murder of Fat Boy Bobby Koen. When the Koen family got into gear. Into retribution mode, that is. When this thing would escalate. And get out of hand. With dire consequences for all concerned.

Terry Cain’s eyes were shut. But then he opened them. He looked at Smith who was standing in front of the limp grey corpse with the gaping cavity. As The Fat Boy’s life force was forced out of his groin by ever-fainter heartbeats to ebb away in a thinning, dripping, dribble of gore.

Smith then added a revolting primaeval conclusion, mimmiking the religious beliefs and practices of half the world by involving parts of the Fat Boy’s body and his blood. A Eucharistic big mac.

And there in front of him, indelibly and forever etched onto a zinc plate in Terry Cain’s memory bank, was the Mad Dog, with bloody secateurs and crimson smears on his arms and palms.

And with blood stains all over his fingers and mouth.

CHAPTER 3 - BREAKING NEWS

Life’s a bitch and then you die.

Anthony Cruz (b 1972)

In the beginning was the word. And the word spreads. It says so in the Bible. Have a look. It’s in there somewhere.

It didn’t take long. Naturally. Of course it didn’t. Because even in the tangled jungle of underground crime there’s a law. The law of reprisals. But in this dismal zone, if someone takes an eye it’s not a talion that’s required. It’s more than an eye that’s wanted in compensation. Two eyes, for example. That might just do. But three eyes would be better. Which means escalation. And things go from bad to worse and then to a situation that can only be described as fucking mayhem. But that’s the way it is.

Reports swept across the city. And beyond. The word spread like wildfire. But the word was always whispered, and never mentioned out loud when they talked about the killing of Fat Boy Koen at the end of Queer Street. Everyone shied away from that word. That one particular word. Even the media. Although they danced around the edges, vaguely alluding to what had actually happened when the tortured man died, no one said the word out loud. They used euphemisms. And innuendo. But the actual word was never heard on the airwaves, nor was it ever translated into sound or image or print. As if this underworld, this underclass, this nether region of gangs and criminals and organized crime had some…well, some sense of decorum. But no, there must have been some other reason. Decorum? You mad? What the fuck’s that?

the more cynical suspected that this was not so. The criminal classes, they surmised, simply resisted saying it. That word. In the same way some, but by no means all, did not mix religious images with nouns relating to sexual organs or sexual acts when they swore. Even though others did.

And MD Smith, as we have seen, did not like swearing at all.

So why the word was avoided and never, or rather very rarely, spoken out loud, will have to remain a conundrum. But there was no such reluctance to spread the news when the violence began. The bad news. It followed on the heels of the word spreading. The reports of what had happened. For some it came quickly. Sooner or later it reached out to many more. Some, like those in the firing line, waited a little longer for news of their bad news. But their luck always ran out. The bad news eventually caught up with everyone. Gradually this gang warfare spread throughout the underworld.

The Queer Street killing was seen by some as simply a short byline in the protracted saga of a long-bubbling underworld dispute. And to a few it seemed like just another routine crime. For those who had never descended into this murky world, it was difficult to work out exactly what was going on. And for most, because they were not directly affected, it was easier to ignore the issue than to get involved. To stay at arms length was the order of the day.

But close observers of the gangs saw it differently. Those whose job is was to watch those involved in crime. They predicted that the Fat Boy affair was destined to spark a dramatic and measurable increase in violence and death. And they were right. They’d guessed correctly. Or they’d worked it out. From experience. Because there was an immediate, protracted and bloody upsurge in lawlessness. And it soon ignited into a citywide war of attrition where even a few who thought they were not involved, or imagined they were out of sight and at a safe distance, were caught up in the mayhem.

Of course there were cynics amongst the law enforcement agencies who thought gang wars didn’t matter. The Koens and the Smiths had been at it for years. ‘Let ’em kill each other as long as they like,’ was a sentiment often expressed amongst the ranks. ‘It’s a bonus for the taxpayer. And, for a change, we’re not in the firing line.’ As far as they were concerned, the more the killers killed each other the better it was for everyone.

