Category Archives: writing

raven

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lately i’ve been suffering a bout of imposter syndrome. when i work as a bookseller i rarely, if at all, mention i write. instead it remains a subject pushed to the back. hidden away. securely. in a box. wrapped in chains. big large lock. the key secreted away. i feel the dark bird of the imposter resting in the shadows. hovering on my shoulder. i can’t call myself a real writer. i’m merely self-published.

ok. it doesn’t mean i feel that self-published writing has less quality controls. many employ editors to analyse their work. typesetters to arrange the pages. designers for the covers. great expense is invested in their work. to achieve the goal of a finished book. and often the writing is great. brilliantly put together. they just weren’t chosen by the gatekeepers. and those gatekeepers are not infallible. the great publishing house make mistakes. who hasn’t tutted at a traditionally published book with errors in the text or a glaring plot hole?

yet still the dark bird hovers. i was no it chosen to be amongst the traditionally published. certain websites and organisations shun the self-published. only the traditionally published will do. it does not matter to them or me how many hundreds of books i’ve sold. i was not chosen. i am the harry to the william. no great reward awaits me.

i often think when edgar allen poe wrote of a raven he was having a particularly bad bout of imposter syndrome. it was there at his door. clawing to get in. to dig the talons in. so i remain silent on my writing. mention it not to the traditionally published. my dirty secret. instead i keep it hidden. only revealing it to my writing group or spoken word events. then i hurry away. pages destroyed. the shame hidden.

moment 17

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the second hand clicked slowly on crossing the white face of the clock. the black plastic hands told harold it was nearly two. he had been waiting an hour. an hour. and still no news. he sat staring at the blank white door in the blank wall. featureless. no clue there to guide him as to the outcome. no signage for him to lose himself in. if only there were a picture, a painting to pass the time in imagination. he could have lost himself in the colours. the swirl of brush-strokes. the splodges signifying something. a fleeting meaning of a moment, a thought, an idea. but all he had was a white door and worry. why hadn’t she let him go in with her? why the secrecy? what was she hiding? he knew in her way she was trying to protect him but this was worse. the unknowing. all she had said was ‘lady problems’ and left it at that. but that said nothing. she had always been like that. keeping everything to herself. like the time she had her wisdom teeth out. he had known nothing about it until she had come home, had soup for dinner and was barely able to speak. he could have done something. held her hand. said soft words to smooth the pain and fear away. like he had tried with the birth of their daughter. words of encouragement. the damp cloth to the brow. holding of hands, tight, feeling the clench of pain. trying to draw it from her, to will it less. but not this time. not now. today she was alone in that room. without him. maybe he was selfish. maybe he just wanted his fear to go, to be elevated. the pounding in his chest to go down. the hundreds and millions of whispering disasters to die away to nothing. for all to be calm as they sat there. he was probably making a fuss of nothing. he did that. he would imagine a terror where there wasn’t one. he just had to be patient and wait. that was his role: to wait. so he sat and looked at the clock. the white clock on the white wall. it said five past two.

moment 16

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rumble strewn ground. sounds of mortar in the distance. shells stood where homes once were. the carcass of a tank stood in the road surrounded by the fallen. blood patterns on brick and littered bones. he hid behind a wall that once was a building. weren’t they meant to be winning? he remembered the time they had landed. the embrace of the sea. what a sea! he had never seen such blue. the sound of sand beneath boots. the arc of birds across a clear sky. they had marched through green. small villages with friendly locals. an offer of wine and a pat on the back. an easy time. they marched on. over poppy fields, polka dotted landscapes. bees led the way. then the sky darkened. rain began to fall. the sound of distant guns. experience told him they were close. they had entered foolishly. too in the open. he took the route behind rubble, close to the walls. he was no fool. the young fell. first to go was Ajay. three shots to the head and gone. he had liked him. but in war attachments were deadly. better to look after the self. the weapons lay beyond reach. next, was Will running for the tank. he had cried a warning but too late. landmined. a cloud of blood and bone. next Jacob, the leader, taking the high point in a tower with sniper rifle. but they were ready. a trip wire saw to him. so now all alone. crouching behind a wall. bullets hit brick nearby but not there. perhaps it was safe to look. just a second. he got himself ready. moved cautiously and peered around the corner. a crack of a gun. the last thing he saw were the words Squad Killed.

