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Univeristy of Plymouth
Student Literary Magazine
2009
[1]
First published in the UK in 2009 by
University of Plymouth Press (Student), Scott Building, University of
Plymouth, Drake Circus, Plymouth, PL4 8AA, United Kingdom
Copyright 2009
The rights of the author have been asserted
ISSN 1353-8837
General Editor:
Edd Howarth
Managing Editor:
Katherine Kirkland
Art Design Editor:
Annalisa Hontz
Co-editors:
Katie Beauchamp, Clint Edwards, Grace Harvey, Emily Littler, Stephen
Mason, Clare Rennard, Amie Simons, Natalie Talbutt and Marc Yates
Publishers:
Natasha Hendry, Juliet Lines and Magdalena Pieta
Cover Artwork:
Catherine Pritchard
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without
written permission.
Printed and bound by R. Booth Limited. Cornwall, UK
[2]
In memory of Clint Edwards
1986 - 2009
The world is a groovier place for you having been a part of it
[3]
[4]
Contents
1 Karma
Noel Harvey
3 Maelstrom
Emily Littler
5 Tell Me it Isn’t So
Amie Simons
7 Making Love to Mary Poppins
Alexis Kirke
11 Setting the Afternoon on Fire...
Jak Stephens
13 Calling At...
Maxine Aylett
15 The Girl who Fell in Love with the Sea
Caitlin Holland
19 For Clint (1986-2009)
Edd Howarth
21 The Meaning of Quantum Theory
Alexis Kirke
23 Maud
Alice Bodenham
28 Jake
Noel Harvey
35 Hive
Thom Scott
36 Chasing Dreams
Annalisa Hontz
38 What the Other Shops are Selling
Edd Howarth
42 The New York Daily
Luke Bainbridge
46 9. November 1989
Marc Yates
49 Helen
Benjamin Davidson
51 Malignant Beauty
Cody Gray
53 The Caged Bird
Ben Greener
54 Sonia
Stephen Mason
[5]
[6]
Karma
Noel Harvey
Rounding the corner of a Bombay street I brake
for a Jain monk who has not seen my motorbike
or heard me,
though his sense is no less diligent than mine.
In quest of liberation
from the eternal round
the Jain reveres all beings.
He draws breath through gauze
to strain out gnats and camel flies.
Before each unshod step
he dusts the ground,
lest placing a foot
on the teeming earth
should take a life.
Each breath
each footfall on the path
reverberates with consequence,
not redemption.
I barely saw him
through my sullied perspex screen,
a charnel ground of splattered things,
That once
Hatched and
Flew and
Droned and
Fed and
Pollinated
Mated and
Died.
[1]
Never knowing (I presume)
what hit them.
In my dash for freedom,
I slay thousands with no reckoning.
I hope.
[2]
Maelstrom
Emily Littler
In a silent room with my eyes shut
I am deafened.
There are too many things in my head.
There are too many things in my head.
There are twenty nine letters in that sentence and there are too many
things in my head.
How many words do I know and how many places do I know and if
you take a snapshot of everywhere you’ve been how many
photos do I have?
I can hear a ringing noise and I can hear my heartbeat
and if I try really hard I can hear my Mum’s voice and if I try
really hard I can taste bacon and there are too many things in my head
and all the candles I have ever blown out add up to 231
and my forehead is sweaty.
I am having a nosebleed. And with all the blood pours out all the
small things I know that I don’t need anymore.
[3]
[4]
Tell Me it Isn’t So
Amie Simons
Photography by Louis Little
Dax hadn’t taken his Superman costume off for twelve days now and it
was starting to smell like the inside of his father’s favorite boot. It had
been a Christmas present from his great Aunt who only visited their
family once a year as she had retired to Spain. Unfortunately she had
hugely underestimated how much Dax had grown, making him the only
Superman in history to fight crime with a man boob either side of the
red and yellow symbol on his chest.
“That kid needs to go on a diet,” his father would holler throughout
the house, slamming doors and stomping his feet as he said it.
It wasn’t really Dax’s puppy fat that had made him angry, it was
more the fact that his wife disagreed, highlighting their incompatibility
and showing yet another crack in their marriage.
“There is no way that I am putting my child on a diet,” she would
scream back. “I refuse to be one of those mothers who make their kids
grow up with an eating disorder. He’ll grow out of it when he’s older.”
Dax’s father was the kind of man who felt that his child should be a
perfect reflection of himself. Unfortunately, he was not the kind of man
who you would see running around in a Superman costume for twelve
days and therefore Dax was a massive disappointment to him.
“That kid shouldn’t be prancing around in some skin tight leotard
with his balls hanging out,” he yelled. “He’s just a bloody advertisement
for child abuse he is; might as well have a sign on his back saying ‘all
kiddy fiddlers’ welcome here.”
Nancy hated it when her husband said things like that in front of
her son; she hated the thought of him growing up knowing what a shit
world he lived in full of many shit people. But Dax already knew.
His father had never believed in hiding the truth from his son so
every encounter they had together Dax would find out that Santa wasn’t
real, or that animals couldn’t talk, or that one day his goldfish will die,
never to be seen again. Recently though their conversations had gone
more along the lines of revealing that Dax was never going get anywhere
in life, that he was never going to be as clever as the other kids at school
and that he would never be good enough for any woman.
Dax knew that he was a constant disappointment to his father; he
[5]
knew that everything his father said was right; like the time he told him
that he wouldn’t last five minutes in the army cadets, or the time when
he said that Dax wouldn’t get onto the football team.
But he was determined to prove his father wrong; he was determined
to get that little pat on the back from him and to feel, even for one moment, like he had done him proud.
*
*
*
Dax sat on his red garden swing and smiled a little at the thought
of recognition and in that moment he made a promise to himself. He
promised that the next time his father told him he couldn’t do something, that he would prove him wrong.
*
*
*
And as Dax climbed through his bedroom window and stood upon
the rooftop in his Superman costume, he smiled to himself like he had
done earlier on the swing. He smiled because he knew that for the first
time in his life he would be right about something and his father would
be wrong.
And as he launched himself off of the rooftop he thought to himself
that his father was a silly man as didn’t everybody know that Superman
could fly?
[6]
Making Love to Mary Poppins
Alexis Kirke
“You will die a spinster!” (and alone)
“nature” “nature” “I’m your bride” (take me)
child of stars: “you are special”
She greets dawn
with the sweetest kiss,
she calls her name
so many times
in dreams,
now we lie together
side by side, your lips: the sweetest and
you turn from black to white
in the blinking of an eye.
Why (suddenly) does her skin pure, soft
as a plaede dawn?
Her make-up is a breath of nakedness
under the dawn, her legs,
Satanic, wrap round my ambrosian
form, which melts into the grass.
There are
so many sweets to choose, but only
one worth having, Mary, Mary: skin of my
skin;
cry of pleasure.
“This wind” (the wind) “the South West wind”
is your breath, blowing my
forehead hair out of your eyes.
[7]
Where their hair meets there is
a melding: she is
vampire.
*
Should nothing change,
(should nothing ever change but me),
should nothing change - I’ll always
hear the wind swap ends with
that umbrella of yours, you
you carried it so tightly,
Nothing more (your legs are) nothing more
(your cries are) than to know my sex,
the androgyny Fiction, nothing
Mary than to cry your name
so west wind blows you
back into imagination.
“too many stars here”
s/he drifts into
rivers of smoke,
watches
Mary dance across the roofs
of London, dance like Hymen,
vision that black dress
transparent, lace, Mary lace
a curtain cloud, bright
sun reflected: iced St. Pauls.
(London is the city, Mary,
where we lay so close
together, breasts dovetailed,
breathing your breath. Without
the smells of your body
my bed
would be empty)
[8]
I knew,
the instant that
I saw you float towards that ceiling
unsupported,
that you were a new Messiah, a
dawn unto your own day,
“special”,
your amphibiosity
making love to other Jesus’s
across the gaps of century.
(not a Magdaline, but a last whore of C20)
enlightened
need no contraception.
Childrens’ books
are most psychotic literature,
bring Paganism,
paedophilia,
inspire mass murderers’ androgyny,
abuse. On what railway line
will I find you my Mary? wandering blind
among the English, nation
of hard children,
brightest star - Jerusalem and Israel,
finest in our firmament of Jesus, Jesus being God
and Mary being Jesus,
And so the slow decreasing spiral
of this evening, pink a spoonful of your truth descends
onto the sucking millions: and I
call Mary,
darling,
warm the chair for me. Mary,
Darling,
warm the bed for me, the couch
[9]
for me, my Mary,
darling,
bring for me,
my trip for me,
tie that cord around, Mary,
tender flesh,
Mary, that aristocratic nose of yours
raised towards the storm clouds
in an opiate-like rush:
Ahhhhh! Mary.
now we know your truth.