But Koen didn’t see the killing of his brother in the same light as the authorities. Fat Boy Bobby Koen was close family, and that was one of the few tenets of humanity that Koen harboured. Albeit a rather old fashioned idea. As we shall see, they all lived together in an enclave. A suburban territory that had seen terrible things. Where terrible things had been done to those seen to be the Koen clan’s enemies. Or perceived as enemies. In the cellars and garages and bathrooms and even back yards of the extensive conglomeration of dwellings belonging to the Koen’s at the end of that once leafy dead end road in that once desirable suburb.

Saliva dribbled down Koen’s chin as he spoke, and he kept rubbing his large, rubbery nose. Then he compressed his nostrils with his thumb and forefinger. It was a nervous habit. He’d had it since he was a kid.

‘That fucking Smith! I knew it. It’s the Mad Dog. Of course it was Smith! It’s got his fingerprints all over it. Fuck him! And his gang.’ Koen’s hand moved up to his nose again. ‘I’ll kill every one of those perverts. That’s what they all are. Fucking perverts. What they did to my brother proves it.’ But he never mentioned the word. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He closed his nostrils with his fingers again. ‘Even if I have to kill the whole family! Everyone in his whole fucking family.’ By which he meant the Smith gang. Because Smith didn’t have any family anymore.

Koen’s other brother and his half brother said nothing. They were both very wary of Koen when he was in this kind of a mood. They both knew that anything could happen. They said nothing, knowing that whatever they said would be the wrong thing. They were acutely that anything could be misconstrued. Anything couls go wrong. With him in this frame of mind. For someone with his demenor one never knew what would happen next.

Koen slammed his fist on the desk. ‘Don’t just stand there! Do something! Get after them you fucking idiots!’

Although the Koen family had limited members and limited skills, they did have plenty of money. And money has a habit of providing resources. Although no one in the Koen family could claim to be head of the crossword solving society or a member of MENSA, the family swung into action. Koen had demanded action, and action he would get.

The Koen family enterprise was based on the free flow of stuff, and they had contacts and friends, so called, amongst those with other kinds of power and in all walks of life and whose collective interests were to maintain the status qou. So perhaps a quick outline of how the stuff of commerce flowed and how power was distributed throughout he city is in order.

The pecking order was this: politicians, bureaucrats and other government hangers on and all kinds of blood suckers in other prestigious walks of life sat on top of the pile. Then, not on the bottom, but at the working end of society, two main gangs and several other small criminal organizations controlled all the stuff that was distributed amongst their clients who came from all quarters of society. Right down at the bottom of this schematic triangle of social strata were the dregs. But they were just as important as the clients at the top. Their custom soaked up any excess. Any dud stuff. All that not quite quality merchandise. Anything that was contaminated. Tat went to the bums the deadbeats, the down and outs and the dispossessed. Hardly worth mentioning really. They had been clients of those higher up the social ladder, but they were now beyond redemption. And they were customers who thrived on whatever was over.

You must have worked out by now that Smith and Koen controlled the two main gangs. Naturally they each had their respective contacts amongst the representatives of the other part of the triangle, but it was very difficult to work out who was in whose pocket. Let’s just say it was a morass of corruption. Yes, that should paint a broad-brush stroke image of everyone being on the take, which was the case. They all understood the symbiotic relationships that held the fabric of the city together and allowed the stuff to flow freely, and this loose commercial structure from which everyone benefited was maintained and supported at every level. In short, imagine a city, metaphorically designed as a triangle, built on a foundation of corruption. and held together by immorality and sleeze. Well, almost everyone, because those at the bottom, as we have seen, were beyond benefit. But the bottom line is that there was an endemic desire to maintain the status quo throughout the city. Yes, yes, of course things went wrong. Of course things broke down. Of course tensions broke out. Of course there was rivalry. Of course there was greed. And excessive greed. To disturb the balance. And there were killings. And deaths. And worse. But that was always the case. And provided none of these things got out of hand, the commercial life of the city went on…and on…and on.

