The Day Her Mother Wept- Chapter 2

He folded up the note calmly from corner to corner and the same again to form a perfect petite triangle. Origami had always been a hobby of his and the napkin swans he made for his parents’ 50^th Wedding Anniversary had gone down a treat.

The trek home would have been long and arduous if it hadn’t have been so short and simple. Kevin lived no more than 5 minutes walk from the centre of the park in a beautiful suburban street. The house itself sat on its own, trees surrounding it. An island of subtle palm trees arched either side of the entrance, several birches marked the perimeter, and a mighty oak’s roots threatened the very foundations. A tree-splitting white shone from the walls and dazzled the eyes as a stark red roof sloped towards the sky. Smoke never billowed from the white chimney, framed by a thick red border.

Kevin smiled and thanked himself for taking the chance for so often he would see a girl and fail to act. This time he had acted quickly and, like a mighty lion, had struck when his prey was at its weakest. Witless, clueless, shoeless. He thinks now that he should have invited her in. Talking to people face-to-face had always yielded more good fortune than speaking into perforated plastic and praying the rubber cable conveys the message in the way you desired. What if she simply hangs up? Over a phone-line it is impossible for her to be sharply taken aback by his mysterious sunglasses, wishing all the while to know what lies behind.

On his way home he passed no shops, pubs, or barbers; only the houses of those who love and are loved in return. The lights go on in the homes and on the streets as the bluebirds seize to sing. An owl can be heard hooting in the distance.

Well hello young Kevin! bellows Father Maloney in his high-pitched happy tone, how’s the day been treating you? Father Maloney, as well as being the priest of the church at the end of the street, is also Kevin’s next door neighbour and a nosy one to boot. It’s all going rightly today Father, said Kevin, except for there were no ducks at my wee pond so there weren’t. Maloney scratched his head, awk but sure that’s a strange one isn’t it.

 They were silent for a moment. Clumps of dark grey hair protruded from the back of the Father’s head down his neck to kiss his holy collar. Despite the fact that Maloney was getting to the age where even your hair begins to betray you, tight curly brown locks still clung proudly to the top of his head, with just a couple of the curls dangling menacingly on his forehead. His shoulders were slumped from years of service and the waistband of his black trousers rose high above his belly button.

I hope you didn’t find anything else down by the pond to take an interest in, said the Father as he playfully nudged Kevin’s left elbow, the hand of which was planted firmly in his hip pocket. Kevin looked at the ground. I mean, you’ve repented and the Good Lord has forgiven your sins but I am unsure if our kind Saviour would be so quick as to forgive you a 2nd time, said Father Maloney smugly. I know Father, as he kicked a small stone across the pavement and out onto the empty road, believe me I know for didn’t the last time push my wee father over the edge and break both my parents’ wee weak hearts, believe me I’ve learnt my lesson Father. Kevin’s tongue was so reluctant to click out these words all in one go that he could have sworn the good Father had his tongue clamped in a vice-grip.

Well isn’t that great to hear, the Father blurted out with the broad thin smile never once shifting from his wrinkled face, once again I am so sorry to hear about your parents but sure didn’t you get a lovely wee house out of it. The words hit Kevin like grit flying up off a dusty country road. The most he could muster in return was a feeble attempt at a smile forced through clenched teeth as his brow tensed and forced his faint eyebrows down in a 45 degree angle to meet the top of his nose.

Sure I’ll be seeing you around, said Maloney as he went to walk across his freshly mown lawn lit by a spotlight that showed off his gardening talent all night long. Have a good one, he said and then vanished through the dark green door.

Have a good one, thought Kevin as he unlocked the front door and clip-clopped across the wooden floor of the barren hall all the way to the kitchen, what the fuck does he mean have a good one? He made himself a cup of coffee in his own cup, the only cup. KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON, the side of the mug read, but at certain times it was hard to adhere to the preachings of a mass-produced ceramic object. The coffee was black as night, and strong.

Kevin had forgotten how long it had been since the room’s main light source, an incredible globe in the centre of the room, had last lit up his kitchen. A week? Two? It had been three months since the bulb had needed changing. He perched his elbows on the ebony island where he used to prepare food and cradled the cup, holding the handle with the first two fingers on his left hand and caressing the broad curve with his right. It would be a while before he could drink it and he had already burnt his tongue once.

The light from above the cooker provided a radiating glow. Strands of golden string stroked his ears and lay across his hair. Some wisps of crooked light diffused into the air in front of his face, others were lost out the door to his left. He could barely see the cold white of the far wall but he knew it was staring. Structures of silver and a wall of black rested behind him and the back and white patterned tiles crawled across the floor and knocked the adjoining door and met up with the strips of wood in the dining area in an awkward embrace.

