The table in the kitchen was sticky with partly dried milk and had begun to smell like the fridge. Marlon was eating last nights chips from the floor, so at least his personal space was clean. It wasn't much, but he seemed to be doing his best.
“Come here boy, there's cats on TV. What would you do to those cats? What would you do to them? Marlon boy, leave those chips alone and get in here.”
The dog looked up when he heard the voices but quickly got back to his chores when he saw the bloodied face beckoning him over.
“I could have done with you last night when it got rough mate, fighting in my corner. Some people just don't know when to give up. Still, taught her a lesson she won't forget in a hurry.”
“Did you know who she was?” Mark spoke from his chair in the corner like his conscience.
“Yeah. She lived there when I lived round the corner a few years back. She was shit scared of dogs.” He smiled. “If I'd remembered before hand I would have brought Marlon, scared her shitless, it would have been easier. She wouldn't have come near me then.”
“What did she hit you with?” The TV was on but Mark wasn't watching it, just staring at Mike.
“Nothing! She tried to scratch my bloody eyes out! I was taking her rings off, all was calm. Then when I went for her necklace she went berserk. I had to rip it off her in the end. Its got a bit of her hair stuck in the chain. We'll need to get off it before we sell it.”
Mike threw the carrier bag over to Mark and he pulled out the necklace, and began pulling the fine strands of grey hair from the chain.
“It's not very heavy. I bet its not even worth much. What's this picture in the bottom?” He was rooted around in the carrier bag and pulled out a piece of paper about the size of a postage stamp.
“I don't know, thought it might be someone famous. It was in the necklace, it fell out when she started trying to blind me. I picked it up to give her back, thought it might calm her down but I'd hit her a couple a times with the bar to get off me and she wasn't moving so I thought I'd bring it too. It might be part of a set you know, the necklace and the picture. Worth more with both of them together so I brought it back. What do you reckon?”
Mark eyed the photo with a new interest. “Maybe. Sounds about right. If we can find the right buyer. It'll mean something to someone all complete.”
“What times Kate coming round tomorrow?” Kate was Mark's daughter. She lived with his ex-girlfriend on another estate on the other side of the city.
“After lunch. Its her birthday Tomorrow. Shit, did you remember to get her something?” She was dropped off every Wednesday at 2.30 and picked up three hours later when her Mom got out of the hairdressers.
“Arse. I could just give her one of these necklaces. A nice gold one.” She called it the hairdressers but it was a flat across the fall where a girl she had met in beauty college did hair a lot cheaper than the high street places. Plus you could smoke and have a coffee and a gossip at the same time.
“Fuck that. She'll just sell it when she gets pissed off with me. Those things are traceable. That's why we only sell them to dirty Barry. He melts them down or something.” Dirty Barry lived above the butchers.
“What have you got her? Can I just chip in?” He never chipped in.
“I've got a phone a nicked a couple of weeks ago, its got fifteen quid of credit on it. I thought I'd give her that so she can text me if she wants to, you know, talk to her Dad. I never get any texts.” Kate already had two mobile phones.
“A phone? She's only twelve. What does she need a phone for? Give her a nice necklace. Fifteen quid of credit? You should've given that to me. Fifteen quid. She'll just be calling up dirty sex lines or something.” Mike used around £50 of credit a day.
“I told you, the necklaces are too risky. If her Mom sees it she'll be back here like a shot trying to get some more money out of me.”
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Play for Today
Opens in waiting room, sound of phones ringing in back ground, people talking in hushed tones, occasionally names said in background as other patients are called, but quietly, so its not obvious where they are, just that its a waiting room.
Two women sit next to each other, one about 17, the other about 28, similar looking, but with a noticeable age gap, so that the older female looks like the younger girl in a few years. They are dressed similarly in easy clothes – morning after baggies.
Mom: You'd better turn your phone off, you can't have it ringing in here.
Girl: Why? There's no signs saying turn it off.
Mom: Well trust me, you can't have it on. It interferes with the machines or something, stops the scanners working or makes them give false readings or something.
Girl: OK, but remind me turn it on again afterwards, i want to see if Johnny calls.
Mom:Did you see Johnny at the party?
Girl: No we'd had a bit of a row. He kept telling me he loved me and that he wanted to be with me but when I asked him to bring some of my stuff over to his flat he went spare, he don't know what he wants.
Mom: No man does.
Girl: He thinks he can have his cake and eat it but he can't.
Mom: No he can't.
Girl: His flat always stinks anyway. He never cleans anything up!
Mom: They're all the same. Has he got a job yet?
Girl: If he thinks I'm going to come over there and clean up after him, he's wrong. He's not got over that cold from last month so he's got signed off on the sick.
Mom: On the sick? For a cold? Men.
Girl: He used to go to school with the guy at the DSS so he gets what ever cash he can when he goes in there. Gets cheap fags off of him and all.