But every now and again the equilibrium of this rosy picture was disrupted. Some, who were prone to use bad language said some cunt had upset the scales. In this instance, those with foul mouths meant that the cunt was Smith. When he did what he did to the Fat Boy. Perhaps, they indicated, the cunt didn’t know what he was doing. Or he didn’t realize what the consequences would be. Or he didn’t think ahead. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care. But from the perspective or the point of view of an third-person who knows all, it’s quite simple really. The omnipotent observer knows that what he did he did on purpose. If this needs justification, the narrator would point to Smith’s form. His background. His track record. In other words what he’d done before. Because the third-person omniscient narrative indicates motive, which has already been documented, as well as intent. But, all this psychobabble aside, what MD Smith did to Bobby Koen that night certainly upset the apple cart. As we shall see.

So, as you might have guessed, and as you have seen above, Koen gave instructions. Retribution was on the cards. Revenge was demanded. And mayhem was the result.

Terrence Teddy Bear Green was one of the smaller fry who tried to stay as close as he could to a few of the Mad Dog Smith’s cohorts. He thought this would buy some kind of protection. But he was wrong. Pityably wrong. Poor Teddy definitely was one of the minions. For example he’d never been in the Warehouse. He’d never spoken to Smith and Smith had never spoken of or to Teddy Green, who had occasionally driven a car around distributing some of the Smith stuff to kids. A small time hood if ever there was one. Selling candy to babies. But they grabbed him anyway. Two of the Koen brothers just picked him up off the street and dumped him into a car. They drove him to a slum high rise and hung him over the parapet on the seventeenth floor. When his pleading and shouting and screaming and crying had attracted enough people onto their balconies to see what all the fucking noise was all about, they let him go. Teddy Green only stopped screaming hen he hit the ground.

CHAPTER 4 - AN EYE FOR AN EYE

And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?

William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

So that was it. The war was on. And it soon escalated into a full-blooded three cornered crime wave. With Smith and Koen and the law and their relative acolytes and allies and supporters being the trio of protagonists.

Steven Keegan was another of the early casualties. He was one those who was actually there that night at the end of Queer Street. Where the Fat Boy had been chained to the smashed car. And where MD Smith had demonstrated his gardening technique. His pruning skills. And that filthy thing that happened afterwards.

Terry Cain heard the news about his friend Steve Keegan in a bar one night. A man he hardly knew turned to him and said, ‘You heard about Keegan? Fell under a train. Up the junction. That’s what they say, anyway.’ The man touched his nose in a knowing manner. ‘And the train was traveling at speed. Not much left of him afterwards.’

They said, he said, that Steve had fallen down an embankment. And his body had bounced onto the rails he said they said.

‘What’s that mean?’ Cain asked. ‘How can someone bounce onto the rails? They’re nowhere near any embankment. There’s nowhere to bounce from.’

The man shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me mate. I’m just telling you what I heard. That’s all.’

The man said the body looked like hamburger meat. Mincemeat on the tracks. ‘Had to be scraped up,’ the man said. ‘And put into a plastic bag. All the bits and pieces. Scattered all over the place they were.’

He got up and walked down the bar. He picked up a newspaper and gave it to Cain. The newspapers said it looked like a suicide.

Cain was not so sure. ‘Fucking Steve.’ That was all he said. And a ripple of fear moved across the tattoo on his neck. He put a tablet in his mouth and chewed hard and reflectively.

Then there was more news. Quite soon. Bad news, as far as Terry Cain was concerned. One of the floaters pulled out of the pollution at the river mouth turned out to be Jim Crow Brown. Some kids who were fishing snagged his bloated corpse. They pulled it ashore and searched the body. When they found nothing, they carefully took the fishhook out of the rotting flesh and left the cadaver on the bank. The police arrived eventually, and noted that, for no apparent reason, both hands had been cut off. Terry Cain hoped that this had been done after death. But he wasn’t confident that this was the case. In fact he decided that someone had enjoyed hacking Keegan’s hands off just as Smith had enjoyed doing what he did to Bobby Koen. Nerve fibers in Terry Cain’s peripheral nervous system triggered an itch in the weird tattoo design on his neck. The desire to scratch was excruciating. He scratched, triggering an inflammatory response. The histamine released made the indelblue ink embedded in the dermis on his neck turn purple. It looked ridiculous.

