Sunday, September 30, 2012

Steel Kisses

Steel kisses ginger air.



I look outwards, out towards her burning flame on that early autumn night. Her presence lounges between the rooftops.
Waiting.
When we get outside, it is raining, and the abusive hum of the steelworks is hungry and haunting. Thin dustings of frozen water stick to the skin of the windscreen. Running a long finger across the roof of the car, I draw a line in the wet.
Above us it rears itself. I see a muscular backbone of post-apocalyptic gothic temples where you have to worship. Its culture is slag. Its children are steel. Its worshippers, fire.





37

My half-dressed muse sits nonchalantly apercu awake with burning cigarette drawn into her archive lungs.
That
lovely
scent of tobacco drifts downwards.

36


Red nail varnish on plump toes.

Janet is wearing a white patterned dress, inside of which every sizable curve and crease is painfully visible. I take another biscuit like a good boy and smile. It’s a poor, unconvincing effort. Janet hustles on back to her desk and necks a few pills, HRT to bump up her falling oestrogen and keep her blooming. She fans herself with her hand; the open window and two electric fans fail to ventilate her.
A thousand gallons of water couldn’t cool that ruddy warm mask.

35

Suddenly the sky starts to turn. It shines every colour and she is in them all, from the lightest blues in the background to the peculiar shining rust lines which sit astride the milieu of muddy grey clouds. Over on the road are shoes – or skulls- tied tightly around green-leaved trees. They swing in the strong winds of the early evening.

34


I flick on the television. Another year approaches.
On the screen, a suntanned man in slow motion begins to smile a wide smile. Behind him is blurred out. The background is a hazy dusk colour; a Spanish or South American courtyard? There is an old gentleman dancing with a luminous woman with long black hair. A lifting piano underneath signifies that something is approaching. The handsome, soft-featured man begins to reach down. His smile dissipates as he too waits for something approaching out of shot.
It is his child. They embrace as the camera pans out to show the whole courtyard of dancers. This company does holidays that cater to families, and it does them well. They advertise just after the exhausting bombardment of Christmas adverts and January sale offers....Time we started thinking about our holidays, honey. You get no rest from the advertisers. You get no rest from anywhere. As soon as you’ve booked, then it’s Valentine’s Day, then Easter. The eggs are in the supermarket, and chocolate Jesus gets no sanctuary from the drooling mouths of parents and children alike. The reassuring regularity of existence, over and over again, laps against us. Drugged and drooling in the comfort of my television chair, I sip the dregs of my drink, the air very still and dry next to the anaesthetizing heat of the radiator.
A wife sleeps alone upstairs.

33


Above the rain continues to fall upon us. Olivia’s face is muggy with the wet air. Empty the great vault, empty. Full to the brim it falls on the world, dripping its reeking contents through the damp air and into our lungs, with every second they swell and gurgle as they drown under the shit of disconnection. I wipe my mouth and take another long drag of a wet cigarette before passing it back to Olivia. The smoke holds its shape in the damp air, waiting to be ordered away.

Work Cake

She rolls the cake in.
The room relaxes.


We wait with our plates and expectant mouths.
I feel guilty for not bringing cakes, bad etiquette on my part. Office time is measured in cakes: birthday cakes, wedding cakes, coma cakes, house and new husband cakes, goodbye so long old chap retirement cakes, departmental changing cakes, rebranding and returning cakes, end of the financial year cakes, change of building cakes, charity cakes for good causes. There was the starting cakes and the leaving cakes, the Friday cakes, sometimes lavish cakes, leftover cheap cakes languishing in store cupboards, round and robust cakes wriggling whilst we plunge in the knife and stand there waiting.
The waiting is what we were after.
Waiting means not working.

Friday, September 28, 2012

32


She sits right next to me, and when she leans over to use the computer, I can feel the heat of her presence against my own. I look down at her legs, exposed by her short black skirt. She catches my gaze. Men are basic; crudely we live our lives but a slither away from barbarity, our modern, intellectual selves teetering on the rim of an old abyss.

31

The binary Eighties decor stank of

Thatcherism

 and musty handbag heat.

30

Criss-crossed cranes lovingly folded together
 
over a Sheffield skyline.

 

 

29


Nearby, in a greasy spoon, they cut to a swill slopper whose glossy face reflects the light. In the background shift workers eat breakfast. Juicy bits of fear fly out of the cracks in their chapped lips.