He finished most of his coffee, sending the cold remnants spilling with a sputter and bouncing off the worn interior of the dark steel sink. He made his way back through the hall, clop-clip, and up the stairs. It was a mighty staircase, done out in black with a curved and elegant black railing. The 42 sharp steps first led away from the door and to the right for a short distance and then clambered up the wall and added to the height of the grand entrance and the entire first floor. On the way up the stairs the click of his wooden heels meddled with his thoughts. Kevin wondered if the girl in the park had been sincere with her note; had she done it as a joke, or had she regretted it immediately and told stories to her mother of the bad man in the park who assaulted and abused her on account of her scaring off the ducks? But what if he were to call? What would he say? He didn’t know her name and yet he had her mobile number. What of that? If someone were to see the note and inquire as to the identity of its author, what would he say? But no-one would see it. No-one would ask. This girl was the first girl he had had the courage to talk to since that fateful incident on April 1^st of the previous year, and he had been the fool.

He wouldn’t call her, he decided, not until the dust had settled in the back-roads of his mind. He pulled the cord and brought down the stairs to the attic, for that’s where he lived now, buried away in the highest spot. Before he got undressed in his damp and muggy corner of the large attic space he introduced a small number of stale breadcrumbs from his trouser pocket to his rats, his pets and only friends. A soft pile of sticky blankets lay in the corner coloured a brown-stained blue. A folded jumper provided the shape of a pillow at the apparent head of his apparent bed. The faint rays of the moon and star drifted in through the skylight. Sleep took him and carried him off without a moment’s hesitation.      

Another beer

Write your answers on a postcard

And send them to the coastguard

       For I have no use for them here.

You think you’re so fucking clever,

Well go on, pull my fucking lever

      And fetch me another beer.

Einstein conquered relativity

While Freud mapped brain activity

      And Columbus sailed from far to near

But let me make this crystal clear,

You see me smiling from ear to ear

      So leave me alone, get out of here.

      But fetch me another beer. 

Pheasant

Christmas time is full of cheer

But it only comes once a year.

Families fighting over turkey bones

Makes a change to the bitching moans

That fill these silent halls sometimes,

So let’s fill them with mistletoe and rhymes

To hide our guilt. It is a poor present

To wrap a partridge or a pheasant

And give it to your dad, but it is better

Than what he gave you last year. A letter

Left on the floor, the slamming of the door,

Full of sad sentiments but you want more,

But it only comes once a year

So make the most of it.

Forever and more

Oh crushing hate,

Oh ball of fire burning

Hot as ice.

I am spiteful Pluto

King of the dead and

I wear a crown of bones.

Forever and more will I

Destroy myself;

A petty urchin

Searching for

A love

         so

           small.

The burning ball

Is not hot as ice

But as the sun:

A fireball

That burns my

Skin.

And yet

Forever and more

I will let it.

Never Again

Oh wicked love,

Oh amorous arrow sent

By Cupid so cruel.

I am the Jester,

King of fools and

I wear a crown of thorns.

Never again will I

Chase and stumble;

An eager child

Pining for

A small

          red

               ball.

The arrow sent

Was not from Cupid

But from Jupiter:

A thunderbolt

That struck me

Down.

But

Never again,

Until next time.

White Christmas

Snowdrops falling outside my window,

Icy drops of rain so cold

It freezes in the atmosphere,

It freezes about a mile from here

Where metal birds strain to spread their wings

And the bluebird never ever sings.

An icicle hangs from the sad crow’s nose

While I wiggle my nice warm toes.

I see the turkey in the freezer,

Sorry miserable old geezer

In a house that’s full with love and beer.

It’s going to be a white Christmas this year.

October

Look at the people, and tell me what you see.

           In October, says I.

           In October, says she.

I love the way a person’s eyes

Shine like the sun on a rainy day.

How the subtle eyelid drops

As a leaf flutters on the blue bay

          Breeze that knocks down trees.

What do you see when you look at me?

          No way, says I.

          Just say, says she.

Your eyes are the harsh Autumn

With sharp winds that cut and tear

The bright green leaf from the dull brown branch,

And a fallen oak too sad to bear.

         You’ll cry, says I.

    Wonder why, says she.

When the last leaf falls, grey and dry,

From the long-standing oak, you’ll cry.

The First Day

Black barred border, jagged edge:

It felt more like a prison.

With a kiss and a shove I was sent

Hurtling. ‘It will be alright son,’

With my sad eyes, solemn. Abandoned

We marched into a room, too big

Yet too small for us, tinned sardines.

Tall, towering, brown eyes beam,

Burning my chest as words belittle.

A commander’s tone to teach us

When to sit; when to eat.

We must not talk, we do not speak.