The complacent attitude amongst certain members of the law enforcement agencies was not reflected by the public at large who began to feel that the city’s streets were no longer safe. The media picked up these sentiments too. It made good copy. And easy to write, eye catching headlines. Despite long standing loyalties and allegencies. Not to mention the symbotic relashionship between the story makers and the story writers. Relationships and friendships almost always built on the regular exchange of fat brown envelopes. In no time, many politicians and their friends and contacts on that side of the line started feeling queasy. Then uneasy. And uneasiness quickly developed into anger. What was going on? Why were the apples upset in the cart? What about the stuff that everyone relied on? To keep things going. Who was looking after distribution. And replenishment. And the income it provided? At every level. Who had an eye on that?

Then the great unwashed started to take interest. The hoi polloi were asking questions. Audacious questions. What was going on? Was the law asleep? Where were the authorities? On holiday? In the pockets of the criminal families? Or were they, audacious, as it was to ask, just simply one part of the intricate web of the criminal enterprise that spread into every corner of everyone’s lives?

Political pressure began to build up. Disregard of public sentiment became more difficult to ignore. Those in higher than high places started asking for results. All great friends when times were good, but far less friendly when things turned sour. And the bastards wanted answers.

The Chief Commissioner was in their line of fire. He realized he had to act. He had to do something. Something dramatic to show he was still in control. They’d forced his hand. But he was reluctant to upset the equilibrium. To disturb the delicate structure. The balance he’d worked hard to set up and maintain. The years of scheming and planning and cajoling and convincing and paying. To put it simply, rubbing and scratching of other backs was his life’s work and it worked rather well. Until the delicacy of the equlibrium came under stress. He ruminated for some time. He procrastinated. He was disinclined to move. To upset the status quo. To throw a pebble into the pond. His pond. Because who knew what would get stirred up? Who would the ripples upset? There were sure to be consequences. Down there in the slime. At the bottom end of the food chain. Unforeseen stuff was sure to happen. But the media was getting out of hand. The bastards had started to rattle cages. And, for the first time ever, they seemed to have forgotten the benefits of the reciprocal relationships that had developed. The common blood that flowed through their respective veins. The ties that had been nurtured by the moguls with huge network control and influence, and the agencies involved in law enforcement who could provide the news that the public craved. Reporters, it seemed, were sometimes willing to bite the hands that fed them. The news they reported and wrote about had become news. So the Big Man had made up his mind. The hurdle was there to get over. It would be seen as a measure of his worth. A test of his position and his power. His character. His ability to keep control. So he knew it required a solution that was … well … let’s say creative.

He thought about it for a long time. He weighed up the pros and cons. He evaluated the various options. He worked out the possible responses. Eventually he made up his mind. ‘Fuck them. F-fuck the lot of them.’ That simple. That was the conclusion he came to.

And the route the Chief Commissioner chose was certainly rather different.

Terry Cain was in the Harp. The barman said, ‘I heard they got Spuds. That Irish prick. Gay too, he was. Or so I’m told. But I wouldn’t know about that aspect. Not my line. Not into that. Most things. Not narrow minded, I’m not. But not up the gary. You know what I mean?’ Terry Cain thought he was protesting too much, but he didn’t pursue the point. The barman didn’t interest him. Shiny blue-black and big, perhaps, but not a bit like Brian, he thought. So he said, instead, ‘You mean Spuds Murphy?’ ‘Yeah,’ said the man behind the counter. ‘His body was found in a skip. It was badly done over. Difficult to identify even. No one knows who did it though. Or so they say.’ Cain shook his head. Cain had a reasonable idea who’d done it. The blue smudge on his neck was a very amateurish design. It was supposed to be a swallow. His hand moved up and rubbed it hard. He was trying to stop it itching. He felt in his pocket for the pack of tablets.

Then Terry Cain heard that Ratty Burrows had shot himself. On the same day the news about his cancer arrived.

But, as all neurosurgeons know, many suicides fail because the gun is placed against the temple as is so often if not always done in the movies. This means that when the bullet enters the skull, it invariably only severs the occipital nerve, missing the brain completely. So blindness is the result, instead of death.