[ 10 ]
Setting the Afternoon on Fire
Left Me with Nothing but Pockets Full of Ash
Jak Stephens
as soon as i reach the station
i know i’m not coming
back, pack me full of Benzedrine.
lie me on a stretcher
facing south.
as soon as I find the
time to get this black hole off my
chest, the moon can set alight
on every inch
i run.
soon as I suck up the
drool i left in your carpet,
i’m going to fill the sink with
wine and plunge my head
right in.
as soon as i get a six or
one i’ll leave the dice alone,
but until i fix my wrist
i just can’t tell home from
home.
[ 11 ]
[ 12 ]
Calling at...
Maxine Aylett
Painting by Stef Walker
Through a close, dark ignorance I burst
Into fire, into light.
And from those sparks, that night
Emerge a monochrome landscape.
From dots, dashes, small marks
Blurred shapes
Surface in earnest battle for attention,
A yearning for one small mention
In my stanza;
And so I travel with this congregation,
Tense with anticipation of some destination.
United in a noisy clamour
For silence, my quiet elation
Is lost to my passengers for
Their air is thick with thought,
Their vision swims with colour.
A high speed chase, a race to Paddington
Blurs this pallet on an earthy canvas
As a brush does. In a blink of time
That living green, that wet radiance shines
Through grey of glass, through memories past.
I cup my hand round a drop, on the brink
I stop to savour, I cast it in ink
And it’s done, I think. A start?
Or some sort of ending maybe,
But my heart still trips with a certainty
Of that first line.
It’s mine.
[ 13 ]
[ 14 ]
The Girl who Fell in Love with the Sea
Caitlin Holland
Painting by Annalisa Hontz
I am on a train. I have been sleeping. My eyelashes are coated in glue
and I am afraid to open them. I force them open. The man offers me a
coffee from the cart which is being wheeled through the middle of the
seats. I take small sips because it is hot. I poke my tongue out into the
cold air and screw up my eyes because it is burnt. I open up my eyes and
he is looking at me and scrunching up his forehead like a knot. He looks
like an old man when he does this. I wonder about my new husband, if he
will be an old man. I have heard that sometimes they are. This is what my
mother said to me when I told her I was coming to England, that he will
be an old man, and that I would have to take his teeth out for him at night
before we go to sleep, but she was joking with me I think. She knows that
I couldn’t have stayed. There is no money there, not enough to share.
*
*
*
We arrive at a small town. I see that it is by the sea. In Russia where I
lived you have to travel for miles to see the sea. We lived on the top floor
of a very tall building and sometimes you felt as though you could float to
the bottom like a feather but never hit the floor, just float forever.
The house we go to is in a long row of houses which look just like
each other. When he presses the bell there are three so there must be
many people living here. A woman opens the door and I say hello, and
she looks me up and down and says, hello dear, I’m Paula, you must be
Peta, and I say yes. Paula must be my husband’s sister, I think, or an aunt.
She takes us upstairs. The walls are not painted. There are more sisters
upstairs, wandering around, but they do not stop to speak to me. My
cheeks turn hot when I realise that one of them isn’t wearing any clothes,
just her under garments. Her veins are blue and her figure is large with
breasts like footballs. I want to look away but I have never seen another
woman before so I stare. Paula tells me to take a seat on the sofa and they
are talking to each other very fast in English. My heart is beating. It feels
like an insect is trapped inside my chest. I press my back into the sofa and
wish that it would swallow me up. I would live among the lost coins and
pieces of rubbish.
[ 15 ]
*
*
*
When I wake up I look out of the window and I can see the sea. I
wake up every morning to watch the waves licking the sand. I like to
think of the world at the bottom, where all of the drowned men go. I
would live as a mermaid with the drowned men and the fish and sleep
on a seaweed bed. I would never have a man on top of me again. They
are wolves, clawing at my flesh night and day, always hungry. They do
not love me.
*
*
*
Something has happened to the hours. They have turned into one
long hour. There is always pain. It is only broken by sleep. In my sleep I
dream of the ocean floor where the ugliest sea creatures scratch around
in the dark.
*
*
*
Peta? She was the new girl. Russian, I think. Became popular with
the customers for her accent and her long red hair. She was the kind that
they would go for when they wanted something a bit different. They like
a bit of mystery, don’t they? Used to get her to speak to them in Russian.
I’m not sure if she was ‘all there’. Mike bought her down. I don’t know
where he found her. They usually come here for work and end up like
the rest of us because they can’t find anything.
*
*
*
But really I am always asleep. I have to be. If I look into their eyes
I will die. There is only one man whose eyes I look into. I used not to.
I would lie still as if I was dead, like with all of them. But one day he
began to cry, and his tears dripped onto me and he held me as if I was
a child. He told me that he was sorry, that none of it was fair on me.
We lay there and he told me how his wife had died many years ago. He
[ 16 ]
was very gentle the next time and I looked into his eyes and I think
that made him happy. When he finished he asked me if I would like
something to eat from the kitchen but I said no. I do not like to eat
any more. Perhaps if I do not eat for long enough, my bones will cut
them. They will bleed red ribbons through my hair and I will be a
child again, playing in the snow, when we had enough money and we
weren’t poor.
*
*
*
Yes, of course I remember her. The little red head. Tiny, she was,
like a sparrow. I was almost scared that I would break her sometimes.
I’m not a big man, but she was very small. I don’t know how she came
to be there. She would lie in bed and sing songs and you felt as though
she was in a very far off place. Almost like she had never been there in
that room with you, doing those things.
*
*
*
The door was always locked. I would check every night. That night,
Paula had been drinking vodka from a huge glass bottle, pouring it
into a whiskey glass and tipping it down her throat like a hungry wolf.
It was cheap vodka and the smell crept around the room, making
me feel sick. She had been talking about her childhood, I think, and
crying. I couldn’t understand her any more and I went to bed. In
the night I went to get water from the tap and she was lying in the
middle of the living room, very still, as though dead. I shook her and
she made a noise like an animal. I was about to go back to bed when I
saw her handbag on the floor next to her. Like a thief, I took her keys
from her handbag. The ground was like stepping on ice. The streets
were empty but after a while I found a bar. A woman was behind the
bar, serving drinks to two men. One of them gave me their coat. The
woman put a Coca-Cola in front of me and I sat and watched the
[ 17 ]
bubbles rising to the surface. Some people came. They were in blue
police uniforms and hats like you see on English films.
*
*
*
The girl was a mess. Her bones were sticking out all over the place.
Her nightdress was stained and she looked as though she hadn’t washed
for weeks. You just know it’s that kind of case sometimes, by the smell.
She reeked of sex. I knew we had to get her to a safe place as soon as
possible. I let Sarah speak to her, but she wasn’t saying much so we got
old Oliver in. He’s good with languages. Ex army, you know, and he
spoke to her in Russian. But for some reason she glazed over, like she
had no recollection of the language. It’s terrible. You hear these stories.
They’re all over the newspapers. Girls being bought and sold like meat.
Never had any cases in a place like this though. It’s a tiny seaside town,
for Christ’s sake. People come here on their holidays.
*
*
*
I am taken to a room where there is a bath full of water. I take off
my nightdress and climb in. The woman closes the door and I say I am
sorry. I had forgotten about privacy. In the bath I am a mermaid. My
skin drops off and turns the water brown. Underneath the skin, there are
scales. I go under the water, not taking a breath because I do not need
to any more. If I stay underneath for long enough I will be there. The
air is becoming black around me and my head is fizzy like Coca-Cola.
The water goes into my mouth and my nose and fills me up and cleans
my insides so that they sparkle like Christmas. If I stay here for long
enough I will be there.
[ 18 ]
For Clint (1986-2009)
Edd Howarth
the box was not heavy,
but too large
for you to carry by yourself.
so each taking a side
we set out
shuffling down the pavement
toward the Post Office,
stopping only to tighten our grip
and laugh at how ridiculous
we must have looked.
we went all the way around
the bombed in church,
almost dropped it down a
set of shopping centre stairs.
in the town square,
eyes from the fountain
turned and watched
as we pushed through
the Post Office doors,
only to join the back
of the longest queue
either of us had ever seen.
while we waited,
we talked about
unremarkable things.
at one point,
we had the arrogance
to complain about
the length of that queue,
and how –we thoughtit should be shorter.
[ 19 ]
[ 20 ]
The Meaning of Quantum Theory
Alexis Kirke
Illustration by Adam Garratt
The meaning of quantum theory
is tinged with betrayal
and sickness
and lies
and the truth of a statement
is never its truth
but a game of opinions
and sound
and tears
what I see is meaningless
quantum and
uncollapsed
indecides
vengeance is
no one’s
and anger
is useless
and permanent
grief is respected
ignored
and divided
*
I
don’t mean to complain
but that particle
might as well be
a million miles
away from me
[ 21 ]
And if I collapse,
it won’t collapse too
no matter what EPR says
all
it will do is
keep sitting
and thinking
and wondering
I will
keep hurting
and feeling
betrayal
and loss
not of people
but
times
[ 22 ]
Maud
Alice Bodenham
Ah, opening time.
