WARNING: 

ONE DIRECTION is a very UK popular boy band. 

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

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

KEEP ON LOVING

‘But I need that one thing.’

(ONE THING)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man started towards them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

‘And you pray, pray, pray (oh)

That everything will be okay.’

(SAME MISTAKES)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

(GOTTA BE YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

‘On the other side of the world.’

(EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

Kevin phoned him later and asked what it was like.

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

***

A few days later Kevin phoned again.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

So they did.

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

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

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

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

***

‘Stop the tape and rewind.’

(GOTTA BE YOU)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

‘Hoping for the best but expecting the worst.’

(FOREVER YOUNG)

ONE DIRECTION

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

COME FLY WITH ME

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

COME FLY WITH ME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LET’S TAKE OFF ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'LL BE HOLDING YOU ...

  

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

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

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

A FLYING HONEYMOON 

 

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

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

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

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

ONCE I GET YOU THERE... 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PACK UP LET’S FLY AWAY 

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

Here’s how and why.

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

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

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

Whatever it was, this is what happened.

INTO THE BLUE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

NO SHORT CUT

NO SHORT CUT

A short story by

BY RAY JOHNSTONE

‘The most difficult thing about life is death,’ was Andy’s usual opening gambit. It was his favourite subject, and he never got tired of talking about it. As if he was on a mission. To change people. And their ideas. On a subject no one likes to talk about. Or even to think about.

Sandy always agreed with him.

‘What a pair,’ some people said.

*

Andrew and Sandra Forbes – universally known as Andy and Sandy – enjoyed their lives to the full even though they’d planned their deaths. They knew how they were going to die. And when. They’d done it meticulously. In every detail. And they’d put it in writing. So that in the cold light of day anyone and everyone, at the appropriate time, would see what they wanted for themselves when the time came.

‘I refuse to die in a home. When I’ve lost it, I mean.’ Andy could be quite forthright. ‘In one of those institutions full of puking, mewling old dodderers spilling food all over themselves and wearing adult nappies. In tacky surroundings, with horrible smells, disgusting food and unable to get to the lavatory by yourself. Always needing to call someone to help you have a shit.’

Sandy usually had her say too. ‘And, speaking as a woman, I like men’s company. But most of these places are segregated. I think that’s the case anyway. And I’d want to see Andy. And if he wasn’t around, other men. Not just rows and rows of gaga old biddies making signs with their hands and incomprehensible sounds with their mouths. No, no those places are not for me either.’

‘So we’ve got this pact you see,’ Andy would always follow up. ‘So that when one goes, or is about to go, we’d both be ready. And we’d make sure the other would exit at the same time. More or less. And as far as possible.’

*

Andy and Sandy always seemed to be doing something interesting. They worked hard to make sure that they were always having a good time. They were never afraid to indulge themselves, and were in the happy situation to be able to do it. Seats for the theatre or the tennis. Regular visits to good restaurants. Ski breaks in the winter and summer holidays at smart resorts in some far flung tropical paradise. And even a last minute weekend in Venice for Sandy’s birthday last year.

They knew, they said, that this would all end one day. It does for everyone. There’s nothing surer. So Andy and Sandy decided they were going to control what happened. They both knew what to do in the event of a sudden stroke, or the obvious onset of a debilitating illness: mutual suicide. Even though it was illegal.

‘Fuck the law,’ Andy would say.

‘Darling! Why do you have to put it like that?’ Sandy would always respond.

*

Some people found this boring and them quite trying. Even scary. Because of their ideas about dying. And their preoccupation with death. And how they always found a way to manipulate the subject of conversation onto what seemed to others like grisly talk. Their own deaths. Then other people’s. And, if possible, the deaths of everybody who was present.

Sandy asked one day, ‘Darling, do you think our circle of friends is diminishing? We don’t seem to see as many people as we used to. And I’m sure we don’t get invited out as often as we used to.’

Andy knew she was right. He’d had the same impression. Because even their oldest friends didn’t like to think about the fact that they would die one day. And it’s even more sobering to be reminded that one never knows when.

‘That’s the really big unknown,’ Andy liked to say. ‘It’s all very well being in denial. Like we all are, and never thinking about death. Our deaths, I mean. But one day it’s going to hit us like a tidal wave. Except for the lucky ones, that is. Those who die quickly. In their sleep. Those who don’t need help. Or those who don’t spend a long time dying. With some dreadful and debilitating disease. That makes them a burden on everyone. Their families. And friends if any are left after a few weeks.’

‘Yes, I agree,’ Sandy would add. ‘I can’t think of anything worse than being one of the living dead. After a stroke. Or when Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s have got you in their grips. But haven’t decided yet when they’re going to kill you.’

Andy would hop straight back to his favourite lines. ‘You see, it’s all very well thinking it will never happen. Or that you’ll handle the situation when it arises. Because then it’s too late. And the only really certain thing we have in our lives is that we’re going to die. But picking the when and the how is the difficult part.’

*

Even their kids found them difficult. They were discussing it over dinner one day when the children were still quite young. Patrick got quite worked up. ‘No I won’t take you to Switzerland when you’re at death’s door. How could you think such a thing?’