Ratty Burrows was only a bag carrier. A very minor hanger on. But he had been there that night the Mad Dog murdered Bobby Koen. And in Burrows’s mind, they were after him. This was probably not correct. Because Ratty was so insignificant that it was unlikely anyone would have remembered that he was there. When they were spilling their guts. And ratting. And providing the names. Voluntarily, and in the hope that it would help with their own life expectancy. Or when the names were being extracted from them. Usually under duress. Burrows was getting on. Past fifty he was. And he was beginning to feel it. Then the night sweats started. He lost his appetite. He felt listless. And in the pub his drinking cronies quickly diagnosed the problem. They had heard about these symptoms. They put two and two together to work out the problem.

He stopped going to the pub so that he could concentrate on fretting about the retribution being handed out by the Koens, and worrying about his tests was getting to Burrows. And then the envelope arrived. He’d opened it with trepidation. He phoned his very elderly mother. She was a widow and lived alone. She knew his nickname, but she never used it. ‘Hellow darling, when you coming to see me again?’ She was well into her eighties, but had all her marbles. He rarely went to visit her. ‘Well, yes Mum. I will come. Promise. Soon.’ She suspected an ulterior motive for the call. ‘What is it darling? What’s on your mind?’ ‘I’ll spell it for you. It’s probably S-e-m-i-n-o-m-a. I’ve had these tests, see. I’m waiting for the results. But that’s what it’s called.’ ‘Oh.’ She started to cry. Then she said, ‘I hope it’s not serious, darling.’ ‘Depends what you mean by serious, I suppose, mum. I think it is though. It’s fucking cancer of the balls.’ He hung up.

Then he found the gun and placed it against his temple. Just like he’d seen it done in the movies. He pulled the trigger. The hot lead shot out of the barrel and blew out both orbits, severing the optic nerve as it smashed through the superior margin. But it completely missed his brain. Which, if you want to commit suicide, is precisely what you want to hit. Ratty Burrows had simply shot his eyes out.

The letter was both negative and positive. It confirmed that he did indeed have a testicular carcinoma. But it went on to point out in layman’s terms that the treatment of testicular cancer has been called one of the success stories of modern medicine. Because of advances in chemotherapy, cure rates now approach eighty five percent overall. This is the best response by any solid tumor. The near hysteria the opening paragraph had induced in Ratty Burrows prevented him from reading on. He never saw the encouraging ending. And now he never will.

So Ratty Burrows became a blind cancer patient. Another failed suicide. All neurosurgeons know the temple is not the spot. The barrel of the gun must go in the mouth. Up against the soft palette. Where it will blow the brains out. Which is the safest way to ensure instant death.

Well poor old Ratty did what he did to himself. But there were others who would never have done anything like what happened to them to themselves. That goes without saying. Here are some examples.

Several bodies were found amongst the beef. In the cold room at the city’s huge abattoir. They’d been hung up on hooks. Just like the animal carcasses were. Some with meat hooks through their necks and skulls. Needlessto say they were dead. But of the seven corpses, three had been beaten and then hung up by their Achilles tendons or their penniform muscles at the back of the leg. This was to ensure that they survived the ordeal. One paper reported that these victims were still alive when they lifted them down. But lifting down was a euphamism. In fact they just pulled the swinging men down by tearing them away from the metal hooks that held them off the ground. But that’s beside the point. The point was that they’d been hung up in a way that made sure they would live to tell the tale.

A few days later a rumor spread that there had been some clandestine burnings. At the crematorium. They said two of Koen’s lesser hoods had been stuffed into one coffin. Someone said that they were still screaming the makeshift double-bed box rolled into the flames.

Then more bodies turned up in garbage trucks. Three of MD Smith’s men were found without their heads. Their bodies were turned up in a vacant lot on the other side of the city. Terry Cain met another man in a pub. He knew the man only slightly. The man told Terry Cain all about it. The man knew someone who did forensics for the coppers. He’d been told that it took quite a lot of skill to match the heads with the bodies. When they eventually found the heads, that is.

Some kids looking for something to steal on a building site stumbled on a body. They never even thought about reporting it to the police. Then a builder looking for his hammer found the dead man. It was one of Koen’s men. His head had been beaten to a pulp with a hammer. There was nothing in the man’s pockets, so the kids had stolen the hammer.

