All posts by adrian

Short Story – 10 – THE LAST TIME I SAW RICHARD

This was my Victorian Gothic Horror attempt

 “The last time I saw Richard, I mean the deceased – Mr. Harker, I was most distressed.  I had seen him barely three weeks before, but I was shocked by the change in his appearance.  He seemed thinner, gaunt, pale and sickly; and strangely disturbed.  He was almost rambling, and appeared distracted, nervous and jumpy, constantly glancing at the window and though it was pitch black outside it was as though he were seeing something in that darkness, or trying I would say, to discern some thing or some person outside.”

“And how long ago, or rather, how near to his death, would this be?”

“About a week.  Yes, it was the Tuesday and he died I believe, or at least his body was found, a week Wednesday after that.”

“And you say you were a great friend of his? How many years had you known him?”

“Oh at least twenty; we were at College together and have kept in touch ever since.”

“Have you anything else you wish to tell the Coroner?”

“Yes.  As I was leaving he pressed into my hand a small leather bound book.  He said he had been keeping some sort of a journal over the last few weeks and he gave it me – for safekeeping.”

“Safekeeping?  Did he indicate that he was in some sort of danger?”

“No, but he insisted that I keep it.  He implored me not to read it unless I heard some bad news concerning himself.”

“And did you indeed succumb to temptation and read this ‘journal’?”

“Not until I read in the papers that he had been discovered dead and naked on that island in the middle of the Thames.”

“Was this ‘journal’, for want of a better term, of any relevance do you think?  Or would you be wasting the court’s time in enlightening us as to its contents?”

“I am not sure sir.  I have it with me if you wish to read it.  It all seems highly improbable to me, almost the ravings of a madman.  Not like the Richard Harker I knew – a most level-headed man I can assure you.”

“I think we would be abusing everyone’s time if you read the whole journal out loud, could you possibly precis the contents, or at least give us some idea of what he had written.”

“Yes.  I have read it a few times and I still find it quite inconsistent with the man I knew so well.”

“Very well then, in your own words please give us a flavour of these ‘ravings’ as you have described them.”

“He talks about having met a stranger in a tavern not far from his home, of accompanying this man to his nearby abode.  He says he was drawn to this man.  He described feeling almost hypnotised by him.  I must beg the courts pardon but he talks of feelings of attraction and strange desires I would rather not describe.  I must insist that I knew Richard Harker very well, and I would not wish his memory to be sullied by any rumours of immoral or undesirable behaviour.  He was married, and although he and his wife have chosen to live apart, I can assure the Court that he was normal in every sense of the word.  But in addition to feeling attracted to this man he was somewhat scared of him, fearful of the power he exerted.  He talks of his life being in some sort of peril if he continued seeing him. The last entries, though his handwriting was erratic by now, refer to a boat and deep dark waters.  The more I think about it these thoughts must have been a symptom of the mental fatigue he was obviously labouring under.  I think that, if anything can be gleaned from this ‘journal’, it is that his mind was indeed deranged shortly before his death.”

“Thankyou.  May we hear from the Doctor?

                                                  *  * *

“You attended Mr. Harker shortly before his death I believe?”

“Yes, I was asked to see him by the previous witness and examined him four days before he died.”

“And what was your opinion of his health, especially his mental well-being, at that time?”

“Physically, I would say he was exhausted and possibly suffering from anaemia. His heart was weak and so was his pulse.  I recommended complete bed-rest for at least a week and prescribed Laudanum.  Mentally he was certainly confused and slightly delirious, but anything more serious it would be hard to say.”

“I believe you also attended the Autopsy of the deceased?”

“Yes.  Professor Bellamy is an old friend of mine and invited me to attend.”

“Have you anything you wish to add to his report?”

“No, not really – except I was surprised at how little blood was in his system, and no obvious wounds.  I agree that his death was due to drowning.”

“Anything else unusual in your experience?”

“No.  Oh, except one small detail which the good Professor hasn’t recorded. There were two small puncture marks on his neck, I suppose he must have cut himself shaving, but they were raised and had some bruising around them.  I had never seen anything quite like them, though the Professor thought they were of little consequence.”

                                                  *  * *

“Thankyou.  Your Honour, I think we can safely conclude that the cause of death was drowning brought about by a deranged mind, possibly the result of some undiagnosed illness.  The deceased was, as we have heard, a respectable gentleman; I am sure we would not wish to record a verdict of suicide in this case – I would suggest death by misadventure.”

“Agreed.  Death by misadventure it is then. 

Now, I think we should adjourn for luncheon.  Would you care to join me?  Butler’s chop house is nearby and they do rather an excellent fore-rib; a good hearty steak and a pint of claret will fairly satisfy me.  For some reason this case has rather whetted my appetite.”

Short Story – 9 – LOST IN THE WILD

Lost in the wild tangle of emotions I cannot sleep.  I toss and turn, throw the duvet off and instantly retrieve it, turn the pillows over, discard one then bring it back with a thump under my head.  Sleep still evades me.  My hand wanders over to the empty half of the bed, your empty and cold half of the bed – and the nightmare thoughts flood back, overwhelming me like some freak wave.  I am wide awake; blinking back the salty tears.  I glance over at the clock – 2.30, and still you are out.  Out there somewhere.  Drinking in some late-night den, laughing, smiling into someone else’s eyes.  Or worse, in his bed.  Oh God, the thoughts simply won’t go away. 

It isn’t even jealousy.  I am long past jealousy.  It is the longing, the desperate yearning that keeps tormenting me.  I long for her touch, her smile even – but all I get is her scorn, her sarcasm, her evil taunting of me, comparing me to him.  And yet…. still I love her.  I plead with her, I cry, I weep in front of her, begging for forgiveness.  Forgiveness for whatever I might have done, or not have done, for my inadequacy, for letting her down, for forcing her to reject me.  And none of it has any effect, she simply brushes past me, in her new red high-heel shoes and that little black velvet dress I bought last year for her birthday.  And as she sweeps past I have to admit that she looks incredible.  So stunningly beautiful, there is no denying that she is becoming a real beauty.  Even at five months pregnant she looks wonderful, radiant, and with her slightly pouting belly and rounded breasts she looks splendid.  For all the good that does me.  It makes it all far far worse, of course.

I think back to when I first met her, she was slightly plump then, a five-foot-two chubby teenager with spots and glasses, and lank slightly greasy hair.  But I loved her. It was love at first sight; her with her blinking eyes and long fringe that kept falling over her face.  I loved her back then when she was just sixteen and shy.  Oh, how shy she was.  I worked so hard to open her up to even my kisses.

No good thinking back though to that time of innocence.  We are long past innocence.  I suppose I stole her innocence.  Yes, you could say that.  But I was barely two years older than her.  She was my first, my only girlfriend.  The only girl I have ever loved.  Of course, we – well, I, was stupid and she got pregnant so soon, and twice at that.  And now she has shredded that love, torn it up and tossed it like so much wasted confetti into my face.  Confetti? We had no confetti at our wedding, and barely any guests.  It was a sad affair, the registry office cold and dismal.  Her parents refused to come, as did mine.  And even then, I knew I was losing her; that fervour in her kisses was missing by now, too often she would turn her face away and stare vacantly at the wall when we made love.

