Deadlier than the male....

 

            ‘Mathew – hello?’ Mr Peters answered his door, peering at me from inside his cardigan. ‘If this is about the bins son, it’s not really a good time-’

            ‘Quickly!’ I demanded. He relinquished the door handle and I was in his hall before his letterbox stopped rattling. ‘Hush.’ I put a commanding finger too my lips, peered outside and closed the door firmly behind me. I leant against its frosted glass panel and inhaled deeply.

            Mr Peters blinked owlishly. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked. ‘Whatever’s the matter – it’s not the Mormons again is it?’ I heard concern in his voice and that he hadn’t put his teeth in.

            ‘Mr Peters,’ I fixed him with my gaze and said sternly. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at Sandra.’

            ‘What?’ Mr Peters face quivered, his jowls flushed crimson then went ashen. ‘Whatever do you mean Mathew?’

            ‘Quiet!’ I flared my nostrils, ‘that’s how it starts.’

            Mr Peters steadied himself, his meat pie hand griping the flock wallpaper.             ‘Mathew, I don’t know what you mean, really I don’t – but you can’t just come in here and -’ he squirmed under my gimlet stare, ‘you can’t possibly imagine that I’d-’

            ‘Oh I don’t.’ I said, flaring my nostrils. ‘That’s just it, Mr Peters I don’t imagine - I know.’ I hissed. Stepping forward I asked more calmly. ‘Would you like to sit down?’

            ‘What?’

            ‘Sit down - shall we?’ I took hold of his elbow and gestured toward his sitting room with my free hand.

            ‘Mathew, I really don’t think that I…’

            ‘Trust me Sebastian – may I call you Sebastian?’

            ‘My names’ Wilfred.’ He said.

            ‘There’s no time for details Sebastian – you need to hear this.’

            ‘Look, what ever this is there’s been a mistake -’

            ‘It’s for your own good man – believe me,’ I propelled him down the hall, pausing only to run a finger along the top of the sitting room door.

            ‘Bugs,’ I raised an eyebrow at him, ‘you never know.’

            Mr Peter’s sitting room was the same shape as mine but had been spared the merciless spotlight of Sandra’s decorators eye. It had been allowed to moulder, eschewing zeitgeist for brown floral comfort.

            ‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ I said, my hand on the red brick mantelpiece. ‘I’m not here out of misplaced jealousy.’

            ‘Now look Mathew,’ Mr Peters sank into his vinyl armchair like a portion of trifle on too small a plate. ‘I … I know I came round about the recycling last week and accidentally – accidentally mind - caught Sandra in her bath robe but believe you me, no one regrets that more than I do and-’ I let out a slightly hysterical laugh and pressed my knuckle to my teeth. Mr Peters gawped; chewed over a selection of words and settled on, ‘look lad - if you and Sandra are having problems, it’s – it’s just one of them things. No need to … you know, get all unnecessary about it?’

            ‘It’s not me that has the problem,’ I said and turned on my heel to face him. ‘This is just the start, believe me, I’ve seen it before.’ I threw myself onto the sofa and sat, elbows on knees and head in hands, fingers matted into my hair. The orange glass mantle clock bravely attempted to fill the silence until I raised my head.

            ‘Sex, Sebastian.’

             ‘Good God son,’ he choked, ‘whatever this is please, I … I really don’t think I’m the person you should be talking to.’

            ‘Don’t you see Sebastian- ’

            ‘Wilfred.’

            ‘Exactly Sebastian – it’s her, she’s insatiable man, insatiable!’

            ‘Oh crumbs!’ Mr Peters swallowed. I hugged myself and rocked backwards and forwards.

            ‘You don’t understand – one man is never enough for her, never!’ I fought back a sob. ‘It’s alright when you’re young, you know, when you first meet her – it’s great even.’

            ‘You are young son …’ Mr Peters lent forward. ‘You’re not forty yet are you?’

            ‘You’re joking?’ I laughed and scratched my head furiously for an instant. ‘I’m twenty-three – twenty-three.  That’s what she does to a man – she leaves a husk, a hollow, empty shell – I’ve seen it before,’ I darted toward him – he yelped as I clasped his hand. ‘You’re not the first,’ I whispered.

            ‘The first what?’

            I nearly let my tears break through, then tore away and went back to the mantle. I cleared my throat and smoothed my hair, looking at my reflection in the sunray mirror on the wall.