These are the first few chapters of a 60,000 word novel I have just completed and that I am currently editing. (What could be more tedious?) I will post more chapters from time to time.

Needless to say I’d be delighted to get comments from anyone – even if you don’t like the book.

If you would like to contact me, please click on this sentence to send an email.

KICKING AND SCREAMING

2011-11-06T05:05:00.000-08:00

WARNING: THIS SHORT STORY CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE AND THEMES THAT MAY OFFEND SOME READERS.

KICKING AND SCREAMING

War against a foreign country only happens when the moneyed classes

think they are going to profit from it.

George Orwell 1903 - 1950

BAD THINGS

Jake had seen some bad things during his tour of duty. But now he was doing his best to forget them.

The plane banked abruptly and Pete woke up.

Jake looked out of the window. Nothing to see but cloud.

‘Well, it’s over now. At last. The day we’ve been waiting for. All our lives. Or so it seems.’

Pete yawned and stretched. His shirt lifted up showing a soldier’s stomach. The result of six months of active service. Rigorous stuff.

‘Right on. We’ll be safe as houses soon. If the pilot gets us down OK.’

Jake nodded. They’d spent a lot of time together during the last six months, but now he realised that he was hoping not to see Pete again after they landed. Not ever.

‘I’m sure you all know that advertising’s misleading.’

Pause.

‘But I’m here today to tell you that our army recruitment stuff’s an outright fucking lie.’

Another pause, to let that sink in.

‘We don’t have any pretty young boys from central casting playing at being men on this training course or at this base.’

Quite a statement barked out by a senior officer on his first day, but Jake soon found out the truth of the statement.

The reality of army life was nothing like that shown in press ads or on the recruiting office posters or in the colour supplements or on TV. No, nothing at all like that. Not in reality.

No glamour.

No young men doing boys own things.

No black faces that were really white faces painted black so that it emphasised the whites of their eyes.

No. The blacks were black and the whites pasty faced.

Learn new skills?

Krap. Nothing you could use afterwards in civilian life.

Adventure?

Lies. Cold as a witch’s tit at night. Long marches with heavy packs all day. Constant crawling about in mud to simulate battle conditions. What a load of bollocks.

Overseas postings?

Yea, with the added bonus that you get shot at.

But it was only when he got to his posting abroad that the true reality really set in.

When Jake realised that Christ they’re shooting at me and it came through loud and clear that the bastards are trying to kill me.

While they were waiting to embark on the trip home, Pete had said, ‘My dad was in the army too, you know. He told me this joke once. He said when he came back from a tour of duty, the first thing he did was fuck my mum. Then he took his boots off.

Not that funny really, and I didn’t like him talking about my mother like that. But it’s probably true, don’t you think?’

Jake didn’t answer then, because he didn’t have an answer.

But he soon found out that it didn’t apply to him.

Well, yes and no, perhaps.

It was true in a way because he and Molly had gone straight to bed. And they didn’t take all their clothes off first. His boots, yes, but not everything. Molly was still a bit shy, that’s why.

But not true because it didn’t happen the way he’d been dreaming about for so long.

She seemed pleased enough to see him. Then came the surprising frenzy of groping and wrestling and even tearing.

No, not her hymen. That was long gone.

Her underwear. And the look on her face when he’d wrenched off her pants.

Then it had all changed. Something happened between them. Something invisible and hard to comprehend.

And it turned everything on its head. Energy ebbed. Interest lapsed. And desire flagged.

His mind had gone back to the camp.

And the heat. And the dust. And the fear. Of being shot at. And killed. Or, worse perhaps, wounded. Badly wounded. An arm. Or a leg. An eye or both. Or a bad wound in the groin and all the implications that had.

He remembered the patrols through the shit hole villages. And the flies. And the terror when a mine went off. As it did one day. And when the body parts fell all around him. And the time it took to collect them. Under fire. And to stuff them into the body bag. Bits of human meat and bone and gore strewn across the road. And spurts of blood marking the mud plastered walls of the mud brick buildings. A soldier crying. And the screaming.

Everyone seemed to be fucking screaming.

Then the dawning realisation that the soldier who had stood on that device had simply disappeared. Forever.

BAD THOUGHTS

So that’s where his mind was when they were in bed. That first time. And so nothing happened.