Mom: Your Dad was on the sick for twelve years before I met him. There was nothing wrong with him you know. Oh the days we used to have together! With the money from the unions he got we made a tidy packet. And he was always in a good mood when he came back, not like when he went to DSS or even to work God help him, though he avoided that if he could, he would always come back from work fuming, glowing bright red as if he'd been bottling it all up all day.
Girl: He hated work didn't he? Grandad used to say he felt like they'd robbed a day from him rather than paying him.
Mom: It was the same at the DSS, he'd come back like two hours had been wrenched from his life. But when he came back from the union meetings he was always whistling and smiling. Always the same tune. I forget it no, but was always the same tune. I used to think he was sleeping with that union woman the amount of cash he got.
Girl: Isn't it weird how when two people lie in bed together sex just seems like the natural thing to do? As if god had put everything in the right place.
Mom: I don't think gods got anything to do with it. Unless gods a man who wants to get his own way all the time. Your father used to say he was watching at night. Used to scare me shitless.
Girl: Watching at night? You mean when you..
Mom: He used to say, god's everywhere, you know. He can see everything. No point being shy. And he wasn't was he, your father. Maybe he should a been. Then I might not have seen him with that Sarah from round the corner.
A RECORDED MESSAGE PLAYS. A MOBILE PHONE ANSWERPHONE MESSAGE. A MALE VOICE RESPONDS.
Phone: The person you are trying to call is busy. Please try again later, or leave a message after the tone. To re-record your message at any time press 3.
Boy: Hello? Is this Becky? Its Dave. From last night? I had really good time. I thought we really ... connected you know? If you want to meet up, or have a chat, give me a call back. Er...Bye.
Phone:The person you are trying to call is busy. Please try again later, or leave a message after the tone. To re-record your message at any time press 3.
Boy: Hi Becky. It's Dave again. If this is even Becky. Did you give me a fake number? Is your name even Becky? Look, I can't stop thinking about you, about us. About some of the stuff we talked about last night. I was pretty wasted, so I might have been talking bollocks i don't know, but i really enjoyed it. I haven't had i night like that before, a night that was so....
PHONE BEEPS AND GOES SILENT.
BACK TO THE WAITING ROOM:
Mom: So who was this guy last night.
Girl: Who?
Mom: They guy. The reason we're at the clinic again. You said Johnny stayed in.
Girl: Yeah Johnny stayed in alright.
Mom: (waiting, becoming impatient) So who was he? Was it that guy from the pub the other night? You looked pretty close to him. He was a good looking guy.
Girl: No, he went back to Iraq, he was from the army.
Mom: I might have guessed with arms like that. He looked like he could strangle a bear. I always wanted your dad to have arms like that.
Girl: Yeah he was fit. But he had funny twitch in his eye, he said he'd been hit in training. Probably had that gulf war syndrome.
Mom: So who was this guy?
Girl: What guy?
Mom: The guy at the party! Who was he? I hope he wasn't one of Johnny's friends again.
Girl: Yeah don't worry I learnt that lesson already. Chris still can't walk properly you know. Won't even talk to me in the street. He was just some guy.
Mom: Oh I see, just some guy. Most of the time its best just to leave them at that.
Girl: He wasn't like any of the others though, I felt really relaxed. He kept asking me questions about myself.
Mom: Sounds like a weirdo.
Girl:About my life and how things had happened, why things had turned out the way they had.
Mom:(Distracted) What was that guys name?
Girl: How there was a reason for they way i felt about things.
Mom: (Distracted) He was one of your dads friends.
Girl: How i reacted to things in a set way.
Mom: (Still distracted) I met him while your dad was away on a job.
Girl:Kept asking about my parents, where they were from, how my dad used to talk to me and stuff.
Mom: (Distracted) A right weirdo.
Girl: Said he wouldn't treat me like that. Said he'd always be honest. I was upset you know, crying and shit. It was like after dad left. It all came out. I must of looked a state. Didn't care though, did he.
Mom: (Almost to herself) He was called Johnny too. Theres always one. Or two I guess.
Girl: He wasn't a weirdo!
A RECORDED MESSAGE PLAYS. A MOBILE PHONE ANSWERPHONE MESSAGE. A MALE VOICE RESPONDS.
Phone: The person you are trying to call is busy. Please try again later, or leave a message after the tone. To re-record your message at any time press 3.