They’re coming in, they’re saying you won’t see us any more; we've been made redundant .If the works ever close, then that would be it, a ghost town'


Her ghost stories are alive. In the background, fluorescent-jacket men force down their final breakfasts. She’s a toothless seer; her dailies are where worry coagulates amongst the eaters. One by one they leave her world for good, never to return.
They move on to more people: High Street shop owners and people in power. A pudgy-faced politician, in office for years, preaches. He's cautiously optimistic, he knows. In his beady eyes I see a faint lust.

28

‘They’re drunk,’ he says.
I stand on a precipice, shaking. What a journey, what a long and ridiculous and arduous journey. Cars flicker past in the distance like smouldering embers which flush and speed away. A redolence of her fills my nostrils, her sulphur scent. To be out there, in the summer, I would give anything. Out there, it’s even stronger, I know it. I don’t know how, but I do.
The big old baby men come forward. As each piece of flesh draws closer, I feel their full-fatted forms choking my existence.

Three eggs.

Nate watched as she cooked. She had a small frying pan with nothing in it but a slither of dirty fat. She slid it around left and right like a calm wave.

'Do you have a light?'

Lombard took out a lighter, it was squeezed tightly in her back pocket and her long fingers worked hard to pry it free.

She broke three eggs into a bowl and whipped them lazily.

'Do you want a drag?'

She kept whipping. Then stopped for a second and said, 'drugs make you weak.'

'There's only one drug man. And the rest, well the rest I've learnt ain't much of worth.'

'You're talking about weed?'

'What else?'

Lombard poured the eggs into the pan, sipped her coffee and stared out the window. He'd be here soon and then they'd be well and spectacularly fucked.

Lombard looked down at Nate's leg.

'Why are you wearing one sock?'

'You can't moderate how i sheave these feet. For your information I only own one pair and of that one pair one sock was made sodden and would not dry.'

'Did you try the radiator?'

Nate stood and thought hard. Then there was a knock on the door.




27

The mouth of the Humber yawns wide into the North Sea. Its shallow oesophagus runs through the county, cooling with streams which tire and fall away as they come closer to the core of her molten heart.

26

So I amble around the station ghostly. 

Streams of passengers disperse out of the train with me and float down into the sewers.

This swollen day had bumped into the whole week, an uncomfortable passenger of the psyche squeezing its way into my once-quiet life.

Guards wait by the exit.They look at me like dirt.I am flushed now but free of their grasp.

I'm not sure, but I think I'm a despicable man.

We fuck. When you remember the winter in the summertime, it’s beautiful. Breezes move over a fading blue landscape, ghost faces and cold stones. On the other side the same thing occurs. From a winter‘s day like today, the summer seems like a lavish dream, so bright, so intense a light in your eyes that your vision turns to white nothingness.

The house is silent.

They just stay together for the children. That Christian morality, that proletariat morality, that brain washed-out cum common-sense morality launches its guilty little arrows at me.


Click. Flick on the light. The air is warm. Home.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

25

There comes a great satisfaction from burning the past, physically taking information out of bags and throwing it upon the flames. Let all the information burn and let us be free once more.


But oh those pages cling together nervously, tightly; they incinerate from the outside in, leaving perfect leaves of paper just waiting to be spied upon by nefarious rubbish burglars.


24


 
The screen waits. She is patient, she will be a blank eternity, waiting; there’s no point being with her in the day, she doesn’t want me then, she wants me in the deepest night, she wants me when I’m alive with ideas, when this skin is alight against her body, that’s when I need to put pen to paper, that’s when I need to create. 

23

He was a hardworking man. He worked the iron, he sold the slag. Mountains of it, big grey mountains as far as the eye could see.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

22.

Car’s on the red.

In the gas station the thing won’t start. I take it out of gear with my left hand and put it back in, turning the ignition key several times for that reassuring spark. Nothing happens. I’m gasping, mouth becomes dry, and I’m blocked in. I look in the mirror. See their snarling faces. Behind me people are waiting. There’s something about a town that swells out like a disease. Mandibles stretch out and around the throat of the country, suffocating and scraping civilization into nature and clawing you inwards one dream at a time.

The dashboard lights flicker off as the engine starts to turn over.

Were the streets of medieval Paris as filthy and crime-ridden as the choking streets I walk down today? Spilt milkshakes are creamy pink on the pavement. I put my foot in it. All this greasy and aggressive competition does nothing but make me increasingly numb. The muddy leaves coagulate in heaps of mushy matter in the gardens of the houses and around the gnarled trees which seek to free themselves from the pavement. All matter is pushing upwards to get a fresh breath of air, climbing and crawling upwards with arms outstretched to the heavens in hope.