‘You’re a man of the world, Mr Peters, may I speak plainly?’

            ‘I thought you were?’ he rasped.

            ‘Indeed,’ I turned to face him. ‘You must forgive my outburst. It can be hard sometimes.’

            ‘I’m sure it can,’ he nodded. His chins agreed with him.

            ‘It’s you I’m worried about. You’ve seen the robe, that’s how it starts - but there might still be a chance for you.’

            ‘A chance?’ He pushed himself up against his seat. ‘Mathew – I had no idea, what - why is she like this?’ I crouched beside him, not meeting his gaze.

            ‘Sometimes,’ I breathed.

            ‘Yes?’

‘I don’t think she’s quite human.’ I whispered.

            ‘Good grief – does the council know?’ He put his hand on my arm. ‘They know me, I’m always on at them about the rubbish and they’re really quiet helpful – should I give them a ring for you?’

            I cut him off. ‘Do you remember Janet and Geoff?’

            ‘What - from on the end?’ His fleshy mouth quivered at me.

            ‘Yes, Janet and Geoff from on the end.’

            ‘Wasn’t it heart failure?’

            ‘That’s just what she wanted him to say.’ Mr Peters smothered a gasp.

            ‘No! Mildred and I were wondering - it was so unexpected.’

            ‘Yes – and Rodger Davies from number six.’

            ‘What about Rodger Davies from number six?’ I stood and faced his mirror again. I heard him wheeze up behind me. ‘Not him as well?’

            ‘I’m afraid so.’ I adjusted my tie. ‘He’ll tell you it was just a routine hip replacement, but ask yourself - would a man who drives to the corner shop wear out two hip joints before he’s sixty five?’ I allowed myself a knowing chuckle.

            ‘Goodness me.’ I could see Mr Peters shaking his head. ‘I always wondered why a single man needed three bottle bins.’

            I turned to him and held out my hand.

            ‘I’m glad we’ve had this talk.’ I said, with my face full of Dunkirk spirit. ‘It helps me get through the dark times knowing … knowing I’ve saved someone.’

            ‘But am I safe - what should I do?’ He said clasping my hand and letting me pump his arm. I narrowed my eyes again and held his hand a moment longer.

            ‘Don’t let her in - don’t talk to her - don’t look her in the eye. All it takes is for one word, one smile and you’re lost.’

            ‘Right, okay.’

            ‘And warn the others. If she can’t have you then … just warn the others.’

            ‘What others?’ He looked up eagerly.

            ‘Everyone,’ I intoned, ‘everyone you know.’

            ‘All right, well - I will.’ Mr Peters nodded furiously.

            ‘I’ll leave you now,’ I said as if my warhorse waited. He walked me to the door, still shaking his head. At threshold I turned back.

‘She must never know we’ve spoken about this – never.’

‘Of course – shouldn’t you try and get some help my boy?’ I closed my eyes briefly as I shook my head.

            ‘You’ve helped me more than you can ever know, Mr Peters.’ I clapped him on the shoulder fondly.

            ‘You know me,’ he smiled, ‘ like to do me bit!’ He started to close the door but I caught hold of it.

 ‘One more thing.’

            ‘Yes?’ He flinched. I raised my eyebrow.

            ‘You’ve never heard of - the hive.’

            ‘What hive?’ He asked.

            ‘Exactly - good man.’

            He gave me a supportive ‘thumbs up’ and I let him close the door at last. I saw his shadow linger in the hall; then he padded away. I stood for a moment and surveyed the close from his front porch. The day was bright, the afternoon ripe with the promise of a six o’clock Chardonnay and vengeance.

            Try to break the routine,’ the marriage councillor had said from under her earnest hairstyle, ‘perhaps try bringing an element of fantasy into the bedroom – try and rediscover a sense of humour about sex; stop it being just a chore or a duty – that can really help couples re-discover the spark they feel is missing. ’

            ‘Humph,’ Sandra had snorted, ‘he doesn’t have a sense of humour about anything, least of all sex!’

I surveyed the houses opposite ours, and watched Rodger Davies pull up and get slowly out of his BMW. I breathed in deeply.

‘There we go Sandra,’ I said as Rodger inched painfully past his azaleas, ‘how d’you like them apples. We’ll see who’s got a sense of humour about sex now, won’t we?’

Sometimes the universe provides...