Even though he’d taken his boots off first.

Unfortunately not much happened later either.

The base doctor said not to worry. It happens to everyone he said. But you’ll get over it. Eventually.

The problem, Jake thought was, how long’s eventually?

He remembered that weekend pass. To the safe, away from it all base on the island. A few hours on a plane and a lifetime away from the heat and fear of their daily routine.

Two patrols each day. Out, of the safe area, so called, in an armoured vehicle.

And then a rectangle around the shit hole village. Up one rutted road. Turn right. Two miles and turn right again. Then right for the last time, hoping, praying that they’re not in anyone’s sights. And that they don’t trigger anything untoward. Just to show the flag.

Or some equally silly rationale thought up by officers.

He remembered the prostitute.

And how embarrassing it had been. For him. But not for Pete, apparently.

How excited he’d been when, sitting in a back ally bar, a tall but youngish girl spoke to them.

‘You soldiers looking for something. One at a time or both together if you like. Me good, clean woman. Here, look at this. Look. Look. Healthy person, me. Good price for two together.’

It was in a language they didn’t understand but it looked like a medical certificate.

‘Probably a forgery, but it’s a novel approach,’ said Pete. ‘She deserves our custom just for her creativity.’

They negotiated for a while and then followed her further into the old quarter and up some narrow stairs. She showed them into a small that was flooded in daylight.

It had the not quite romantic ambiance of being center stage under a spotlight.

Jake saw that Pete had an erection even before they’d taken their clothes off.

‘I’ll go first,’ Pete said, moving towards the bed.

‘You’ll have to bat on a sticky wicket. Could be a bonus. Nice and wet. I’ll bet even cunts dry up in this fucking climate.’

Pete’s penis stuck out in front of him as he went over to the woman who was lying on a bed. He was rubbing it with his hand. He moved his foreskin back slightly revealing a glistening glans.

‘Come on get your gear off,’ he said to her. ‘Give us a look. We want to see what we’re paying for.’

Reluctantly, Jake thought, she removed her underwear.

‘Fucking hell, she’d never get a job as an army barber,’ he said pointing to her shaved pubic area.

Pete leaned towards her, ‘Here, have a suck before we fuck.’

He looked back at Jake and laughed. Presumably, Jake thought, at what he’d said.

‘Just wait until she feels this inside her. They’re not used to cocks like this out here. Their men are all cut. I bet she’ll love me forever once I’ve given it to her.’

Jake kept his underpants on as he watched Pete’s antics over the next few minutes.

Thrusting, groping and groaning. And then a hoarse shout as he climaxed.

‘Come on your turn now. Get that army underwear stuff off and get on with it.’

But Jake found it difficult. He’d never had an audience before.

He felt embarrassed with Pete sitting on the end of the bed delivering a commentary and offering what he presumably thought were helpful comments.

But they weren’t helpful. Because nothing worked.

Even though the woman did her best. But no amount of stroking or pushing or pulling or even sucking had any effect.

‘Too much beer,’ Jake said lamely.

‘Yea, probably. But don’t worry. You’ll be OK next time. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

But the next time it wasn’t OK. Even though it was months later.

And Molly always seemed to be in an unreceptive mood. No matter when he made advances.

He tried kissing her. She turned her head away.

He tied to put his arms around her. She twisted onto the other side of the bed.

He got the message.

She didn’t want intercourse so he came in his hand and wiped it on the sheets.

In the morning he felt hot, hard and vigorous again.

Another rejection, so he came in the shower and watched the semen make delta patterns as it ran down the glass door.

Pete phoned. ‘Got summink to show you. See you down the pub.’

They had a few drinks. Then a few more.

‘Remember how you kicked the fucker?’

‘Wot? Er… well, actually I don’t really.’

‘Sure you did. Complained that you’d hurt your foot. Limped for a couple of days as I remember.’

Jake looked surprised. Then confused.

He was vaguely aware that he’d been present and that bad things had happened.

But now was not the time to dig up those kinds of memories.

He remembered hoping not to see Pete again when they got back.

‘He sure as hell felt that kick. Right in his guts it was.’ Jake looked away.

