WARNING: 

ONE DIRECTION is a very UK popular boy band. 

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

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

KEEP ON LOVING

‘But I need that one thing.’

(ONE THING)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man started towards them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

‘And you pray, pray, pray (oh)

That everything will be okay.’

(SAME MISTAKES)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

(GOTTA BE YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

‘On the other side of the world.’

(EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

Kevin phoned him later and asked what it was like.

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

***

A few days later Kevin phoned again.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

So they did.

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

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

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

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

***

‘Stop the tape and rewind.’

(GOTTA BE YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

‘Hoping for the best but expecting the worst.’

(FOREVER YOUNG)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

DOG FIGHT

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

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

*****

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

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

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

Hilton laughed.

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

He laughed again.

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

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

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

Hilton made a sound he thought mimicked an explosion.

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

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

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

A moment of silence.

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

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

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

Silence again as Hilton listened.

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

The sound of the Simpsons filled the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Matt had always wanted a dog.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

He opened the door. The stink was overwhelming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

‘What about him?’ the girl said.

‘He’s asleep.’

‘Don’t look like it to me.’

‘In that case he can watch.’

‘Not sure I like that idea.’

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

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

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

‘What you gonna do?’

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

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

‘Stop. You’re hurting me.’

‘Shut up it’s supposed to hurt.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Free at last.

*****

Please let me know what you think:

ray@johnstonesinfrance.com

CUT AND RUN

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

*

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

*

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

But what more of Asher?

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

*

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Dead as a door nail, I’d say.’

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

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

One of then pulled the St Christopher free.

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

*****

Ray Johnstone

LA PETITE GALERIE

1 rue Docteur Sorubes

47170 FRANCE

© Ray Johnstone 2012

Please let me know what you think.

ray@johnstonesinfrance.com