The Day Her Mother Wept- Chapter 1

Lips barely parted barely started showing front and back with long brown hair shimmering glimmering glowing water rippled it dare not show her reflection as sun beat down on her scalp the trees were green with envy short denim shorts rolled up short below the hip golden buttons burst vitality and a sleeveless shirt done out in white with a heart of crimson sharply marked on the left side of her chest a faint curve showing where the eyes were going of every man and god surrounding the pond the kids in the park stopping swinging to stare as birds flutter softly to nearby branches to swing and sing and stare a melodious chorus resonating in the ears of every man there and women walked on without a care to stop and stare pushing prams that rolled on barely knowing the babies watching their feet rise into the air to block the sun

her feet encased in light white plimsolls with a delicate lace at the tip for no reason other than to look pretty her pretty little feet tiptoeing hardly knowing nor caring about all the people staring but she was aware of eyes like the sun glaring always glaring and dashing off the faint necklace collared around her collar and moving down there is a bra strap barely showing from the right her right black as night the rest is showing through her shirt beyond the crimson heart

her heart was beating twice as fast as the wings of the birds fluttering from a nest on the tallest branch of the smallest tree

they see the tanned leg tights the men as they sit staring taking her in they want in she sits on a bench out in the open and they win she is staying and her green eyes meet her worried weary feet and the sun bounces off her eyes unable to hold them like a tree struggling to hold a leaf in autumn her eyes like spring and leap away from the world no make-up holding but red lipstick red lips barely parted barely started showing her nose is small as a pebble prism glued between her rouge cheeks and her green eyes focus tiny pupils squinting at her feet encased enclosed imprisoned tears magnify her pupils jet black pupils

she closes her eyes and squeezes a tear to the ground a heavy raindrop she peels off the right shoe slowly unlocking her foot legs outstretched and sets it on the bench by her right hand then rips off the left shoe as in one motion it arcs like a rainbow and soars somersaulting into the middle of the pond the tears build as streams frame her nose and mouth the lipstick splits as she bites her bottom lip her right with nails of green pulls and peels the shoe from the seat and throws it with all her force into the shallow end grazing the tender reeds that houses the ducks that scatter and soar.

Can I help you? he burst out in a frightfully monotonous voice. She was bent over head in her hands below a cloudless sky where ducks squawked judgmentally at her and the birds’ song turned to harsh mocking. I was just feeding the ducks, his grumble fills the void as he attempts to raise her head out of her hands and see the green that caught his eye. Don’t cry.

Her head is shaken from side to side as she frees it from the hands and forces it up turning her face up to the sky tweaking her nose and widening her eyes impersonating a meerkat in the wild a meerkat aware of a predator

first she sees his dirty brown clogs placed in a V-shape two steps from her bare feet then his faded black jeans with a hole in the inside of the right knee looking as though it had been grizzled in the preceding seconds by a dog rat mouse the white belt and silver buckle hugging tight above the waist then a black and red chequered shirt tucked into his overtight jeans overstretched and fit to burst the buttons bulge oink! the pig has hairy arms coated in fine blond hairs topped with a dirty brown blanket but soft hands hang at the end never a day of hard work in all his many days then his neck stretched out stiff and tense with the chin tweaked up to show a grizzled untamed neck beard looking up there was no beard elsewhere just sideburns joining his neck to the top of his head where a bald patch acted like a pond in the middle of blond hair going grey and dying a smooth cone of hair collected in the middle of his head towards the forehead crinkled and dry lips thin and lacklustre nose crooked held on with double-sided sticky tape his nostrils sad wide and eager either side of a sunken bridge but her eyes cried out for his eyes all she wanted to see his eyes the eyes of someone to mean something looking at her eyes, but his eyes lay hidden behind a pair of black sunglasses. 

Sorry I scared them off is what she thought she said but what she really said was uh-huh which wasn’t the piece of conversation he was looking for but he would look some more. Do you mind if I sit, he said as he sat where the shoe had been that hurt her foot and scared the ducks. I’m Kevin, he threw forth in a second, in case you were wondering. The bench was wooden and peeling, in desperate need of repair. They sat in silence and thought of speech and reply. It was Friday. A school day. A possible topic for conversation if Kevin took the plunge and this young girl took the bait but she wouldn’t and he knew it and her tears gathered in pools at the sides of her mouth. I’m 48, he said, you’re what, she thought, I’m 48, he said in a softer tone into his barely buttoned shirt on his beary hairy chest, and never married. She pointed her left ear at the ground and rested her head on her left hand so she could face him open-mouthed to show her mistreated teeth grimy as moss-covered tombstones. Kevin furrowed his brow and covered his chin with his left hand brushing the hairs on his neck.