moment 15

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they sat in the cafe at the station. luke warm and weak coffee sat ignored in paper cups. a half-eaten slice of carrot cake waited to be finished.she looked at him, the man she had spent half her life with.the jaw line beginning to go; the flicks of grey over the ears and in a weak moustache. why did he keep it? optimism, she supposed. the only sign he was ever optimistic was wasted on that. he sat in baggy top, to cover a developing paunch, a mark of too many good business lunches, and black baggy jeans. they would have been slim fit once, tight over tight bottom she loved to squeeze. but no more. that too was gone. how had they got so old? she took a tissue and compact mirror from her bag. damped the tissue with the end of her tongue, and gently worked below her eyes to remove smeared mascara. what a sight. she didn’t want to make a scene. even now. that wasn’t like her. perhaps if she had been more forceful in her wants things would have been different. he would have been different. she would have complained about the late nights, the breath that tasted of stale beer, the fumbled sex. she would have demanded care and attention, respect. she would have demanded a child. but those moments were lost in time. ‘no use crying over spilt milk,’ her mother would say. stupid cow. what did she know of struggling? father had given her everything: a house in the suburbs, two holidays a year, her own car. and died. but here she was with her partner sat in a railway station cafe. not even a ring on her finger. in all that time. and now he was leaving. leaving for her.

tap

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(content warning: body horror)

the car drove off through the trees. i was alone. truly alone. it was why i chose the place. a small stone hut in the woods by a lake. private land so no neighbours. just perfect. now i could focus. focus on the important things. and no phones. perfect. no one could bother me. i could finally have the peace i craved.

i unlocked the door. the door was stiff so i had to give it a good shove. the place was basic. one lounge room with open fire and a sofa. worn rug on the floor. a pile of logs by the fire. a side room off to the right was the kitchen. a simple gas cooker that had seen better days. an off brown. a bygone from the seventies. it would do. a small wooden table and two chairs. 1950’s. a sink of sorts. one tap. cold water. i would have to boil a kettle if i wanted hot.

opposite the kitchen was the bathroom if you could call it that. old lime green bath. medicine cabinet with mirror above the lime green sink. both had hot and cold water. the mod-cons the owner had described. all the mod cons.

the final room was the bedroom. a double bed covered in sheets and a quilted blanket. some scene of the countryside complete with a stag. it was like someone had vomited cotton on it. there was no wardrobe just a set of drawers. pine. stained. old. the drawers stuck a bit. they were lined with floral wallpaper. i took out my clothes from my bag and dropped them all in one drawer. 

i took the two carrier bags of shopping to the kitchen. unloaded the food into the single cupboard fixed to the wall. brown sticky wood. the shelves also lined with paper. i had brought simple things. tinned food. soups. dried pasta. ready-made sauces. i filled the fridge freeze box with stir fry veg and veggie mince. cheese to the fridge. and a treat. one rainbow trout. ready to go. i put the two wine boxes on the table and poured myself a glass from one box.

the night was beginning to draw in as i sat down on the sofa with my copy of Baudelaire. wine to hand. i was hoping that by reading his words i would be inspired. i needed a new book. my agent demanded it. and time was running out. three months. that was all. the deadline was fast approaching. so i was in this basic shell focusing on writing a first draft. edit. redraft. and i could return home. home to the city. i just needed peace and a space to imagine. that was all.

i washed up the plate from my meal. the fish had been good. sat back down on the sofa. time for something easier going. Sayaka Murata. her humour to celebrate the day. living. it was pitch black outside and i could hear the sounds of the night in the woods. something stirring in the bushes. the screech of an owl. something else. what? i did not know. i was not a country boy. but it was still quieter than the street i lived on in the city. hooting cars. drunken arguments in the streets. the sound of sirens. music blaring until four in the morning. city life made you feel alive. but sometimes you needed to be away. alone. in the quiet. hear yourself think. there was no space to hear yourself think in a city. something was always demanding attention. saying: look at me. but here. there was me. the woods. the sound of the leaves rustling in a breeze. the scurry of footsteps through the earth. the strong smell of pine that seemed to penetrate everything. but nothing else. no people. no cars. quiet. i yawned. put the book down. went to bed.