Boy: Hi Becky. It's me again. My phone ran out of battery, not sure if you got my last message. I'm sorry if I sound a bit weird. I can't stop thinking about you that's all. I know its only been a couple of days but its like everywhere i look I see you. I chased a girl through the station earlier cos i thought it looked like you. I was shouting and everything, trying to get you to stop. Turned out it wasn't you. Must have given the girl a bit of a shock. I been thinking that's all, about some of the stuff we talked about, about how honesty is so important and communication. That's why I'm phoning you and telling you all this. The other night, it was so good. It felt so right. Did it feel like that for you? I think it did. You seemed to know how i felt. I can't stop thinking about you. I'm having conversations with you in my head all the time. I'm thinking 'what would Becky think about this? What would Becky do in this situation? Would Becky want to do this too?' and I'm sure you would. I know you would. Sorry if this sounds a bit much, its just, I've got a hunch you know what i mean. I think your feeling this way too, god, i hope you are, you must be, you must! Call me back? Answer the phone? Maybe your busy. Maybe this is too much. Too much. No, just busy, that's all. I'll call you again in a bit.
BACK TO THE WAITING ROOM:
Girl: I just want to forget it.
Mom: Well was it just like with Johnny?
Girl: It was different, he was different. I'm with Johnny now.
Mom:The time you spend with people is important.
Girl: I'm with Johnny now.
Mom:Your Dad was a nice guy to spend time with. He was a great listener. Never said a word when i wanted to talk. And I'd talk about anything. He'd just let me carry right on for hours.
Girl:He was a good listener. And he agreed with with a lot of what i said. And asked 'why do you think that is' a lot as well. Johnny never asks questions. Apart from the obvious.
Mom: Mind, your Dad never said a great deal to anyone about anything. Took me full few days to realise he'd gone when he had.
Girl:When he spoke it was beautiful. The things he said were like a love letter, carefully composed with due though and consideration, almost over wrought but at the same time seeming sporadic, impulsive...
Mom: Reflexive, rehearsed, like lines they'd said a hundred a times before. Enough to make you feel worthless.
Both Pause
Mom: I miss him sometimes. Not often, but sometimes.
Girl: We lay together for hours. That how it seemed. Part of thought 'it's going to get light soon' and part of me didn't want it to get light. 'We were like sardines' I said to him, lying so close, not moving.
'like corpses' he said. I said 'charming' i mean, not very romantic is it? Not what a girl wants to hear after, well you know, after. He put his hand on my stomach, and it felt comforting and i remember thinking, not really about him doing it, but just remembering that he did it, as it if was significant in some way. And then i was late the next week and its all could think about, him, his hand on my stomach and how comforting it was, it was a bit breezy in the room, the window must have been open cos the smoke from my fag kept drifting across, not straight up like it does at home, and his hand was so warm, almost like i could feel the blood pumping through it, I felt like i should say something, as if we were both waiting for my answer to some unspoken question, but i didn't know what to say. It wasn't love. Sometimes you say 'I love you' without thinking about it, but it wasn't love. I didn't have the words to describe it. Then i must have drifted off. When i woke up he was asleep so i slipped out.
Two women sit next to each other, one about 17, the other about 28, similar looking, but with a noticeable age gap, so that the older female looks like the younger girl in a few years. They are dressed similarly in easy clothes – morning after baggies.
Mom: You'd better turn your phone off, you can't have it ringing in here.
Girl: Why? There's no signs saying turn it off.
Mom: Well trust me, you can't have it on. It interferes with the machines or something, stops the scanners working or makes them give false readings or something.
Girl: OK, but remind me turn it on again afterwards, i want to see if Johnny calls.
Mom:Did you see Johnny at the party?
Girl: No we'd had a bit of a row. He kept telling me he loved me and that he wanted to be with me but when I asked him to bring some of my stuff over to his flat he went spare, he don't know what he wants.
Mom: No man does.
Girl: He thinks he can have his cake and eat it but he can't.
Mom: No he can't.
Girl: His flat always stinks anyway. He never cleans anything up!
Mom: They're all the same. Has he got a job yet?
Girl: If he thinks I'm going to come over there and clean up after him, he's wrong. He's not got over that cold from last month so he's got signed off on the sick.
Mom: On the sick? For a cold? Men.
Girl: He used to go to school with the guy at the DSS so he gets what ever cash he can when he goes in there. Gets cheap fags off of him and all.
Mom: Your Dad was on the sick for twelve years before I met him. There was nothing wrong with him you know. Oh the days we used to have together! With the money from the unions he got we made a tidy packet. And he was always in a good mood when he came back, not like when he went to DSS or even to work God help him, though he avoided that if he could, he would always come back from work fuming, glowing bright red as if he'd been bottling it all up all day.
Girl: He hated work didn't he? Grandad used to say he felt like they'd robbed a day from him rather than paying him.
Mom: It was the same at the DSS, he'd come back like two hours had been wrenched from his life. But when he came back from the union meetings he was always whistling and smiling. Always the same tune. I forget it no, but was always the same tune. I used to think he was sleeping with that union woman the amount of cash he got.
Girl: Isn't it weird how when two people lie in bed together sex just seems like the natural thing to do? As if god had put everything in the right place.