The leaves of the nearby trees wavered as Kevin’s right hand faltered. The wind had picked up and clouds were moving into view. Please show me your eyes, she begged as his head jumped to the right from shock of the first subtle tones passing through her lips carried by a crowded line of dust and wind. She sensed a weakness behind those shades as infinite shades of colour flowed through her mind. The glorious glimmering green of a mid-March afternoon brown like the leaves in late October hazel like the trunk that cradles the breaking branches pure black like the darkest reaches of the soul.

No, he said, no I can’t. The sun, he said, it hurts my eyes, and it did no doubt hurt his eyes as he squinted through his shades and threw his right hand on his brow to mimic a cap and shelter his sensitive eyes from the cruel sun. Mean, evil sun. It had always been a pain to him, he thought, throwing him into a sneezing fit on his first date with the forever loveable Christy Miller, a girl he had admired forever before and forever after. The sun always made him sneeze so he always wore shades and was always cautious. He can still picture that first date. Her with her long brown hair up in a ponytail, a long ponytail protruding and curling like a gnarled and twisted fire poker, no frayed edges or stray untamed hairs. The sun was low and glowed, a bright spot-light behind her head blocking out her eyes. He remembers sweating and forgetting, if only for an instant, what colour her eyes were. Looking at this young girl’s eyes he saw the eyes of the girl he loved, green like the trees and fields of spring. And then the sun.

The sun beat down on everyone just the same, but as it moved lower and the clouds grew dense Kevin began to lower his head further and she took out a pen scribbled a note and a number left a trail with her feet and her pen the dust moved up around her back and lower where his eyes were drawn his shaded eyes. He sat there a while longer and glanced at the note and the number in short spurts fearing that, if he were to touch it, it would disappear, a figment of his imagination.

The clouds had now gathered in a dark grey plaster-mould and the rain bore down on his neck wetting the tip of his spine. The note was safe in his pocket.

Dear reader,

If anyone likes, or dislikes, a post feel free to leave comments with helpful thoughts and gentle abuse.

Kind regards,
Matthew Boyd

Marty- Chapter 2

“So, it was ‘bout three weeks ago. Had t’have been a Saturday. I was up at a party around the Sunnylands area. A wee detached place in an estate about five minutes from here. At the start of the night there was no trouble. The guy whose house the party was at was a friend of a friend and he was happy to have our lot. Not that he needed the extra people. The house was bunged!

Right, anyway, it was me and about five or six of me mates. John, Andrew, Spanner (some guy I know from cage fightin’) and a couple of others. So, we are just sittin’ around, drinkin’ whatever we can get our hands on (I had bought myself a bottle of buckfast the day before but finished it before I got within drivin’ distance of the party). We’re all there minding our own business, not talkin’ to no-one but not causin’ any bother either. Right across the party, two rooms away, I see this smokin’ hot girl starin’ right back at me with these fuckin’ gorgeous eyes. I mean, they just about caught up all the light in the place and shot it right at me they were that bright. They were light bloody lazer beams of something. Never seen a girl like’er. Just stunning. All the same, I say to my mate, John, ‘What about that girl, right over there?’ Well, actually, I probably said something more cheesy, like ‘Hot chick at 12’o’clock’ or some shit like that. Anyway, he says, ‘I’d ride her all the way to Dublin and back if she gave me half a chance’. Fuckin’ nutcase! ‘Course he was never gonna get a look in. The guy looks like he fell off the highest limb of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down, if you know what I mean. Face looks like it’s been hit with a shovel five or six times too many. The width of the backend of a pick-up truck, with enough fat in’im to fill the fuckin’ Grand Canyon. So Spanner butts in: ‘You couldn’t pay me to sleep with a girl like that. Pure, flat-out jail-bait’. Now Spanner would be about my height and build, but there is one key difference. He is bald as the day is long. I mean, you couldn’t find a single hair on that dome with a fuckin’ magnifying glass. Nothing like this tattered mop o’ hair I have here. Fuckin’ smart guy though. He knew this girl was trouble and I paid no attention to him. Big mistake.

So, we shot it back and forth for a while, all good fun, and after slamming another shot of Jaeger down me, I marched over to ‘er like fuckin’ Clint Eastwood or somethin’. She was talkin’ to some other prick, but I knew she’d rather be talkin’ to me. So what I do is I muscle my way in, grab ‘er by the wrist and pull ‘er off to the side. Not too forceful or anything. I could tell she wanted to come. Then I say to her, ‘You don’t really wanna be talkin’ to this douche all night, do ya. Thought you’d rather talk to a real man. I mean, you’re an attractive bird an’ all’. Real suave like, and I bet you wouldn’t believe me if I told you it worked a fuckin’ treat.