i spent the day down by the small lake. bottle of wine. sandwiches. notebook. pen. i watched the swallows skim over the water scooping up the liquid with their open beaks. i saw bright green and blue dragonflies dance at the water’s edge. darting one way and another. a fawn with its mother stopped to watch me before moving off. i could write of such things in my notebook. describe them in great detail. the serenity of the place. the stillness. but there was no story there. not my story. not the stories i wrote. my readers would scream and protest. where was the city? the blood? the gang life and illicit affairs? what was with all this nature stuff? no. i had to give them what they wanted. my agent demanded it. i had to give them another Jack Vallance novel.

i finished the bottle of wine. closed the notebook on the white pages. a glaring sign of my failure. the day had been a wash out. had i lost it? was this the moment? was this the time when words would not come anymore? i imagined myself back in the city at a desk in the office. watched over by a domineering boss. a life of nine-to-five misery. no. this couldn’t be it. i needed to relax. take the pressure off. i needed a bath. that always helped. i had had some of my best ideas in the bath. i gathered my things and headed back to the stone hut.

in the bathroom i stripped off and looked down at my feet. as usual my toenails needed trimming. i took a pair of nail scissors out of my wash bag and sat down on the toilet lid. i began to trim fascinated how much thicker my toenails were to my fingernails. why was that? a link to a long-gone age when we roamed the earth with fur? they were more talons than nails. thick. hard. were we bird people? i smiled. just being in the bathroom had set my imagination going. this is what i needed.

i dropped the nail clippings down the sink plughole and put the scissors on the sink eager to get in the bath. the water was hot but not scorching. i made a show of washing myself. imagining myself an ancient roman emperor lying in milk. no cream. massaging it in the skin.  laughing. could i use that in a Jack Vallance novel? more historical drama but it could be useful for a scene. i made a note in my nearby notebook. something for later. 

i lay back in the water. moving down until the water covered my neck. only my head poking above. my right foot went exploring as i shut my eyes. feeling the edge of the bath. the cool of the enamel. cooler still the tap. there was one handle. cold. smooth. the other. warmer. must be the hot. i followed the tap down. along the body. to the nozzle. i found the hole. my toe went in. exploring.

fuck! my toe wouldn’t come out. it was stuck. how could it be stuck? it was not like i rammed it in there. there must be solution. there was always a solution for something like this. otherwise there would be loads of people with stuck toes. i needed to think. i looked around the bathroom. my eyes came down on the shower gel. that was it. i needed a lubricant. something to help ease it out. 

i pulled the cap off and poured the gel over my toe. trying to force it between flesh and steel. the gel ran down the rest of my foot. down to my ankle then into the water. a green tail of soapy slime. i pulled at my foot. my toe. but nothing. it didn’t move. i poured the rest of the gel over my stuck toe. emptying the bottle. i pulled. nothing. stuck. i tried to squeeze gel up my toe into the tap. but the seal was too tight. there was no gap. i pulled and pulled. nothing. it was still stuck fast. it was purple and numb.

i reached over the edge of the bath for my jeans. i could just grab them. just. i put my hand in my front left pocket and pulled out my mobile. there was a chance. maybe the owner had been wrong. i dialled the owner’s number. nothing. dead. the bars on the phone were at zero. no network. i was alone. it had been what i wanted. i dropped the phone on the floor. i pulled at my foot. pulled real hard. the edge of the tap nozzle cut into my toe. blood trickle into the water. it was still stuck.

i suppose i could wait it out. wait for the owner to call round. but we had said three months. he had no reason to call. and there was no one else. this hut stood alone. just it. the woods. the lake. it was why i had chosen it. why i had got it so cheap. no one came here. no one wanted to be here. except me. foolish me.

could i survive three months stuck in the bath? how long could a person survive without anything to eat? one month? two? three? i didn’t know. i would be found. a starved body in stagnant bath water. toe stuck in the tap. i would become known as the tap man. i would win a Darwin Award. an idiot who had died an idiot’s death and saved the world’s bloodline from his stupid genes. no. i needed to do something. i couldn’t be found like this. i didn’t want to die here. 