And we had had to fight so hard for everything.  When she was first pregnant she begged me to take her away; from her mother, from her father and his drunken rages. We fled to Scotland where we heard you could get married at sixteen.  All that bus journey, as she slept soundly beside me, her head on my shoulder – I stared out of the window at the rainy night sky, as the town signs drifted by, Cambridge, Lincoln, York, Newcastle.  I was scared and alone; I had mucked up yet again.  All I had was this sleeping beauty beside me and the treasure she carried.  My very own family, after the one I had rejected a year earlier when I too had fled the life I felt trapped in – for a new life and a new start in London.  And now I realised I was messing up again, and not only my own life but hers too.  This was just another trap I was tumbling into. It was dawn as the bus pulled into Edinburgh.  I trudged up steep streets and found a tenement with a sign ‘Room to Let’.  Five floors up and I can still recall the stone staircase and each step hollowed out by millions of tired feet.  I went out to find a job and came back elated that I had found some temporary bar work.  She was suddenly smiling.  She had phoned her mother and gained a degree of forgiveness.  ‘We have to go back, it’s alright’ she said ‘My Mum said we can have the baby and live with her.  My Dad is sort of okay about it too.’  I had spent almost all of my money, just enough for the bus fare back.  And as the bus wound its long journey back and the towns drifted by in reverse order, she slept soundly on my shoulder and I stared out all night at the bleak rainy darkness.  It rained and rained and I kept wiping the condensation from the window with the side of my hand, and still all I could see was rain.

Sometimes I feel it hasn’t stopped raining since.  Her father kicked us out six months after the baby was born. We ended up in a homeless hostel, and then in a temporary ground floor of a house waiting to be demolished.  It was here that she fell pregnant again, but worse than that she started going out with the woman upstairs.  Drinking in pubs down the Holloway Road, while I stayed in looking after the baby. 

And now she stays out until the early hours, and I lay awake, occasionally rocking the baby’s cradle, listening for the sound of a car pulling up and her drunken giggle and the click-clack of those red high-heels as she stumbles up our steps.  Which is worse, the waiting or her arrival?  I really don’t know.  I dread her not coming back, and I dread her coming in and taunting me with how good a lover he is, and how useless I am.  And still I put up with it, I stay and look after the baby, changing his nappy, making his food, washing his clothes, and worrying what the hell my sometimes wife is getting up to.  Hoping against hope that she will tire of him, of her ‘freedom’, that she will realise that he is simply offering her another trap.  That she will give him up and come back to me.

The months roll on and it gets no better.  Then the baby is due and we go together to the Hospital.  She holds my hand, digging her nails in as her contractions come one by one.  I am nervous, apprehensive. Desperately hoping that things have changed, that she still loves me.  But hope is all I have.  Hope is all I have ever had.

Six weeks later and she has gone.  With him.  She has taken the new baby, but has left me with the other one, now just 18 months old.  And this child, who smiles through everything and knows nothing of the turmoil we have been through; the desperate nights, the hours of lonely waiting were nothing to him.  He smiled though it all.  And as I drop the good-bye note and pick him up I realise that he probably has saved my life. 

We start again; I paint the rooms, I find him a nursery, I buy some better second-hand furniture. We move into a GLC flat in Hackney.  I begin to get over her.  But I will never forget those nights, lying awake, listening for the click-clack of her heels, the drunken giggle, the fumble of her key in the lock. 

I grow stronger, I will fall in love again, I will have more children.  But I will never forget her, her shy smile, those blinking eyes, that little black velvet dress and how beautiful she looked.  I will forgive her, maybe I had always forgiven her – but I cannot forget those wild nights, when I was lost in the tangle of my emotions.  When I wasn’t sure if I still loved her, or just the memory of her, when all I knew was that I was losing her.  I was lost in those wild times, and sometimes I am not sure I have ever recovered, if I ever found my way home – or if I am still wandering, still tossing and turning in my frantic search for some peace.   Still somewhere inside, there is a little bit of me that still loves her, even if she smiled as she twisted her high heeled shoe in the space in my heart I’d laid open for her.  

Such is love. 

Short Story – 8 – THE HOST

Well, a different style and a different sort of story

“Come in.”  The host smiles, glances round the porch and shepherds her in. “What a terrible evening.”   The heavy front door glides silently shut. “Such unseasonal weather, you must be soaked.” 

“Yes, but I’m not that wet.” She replies. “I came by taxi actually; it seemed more sensible.  I’ve heard the Gendarmes round here are hot on drink-driving.  Not that I intend to drink much, of course.”

“Here, let me take your coat.”   He holds his hands up like two pegs at shoulder level.  She instinctively turns her back to him while he lifts her suede coat.  As it slides away from her arms she has the strangest feeling, an almost imperceptible suspicion, that he is leaning in just a touch too close.  She chides herself for being suspicious and turns to meet his knowing smile.

“Let me guess” he says nodding, “Samsara?  Yes?”

“Yes, it is” she says, comprehending ‘why the closeness’. “How did you know?”

“Oh, it’s just a little hobby of mine.  Perfumes. Well, the classic ones anyway.  It is actually – quite a late fragrance, by Geurlain, as, of course, you must be aware.  1989 – if memory serves, but a classic none the less.  Sadly, almost everything since the Sixties is synthetic and smells like it too.  Samsara…mmm – don’t you just love it?  Very Eastern, ylang-ylang and jasmine, with hints, but not too much, thank goodness, of sandalwood.  Very refreshing.  And so rewarding that some women of today are still wearing it.”

“It was a present.  From my husband.  Many years ago now.  But – I still wear it occasionally.  Am I the first to arrive?”  she looks round the large deserted room, a couple of white sofas, matching armchairs, a round black rug, a glass coffee-table, and very little else.

“Yes,” he drawls, “I expect it’s the weather.”

“I hope I am not too early?” she tentatively queries.

“Oh no.” he reassures her, “I too am a stickler for punctuality; such a pity others are not.  Some people think it is actually polite to turn up at least an hour late.  I am sure the others will be here soon.”

“Tell me, who else is invited?  It is just drinks, isn’t it?  I’ve eaten already.”

“Oh just a few old friends.  I have a little soiree every year around this time, just as people are coming back from the Easter break.  I invited you because you are new to the village.  Everyone is nosey really, I suppose.  A single woman in her, let me guess – early forties? moving into our little community.  Quite intriguing really.  Tell me about yourself.”

“Well, what do you want to know?”

“First names would be a start.  I hate formality.  I am Edward.  Ed to my friends, which I hope I can count on you becoming.”

“Angela, actually.  My husband…my…late husband…always wanted to retire here.  He had holidayed as a boy.  Sadly, he passed away a year ago.  I bought the house here for him really.  Silly, as he isn’t here to enjoy it, but still.  I am not sure if I will live here or just use it for holidays.  I stopped working when he passed away, but I have a reasonable income and a house in London.  That’s all really.”

“Fascinating” he languidly lets out, and, for the briefest of moments, she has an image of Leslie Phillips eyeing up some piece of totty in a Sixties romp. She reminds herself to be on her guard – but then – tells herself not to be so silly.

“What would you like to drink?”

                                             *  * *

And they drink one and then two, or is it three, glasses of a rather good red wine.  Her mind is veering between a growing nervousness, like a monkey squatting on her shoulder, and a comforting warmth seeping through her as the wine slinks its way into her brain. 

“Where is everyone?” she is trying to sound nonchalant, as if she is mildly surprised, but deep down there is this nagging concern.  She has never met her host before, the invitation had been sitting on her doormat two days ago when she came in from the market.  Here she was, to all intents and purposes, a single woman – and yet – she wasn’t really single.  She still loves and yearns for her late husband, for the comfort of his, often silent, presence, for the warmth from his side of the bed.  She is having trouble sleeping. Or – rather – she wakes in the early hours feeling desolate, abandoned, alone and cold.  She thumps the pillow in frustration, turns over, tries to read, watches some television even, but sleep refuses to draw her in, to safely harbour her.

It is only as dawn creeps through the slats of the shutters that she can close her eyes and drift towards shore. 

And she is still unsure of her host.  His urbane charm, his obvious intellect, his repartee, his dazzling smile – all serve to both soothe and alarm her by turns.  He is sprawled lazily on his sofa, one leg on the floor, one stretched out full length, his fingers idly stroking the neck of his glass.  She sits opposite him, her knees, in what she now suspects was a ‘too-short’ skirt, firmly clamped together, only too aware that she must not send him confusing signals.