After my earlier post about the research idea that has tickled my fancy - though that is a terribly frivolous term seeing what I am researching - but as ever the world is showing me the way - this pod cast about the famine in Ukraine and the west's denial of it was broadcast recently and hits the nail on the head! It also brings in Alistair Crowley and all sorts - sex and drugs and holocaust denial!

Becoming self aware

 

Okay…breath. Breathe out, breath in – that’s it. Oh yes, I need this; I need me time. I’ve been really looking forward to this all day, really I have. Clearing my mind, calming down all those negative thoughts, letting my nagging inner voice just fade into the back ground. That’s it, fading away, hush now nagging voice, hush…hush…hush

            I should have worn big pants; this thong has gone right up my crack.

            Shh for god’s sake, just let all those concerns drift away like…like…

            Ouch, crap, that’s really hurting. Even squirming hasn’t sorted it out – bugger bugger bugger. Okay, no one can see, they’ve all got their eyes shut – just stick your hand down your trousers and hook it out before it cuts you in half.

            But what if the woman behind me sees?

            No, everyone had got their eyes shut, she won’t see.

            Oh crap, I haven’t got my eyes closed, what if she hasn’t either? She always looks so bloody perfect anyway; I bet she’s got organic whole-wheat pants with ethically sourced bleedin’ elastic. Bet they aren’t up her bum.

            Okay – right – she’s a class swot, so she’s got her eyes shut for England. Rock forward, slowly onto the right hand…transfer weight…right hand down tracksuit…wiggle…wiggle. Damn I can’t get it, gonna have to look round and…

            Bollocks – she’s looking, she’s seen me! Knuckle deep in my backside as well!

            Face front, breath - breath – pretend like it was nothing, pretend like it was the downward facing dog or some shit!

            Never mind, never mind – find your centre, breath…breath.

            Why do all yoga positions sound like sex positions? Oh god I’m horny, single and horny and stuck in a yoga class I only did because I thought that bloke from human resources was going to be here.

            No, that’s not true – you’re doing this as part of your promise to yourself to get fitter and healthier – to give yourself some me time.

No, you’re doing this because you’re too much of a coward to do real sport and this seemed like a less scary option than actually sweating. Like when you ate a two finger kit Kat because that’s better than eating a four finger kit Kat, until you ate the second two finger kit Kat later when you thought no on was looking.

            Shh - you are not going to spoil this for yourself, you made a promise and you’re going to keep it. For you, you’re going to do this for you.

            Breath. Relax – let the cares and stresses of the day just drift…drift.

            Oh who the hell am I kidding? This is not me, I don’t relax. I too much Chardonnay and a sneaky fag; I do worrying about stupid stuff and not breathing and over thinking until my head hurts. What the hell - Yoga only does you good, it doesn't help anyone else does it?  

            Oooh - Is what they mean by achieving self-awareness?

            Really need a pee now.

Happy new year!

As new years eve beckons and a night of sober reflection and soul searching does not, I would like to give you a little gift of this short story, inspired by recollections of summers spent in North Norfolk.

Enjoy!

Twitter

Water poured down the windows of Maureen’s café. It poured down the inside also, as banks of kettles steamed and the great, hot mouth of the stove bellowed opened. As if she stoked some inverse tramp steamer, Maureen used a spade to shovel another batch of scones onto a cooling rack, and thudded the door shut with a floral print foot. Sleeves rolled up over meaty white forearms; she slung her scone shovel into the sink and turned grimly to feed the next round of teapots.

Her sister Wendy juggled the hot scones onto their plates and sliced each open with the motion of one decapitating an aristocrat. She encircled them with cream and jam in a variety of containers. Eggcups, ramekins, washed out jam jars and even a lidless mustard pot were all pressed into service. Pausing only to drag on the cigarette she’d balanced on the windowsill, she heaved her tray out backwards, vast denim clad backside first.

Crossing the linoleum brown hallway she forced her way into what from March till September was called ‘the tearoom’. Her sister’s good suite languished in the outhouse under an old tarpaulin, annually usurped by a rag-taggel assortment of chairs and small tables. The gas fire blazed on four bars, and the air was ripe and as steamy as the kitchen.

Every table was full, all but three occupied with Maureen’s chief cliental, Twitchers; responsible for flavouring the air with waxed jacket.