When Maud flicked a switch (the same way she always did, every
morning) Sylvia flickered into view, hung on a plastic hanger and buried
deep amongst tweed jackets. This was the only part of the day Sylvia
enjoyed - between when Maud opened the door and when people
started bustling in. This was her favourite part of the day because she
could imagine someone new finding a use for her. Back in her heyday,
she’d been draped elegantly over a wooden hanger, apart from all the
other clothes. She’d been lit up like a star on Broadway. Those were the
days. Now the only lights that shone on Sylvia were those which looked
like they belonged in a warehouse.
But it wasn’t Maud’s fault. Maud tried her best. She was always in at
7am to scrub the shop floors, although all the bending gave her twinges
in her back. No one else but Sylvia knew this. She didn’t want people to
know how lonely she was now George had passed. But Sylvia could see
it plain in Maud’s glassy grey eyes, because she felt it too, even if she was
squashed.
Maud tutted at Sylvia being shoved in between a furry coat and a
scratchy jacket. She slid Sylvia out, smoothed her down and took her
over to where the other dresses stood. Sylvia imagined for a moment
how Maud’s high cheekbones and sweet little frame must have made her
a bit of a beauty when she was young - before all the kids, hard work,
low pay and becoming a widow took their toll. Maud especially liked
to place all the dresses in front of her till. Perhaps so she could admire
them all day, wishing she still had the figure and the confidence for
them.
Maud let herself forget where she was and who she was for a minute
and began stroking Sylvia, letting the sensation of the silk tingle on her
fingertips as she laced them round in a figure of eight.
Maud closed her eyes ever so gently for a moment, and when she
opened them she was standing on an open sparkling dance floor under
a blue spotlight. She looked down, as she ran her hands over her hips,
at the rose red silk that teased her waist in and fluttered out just below
[ 23 ]
her knees. She spun in circles to see the material spin with her, gliding
gently and charismatically through the air. Maud raised her head
and smiled as glitter fell down from above her as she spun round and
round....
Ding!
*
*
*
The day went quickly and hurriedly. Sylvia was glad when the
customers began to thin out. There were just as many old clothes being
brought in as there were going out. Sylvia wondered, would she ever
leave the shop? Or would she remain here becoming covered by dust
and fraying at the edges like the copy of Ghostbusters opposite her?
What was the point of her being donated? Sylvia had learned to call
the shop her home, but she still longed for a new one. She longed for
someone to find her and shed light on her again.
At that very moment of Sylvia’s contemplation, in walked a woman
who could have been Audrey Hepburn twenty years ago. She had a grace
about the way she walked in her crisp fitted white dress. Sylvia’s spirit fell
- she was carrying a bag full of clothes. The mystery woman wasn’t here
to find a new dress, she was here to dispose of old ones. She’d probably
be in and out of Sylvia’s life in a matter of minutes.
“Hi”
“Hello, dear, can I help?”
“Yes, indeed. I want to donate a few things.”
“OK just give them to me. Thanks ever so much.”
“That’s OK. I’ve been meaning to come in here for a while. My father
died of a heart disease last year. I think it’s great what you do. I wish I
could do more!”
“Well do you want to have a look around?”
“Do you have any dresses, really nice dresses, you know? Something
I could wear to an occasion?”
“Of course! Not much, mind. They’re right behind you. Dressing
room’s to the left, dear.”
“Thank you.”
The woman began running her fingers along the dresses in turn.
Sylvia anticipated when her touch got to her! The woman’s fingers
stopped at Sylvia. She must have liked the feel of the fabric. She didn’t
[ 24 ]
pull the dresses out one by one to look at them, she only touched Sylvia.
The woman smiled, tracing her fingers down Sylvia, giving her shivers.
The woman unhooked her from her prison, draping her over one arm to
get a proper look at the shape.
“Wow. Is this real silk?”
“Yes! That’s been with us a while now....A man brought it in after his
wife died, years back now. He was a sweet man. Apparently she was a
dancer.”
The woman’s slender diamond-encrusted hands tugged at the grey
curtain. Maud came over and freed her from the changing room.
“It’s a perfect fit! What do you think?”
“Wonderful.” It was a splendid fit. Sylvia felt alive again. Oh, but she
shouldn’t get too excited now. People try on clothes all the time and
don’t buy them. That’s what young girls do when they have no money, all
weekend long! Could just be another person wanting to kill some time?
“I’ll take it.”
How thrilling. Sylvia was off to a new home. A NEW home!
*
*
*
The woman breezed out of the shop as quickly as she had breezed in.
When the bell chimed with her exit the pit of Maud’s stomach churned.
As she left she took the daylight with her. People came and went. Some
brought in holey old shapeless jumpers, scuff-marked shoes and more
old shapeless jumpers. Others, “window shoppers”, sniffed at the racks,
being careful not to touch anything.
A ribbon of marmalade burnt orange light from a streetlight sliced
through onto Maud’s face. Her hands were clasped together on the desk,
entwined like two reunited lovers. They tightened their grip, grasping,
trying to feel like someone was gripping back. Suddenly she gulped at
the stale cold crispy air, a quivering hand clasping at her chest! Her heart
ached. She knew that feeling well. She took a long slow breath deep into
her shrunken lungs....and....o-ut again. Wiping a lone tear drop from
her eye, her fingers lingered, teasing at her wrinkles. When did they get
there? How could time pass so freely for everyone else.....and still she felt
like she was standing over a grave in her best black dress saying goodbye
to half of her?
She held her hand up, letting the ray of streetlight reveal her white
gold band. The chemo made her fingers swell up so much she had to
[ 25 ]
get it cut off. These days that’s what jewelers do, melt them together. So
Maud’s ring sparkled like the day she got it, some forty years ago. Even
in the dim of the shut up shop, the diamonds George bought her to
make her his still danced with the light.
Shout, crash, crunch, scatter. Silence. Maybe a bottle smashing into
pieces in the distance? Maybe against a wall, maybe against someone’s
face. It was too late now, no no it wasn’t safe to walk home right now.
*
*
*
“Maud? Maud have you been here all night?!”
*
*
*
Getting out of the taxi Sylvia didn’t know what to expect. Then she
looked up to see a stone pillar doorway lit up with soft gold candle light.
This was the party? With every step Sylvia’s heart pounded loudly. The
woman wearing her was named Grace, and such a fitting name it was
too. She had such a grace in every step she took in her Manolo’s.
Sylvia felt a sense of importance for the first time in years as she
entered the room. It was filled with men in handsome tuxes, ladies in
long flowing gowns, and younger women in cute fitted cocktail dresses
with patterns, splashes of colour and frills. She was still fit for an
occasion.
Grace and her husband danced for hours and hours, with the
occasional break to mingle with friends and get drinks and canapés.
Sizzling champagne in long slender sparkling glasses. Little salmon
treats encircled in ivory cream cheese. Then it was back to gentle
embraces as they floated in the waltz and spinning around the waxy
floor in the fox trot. To him, she must still look as beautiful as the day he
met her.
She was finally making someone look and feel beautiful again.
*
*
*
“Hi there”
“Hello, it’s you again! How’s the dress, dear?”
Grace smiled, “It was perfect. It made my night. But I’m bringing it
back.”
[ 26 ]
“Something wrong with it?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that, well, I have so many clothes
to be honest and most of them just hang in my wardrobe. I think its only
right I give it back, so someone else can wear it.”
Maud smiled to herself as she tucked Sylvia back into her place.
Strangely, Sylvia felt glad to be back. Grace was right. That was the
reason she’d been given to the shop. This way, someone else could find
her again one day; dig her out of her hiding place and shine a new light
on her, letting her make a new woman feel special.
Maud was glad to have Sylvia back too. No one else knew, but
after she finished cleaning up the shop, when it was dark and deathly
quiet, sometimes Maud tried Sylvia on. She let herself disappear into a
crimson cloud. It made her feel young again. The feel of the silk on her
body made her feel beautiful again.
Like when she used to go dancing with George.
[ 27 ]
Jake
Noel Harvey
It was Remembrance Sunday and the week after Goldbergs had filed for
bankruptcy protection. We netted off what we could, but we were still
sitting on the downside of a quarter billion dollars worth of toxic credit
swaps. We camouflaged it of course, but when the audit came round,
some sharp eyed kid out to make a name for himself spotted it sticking
above the parapet. Our Japanese masters screamed seppuku, and I
expected casualties, but the final reckoning was carnage.
The vice president ordered me in that Sunday for a dawn conference
call with Tokyo, and twenty minutes later there was blood oozing
down the walls and four names on the fixed interest desk had a red line
through them. He was sorry, Denis. He really had no choice. Might want
to call the team before personnel get to them.
He proffered a damp, stiff hand, which I grasped a little too long, and
then a security guard was marching me from the Holy of Holies, past
Jackie’s crescent desk with the picture of her labrador and the faint scent
of L’Aire Du Temps, back down the long glass corridor, into the lift, out
onto the square.