Mom: I don't think gods got anything to do with it. Unless gods a man who wants to get his own way all the time. Your father used to say he was watching at night. Used to scare me shitless.
Girl: Watching at night? You mean when you..
Mom: He used to say, god's everywhere, you know. He can see everything. No point being shy. And he wasn't was he, your father. Maybe he should a been. Then I might not have seen him with that Sarah from round the corner.
A RECORDED MESSAGE PLAYS. A MOBILE PHONE ANSWERPHONE MESSAGE. A MALE VOICE RESPONDS.
Phone: The person you are trying to call is busy. Please try again later, or leave a message after the tone. To re-record your message at any time press 3.
Boy: Hello? Is this Becky? Its Dave. From last night? I had really good time. I thought we really ... connected you know? If you want to meet up, or have a chat, give me a call back. Er...Bye.
Phone:The person you are trying to call is busy. Please try again later, or leave a message after the tone. To re-record your message at any time press 3.
Boy: Hi Becky. It's Dave again. If this is even Becky. Did you give me a fake number? Is your name even Becky? Look, I can't stop thinking about you, about us. About some of the stuff we talked about last night. I was pretty wasted, so I might have been talking bollocks i don't know, but i really enjoyed it. I haven't had i night like that before, a night that was so....
PHONE BEEPS AND GOES SILENT.
BACK TO THE WAITING ROOM:
Mom: So who was this guy last night.
Girl: Who?
Mom: They guy. The reason we're at the clinic again. You said Johnny stayed in.
Girl: Yeah Johnny stayed in alright.
Mom: (waiting, becoming impatient) So who was he? Was it that guy from the pub the other night? You looked pretty close to him. He was a good looking guy.
Girl: No, he went back to Iraq, he was from the army.
Mom: I might have guessed with arms like that. He looked like he could strangle a bear. I always wanted your dad to have arms like that.
Girl: Yeah he was fit. But he had funny twitch in his eye, he said he'd been hit in training. Probably had that gulf war syndrome.
Mom: So who was this guy?
Girl: What guy?
Mom: The guy at the party! Who was he? I hope he wasn't one of Johnny's friends again.
Girl: Yeah don't worry I learnt that lesson already. Chris still can't walk properly you know. Won't even talk to me in the street. He was just some guy.
Mom: Oh I see, just some guy. Most of the time its best just to leave them at that.
Girl: He wasn't like any of the others though, I felt really relaxed. He kept asking me questions about myself.
Mom: Sounds like a weirdo.
Girl:About my life and how things had happened, why things had turned out the way they had.
Mom:(Distracted) What was that guys name?
Girl: How there was a reason for they way i felt about things.
Mom: (Distracted) He was one of your dads friends.
Girl: How i reacted to things in a set way.
Mom: (Still distracted) I met him while your dad was away on a job.
Girl:Kept asking about my parents, where they were from, how my dad used to talk to me and stuff.
Mom: (Distracted) A right weirdo.
Girl: Said he wouldn't treat me like that. Said he'd always be honest. I was upset you know, crying and shit. It was like after dad left. It all came out. I must of looked a state. Didn't care though, did he.
Mom: (Almost to herself) He was called Johnny too. Theres always one. Or two I guess.
Girl: He wasn't a weirdo!
A RECORDED MESSAGE PLAYS. A MOBILE PHONE ANSWERPHONE MESSAGE. A MALE VOICE RESPONDS.
Phone: The person you are trying to call is busy. Please try again later, or leave a message after the tone. To re-record your message at any time press 3.
Boy: Hi Becky. It's me again. My phone ran out of battery, not sure if you got my last message. I'm sorry if I sound a bit weird. I can't stop thinking about you that's all. I know its only been a couple of days but its like everywhere i look I see you. I chased a girl through the station earlier cos i thought it looked like you. I was shouting and everything, trying to get you to stop. Turned out it wasn't you. Must have given the girl a bit of a shock. I been thinking that's all, about some of the stuff we talked about, about how honesty is so important and communication. That's why I'm phoning you and telling you all this. The other night, it was so good. It felt so right. Did it feel like that for you? I think it did. You seemed to know how i felt. I can't stop thinking about you. I'm having conversations with you in my head all the time. I'm thinking 'what would Becky think about this? What would Becky do in this situation? Would Becky want to do this too?' and I'm sure you would. I know you would. Sorry if this sounds a bit much, its just, I've got a hunch you know what i mean. I think your feeling this way too, god, i hope you are, you must be, you must! Call me back? Answer the phone? Maybe your busy. Maybe this is too much. Too much. No, just busy, that's all. I'll call you again in a bit.
BACK TO THE WAITING ROOM:
Girl: I just want to forget it.
Mom: Well was it just like with Johnny?
Girl: It was different, he was different. I'm with Johnny now.
Mom:The time you spend with people is important.
Girl: I'm with Johnny now.