So, we start making out, jus’ in some corner, right. It is like little and large. I mean, I practically have to stoop to conquer. She is about five foot five, five foot six, and there’s me going on six and a half. Still, she is just fuckin’ gorgeous! Face framed by straight black hair coming down near her shoulders. At the tips, her hair is dyed a dark red, same colour as her lips. Bloody tasty. Her nose is like a pebble in the middle of a large, bright surface. Makes mine look like a fuckin’ loaf of bread. You don’t even wanna get me started on her breasts. To die for. And her ass would just blow you away. Perfect!

So, as I said, we are making out. I swear she is getting so into it I think she’s gonna pull my tongue right outta my mouth there and then. Things get real hot real fast. Our hands go a few dark places. You know, the usual. She’s like a fuckin’ rabid hyena, pulling on my earring so hard I think she’s gonna rip the whole damn ear off. She whispers in my ear: ‘Do you wanna take this to the bedroom?’ Now, you know as well as I do that this ain’t really a question. Fuckin’ obvious what I’m gonna say, like. But this is someone else’s house. I know I wouldn’t tolerate that sorta shit at my own house, but I’m so fuckin’ worked up I pretty much have to say yes. Women can be fuckin’ cunning sometimes. They know exactly what’s going on in your fucked up mind and they exploit it like your boss takes advantage of your need for cash.

So, we’re going at it like wild animals, for fuck’s sake! Clothes off in a flash, rubber on as fast as lightning. Shit, I’m getting’ hot under the collar just thinkin’ about it. Anyway, I won’t bore you with the gory details. Basically, partway through some tanked fucker comes stormin’ in like a bleedin’ rhinoceros, and grabs me by the collar (I kept my half-buttoned shirt on), and drags me out, fuckin’ dick on show and everything. Talk about fuckin’ indecent exposure, for fuck’s sake. The guy doesn’t even have the decency to throw my clothes out after me.

Of course, me mates are told to fuck off as well, but before he is forcibly removed big Andy, gentle bastard that he is, makes sure to grab my gear before we fuckin’ leg it. Now, if Andy wanted to fight ‘em he coulda done with his good arm tied behind his back. This guy has biceps so wide I couldn’t fight both my hands around one if I wanted to. His face may look like a poorly constructed Mr. Potato-head toy, but he is a bloody nice guy.

So, once we’ve got to a safe distance, I throw my clothes on and we go our separate ways. We all live in Carrick, so you never have too far to walk to get to where you wanna be. After I walk to my place up in Broadlands I practically crawl to my room. If my ma knew what I had been up to she would make damn sure I would never get up to the likes again, if you know what I mean. Snip, snip.

Well, I clear out my pockets same as I always do at the end of a night to see what’s missin’. I find my wallet, keys, phone, the usual shit. Checking my wallet, I find a folded up piece of paper. I unfold it, which believe you me is fuckin’ delicate work at the end of the night. Here, I’ve got it with me:

07*********

We should do this again sometime J xxx

Now, this leaves me in a bit of a tight spot. This girl gets my motor runnin’ something shockin’ and she is givin’ me an open invitation. Signed, sealed, delivered. But there is a pretty damn strong objection. A fuckin’ body builder type who has a vendetta against or somethin’. I mean, callin’ this girl would be like diving off the high board with only concrete below. But I just can’t resist.

So I call her up after a couple of days and I can practically see her big beaming smile through the phone-line. She tells me her names is Lauren Lewis, but her friends call her ‘Little L’. I think it’s a bloody stupid nickname and I tell her as much. I say I’m gonna call her Lauren if that’s alright with her. It is and we arrange to meet up that very night at McDonald’s or some classy joint ‘round that area. Anyway, she can’t stop apologizing as soon as we get there. Apparently that big bastard is her brother, Larry. I joke and say he should be called ‘Fuckin’ L’. You get it. Anyway, he can be damn protective sometimes, apparently. It was their parent’s house that the party was in. So now I kinda sympathise with the guy, and it all makes a little more sense. It’s not like I’m gonna stop buckin’ this girl because of it or anythin’. That would be crazy.

So after we have our romantic meal we go and see some goofy chick-flick. Of course I don’t watch it at all and my fingers barely see the light of day, but that was the idea.

This kinda thing goes on for a few weeks. Movie nights and trips to BOX and all that usual shit. It all ends in the same way, though. Her on ‘er back and me with a big stupid grin on my face.

This all brings us to earlier on t’night. She calls me up at ‘bout half seven. Bloody strange call. I can’t explain it, she just sounded different. Very matter-of-fact, like a business call or somethin’. I definitely know somethin’ ain’t right when she asks me round to her place. Now, I ain’t been there since that fuckin’ party and I’m not hurryin’ back. But I am guessin’ she must be in real trouble or she wouldn’t ask, so I head down.