Sleepless, jobless, womanless. Soon to be penniless.
People think bankers are loaded, but fixed interest isn’t like that. It’s
the missionary position, the spotty girl next door of investment banking.
Most of us are mortgaged up to our eyeballs, and after the Lehmans
collapse, half the traders in the City would soon be on the streets
looking for work.
It sounds childish now, a thirty seven year old man throwing his tie
into the Thames and screaming ‘fuck you, you ungrateful bastards’ in
the general direction of Canary Wharf. But I suppose it was marginally
less childish than all the other daft ideas I had that morning - like
driving my BMW into the front of the building, or jumping from the
thirty sixth floor, or leaping headlong into the grey water lapping against
the wharf, in the hope of hitting an undertow.
I went back to my Docklands flat and sat around for a while. I made
coffee, flicked through The Independent, dickered on the net. I thought
about calling the team, but in the end I did what I always do when I’m
stalling. I walked. My feet found their own way, west along the river, out
[ 28 ]
along the loop of the Thames, past the tourists at the Tower, past the
gulls hovering over the rubbish barges, past the old Billingsgate building
- empty for decades now, but still smelling of fish.
A city familiar to me for fifteen years or more.
By the afternoon I’d come full circle, and turned up at the Prospect
of Whitby in Wapping. I was still baulking over calling the team to
administer the coup de grace, and was badly in need of a beer. I was
about to order my second pint, when an old man came in and stood
next to me at the bar. He was wearing a green beret, and a double
breasted suit that smelt of mothballs, and he had a row of medals
pinned to his chest.
I mumbled something about my poppy being on my other jacket, but
could I buy him a drink? He said you don’t need a poppy to remember,
and he didn’t mind if I did, young man, and he’d have a pint of IPA. He
had a rattly, but strong voice, and seemed a tad tipsy.
I held out a hand. ‘Denis Bryant.’
‘Mike Sams. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ His grip was cool,
and surprisingly firm.
‘Impressive set of medals.’
‘These? Not so much. Campaign medals mostly. Just means you was
there and came through it. There was them that paid dear for ‘em . . .’
He paused for a moment. ‘No, no. We all did. But this oak leaf - that’s
an M.I.D., and this one, now this one you see here, that is the Burma
Star. Forgotten army they called us. Still would, I suppose, if anyone
remembered, hah!
‘Generous man. Thank you. Your very good health.’ He raised the
glass with a mottled hand, and his head lowered to meet it. Wisps of
white hair poked from under the green beret.
‘You’ll have to forgive my ignorance . . . we . . . I mean my generation,
we haven’t served. What’s M.I.D. mean?’
‘M.I.D.? Mentioned in dispatches. It’s Jake’s by rights. It was him that
earned it - he was the brave one. Oh for crying out loud!’
I felt a draught at my back, and the old soldier was looking past me
towards the door. His moist eyes were blazing. Why did they have to
come here? This wasn’t the only pub in London. Why couldn’t they go
someplace else?
I glanced over my shoulder.
‘Cameras are welcome, sorry, no videos. Thank you, this way please.
Yes, keep the ticket for the moment. Thank you.’ They trailed in, a pale
[ 29 ]
yellow golf jacket here, a white flat cap there, a couple of multi-pocketed
gilets. Eyes peered up at the beams, other eyes were inspecting the
engine room telegraph and ship’s anchor.
‘Can’t stand to be around ‘em, Japs. Nothing against Germans.’
‘I think I know how you feel. Let’s go to the upstairs bar.’
‘This is my local. Always was. Why can’t you go someplace else?’ He
was speaking louder now and had fixed yellow golf jacket with a baleful
stare.
I reached to touch his arm, but my hand hovered over his sleeve.
‘They won’t be here long. Let’s go upstairs. Would you tell me about
Jake?’
He looked into his beer for a moment, and sighed. ‘Come on then.
Tactical withdrawal. Regroup upstairs.’
We found a table by a window looking onto the Thames. Canary
Wharf obliterated the skyline. He sat down with the unhurried dignity
of the elderly, and placed his beret at the edge of the table. He was
virtually bald.
‘Well now, first time I met Jake, he’d just arrived from South America.
Ship to Bombay, then train to Poona. That’s a long journey, and he was
in a filthy temper, and I can’t say as I’d blame him. He was up on his
hind legs, eyes flashing, teeth bared, first bucking and then lashing out
with his back legs. Couldn’t dare go near him.’
‘Jake was a horse?’
‘His mother was! Nah - Jake was a mule. Cross between a donkey
and a mare. Finest beast God created, bar none. It was . . . let’s see now,
1942. I’d just come out from England. Assigned to mountain transport
on account of having kept a horse. Father was in the rag and bone trade.
Well, I knew I had to get Jake’s respect, so I got me meals sent in, and I
lived in that stable for the next forty eight hours. I didn’t do much, just
cooed and talked with him, told him I wasn’t going to hurt him, stuff
like that. We put Daisy in next to him - she was a gentle soul, and that
helped settle him.
‘After two days he was calm enough to let me rub him down with a
curry comb. He had a wiry old hide that Jake, so I used a metal comb on
him, you know, one with teeth, and his skin used to go all a quiver, like
he was being tickled. He was a big softy really, the colour of chestnut,
with a white muzzle, but he could’ve kicked you to Timbuktu with those
haunches of his. Just what you want for ferrying ammunition boxes up
mountains.’
[ 30 ]
‘Why didn’t you use trucks . . . or Jeeps?’ He smiled, revealing a
perfect set of dentures, and gave a deep, wheezy out breath of a laugh.
‘In Burma? Weren’t hardly no roads, were there? Sometimes you
couldn’t even see the trail. But there’s a trick to leading a mule, see?
You’ve got to give him his head. I saw ‘em tumble down the sides of
mountains, drowned in rivers and swamps, poor brutes, but I never saw
one lost that’d been free to choose his own way. He’ll see a track where
you or I’ll see nothing but rock and mud. Give him his head, there’s the
trick.
‘We fished up in Burma, second Arakan offensive it was. We’d taken
some high ground off the Japs, but it’d been carnage getting up there,
and the next day they counter attacked with everything they had.
Artillery, mortar, small arms. You name it. The order came to withdraw,
and we planned to hold a perimeter while we got everyone out - like a
collapsing paper bag they said, hah!
‘I remember bits of it. Shells and mortar bursting all over the place,
people screaming and shouting, cordite burning in me nostrils. And
then the quiet while they moved positions, and all you’d hear was the
clink of the harnesses, and the squelch of your boots pulling out of the
mud. We were in a filthy state by then. Soaked to the skin, half of us
rotten with fever, hadn’t hardly eaten or slept in four days.
‘The mules weren’t no better. We crucified ‘em getting down that
track. I had Jake in the lead, then dear old Daisy, then the others. Once
I stumbled and almost went over the edge, and all of a sudden I felt this
vice like grip on me arm, and there was Jake, me arm in his muzzle,
leaning back on his haunches to get some purchase in the mud. No, I’m
not kidding. Jake saved my life.
‘Not once, three times we drove them mules up that trail. We’d been
weeks on the move, and the pack saddles had chafed their flanks raw
by then. We’d cut up parachutes to help protect their backs, but they
must’ve been in agony. Couldn’t make a sound, though. Their vocal
chords got severed in Poona, see? Devoiced they called it - didn’t want
their braying to reveal our position.’ He took a gulp of his beer, and
added, ‘Or their suffering, I shouldn’t wonder.’
The old man had swayed forward while he’d been talking, but now
he straightened up and ran the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘We got
‘em all out, you know, over three hundred men in all.’
‘And Jake?’
‘Ah, Jake. The Japs were still harrying us with artillery. We thought
[ 31 ]
we’d got out of range and bivouacked in some tree cover. Somehow
they zeroed in on us. I heard the screech of the shell, and saw it burst
a few yards from where he was foraging. Blew him clean off his feet it
did. He tried to get up, he kept trying, but his forelegs weren’t having it.
Shrapnel had smashed the bone.’
His voice was quieter now, and I had to lean forward to catch
his words. The smell of beery breath mingled with the faint tang of
mothballs.
‘We didn’t have a vet with us, but one of the medics came over with a
revolver - Webley it was - and I said he was my mule, and if anyone was
going to do him it was going to be me, and he put the butt in my hand,
and squeezed my shoulder and walked away.
‘Jake knew, of course. They do, you know. They always know. I
pointed the barrel between his eyes, just here.’ The old man tapped
himself on the forehead with an index finger. ‘He’d stopped his thrashing
by now, and was lying still, snorting, but when he saw the gun, his ears
went back, and his head started up, as if to say, “After all I’ve done for
you, you ungrateful bastard”. And I think I must have said “Sorry, Jake”,
or something like that, and I squeezed the trigger. Twice. And that was
the end of him.’
