redsand42
01-31-2011, 05:28 PM
Hello
I have just joined. I enjoyed reading some of the short stories on the site and have tried to write some of my own. This is the first story i've written since I was at school...which was quite awhile ago! I would welcome any constructive feedback. I hope i have posted it to the right place?
I stand up hard against the sky. My heads fuzzy, grey and featureless, like the early morning cloud which hangs carelessly over London. For a moment I don’t remember who I am. There’s no panic, no wild searching, just a blank stillness, a calm stillness, a stillness I begin to enjoy. Then it comes back to me like a wet slap in the face.
I remember who I am
I remember that I am an angry man.
I look around to the imprint my body has left on the ground. I have an urge to touch the flattened grass, to feel its warmth, to lie back down and go to sleep, but I resist, the park is open. The first of the early morning joggers, full of ritualized disciplined energy have begun to bounce smugly passed me, robust, toned, fit and healthy.
I watch them sweating, huffing, like some separate species. A distant lycra skinned hominoid relative, specially evolved to run aimlessly around inner city parks. I feel they inhabit a dangerously vulnerable evolutionary niche
I know who they are, what they are, ****ing city workers, gangster bankers, hedge fund managers and pension pillagers, gamblers of other people’s lives and money, media executives, Journalists, advertiser’s, teachers, academics, civil servants, manufacturers of consent, creators and slaves of desire, nine to five whores, the brainwashed, the brainwashers.
Doctors, lawyers, politicians, pimps.
Tinker, tailors, solider, spy.
Blind enforcers.
Cannibal sheep.
I hate them
I pity them.
I feel I should be hunting them
My back is damp and cold, although its summer the nights are still chilly and the dew seeps deep and silent. I shiver. Ruffle my clothes. Jump on the spot. Try to shake off the chill. I hear Michael stirring next to me, a succession of sneezes, wheezes and a hacking cough that sounds like its cracking ribs, a junkie’s morning chorus, a painful ritual of exhalations and expulsions.
I grimace, ‘****ing crack head’.
Michael stands up. Steam rises behind him, follows from his indentation in the grass. For a moment I imagine it’s his spirit curling through the air to rejoin his body. I know its not. He has no spirit. He is just an accidental collection of matter, his consciousness a chance by-product of his DNA’s eternal drive to reproduce, to replicate and consume. Unfortunately for Michael I think his DNA has run into a dead end. I don’t speak to Michael. I never speak to Michael. I try hard not to look at Michael. There is too much pain. His young tired face is all ticks and sorrow. His eyes dull from the smoothness of rocks.
Michael was one of the only street sleepers to show me any kindness when I first started to sleep rough. I now feel indebted to him. I offer him nothing. But we seem to have fallen into an unspoken agreement, a silent cooperative. Most nights he will seek me out. He will place his sleeping bag beside mine and fall asleep. I watch him. Watch his face while he sleeps. It is the only time he is ever still. The only time he ever looks at peace. His demons and nightmares are all too real and they stork him while he’s awake.
He moves to pick up his sleeping bag. I can hear his bones creaking. I can see them through his thin sallow skin. Hear his tired blood rushing through pierced veins. His whole body complains, whines.
I realised almost as soon as I met Michael that he was trying to kill himself. He is on the last leg of a journey of self destruction. He is too much of a coward to end his sorry little life with one swift decisive action. Such intentional statements are beyond him. He doesn’t have the self awareness, the emotional capacity, the balls, to contemplate suicide so he is slowly letting the drugs and the alcohol do it. People like him give drugs a bad name. People like him are inherently dangerous.
He is a sorry indictment of our corrupt and hypocritical society. If the measure of any society is how it protects and cares for its weakest members than we are all ****ed. Abusive parents, care homes, young offenders, prison, homelessness, mental illness, violence, drugs, blah blah blah.
The weakest have their role.
His is to play the tabloid drug user
A danger to society
A caricature
A story
A fiction we can use to absolve ourselves of any responsibility.
Nice and simple
Good and evil.
Right and wrong
Black and white
We create him so that we can punish him.
We need him
He is the fall we all fear.
He is the fool we all avoid.
He is the burglar
The rapist
The mugger in the dark
He is a homeless, mentally ill petty criminal
**** him, junkie!
He speaks to me, the same morning pleasantries as everyday. I hear him but I don’t listen I know he has nothing to say. He gathers his meagre belongings from under the tree, pulls the ring on a can of special brew. Nods in my direction and saunters off to fill his day with petty thievery and Crack!
One day I shall help you Michael.
I pick up my bag and check its contents, two pairs of clean black socks, two pairs of clean dark blue underwear, one clean white shirt, one clean red tie with pale blue paisley motif, one clean pair of dark denim jeans, one clean blue single breasted blazer, one black leather toiletry bag containing, one tooth brush, one tube of asda own brand toothpaste, one electric battery operated shaver, one small black comb, one bottle of asda own brand ‘magic mango’ scented shower gel and shampoo and one half empty can of asda own brand deodorant. Lastly in a clear plastic bag are three identical pairs of black mirrored sunglass and two 30Gb black iPods.
I make my way towards the public toilet, a small red brick building standing alone within the park. Heavy bars tiredly cover smashed windows. A heavy metal graffiti covered door, still locked, guards its entrance. I check my watch. 7.05am. The attendant is always punctual. 7.10am every morning. I sit on the bench opposite and wait.
In loving memory of Reg Parker 1935-2006.
I wonder if Reg was some kind of pervert who liked to sit outside this public toilet watching people go in and out. Perhaps he had some kind of bodily fluid or faecal fetish. I have wondered this before, every morning I sit on this bench and wonder about the loving memory of Reg Parker 1935-2006. Perhaps he was a horrible old **** who abused his children and beat his wife and they where all too kowtowed and scared to punish him during his life, this there final retribution. Yes, Reg Parker 1935-2006, our loving memory of you is a bench outside a pissed soaked, **** stained toilet.
You have been many things to me Reg Parker 1935-2006. On better days I imagine that poor old Reg was an honest-to-goodness, salt-of-the-earth, working class man, who loved his wife and struggled to provide a loving and nurturing home for his two children. Of whom Lisa the oldest, now 38, is a successful mother, wife and fully qualified paediatrician with her own practise in Upper Sidlemore, Kent. And Warren, 34, who after a rocky start and a bumpy journey, became a teacher and all round caring and understanding mentor for unruly urban yoots! And Reg, good ol Reg, went to his death bed happy and content that he had seen his children grow and blossom into fine upstanding members of the community. A perfect working example of the meritocratic society that good ol Reg believed he had helped to build. Only, only to have his name and the honour of his family insulted and besmirched by those pen-pushing, nameless, faceless ****ing bureaucrats from the local council, who placed his memorial, the memorial where his children and his grandchildren would visit for gods sake, next to a graffiti covered, piss soaked, **** stained toilet!
Reg Parker 1935-2006 my revenge will be your revenge.
The attendant is on time as usual. I nod my head to Reg. The toilet is surprisingly clean, the attendant having cleaned it the previous evening. It won’t last. The lowlifes will pass through during the day leaving their marks, needles, burnt foil, makeshift crack pipes, used condoms and the effluent of the ****ing damned. I feel a sudden surge of respect for the doddering old attendant. It doesn’t last. He looks over at me with completely undisguised disgust as I rise from the bench. I make sure I don’t look at him. I don’t care that in his mind I am just another rough sleeping lowlife heading to the toilet to tap my vein or indulge in whatever sordid morning ritual his creased up shrivelled old head can imagine. I take off my damp and slept in clothes and change in to a fresh set from the bag. The hot water is blissful. I wash and shave. I take the small black comb from the bag and straighten my hair. I catch a fleeting look at a stranger in the mirror, tall, dark in his late thirties. He has a not quite handsome face, a nose that is perhaps a touch to large, Hair that is just a touch to long and unruly, And large wild brown eyes that need to be a centimetre or two further apart. I know it’s me.
By the time I leave the toilet the sun is slowly beginning to show itself. I feel the echo of similar, happier days. My stomach hurts.