“I really must be going” she suddenly says, forcing herself to break the spell.  She reaches for her phone scanning recent calls for the taxi company.  She phones but the beeps ring out unheeded into the empty void.  He notices her slight panic.  “No answer?  I expect they have given up for the night.  Just like our other guests, I imagine.  Just listen to that wind, and the rain is pelting the windows like fury.  I am afraid you may be forced to stay the night.”

“What?  What are you suggesting?  I…I have to get home.” She looks across at him in alarm; he is smiling; a beaming Cheshire Cat of a smile, a self-satisfied job-done, smirk of a smile. 

“My dear woman, there is no way I could have planned this, I am simply offering you the best solution.  I do live here – alone – but have two guest bedrooms ready and made up.  And despite your obvious charms I can assure you I am a gentleman.  Or, if you prefer, you can try and walk the two kilometres home.  That suede coat of yours will offer scant protection though; and will be ruined in this weather.”

“But I don’t even know you.” She protests.  “I…I don’t know what to do.”

“Relax,” he almost leers at her. “Have another glass of wine.  You are in France, we do things slowly here.  Honestly, I am your perfect host, my only desire is to make you comfortable.”

“But this is ridiculous.” She is now, really, quite frightened.  “Whatever sort of woman you think I am, I can assure you…” and then her words dry up, her mouth dries up, her brain seizes up, she reaches for the glass her host has silently re-filled.  “I don’t know what to do.  I’ve had too much wine already.  I don’t know what to think.  Please…”

“Please what?” he smiles strangely at her.  “Look, you are new here.  This is not quite what it seems.”  Her heart is pounding, she thinks she might be having a panic attack.  She wasn’t ready for dating, for even thinking about another man.  Another relationship?  The thought horrifies her.  It feels like betrayal.  Surely, it hasn’t come to this. She only buried her husband a year ago.  Not so soon, surely – not so soon.  Could she say no?  Of course; she has to say no.  But suddenly she feels desperately lonely.  Her whole life is lonely.  She nursed her husband for four years.  Four long years.  Five now, with no loving, no touch of gentleness, no passion at all.  Surely, this isn’t how the evening is destined to end.  Why, oh why had she come?  Why had she had so much to drink?  Confused, lonely, scared, wary of her host, and yet, and yet….

“Listen, one thing you are obviously not aware of.  I do love the company of women.  I have always worshipped them; their beauty, their elegance, the way their perfume melds with their own smell.  But….”

“Oh please….” She almost cries, “what are you trying to say?”

“My dear.  Much as I can see how splendid you are, how, I almost said, desirable.  The simple truth is – that I am not attracted to women.  Not in that way, anyway.  I am, what you might call a passive gay.  I only desire my own sex; though I have rarely actually consummated my fantasies.  I prefer to remain sublimely celibate.”

She breathes an audible sigh of relief.  “Oh, how silly of me.  You must think me so rude.  You have been the perfect host, I must admit.  It must just be the wine making me so jumpy.  I am truly sorry.”  She almost laughs, embarrassed at her own stupidity, of course he was gay, it was obvious, all that perfume nonsense – and takes another gulp of wine.  “Perhaps I had better stay the night after all.  I’m feeling quite tipsy. Would you kindly show me my room – If that it is okay?  I mean, I am so sorry I misjudged the situation.”

“Please don’t apologise, it’s an easy mistake.” putting his glass down beside her empty one.  “let me show you the way.”

As he opens the door to her bedroom the host leans in for one more heady draught of Samsara while his right hand slides down and gently caresses her

Short Story – 7 – I Can’t Remember If We Said Goodbye

This was a continuation (of sorts) or an extra if you like to a book I tortured nyself with for a few years….I loved the story and the characters, just couldn’t get the format right.  But I wrote this coda a few years later…it is 1

I know you’ll be surprised, shocked even, to receive this letter Jane, but though it was only two days ago, I really can’t remember if we said goodbye.  I left in a terrible mood.  I’d just had the usual row with those two imposters who call themselves our parents.  Though, as you must know Jane, it was always just us; the two of us, Jane and Harriet.  The two of us against the World.  Our parents were so useless; or wrapped up in their own lives that they gave us maybe too much space, too much freedom. 

I know that we have grown slightly apart since I went to University, shit-hole that it is, but I have always cared about you.  Remember what I used to say when we were little girls. “Jane, I am your guardian angel.  You cannot always see me, but I am there, hovering in the sky and looking down on you, protecting you, watching out for you wherever you go.”  And I meant it then and I mean it even more now.  I will always be there for you. 

I am writing this on the train back to London, and by the time you read it I will be starting my new life.  But not in University.  I am packing all that crap in.  I have had enough.  Oh, don’t worry – I have some money.  That was why I came back today when none of you expected me.  I sneaked back into the house while you were all out, picked up a few clothes and my Post-Office savings book – you know the one with all the stamps of Prince Charles in.  Well, it is over £500 actually.  I used to often count it up when Dad was out of the house and secretly plan how I would spend it.  I am packing up this stupid course at Uni.  I mean, History….durgh!!!  Why on earth did I choose, or allow my teachers to choose, History for me?  I simply have to start living, little Sis.  I can’t do this crap any more.  I am in the centre of swinging London, it is 1968 after all. And yet I have seen nothing. These stupid rules in the Halls of Residence.  There are all-nighters at this club in Soho called the Enchanted Garden, where bands play till dawn.  I’ve never been, of course, but I’ve heard.  And, by the way, they have the best dope there too, not like the rubbish we had in Suffolk.  Jane, I am nineteen and I haven’t lived yet.  I’m going to get a job and start living.

Sitting on this train looking out of the window; the factories and the fields and the stupid little houses with neat little gardens.  That isn’t for me.  My God, what short-sighted lives they lead.  As I pass the familiar buildings, the train building up a little speed, the railway footbridge where we used to watch the few remaining steam trains chuffing underneath, drenching us in hot sticky smoke, past the streets and houses huddled so close to the railway line, as if they were too scared to breathe, the very streets we  tramped round as kids, it only seems days ago when it was years really, past the old iron foundry where they make the lawnmowers now, past the paint factory and the fertilizer plant with the big blue and orange drums of chemicals stacked up in rows, past the nursery greenhouses all mildewed and yellow glass, and then the fields with the cows chewing the cud and staring up at me and the train whooshing by, their tails swishing at flies on their rumps, past the little copses where we, little Jane and her big sister Harriet, used to take our picnic basket when the sun seemed to shine all day, past the little farms and outhouses, the very barns where we played when our Mum took us fruit picking, the tiny lives lived out here with such narrow horizons, such dark and dismal skies, such limited imaginations, such tiny ambitions, to live and die here in these little houses, to be born and die in the same place, never having lived your life to the full, never having done anything, never achieving your potential, never realizing you had potential to achieve even.  No, not for me, this country life, getting married to your childhood boyfriend, the first boy who kisses you, the boy from the same village, the same school, who knows your parents, who is probably even related to you a couple of generations back, to get yourself stupidly pregnant, to have to get married, to bring up your snotty-nosed kids in these same stupid houses, wiping the shit off their arses until you have the next one, and the next one, and you become fat with flabby arms and legs like tree-trunks and stop enjoying sex because it is always the same and worse still – the same man, until you are there crying at your daughter’s wedding as she too marries a local boy and is probably already up the duff herself and you watch as she has your grandchildren and they grow up in the same little houses and mean streets and none of them will ever do anything with their pathetic little lives at all.  No, Jane, I am different.  I am better than that.  I am going to be someone. I am not like them, these ordinary people, I am different.