21

As I leave, the night falls. I turn on the radio to quell the silence and then the headlights to quell the darkness. The road sides are slushy where the snow has turned. I hadn’t planned on staying so long.

Eryri


Chapter 1

You learnt quickly that the sight of land in the distance was almost always a mirage. But the mind is elastic, as the boat moved onwards I would look onto the horizon and the receptors of the brain would provide me with whatever outcome I wanted. A boat was as vital a commodity as land and neither was obtained fairly. On the archipelagos I had seen all manner of human behaviour from the murderous to the divine, but nothing could have prepared me for where I was to moor next.

Sleep eluded me. Lilith had a torn sail. It flapped and snapped like a beast above. I had tried to repair her with spare tarp but it never held in a strong gale and as such she was almost uncontrollable. In these waters you needed quick reactions, quick to avoid debris and steer clear from rocks, of which there countless in this area. If you lost your patience, or reacted too slowly, you risked capsizing and then even the best swimmer would have struggled to survive more than a few days. Beneath were cold waters. Beneath were the clawing corpse fingers of the past and they wanted their prey.

Islands. I said Isles before but they were not isles; they were tips, glimpses of a civilisation which was clinging to the mast of its own sinking ship. Desperate times. Times of horror and beauty, of great quiet and screaming so vicious that the bravest of us would dare not investigate who or what would give birth to such a sound.

Each day, when I woke, I would check the GPS, turning it on for a few precious minutes to calculate the position of the boat on my map. There was no way of determining how long the battery would hold out.

When I looked down at the map, browning around the edges and torn, I saw the route of a madman and it led me, when I was at my lowest, to question whether I was capable of navigating towards the next isle. I took a pen and added another black star. A constellation of marks, some which were almost at the destination I feverously sought whilst others were lost in the dark recesses of far flung galaxies.

On the sea a man needs to be faithful to nature and in doing so he must understand that his fortunes are seldom concerned with his actions. Did it matter what I did? Whether or not I used petrol or sailed in what I thought was a straight line? Sat on the edge of the deck, feeling the ocean spray, I would clear my mind and listen to the waves crack on the side of the hull. Zen-like and prescient I would reach out and feel as though I could map the whole world with a single flicker of my vacant mind.

But what good was Zen-like prescience to me when I could no longer swallow?

This summer had been unusually hot. You couldn’t breathe. Such a heat, seeped deep into the hull of the ship, embedded and preserved so that even at night I was unable to cool myself. On the muddy white deck I sprawled, bones protruding vividly through taut skin, skin colour as that of cured meat in the days when such things were abundant. The gritty, salty, mud in my mouth spun around a coral tongue, urgently seeking an oasis of lubrication. No such was to be found.

Thirst.

Hunger I could stand, tell me of a man who hasn’t felt the gnaw of the void in his belly and I’ll call you a liar. But thirst is different. There are no sharp pangs of pain, no dreamlike wanderings toward a perfect meal, just the rusty scraping of piston muscles grinding wearily away in unison.

I had no gas and then I had no petrol. When I woke one morning, perhaps two days prior, I checked the GPS and was closer than I had ever been to my destination. Again I looked out, should I not have seen land? That morning I used up the last of the fuel I had remaining. It did little good. When I checked again the next day I was further away than I had been in some time.

You take small victories where you can find them. An early morning storm had provided a few litres, I was lucky, I had been woken by the rain and had managed to fill 3 bottles of water before it ceased. That was four days ago. Before, when I could use the water purifier, it never seemed like it would be a problem, if anything I thought it would be a lack of food which finished me off.

On the last day all I remembered was the blistering of my lips. Blood from the dry crevasses of each split had dried as soon as it reached the surface of the skin; like magma from a volcanic rupture losing its viscosity as it broke free from the pressured earth. Hot pin pricks of pain. Knowing I could no longer steer, or stand for that matter, I went into the cabin and closed the hatch behind me. Entombed I must have fallen into a final sleep.

 

Chapter 2

I dreamt, dreamt of a flatland, with rapeseed yellow in every direction, glowing as brightly as the sun above. There was peace, silence except for the movement of birds far in the distance. As I moved through the flowering waves, heavy underfoot, the sun went away and the colour of fields began to wane. Into the soil I was pulled, down by the hands of the lost. Reaching out I tore at the yellow leaves but could not stop myself from being taken under. As mud filled my oesophagus, I started to choke violently until I was buried and could no longer see the sky.

Then I woke.