There are less jogger’s around now, more people going to work, setting off on their morning journeys, parents taking their kids to school, gaggles of older children in school uniforms, chatting loudly, firing tinny sounding music at each other from their mobile phones. Pensioners out wasting a few more days before they die
I try not to look at anyone for too long. It’s important if I am going to get through the day that I do not look at people. If I do, I know their lives will try to invade my own, literally,
To pollute my thoughts
To persuade and dissuade
To interfere.
I don’t want to know them. I don’t want to know what they feel. What their dreams are, their nightmares. I don’t want to see their faces. I don’t want to see the putrid banality and cloying egoism of the sorry stories that are written their. That drip from their voices, filling me with their imagined pasts their meaningless presents and their nonexistent futures.
I don’t want to know them.
I don’t care.
I don’t see them.
They don’t exist.
They can’t stop me
I reach into my bag take out an iPod and a pair of the mirrored sunglasses. I push the headphones deep into my ears, the sunglasses sharply on to my face. With my head down I walk out of the park and into the street. I feel as insulated as I am going to get. A banal pop group, whose name I cant recall and have no wish to remember, screams into my ears, so loud that I can hear nothing from the outside world. I have wiped all my music from before. There is nothing left that has any connection to me, to my past. My iPod is now filled with faceless chart tripe, excretions of the versificator. I have no wish to enjoy the music or even to listen to it. I need it purely as a form of aural anaesthetic, to shut out the world.
I think about what to do this morning, a completely self delusional exercise. I play with options in my head but I will do what i do every morning. I pull the loose change from my pocket, count it out in my hand, enough for a bacon roll and a cup of tea. I head towards the café, the same as every morning. There is a long queue inside the café. I hesitate outside. I check my watch, 7.40. I am on time. I turn, think of walking away. I am hungry, thirsty but I can’t possibly go inside. I begin to walk away. As I do the door of the café opens, a red-faced young women comes out carrying a white polystyrene cup and a small brown paper bag, she smiles at me as hot air and steam billow out behind her. She runs over to me, begins to speak. All I can hear is the music being pumped into my head.
Don’t cha wish your girl friend was hot like me?
She pushes the cup and the bag into my hands. I struggle with them as I try to hand over the money. She backs away. She is mouthing the words ‘no no’ and gesticulating in the direction of the cafe. Her face is a confused mix of forced pity, poorly hidden disgust and fear, the same as every morning.
Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was wrong like me?
Don’t cha?
I walk through streets I have walked through all my life. I keep my head down, focus on my feet, on the pavement which glides speedily beneath me.
I try not to look at the street corners, the shops, the pubs, the memories.
They fill the air with stories.
They are unfamiliar voices.
I cannot see
I cannot hear
They have me mistaken for who I was.
I am stranger here now.
I reach my destination a leafy quiet side street. Neat Victorian terraced houses are hidden behind rows of Horse Chestnuts, Limes and Beech trees. I sit on a low front garden wall place my cup of tea to one side and open up the bag. As I do so a vibration runs through the wall. A door below me bangs shut; someone is coming up the stairs from the basement flat, I jump up startled. They are late. I reach for my watch dropping the bag containing the bacon roll on to the floor. A man in a smart business suit walks up the stairs towards me; his face filled with alarm. As he gets closer to me I can see the recognition grow. He raises his arms up, palms outstretched, placating. His eyes soften. I can see him trying to find me behind my dark glasses. He walks towards me picks up the bag with my bacon roll in, reaches out, but stops when I recoil. His mouth is moving, he seems to be saying sorry a lot but I can’t make out much else. He hesitates, stops, seems lost for words.
I must confess that my loneliness
is killing me now
I look at my watch. This seems to help him regain his composure. He begins to speak again, turning, pointing at his house, his movement’s apologetic, then he begins to point at one of the houses across the road. I watch his arm outstretch, his mouth move silently. He stops, pauses again, his eyes sadden, his shoulders drop. I see him mouth the word ‘look’, then his hand is on my elbow. There is a nervous squeeze, he points to his watch and sets off up the road.
My loneliness is killing me
I must confess I still believe
When I’m not with you I lose my mind
Hit me baby one more time
I watch him as he walks off. Just before he turns the corner he stops, turns around, holds his hand up to his ear, shakes it slightly, smiles, widens his eyes and is gone.
Wanker.
I sit on the wall and stare at number 36 across the road. The same as I do every morning. I sit on the wall and stare at number 36 for the next four hours. The same as I do every morning. At 12.00 I get up and head back in the direction of the park. I’ve not walked for more than a few minutes when I realise that I have left my bag on the wall. I turn and begin to hurry back. As I turn back into the street I can see my bag on the pavement where I left it. I can also see that the door of number 36 is open.
I freeze.
For a second, just a split second, I am filled with the most wondrous feeling, a divine elation. Could it be possible? Could they?
Of course not, don’t be stupid.
I walk slowly towards my bag pick it up and sit back down on the wall. The door to number 36 is open. I am confused by this sudden deviation from the norm, from my routine. The door to number 36 is open. The door to number 36 is never open. I wait; try to think of an appropriate course of action. I sit on the wall and stare at the open door of number 36.
I should go in.
The door is open. I should go in.
If the door was still closed I wouldn’t have to go In.
But the door is open, therefore I should go in.
That is what you do with open doors, you go through them.
I stand up take off my sunglasses remove the earphones from my ears and walk towards the open door of number 36.
The hallway of number 36 is dark and thick with dust. The first thing that hits me is the smell, a fetid stinking soup of cats piss, rubbish and stale air. There is also a strange sweet smell that hangs uncomfortably. The sunlight from the doorway seems to stop halfway into the hallway, unable to push its way any further through the torpid miasma within. As I enter I accidentally kick a collection of shoes that have been piled up inside the door. Dust rises from them in a great sparkling cloud. I look down and see adults and children’s shoes mingled together as if they have just this second been discarded.
For a moment I think I can hear children’s voices, I stop, listen.
Nothing.
Maybe they came from outside.
Maybe not.
I automatically reach for the light switch. But the power is obviously not on. I make sure I open the front door as wide as possible to offer me as much light as possible. Then I continue further into the hallway. The walls are covered with framed photographs. There are happy faces, young and full of life, children on bicycles, beaches and sand. There are a few black and white pictures of stiff looking men in stiffer looking uniforms. The largest picture and the one all the others seem to radiate from is a large dark framed picture of a wedding party. The bride and groom stand relaxed and smiling at the centre.
Normal things and normal people.
I almost trip over a large stuffed toy. An ‘Iggle Piggle’ its blue dirty face stares up at me. It has been placed in an embrace with another stuffed toy, an ‘upsy daisy’ they cling to each other forlornly. Children’s clothes and toys litter the stairs, the floor. I pick up a small child’s top that is hanging over the banister. The front of it is stiff, caked with food stains. The whole house has the feel of a house swiftly departed, abandoned. A family removed.
There is a sudden noise from further inside, followed by someone cursing. I place the child’s top back quietly and continue in. I ease my head around a doorway. A large through- room is shrouded in darkness. Only the odd ray of light, that has managed to negotiate its way around the large thick curtains that hang at either end of the room, helps to illuminate the scene. But there is enough light for me to see a figure hunched in the far corner. His back is turned to me and he is attempting to stuff what look like DVDs or video games into a large bag. I watch him for a moment, think what to do. I could just turn around and walk out. Forget everything. Just leave and never come back. I don’t even have to return to the park. I could just leave completely. Go away as far as possible, abroad, anywhere. I don’t have to go into this room. I don’t have to do anything. But i do.
I enter the room and negotiate my way slowly and quietly towards the curtains. In the dark I move my hands gradually over the fabric searching for the two ends. I nearly cough out loud with the dust that cascades into the air.
Then In one swift movement, I fling the curtains open.
The room is transformed into light and noise.
The figure in the corner is on his back. He has turned automatically thrown the bag in my direction and is screaming, the air is full of clouds of dust and flying DVDs. The figure is waving his arms widely in front of his face in a confused and pathetic attempt to both defend and attack. He is blinking manically and shaking his head, desperately trying to acclimatise to the light.