Mom:Your Dad was a nice guy to spend time with. He was a great listener. Never said a word when i wanted to talk. And I'd talk about anything. He'd just let me carry right on for hours.
Girl:He was a good listener. And he agreed with with a lot of what i said. And asked 'why do you think that is' a lot as well. Johnny never asks questions. Apart from the obvious.
Mom: Mind, your Dad never said a great deal to anyone about anything. Took me full few days to realise he'd gone when he had.
Girl:When he spoke it was beautiful. The things he said were like a love letter, carefully composed with due though and consideration, almost over wrought but at the same time seeming sporadic, impulsive...
Mom: Reflexive, rehearsed, like lines they'd said a hundred a times before. Enough to make you feel worthless.
Both Pause
Mom: I miss him sometimes. Not often, but sometimes.
Girl: We lay together for hours. That how it seemed. Part of thought 'it's going to get light soon' and part of me didn't want it to get light. 'We were like sardines' I said to him, lying so close, not moving.
'like corpses' he said. I said 'charming' i mean, not very romantic is it? Not what a girl wants to hear after, well you know, after. He put his hand on my stomach, and it felt comforting and i remember thinking, not really about him doing it, but just remembering that he did it, as it if was significant in some way. And then i was late the next week and its all could think about, him, his hand on my stomach and how comforting it was, it was a bit breezy in the room, the window must have been open cos the smoke from my fag kept drifting across, not straight up like it does at home, and his hand was so warm, almost like i could feel the blood pumping through it, I felt like i should say something, as if we were both waiting for my answer to some unspoken question, but i didn't know what to say. It wasn't love. Sometimes you say 'I love you' without thinking about it, but it wasn't love. I didn't have the words to describe it. Then i must have drifted off. When i woke up he was asleep so i slipped out.
Undying Declaration of Love
You in a tight top – I am breathless.
Hands on the small of your back
Guiding your arms into the air.
Hands on the small of your back
Guiding your arms into the air.
We Are Left
These flippant comments thrown toward my eager face are often over thought and planned I feel,
in hindsight perhaps not so
but the effect at the time is almost overwhelming
(I am sure you spent the last hour waiting for the opportunity to smile at me and when -rarely I admit- I am not looking at you I am sure you are waiting for my fleeting glance.)
I am embarrassed-
these public sections of the love note we are constantly trying to compose are all we can have.
when alone together such utterances seem too dangerous and we are left dumbstruck awestruck – just struck with a silent wonder – the silent wonder of each other, and the perfection of the moment, the purity of the two of us alone together would be lost, polluted by words, instead like teenagers we just stare, and glance, and stare and glance.
in hindsight perhaps not so
but the effect at the time is almost overwhelming
(I am sure you spent the last hour waiting for the opportunity to smile at me and when -rarely I admit- I am not looking at you I am sure you are waiting for my fleeting glance.)
I am embarrassed-
these public sections of the love note we are constantly trying to compose are all we can have.
when alone together such utterances seem too dangerous and we are left dumbstruck awestruck – just struck with a silent wonder – the silent wonder of each other, and the perfection of the moment, the purity of the two of us alone together would be lost, polluted by words, instead like teenagers we just stare, and glance, and stare and glance.
Long Hills Of Dry Tarmac
Long hills of dry tarmac
Reach toward
Bright blue sea skies etched by aeroplane speedboats.
sitting on warm white kerb stones picking gravel off the road
Goodbye.
It is September.
A collar, a scarf, tied tightly under the chin.
Body bound tightly with layers of wool and cotton
Buttoned
Against the cold silk fabric of pocket lining.
Hands on reflex stretching in the sunlight, recharging before curling up away from the wind.
Your face framed by scarf and hat is a picture of the season.
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
A Note to My Son (Deceased)
You didn’t look both ways when crossing the road. You never did, it scared the hell out of your friends but you never did, you just walked out assuming the traffic would stop. It’s amazing that you got to this age, but you always put it down to blind faith in your own actions, that you always did the right thing. You got halfway across the road when you heard the dog bark, and turned to your left to see a blind man with his seeing-eye dog, and you thought: that’s why they call it a seeing eye dog. It can see everything. And you realised that all the while you assumed you knew what was happening, what was going on, what was going to happen next, what your next move was going to be, and knew that you were doing the right thing, leading the way, taking the right path, that you might have been wrong.