‘Things are breaking up. I don’t understand why. We began well, we were happy. And then –’ Alice said.

‘Then people started getting frightened.’ I said, the first words I had spoken to another person for two months. The voice was mechanical, alien to me.

‘Do you know it off by heart?’

‘Lord of the Flies. It was my father’s. He never was one for electronics.’

‘It’s a beautiful copy.’

It, like everything, was frayed around the edges. But for an eighty year old copy it was holding up well.

‘Are these all you have?’ She spoke solemnly.

‘I wish I had more. You don’t realise how things become more relevant the scarcer they are.’

‘This one especially.’

‘You have no idea.’

Alice turned, placed the book down, waited a few seconds to gain composure and then continued with what she must have been doing before I woke. With a little anti-septic applied to a cotton bud she dabbed my fractured lips. I winced.

‘Sorry. Please, you need to keep drinking.’ She said clinically.

She had earth red hair, autumnal and chaotic, each strand seemingly at war with the next. The clothes she wore were like those we all wore, brown and colourless with the exception of a bright yellow ribbon she used to keep her unkempt strands from her face. It reminded me of the dream, of those glowing flatlands in which I stood. She was focused, with keen eyes she concentrated on the task of tending to my wounds.

 ‘We don't have long alone,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There is a guard outside. When you are well enough you are to be taken to the main hall. Jameson would like to meet you. What do you do? Quickly.’

‘What do you mean what do I do? Same as everyone else, I survive.’

‘No - before. I mean what did you do before?’

‘I was a trader. Sometimes I acquired pieces of tech for the government.’

The look she gave me was one of sorrow. Almost an hour later we left the boat. Outside the sun dazzled my eyes with its brightness. The rocking of the boat disturbed my footing; shakily I caught my balance and straightened myself up to greet the tall man who waited on the jetty. This was Eryri, its Welsh name, a name from another time, a time and language forgotten by most.

I had found it.

Alice nimbly leapt off the boat, as a seasoned sailor I felt a little humiliated to be offered a hand by her as she watched me awkwardly teeter toward the bow. There were many boats harboured there, perhaps ten or more, and most of them, I say modestly, were in a poorer condition than Lilith. She was no Jewel but I was proud that she had made it this far.

On the harbour was a measuring stick, the muddy brown marking suggested, as I had long thought, that the sea level was beginning to fall.

Toothless, thick skinned and menacing, the tall man waited at the end of the make-shift peer. He had a big face with a firm jaw which lazily creaked open when he spoke.
 


‘Lilith. She has a good name,’ he said.

‘It isn’t my boat. I didn’t name her.’

‘I came here in a boat. A lake peddlo called Janet. Nearly dead when they found me too, but Janet knew I’d stay alive, she kept me alive with her love. Inside her womb.’

I kept quiet.

‘Are you ready? It’s quite a walk,’ Alice said.

She was right, it was a long walk, longer than I expected and my legs grew weak as we made our way up the incline. They were not used to the exercise. This was the biggest landmass I had landed on in seven years. Along the path were shanty houses, constructed out of plastic and metal sheets. Most were deserted. I saw very few people.

‘Do you have livestock? The fields are bare’ I said.

‘No, no livestock. Our plantations are on the lower, flatter grounds on the far side of the island,’ Alice said.

‘So you’re vegetarians?’ I said

‘For the most part, we eat some fish, birds occasionally,’ Alice said.    

Later I did I see a child. It was barely visible against the grey spiked stones with were strewn in all directions, interspersed only by patches of mustard coloured dry grass. When I looked back he? Or was it she? Was gone, the wretched thing may have been nothing but a fragment of my own imagination. Had the ones from the sea returned to haunt us?

The tall man walked behind. I wondered if he did this to prevent our, my, escape back to the harbour. There used to be a train which brought tourists up to the summit, the tracks were still their but the engine must have been submerged. I thought of it rusting, a Martian surface which, speck by molecular speck, would be diluting away for aeons to come.

After an hour the three of us neared what used to be the summit of the mountain. Hafod Eryri stood as it always had done, impervious to nature. It was exactly as I pictured it, the grey, granite arrow building which pointed out of the mountain and into a blue eternity. Even the glass in the windows was still intact.

For a minute I stood still, awestruck, until the man gave me a cold look which clearly informed me I was to carry on moving. To have run would have been useless. On his worn belt was a blade, rusty but to strike me dead it would not have been required to be sharp. I had no strength.