"****, ****… WHO IS IT? … WHAT TO YOU WANT. …JESUS… ****."
I stand completely still.
"WHO the **** is it? WHAT do you WANT?"
The figure has begun to calm slightly after the initial shock, realising he is not being physically attacked. He gets to his feet, still keeps himself wedged into the corner. One arm is still outstretched, warding, the other is placed above his eyes. I realise that he cannot see me. I am just a black silhouette fixed in a cloud of dust, hallowed by the glaring sunlight streaming in from the now uncovered window, a nightmare snow globe. I stay completely still and say nothing. The figure begins to regain his composure but he is still straining to see. His voice more aggressive this time,
"Man, who the **** is it? What do you want? "
"Michael"
"Jesus who is that? What the ****?
"
I repeat,
"Michael. "
My voice is weak and croaky. My throat complains. I suddenly realise that this is the first word I have uttered in ages, weeks, months! I don’t know how long
"Michael"
"Jesus man…is that you? ****…hey man…"
Michael’s arms drop down he moves a foot towards me straining to see. His body relaxes, slightly.
"Is that you? **** you nearly gave me a heart attack. Man its…"
he falters
"Its… its not… well no… it is how its seems…. but man. ****. Listen"
Michael begins to babble. His eyes are glazed. He seems totally out of it. For the first time I begin to take in my surroundings. A large brown leather sofa stands between myself and Michael. A coffee table in front of the sofa is overflowing with stuffed ashtrays and empty beer cans. A small plastic bottle of coke has a straw sticking out of the side and silver foil on the top. I suddenly realise what the slightly sweet smell is that’s hanging in the air. The bag that Michael launched into the air has littered the room with DVDs and computer games. A PS3 lies on the polished wooden floor just next to where the bag fell, in amongst children’s toys and children’s cloths. In one corner of the room a glass pedestal sits mounted with a large wide screen TV, minus the DVD player I notice. In the adjacent corner a large French mahogany Bergere cane chair dominates the space. I move towards it. As it slowly dawns on Michael that i am not about to attack him he begins to pick up the DVDs and games. He is a blur of nervous activity. He moves around the room with an air of embarrassed familiarity. He begins to gather up all the empty cans and place them in a neat pile on the coffee table. He straitens the cushions on the sofa. I realise that he is tidying up. A house proud burglar, ****! I notice though that he stays out of arms reach.
"Man… ****. You know its like."
He begins apologising
"Let me explain….man "
"Ill put this stuff back…ill.."
My voice straining
" Michael…Stop"
"No seriously I will… I haven’t taken…"
I hold my hands out to him, raise my voice
"Stop"
I walk towards the chair and sit tiredly down.
He slows down but continues to gather up the DVDs and games. He attempts on several occasions to break the silence, each time he falters, hesitates, gives up. I can feel him watching me, waiting. I sit with my head in my hands. Finally he stumps up the courage.
"Man you know I haven’t stolen much. I just… just a few things. Ya know. for a bit of…But man you never live… You just sit outside all day staring at the, I mean, you’ve been doing that for months and... I was just…"
It’s the first time that I notice that Michael hardly ever finishes a sentence.
"Michael. Please I …"
He interrupts
" but man... I mean I didn’t mean to take your stuff. You know it just…"
he trails off again
"I was just curious at first ya know. Everyday you come and sit outside this house, staring at the…"
Michael begins to ramble on. He tells me how he had wondered where I went every morning, when I set off from the park.
"Man I thought ya were getting ready to top yourself ya know. You had that look some mornings."
He explains how one day he followed me. He followed me to this street watched me sit out side of this house. Then he followed me the next day and the day after that and watched how I just sat across the road and stared at the front door hour after hour, day after day. Then he explained how one night while I slept he went through my pockets removed my keys and let himself in… to my house.
"Just to ave a look around, nufink else. You know, when I realised what had happened, to ya family an that, you now. I swear mate in the beginning I didn’t take nufink. Mate, I aint never been through their rooms, I wouldn’t do that, I swear mate"
For the first time Michael tries to find eye contact with me
"I swear mate I aint been in their rooms. I wouldn’t do that. I might be a junkie but I’m not a ****".
For some reason this make me laugh, then cry.
Cry
I Cry for the first time in months.
On and on
I cry for my wife
I cry for my children
I cry for myself
I cry for this house
I cry in anger at everyone who is to blame for every-****ing-thing.
I cry.
I cry.
I cry.
With the tears comes a surprising clarity. For the first time in months things in my head are suddenly clearing.
I’m sad.
I’m mad.
I haven’t spoken to anyone for months. I’ve lost my job, ignored my friends, ignored reality. I sleep in a park around the corner from my house for gods sake; and everyday I sit and stare at my closed front door. Too petrified to go in and do what must be done, to scared to finish things. No I sit outside wishing, hoping, hoping for what? That my family will come walking out. Jesus.
What am I doing?
What the hell am I doing?
Michael is hovering above me obviously taken aback by my sobbing.
"**** man."
He puts a consoling arm on my shoulder
Suddenly I want him to hold me. I want this mucked up junkie thief who I just found burgling my house to wrap his arms around me and hold me. I am suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of love and respect for this piece of failed humanity. I realise that he could have turned my house into a steaming crack house. Could have stolen everything, ransacked it to feed his myriad of habits and addictions. God my TVs still here, my computer, everything. In his world, in his life, that shows some masterly self control. And still each night he would come and find me in that chilly damp park, put his sleeping bag down and fall asleep, next to me.
"god man.. ****"
He taps my shoulder sympathetically again. I stop crying.This is obviously a relief for Michael.
"Man…"
he looks at me, raises his eyebrows, bobs his head up and down and blows out a heavy breath
"Man…"
He is stuck. I can see him searching for something appropriate to say, to do. A difficult task the state I’m in.
"Man…"
He blows out another heavy breath, his head still bobbing up and down.
Suddenly his face lights up.
"A drink…yeah man, that’s what you need a ****ing drink."
He jumps up.
"A drink. A drink. A drink. A drink. A drink"
He is off all-of-a-sudden, chanting his little mantra, moving about all nervous energy and crack. A few seconds later he’s back standing in front of me.
"Err… ****… no…. sorry mate. I drank all your drink…****… sorry."
He gives a nervous little laugh and reaches to the coffee table and starts shaking empty beer cans.
"Michael, Michael don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter."
I reciprocate with a slight laugh of my own. Wow that was some cathartic expulsion. I sit for a few minutes recovering. Finally I ask him how long he’s known about me, about this house.
"Oh about two or three months. First time I came in ere was about three months ago. You know, that’s when I found out"
Michael pauses, turns away from me.
" about your family and, you know…Every now and again, like today. I follow you just to make sure you don’t top yourself. You had that look again this morning mate, so I followed ya, and I swear I just needed a few quid for a bit a gear and... I swear I aint taken hardly anything from this gaff. I can replace all the things that I have and … and"
I hold up my hands.
"Michael. Michael… don’t worry about it, it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, especially not these things."
I put added emphasise on the word things trying to reassure him of their unimportance to me. I tell him about a bottle of vodka that my wife and I would keep hidden away in a cupboard above the fridge.
"Emergency stash! I manage a weak smile"
"Cool, cool. Alright mate ill get us a drink. You just sit there. Yeah, just sit there…hey. Leave it to me."
I can hear him rummaging about in my kitchen. I sit in my living room, a living room that was once filled with children and laughter, now its filled with craziness and crack smoke. All the memories stare down from the walls. What have I been doing, what the hell have I been doing. Things are clearing. Things are suddenly clearing.
"Straight vodka, is that ok? There was some lemonade but I…..? "
Michael walks back from my kitchen. With two of my glasses filled with my vodka. Michael hands a glass towards me. There is an awkward silence that I have no intention of filling. Michael takes a gulp from his full glass of vodka.