The old soldier pursed his lips, and sniffed a couple of times, then
exhaled sharply. For the second time, the back of his hand came up and
wiped across his eyes. He sniffed once more, and without looking in my
direction, mumbled ‘sorry’ again under his breath.
He had stopped speaking now, and was leaning forward with his
head bowed, cradling his beer in both hands. Some words of Samuel
Johnson’s came to mind, something about a man thinking meanly of
himself who has never been a soldier. Neither of us moved for a time.
‘Well, must be cutting along,’ he said suddenly. ‘Missus’ll be
wondering where I’ve got to.’
I looked up. The watery sunlight had faded, and the lights of Canary
Wharf blazed in the distance. He rose with the same unhurried dignity,
and we shook hands. ‘They’ve got their own memorial now,’ he said.
‘Park Lane. Proper it is. You might want to visit it.’
I thanked him and told him I certainly would. Then I finished my
beer and went home to make my phone calls.
*
[ 32 ]
*
*
A few months afterwards, I spotted my former deputy in Piccadilly.
It was February and raining, and though the streets were busy, the
relentless news of recession had dampened any hopes of an early spring.
People huddled in anoraks and under umbrellas, and queued for buses,
but he strode past them, looking prosperous and confident in a silk tie
and Crombie overcoat. In my casual attire, I felt oddly disadvantaged.
He told me he’d just come from a job interview with a debt recovery
agency. Not quite the cachet of investment banking, he admitted, but
the commission sounded promising. And anyway, he didn’t have a lot of
choice. No bank would look at him now.
‘Weren’t they put off by that business?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘Not a bit of it. In fact, I got the impression they rather
liked people who didn’t play by the rules.’
‘Yes.’ I said. ‘I suppose they would, wouldn’t they?’
I wished him luck, and he strode off, promising to buy me a beer
when he had more time.
I cut through Shepherd Market and headed north up Park Lane.
Nobody, not even the few tourists, seemed interested in the wall, which
rose up from the central reserve like a great stone crescent, partially
obscured by some plane trees. A bas relief menagerie covered the wall
face, and two weary bronze mules, burdened down with armaments
and ammunition boxes, trudged out of the past towards it, striving for a
single, narrow gap.
I stood by the lead mule, palming the silent metal of its muzzle.
Several poppy wreaths littered the base of the wall, and here and there, a
few small wooden crosses lay amongst them. Some words stood off the
wall: ‘They had no choice’. On the other side, a bronze horse, huge and
noble, trotted off into the future, accompanied by a dog.
I stepped through for a closer look. It was a little while before it
occurred to me that both figures were cast without a bridle or collar.
[ 33 ]
[ 34 ]
Hive
Thom Scott
Photography by Edd Howarth
The three-hundred foot plummeting of Mr. Shelley and his Ford F350
off Ligontown Pass came as a Godsend for my brother and I—the only
ones now alive who knew of his buried millions. We had spied our
neighbor one night that summer bustling with a suitcase to the tilled
strip behind his house. In moonlight he swept shovelfuls of earth over
his shoulder, padding it smooth before scuttling back inside, fast, as if
he were back down inside the mine and the light of his foreman’s helmet
guided his path.
The night after the memorial service, still in clip-on ties and loafers,
my brother and I slid out the window and crept to the garden, carrying shovels of our own. We didn’t worry about being seen; the company
houses stood vacant along the street, peeled and hollowed. I thought,
could it really be possible that we would be leaving in less than a week,
too?
All night I heaped alongside my brother, as our shirts caked and
oranged, as the shovel weighed heavier and heavier, as the ground slowly
sank down past our hips, as we finally struck the bouncy vinyl of our
treasure.
Austin climbed out, lit a cigarette, threw back his head.
I’m buying a truck, he said.
We managed it up to the surface and pounded at the locks till they
finally gave up.
Like the lid of a beehive we slowly opened the suitcase. There lay a
sheath of receipts, some bottle caps, and bound manila folders printed
with the name of the mining company and of our town.
Austin picked up the suitcase, threw it, and disappeared into the
field. I didn’t follow him. I rearranged everything in the suitcase as it
had been, rubber-banded the files together. Before I shoved it back in
the hole and returned the dirt, I took off my heavy shirt and added it to
Mr. Shelley’s luminous cache.
I slipped back through the window and had almost fallen asleep
when Austin came crawling through. Six days later we moved to Lexington. He never asked why I reburied the suitcase. I never asked what he
did in the field.
[ 35 ]
Chasing Dreams
Annalisa Hontz
The music pulsed throughout the room.
I can feel every beat of the subwoofer down to my bones.
My body moves and flows with the music rocking, swaying, pulsing, falling.
Sweaty bodies surround me, minimally costumed,
slaves to the music just like me.
All of our limbs entangle
until the start of one body and the start of another
becomes an abstract and absurd idea.
We’re just one moving, pulsing, living, sweating being.
My hips begin to circle,
my arms rise into the air,
my head falls back and rests on a stranger’s shoulder.
My mind – for a few minutes at least Stops thinking, stops working, stops caring.
The only thing in charge is instinct.
The primal desire to become one with the mass.
To seduce, and be seduced, by the stranger behind me.
Nothing matters but this moment,
a moment of bliss, a moment of music.
Suddenly the song ends,
and the music – my beat, my temporary life dies into the drone of voices.
The stranger behind me leans in to whisper in my ear
“Do you want to get a drink?”
and the moment is ruined.
The anonymity, the freedom, and the excitement
fades into dreams, and the reality comes back.
The stranger isn’t an impartial being.
He wants something, and assumes I want the same.
[ 36 ]
After all, no one just dances to dance,
no one dances to become one with the music and forget.
Everybody wants something,
too bad I can only get what I want in fleeting glimpses,
too short to be sure they even exist.
“No – no I think I’d better go.”
Without even a glance to the stranger
I run for the door. Three blocks,
and a thirty minute wait later, I’m once again dancing,
and constantly chasing glimpses of a dream.
[ 37 ]
What the Other Shops are Selling
Edd Howarth
Mattie was next in line at the ticket counter. He crept forward, peered up
through the glass at the ticket man and placed the note his mother had
given him on the counter. The man smiled and asked him in a crackly
voice where he wanted to go. Mattie told him Woolworths. People
behind chuckled, the ticket man chuckled. The ticket man asked, is that
in Truro? Mattie pulled the page from the Woolworths catalogue out of
his pocket and showed it to the man. The man nodded and placed some
coins and two orange tickets, the size of football cards, on the counter.
He told Mattie to take these and go through the ticket barrier, then he
called: Next!
Mattie wove through the crowd holding the tickets. He’d put the
change in the trouser pocket that could be closed with a zip. This is what
his mother had told him to do. The floor was slick and slippery, feet
clacked and echoed around the train station. Mattie saw what must have
been the ticket barrier and got into line. Ahead of him the other people
were feeding their tickets into the machine and walking through the
barriers. The barriers opened with a single flap, like black rubber wings.
It was his turn and he fed his ticket into the little slot. The wings opened
and allowed him to pass. He could see the tracks but no trains, and he
was heading toward the tracks when a voice called: Hey, kid!
He turned. A lady in a toxic-green jacket was holding another ticket
out for him. She smiled and said: you need this to get on the train. It was
a friendly smile but a little tired, too. It was the sort of smile his mum
might give him after she’d come home from work. He took the ticket and
saw it was the same ticket he’d put into the machine. The lady pointed
toward the tracks and said: You’ll need that one, platform four. And then
she swooped away.
There were lots of other people waiting for the train. When it appeared around the curve of the track they all shuffled down the platform, eying each other. The train stopped with a great big screech and
the people huddled around the door so tight that people getting off
had to squeeze their arms by their sides to get through. Mattie joined
a group and, worrying that it wasn’t the right train, asked an old lady
[ 38 ]
whether this was the train to Truro. She smiled and said yes, then she
patted him on the head. He’d asked the old lady because old people were
kinder than young people. This one looked especially kind, with curly
white hair and a woven handbag that could have a been a basket full of
cakes. When the last people had left the train the people on the platform
started squeezing into the train and the old lady let him go ahead of her.
He asked her again if the train stopped at Truro and she smiled and said
yes.
He didn’t want to sit next to anyone so he decided to stand in the
corridor. It turned out that a lot of people wanted to stand in the corridor, too. Even the old lady. It was cramped and hot and smelled like the
school toilets. Most people didn’t talk and those that did said things like,
National Rail, huh? Mattie liked the way the people swayed backwards
and forwards like netball posts rocking in the wind. It was quite far to
Truro but he was fine watching the trees and hedges whip past the little
window in the door. After a while the trees and hedges started to look
the same, so he pulled out the page from the Woolworths catalogue and
looked at that instead.
The old lady’s wrinkled finger appeared and touched the toy he’d circled. What’s this? she asked. Mattie told her it was a toy he’d been saving
for. He told her how he’d saved and saved his pocket money every week,
not even buying sweets and things, so he could buy it. She asked what
it was, and he told her it was an Action Man Moon Rover with firing
missiles. It even moved, he said, and pointed to a smiling boy holding a
remote control. You push the buttons and it moved across any terrain.