I enter their wee Sunnylands estate and somethin’ doesn’t feel right, you know. I feel like I’m being watched like some fuckin’ lion on display at the zoo, except I can’t see who’s watchin’ me and step by step it’s gettin’ worse. By the time I get to the house the feeling’s worse than ever. And then who do I see. Only Larry ‘Fuckin’ L’ Lewis. Now I’ve heard all about this guy from his little sister. Six foot four, rugby player, Gemini, twenty-four years of age. Everything. It is pretty clear, even to me, that he has set this up. But before I can react his two massive henchmen fuck me over, kicking lumps out o’ me ‘til I’m out cold. Didn’t even get a look at them. It’s only when I regain consciousness that that bastard, Larry, takes a baseball bat to my ankle. Then he just leaves me there to bleed”    

Marty- Chapter 1

Marty hobbled into the poorly lit restroom buried at the back of his local bar, Ownies. He was stumbling, hurt. His left foot was stomping clumsily on the dirty white tiles whilst his right was trailed miserably behind, acting more like an anchor than a means of transport. When he reached the sink he spat a large coagulated globule of blood and saliva with great force into the basin in front of him.

“That’s fuckin’ wicked, that is,” he ejaculated in a less than friendly tone to no-one in particular. “What fuckin’ low-life bastard would do a thing like that?”

A man of small stature and puny build cautiously unbolted his cubicle, unsure of the nature of the question, or the mindset of the person asking it. The manner in which the question was put forward leant more towards the rhetorical. However, the length of the pause partnered with the savage glare of his quizmaster in the bathroom mirror suggested otherwise. In compromise, the man uttered an almost inaudible “I dunno” before taking shaky, Bambi-like steps towards the door, and back to civilisation.

“Not gonna wash your hands, you dirty son-of-a-bitch? You can use this sink right here,” bellowed Marty, forcing his oversized palm onto the basin next to his with a deafening thump. “Don’t bother going near mine. It’s a bloody mess!”

He erupted into a bout of raucous laughter, coughed, spat, and continued laughing. The best the short man could offer was a tentative giggle and a stretched smile. He then proceeded with considerable doubt to a wash-basin two down from the one in which Marty was now dipping his battered face, having half-filled his basin with boiling. Marty’s face swelled up and reddened behind the steam stretching out from the sink.

“You know, I ain’t gonna bite or anythin’, mate.” Marty said, placing his hands firmly on the side of his basin. “Jesus!”

The scrawny man, however, continued to stare at his basin, focusing on the icy water that engulfed his delicate hands.

“You certainly ain’t givin’ up much, are you buddy?” Marty asked with heightened scorn. “Fuck me! I have had enough of this shit! Are you with then or what?”

Marty removed his hands from the sides of his basin and turned to face his companion with forcefully quisitive eyes. It was the first time the small man had gotten a proper look at his sizeable master. Blood-tinged water dripped from Marty’s saturated face. The face itself led one to believe he had suffered a thousand fights, despite proving, beyond doubt, that this unfortunate man was in his early twenties. Large ears protruded in a ghastly fashion from behind stubborn sideburns that fed down his face to join with the rest of his bushy, black facial hair. A small chunk was missing from the top of his right ear, and a small gold hoop clipped to the bottom of his left. A bulbous nose was pushed up against his face. One confirmed it had been broken one too many times. The hedgerow on his broad, chiselled jaw left little room for a mouth. Apart from a swollen bottom lip, it could have been supposed that he had no mouth at all. His large punching-bag of a head bore down on a broad neck that disappeared under the sheer bulk of an incredibly muscular physique. He was only marginally taller than average height, about 5 feet 11 inches, but this he more than made up for with his massive shoulder breadth and arm circumference. His arms resembled two large sacks, packed full of anything you could imagine, full to bursting, before being topped off with one large melon apiece. Although his right leg was clearly in pain, the muscles in each of his legs were practically tearing through the skin-tight jeans he believed could contain these fierce beasts.

After a lengthy silence, the man spoke;

“W-W-Well…” the small man muttered, stumbling over his words, “I definitely hope not.”

The man, hoping this would bring the desired reaction, moved slowly over to the hand-dryer inviting, with trembling pleasure, the fire it breathed.

But Marty, much to his co-occupant’s surprise, began to chuckle, spacing coughs of laughter out with gasps of enjoyment. Before he spoke again, he rolled up his right trouser leg with immense difficulty and proceeded to cup lake-fulls of boiling water onto a terrific gash at the side of a grossly swollen ankle. It was clear to why he had been limping so horrendously as the mark had been made, not by a knife or a gun, but by the forceful impact of some blunt object. A baseball bat or steel bar. During the process, which brought a grimace to the small fellow’s face, Marty never once showed any signs of pain or distress.

“I like you mate.” Marty bellowed. “What’s your name?”

With a hint of uncertainty, the man replied, “James. James Cropton.”

“Well, hello there ‘James’, he said, extending his hand. “My name’s Marty, just Marty.” James accepted his hand out of common courtesy rather than any real desire on his part.