I sip mine. For the first time in months my head feels clear. I am stunned at the sudden and immediate change. I feel completely different. The thought of sleeping in that…in that park, sleeping rough, my god its craziness. I feel like I have just risen from a coma, a stupefying waking coma. I feel ashamed, dirty, embarrassed. I know I have been ill. I have always known I was ill, but before it seemed… it seemed right. It had seemed the correct state to be in. I didn’t want to engage with the world. I didn’t want to face things. ‘Face things‘? What does that mean, to face things? Oh look my life has fallen apart. My family are... are gone but I should face thing, get back to being a functioning member of this defunct and corrupt society, regain my status as an active economic unit. **** that. **** them.Things are so clear, couldn’t be clearer. I can’t believe how I have prevaricated for so long, wallowed in my own putrid self pity. I know exactly what I have to do.
I feel.
I feel sure.
Right.
Confident.
Ready.
I remember.
I remember I am still an angry man.
I call Michael over to where I am sitting
"Michael. Come here Michael."
He freezes. I watch his whole body tense. He answers nervously, weakly, "What’s the matter?"
He can hear the change in my voice, read the finality there. I see for the first time that he is scared, very scared. But I know that Michael is always scared, spends his life in a constant state of ever present fear. I know how much he is scared by his past, scared of the idea of his future, scared of the present. He spends his life trying to escape them all chasing an eternal instant of chemically induced bliss. But for the first time I realise that I have become the focus of his fear. He is scared of me, and so he should be. I just found him smoking crack while he burgled my house.
"Come here Michael. There is nothing wrong. I am not going to hurt you. I swear."
He looks at me, like a dumb animal caught in the headlights. I soften my tone.
Seriously Michael I am not going to hurt you. Just come here.
He looks at me nervously, trustingly, and does as he is told. He sits down on the coffee table facing me. He is having trouble keeping eye contact. He is having trouble keeping still, all ticks and sorrow. I sit for a moment in silence looking at him.
"Michael listen."
I take his hands. They are hot, moist, trembling.
"I used to live in this house, used to have a family. Used to be... I used to be."
I let go of his hands. Stand up. I turn around with my arms outstretched, with my voiced raised.
"USED TO BE ALL THIS. USED to live in this ****ING HOUSE...used to be… I" falter. Stop.I look down at Michael. He is so small, so weak, so pathetic, so scared. I sit back down. Take his hands in mine again.
"But not anymore, not anymore Michael. You have helped me today, helped me to face things. All of this."
I look around the room.
"All of this means nothing to me now. It s all crap, quite expensive crap some of it. But crap never-the-less."
I feel myself beginning to laugh. I stop myself.
"It has no value to me anymore Michael, do you understand?"
He nods his head meekly. It means nothing. I pause; look around the room, his gaze follows mine. I pause for a moment longer. I can feel Michael becoming more and more uncomfortable, can feel his body squirming, shrinking, He is trying to retreat into himself, to get away from me.
It means nothing Michael. It means ****ing-nothing. I squeeze his hands tight, pull him closer towards me.
"Would you like it Michael?"
"What?"
Michael looks at me, confused, fearful.
"Why not hey, why not."
I nod my head, begin to chuckle.Michael is trying hard to keep up with me.
"Yeah why not Michael, I could give it all to you."
I spit the words out,
"No other ****er deserves it. "
I jump up pull Michael with me, pull him towards the TV.
"What about that then Michael, top of the range 47 inch Sony High- Definition-****ing-widescreen television, how much gear do you reckon you could get for that…hey?"
"Man"
Michael begins to try to pull away from me.I pull him sharply back. Our faces are inches from each other. I can feel his warm breath on my face. Smell his decay. We stare at each other in silence, eyes locked. For a second, just a second there is a connection, we look into each other. He sees me. Suddenly I am stripped, laid bare, vulnerable. I turn away quickly and force my anger to reasserts itself. When I look back at him the moment has passed. What did you see Michael? What did you see?
I speak slowly. My words wash across his face
"I could give you everything you ever wanted Michael."
I let him go. He withdraws from me.
"I have money too, quite a lot of money, in the safe, about 6 or 7 grand if I remember correctly. I bet you haven’t found that have you Michael. You can have that too. **** it what do I need it for."
I am being manic, but it’s all so clear to me now, everything is so clear.
"Michael, Michael… I am serious."
I run out of the room towards the stairs, stop and run back, clasp Michaels hands again. Try to calm myself.
"In a minute I am going to go upstairs and take the money from the safe and then there’s"
I pause for a minute remembering
" there’s the watches, **** yeah, I forgot about the watches. There’s the wife’s Cartier my Patek Philippe, worth ****loads. Yeah, you may as well have them too. You may as well have it all. And then Michael, after I have given you all this… stuff, I am going to leave. I am going to walk out of that door and you will never see me again. How does that sound?"
He looks at me, uneasy, unsure
"Err… Great"
Come on Michael upstairs. Bring your glass there is another treat in the safe I think you’ll like."
Its starting to dawn on Michael that I may be telling the truth. His tiny little drug addled brain is beginning to salivate. I can see it in his eyes. He is thinking, ‘this man is insane, he is either going to kill me or make me rich.’ Most people would err on the side of caution and be out the front door in a shot, but not Michael, too many expensive habits crying out to be fed,
too many substances waiting to be chased, not enough to lose
"Come on lets go, upstairs"
He follows behind me slowly.
Fight
Flight
Or a thousand smacked-up nights.
I reach my bedroom door. I hesitate. I place my hand upon the handle. I know my wife is still inside. So much of what she was, what she is to me lies behind this door. This was our space. I am hesitating for too long. I can feel Michael grow restless behind me. I know what I have to do. I have come too far to back out now. There is nowhere left to go. I push open the door. I nearly faint. I am assaulted by a rush of memories. The smell of my wife is everywhere. I have to stop my self from crumbling, falling to my knees. I can hear her voice, see her face. I close my eyes but that just makes it worse. I try to compose myself, focus on what must be done; but she’s is there dancing in my peripheral vision. I steel myself, breath deeply and enter. The room is just as it was the last day we were together. The bed is still unmade from the last time we slept in it, the ghost of her outline still visable. Her cloths are still strewn about the floor. I try to ignore everything. Michael is still behind me. I head straight for the bed, push it aside. It’s heavy and wont budge.
"Michael, give me a hand."
He is by my side we push the bed across the room.I fall to my knees and begin to enter the password into the safe that is hidden in the floor.
"There’s other stuff in here as well Michael."
I tell him about my wife’s jewellery and the bottle of 70 year old 1938 Mortlach single Speyside Scottish whisky that was a wedding gift from my father in law.I pull out the whisky, the money, the watches, the jewellery. He sits down next to me, dirty hands grabbing. He paws covetously at each object, eyes wide, mouth open, his cracked tongue playing over broken teeth, all thoughts stolen by the sight of gold. There are only two things left in the safe, a box of ammunition and a loaded, silver revolver. I place my hand into the safe, grip the handle, feel its weight, then I let it go.
"I can’t think of a better time to drink this then now. Give me your glass Michael, let’s open the whisky."
I pour the rarefied golden liquid into our glasses, pass one to Michael. He grabs at it greedily, gulps it down. I smile.
" that might be the most expensive hit you have ever had Michael. "
But my voice barely registers. He is caressing the money, the watches, the jewellery. He is lost.
I bring the glass to my face, let the aromas wash over me, sip slowly, savour.
Then I pull the hand gun from the safe. I watch as Michael eyes focus on the gun, watch the small amount of colour that he has drain from his face. His mouth opens, his shoulders drop. Fight or flight Michael. Fight or flight.
"Its time to go Michael. "
He sits frozen, staring at the gun. I stand up, look down at him, so sad, so pathetic, so unlucky. I should end it; end him, on a high. He lowers his head, sits in a slump, a crumpled mass of dirty clothes and wasted life.
Silent, resigned.
I think I should say some last words.
But I don’t.
I put the gun in my pocket, reach down, pick up the bottle of whisky and walk out of the room.
I walk down the stairs.
Past the photographs.
Past the toys.
Past the clothes
Past the shoes.
I walk out of the front door of number 36 into the street.