You realised that when you were six and three quarters, on holiday in Wales where the sun seemed to shine continually, and there was always a fair on, that you shouldn’t have hit your brother with the cricket bat on the side of his head when his back was turned, that maybe he didn’t deserve it. When the blood trickled down his face onto his neck and mingled with the red in his football shirt that maybe he hadn’t been so bad to you, that maybe when he’d kicked you the day before when you were hiding in the bush trying to catch rabbits to cook on a fire in the den, that wasn’t enough of a reason to hit him that hard, and it was hard. You remember only being six and three quarters and always losing arm wrestling competitions with your sister who was younger than you so you couldn’t have been that strong and when you lifted the cricket bat above your head it was heavy, and you struggled to do it, your mom had always said you were a sickly child, and told the story of how you were born early and had always been weak but your brother was such a big strong baby and that made you feel so inferior to him, so inferior to him in all you did that when you lifted the cricket bat above your head and swung you wanted to kill him, to hurt him so bad that he never came back, that he never hit you again, or practised wrestling moves on you with his friends or made sure you played in goal at every football game or got the window seat when you went to town on the bus.
And afterwards you felt so proud, seeing the blood on his hair and on the grass and on his hand and face where he’d rubbed his eyes to stop crying. When your mom came out because she’d heard the shouting and your dad woke up from where he’d been sleeping on the rug outside the caravan and you saw the blood on his hands where he’d been tying the tea towel to use as a bandage and you saw the blood on mom’s face where she’d been hugging your bleeding brother and she looked into his eyes and whispered to him that it was ok, and probably an accident and that his brother still loved him and you thought no, no I don’t still love him, I hate him more than anything in the world, more than rats and spiders and dogs (and it was weird that he thought of dogs because he quite liked them really, except that one that growled at him when he tried to stroke it and chased his sister away and they had to hide up the tree to be safe). You said sorry to him when your mom told you to but you didn’t mean it, you didn’t mean any of it you just remembered a time when there wasn’t this competition and fear and need for attention and that he deserved it. As you looked first at the guide dog, then at the red ford mondeo coming towards you while the driver talked on his phone you realised that you shouldn’t have hit your brother and when you sister was born you both felt a little lost, and jealous, and confused.
As the red mondeo moved closer to you reflected in the bonnet of the car you saw your face and a look of shock and surprise that you’d not seen since the day before you 18th birthday and the girl at work with the violent boyfriend invited you back to her house for a cup of tea because the pub was too loud to talk properly and you thought to yourself that as pubs go this was quite quiet, and it was only in the taxi ride back to her house when she asked you if she could put her tongue in your mouth that your realised what might be about to happen with the girl at work with the violent boyfriend that scared you when he called in sick for her every other week. But looking at her as you got out of the cab and saw the red of the streetlights reflecting on her impossibly high cheekbones that seemed even higher when she breathed in through a cigarette, so felt that this was right, and that you might be able to lose your virginity before you were eighteen like you had originally planned, and that the red of the streetlight was like a the red of the sunset in the westerns that your granddad watched on Sundays when he came to baby sit while the women of the family went to church, and you thought that this was almost romantic, so many different elements combining at last for something you had been waiting for, and that when she touched you she kept saying “is this ok?” and “do you mind?” and you kept telling her no, you didn’t mind one little bit. And when she started to cry because she thought her boyfriend was coming home and you had to leave in taxi with just a very rushed kiss to take home with you and the memory of how it felt when it seemed like everything was going to happen and then it didn’t. You always remember every year when you called her on your birthday the day after and she was with her boyfriend and giggling and he was laughing at you, you always remember every year on your birthday how that felt, about how you called her ‘the one that got away’ to yourself and imagined meeting her on a bus or at a station or anywhere that let your mind wonder a little about how things might have been if the night had ended differently.
The moment you realised that this time you wouldn’t be so lucky, that this time you might get hit and get hurt, you understood why people stopped inviting you parties, when you would get there already drunk and spend all of your time finding anyone with any faith in a god or heaven and trying unendingly to convince them that they were wrong, that there was nothing for them to believe in, that there was no hope, no great meaning. And when you saw your best friend who had been various stages of trouble all his life but had finally straightened out, stopped taking the drugs and skipping work because he’d been talking to a priest and decided that he knew what he had to do and what he needed in life and where he’d been going wrong, and you sat him down and offered him some drug or other, whatever was going round, and went out of your way to make sure he wouldn’t get to work the next day, and explained to him in detail why there was no god and priests couldn’t be trusted, and that he was wrong. And you were right. And you told him again and again and again, until he went back to the way he was before, because it suited you. And you understood why you did that, why it made you feel better to know that someone was worse off than you, that somebody needed you for advice, that there was somebody you could use as an example of why you were doing so well, a benchmark for everyone else to use. And you remembered how it felt to realise that you had crossed the line, that you had become a manipulator of people, of lives, destinies just because it suited you, how it felt before you took another pill and dulled that pain, forgot it again and again and again till you felt good again, until it didn’t matter how everyone else felt. You understood, as you realised you ere not going to be okay, because you were not going to miss the red mondeo, that your life was wrong. That everything you did was wrong. Not just misunderstood, not misguided as you had guided yourself, as you only had yourself to blame, you were wrong.