But Jane.  I haven’t forgotten you.  No, I will never do that.  Listen – this is my plan.  I’m going to get a flat, or maybe just a room to start with.  And then a job.  Anything will do to begin with, a waitress or a shop girl.  I’ll try all the boutiques in Carnaby Street and the Kings Road.  Maybe I’ll become a model – or join a band.  I could always sing; the best in the school choir, wasn’t I?  And I’m going to see all the new groups and go to parties and meet all the best people.  I can do it Jane, I know I can. But I will come back for you Jane; I promise.  Once I get myself together, you know. 

Hey Sis, you remember that song by The Beatles – “She’s leaving Home.”  I always thought it was me they were singing about – though sod the man from the motor trade – I don’t need any man at all.  Well, maybe one for laughs or to go to parties with. 

Truth is, though Jane, I am scared.  It is a huge decision; I’ve been thinking about it for ages though – this isn’t just some impulsive thing.  I am scared of the future, of maybe not being famous, of not being someone, or of screwing things up in some way.  Mostly though I am scared of failing, of returning home with my tail between my legs, like some lame animal, begging our parents to take me back.  No.  That isn’t going to happen.  But I am gonna come back for you Jane.  We were always together, weren’t we?  At parties, at Youth Club, we were inseparable – The Wilkinson girls.  I will come back for you Jane.  And if you dare, you can come and live with me in my groovy flat in London. 

But I am so sorry it has to be like this Jane.  A stupid letter, when I should have told you face to face. It’s just that I thought you might not understand, you might have tried to stop me, to make me see sense – as you would say.  You were always the sensible one with her feet on the ground while I was flying miles above you.  And so, I didn’t tell you, did I?  And I can’t even remember if we said goodbye.  I think I just called out ‘See you’ or something like that.   But that doesn’t really mean anything, does it? 

Oh God, I’ve smudged this letter now.  It must have been a few drops of this glass of water and the train jolting and that.  But you know that’s not true don’t you Jane.  I am crying.  Here I am, your big sister Harriet blubbing like a baby.  I’m crying for the times we had, the love we felt for each other.  I’m crying for you Jane, and I’m crying for me Harriet.  I’m crying for us both you see, Jane. That’s why I didn’t say goodbye. Cos’ I would have burst out crying and that would have started you off, and then I might not have had the courage to go through with it, after all.

Anyway, the train’s pulling into Liverpool Street.  I’m gonna stuff this letter in the envelope, it’s already written and stamped and I’m gonna shove it in the first letter box I can find.  Love you Jane.

Don’t forget me….your big sister, Harriet.

Short Story – 6 – The Writing Group

This was my attempt to write in the style of one of my old favourite writers

She looked up at the big station clock.  Five to twelve…oh dear.  Only five minutes to get her ticket to Lewes.  What a bore, there was bound to be a queue.  And, of course, a part of her didn’t really want to go.  If only she had the nerve to have said “No”. But she never seemed brave enough to say what she really wanted, besides Leonard loved these weekends away.  She decided not to rush, ducking into the Corner House she ordered a cup of tea; she would take a later train. 

She just needed a little time on her own, time to think, time to be herself.  Because she was never herself these days, never simply Virginia. Virginia Stephens?   Where had that little girl gone – and of course since her marriage never would she be Stephens again.  She longed sometimes simply to be a single woman, to be on her own again.  It wasn’t that she didn’t love her husband; of course she did, but had she really have had a choice she might have dared to remain single.  But how could one simply be a single woman of thirty or so, here in the Nineteen-Twenties? Simply impossible, and even more confusing and complicated, she suspected, than this strange state of being married. 

And these weekends loomed over her like some swaying sword of Damocles.  Oh, the nonsense of it all; the kow-towing to everyone else, the pretence that they were doing something remarkable, something different – when more and more she felt they were simply treading water.  Never really achieving anything; simply living on past glories.  And the group, this almost famous group, which she had always thought of as a writer’s group was being taken over by dabblers, by dilettantes, by adventurers and even, she feared, womanisers.  Oh, if only it had stayed simple – just a few friends and fellow writers meeting at home to discuss books and the love of writing itself. 

And her secret hope, trying to find a new form of writing, an open-hearted honest post-war way of putting into words what truly mattered, what one really felt.  But now they had painters and an economist and even a sculptor joining them.  No longer simply a writing group, more some sort of semi-debauched, slightly notorious, society; because they were already being talked about; put down by the straight-laced; and revered by those who considered themselves as somehow ‘modern’.  The newspapers were even calling them a ‘set’ – whatever that is supposed to mean.  Something not very nice at all, she suspects.

And all she wanted to do, all she had ever wanted to do, was to write; to express herself, to describe things.  And not just pretty flowers or landscapes, but people, and especially women.  She longed to tell her story, all her stories, the ones that had crowded her mind since she could ever remember.  She wanted to let people know that you could talk about feelings, love and passion and ecstasy and sadness and desolation, the whole range of emotions; fears, loves and hates, without being ridiculed, without being censored by male publishers.

“Now Virginia, this is all very well, and of course it goes without saying -brilliantly written – but really, you must think of the consequences.  Is this quite what the public wants to read?  And as I say to all my writers ‘Will it sell, my dear, will it sell?’”. 

The sad-eyed and weary looking nippy brought the tea, a hideous yellowy brown with just enough hint of scum to put you off, in an awful thick white cup, with the tiniest lump of sugar precariously perched on the saucer like the meagre comfort it represented.  Really, did no-one know how to make a decent cup of tea these days.  And service?  You might as well forget that, ever since the war the whole concept of service had disappeared.  Surliness, sheer rudery everywhere.  It wasn’t that one wanted servitude – just a smile would do.

Oh well.  I suspect her life is pretty hideous too.  At least mine is comfortable I suppose, but little real comfort that gives me.  I am as trapped in my petticoats as she in her pinny; I wonder if she reflects on her pointless life as I do.  Oh, why am I never really happy?  Always far too self-conscious to let myself go and simply enjoy the moment.  Happiness?  That most elusive of states; it is almost as if the realisation of happiness is also its destroyer.  As soon as one feels that one might be actually ‘happy’ – the spell is broken and one’s mind is swamped by those bad thoughts again.  Oh, my bad-dog thoughts, these horrendous harbingers constantly circling my poor tired mind – if only I could dispel them for a few moments.  Just to sit in the sun somewhere with no thoughts at all – how wonderful that might be. 

But I never seem to have enough time on my own.  There is always so much to see to; the house, the wretched servants, the bills to be paid.  I was never cut out to be a wife.  All I ever wanted was to be left alone, to have somewhere I could retreat to, a room really – that’s all I have ever wanted.  Somewhere, maybe with a window – a view, a garden to drift into when the words won’t come, a desk, a chair; a vase with a few hand-picked daisies, a handful of books.   And paper.  Of course, heaps, reams of fresh white virgin paper, and my trusty Parker pen.  Just leave me, bolt the door and lock me here for days if you must – but just let me write

I need to get it all down before it is lost, every passing thought, each delicate whimsical recollection, it is all valuable.  It is all me, all this ‘nonsense whirling around in my head’ – as Leonard smilingly dismisses it – I must find a new way of writing, of capturing what it is to be alive, to be a woman, to be thirty, to have never had and never wanted a child.  But to be an equal to men, a reflection, a counter-balance, not better or worse or superior or subservient – but equal. 

Vanessa says that’s all poppycock; but then Vanessa is a painter.  Can anyone tell the sex of the artist from the finished work, are the brush strokes more delicate, the colours more vivid?  But writing – oh those publishers simply label you as a woman’s writer; only fit for other women to read.  But I want everyone to read. Women to know that someone understands us, and has managed to encapsulate how we are – and men to marvel, to wonder at the world we inhabit.