The placed rustled with hastily un-zipped pack-a-macs and the hall outside sprouted a forest of green wellies. Grey sock feet clustered under miss-matched tables, their owners eager to glean secrets while guarding their own. Telescopes, binoculars and cameras balanced precariously among the cacophony of crockery; melted butter was accidentally smeared on zoom lenses and jam wiped on fishermen’s trousers, internally running with sweat. Over the chorus of waterproofs, the radio struggled to gossip about the up and coming wedding of Prince Charles to Lady Dianna Spencer. Unless the heir to the throne had decided to wed a lesser-spotted flycatcher, it was fighting a loosing battle to be heard.

The three tables not occupied by Twitchers held a pair of retired vicars debating the moral implications of ordering a full English as opposed to a light English tea; three lads with a telephone and the Marks family on holiday.

Clive Marks had a brother who owned a holiday cottage on the cost, and Clive saw no reason to spend money on foreign travel while the children were young. His wife Alice secretly harboured a dream of the pair of them painting in the Dordogne, under a blistering sun while they enjoyed a rough red wine from a local vineyard. Recently Clive had faded from her vision, just as the owner of the vineyard had grown younger, developed a penchant for removing his shirt and shaking down his tousled hair.

Their son Spencer was young enough not to regret his parent’s naming blind spot, and was happily working his way through his third scone. Their daughter Sarah had not touched hers, and would have been annoyed to be considered a child. She was uncomfortably aware of her first bra, an unforgiving white creation with more scaffolding than necessary. She was more aware of the three lads sat round the telephone with an intensity usually only mustered by thirteen-year-old girls.

There was a blonde lad, a dark lad and a ginger lad, and by the time Sarah returned to school in September, they would be good looking. The Twitchers watched them with as much intensity as Sarah, but their interest focused on the telephone. It rang, the lads exchanged resigned glances and one lost the unseen game of "Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

He answered it.

‘’Ello, Maureen’s…no…no…we ain’t seen none of them ones since last week. Marsh Harrier? Over Great Snoring way I think, boy. What you seen then?’

The Twitchers caught a whiff of excitement, and the buzz of conversation faded. Wendy dumped her plates of scones on the tables, oblivious to furious glances as the Twitchers strained to hear.

‘A what now?’ The boy paused, his pen hovering over a large pad of paper. His companions sniggered, aware he was milking the moment. Sarah sniggered as well, though she didn’t know why.

‘Over by there…so that’s out by Little Creek way then…a white throated what?’

Hands surreptitiously closed over camera straps, necks craned trying hear without appearing eager.

‘Dipper?’ The lad finished.

In a flurry of camouflage and telescopic lenses, the dun coloured flock took flight. Teapots clattered, half eaten scones were crammed into mouths; woolly grey feet wriggled into boots and in a matter of moments, Maureen’s front room was empty.

Wendy waited until the last were gone, and methodically began re-stacking her tray.

‘Maureen!’ She bellowed from the side of her mouth, ‘take a pew, girl!’

‘My goodness,’ remarked Clive, ‘bad luck for you.’

‘No tain’t.’ Wendy grinned. ‘They’ll be back later.’ She jerked her head toward the lads. ‘Them boys gets reports from phone boxes up and down like, that’s why Twitchers come here. They’ll be back.’

‘People phone in with sightings?’ Alice asked.

‘Yup.’ Wendy looked out of the window. ‘Gonna be fine now.’ She said as if she controlled the weather along with the supply of scones.

‘What an interesting service,’ Alice said buttering her teacake. ‘And all for free, I wonder if it has a name?’

‘What do you mean?’ Clive refilled his cup.

‘Oh, you know, like the speaking clock.’

‘With all those birds involved, maybe it should be the tweeting clock.’ Clive snorted a laugh.

‘Yes,’ said Alice, ‘or maybe Twittering clock.’

‘Twitter.’ Clive frowned, ‘that would never catch on.

Alice bit into her teacake. The blond lad winked at her.

Here is one of my writer mates

His name is Alistair, and we often have wordy chats about our respective out pourings - if you are reading this then I would suggest having a look at his pages also.
I really should write some flash fiction for him, hmmm - off to scratch my head methinks!

When worlds colide

Okay, so, I have now merged my book with it's prequel, and spent two weeks adjusting the flow so that the climaxes arrive at the same time. It has been an interesting and really quite enjoyable task, as I have merged some chapters of the prequel and then cut them to the bone so as in stand up comedy, the timing is spot on. It felt all the time like the shading on a good tattoo - which is mentioned in said book - like the deepest and most satisfying scratch you can have.
Of course, this has meant a re-write of my synopsis and cover letter so carefully constructed with the help of Bubble Cow, but I am hoping that their lessons have been well learned and I have still hit the right note with both.
Of course, now it needs time to sit again, because the doubts and fears need to creep into my mind before I take another look - after all, asking someone to read a 140,000 word novel and tell you what they think is harder than when it was 75,000 words. But I have had one volunteer, so will keep you posted!
Now - on to reading about the Ukraine and taking a peek at my other open project.