As you were scooped up onto the bonnet of the red mondeo and your head went through the windscreen you understood what this was all about. You realised you weren’t going to be injured, you were going to die. This was it. There was no way you would survive this. You understood that that your life had flashed before you, that in your last seconds all you could do was regret things. You understood that it was too late to say sorry to your brother, to your parents. The girl from work that almost slept with was always going to be the one that got away. There was no way you’d find her, tell her how much she meant to you, about how much that night had meant. You had no time to find your best friend and apologise. Tell him that every time he had thanked you for being so helpful, that it should have been you thanking him. All of the things that you wanted to do in your life were now impossible. No motorcycle trip across the US, no swimming with dolphins. But that didn’t bother you. It wasn’t the things that you didn’t do that bothered you. It was the things you did do. None of this could be undone. Now you understood. Now you understood religion, and you understood why should have faith. You tried to pray but you knew it was in vain. All those people you had convinced had not convinced you. You had told yourself not to expect anything else, not to hope for anything after, and you understood this as your body was broken by the mondeo, and you thought: this is not fair. This can’t be it. There must be more, there must be an afterlife, a heaven or hell. But you knew there wasn’t. You were going to die in the road, and then you were going to rot in the ground. By now you were hoping to go as quickly as possible. The red mondeo was behind you and you lay on the tarmac, soft in the summer sun, and you looked up at the sky and thought: Please. Let me die now. But you weren’t dead. You were dying, but not dead yet. You began to apologise to people, you could see your parents faces, you were sure you could see them. Then they disappeared. The regret disappeared. The memories went. You were snapped back to consciousness, lying on the soft wet tarmac, looking at the sunshine and the whit e clouds and the blue sky, and then the pain began. This was the worst pain you had ever felt, worse than when you fell off your bike when you were seven, worse than when the dog had bitten you when you were nine, worse than when you had broken your leg at fifteen on your friends motorbike, worse than when the girl at work had broken your heart. This pain was worse not because of the magnitude of it, not because nineteen bones in your body were broken, but because you knew you were going to die. The release from this pain would be the last release. No recovery, no painkillers, no gritty smile as your father helped you into the wheelchair. No wheelchair. No Father. The end. And it hurt like hell.
You realised that when you were six and three quarters, on holiday in Wales where the sun seemed to shine continually, and there was always a fair on, that you shouldn’t have hit your brother with the cricket bat on the side of his head when his back was turned, that maybe he didn’t deserve it. When the blood trickled down his face onto his neck and mingled with the red in his football shirt that maybe he hadn’t been so bad to you, that maybe when he’d kicked you the day before when you were hiding in the bush trying to catch rabbits to cook on a fire in the den, that wasn’t enough of a reason to hit him that hard, and it was hard. You remember only being six and three quarters and always losing arm wrestling competitions with your sister who was younger than you so you couldn’t have been that strong and when you lifted the cricket bat above your head it was heavy, and you struggled to do it, your mom had always said you were a sickly child, and told the story of how you were born early and had always been weak but your brother was such a big strong baby and that made you feel so inferior to him, so inferior to him in all you did that when you lifted the cricket bat above your head and swung you wanted to kill him, to hurt him so bad that he never came back, that he never hit you again, or practised wrestling moves on you with his friends or made sure you played in goal at every football game or got the window seat when you went to town on the bus.
And afterwards you felt so proud, seeing the blood on his hair and on the grass and on his hand and face where he’d rubbed his eyes to stop crying. When your mom came out because she’d heard the shouting and your dad woke up from where he’d been sleeping on the rug outside the caravan and you saw the blood on his hands where he’d been tying the tea towel to use as a bandage and you saw the blood on mom’s face where she’d been hugging your bleeding brother and she looked into his eyes and whispered to him that it was ok, and probably an accident and that his brother still loved him and you thought no, no I don’t still love him, I hate him more than anything in the world, more than rats and spiders and dogs (and it was weird that he thought of dogs because he quite liked them really, except that one that growled at him when he tried to stroke it and chased his sister away and they had to hide up the tree to be safe). You said sorry to him when your mom told you to but you didn’t mean it, you didn’t mean any of it you just remembered a time when there wasn’t this competition and fear and need for attention and that he deserved it. As you looked first at the guide dog, then at the red ford mondeo coming towards you while the driver talked on his phone you realised that you shouldn’t have hit your brother and when you sister was born you both felt a little lost, and jealous, and confused.