I never see Michael again.
I have just joined. I enjoyed reading some of the short stories on the site and have tried to write some of my own. This is the first story i've written since I was at school...which was quite awhile ago! I would welcome any constructive feedback. I hope i have posted it to the right place?
I stand up hard against the sky. My heads fuzzy, grey and featureless, like the early morning cloud which hangs carelessly over London. For a moment I don’t remember who I am. There’s no panic, no wild searching, just a blank stillness, a calm stillness, a stillness I begin to enjoy. Then it comes back to me like a wet slap in the face.
I remember who I am
I remember that I am an angry man.
I look around to the imprint my body has left on the ground. I have an urge to touch the flattened grass, to feel its warmth, to lie back down and go to sleep, but I resist, the park is open. The first of the early morning joggers, full of ritualized disciplined energy have begun to bounce smugly passed me, robust, toned, fit and healthy.
I watch them sweating, huffing, like some separate species. A distant lycra skinned hominoid relative, specially evolved to run aimlessly around inner city parks. I feel they inhabit a dangerously vulnerable evolutionary niche
I know who they are, what they are, ****ing city workers, gangster bankers, hedge fund managers and pension pillagers, gamblers of other people’s lives and money, media executives, Journalists, advertiser’s, teachers, academics, civil servants, manufacturers of consent, creators and slaves of desire, nine to five whores, the brainwashed, the brainwashers.
Doctors, lawyers, politicians, pimps.
Tinker, tailors, solider, spy.
Blind enforcers.
Cannibal sheep.
I hate them
I pity them.
I feel I should be hunting them
My back is damp and cold, although its summer the nights are still chilly and the dew seeps deep and silent. I shiver. Ruffle my clothes. Jump on the spot. Try to shake off the chill. I hear Michael stirring next to me, a succession of sneezes, wheezes and a hacking cough that sounds like its cracking ribs, a junkie’s morning chorus, a painful ritual of exhalations and expulsions.
I grimace, ‘****ing crack head’.
Michael stands up. Steam rises behind him, follows from his indentation in the grass. For a moment I imagine it’s his spirit curling through the air to rejoin his body. I know its not. He has no spirit. He is just an accidental collection of matter, his consciousness a chance by-product of his DNA’s eternal drive to reproduce, to replicate and consume. Unfortunately for Michael I think his DNA has run into a dead end. I don’t speak to Michael. I never speak to Michael. I try hard not to look at Michael. There is too much pain. His young tired face is all ticks and sorrow. His eyes dull from the smoothness of rocks.
Michael was one of the only street sleepers to show me any kindness when I first started to sleep rough. I now feel indebted to him. I offer him nothing. But we seem to have fallen into an unspoken agreement, a silent cooperative. Most nights he will seek me out. He will place his sleeping bag beside mine and fall asleep. I watch him. Watch his face while he sleeps. It is the only time he is ever still. The only time he ever looks at peace. His demons and nightmares are all too real and they stork him while he’s awake.
He moves to pick up his sleeping bag. I can hear his bones creaking. I can see them through his thin sallow skin. Hear his tired blood rushing through pierced veins. His whole body complains, whines.
I realised almost as soon as I met Michael that he was trying to kill himself. He is on the last leg of a journey of self destruction. He is too much of a coward to end his sorry little life with one swift decisive action. Such intentional statements are beyond him. He doesn’t have the self awareness, the emotional capacity, the balls, to contemplate suicide so he is slowly letting the drugs and the alcohol do it. People like him give drugs a bad name. People like him are inherently dangerous.
He is a sorry indictment of our corrupt and hypocritical society. If the measure of any society is how it protects and cares for its weakest members than we are all ****ed. Abusive parents, care homes, young offenders, prison, homelessness, mental illness, violence, drugs, blah blah blah.
The weakest have their role.
His is to play the tabloid drug user
A danger to society
A caricature
A story
A fiction we can use to absolve ourselves of any responsibility.
Nice and simple
Good and evil.
Right and wrong
Black and white
We create him so that we can punish him.
We need him
He is the fall we all fear.
He is the fool we all avoid.
He is the burglar
The rapist
The mugger in the dark
He is a homeless, mentally ill petty criminal
**** him, junkie!
He speaks to me, the same morning pleasantries as everyday. I hear him but I don’t listen I know he has nothing to say. He gathers his meagre belongings from under the tree, pulls the ring on a can of special brew. Nods in my direction and saunters off to fill his day with petty thievery and Crack!
One day I shall help you Michael.
I pick up my bag and check its contents, two pairs of clean black socks, two pairs of clean dark blue underwear, one clean white shirt, one clean red tie with pale blue paisley motif, one clean pair of dark denim jeans, one clean blue single breasted blazer, one black leather toiletry bag containing, one tooth brush, one tube of asda own brand toothpaste, one electric battery operated shaver, one small black comb, one bottle of asda own brand ‘magic mango’ scented shower gel and shampoo and one half empty can of asda own brand deodorant. Lastly in a clear plastic bag are three identical pairs of black mirrored sunglass and two 30Gb black iPods.
I make my way towards the public toilet, a small red brick building standing alone within the park. Heavy bars tiredly cover smashed windows. A heavy metal graffiti covered door, still locked, guards its entrance. I check my watch. 7.05am. The attendant is always punctual. 7.10am every morning. I sit on the bench opposite and wait.
In loving memory of Reg Parker 1935-2006.
I wonder if Reg was some kind of pervert who liked to sit outside this public toilet watching people go in and out. Perhaps he had some kind of bodily fluid or faecal fetish. I have wondered this before, every morning I sit on this bench and wonder about the loving memory of Reg Parker 1935-2006. Perhaps he was a horrible old **** who abused his children and beat his wife and they where all too kowtowed and scared to punish him during his life, this there final retribution. Yes, Reg Parker 1935-2006, our loving memory of you is a bench outside a pissed soaked, **** stained toilet.
You have been many things to me Reg Parker 1935-2006. On better days I imagine that poor old Reg was an honest-to-goodness, salt-of-the-earth, working class man, who loved his wife and struggled to provide a loving and nurturing home for his two children. Of whom Lisa the oldest, now 38, is a successful mother, wife and fully qualified paediatrician with her own practise in Upper Sidlemore, Kent. And Warren, 34, who after a rocky start and a bumpy journey, became a teacher and all round caring and understanding mentor for unruly urban yoots! And Reg, good ol Reg, went to his death bed happy and content that he had seen his children grow and blossom into fine upstanding members of the community. A perfect working example of the meritocratic society that good ol Reg believed he had helped to build. Only, only to have his name and the honour of his family insulted and besmirched by those pen-pushing, nameless, faceless ****ing bureaucrats from the local council, who placed his memorial, the memorial where his children and his grandchildren would visit for gods sake, next to a graffiti covered, piss soaked, **** stained toilet!
Reg Parker 1935-2006 my revenge will be your revenge.
The attendant is on time as usual. I nod my head to Reg. The toilet is surprisingly clean, the attendant having cleaned it the previous evening. It won’t last. The lowlifes will pass through during the day leaving their marks, needles, burnt foil, makeshift crack pipes, used condoms and the effluent of the ****ing damned. I feel a sudden surge of respect for the doddering old attendant. It doesn’t last. He looks over at me with completely undisguised disgust as I rise from the bench. I make sure I don’t look at him. I don’t care that in his mind I am just another rough sleeping lowlife heading to the toilet to tap my vein or indulge in whatever sordid morning ritual his creased up shrivelled old head can imagine. I take off my damp and slept in clothes and change in to a fresh set from the bag. The hot water is blissful. I wash and shave. I take the small black comb from the bag and straighten my hair. I catch a fleeting look at a stranger in the mirror, tall, dark in his late thirties. He has a not quite handsome face, a nose that is perhaps a touch to large, Hair that is just a touch to long and unruly, And large wild brown eyes that need to be a centimetre or two further apart. I know it’s me.
By the time I leave the toilet the sun is slowly beginning to show itself. I feel the echo of similar, happier days. My stomach hurts.