There was a big dusty hill under the viaduct opposite his house, and he
and his younger brother were going to drive it up and down that hill.
That’s nice, she said, and then a jolt caused a teenager to bump into
her shoulder. She scowled and told the teenager to be careful, which
Mattie didn’t think was fair, seeing as it hadn’t been the teenager’s fault
or anything.
A voice like the ticket man’s said they were arriving in Falmouth,
and all change for Truro. Mattie filed out of the train with a few others,
including the old lady, and saw a train rumbling on the next platform.
By this time he knew what to do, and by looking at the overhead display,
saw that it was the right train. He didn’t even have to ask the old lady or
anything, though she still patted his shoulder and pointed to the train,
which he found a little embarrassing.
On the train there were plenty of seats and he chose one by the win[ 39 ]
dow. The old woman came and sat next to him even though there were
plenty of seats. She clasped her woven bag like it was something precious and muttered something about not being far from Truro, now. She
said he would know they were in Truro when the train man said so, but
Mattie already knew this from the last train.
He pulled the catalogue page from his pocket and looked at the
Action Man Moon Rover. Mattie was ten years old but the boy holding
the remote control seemed younger. He was a bushy haired boy with
bright red cheeks, like a doll. Mattie didn’t like the way he was smiling. It
was big and blank and vaguely stupid, the way third years looked while
they pushed toy cars around the playground. Mattie wondered whether
the boy in the picture made sounds while he drove the Moon Rover,
brrrmm brrrmmmm zooooooooom or something. He turned the page
over and started scanning the other toys, but then the train slowed and
the train man said they were arriving in Truro.
On the platform the old woman asked him if he knew where he was
going. She did this by bending slightly with her hands on her knees, like
he were a lost child in a supermarket. He said that he did, thanked her,
and walked away. She followed slowly through the station but when they
were outside she doddered up to a taxi and Mattie was glad to see her
go.
The streets of Truro were long and wide and filled with people
swinging shopping bags. Because there was more room than in the train
the people seemed smaller, somehow. One girl, a teenager with great big
boobs that wobbled like water balloons, was actually smaller than him.
As she approached he figured she was about an inch shorter, but as she
passed he saw it was more like two.
Without his mother holding his hand he saw more shops than usual.
There were phone shops, gadget shops, dark musty shops with strange
vases and skull necklaces hanging in the window. One shop had painted
black windows and a symbol instead of a name. Mattie didn’t have time
to go inside (he promised his mother he’d be back by four) but he figured next time he would come back and take a look.
After a while he realized he wasn’t exactly sure where he was. He decided that as long as he re-traced his steps to the train station he would
be OK. If the worst came to the worst he would ask someone, but not an
old lady.
The big red Woolworths sign appeared around the next corner.
[ 40 ]
Mattie found this strange because he didn’t know this street, but he figured a big place like Woolworths probably had many different entrances.
He preferred the entrance he and his mother used. It was brighter,
sunnier. As he approached he saw that the big red Woolworths sign was
actually more of a dark pink, like an old toy fire engine that had been
left out in the sun.
The Action Man Moon Rover was clearly very popular because there
was a big cardboard display advertising it in the window. Because it was
so big it didn’t seem as impressive as the one in the catalogue. It looked
light and plasticy, not like a moon rover at all, which he figured should
be hard and heavy. He unzipped his pocket and counted the coins left
over from the train ticket. If his mother had given him a ten pound note
then the Moon Rover would cost maybe thirty trips back and forth. If it
had been a twenty, more like fifteen. Either way it was a lot of trips.
Walking back to the train station a man in a dark suit asked Mattie
if he was lost. Mattie shook his head and told him he wasn’t. He knew
exactly where he was going.
[ 41 ]
The New York Daily
Luke Bainbridge
The day before Jeff N Asher would murder his wife and his co-worker
was the best of his life. Most days are inherently average; sometimes
you get a good day; many days are devastating; but this day was nothing
short of perfect.
“Jeff!” the cold surprise didn’t wash with him. “What are you doing
here?!”
His alarm sounded at precisely 6.13 a.m. Everything in Jeff ’s life
was meticulously detailed. Getting up at 6.13 a.m. allowed him to have
enough time to shower, press his clothes (this being shirt and suit, as
well as socks, underwear and tie), take a pause on his new IKEA recliner
to watch BBC World News and beat superstition; all before he left for
work at 6.59 a.m. It rarely takes him more than two minutes to get the
elevator to the bottom floor and say a polite but suave “Good morning”
to the doorman, Wesley.
“It isn’t what it looks like! It isn’t!” she proclaimed, frantically covering
herself.
You never forget your first step onto a Manhattan street. It is
impossible to ignore the instantaneous combination of sensations; the
heat; the noises; the smells. This is the kind of atmosphere that you fall
in love with or that makes you feel like the world has control over every
personal freedom you thought you had. Jeff fell in love with it again
every day. He stepped out onto the bustling, dirty pavement. It was full
of New Yorkers: the Suits, the Workers, the Street Performers – there
was no place for the Tourists amongst the tribes at this time in the
morning. Jeff made his way across 14th, soaking up the city. No-one
noticed him, and he noticed no-one.
“You’re scaring me.” She had now finished covering up with the bed
sheet.
[ 42 ]
Jeff knew it was going to be an extra-special day. He walked into
Starbucks and asked for his usual; a grande café au lait with a shot of
hazelnut syrup and half a shot of caramel syrup. When asked for his
name he said “Caulfield” as he always did. Jeff always enjoyed playing
around with aliases, partly because of his disappointing parents, and
partly because it made him feel like an edgy fugitive with rugged
features. Of course Jeff was as far from an edgy fugitive as you could
possibly get.
“Come on Asher. Be a man. She hates you. You’re pathetic.”
Jeff and his coffee walked to the subway entrance. Seven stops later
on New York’s 722 miles of subway track and Jeff found himself at
Wall Street. He shared 27 floors of the elevator with a chief executive
who was sleeping with his secretary, a cleaner who was sleeping with
another CEO, and a delivery man who was both already late, and
sexually involved with no less than three female and, interestingly, two
male employees. Upon leaving the corrupted elevator, Jeff made his
way across the office floor, skirting around generic cubicles, filled with
generic people performing generic tasks. He got to his slightly above
generic office and walked into it, taking care to leave the impersonal
door open behind him.
Jeff didn’t react to any of this. He wasn’t provoked. It’s not his thing.
‘J N Asher’ read his name placard. It was getting a bit dirty on one
corner so he spent the first ten minutes of his working day polishing it.
He then immersed himself in spreadsheets, e-mails, conference calls and
memos.
“Asher,” announced a man, whose name escaped Jeff, from the
cubicles, said he had the reports ready; The reports were of the utmost
importance. Lunch breaks eluded Jeff most days, but because of his
growing happiness at this great news, they walked hand in hand to the
elevator and onward towards the canteen.
He merely exhaled and walked towards a drawer he kept locked.
He ordered a smoked ham and gruyère cheese panini with a
modest, but appealing salad. A woman was making eyes at him. Why
[ 43 ]
not? He asked himself. So he smoothly slipped over to her and had a
very enjoyable conversation which resulted in the exchange of phone
numbers. Jeff however, for reasons known only to him, gave the woman
the wrong number and quickly dropped hers on his way back to the
office.
“Asher! Get a grip! It’s been going on for months!” Jeff opened the
drawer.
An afternoon’s work came and went. He left the building
anonymously into the sweltering summer day. Summertime Manhattan
is the ultimate greenhouse. The lack of breeze and tumultuous levels of
traffic and tourists set underneath the largest collection of skyscrapers
in the world make for impossible levels of heat and humidity. Yet who
would take Jeff seriously if he wasn’t wearing a suit? He paid one dollar
to a street vendor for a bottle of water and a trivial conversation. Still
no-one noticed him, probably because he wasn’t very noticeable. He
was just another Suit on his way home. Jeff got in a cab, the driver of
which paid little attention to his customer and carried on speaking
furious arabic into his Bluetooth headset. It was a comfortable cab;
however this would cease to be its best quality, when it would become
intrinsically involved in a bank robbery as a getaway car two weeks later.
Jeff was part of a long history of this taxi’s passengers; it had driven over
$5 million dollars worth of cocaine across town, $25 million in cash,
three murderers, a dog named Fifi and a animal rights activist just this
morning.
Jeff pulled out the gun he kept for an occasion of this very nature.
He began to drift off. As the taxi travelled nowhere in the traffic, Jeff
was listening to Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ on his iPod.
in.
The mood of the room changed as drastically as it had when he walked
La primavera. Everything had gone smoothly today. He had made a
lot of progress with his work.
Nobody moved. There was a cocktail of anticipation, malice and fear.