Above the door read ‘Grwydryn, aros ennyd; ystyra ryfeddol waith Duw a'th daith fer ar y ddaear hon.’ or ‘Wanderer, wait a moment: consider Gods wondrous work and your short journey on this earth.’

In the distance the sun was at last falling.

Alice opened the door and invited me inside.


Chapter 3

We sat around a long table in the middle of the large room which had once been a cafe for visitors to the summit. Husky clouds, well satisfied by the light, dripped with sulphurous coloured linings as they gloriously drifted over our heads. Momentarily I was alarmed as the heavy orange beams from outside threw long, eerie shadows around every object, be it animated or otherwise, in the chamber.
 


I tapped a worn shoe on the concrete below. The warm, gleaming, slats of Welsh oak, which I had seen in photographs, were only present around the edges of the room. The rest must have been burnt during the hard times, during the winters. In some part of the building there must have been a generator as the lights, though dim, were on.

The tall man, who I now knew to be called Gere, did not eat with us, instead he resolutely waited by the exit as if we were all imprisoned in here together and he was our jailor.

‘Gull Stew, freshly shot yesterday. Please Mr Greene, you are our most welcome guest.’ Jameson said, immediately followed a low confirmation from his followers.

I had not eaten a proper meal for seven months. The empty cracked plates waited longingly to be filled. What they brought out was a large pot of stew and some flat bread. At first it tasted good, warm and wholesome like a meal used to taste, it conjured up memories of a family sat together happy and at peace. Then, seemingly with each mouthful, the deep, muddy textures of the stew began to turn sour on my tongue. Fat lined the roof of mouth, thicker and thicker it gathered until, despite my desperate hunger, I could no longer eat. I placed the fork down.

‘Shall we toast then?’ Jameson said.

‘Is it, wine?’ Unbelievable, I had not had alcohol for many years.

‘Of a kind. It’s alcohol, the taste...well...the taste is less important than the effect’ Jameson said. He smiled too much, when the smile slipped the mask beneath was exposed and I felt, for the first time, a real sensation of dread moving through me. I raised a hand to signal for him to make the toast, it was shaking.

‘To our good guest Mr Greene, and to the lost’ He said.

‘To the lost’ I muttered, as though I was one of his followers. This was one of many toasts, the drunker Jameson got the more he made.

Low, light, clouds could be seen out the window and, like plastic figurines trapped within a snow globe, we were inside of them as they rolled over the mountain building. Caricature faces, drawn out further by the shading of the light, ate solemnly as though it were their last meal. In hushed tones they spoke to each other, a collective sound which I dared not interrupt.

Jameson was older than I expected, in his fifties I guessed, around about the same age as I was but he looked healthier than I did. At first I thought the girl beside him was his daughter but as the evening continued I realised she must have been his partner. He held her tightly, cradling her into his chest. But there she received no comfort, no protection, because Jameson was unable to provide such basic human qualities only the illusion of safety.

The way she clung to him was sickening.

'I need you, Jameson. Let's leave, now' She whispered it into his ear, loud enough so that the entire table could hear.

Her slender fingers tapped impatiently on the table until he responded with nothing more than a glance. She immediately ceased all advances and returned to eating her meal. 

Later she placed her hand on his thigh, I heard him sharply tell her to ‘be quiet’ and then he flashed that disapproving look at her. Was it disapproving, or was it something else, something worse? It was hard to tell, all the other diners seemed oblivious, either by choice or by accident I was unable to tell which.

 ‘Your boat, Alice tells me it has a GPS configured e-map.’ Jameson said, all the while smiling.

‘It’s an old make but, with more power, it will work’ I said.

‘Would you do me the honour of taking me to look at it tomorrow?’

I did not get the opportunity to reply. Jameson whispered into the ear of his second in command, they smiled knowingly at each other and I immediately knew it would have been looted by the time I returned to the Lilith. If at all I did return. Had Alice betrayed me so easily? I dared not turn even the slightest bit to meet her glance. She placed a hand on my arm and still I continued to look away. Deflecting, I drew Jameson back into conversation.

‘I used to work as an envoy for the N.U.I.’ I said.

‘Funny how the government still tries to control us, even now. It’s as though London is begging to be risen from the grave by the people. Tell us what to do oh mighty government. I mean it, tell us, what would our leader’s have us fucking do?’

For a while he just smiled at me, waiting not for a reply but rather for a reaction. I had seen this kind of contemptuous arrogance which came only from being in a position of power. 

‘We need someone like you. Being here, it’s turned us isolated and cold. When I arrived it was different but things have changed as the population expanded. I can’t explain it.’ Jameson said.