There are less jogger’s around now, more people going to work, setting off on their morning journeys, parents taking their kids to school, gaggles of older children in school uniforms, chatting loudly, firing tinny sounding music at each other from their mobile phones. Pensioners out wasting a few more days before they die
I try not to look at anyone for too long. It’s important if I am going to get through the day that I do not look at people. If I do, I know their lives will try to invade my own, literally,
To pollute my thoughts
To persuade and dissuade
To interfere.
I don’t want to know them. I don’t want to know what they feel. What their dreams are, their nightmares. I don’t want to see their faces. I don’t want to see the putrid banality and cloying egoism of the sorry stories that are written their. That drip from their voices, filling me with their imagined pasts their meaningless presents and their nonexistent futures.
I don’t want to know them.
I don’t care.
I don’t see them.
They don’t exist.
They can’t stop me
I reach into my bag take out an iPod and a pair of the mirrored sunglasses. I push the headphones deep into my ears, the sunglasses sharply on to my face. With my head down I walk out of the park and into the street. I feel as insulated as I am going to get. A banal pop group, whose name I cant recall and have no wish to remember, screams into my ears, so loud that I can hear nothing from the outside world. I have wiped all my music from before. There is nothing left that has any connection to me, to my past. My iPod is now filled with faceless chart tripe, excretions of the versificator. I have no wish to enjoy the music or even to listen to it. I need it purely as a form of aural anaesthetic, to shut out the world.
I think about what to do this morning, a completely self delusional exercise. I play with options in my head but I will do what i do every morning. I pull the loose change from my pocket, count it out in my hand, enough for a bacon roll and a cup of tea. I head towards the café, the same as every morning. There is a long queue inside the café. I hesitate outside. I check my watch, 7.40. I am on time. I turn, think of walking away. I am hungry, thirsty but I can’t possibly go inside. I begin to walk away. As I do the door of the café opens, a red-faced young women comes out carrying a white polystyrene cup and a small brown paper bag, she smiles at me as hot air and steam billow out behind her. She runs over to me, begins to speak. All I can hear is the music being pumped into my head.
Don’t cha wish your girl friend was hot like me?
She pushes the cup and the bag into my hands. I struggle with them as I try to hand over the money. She backs away. She is mouthing the words ‘no no’ and gesticulating in the direction of the cafe. Her face is a confused mix of forced pity, poorly hidden disgust and fear, the same as every morning.
Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was wrong like me?
Don’t cha?
I walk through streets I have walked through all my life. I keep my head down, focus on my feet, on the pavement which glides speedily beneath me.
I try not to look at the street corners, the shops, the pubs, the memories.
They fill the air with stories.
They are unfamiliar voices.
I cannot see
I cannot hear
They have me mistaken for who I was.
I am stranger here now.
I reach my destination a leafy quiet side street. Neat Victorian terraced houses are hidden behind rows of Horse Chestnuts, Limes and Beech trees. I sit on a low front garden wall place my cup of tea to one side and open up the bag. As I do so a vibration runs through the wall. A door below me bangs shut; someone is coming up the stairs from the basement flat, I jump up startled. They are late. I reach for my watch dropping the bag containing the bacon roll on to the floor. A man in a smart business suit walks up the stairs towards me; his face filled with alarm. As he gets closer to me I can see the recognition grow. He raises his arms up, palms outstretched, placating. His eyes soften. I can see him trying to find me behind my dark glasses. He walks towards me picks up the bag with my bacon roll in, reaches out, but stops when I recoil. His mouth is moving, he seems to be saying sorry a lot but I can’t make out much else. He hesitates, stops, seems lost for words.
I must confess that my loneliness
is killing me now
I look at my watch. This seems to help him regain his composure. He begins to speak again, turning, pointing at his house, his movement’s apologetic, then he begins to point at one of the houses across the road. I watch his arm outstretch, his mouth move silently. He stops, pauses again, his eyes sadden, his shoulders drop. I see him mouth the word ‘look’, then his hand is on my elbow. There is a nervous squeeze, he points to his watch and sets off up the road.
My loneliness is killing me
I must confess I still believe
When I’m not with you I lose my mind
Hit me baby one more time
I watch him as he walks off. Just before he turns the corner he stops, turns around, holds his hand up to his ear, shakes it slightly, smiles, widens his eyes and is gone.
Wanker.
I sit on the wall and stare at number 36 across the road. The same as I do every morning. I sit on the wall and stare at number 36 for the next four hours. The same as I do every morning. At 12.00 I get up and head back in the direction of the park. I’ve not walked for more than a few minutes when I realise that I have left my bag on the wall. I turn and begin to hurry back. As I turn back into the street I can see my bag on the pavement where I left it. I can also see that the door of number 36 is open.
I freeze.
For a second, just a split second, I am filled with the most wondrous feeling, a divine elation. Could it be possible? Could they?
Of course not, don’t be stupid.
I walk slowly towards my bag pick it up and sit back down on the wall. The door to number 36 is open. I am confused by this sudden deviation from the norm, from my routine. The door to number 36 is open. The door to number 36 is never open. I wait; try to think of an appropriate course of action. I sit on the wall and stare at the open door of number 36.
I should go in.
The door is open. I should go in.
If the door was still closed I wouldn’t have to go In.
But the door is open, therefore I should go in.
That is what you do with open doors, you go through them.
I stand up take off my sunglasses remove the earphones from my ears and walk towards the open door of number 36.
The hallway of number 36 is dark and thick with dust. The first thing that hits me is the smell, a fetid stinking soup of cats piss, rubbish and stale air. There is also a strange sweet smell that hangs uncomfortably. The sunlight from the doorway seems to stop halfway into the hallway, unable to push its way any further through the torpid miasma within. As I enter I accidentally kick a collection of shoes that have been piled up inside the door. Dust rises from them in a great sparkling cloud. I look down and see adults and children’s shoes mingled together as if they have just this second been discarded.
For a moment I think I can hear children’s voices, I stop, listen.
Nothing.
Maybe they came from outside.
Maybe not.
I automatically reach for the light switch. But the power is obviously not on. I make sure I open the front door as wide as possible to offer me as much light as possible. Then I continue further into the hallway. The walls are covered with framed photographs. There are happy faces, young and full of life, children on bicycles, beaches and sand. There are a few black and white pictures of stiff looking men in stiffer looking uniforms. The largest picture and the one all the others seem to radiate from is a large dark framed picture of a wedding party. The bride and groom stand relaxed and smiling at the centre.
Normal things and normal people.
I almost trip over a large stuffed toy. An ‘Iggle Piggle’ its blue dirty face stares up at me. It has been placed in an embrace with another stuffed toy, an ‘upsy daisy’ they cling to each other forlornly. Children’s clothes and toys litter the stairs, the floor. I pick up a small child’s top that is hanging over the banister. The front of it is stiff, caked with food stains. The whole house has the feel of a house swiftly departed, abandoned. A family removed.
There is a sudden noise from further inside, followed by someone cursing. I place the child’s top back quietly and continue in. I ease my head around a doorway. A large through- room is shrouded in darkness. Only the odd ray of light, that has managed to negotiate its way around the large thick curtains that hang at either end of the room, helps to illuminate the scene. But there is enough light for me to see a figure hunched in the far corner. His back is turned to me and he is attempting to stuff what look like DVDs or video games into a large bag. I watch him for a moment, think what to do. I could just turn around and walk out. Forget everything. Just leave and never come back. I don’t even have to return to the park. I could just leave completely. Go away as far as possible, abroad, anywhere. I don’t have to go into this room. I don’t have to do anything. But i do.
I enter the room and negotiate my way slowly and quietly towards the curtains. In the dark I move my hands gradually over the fabric searching for the two ends. I nearly cough out loud with the dust that cascades into the air.
Then In one swift movement, I fling the curtains open.
The room is transformed into light and noise.
The figure in the corner is on his back. He has turned automatically thrown the bag in my direction and is screaming, the air is full of clouds of dust and flying DVDs. The figure is waving his arms widely in front of his face in a confused and pathetic attempt to both defend and attack. He is blinking manically and shaking his head, desperately trying to acclimatise to the light.