And, just before she left the table suddenly, Patty’s Parthian shot was, ‘What about the chances of a last minute recovery? If you think euthanasia’s OK you can bloody well drive yourselves to that terrible place.’

It was obvious that their children didn’t like talking about their parents’ deaths either. Or their own. Or anybodies for that matter. As far as they were concerned it was a taboo subject. One best to avoid.

‘They’re like ostriches with their heads in the sand,’ thought Andy, but he didn’t say it out loud.

*

They stared at him. ‘Oh no, not this again,’ they all thought.

Andy had just said, ‘About as much chance as a black rapist on death row in the Deep South of avoiding the electric chair.’

Andy went on. ‘That’s your chance of having a seemly death. Unless you spend a little time working a few things out. I mean before you go.’

Sandy bought a book about planning for the end. Dying with Dignity it was called. Or something like that. They showed it to everyone. Or those few who were receptive anyway. Most of them glanced at the cover, saw what it was about, and tried to change the subject.

*

Then they got Jenny’s news. Jenny who had been at school with Sandy. And lived in the same neighbourhood. Where they’d grown up together. Jenny Robinson, who’d lived an exemplary life and who wasn’t that old really. It was bad news.

Jenny’s preoccupations had always been lot’s of fresh air, as much exercise as she could get and finding good, healthy, and if possible, tasty food.

She’d never experimented with tablets and pills. Her doctor knew she disliked taking medicines and would only prescribe them when absolutely necessary.

There was no stress in her life thanks to her rich-as-Croesus uncle who had conveniently died young, and even more conveniently, without any heirs except Jenny.

When she got the news, Sandy said, ‘We’ll have to go and see her. She’s on her way out it seems. I’ve known her all my life and together we’ve know her for a very long time.’

Jenny lived on her own on a small but opulent property just outside a very beautiful village. They were shocked at what they found, because she had difficulty working out who Andy and Sandy were.

‘That’s drugs for you,’ said Sandy when they were leaving.

Poor old Jenny. Who never drank, nor smoked. ‘Nor poked,’ Andy would always add - and he did so then.

‘Be quiet Andy. That’s so uncalled for. Why do you insist on saying that kind of thing? It’s really unnecessary. Now’s not the time for your smutty drivel. Nor is it ever, I should add, so don’t say things like that about Jenny. She’s my best friend.’

Although Andy felt a little embarrassed at Sandy’s strident reproach, he couldn’t help saying to himself, ‘If she was any good in bed, she’d have been more likely to have had a husband, and that’s it.’ He was careful not to say it out loud.

Yes, poor old Jenny, a debilitating terminal disease diagnosed at fifty five. With only nine months notice. That was all she had left to live, they said. When the Grim Reaper sends his calling card he’s anxious to put in an appearance as soon as possible.

Her neighbour, who was looking after for the moment, told them the onset had been sudden, and the prognosis was poor. They said she was going downhill fast, she said. She was due to move into a hospice shortly. For Jenny the end was neigh was the way she put it.

‘Well, at least she knows she’s on her way out,’ was Andy’s take. ‘Not many of us have that luxury. We just sit around waiting. Not knowing when or how. Or what’s in store for us. In blind ignorance of what will happen in the end.’

*

They tried to see Jenny once a week. Always a bad and depressing experience. Sometimes she was up, but most times she was down. Andy couldn’t help thinking that every time they visited her she has one week less to live. She was like a prisoner who scratches the days on the wall of his cell. Six verticals and then a horizontal scored through the uprights. Marking seven days. Representing the weeks he’s been serving. Waiting for his sentence to end.

But in Jenny’s case the end of the sentence meant something different.

‘Darling I know you mean well, but Jenny’s not in the right frame of mind to think about your radical ideas about ending life.’

‘I’m not sure that’s right. She’s got no future. But she knows how long she’s got. She knows things are going to get worse and worse. And one day it’ll be too late. She’ll have lost the opportunity. Lost control, if you like. Of her life, I mean. So there’s no point in waking up to reality when it’s too late. Because control is the most important thing. Never loose control. Of your life, I mean. Of what you’re going to do with it. Especially when the writing’s on the wall, so to speak.’ He thought about the man locked up in jail again.

‘Yes, darling, I know all that,’ said Sandy. ‘We both do. We’ve discussed it for years. For far too long perhaps. Sometimes I think we talk about it too much. But comparing Jenny’s life – or what she’s got left of it - to putting a dog down… Well, I’m not sure that was the appropriate thing to say.’

‘In a way she’s one of the lucky ones, don’t you think? She’s been told when she’s going to die. She’s been given a date. She knows how much time we’ve got left. We don’t.’

Andy said no more. They both lapsed into silence. He was thinking about what he’d said to Jenny. He remembered doing it. Even though it was years ago, it could have been yesterday. What he’d done to the family dog. What he’d had to do. Because her time had come. Just like Jenny’s, he thought.

*

He remembered his rationalization at the time. Tootsie was starting to become a nuisance. She was listless. No one wanted to walk her because she lagged behind. She was incontinent during the night. But she was still their dog. Part of the family, so to speak.