‘Have you tried contacting the surrounding islands, there must be cattle, if you want I’d be happy to broker a trade?’

‘Do we look like fools Mister Greene? People were sent. They did not return. If you would like to meet the same fate as our compatriots you are welcome to try.’ Curtly he replied.

‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I’ve seen other communities in similar positions and the lack of communication between them baffles me, these two islands I visited –’

‘-Shall we finish our meal’ He interrupted, looking at my plate, which was now the only one with food still left upon it.

So I ate. I had to. Alice stared at me on several occasions. As the conversation fractured into cliques I turned my attention towards her. All the time knowing I was under supervision, from Gere, from Jameson, from Alice and anyone of the others creatures who were sat at the table.

‘You would make a good leader’ Alice said.

‘I’ve seen all kinds of leaders, the good, the bad, the ugly and even a woman.’

‘You pig.’ She smiled, then, with a determined look in her eyes, said ‘If I had the chance this place would be very different.’

‘One thing I know for sure – I am not one. I don’t have the callousness to make the hard decisions.’

‘You wouldn’t need to.’ She said. I almost believed her.

‘You always need to, eventually.’

Jameson quickly grew tired of me, would he let me live? If not then why feed a man you were going to kill?

‘It isn’t safe for you to walk back in the darkness, please stay, be our guest here this evening’ Jameson said, standing.

With that he and his woman left the table. From another room came underlings who quickly cleared the table of everything except our glasses.

In the night I was taken as I slept. I tried to scream but before I could release no more than a whimper I was gagged. Then a blow, a hard one, struck me in the side of the skull and I bluntly departed consciousness.
 

Chapter 4

With bound legs I wormed across the damp chamber, incapable of judging distance or time. Something in the darkness moved past my foot. I could hear their bodies slapping and squirming against the concrete like maggots in a bucket, useless and blind. In the moist air was the smell of piss and shit.  

I had only once felt this helpless. With nothing but a raft they had approached in the night. They boarded as we slept, the cowards, taking us and throwing us to the deep. Danny was left till last. They cornered him at the bow of the ship like a dog and then laughed as they threw him overboard. Their last act of mercy was to set fire to their old vessel before they sailed away. To watch them go under, to watch them go under, it replays over and over again. Nothing I could say or do would make them cling on any longer. They slipped away.

A day later the Lilith found me as if by some act of God. Her owner was stricken with what he believed to be Malaria. It was a short time before she was mine. But there was no comfort to be found alone in her sails.

There was nothing else. The memory was failing, replaced by a numbness in my hands, they had tied the bonds too tightly. The darkness turned to a dim light. Footsteps came down the stairs.

‘I’ve got you’ Alice said. I heard her cut the bond around my feet. I struggled at first to sit up, but then a primal instinct, an adrenaline powered impulse raised me and, through aching muscles, it moved me towards the door.

‘Don’t turn around, do not look back’ Alice said, her voice calm and clinical as though I were still her patient.

But I did catch a fleeting glimpse of the prison, partly through curiosity, and what I saw was this. Towards the front of the room the light attracted the others who were bound, they smoothly made their way towards the door and I could hear their muffled screams beneath their gags. At back of the room, which I could barely see, was a huddled collective, a living, pulsating wall of humanity within the choking darkness. What little remained of their sanity I would later observe.  

‘We have to go back for them, we have to release them’ I said.

‘Later. Take this and follow me.’ she replied, the last whisper of light was being extinguished from my fellow captors. As they plunged back into the darkness of the void, so did their hope for escape.

‘Wait, what time is it?’

She had no watch; quickly she guessed it was early morning.

‘You need to leave, get as far away from this building as you can.’ I said.

‘Take this, you won’t make it out alive without it’ She said.

In my hand she firmly placed a blade; it was nothing more than a large kitchen knife which she must have sneaked away during the meal. We moved down a dimly corridor until Alice halted and signalled for me to do the same. Without hesitation I moved in front of her, ready to meet whatever was around the corner.

The tall man noticed me too late. In went the blade, deep into his gut, and there I held it, paralyzed with shock at what I had done to this stranger. What was I capable of? His core blood, rich and warm, ran down the blade and tickled my fingers. I twisted the blade, as I had been taught, and watched the venomous eyes of the tall man grow wider with surprise. His arms lurched forward, thick hands around my neck, as they grasped tighter I could only watch as the life seeped delicately away from our locked bodies.