"****, ****… WHO IS IT? … WHAT TO YOU WANT. …JESUS… ****."
I stand completely still.
"WHO the **** is it? WHAT do you WANT?"
The figure has begun to calm slightly after the initial shock, realising he is not being physically attacked. He gets to his feet, still keeps himself wedged into the corner. One arm is still outstretched, warding, the other is placed above his eyes. I realise that he cannot see me. I am just a black silhouette fixed in a cloud of dust, hallowed by the glaring sunlight streaming in from the now uncovered window, a nightmare snow globe. I stay completely still and say nothing. The figure begins to regain his composure but he is still straining to see. His voice more aggressive this time,
"Man, who the **** is it? What do you want? "
"Michael"
"Jesus who is that? What the ****?
"
I repeat,
"Michael. "
My voice is weak and croaky. My throat complains. I suddenly realise that this is the first word I have uttered in ages, weeks, months! I don’t know how long
"Michael"
"Jesus man…is that you? ****…hey man…"
Michael’s arms drop down he moves a foot towards me straining to see. His body relaxes, slightly.
"Is that you? **** you nearly gave me a heart attack. Man its…"
he falters
"Its… its not… well no… it is how its seems…. but man. ****. Listen"
Michael begins to babble. His eyes are glazed. He seems totally out of it. For the first time I begin to take in my surroundings. A large brown leather sofa stands between myself and Michael. A coffee table in front of the sofa is overflowing with stuffed ashtrays and empty beer cans. A small plastic bottle of coke has a straw sticking out of the side and silver foil on the top. I suddenly realise what the slightly sweet smell is that’s hanging in the air. The bag that Michael launched into the air has littered the room with DVDs and computer games. A PS3 lies on the polished wooden floor just next to where the bag fell, in amongst children’s toys and children’s cloths. In one corner of the room a glass pedestal sits mounted with a large wide screen TV, minus the DVD player I notice. In the adjacent corner a large French mahogany Bergere cane chair dominates the space. I move towards it. As it slowly dawns on Michael that i am not about to attack him he begins to pick up the DVDs and games. He is a blur of nervous activity. He moves around the room with an air of embarrassed familiarity. He begins to gather up all the empty cans and place them in a neat pile on the coffee table. He straitens the cushions on the sofa. I realise that he is tidying up. A house proud burglar, ****! I notice though that he stays out of arms reach.
"Man… ****. You know its like."
He begins apologising
"Let me explain….man "
"Ill put this stuff back…ill.."
My voice straining
" Michael…Stop"
"No seriously I will… I haven’t taken…"
I hold my hands out to him, raise my voice
"Stop"
I walk towards the chair and sit tiredly down.
He slows down but continues to gather up the DVDs and games. He attempts on several occasions to break the silence, each time he falters, hesitates, gives up. I can feel him watching me, waiting. I sit with my head in my hands. Finally he stumps up the courage.
"Man you know I haven’t stolen much. I just… just a few things. Ya know. for a bit of…But man you never live… You just sit outside all day staring at the, I mean, you’ve been doing that for months and... I was just…"
It’s the first time that I notice that Michael hardly ever finishes a sentence.
"Michael. Please I …"
He interrupts
" but man... I mean I didn’t mean to take your stuff. You know it just…"
he trails off again
"I was just curious at first ya know. Everyday you come and sit outside this house, staring at the…"
Michael begins to ramble on. He tells me how he had wondered where I went every morning, when I set off from the park.
"Man I thought ya were getting ready to top yourself ya know. You had that look some mornings."
He explains how one day he followed me. He followed me to this street watched me sit out side of this house. Then he followed me the next day and the day after that and watched how I just sat across the road and stared at the front door hour after hour, day after day. Then he explained how one night while I slept he went through my pockets removed my keys and let himself in… to my house.
"Just to ave a look around, nufink else. You know, when I realised what had happened, to ya family an that, you now. I swear mate in the beginning I didn’t take nufink. Mate, I aint never been through their rooms, I wouldn’t do that, I swear mate"
For the first time Michael tries to find eye contact with me
"I swear mate I aint been in their rooms. I wouldn’t do that. I might be a junkie but I’m not a ****".
For some reason this make me laugh, then cry.
Cry
I Cry for the first time in months.
On and on
I cry for my wife
I cry for my children
I cry for myself
I cry for this house
I cry in anger at everyone who is to blame for every-****ing-thing.
I cry.
I cry.
I cry.
With the tears comes a surprising clarity. For the first time in months things in my head are suddenly clearing.
I’m sad.
I’m mad.
I haven’t spoken to anyone for months. I’ve lost my job, ignored my friends, ignored reality. I sleep in a park around the corner from my house for gods sake; and everyday I sit and stare at my closed front door. Too petrified to go in and do what must be done, to scared to finish things. No I sit outside wishing, hoping, hoping for what? That my family will come walking out. Jesus.
What am I doing?
What the hell am I doing?
Michael is hovering above me obviously taken aback by my sobbing.
"**** man."
He puts a consoling arm on my shoulder
Suddenly I want him to hold me. I want this mucked up junkie thief who I just found burgling my house to wrap his arms around me and hold me. I am suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of love and respect for this piece of failed humanity. I realise that he could have turned my house into a steaming crack house. Could have stolen everything, ransacked it to feed his myriad of habits and addictions. God my TVs still here, my computer, everything. In his world, in his life, that shows some masterly self control. And still each night he would come and find me in that chilly damp park, put his sleeping bag down and fall asleep, next to me.
"god man.. ****"
He taps my shoulder sympathetically again. I stop crying.This is obviously a relief for Michael.
"Man…"
he looks at me, raises his eyebrows, bobs his head up and down and blows out a heavy breath
"Man…"
He is stuck. I can see him searching for something appropriate to say, to do. A difficult task the state I’m in.
"Man…"
He blows out another heavy breath, his head still bobbing up and down.
Suddenly his face lights up.
"A drink…yeah man, that’s what you need a ****ing drink."
He jumps up.
"A drink. A drink. A drink. A drink. A drink"
He is off all-of-a-sudden, chanting his little mantra, moving about all nervous energy and crack. A few seconds later he’s back standing in front of me.
"Err… ****… no…. sorry mate. I drank all your drink…****… sorry."
He gives a nervous little laugh and reaches to the coffee table and starts shaking empty beer cans.
"Michael, Michael don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter."
I reciprocate with a slight laugh of my own. Wow that was some cathartic expulsion. I sit for a few minutes recovering. Finally I ask him how long he’s known about me, about this house.
"Oh about two or three months. First time I came in ere was about three months ago. You know, that’s when I found out"
Michael pauses, turns away from me.
" about your family and, you know…Every now and again, like today. I follow you just to make sure you don’t top yourself. You had that look again this morning mate, so I followed ya, and I swear I just needed a few quid for a bit a gear and... I swear I aint taken hardly anything from this gaff. I can replace all the things that I have and … and"
I hold up my hands.
"Michael. Michael… don’t worry about it, it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, especially not these things."
I put added emphasise on the word things trying to reassure him of their unimportance to me. I tell him about a bottle of vodka that my wife and I would keep hidden away in a cupboard above the fridge.
"Emergency stash! I manage a weak smile"
"Cool, cool. Alright mate ill get us a drink. You just sit there. Yeah, just sit there…hey. Leave it to me."
I can hear him rummaging about in my kitchen. I sit in my living room, a living room that was once filled with children and laughter, now its filled with craziness and crack smoke. All the memories stare down from the walls. What have I been doing, what the hell have I been doing. Things are clearing. Things are suddenly clearing.
"Straight vodka, is that ok? There was some lemonade but I…..? "
Michael walks back from my kitchen. With two of my glasses filled with my vodka. Michael hands a glass towards me. There is an awkward silence that I have no intention of filling. Michael takes a gulp from his full glass of vodka.