As the red mondeo moved closer to you reflected in the bonnet of the car you saw your face and a look of shock and surprise that you’d not seen since the day before you 18th birthday and the girl at work with the violent boyfriend invited you back to her house for a cup of tea because the pub was too loud to talk properly and you thought to yourself that as pubs go this was quite quiet, and it was only in the taxi ride back to her house when she asked you if she could put her tongue in your mouth that your realised what might be about to happen with the girl at work with the violent boyfriend that scared you when he called in sick for her every other week. But looking at her as you got out of the cab and saw the red of the streetlights reflecting on her impossibly high cheekbones that seemed even higher when she breathed in through a cigarette, so felt that this was right, and that you might be able to lose your virginity before you were eighteen like you had originally planned, and that the red of the streetlight was like a the red of the sunset in the westerns that your granddad watched on Sundays when he came to baby sit while the women of the family went to church, and you thought that this was almost romantic, so many different elements combining at last for something you had been waiting for, and that when she touched you she kept saying “is this ok?” and “do you mind?” and you kept telling her no, you didn’t mind one little bit. And when she started to cry because she thought her boyfriend was coming home and you had to leave in taxi with just a very rushed kiss to take home with you and the memory of how it felt when it seemed like everything was going to happen and then it didn’t. You always remember every year when you called her on your birthday the day after and she was with her boyfriend and giggling and he was laughing at you, you always remember every year on your birthday how that felt, about how you called her ‘the one that got away’ to yourself and imagined meeting her on a bus or at a station or anywhere that let your mind wonder a little about how things might have been if the night had ended differently.
The moment you realised that this time you wouldn’t be so lucky, that this time you might get hit and get hurt, you understood why people stopped inviting you parties, when you would get there already drunk and spend all of your time finding anyone with any faith in a god or heaven and trying unendingly to convince them that they were wrong, that there was nothing for them to believe in, that there was no hope, no great meaning. And when you saw your best friend who had been various stages of trouble all his life but had finally straightened out, stopped taking the drugs and skipping work because he’d been talking to a priest and decided that he knew what he had to do and what he needed in life and where he’d been going wrong, and you sat him down and offered him some drug or other, whatever was going round, and went out of your way to make sure he wouldn’t get to work the next day, and explained to him in detail why there was no god and priests couldn’t be trusted, and that he was wrong. And you were right. And you told him again and again and again, until he went back to the way he was before, because it suited you. And you understood why you did that, why it made you feel better to know that someone was worse off than you, that somebody needed you for advice, that there was somebody you could use as an example of why you were doing so well, a benchmark for everyone else to use. And you remembered how it felt to realise that you had crossed the line, that you had become a manipulator of people, of lives, destinies just because it suited you, how it felt before you took another pill and dulled that pain, forgot it again and again and again till you felt good again, until it didn’t matter how everyone else felt. You understood, as you realised you ere not going to be okay, because you were not going to miss the red mondeo, that your life was wrong. That everything you did was wrong. Not just misunderstood, not misguided as you had guided yourself, as you only had yourself to blame, you were wrong.
As you were scooped up onto the bonnet of the red mondeo and your head went through the windscreen you understood what this was all about. You realised you weren’t going to be injured, you were going to die. This was it. There was no way you would survive this. You understood that that your life had flashed before you, that in your last seconds all you could do was regret things. You understood that it was too late to say sorry to your brother, to your parents. The girl from work that almost slept with was always going to be the one that got away. There was no way you’d find her, tell her how much she meant to you, about how much that night had meant. You had no time to find your best friend and apologise. Tell him that every time he had thanked you for being so helpful, that it should have been you thanking him. All of the things that you wanted to do in your life were now impossible. No motorcycle trip across the US, no swimming with dolphins. But that didn’t bother you. It wasn’t the things that you didn’t do that bothered you. It was the things you did do. None of this could be undone. Now you understood. Now you understood religion, and you understood why should have faith. You tried to pray but you knew it was in vain. All those people you had convinced had not convinced you. You had told yourself not to expect anything else, not to hope for anything after, and you understood this as your body was broken by the mondeo, and you thought: this is not fair. This can’t be it. There must be more, there must be an afterlife, a heaven or hell. But you knew there wasn’t. You were going to die in the road, and then you were going to rot in the ground. By now you were hoping to go as quickly as possible. The red mondeo was behind you and you lay on the tarmac, soft in the summer sun, and you looked up at the sky and thought: Please. Let me die now. But you weren’t dead. You were dying, but not dead yet. You began to apologise to people, you could see your parents faces, you were sure you could see them. Then they disappeared. The regret disappeared. The memories went. You were snapped back to consciousness, lying on the soft wet tarmac, looking at the sunshine and the whit e clouds and the blue sky, and then the pain began. This was the worst pain you had ever felt, worse than when you fell off your bike when you were seven, worse than when the dog had bitten you when you were nine, worse than when you had broken your leg at fifteen on your friends motorbike, worse than when the girl at work had broken your heart. This pain was worse not because of the magnitude of it, not because nineteen bones in your body were broken, but because you knew you were going to die. The release from this pain would be the last release. No recovery, no painkillers, no gritty smile as your father helped you into the wheelchair. No wheelchair. No Father. The end. And it hurt like hell.
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