From behind Alice quickly, and ferociously, slit his throat in a single, swift, movement. She pulled his body away, and still he fought to keep hold of my neck, so intense was his fury toward me. Gere was dead. Alice placed her finger to her lips, she pointed at the knife and I obediently pulled it out of his chest with a sickly squelch. The door, I knew what Gere was protecting, it was his leader, it was Jameson. Sleeping soundly he didn’t even stir as we entered. We spared the girl.



Chapter 5

I endured a moment of modesty as I waited, standing there in nothing but three quarter length trousers in the early summer morning air and looking towards the horizon as I had all of my life. I smiled. Alice must have thought me mad. Had she seen me whisper into the back of my hand?

A shadow above, Alice looked up as though it were an angel whilst I kept my focus on the horizon. She barely had time to register the soldier approaching.

‘Sir, what are your orders?’ One of the soldiers said abruptly.

‘Large population. Local’s possibly practicing cannibalism, moderate resources, and several serviceable boats’ I moved closer to the Helicopter and shouted over the slowing blades. ‘You, give me your jacket?’

We waited whilst one of the soldiers spoke for several minutes into a datapad. Alice stepped backwards. She knew that the arrival of the N.U.I. vehicle meant danger, they were uncompromising, their savage pursuit of landmass was the yolk of many a nightmarish tale told by the weary travellers who fell upon the shores of Eryri. The ‘population’ would either be shot or relocated. None would be spared judgement.

‘What do you want to do with her?’ A masked soldier said.

‘Bring her, she’s a doctor. The rest, I have no authority to decide upon their lives, they will have to wait until tomorrow.’ I replied.

She struggled, shouted and spat as they threw her on board the helicopter which immediately flexed the air around us and sprung upwards. I was never able to return that floor to the grandeur it once had. There were no Welsh oaks, no carpenters or tools with which to reproduce what once had been. Around that table would be seated faces, people who smiled real smiles and no longer muttered their words as though they were going to be their last. Their lives had been returned to them and for that they had Alice to thank.

To the right of me she sat with horror in her half-hidden eyes. The bright yellow ribbon she had used as a hair band was resting on the rocks below. Hafod Eryri, the grey arrow, grew smaller as we rose. It was a fine find. In so vast a swallowing sea, which languished like a carpet in every direction, clear and intensely blue, I wondered what reward I would receive this time.

‘Will they live?’ She said, her voice about to crack.

We all have our masters.

 

20

Far to the right floats a communication station with a high mast. It sprouts out from behind leafless and lifeless trees and beams invisible messages out in all degrees. The whole area blurs and blisters into another place that doesn’t belong here; the building is an echo of substance that forces you to tighten your vision just to give it form. Sky and earth are in unison behind the barrenness of the branches, oak spectres that farm the fields, toiling slowly as they wait for the sun to push through the clotted clouds.

Almost there, the satellite town shuffles slightly as we drive into the used-to-be, into the far past, where the luminous green conifers stalwartly cover the side of the house as they always have.

Deep in the ’burbs, perfect lawns and not a soul in sight. And, oh Lordy, what trimmed hedges Mrs Markham has across the road, but do the drapes match the curtains?

I pay the taxi man, give him a crooked smile and get out into the wet air.

Monday, September 24, 2012

The Sexton’s Bet


The Sexton’s Bet

The sexton gorged on the last of the fish. It didn’t even touch the sides.

When his fork hit the empty plate he raised his eyes to the bargirl for service. Rita was preoccupied, nervously fingering her way through the pages of an old Evening Sun as though the news was hot off the press. The torn brown pages stained with time spoke otherwise. 

Fagan Muxlow was muscular and tanned. So prone to being undressed was the sextant that he was rarely seen without bare chest. Even on a late October day such as this one. Alone he sat. His hands were scarred and sore from work. In vain he tried rubbing them together for warmth, but none would come. Only the corpse of a single log remained on the fire. These were cold days now and he was in good business.

The door to the pub opened lazily, a cold draft entered and with it came the town’s Vicar.

Each night drew colder than the last. They were all gaunt. But everyone was gaunt. These were gaunt times. The Vicar, a man once the regarded as portly by his polite parishioners, was now bone thin, the thinnest of them all, and though he tried to stop his coughing, or at least stop others from hearing it, Fagan knew that there was a problem.

Rita’s eyes slid from the paper to the door. She pulled down a dirty glass and filled it with ale. The Vicar hung up his coat, muttered a blessing at the girl and joined the sexton.

'Did you enjoy your meal?’ he said.

'In the end, nothing remains,' Fagan replied and pushed the plate away.