[ 44 ]
L’estate. Jeff reflected on how he had also actually had fun. He
couldn’t remember the last time that he’d had fun.
He never said a word. The man was still crying when his face was on
the wall.
L’autunno. Jeff began to think about changing his life. He would have
more fun. He would pay more attention to his wife. He would become a
better person.
She didn’t even have time for a scream before she joined her lover.
L’inverno. The change would have to be gradual though. He decided
that tomorrow he would have a whole shot of caramel in his Starbucks
rather than a half.
Jeff felt free. He felt as if he could survive anything. He put the gun in
his mouth.
He had had one of those taxi cab epiphanies he always read about.
He couldn’t believe that life was that simple. Nothing could stop him.
And pulled the trigger.
[ 45 ]
9. November 1989
Marc Yates
7. Oktober 1974 - 25 Jahre DDR
It’s today! The marching bands woke me up but today I don’t mind
because in two hours I will be in the square singing with the Junge
Pioniere, and Frau Stover will be angry if I am late again, especially
today. Papi and Mami were being stern with each other at breakfast, but
I don’t know why they would be today. Today is a happy day!
Frau Stover said I sang like an angel today, and was very happy with
all of us. Even I thought we looked and sounded smarter than usual.
Everything looks different today, it’s like Christmas! Everyone is happy
and smiling and celebrating the Deutsche Demokratische Republik in its
25th year. It will last forever!
10. Oktober 1974
I slept very badly last night. Hearing your Papi cry is not a nice thing
and Mami is not here anymore. Papi will not tell me where she is and
every time I ask he starts crying again and I don’t like to see him cry so
I have stopped asking. This morning he got angry and smashed a plate
and shouted Arschloch! very loudly. I have never heard Papi swear before
and I did not like it. He was never angry before Mami left and I’m scared
he will be angry forever. At first I thought she had died but her clothes
are gone and Großmutter would have come if she had. I will wait until
Papi is not angry anymore and ask about Mami again, I must be a good
boy, not an arschloch.
11. Oktober 1974
There were two men talking with Papi in the kitchen today, they made
Papi cry again. I promised to be a good boy but I was an arschloch and
listened to them talking. They said Mami was a bad person and a liar.
That made me sad. They said she got papers from the people in charge
and used a made-up name. She doesn’t want to live here anymore. Then
[ 46 ]
the men started shouting at Papi, they want to know if he is a bad person
and a liar too and they asked him if he knew what Mami was doing
when she left. I think they would have taken him away if I was not here.
After the men went away Papi cried until bedtime but he hasn’t smashed
any more plates.
13. Oktober 1974
Now I know what happened. Mami has gone to live in the West. She will
never come back and I will never forgive her. If I could see her again I
would slap her and call her names like the names Papi calls her when he
thinks I cannot hear because she loves kapitolism more than she
loves us.
*
*
*
6. Oktober 1989
Reading my diaries back from the time my Mutter left us, it amazes me
how well I took it. I remember my vater being a complete mess, but I
think it was more anger towards how stupid it made him feel rather than
her leaving that caused his breakdown. He couldn’t believe he didn’t
notice her affair, which must have been going on right under his nose
for at least a year, maybe two. It would have taken her that long to get
the visa.
Vater died two weeks ago, and clearing out his things led me to find my
diaries and a shoebox full of letters. It seems mutter was hit by the guilt
in the summer of 1975 and started writing to us. I started reading the
letters but soon stopped. What’s past is past, nothing can change
that now.
7. Oktober 1989 - 40 Jahre DDR
The marching bands woke me up this morning. I’ve got a throbbing
hangover and just want the world to go away. I’m sick of the suburbs
and this grey block of an apartment building, but Vater’s junk is nearly
sorted now so I’ll go back to the city in a couple of days, probably
tomorrow. I miss Berlin, I miss Prenzlauer Berg. Somehow things aren’t
[ 47 ]
so grey there. Can’t wait for this day to be over, fick deine DDR.
9. November 1989
Mein Gott! I write from the West! Die Berliner Mauer has fallen and
the city has erupted in celebration. They say Deutschland will be
one country again, unification is on the horizon. It is wonderful, the
atmosphere at Brandenburger Tor was electric, we are at the centre of
the world and history is around us. Finally I can say ‘I was there’. Must
remember to buy a newspaper in the morning.
15. November 1989
The world is the same, and so different. That’s such a cliché, but I’m lost
for words at the moment. The other night I took a similar trip to the trip
my mutter took those years ago, only I fled the DDR with hundreds,
thousands of other people. We were united, a family, all beaming at each
other as we gave a leg-up onto the Mauer. She fled with her lover under
a blanket of secrets and lies. Even if I wanted to track her down, tell her
what I feel about what she did I couldn’t. I never found out the name she
travelled under. Maybe she’s already dead, maybe she lives next door.
I guess things have changed but I have not. I ran from East to West, but
I couldn’t run from my anger. Maybe there are just some things you
cannot break away from.
[ 48 ]
Helen
Benjamin Davidson
Every day, Helen makes the short trip from the cottage to the tortoise
pen in the front garden, a weather beaten, half deflated structure of
wood and wire netting, struggling above the weeds. Every day she
unlatches the top and carefully shreds a sprig of lettuce into each bowl,
then she stands back and watches as they uncurl from their shells,
and shuffle across the grass toward her. Today, she’s watching their
progress with such interest that she doesn’t even register the touch on
her shoulder. It’s only when she hears: “Excuse me,” that she turns and
comes face to face with a man wrapped in a blue Anorak, holding a
leaflet.
“Excuse me,” he asks. “Is this the tortoise sanctuary?”
His face is smiling but taut. It could be as young as forty, but the
head of grey hair, combed to one side, betrays it. One wrinkle caps the
corner of his smile, an arrowhead V.
Helen frowns.
“Because I saw that, but wasn’t sure whether this was the right place.”
He points to a sign a little down the lane, faded almost white by the rain.
Once, it had read “Penwithick Tortoise Sanctuary” in dark green letters.
“I suppose it is,” she says.
He smiles, and it’s a pressed smile; not unfriendly, but efficient.
Everything about the man seems efficient, as if his hard, slim body
were designed to cut cleanly through the decades, like the figurehead
of a ship. Helen is not so efficient looking. When she had laughed, she’d
opened her mouth wide. When she’d walked, her hips had jutted from
side to side. Short sleeves had exposed young skin; bathing costumes:
even more skin. Exposing yourself like that, life gets a hold. Now,
her mouth was as crumpled as an old sheet, her skin stretched like
uncooked dough.
“It’s an old sign,” she says. “But it’s still true.”
“You look after these all by yourself?” he asks.
She nods slowly, then pulls back a loose corner of netting.
He stares at the pen, then leans back and takes in the rest of the
garden: the long, knotted grass, the crumbling stone wall, and, poking
above it, the cottage, straw roof clumped with matted tufts, looking like
[ 49 ]
it had just woken up from a long, long sleep.
“Lift that corner there,” she says, and lowers herself down onto her
knees.
“Like this?” He lifts the corner of the pen, exposing a border of
yellow grass.
“Yes, now be ready to snap it down, snap it down when I say so.”
She curls her arm up and around the inside, tugs the corner of the
netting through, then secures it with a thumb tack. After one last tug,
she whips her arm out quick.
“Now put it down, put it down!”
He lowers it slowly, aware of the bending along the edge. The whole
thing is so damp and twisted, it could collapse at any minute.
“Faster!” she says. He looks at her, shrugs, and lets it drop. It thumps
like a dead log. The netting crackles.
“What’s the rush?” he asks, wiping his fingers down the length of
trousers.
“If you’re not quick enough, they’ll escape,” she says, and hiking up
her skirt, trudges toward the cottage. He frowns.
“But they’re tortoises,” he yells.
She pauses just shy of the door. Large, cracked and peeling.
“You think things like that are slow,” she says. “But you can lose them
pretty fast.”
Without another glance, she disappears into the gloom of the cottage
and shuts the door. The man stares after her for a while, expecting to
see some movement behind the windows, but there’s none. Nothing
happens. The windows remain dark.
[ 50 ]
Malignant Beauty
Cody Gray
The first deep breath in months
and the feeling of homecoming
enters your bones. As the black acid
travels down your throat,
your mind clears and your body floats.
Your lungs once more
line themselves with the
carcinogenic tar as you lick your lips,
savoring the taste.
You hold your breath,
trying to hold off the release.
You don’t want this moment
of bliss and ecstasy to end,
but sooner rather than later
you have to breathe.
And you reluctantly release
the sweet poison in a cloud
of spinning, twisting smoke.
Your lungs constrict,
and your pupils contract
as you hurriedly take another drag.
You don’t want to waste one moment,
you want to make this fag last.
[ 51 ]
[ 52 ]
The Caged Bird
Ben Greener
Photography by Cody Gray
Ancient winds tug impatiently at the rolled
up sails and tired men. Sea spray drips
silently from the brims of their hats.
One by one they descend the gangplank.