“Tell you what,” Marty continued, “seeing you ain’t helping out any of them bastards out there, you could maybe be of some use to me. You see, I’m in a bit of trouble. Gimme five minutes and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I…” James hesitated once more. What was he supposed to say?

“Tell you what,” interjected Marty, sensing his partner’s anxiety, “I’ll buy you a drink, we’ll head out back, and I’ll tell you the whole fuckin’ miserable story before you’ve finished your pint. Waddya say? I’m dyin’ for a fag.”

How could anyone refuse that invitation? Upon fear of death, or worse, James accepted, and they both left the toilets in a hurry. Marty marched purposefully over to the bar and prepared to tell his story. 

Comma

I would rather be a comma than a full stop, I said to my Dad some sunny Sunday afternoon, evening coming softly from the east, oh and why is that he asked not caring for an answer but looking at the paper folded and crinkled on his bony knee, because your whole life has been one great big full stop, I almost said but had the courage to hold back and the boldness to say no reason just thought it was interesting is all, he grunts and flicks his nose with the nail on his thumb, when will mum be back I offer without asking for I know the answer, later he says still looking down and the fireplace is coming towards me bearing the coals and a flurry of ants fiery red scuttling out of the top and up the old brick chimney away from the house to find the truth, a real answer, and my mum they will never come back lost forever in the dust and smoke and sky and stars as the train leaves the station, what are we having for tea then Dad, whatever you like, meaning whatever I can find in the fridge, freezer, cupboard, oven, pan, kitchen, and can I cook it, I can eat it if I can find it, the mug is grimy and Dad takes a sip, empty, another I ask, he mumbles and picks the edge of his nose with the nail on his forefinger, he could eat it, I could eat it, he flicks it away and reads the same story about a dog that learnt how to talk while it was locked up in a cage on a table in a bar in Ireland listening to the customers, but does it understand, I wonder, what it hears and says, does it understand or does it all sound the same in and out and in again, no food so I move to the bin and return with a dirty baking tray and a red dress, and I know mum is never coming back, I show it to Dad, he picks his nose with the nail on his ring finger, eats it, keeps looking down, what would you call that, a dress son, I beg for a reason, plead for attention, leave through the back door, run out into nothing, tears in my eyes, my mum is never coming back, neither am I,,, 

DO NOT DISTURB

An unfamiliar room. Blood-red bed sheets. Light ghosting in from a nearby streetlight. Hands nailed to the headboard.

This is how I found myself on the morning after the night before. Pain coursing through my body the way blood moves through veins. Not excruciating pain, though. The sensation crossing my arms hit the nerve centre of my brain like the beginnings of a bad headache. The nails appeared to have been hammered-in in a well thought out manner, missing all bones as well as most veins and arteries causing only a mild tingling sensation at the point of impact, nothing more.

I looked down (well, whatever constitutes as down from my vantage point) first at myself, and then at my surroundings, checking every detail over carefully in an attempt to deduce a transparent reason for my current predicament. As transparent as blood. The foremost issue was, evidently, to check my own body over to see what state I was in. If my hands had been nailed down who knows what would have been done to the rest of me. There appeared to be no significant cuts and bruises that warranted further investigation. The only mark on my upper body that drew my attention was a mark, an X, on the right hand side of my ribcage. Obviously a marker for what was to be done next. I scanned down to my feet, taking measured glances through the din light radiated from a shuttered window, my eyes blinking more frequently than usual, like window-wipers clearing the water from a windscreen caught out in bad weather. This was more from exhaustion than in reaction to the pain I was experiencing. I do not cry. I notice now that my feet are bound, rather than nailed, to the foot of the bed. I realise that the reason this had not occurred to me earlier is that my feet are void of feeling. The perfect bowline knot, a knot that shows skill possessed by the master outdoorsman, has cut off circulation to my feet leaving them as numb as the wooden headboard which I can faintly feel with my blood-soaked fingertips, if I try really hard.

Surveying the room I notice one thing immediately; I am not alone. At the sight of the blackened-out mass in the left-hand corner of the room my heart jumps into my mouth. Normally I would wear my heart on my sleeve, but with no clothes on my person save for a tattered loincloth, unlikely to have been a regular fashion accessory since the years BC, partially covering a section below my waist my mouth seems like the safest place for it. In his own dark corner of the room I can recognise few distinguishing details. He is obviously what I would call a ‘big guy’; that much I can tell from the He-man shaped silhouette he creates. He appears to be standing watching me, though I cannot see his eyes. How long has this been going on? This surreal scene, similar to one I may have one viewed in a poor quality horror-movie, where one man lies Christ-like on a bed, wearing nothing but a cloth to conceal his unmentionables; the other man, presuming it is a man, standing in the corner like a statue making sure the first man doesn’t move. How could I? In this scenario I too am an outsider.