A well built teenager came over to them. ‘Got a fag for me mate?’

Pete said, ‘Fuck off, you’re not old enough to smoke.’

The kid went back to his friends.

‘D’you remember what Sargent Krik did with that other bastard?’

‘Well, no. Well, I mean yes, I suppose so.’

‘Yea, with that wet blanket. Soon got him singing, didn’t it?’

‘Well… look Pete, cant we talk about something else now? That was all a long time ago. Lots of water’s gone down the gurgler since then.’

Silence. Then Jake tried to make amends.

‘What about that one with the big boobs you were interested in? What’s happened to her? Got her hidden away somewhere, have you?’

But Pete wasn’t quite ready to change the subject just yet.

They had a few more drinks. Then a couple more.

Pete took out a small plastic box.

Inside Jake saw something he knew he didn’t want to see.

‘It’s that rag head’s finger. You gave me a hand, remember. And he gave me his finger. Well, his thumb anyway. So I kept it. Didn’t tell anyone. Brought it back home as a souvenir of what we went through.’

He took a gulp of beer. ‘Smelled for a while. But it was OK once it dried out.’

Then suddenly, ‘Want it? It’s yours if you do. I’m sick of it, if you must know. And you were there too. You helped. So you can have it if you want it.’

‘Fuck off Pete. Why the hell would I want to hang on to something like that.’

Pete put the small Tupperware container back in his pocket.

BAD RESULT

On the way home Pete went down to a public toilet.

Several young thugs were there doing drugs.

The ones dealing took no notice of him, but the effete looking kid who came out of one of the cubicles licked his lips and smiled at him.

Jake marked him as gay. He was right.

As Jake went back up the stairs, the kid shouted after him, ‘ Hey, come back. Feel like a blow job? I’m just in the mood. I’ll do you for nothing. Because you’re so pretty. You’ll never get a better offer.’

Jake went out onto the road. He walked towards the river and turned to cross the bridge.

He stopped to look down into the murky water.

He could remember giving the man a few slaps. He could hear him screaming.

And he screamed even louder when Pete turned the handle.

And the charge went through the wires. Into the man’s genitals.

Molly sat in the coroner’s court with her arms folded, staring straight ahead.

It was a long and convoluted procedure.

It included some complicated reports.

The deceased had been drinking. Blood alcohol levels were at a high level.

It has been verified that he was in The Rose and Crown, a nearby public house.

Video camera images indicated that he left the public house and went into a municipal toilet facility for males in Cannon’s Road. It is not known why he did not use the toilet in the public house.

It is probable, but not certain, that he was involved in some kind of illicit activity. The downstairs public toilet facility is frequented by addicts and gay men.

The images of the victim on the bridge were of poor quality, being out of the optimum range of the nearest video camera. However, it seems that there was either a provoked or an unprovoked attack on the victim.

The suspects were a group of unknown male youths walking in the opposite direction.

The heavy blow to the victim’s neck was probably carried out by one of these persons. It is not know whether there was any provocation or not.

The autopsy report has revealed that the victim was probably alive but unconscious when he was thrown off the bridge.

It is therefore likely that water entered the deceased’s lungs when he was in the river.

The report found that the cause of death was drowning.

The verdict concluded that the killing was done without lawful excuse and in breach of criminal law.

And that was it.

She thought about Jake. She put her hands in her lap. She stared straight ahead.

The courtroom was all but empty. An orderly told her she’d have to leave.

He said he was sorry. But for security reasons he’d have to lock up.

She went outside. It had been raining.

She sat on the wet steps of the court. People looked at her.

What a shame they thought. A young girl like that. Quite pretty too.

She was thinking about Jake. How he’d made her laugh when they were first together. What fun they’d had. And how he’d changed.

She started to cry.

Suddenly the words were coming out of her mouth, ‘Fucking army,’ she screamed. People stared.

What a shame. Drugs probably. Or alcohol, perhaps. Or both. These young people, these days.

She saw a man in uniform coming towards her.

Just then she felt a kick. Deep inside her abdomen.

By the time the policeman got up to her she had worked out that she was pregnant.

THE KILLING OF FAT BOY KOEN

2011-10-20T11:18:00.000-07:00