March from boat to inn,
a hundred yards
as if connected by a ball and chain;
they do not stray or strain along the way.
The inn door creaks menacingly then slams behind them,
a bolt is wrenched across the door. Locking the cold out;
locking them in.
The boat lies empty but for one man.
The captain; he sits alone with the wind and wet .
His hand strong and weather beaten grips the wheel tightly.
Eyes sunk deep
house a sadness for a caged bird.
The uneven sound of a horse on the cobbles haunts his ears.
The customs house sucks the light towards it
as if to feed the men working within.
A chilling sigh ripples down his spine
carried by a sinister whistling wind.
The boat creaks and groans as it pulls against its anchor,
his fingers twitch and tap on the wooden wheel.
The sun rises the next day to find the boat gone,
the inn doors still locked, and the cobbles still drenched in filth.
The captain stands tall, his boat bounding across the open sea,
waves falling around them, the boat stays true
kept up in the cusp of the sea’s kind hand.
And the caged bird flies free.
[ 53 ]
Sonia
Stephen Mason
“Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen,” crackled the concealed speakers.
“We will be taking the scenic route to Heathrow and Uxbridge on the Piccadilly line. Please stand clear of the doors . . . that includes the gentleman
with a backpack the size of a small car. Be careful when reversing, young
man.” A ripple of laughter warmed the already full carriage and some of
us committed the unspeakable: we made eye contact, and worse, whilst
smiling.
A driver with a sense of humour is a rare thing, and this bloke was
top – if only I could be on his train every day. But there’s no pleasing
some people. The passenger opposite, with the black briefcase, reminded
me of correct etiquette by maintaining the blank mask of the hardened
tube-traveller and my station seemed a long way off.
My reflection stared back at me and the black wall sped past. We’re
thinking the same thing: over-pricing, over-crowding, underrunning;
nutters, beggars, drunks, surly staff, bloody Romanian accordion players; mind the gap, black snot and an Oyster card champing away at me
like a fucking great clam. Up there, above this troglodyte world, we’ve
got congestion charges and Boris fucking Johnson.
At least I have a seat, not like the poor sods clinging to the dangly
balls, like bored chimps.
I made a routine check of my pockets – most importantly, my wallet
containing my season ticket for Arsenal – and returned to my copy of
the Metro.
“Wood Green, ladies and Gentlemen. For those of you just joining us, this
is the South-bound Piccadilly. I hope you enjoy the journey. But stay clear
of the doors.”
A large, fat man got on. They’re as bad as the rucksack carrier, in
my book, the fatties. I mean, space is at a premium, and those lardarses
wobble on and take up enough room for three of me. I know I’m politically incorrect here, swimming against the current, but it’s a fact: fat
people take up more space. At rush hour, facts like this tend to override
ethical or moral niceties, and rush hours stretch before me and behind
me like the fucking Piccadilly line.
[ 54 ]
I began to yawn, in sympathy with a passenger diagonally opposite;
which set off an improvised display of synchronised yawning, like a row
of fucking dominoes.
“Turnpike Lane. Please allow passengers to disembark before boarding the
train. It’s much easier that way . . . you don’t think so? Well just go ahead
and stuff yourselves in.”
The blank mask opposite, briefcase blokey’s, appeared to be cracking
– or was that a slight grimace? My reflection grinned over his shoulder.
Maybe he’s a purist and prefers Sonia? You know, the posh ‘Mind the
Gap’ voice that gets-onia-nerves?
A tall punk, straight out of 1977, strutted in and adopted a suitably
nonchalant pose by the door. He had a black leather biker jacket with
painted slogans, a pair of tartan trousers and a bright red Mohican. No
way this guy was going to cling to any dangly ball. He seemed to emanate some kind of force field; the other passengers kept at a respectful
distance. I thought the doors might close on his head, he was standing
so close to them, but they didn’t. No, they closed on his Mohican. He
tried to move but was firmly clamped, nipped close to the skull. So he
opted for plan B: pretend nothing has happened.
The other passengers went along with plan B, too.
We’ve all witnessed some poor fuckwit, usually a tourist, falling foul
of the doors. If the sensors malfunction, those things could break an
arm. Well, only if it was a girly arm, I’ll give you that. But anyway, Punky
wasn’t going anywhere until the doors opened at the next stop, that’s the
point.
I thought things couldn’t get much better, but then I remembered: at
the next stop, the doors would open on the other side of the carriage.
The bloke with the briefcase was a veteran and didn’t so much as
glance at the spectacle, even though he sat next to the door. I caught my
reflection trying to look serious and had to look away. Adverts suddenly
became Very Interesting. But that didn’t help. Holiday Breaks – get away
from it all; Houndsleigh Insurance – do you feel trapped by debt? The
punk had ‘Fuck the System’ in cracked white paint. He caught my eye
and glowered, but he wasn’t getting of until Kings Cross, so fuck him.
*
*
*
[ 55 ]
“Manor House. Mind the gap now.”
The doors opened like curtains but Punky was too cool to bow. Some
people might consider them unnecessary on a dull winter morning, but
I bet he was glad he opted for shades that morning.
Heavy perfume drifted in with someone and the doors closed. Some
passengers may well have found this preferable to sweat and stale piss,
but it set me off and I sneezed into my hands. I was trying to and a tissue, when briefcase blokey blurted out, “I’m going to be sick!”
He dropped the briefcase and lurched up; the mass parted before
him, leaving Punky in the centre of a widening semi-circle. Puke
spumed out in a loud roar, spattering boots and tartan trousers. He
clutched the pole by the door with one hand and his belly with the other.
One of the other passengers couldn’t take it and let out her own roar, jetting her puke out into the mess on the floor. Puke dripped from zips and
chains and Punky groaned in the stench, pressing himself back against
the door. Someone else answered the challenge with another spattering.
The woman next to me created a new puddle, briefly cranking up the
contest with the highest number of passengers sprayed, and the contagion spread.
I held my hand over my mouth and swallowed my own vomit.
“Finsbury Park. Anybody who wants to change for the Victoria line can
do so here, but this is a much nicer line. This is the best line. This is the
Piccadilly line.”
The rush for the door was overwhelming – some bastard shoved me
back into my seat to beat me to it – and it opened onto a tightly packed
mass determined to get in.
“Please allow passengers to disembark before attempting to board this
train. It’s a new system we’re trying out, for the benefit of you, our valued
customer. You don’t want to try it? Well, suit yourself.”
I sagged down in my seat as the doors slid closed. Disembarking passengers had been the most determined side and there were far fewer of
us now waiting to jump off. Punky’s chin glistened, his breakfast trailing
down his jacket and trousers. I swallowed again and thought of Arsenal.
The crush for the door began and I joined it, standing in the reek.
The floor was slick and I clung to my dangly ball, behind a sweaty mammoth of a man that was sure to barge his way through the throng. Well,
Punky lost it big time – starts thrashing around, giving it the Houdini
[ 56 ]
bit.
Somebody chucked up behind me. I closed my eyes, held my hand
over my wallet and thought even harder about Arsenal – The Gunners
winning their last game. I pictured the victory dance and relived that
moment of glory – the swelling chant filled the stadium. I had to admit
it – sometimes even that doesn’t help.
“Arsenal. If you don’t want to go to Holloway Road, you’d best get off
here.”
I leapt out of the door in the wake of Mammoth, my throat hot with
bile. The crowd surged past me and I spotted the exit, by the Photo Me
booths. As the train pulled away, I kept behind Mammoth and the tide
surged around me; the smell of the carriage clung to us. I began to gag
again.
Vending machines blurred by and we were running, my hand slimy
at my mouth, my eyes and nose now streaming. I felt a clutching at
my jacket and saw Punky over my shoulder, his Mohican in tatters.
The train slid past us and Mammoth stopped, shoulders jerking, and
turned towards the hissing track. I’ve never seen that much vomit. Not
from one person. Not in one continuous stream. The bridge of puke
hit the track with a crack and Mammoth knocked people over like
skittles, blasted off his feet by a few thousand volts. The track sizzled and
screamed.
Mammoth lay on his back, his arms outstretched and smoke rose
from his charred body in tendrils. Around him, people staggered to
their feet and hushed around him in a halo. Steaming puke dribbled
from his gaping mouth and down his blistered cheek. The fumes of
cooked and burning vomit filled my nostrils and I threw up. Mammoth
stared back up at me wide-eyed from behind his lightly simmering
mask; I fell to my knees at his feet and buried my face in my hands.
Someone was barking orders – intercoms crackled – Hi-Viz jackets
and uniforms – flashing lights. A voice boomed around the station,
‘Please evacuate this station immediately . . .’ and, as my world slowly
went white, all I could think was: Sonia, fucking Sonia!
[ 57 ]
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to the publishers and Mike Endacott for their patience
and determination.The editing team, for their dedication and wisdom.
Anthony Caleshu and the whole Department of English, for making this
publication possible. The reader, for having read.
[ 58 ]