i looked around the bathroom again. for something. anything that could free me. my eyes fell on the nail scissors on the sink. i leaned forward and grabbed them. maybe i could prise my toe out. but it was no good. a single scissor blade could not slide between toe and steel tap nozzle. i looked at my toe. the scissors. a resolution came over me. there was only one thing i could do.

i bit hard down on the material of one of my jean legs. really hard. took the scissors. blade either side of my toe. and cut. the blades cut through the outer flesh of my toe. i wanted to scream. i bit harder down. blood down my foot. into the water. a cloud of red. floating. mixing. i cut again. and again. through each layer of flesh. deeper into the red. deeper into me. through the layers. through the skin. in. the blades hit something hard. white. resisting. the bone. how did i get through the bone?

i stopped. looked down at the cold water. the water was red. warm blood flowed from my toe. into the water. i was in a bath of blood. i was bathing in blood. i had to finish the job or i would bleed to death. i took the scissors. cutting was no good now. it was bone. i would have to saw. saw with the blade. push down and saw. i shoved my jean into my mouth. set to work. sawing at the white of the bone with a blade. pressing down. digging into the whiteness. pressing inwards. i was beginning to feel faint. i worked faster. more desperately. 

i snapped the last few millimetres of bone. i tried to stand on my one good foot. in the water. in the blood. but it was slippery so i skidded. fell. a wave of blood water washed over the edge of the bath. onto the floor. i gripped the side of the bath, dragging my body from it. falling to the floor. i propped myself against the wall. wrapped a towel around my foot. i needed to cauterise the toe. i pulled myself up. using the wall for support. leaning against it all the way. i made it across the lounge. stumbling into the sofa. falling onto the rug. i pulled myself to the kitchen. pushing up on a chair. turned the hob on. knife into the flame. i removed the towel from my foot. my toe a blood mess. i wrapped a tea towel around my hand. lifted the knife by the handle. spat on the blade. it sizzled. i sat on a chair. dizziness rising. i lifted my foot. eyes starting to go. pressed the hot blade against the toe. a smell of cooking meat. searing pain. i screamed. blacked out.

i don’t know how long it took me to hobble to Lockneed. the nearest village. an hour? two? to a bar. to help. but i got there. something inside me wanted to survive. to carry on. to live for another day. for this not to be the end. but for me to tell my tale.

bite

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he lay in the bath. letting the water marinate his skin. bath salts to soak and cleanse. to refresh. revitalise. tomorrow work. but no this. his time. unmeasured time. he sunk under the water. allowing it to cover his head. the whole of him. immersed. the water forming an echo chamber. of nothing. he rose. his head and neck out of the water. water trickling down his face. his shoulders. it was then he felt it. the stab of pain. their irritant on his neck. sharp. hot. he put his fingers to the area of the pain. it felt raised. a bump.

he finished his bath. dried himself off. peered in the mirror at his neck. there was the telltale redness. the raised skin. he had been bitten. by something. an insect probably. the price for walking in the woods. in the heat of the day. a memento. he took some antiseptic cream from the bathroom cabinet. squeezed a bit on the end of his index finger. rubbed it into the affected area. it stung a bit but nothing he couldn’t live with. he left the bathroom and entered the bedroom. time for bed.

that night he dreamt of the woods. he was walking. enjoying the sun. but then the sky turned dark. the air still. something was coming. coming for him.

he woke sharply. a nightmare. at his age. he rolled over and looked at the clock. an hour before he had to rise. damn. there was no chance of him getting back to sleep now. it would be a wasted effort. an hour of frustration. better to just get up. get dressed.

he looked in the bathroom mirror. ready to shave. his neck ached. the bite red. chili red. more raised. hot to touch. it would calm down. they always did. he shaved avoiding the inflamed area. threw cold water over his face. three times. to wake him to the day. dried himself off. returned to the bedroom.

white shirt. tie. suit trousers. no jacket. the weather was too warm. he had to be smart. presentable. even if not seen by the public. it was company policy. one of its ways. the company was stuck in another time when it cam,e to employees. another reason to leave. to find another job. move on. to better things. 

the commute was its usual intolerance. too many people crammed into a too hot carriage. armpit to face. he was glad when he stepped off. along the streets of london. to the bright white office in the centre of town. soaring high into the sky. a monument to business. he walked through the lobby. nodding to the security on reception. in the lift to the third floor. into the room of row after row of desks and computer terminals. a few had beat him there. heads already down. focused on their screens. tapping at keyboards. screens glowing.