The Vicar chuckled jovially before being seized by one of his uncontrollable coughing fits. With his arms around his ribs the Vicar weathered his painful storm with some grace.

Had he seen blood? Fagan wondered to himself as he picked the pieces of remaining fish from his back teeth. Was there red on the tissue the Vicar had discarded so quickly? The lack of food and sleep was making Fagan question his own sanity. It affected them all, and none had any patience. It started with little things, like forgetting each other’s names, but then as the days slid by it had gotten worse.

Fagan smacked his chest and licked his lips. The Vicar’s eyes were glazed over.

‘Ah, I am the custodian of sacred objects.’

‘You were the custodian.’

‘All fish must be eaten and all men must die.’

‘But not all by your hands, he was a naught but child.’

‘There'll be a time when your services are no longer required and the dead will not need to be buried. That time fast approaches.’

‘Was it worth it? A death on your hands is nothing, but on mine?’ The Vicar answered his own questions with a long glug of the brown liquid. Fagan watched his Adam’s apple as he swallowed it down his scrawny neck.

'Can I have a drink?' Fagan said.

Rita put away the paper and poured another dirty glass. ‘You may as well.'

The bargirl walked over and sourly placed his glass down on the table, spilling a little as she did so and offering no apology.

'They will be here shortly.'

'Should I say a prayer?'

'I've spoke enough lamentations today.'

'Fine, let them come and I shall answer their knocking with my spade. She is as sharp and fine looking as any blade, is she not?'

The Vicar looked over and saw the immaculate spade propped up against the wall; not a single piece of dirt from the day stained her dress. The Vicar wished he could start the day over. He wished he could take back that stupid bet. But now a boy lay buried and his hands were bloody.

‘Was it sinepsia? He had the symptoms didn't he? The shaking, they say that is how it starts, with the shaking and then the blood.’ Fagan raised himself out of his chair and retrieved his spade.

‘No. It’s the other way around Vicar, first the bleeding and then the shaking, don’t you know anything?’

‘I know a meal is not worth a child in the ground.'

‘Really, Vicar? Ten graves you bet me and ten I dug.’

The Vicar closed his eyes. His praying hands rested against his nose. The last log on the fire slipped noisily down into its bed of embers.

'Besides, the boy would have died, and painfully too. I spared him the labour of a long death.’ For a minute the wry look on the Martian skin of Fagan’s face faded. His eyes were cold.

‘The choice was not yours to make. Who is to say who lives and dies? Only God above.’

At that the sexton sniggered. On his lips were faint reminders of the meal. He twisted around, lifted one of the old wooden chairs high up in the air and smashed it against the floor.

‘Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Rita said, leaving the bar. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

Fagan diligently picked out three choice pieces of the broken chair and placed them on the embers of the fire. He then gathered what remained and stacked it in the corner. ‘Another drink,’ he said, failing to bother with eye contact.

‘Vicar?’ Rita said, but the man was ignorant in prayer. Biting the inside of her lip she breathed out through her nose. ‘Fine, but don’t think I won’t be telling Simon when he gets back.’

Fagan returned to his chair opposite the Vicar. His drink was silently placed on the table. Through the boarded up windows he heard them come. Feint voices which grew louder with each sip he took.

‘Did you bolt the door? They come for you as much as they come for me.’

‘Who do I fear but God?’

The sexton stroked the hard wooden handle of his spade. And then three raps struck the pub door.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

19


With the economy crippled, I wait and hope. It's a long fatigue. Dreamily, the muscles in my body are creaking to a halt.
Week after week I wait.
And they stretch out badly. Time itself has begun to creep forward, no longer flowing with the regularity it once maintained. My movements have slowed, and my knees ache and click like a sixty-year-old when I stand up. I sleep all the time, wake late and then nap feeling worse than before. Tired I am, and it’s like a virus I can’t shake off, and Jesus, everyone is ill.
Thank God for Turkey Ham

18

Hippies with Sat-Nav.

17

I can see the rhetoric of fear, a great fear, born from our anxiety of foreign terrors and transfigured in the armed thug forms which line up and fight for the law on these boulevards. I sit up; it's sobering to see the standard-issue bulletproof vests. I am haunted by a vision, by the memories of fleets of enforcement officers on every Friday night corner, the soldiers who were dispersed over the sea of every street.

We were the evil that was being confined. It was the purity of connection, our human bonds, which were being corroded by our constant mistrust of our fellow man. We were all confined now and we were all found guilty of the same fucking charges.

 I was tired of feeling guilty.