But truly, the group is too large, too many distractions, too much drinking, too much flirting, too little real attempt to create something new.  Maybe I shall simply not go this time, stay home in Bloomsbury; telegram to say I was feeling poorly.  But not too poorly, I don’t want Leonard rushing back and making sure I see a Doctor.  It isn’t a Doctor I need; it is aloneness, it is solitude I crave. 

Goodness is that the time.  Must rush, or I will be late.  And the gorgeous Vita will be there this weekend.  I haven’t seen the Sackville-Wests for ages.  My, Vita really is such a beauty.  So vivacious, so outre, so scrumptious.  Why – if I were a man – I could barely resist her.  The way she half-smiles at you, you could just eat her.  Mustn’t think like that though, far too dangerous.  The group is outrageous enough without that sort of thing. 

You can never see the nippy when you want her. I’ll just leave tuppence here next to my cup and dash off.  I wonder what we will talk about this time?  Will Lytton be there, with his florid curlicue style, or Forster – just back from India.  I do hope so.  Despite what I sometimes think I do love them all really.  My scatty sister Vanessa and her husband Clive – always predictable Clive.  Dear mad Lytton of course, Keynes the sly old dog and Roger, of course lovely Roger, and my dear long-suffering Leonard.   And the weather is so warm maybe we can spend a few hours on the beach this time. 

My, what a difficult and complicated old World.  All these wonderful friends, the special writing group – and yet still I crave a little space, a room even to just sit and write in.

Quick, I must run for the train. and I really cannot face another horrid tea or the sad face of that tired little nippy again.  I must remember her – pop her into a story somewhere.  That downcast little face. Ah here she is.

“Don’t I know you?” the nippy asks, clearing away the crockery “Ain’t I seen your face in the papers?”

“You might have.  I am Virginia, Virginia Woolf.  I am a writer.  Maybe you have read one of my novels.”

“Naah.  Sorry. Never ‘eard of yer.  Must have muddled you up with someone famous”

Short Story – 5 – A Most Amazing Experience – A True Story

I hated the title at first and got round it by sort of ignoring it…

Well, let me begin by saying that all stories are true – it’s just that some of them haven’t actually happened – so, if you don’t mind. I will leave you guessing. 

The first time that anything happens is usually pretty amazing – and not always for the right reasons, but new experiences seldom fail to leave their mark.  That first hesitant kiss, the soft almost not-there touch of her lips, the guilty look in your eyes, you glance sideways to see if she has read your thoughts – but no, her eyes are closed in blissful anticipation so you move in and let the gliding edge of your tongue slide over her gorgeous plump lips. 

Ah, enough of this mundane stuff – we have all kissed – but I suspect none of you can quite remember that first time.  Anyway, not in the graphic detail I can.

And that of course has always been my problem.  I remember everything.  Each falling leaf as it begins its downward spiral to earth is captured in my memory.  Each handful of silvery sand I let slip through my fingers – just like the women I discarded; so many fallen petals, faded flowers, wilting and clogging up the drains after rain.  All there – my memories; lined up in their little white boxes, sublime treasure-chests of remembrance, just waiting for the lid to be prised open and re-lived.

Just like the first time I killed a woman.  Oh, I had no intention before it happened.  This was not pre-meditated.  Honestly.  Thoughts of death had never crossed my mind.  Seduction, persuasion, a little light tussle maybe – but not killing.  Besides this was my first time; my very own virgin murder and I was hardly prepared.   For anything, I might add. 

The blood – of course.  And how could anything, any degree of premeditation prepare you for the blood, that metallic aroma that fills your nostrils, the bright red pulsing colour of it, the stickiness – no matter how you try to wipe it away it clings to your fingers; you glance in the mirror and there are spots on your face, your glasses splattered, it even gets in your hair.  Your clothes are ruined, of course; they will have to be burned – and if you are stupid enough to kill her in your own rooms you have to use gallons of bleach to eradicate the stains that seem to lurk, like shadowy reminders of the woman she once was.  And the screams, those piercing high-pitched screams go right through you, yet in a way they simply encourage you to keep on stabbing, to stifle, to silence her, to extinguish the very air in her lungs.  And then the body limp and collapsing around you; as you reach for an arm her leg flops out of your grasp.  The weight of them too, who would have thought something so light on its toes, so sprightly, so energetic one moment – could be so unresponsive, so inert, so – well, dead, to put it bluntly.  And the disposal of the now completely distasteful body presents a whole new set of problems.  And I mean it when I say distasteful.  Please do not mistake me for some sort of pervert.  A dead thing is simply that, there is no sexual attraction in a corpse, even less than in a living being I might add.

But like everything in life, I have found, the first time is always the hardest.  After a while you develop strategies for dealing with these issues. 

But the first time was I must admit quite an amazing experience.  As I said I had no idea of killing the woman at all.  It had all started so innocently; a date – innocuous in itself, though I am sure a suspicion must have been lurking somewhere in her consciousness.  Surely, she must have known that my intentions were not exactly honourable.  Possibly she knew all along that we would end up entwined in a passionate embrace.  Isn’t that what the game is about, after all?

Anyway. Let us not preach semantics.  How we got there is unimportant suffice to say – there we are wrapped in each other’s arms and kissing, quite torridly as I recall.  Then, all of a sudden she pushes me away saying “No.  I really shouldn’t be doing this.  I have a boyfriend already.  I have to leave.”

How irrational, I can’t help but think.  I feel like saying “My dear, if you were already committed to someone else what the hell were you doing with your tongue halfway down my throat?”   But of course, you only think of these witticisms after the event – never at the time.  In fact, as well as being completely taken by surprise I am actually quite annoyed.  I had not forced her to come back to my squalid little bedsit, I had not even plied her with drink, my usual desperate ploy.  She had seemed quite keen.  And yet, unbelievably here she is protesting some sort of innocence.  I couldn’t quite believe how stupid she must think me.  Stupid enough to just smile and order her a cab I suppose.  No – my lovely, no cab for you tonight, you are going nowhere.

I push her back on the sofa and grab both her wrists in my left hand while my right undoes my belt.  She is kicking quite furiously now and screaming at me.  This only serves to make me angry – and yet, even despite the initial rage, a strange calmness descends on me. I tie her hands and reach for her cardigan (discarded, just like her morals, on the floor).  I manage to get her legs tied too, and then a tea-towel wrapped over her obscene mouth.  I can barely believe the filthy words spilling out of her. “Shut up woman.”  I command, but she stupidly continues, her body bucking under my strong grip.  Suddenly I feel I have had enough of this nonsense.  You see, I simply want her to stop screaming and shouting at me.  If she had stopped her foul-mouthed abuse none of what followed would have been necessary. 

It was in every way an amazing experience.  Looking down at her, I can picture her now, writhing like some captured beast, or a fish hauled out of the river and squirming on the bank.  I was disgusted both at her and at my own ridiculous desire.  How could I have ever found her attractive.

Suddenly I know I have to kill her, to bring both of us out of this ridiculous situation.  I mean, I can hardly simply untie her, apologise, and let her go.  Things will not end there; no doubt she will involve the Police, or worse still her boyfriend, if indeed he exists (she may well have made him up just to satisfy her own guilty conscience). I can see no alternative but to kill her.

I grab a cushion and try to suffocate her, but no matter now hard I press against it she still manages to turn her face away, and despite the gag to gasp for air.  This was taking far too long, so I reach for a kitchen knife.  There is a little resistance I must admit, though that may be the layers of fabric around her chest, but eventually the knife sinks in all the way to the hilt.  She stops her writhing and stares at me, as if in disbelief.  I will never forget that look, pleading and helpless, and yet defiant at the same time.  I pull the knife out and am covered in huge spurts of blood.  She is gushing like a fountain.  So, I stab her again a few more times and the flow of blood slows to a trickle and then a slow ooze.  But oh, how good I feel, how completely in control at last.  ‘That will teach you a lesson you little minx’, I think, ‘You won’t be teasing another man like that for a while, will you?  In fact, you won’t be teasing anyone ever again.’