he found his spot. sat down. typed in his password and set to work. a pile of sheets to his left in a tray. a spreadsheet on the screen waiting for figures. for data. it forever thirsted data. a pop up box appeared in the top right of his screen. a view of his manager. already scrutinizing. monitoring. he took the first paper. began to type the relevant data.

it was no good. his neck hurt. the collar of his shirt was rubbing the bite. pressing on it. grinding it. with each movement. each turn. a rub. he winced. that damn bite was going to make his day hell. it was no good. he would have to take an early break. make the time up later. something had to be done. he left the terminal. a frown from the manager.

he passed the desks to the back of the office. to the lunch bar. opened the small fridge and peered in the icebox. he wanted ice. cool ice. to put on the bite. to cool the heat. to bring relief. but there was nothing. just space. he took a cloth. ran it under cold water. squeezed it until damp. placed it on his neck. that was something. not ideal. something. he returned to his desk.

every hour. on the hour. he returned to the lunch bar and put cold water on the cloth. pressed it to his neck. trying to bring the heat down. to ease the constant itch. to fight the desire to scratch. to attack. to rip his flesh from him. he could not wait to be home. free from the shirt. free to deal with the bite. to cool it. to tame it.

back at his screen the manager was not happy. 

‘what the hell are you playing at? your productivity is down thirty percent. you keep leaving your station.’

‘i have a bite on my neck. it’s hurting.’

‘a bite? that’s causing all the fuss? get over it. and there’s something else. there have been complaints.’

‘complaints?’

‘yes. apparently you smell. smell bad. or something. sort yourself out. go home. take a shower. you’ll have to work two extra hours tomorrow to make up time. deal with your little bite. tomorrow back to work as normal. presentable. or you’re gone.’

the manager scowled in the video box. the bite itched. throbbed under his collar.

when he got home he rushed upstairs to the bedroom. tie off. shirt off. to the bathroom. the bite on his neck was noticeably bigger. much bigger. the size of a 5p coin. red and sore. he ran cold water over a flannel and put it on his neck. monetary relief. then the pain bit back. harsher. hotter. stabbing. he took the flannel off. peering at his neck. the bite had a yellow head. the colour of yoke. it seemed to pulse. move. he took the thumb and index finger of his right hand and squeezed. it was excruciating pain but he continued. the head popped. puss shot out. liquid yellow. some hitting the mirror. it smelt. it smelt of pine sap and trees. of damp wooden places. a thick heavy smell. suffocating.

the yellow puss was gone. a clear fluid leaked out. down his neck. down his chest. then something else. something white. it wasn’t puss. it was white. pointed. poking out the skin. pale flesh coloured. it seemed to be moving. wriggling from side to side. a tail. poking out. out of his flesh. out of his neck.

horrified. he ran to the bathroom cupboard. frantically searching for tweezers. he wanted it out. he wanted it out now. he found them. under the bandages. silver. small. peering in the mirror. he took the tweezers and pinched tightly at the end. it wasn’t soft. it was tough like gristle. there was a searing pain down his neck like hot metal. he pulled. pulled hard. the pain in his neck intensified. he gritted his teeth. the white was coming from his neck. pale worm like. twitching. strong smell of sap. forests. he pulled more. it twisted and turned. trying to break free. it was about the size of his little finger. but it would not come. it was fighting to stay. something was clinging on. clinging on inside. refusing to let go. he gritted his teeth tighter. psyching himself up. it had to come out. it couldn’t stay. he had come so far. just the end to come. just the end. one last big, sharp pull. that would sort it. he gritted his teeth more. the gristly worm twisting in the tweezers. he pulled. there was a scream. a white twisting form. a lump of flesh.