I sip mine. For the first time in months my head feels clear. I am stunned at the sudden and immediate change. I feel completely different. The thought of sleeping in that…in that park, sleeping rough, my god its craziness. I feel like I have just risen from a coma, a stupefying waking coma. I feel ashamed, dirty, embarrassed. I know I have been ill. I have always known I was ill, but before it seemed… it seemed right. It had seemed the correct state to be in. I didn’t want to engage with the world. I didn’t want to face things. ‘Face things‘? What does that mean, to face things? Oh look my life has fallen apart. My family are... are gone but I should face thing, get back to being a functioning member of this defunct and corrupt society, regain my status as an active economic unit. **** that. **** them.Things are so clear, couldn’t be clearer. I can’t believe how I have prevaricated for so long, wallowed in my own putrid self pity. I know exactly what I have to do.
I feel.
I feel sure.
Right.
Confident.
Ready.
I remember.
I remember I am still an angry man.
I call Michael over to where I am sitting
"Michael. Come here Michael."
He freezes. I watch his whole body tense. He answers nervously, weakly, "What’s the matter?"
He can hear the change in my voice, read the finality there. I see for the first time that he is scared, very scared. But I know that Michael is always scared, spends his life in a constant state of ever present fear. I know how much he is scared by his past, scared of the idea of his future, scared of the present. He spends his life trying to escape them all chasing an eternal instant of chemically induced bliss. But for the first time I realise that I have become the focus of his fear. He is scared of me, and so he should be. I just found him smoking crack while he burgled my house.
"Come here Michael. There is nothing wrong. I am not going to hurt you. I swear."
He looks at me, like a dumb animal caught in the headlights. I soften my tone.
Seriously Michael I am not going to hurt you. Just come here.
He looks at me nervously, trustingly, and does as he is told. He sits down on the coffee table facing me. He is having trouble keeping eye contact. He is having trouble keeping still, all ticks and sorrow. I sit for a moment in silence looking at him.
"Michael listen."
I take his hands. They are hot, moist, trembling.
"I used to live in this house, used to have a family. Used to be... I used to be."
I let go of his hands. Stand up. I turn around with my arms outstretched, with my voiced raised.
"USED TO BE ALL THIS. USED to live in this ****ING HOUSE...used to be… I" falter. Stop.I look down at Michael. He is so small, so weak, so pathetic, so scared. I sit back down. Take his hands in mine again.
"But not anymore, not anymore Michael. You have helped me today, helped me to face things. All of this."
I look around the room.
"All of this means nothing to me now. It s all crap, quite expensive crap some of it. But crap never-the-less."
I feel myself beginning to laugh. I stop myself.
"It has no value to me anymore Michael, do you understand?"
He nods his head meekly. It means nothing. I pause; look around the room, his gaze follows mine. I pause for a moment longer. I can feel Michael becoming more and more uncomfortable, can feel his body squirming, shrinking, He is trying to retreat into himself, to get away from me.
It means nothing Michael. It means ****ing-nothing. I squeeze his hands tight, pull him closer towards me.
"Would you like it Michael?"
"What?"
Michael looks at me, confused, fearful.
"Why not hey, why not."
I nod my head, begin to chuckle.Michael is trying hard to keep up with me.
"Yeah why not Michael, I could give it all to you."
I spit the words out,
"No other ****er deserves it. "
I jump up pull Michael with me, pull him towards the TV.
"What about that then Michael, top of the range 47 inch Sony High- Definition-****ing-widescreen television, how much gear do you reckon you could get for that…hey?"
"Man"
Michael begins to try to pull away from me.I pull him sharply back. Our faces are inches from each other. I can feel his warm breath on my face. Smell his decay. We stare at each other in silence, eyes locked. For a second, just a second there is a connection, we look into each other. He sees me. Suddenly I am stripped, laid bare, vulnerable. I turn away quickly and force my anger to reasserts itself. When I look back at him the moment has passed. What did you see Michael? What did you see?
I speak slowly. My words wash across his face
"I could give you everything you ever wanted Michael."
I let him go. He withdraws from me.
"I have money too, quite a lot of money, in the safe, about 6 or 7 grand if I remember correctly. I bet you haven’t found that have you Michael. You can have that too. **** it what do I need it for."
I am being manic, but it’s all so clear to me now, everything is so clear.
"Michael, Michael… I am serious."
I run out of the room towards the stairs, stop and run back, clasp Michaels hands again. Try to calm myself.
"In a minute I am going to go upstairs and take the money from the safe and then there’s"
I pause for a minute remembering
" there’s the watches, **** yeah, I forgot about the watches. There’s the wife’s Cartier my Patek Philippe, worth ****loads. Yeah, you may as well have them too. You may as well have it all. And then Michael, after I have given you all this… stuff, I am going to leave. I am going to walk out of that door and you will never see me again. How does that sound?"
He looks at me, uneasy, unsure
"Err… Great"
Come on Michael upstairs. Bring your glass there is another treat in the safe I think you’ll like."
Its starting to dawn on Michael that I may be telling the truth. His tiny little drug addled brain is beginning to salivate. I can see it in his eyes. He is thinking, ‘this man is insane, he is either going to kill me or make me rich.’ Most people would err on the side of caution and be out the front door in a shot, but not Michael, too many expensive habits crying out to be fed,
too many substances waiting to be chased, not enough to lose
"Come on lets go, upstairs"
He follows behind me slowly.
Fight
Flight
Or a thousand smacked-up nights.
I reach my bedroom door. I hesitate. I place my hand upon the handle. I know my wife is still inside. So much of what she was, what she is to me lies behind this door. This was our space. I am hesitating for too long. I can feel Michael grow restless behind me. I know what I have to do. I have come too far to back out now. There is nowhere left to go. I push open the door. I nearly faint. I am assaulted by a rush of memories. The smell of my wife is everywhere. I have to stop my self from crumbling, falling to my knees. I can hear her voice, see her face. I close my eyes but that just makes it worse. I try to compose myself, focus on what must be done; but she’s is there dancing in my peripheral vision. I steel myself, breath deeply and enter. The room is just as it was the last day we were together. The bed is still unmade from the last time we slept in it, the ghost of her outline still visable. Her cloths are still strewn about the floor. I try to ignore everything. Michael is still behind me. I head straight for the bed, push it aside. It’s heavy and wont budge.
"Michael, give me a hand."
He is by my side we push the bed across the room.I fall to my knees and begin to enter the password into the safe that is hidden in the floor.
"There’s other stuff in here as well Michael."
I tell him about my wife’s jewellery and the bottle of 70 year old 1938 Mortlach single Speyside Scottish whisky that was a wedding gift from my father in law.I pull out the whisky, the money, the watches, the jewellery. He sits down next to me, dirty hands grabbing. He paws covetously at each object, eyes wide, mouth open, his cracked tongue playing over broken teeth, all thoughts stolen by the sight of gold. There are only two things left in the safe, a box of ammunition and a loaded, silver revolver. I place my hand into the safe, grip the handle, feel its weight, then I let it go.
"I can’t think of a better time to drink this then now. Give me your glass Michael, let’s open the whisky."
I pour the rarefied golden liquid into our glasses, pass one to Michael. He grabs at it greedily, gulps it down. I smile.
" that might be the most expensive hit you have ever had Michael. "
But my voice barely registers. He is caressing the money, the watches, the jewellery. He is lost.
I bring the glass to my face, let the aromas wash over me, sip slowly, savour.
Then I pull the hand gun from the safe. I watch as Michael eyes focus on the gun, watch the small amount of colour that he has drain from his face. His mouth opens, his shoulders drop. Fight or flight Michael. Fight or flight.
"Its time to go Michael. "
He sits frozen, staring at the gun. I stand up, look down at him, so sad, so pathetic, so unlucky. I should end it; end him, on a high. He lowers his head, sits in a slump, a crumpled mass of dirty clothes and wasted life.
Silent, resigned.
I think I should say some last words.
But I don’t.
I put the gun in my pocket, reach down, pick up the bottle of whisky and walk out of the room.
I walk down the stairs.
Past the photographs.
Past the toys.
Past the clothes
Past the shoes.
I walk out of the front door of number 36 into the street.
I never see Michael again.