Okay, so now I had to get rid of the body.  But a second-hand rug and a tarpaulin and she is stuffed at three in the morning into the boot of my car, then down to the coast and off the end of the pier.  And no-one ever suspected me.  It had been a blind date, she hadn’t told any of her friends.  It was a couple of weeks before her body was washed up.  Another unsolved murder I am afraid.  

An amazing experience – to have killed someone, to have felt the life seep out of them. And best of all to have gotten away with it.  It felt like a drug, and I must admit I had dabbled with those too in my dubious past.  And just like drugs it is so amazing you want to try it – again and again. 

As I said at the beginning all stories are true – it is just that some haven’t actually happened.  I should have completed the sentence though.  All stories are true – it is just that some simply haven’t actually happened…. yet.

Short Story – 4 – A Christmas Present

I really like this one, it was an attempt to write a whole story in conversations

Christmas 2013

“And this one’s for you Dad”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have.  What is it?”

“Open it and see, Dad.”

“Oh. It’s a computer, is it?  You know I know nothing about computer’s, I’m not sure I will ever get the hang of it.  Sorry to disappoint you Laura.”

“John and I have thought of that already.  It’s an i-pad and it’s really easy. John will set it up for you later.  We have also bought you a mobile router so you can use the internet – and we have paid the first year’s subscription too.  And if you need help we have spoken to young Andy in the village.  He says he will help you if you get stuck.  You only have to ask him.”

“That’s very good of you, but I don’t expect I will really use it that much.”

“Look Dad.  It’s been two years since Mum died, you barely go anywhere or do anything.  You’re becoming something of a hermit, you know.  I know we are busy in London and only see you every couple of months but you can facetime us now.”

“Facetime?  What’s that?”

“John will show you later.  It’s like a phone call, but you can see people.  And it doesn’t even cost anything. You’ll be able to chat with Charlotte and Jason too, even though Charlotte is in Hong Kong and Jason at Uni.  It really will open up a new world for you Dad.”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe I am just too old for all this malarkey”

“You are only 75, Dad.  That’s not even old these days.”

Christmas 2014

“So Dad, how are you getting on with the i-pad?  You still don’t really facetime us.  Only when we ring you first and remind you to switch it on.”

“Oh, not so bad.  I can check my bank account on it – not that there is much to check really.  And I have found a site for old friends of Stowmarket.  Quite a lot of people I went to school with are on it.  After all these years.  Some are dead of course, but a few were even in my class.  They look a bit different now though, I can tell you.”

“Well done Dad.  I knew you’d find something you liked.  You should get out and meet some of these people.  Ever since Mum was wheelchair-bound you hardly went anywhere.”

“It was too difficult getting it in and out of the car.  Nearly ten years she was in that bloody thing too.  You know, I hated pushing it.  First thing I did when she died.  Took it down the dump and threw it in a skip.  Good riddance too.”

 “Well, those days are long gone now.  I know how devoted you were to her.”

“Devoted?  I had no bloody choice.  I was married to her, wasn’t I.  I couldn’t turn my back on your mother when she was too poorly to walk anymore. You youngsters don’t understand what marriage means.  Look at you, getting divorced as soon as things got difficult.  If you want to know what difficult is, you should have been married to your mother. She was practically an invalid for the last fifteen years.  I was her nurse-maid really.  Devoted?  I wouldn’t have chosen the life we had I can tell you, but I had no choice.”

“Okay Dad, don’t get aireated.  And – you have no idea what my marriage was like.  So, don’t be giving me any sermons either.  Anyway, I’m happy now with John.  He’s a better father to your grandchildren than Geoff ever was.”

“Well, I suppose it’s all in the past really.  Sorry girl, I didn’t mean to lash out, but nobody knows how tough it was all those years pushing your mother everywhere, running up and down stairs for her all day long – and barely a thank-you either.  It was just expected.  Oh well, I suppose it is all in the past really.”

Christmas 2015

“I’ve got to tell you Laura, we have a guest for Christmas lunch today.”

“Oh?  Who is that then?”

“An old school friend actually.  You know I told you about that website for old schoolfriends.  Well, Sheila was in the year below me.  I hadn’t seen her in nearly Sixty years.  Turns out she only lives a few miles away.  Now, don’t get worried.  There’s nothing in it.  But we go out for a meal occasionally, she’s good company.”

“Well, that is a turn-up for the books I must say.  As long as you are happy Dad.”

Christmas 2016

“So, this Sheila and you are an item, are you Dad?”

“An item?  What is that supposed to mean?  We are going out and well… if that’s what you are getting at?  I don’t know if we’ll ever get round to marrying.  We probably won’t live that long anyway. All we want is to grab a bit of happiness while we still can.  And I can tell you, it’s been a bloody long time since I felt any sort of kindness in my life.”

“Well, that’s nice.  This is your only daughter you are talking to.  You know, the mother of your grandchildren.  Charlotte and Jason?  Didn’t we show you any kindness down the years?  And what about Mother?  I know she was ill for a long while, but there must have been a time – not that long ago either – when you loved each other.”

“Love?  Don’t talk to me about love.  I loved your mother alright.  Once.  But after you were born, and she blamed me for the hard time she had of it too….well, to tell the truth Laura, she shut the door on love.  Didn’t want to know any more – in that way, if you get my drift.  That was over forty years we had with not even a kiss or a cuddle.  No kind touch, not a suggestion of real love in forty years.   You didn’t know that did you?  And I didn’t mean to ever tell you either.  Wish I hadn’t really, it’s none of your bloody business.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry Dad.  I never knew.  I know she was a difficult woman.  I had my differences with her, heaven knows.  Well, if you are happy now what harm can it do.”

“Don’t worry.  You’ll still get the house, if that’s what you are worried about?  Sheila and I have talked about that. I won’t take what’s hers from her kids and she won’t have what yours either.”

“That’s not it at all Dad.  I just want you to be happy.”

Christmas 2017

“Come in and sit down Mrs Johnson. Can I call you Laura?  I’m glad you could manage to see me before the Holidays”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Mr. Williams will do.  Now, as you know I was your father’s solicitor.  I dealt with his few shares and I even managed the conveyancing when he bought his council house, oh back in 1988 I think that was.”

“Okay, I know all of that Mr Williams, I just want to know what was in my father’s will, now that he is dead.”

“Yes.  Well to tell you the truth Mrs Johnson, …er Laura, he never got round to changing his will after your mother died.  I met him once or twice in town and he said he would pop in and do it.  But he never did.  Besides it was really just a formality.”

“What do you mean a formality?”

“Well, since your mother died you were naturally the sole beneficiary, being the only child.  But as you know, your father re-married a couple of months ago.”

“How does that affect me though?”

“Well, it is rather complicated.  Legally his wife, his new wife that is – Mrs Sheila Jones, in the absence of any new will has a valid claim on your father’s property.”

“But she’d dead too.  They both died in that car crash.  Driving home from seeing me in London, too.  That was when they told me they had got married.  It was awful.”

“Yes. Tragic, I must admit.  But you see – your father died immediately, he was at the wheel when the lorry…Sorry.  His wife actually passed away two weeks later in Hospital.”

“Oh my God.  So, where does that leave us?  Dad always meant the house for me.  He even said that Sheila and he had agreed that whatever happened the house would be mine.”

“Yes, but sadly neither are alive now to confirm that.  In the absence of any specific will, and the old one, superseded now by his later marriage, named your mother, and you of course – his current wife would normally inherit his estate.  But she too is now dead so her estate falls to her children.  Well, we will have to contest that, of course.  I assume that would be your intention, you do have a valid claim as you are mentioned in the only will we have.  Mrs Sheila Jones had two sons and they have already applied for probate.  I must warn you that this could cost quite a lot, and there is no guarantee of success. The most we might reasonably expect is 50%, we would be very fortunate to get everything.”