But the family was changing too. Like all nuclear families do. Because they’re not designed to be cohesive forever. Eventually they explode, and everyone goes their own way. To start their own lives.

Patti had moved out to live with her boyfriend. Then Patrick found a flat with friends near to the university. It put those tedious train rides from home into the city behind him. So both kids were gone and the family dog became, in a way, redundant.

So Tootsi remained, and became more and more morose and bad tempered. Either because she was lonely, or because no one took much notice of her, or because she was getting older, or because her time had come.

Or was his take on all this simply unjustified anthropomorphism?

In any event it was obviously his job to sort it out. He decided on a Monday. Yes, he’d do it on Monday morning on the way to work. So his daily routine could help him to forget what he’d done. But Monday came and went and Tootsi was still at home when he got back home that night.

‘I suppose we often forget to do what we don’t want to do,’ he thought.

Then, ‘OK, OK,’ he said to himself, ‘Next Monday. Definitely.’

A month later the dog was still moping around the house and getting in everybody’s way and on everybody’s tits. Everybody being the two of them.

So eventually  Andy got up early one Saturday morning. ‘Sorry Old Girl,’ he said as he helped Tootsi onto her blanket on the back seat of the car.

As usual, she refused to get out when he parked in the vet’s car park. He felt a surge of anger. ‘Come on you stupid fuckwit,’ he said grabbing her by the collar and leading her to the door marked RECEPTION.

A woman leaving with a cat in a box looked as him sharply.

He knew the vet quite well from Rotary.

‘Don’t worry, she won’t know anything about it,’ he told Andy. It was something he said to everyone every time he administered this end of the line injection.

‘Do you want the body?’

‘Sorry? The body?’ Andy was confused.

‘Yes, you know, to say goodbye. Closure. For the kids, I mean.’

Andy took a while to understand what the vet was getting at. In itself an indication of how he stood on the matter of putting the family pet down. He was upset, but didn’t want to show it.

‘No, no. No thank you, please dispose of the body for me. The kids have both left home.’

‘Perhaps Sandy’s right,’ he thought. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have used that putting the dog down analogy with Jenny.’

*

I’m dying to go there, you’ve always known that. It’s my birthday, and there’s a special offer. Must be a sign of the times. Everyone in business is struggling these days. And, if you ask me, they’re just about giving the weekend away.’

‘Mmm. Well, OK. Seeing as you put it so succinctly. Not to mention emotionally. Dying to go. You know that appeals to me. So I suppose so. Yes. Let’s go. If you like.’

Soon Andy got quite enthusiastic about the weekend they’d planned.

He told them about it at the golf club. ‘I think she’s thinking about it as a quick remember of our honeymoon. The weekend we’ve booked,’ he said. ‘So I hope I’m up to it.’ They laughed. ‘It’s a really good deal. They’re advertising it with a bottle of champagne, a five-course meal and breakfast for the same price as an overnight stay. We need a change of scenery. And it’s always fun to fuck in someone else’s bed.’ They laughed again. Andy was such a card, they thought, when he wasn’t talking about planning to die.

*

But the best-known schemes of mice and men have a tendency to go off the rails, and all their years of careful planning went awry when unbeknown to them a truck driver was getting ready to do everything they’d planned for themselves. He was looking intently at his GPS trying to find the delivery address he was destined for. Soon he’d start feeling around for his phone.

But not just yet. He was still trying to make sense of he electronic map on his dashboard. So the timing was not quite right. Andy and Sandy weren’t quite ready. The moment critique had not quite arrived. They were not yet in their car. But it wouldn’t be long now. He started looking around his cab. He’d have to phone his destination for directions. Where had he put their number? And where the fuck had he put his mobile?

*

‘This is a one way street, darling,’ Sandy reminded him as he took his usual short cut to the motorway. Their weekend break had started and they were on their way.

‘Yes, I know, and you always remind me that it is. But it’s not a very long bit of road and there’s never any traffic. Nor any cops. And I’m only going one way anyway.’ He laughed at his tired old quip. ‘Just call it my way of living dangerously.’

They had the roof down and were both enjoying the wind in their hair. Sandy was thinking about Jenny. Andy was thinking about last night’s sex. He’d enjoyed it, but had he given enough pleasure to Sandy? Had he spent enough time on her? Or had his anxiety about his erection, albeit it misplaced on this occasion, propelled them towards the end too quickly.

Sandy was actually dozing when she heard her husband shout ‘Fuck!’

Cars and lorries around them skidded and swerved and smashed into each other.

She looked up just in time to see that a truck had mounted the median strip. It crashed through the safety barrier at high speed, going the wrong way on their side of the road. And heading straight towards them.

In a split second the two vehicles collided. There was a flash of roaring red and then a deathly quiet as everything went black.

The silence and the blackness went on forever. For both of them.

***

Just after she had the news of the accident, Jenny Robinson went into remission. As far as can be ascertained, she is still alive and reasonably well today.

Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero – Seize the Day, and put as little trust as possible in the future. (Horace – 65 BC)

***