In a sharp aversion of my eyes upwards to avoid becoming entranced by this mysterious figure, a magnificent chandelier bursts to life. It occurs to me at once that this room is the honeymoon suite. The past few days nit me like a bolt from the blue; some long forgotten dream. The wedding. I can picture my wonderful wife with her long, flowing, cream-coloured dress (she didn’t believe that white would have been appropriate). I remember looking into her glistening blues, shining like diamonds, catching the sunlight through the stained-glass window. But that moment is long gone now and here I am. Where is she?

As my senses return to full capacity my head begins to throb incessantly. I can smell the putrid aroma of dried blood and urine. My ears are filled with a persistent ringing, like a fire-alarm is going off less than two feet away. My hands are on fire.

Only when I attempt to scream do I feel the duct-tape across my mouth. All that manages to make it through is a muffled groan. ‘Angela! I think we have a live one.’ A familiar voice. The mysterious figure speaks with a pre-established authority. This is not his first time. ‘Just a minute!’ the call comes from the bathroom, signalling that a female presence is among us. I presume she is preparing a crown of thorns to be placed on my battered head.

With this realisation it occurs to me that it is not a ringing that I hear, but a drilling. Strange time to do DIY. It now sounds to me as though the noise were a pneumatic drill crushing a human skull. My muffled screams return. I wonder how no-one has heard this, or is reacting to it. Then again, it is probably best to obey the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door of the honeymoon suite.

Angela appears through the door of the ensuite, shrouded in light. The faint rays surrounding the cardboard cut-out appear to stretch from her further than should be possible, creating a supernatural aura. Blood oozing from the bathroom below her feet. As the light goes out I realise she is carrying, not a holy script and a scythe, but a spear and a large wooden baton. Holding the spear close to her chest she hands the mysterious figure the baton. Glancing at him I notice he is kneeling to receive it. This looks to me like it may be some sort of Pagan ritual. Except this is not Pagan, but Biblical. On handing over the baton she approaches me and says in a hushed tone; ‘We are here to cleanse you of all your previous sins. Cleanse the world.’

As the mysterious figure approaches the bed, wielding the baton like an implement of certain death, I think back and a moment pops into my head, unable to be forgotten:                     

It was two nights beforehand; my Stag party. Excitement filled the air around our table. A grave sense of anticipation gripped each and every one of us. I sat down next to my father, thinking I could see a lonely tear in his eye., and put my arm around him; ‘Nothing will change,’ I informed him, ‘I will only ever be a phone-call away.’

As drink began to flow, Gregory, my best man, fetched a second round of shots and I finished telling a rather distasteful story with the line ‘Her Catholic background certainly didn’t hold her back there.’ A chorus of cheers erupted from my dozen or so friends. It occurred to me, at this point, that I needed to open the flood-gates. Scampering off to the bathroom I caught sight of, out of the corner of my eye, someone I knew I recognised. Without any time to dawdle, I voided my bladder and decided to get a better look at him on the way back. On closer inspection it came to me that it had to be Mary’s brother, Gabriel. In his face I saw a reflection of his dad, Mary’s father, who died just six months previous. Mary being my fiancée, of course I asked Gabriel to join in the festivities a number of weeks before the night in question. Evidently, he ‘had plans’. At some moment it occurred to me that I had been staring at him for quite some time, standing open-mouthed by the bar. It also struck me that he hadn’t blinked once, or averted his gaze, yet I had been at the bar for at least five minutes. Only when the bartender asked nicely ‘Can I get you anything, Sir?’ as though it were the third or fourth time he had done so did I jump into action, politely declining the proffered help, and returning to my party.

Returning to the present day with a bang, thud, and wallop, I felt a pain unlike anything I had ever experienced before. The baton was resounding with frequent clinks on what was now no more than raw bone. My legs were in a poor state, that much I knew. I dared not look down. It also became evident that I had been screaming my muffled groans for some time now as my throat felt hoarse and no further sound was able to be made. I could feel the very air itself being sucked out of me as though through reverse mouth-to-mouth. As he retreated from me I noticed the name tag declaring him to be the property of the hotel; Gabriel.

There wasn’t much life left in me. As I rocked my head senselessly from side to side, like a rat mauled and shaken by a rabid terrier, I caught a glimpse of the spear reflecting the early morning light travelling over the nearby hills and through the window, now open to let in the scent of a new day. As the cool breeze floated over me I wondered if my mangled bride had been given the same final satisfaction as they pounded her head into the blood-soaked bathroom tiles. Did she experience the same pain I have experienced? Think the same thoughts that are now running round my head like a hamster in a wheel? I only hope her death was quick, for soon my life will be over, and none of my hopes will mean a thing.