“Oh, my goodness.  What a Christmas present that is for me.  I’ve not only lost my Dad, but maybe my inheritance too.   And all because of that wretched i-pad.  That was a Christmas present too.”

Short Story – 3 I’ll Be Watching You

This was the refrain from the last ‘Police’ single, and incidentally, their biggest hit, ‘Every Breath you Take’.   I loved the song but never saw the lyric as in any way sinister – however a few women I’ve known thought them creepy; the words of a stalker.  

As a small boy I literally believed that my mother had magical powers.  She would say to me, when I went out to play or walked to school, “I’ll be watching you.”  And she was, or so I believed.  It was a small town and my mum knew everybody. She proved her powers regularly by saying that she had seen me messing around, walking on walls or pulling faces.  And she was right – I had been.  I later learned that she would stop and talk to neighbours and women in the town who reported my naughtiness, and then she would say “Mrs Robinson saw you swinging your satchel in the air on Curwen Road this afternoon.”  So, by proxy, she had indeed been watching me.

She could always tell if I was lying too; a more than common occurrence.  She would say “I can see right through you; I know what you are thinking.  Now, tell the truth.” 

For years I would momentarily glance over my shoulder to see if she was still watching me.  When it came to girls, I was scared that my mother would see, or find out, what I was up to; she might as well have been watching, because, terrified as I was, I never went too far.  And many times, even as an adult, I have been aware of someone watching me; some unseen observer, spying on my life and reporting back – either to God or my mother.  There wasn’t much difference in my mind, as I hadbeen a good Christian and attended Bible classes where we learned that the Almighty, or Jesus – or maybe the Holy Ghost himself, who literally put the fear of God up me, was watching at all times.  “Watching over me,” was the expression the vicar used.  So, I was never alone, never unobserved.  Someone was always watching me.

I left home at seventeen.  I literally ran away from home and school to London.  And I had a few misadventures, and gradually I realised that I had managed to lose the watcher over me.  I loved the fact that in London I was anonymous.  Nobody knew who I was, and more importantly, nobody cared.  At last I was free.  And, of course, I fucked up.  Without someone watching over me; because as well as escaping my Mother’s beady eye, I had rejected God too, I was free to screw up my life – which I dutifully did. 

Well things calmed down eventually and I made a sort of success of things – or at least no worse a mess than most other people did.  But I occasionally suspected that I may still be silently observed.  Someone was continuing to watch me, and I was, as ever, glancing guiltily over my shoulder.

Of course, my Mother had never abandoned me.  I was far away but she was still keeping a silent watch over me; just as I do over my children, who, as Leonard Cohen once sung “Papa don’t look, papa don’t peek, and they run away and hide, they hide in the World.” 

My mother has been very ill this Winter.  There were a few days when the doctors said there was nothing more they could do for her; she wasn’t responding to their antibiotics and we must be prepared for the worst.  I sat beside her bed watching a shell of the woman who had filled my horizon as a child.  This dominant confident young woman who I had thought all powerful, was reduced to a shadow of her former self.  She was on a morphine drip and her mouth hung open; her skin tight around the bones of her face and her breathing was terribly laboured.  I barely recognised her; she wasn’t the mother I had known. Every now and then her eyes would open as she drifted back to consciousness; she looked around, panicking until she saw me.  Then a ghost of a smile would hover for a moment on her lips before she drifted back into oblivion.  She was still watching me; even with eyes closed she was still watching me, her first-born.  

She had kept her promise from all those years ago.  Her small hand held in my large one, our roles were reversed and now I was watching her.  A part of me was devastated – I was losing her. For years I had rejected her, despising her controlling ways, her dominance over me – or rather, my weakness in front of her.  I could never stand up to her, I never answered her back.  One look was enough to silence any rebellion.  And when I left the house, I used to look back just at the point where our house disappeared behind a corner.  And I would run.  And run and run, breathing in the cold air of freedom.  I would run and run until I ran out of breath and slowing down, look back nervously to see if my worst fears were realised and she was right there behind me – still watching me.  Because I was never sure I had really escaped her gaze.  Even in my new-found freedom in London I sometimes thought I saw her on a bus or coming down the escalator as I rode up.  And of course, in the middle of the night, my dreams were of my childhood; being caught naked in the back garden and laughed at by the neighbours while my mother smiled, or threatened me with the stick she used to regularly beat me with. 

But now the tables were reversed and I was watching her.  In fact, I have been watching, or watching over her, for a few years now.  I have watched as both her and Dad have slowed down.  I have watched with a mixture of horror and sadness as they shuffle around their house and clumsily try to cook a Sunday lunch.  I have watched, even from here in France; making sure I telephone them every week, checking on them. 

So, I sat by her bed and the minutes crept by and I wished it would end.  I wanted her to be at peace, out of this misery.  She wasn’t the mother I remembered and I wanted her out of this pain.  And all I could do was to sit and watch her as she drifted in and out of morphine oblivion.  She tried to speak but the sentences wouldn’t form.  All she could do was to very faintly squeeze my hand.  I talked to her of the good times when I was a child, the holidays and the bike rides and the Christmases we had together.  I stroked her hair and it may have given her some comfort; it certainly helped me to be watching over this, my very oldest child; the one who had given me life, the one who had raised me, who had watched me all those years ago, and was now reduced to a fretful and helpless infant herself, her breath rattling in her chest, and her eyes searching desperately for mine.  And I was crying.  I was crying for all the wasted years, crying for the times I thought I hated her, crying for the heartache I must have caused her – and crying for me – soon to be, as I thought, a motherless child, as we are all destined to become one day. 

So, this is the essence of what makes us human.  Our unconditional love, and the fact that despite distance and differences we are all watching each other and are there ready to catch if one of our loved ones should fall.  Of course, we all live with the strange phenomenon of blankly watching hundreds die in some far-off land through tsunami or war or epidemic and not caring at all, while worrying about a sick relative or mourning the passing of a celebrity who we never met but somehow felt a connection to.  And so, the phrase ‘I’ll be watching you” should not be seen in a sinister way, but in the most caring and loving way of all.  For without someone watching us we are truly alone and totally helpless in this cruellest of all possible worlds.

Short Story – 2 Blood Is Thicker Than Water

Apologies if this seems a bit grim but I really like it…

Blood is thicker than water, they say.  And yes – water will slip off a duck’s oily feathered back where blood clings, cloying and dark, viscous and crimson, hard to remove, a forever-stain. 

But what they mean is the shared blood of family; though for all I know we may be different blood types and as un-transfusable as love or trust.  And there was precious little of either in our family. 

You see, our Dad left when I was seven, my brother twelve and my sister barely five.  I can only guess if we had the same father.  All I do know is that my mother cared as little for us as our absent Dad.  She was simply never around, we were left for hours to our own devices, while she partied.  Or even worse.  Who knows?  I can only guess from the succession of men she brought back for weeks at a time.  God knows how many ‘Uncles’ we learned to despise. We mostly fended for ourselves, crisps and coke and microwave chips.  Television the only adult voice in the flat.   

It was here, among the unwashed dishes, the filthy bedsheets and the fetid and dangerous kitchen that I learned to hate my brother.  Shouldn’t I have loved him, you ask?  Well, you didn’t know the bastard, did you?  No.  But I did.  My sister and I were the victims of his own particular misery.  He was the oldest and in our mother’s absence he ruled our lives.  And he was clever where we, well at least I, was stupid.  He was handsome where I was ugly.  He was tall and I, almost two feet shorter, never attained his lofty heights.   He became the father I couldn’t remember – and wished I hadn’t either.  He was out most evenings, just like our mother, though he was supposed to be looking after us.  Out with his gang, robbing and drinking and smoking dope, while I shivered in the flat, waiting, terrified of his return.