It's all in the mix....

I sat back from the laptop last night after sending myself the latest edit of my now combined novels. I have cut around 10,000 words from the rough draft and managed to bring both stories to their climax at the same time, which feels like something one might call an achievement. The narrative now moved back and forth from the 1980's to 2010, with some of the same characters in both strands - namely Grigory Dankovich who popped into my head eight months ago and started all the trouble in the first place.
Of course, there now begins, or rather re-starts, the process of submission pack and letter writing, which I was half way through when I decided to begin this act of union three weeks ago - thank God I am a fast worker!
To prove this point, I re-opened my lap top twenty minuets later as an idea had occurred to me. In the first book, which is still provisionally titled 'At night, all cats are grey,' there is a crime which resonates from the past to the future. It's rather nasty, as it should be, and involves a man being forced to watch his wife murdered. I won't go into details, but it's based on a true story.
When I say based, I think inspired might be a more accurate term - the seed was planted in my worryingly fertile mind some years ago, and involved my brother.
My brother and a school friend were messing about with some recording material - both now work in the film and sound recording industries respectively - and stopped off for a drink in a local but unfamiliar watering hole. It was rather a 'American werewolf in London' moment when they walked in, and they soon attracted the attention of a rather neanderthal punter, who sat down and proceeded to regal them with drunken tales. My brother surreptitiously recorded him, thinking he might prove an interesting character study (Artists are such leeches!) and the man proceeded to tell them that he and his mate liked to drive around in a van looking for Eastern European migrant workers. They would them kidnap them, take them back to his mates potato shed, string them up from the rafters and punch them until they died.
This is not the sort of chat that makes one linger over a pint, and so my brother returned later white faced with this recording.
He came in a told me about it, and I urged him to go to the police, which he did. He feared that they would brush it off, but they were very serious and investigated it at once. The outcome was that they tracked down the drunk easily enough, and when put on the spot he admitted it was all a pack of lies told to 'impress' some kids in a pub.

Now of course, my writers brain stored this away, and last night I started wondering what if that story was true, and the admission of exaggeration the lie? So I went on line and began looking for articles about migrant workers in the UK, and ones who work illegally and how they end up in that position. I also discovered that Ukrainian nationals have no right to work here, and make up the bulk of illegal migrant workers - don't forget the nice Polish and Romanian chaps who did your extension have every right to be here an work.
Ok, I thought, I see a story about a Ukrainian brother and sister, where the brother goes missing and the sister tries to find him but cannot go to the police for fear of deportation. So I found a website for the Ukrainian community in the UK, and discovered that pre-war, there was a lot of legal migration into the UK from the Ukraine at the time the USSR took over. I then saw the word Holodomor, which I did not know. I read on and discovered this is a word for an enforced famine created by Stalin that killed seven million people in 1932-33, a third of which were children. The Ukrainians are trying to have this recognized as a genocide as part of the general move to have Stalin's crimes recognized as being greater than Hitlers - this is not to diminish these, but to acknowledge that all such crimes must never be forgotten a long with the lessons of history the teach.
Well, this now started to work into a story about Ukrainians unable to work/feed themselves by the state unless they work illegally in 2001 (leaving aside the argument about whether they should be here, as in my opinion, most people would do the same if the situations were reversed to try and create a better life) and a whole nation denied the right to work/eat in 1932 - and of course the figure of the whistle blower - in the case of the famine a few journalists who tried to get the story out, and in the contemporary story someone who might help the sister but even face condemnation from their own society for helping illegal immigrants.
So I went to Amazon and looked up the word to see if I could find a history on the subject. The only book that mentions Holodomor in the title is out of print and massively expensive to buy, but turned out to be a Holodomor denier who writes that the famine never happened, that the USSR did not have control over Ukraine until after 1933 and so Stalin could not be responsible for it anyway; if there was famine it was down to the Ukrainian farm system.
Okay - so now we have nay-sayers and whistle blowers - and, ladies and gentle men, a very very big research project....