And with good reason.  You see, he was always angry, was our brother.  I can only imagine why.  Maybe the alcohol, maybe the life he felt forced to lead, maybe he hated our long-gone father, more likely our mother who screamed and bawled him out when she came home and found him pissed or stoned.  But I think the real reason he was angry was ‘cos of me.  He hit me constantly and called me all the names under the sun, and even when he had beaten me black and blue, he was still angry.  But what had I done?  What had I ever done but idolise the bastard? 

So why didn’t the school teachers notice my bruises?  Why didn’t the Social Workers intervene?  Because we kept it all well hid – that’s why. Our Mum would threaten us with all sorts of trouble if we ever told anyone. Teachers were not to be trusted, and the very few visits we had from the Social. we were on our best behaviour.  Oh yes, our Mum was very good at twisting those idiots round her fingers; she knew the benefits system and how she might lose the flat if we were taken away.  Even when my brother kept getting into trouble with the cops, she cried and begged them to give him another chance.  And they did.  They gave him lots more chances.  Chances to hit me, chances to stub his fags out on my arms, chances to punch me in the stomach, to kick me in the balls. 

I don’t know when it started, I only know when it ended.

And still I never hated him.  That was the trouble really.  He couldn’t stand the fact that I still worshipped him.  No, I never hated him then.  In fact, the belts, the whacks, the clumps round the head, were for me (I now realise) some sort of comfort, some acknowledgement that I mattered.  Because without him, without my big clever handsome brother – who was I?  My brother was somebody on the estate.  All the other boys looked up to him, the girls idolised him.  He had the pick of them all.  Nobody would have ever looked at me, or even spoken to me – if I wasn’t his brother.

So, what changed?  When did I begin to hate him? When did he become my nemesis?  Big word that.  I learnt it at school.  I didn’t learn that much at school really; except to avoid the teachers.  You know, the creepy ones who pretend they care.  Women mostly – they try to make you cry by being kind.  I never cried at school.  I kept that for home, under the covers where my brother couldn’t see or hear me.  That’s where I did my crying. 

No, I learned to hate my brother for what he did to my sister.  Ah, my poor little sister.  She didn’t deserve to be treated like that?  Me?  I was nothing, a stupid little bastard; I deserved all I got.  But not her.  Not little Jenny.  

I don’t know when it started.  I only know when it ended. 

My sister never told me what was happening, but I knew it was something bad.  You see, she never used to cry, did our Jen.  She was the happy one in the family. My Mum used to bawl and shout at us all the time.  She must have been unhappy.  My brother used to lash out at me.  He must have been unhappy.  And of course, I was unhappy – because I wasn’t as clever and good-looking as him, useless runt that I was. But Jenny was the happy one.  She never minded the dirt or the crappy food we ate, or the hand-me down clothes she wore.  She was in a world of her own.  She had her dollies and used to talk to them all the time. It seemed that nothing could make her unhappy like the rest of us. 

But then, something did.

At first, I thought it might have been our Mum.  Or one of the men she brought home; the succession of Uncles we knew wouldn’t last, but had to pretend to like. But no, it wasn’t them either.  Maybe it was me who was making her unhappy.  But no – it was my brother, wasn’t it?

You see, in a way I knew if he was angry with me, if he was hitting me – then I might be taking the bruises for Jenny.  She would be safe if he took all his anger out on me.  And that sort of worked.  What I didn’t know was he was taking something else out on her. 

I don’t know how it started but I know how it ended.

I ended it.  And I had to.  She was only eleven when I found out, when I heard her crying that night.  As I crept out of my bed and stood outside her room and heard her crying.  And then my big brother’s voice telling her to shut up.  Telling her what to do.  And I wet my pants then.  Outside her bedroom door I pissed my bloody pants.  Thirteen years old and there I was shivering and peeing myself.  I was shaking with fear and anger and the knowledge that this had all gone too far.  My mother, the Uncles, the beatings, my brother’s drinking and his gang.  All of that I could take, but not this.  Not little Jenny.

And that’s when I decided to hate him.  That’s when I knew I had to stop him, to end it all.  And if I have learned nothing else in my short pathetic little life it is this; love and hate are the same thing really.  I used to love my brother despite all he did to me, but just like turning on the light switch, it was the work of a moment to hate him.  You see, I knew that the reason I let him hit me, that the justification for his beating me up – was that I deserved it.  It was no wonder he hated me.  My father must have hated me or he wouldn’t have walked out.  My mother hated me, that much was certain too.  But the person who hated me most was me.  And as the light switch went on in my head, I realised that the only way I could stop me hating myself was by saving my sister.

So – I killed him.  My lovely clever brilliant bastard of a brother.  I simply waited till he was stoned and asleep on the sofa and I stuck the bread knife into his guts.  Jenny was safely asleep.  My mother – out as usual.  We were alone in the flat.  My pissed-up sleeping brother and me.  And I stabbed him. Over and over.  Again and again.

And yes, I know now that blood is much thicker than water.

‘Cos, I never told them. the cops or the social workers.  I never told them why.  I never betrayed my sister – or my brother, and I never will.  No matter how long I rot in this detention centre I will not tell on them.  And yes, I no longer hate myself now.  For once in my miserable little life I done something good.   

Short Story – 1 THE DECORATOR

To attempt to relieve the monotony of Self-isolation I will be posting a short story a day…

The Decorator hesitated for a moment; then he spoke “But Sir, I cannot paint.  I mean – I can paint a wall or a ceiling or a door.  But I have never painted a picture, let alone a portrait.”

The Chamberlain smiled. “His majesty knows that, but we have a problem. He was betrothed to the Lady Miranda when he was 12 and she just 9.  He has never seen her and now that she is 16 he must marry or bring shame on her whole family.  But the King is young and headstrong.  He refuses to wed until he sees his bride; he values Beauty over Duty.  You are commissioned to decorate the Lady Miranda’s private quarters I understand”

“Yes, but she, or rather I, will be screened off.  A movable partition of sheets will be hung to prevent even me seeing her accidentally while I work.”

“Well, you will just have to do your best.  Try to catch sight of her and on your return paint her image for his Majesty.”

 The decorator was frightened, but what could he do.  Refusal could result in death; an un-flattering portrait – the King’s wrath.  Besides he had never painted a picture before.  He had never tried, he was a humble decorator. 

His commission began and despite his best efforts he was constantly shielded from the merest glimpse of the Lady; all he could hear was her voice.  Like a vibrant mountain stream it glided and trickled gently over moss-covered rocks.  He was captivated, entranced and bewitched. Returning home he mixed his colours and in broad passes he filled the canvas with wide and bold brush strokes, delicately feathering the colours into each other.  Gentle sunrise yellows snuggled up to soft pinks and curved around clouds of Magenta and Alizarine Crimson; soft purple billows bled into humming-bird blue.  No-one had ever painted anything like it, but the decorator knew that he had captured her voice and her soul.

The Chamberlain was horrified when he saw the decorator’s work.  “This is appalling, the King asked for a portrait, not this mess of hideous colours”

“I am sorry, but it was the best I could do – besides, I think she is lovely.”

When the king saw the painting he demanded to see the decorator. “What does this mean? I asked for a portrait, I can see no image here.”

“Sir, I am a humble decorator.  I never saw the Lady once – all I heard was her beautiful soft voice. And, your Majesty, that is what I painted.”

“It is quite incredible I must admit, such colours, such vibrancy. If she is any way as beautiful and as colourful as her voice here, I will marry her.   But this painting must be removed to my private chambers at once.  No-one else must see this. Ever. Now be gone quick before I change my mind.”