moment 11

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so i am sat here in a courtyard surrounded by boutique shops and a bus that is a bar. i come here to escape the distractions of day time TV or the internet, the endless ramblings of social media. i sit sometimes in the yard on an unsteady bench or on other days in the 2nd hand bookshop, writing in my small black moleskine notebook with a drink to hand. usually, i am left alone to ponder, imagine and daydream before a customer comes into the bookshop to interrupt and peck at my quietness. but it is a bookshop. so we are often in our own worlds, them in an endless list of book titles seeking to hook, me in a sentence, a moment, searching for a word that stays just out of reach. the courtyard was not always such a pleasant place. once it was an unloved carpark full of lost promise and refuse. now, it is a place of creativity and creation. ideas blossom until the yard is full of flowers waiting to be picked.

presents

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Brown and blue gift box

when kevin looked back on the events he was surprised how things had escalated so quickly. from a small gripe. a slight. to action. to conclusion. but one thing he was certain of. it definitely wasn’t his fault. he was not to blame. he was the hurt party. when all things were done. when you looked at things objectively. he was justified in what he did. fully justified. unavoidable in fact.

a contract had been agreed at an early age. when he was young. without his approval. agreed by his parents. their parents. the parents before them. and so on. back through the ages of time. to the first person. the first contract. for first instance. kevin had no say in it. it was done. besides he was too young to voice an objection. to know the full implications of what he had entered into. how it would be with him for years. a chain around his neck. from place to place it was dragged. situation to situation. time to time.

the early years he was too young to know. too unaware. he was given things. he was not told. they were inconsequential items. a pair of woolly socks. a beanie hat in bright yellow. a small brown bear. how he loved that bear. where was it now? long gone. with his youth. hope. naivety. his parents.

he was told of the contract when he was four . of course they did not call it that. they referred to it joyfully. as if some game. but as the time neared. it was made clear. he had to be good. all year. to get the presents. or he would be left nothing. just coal. a single piece of coal. for his crimes.

kevin was horrified at this. why hadn’t he been warned earlier. given the heads up. he would have been much better.the ideal child. not pulled lucy’s hair. squirted the neighbour’s tabby cat with water. thrown a stone at a duck. eaten his broccoli. he had to make amends quick. play lucy’s games. give the cat some trout. feed the ducks. eat some broccoli. lots of broccoli.

the morning arrived. the reckoning. all would be revealed. had he done enough? he looked at the end of his bed. the presents were there. nuts. a tangerine. chocolate. a kazoo. a game where you flicked ball bearings into cardboard holes. all seemed well. but these were the additions. the unasked for. the starters. he made his way down stairs. to the lounge. and there. under the window. by the symbols of the contract. were the presents. specially wrapped to mark the day. he had to wait until his parents were up. that was the rule. he must not be tempted. they could all disappear by one wrong action. he waited. breathless. an age of time. waiting. 

his parents appeared. they smiled. little realising the obligation they had created. gave the signal. he opened the first. the largest. a pale blue metal scooter. push down brake at the back of the foot rest. rubber gripped handles. perfect. the contract for that year was complete. he could relax. a bit.

as kevin grew. his teachers remarked what a quiet, well behaved child he was. what an angel. but kevin was not fooled. he knew he had to be on his guard. to be good. perfect. maintain the contract. he knew what was at stake. he knew his teachers had a straight line to the contract keeper. the adjudicator. mrs higgins had told him so. with a smile on his face. as nigel kicked the classroom door. again. so kevin was good. always. made sure his reports reflected this. studied hard. got A grades. 

when at college he didn’t fall into the trap of long hair, electric sounds and smoky rooms. hallucinogens. experiences. his dad called them reprobates. he kept his hair down. kept away from the pretty  girls. stayed in his room. played sports. had only one pint after matches. studied. kept his hair short. and each year the contract was fulfilled. he had been good. the presents were there.

his father passed. he still visited his mother. cared for her. phoned her regularly. a dutiful son. his mother worried that’s he had yet to meet a nice girl. but he told her not to worry. he was looking for one just like her. like his mum. she just smiled. patted his hand. made them some tea.

in search of a good girl he joined groups. book groups. poetry groups. choir singing. wholesome pursuits. he even once went to a singles night in search of the right girl. a wholesome girl. it was in a bookshop. not just any. the most respectable bookshop. high vaunted ceilings. oak beams. pile bookshelves with only the classics. dickens. brontes. london. austen. eliot. none of that new writing. none of the corruptible stuff he had heard about. certainly no joyce. no hemingway. woolf. and absolutely not any larkin. never any larkin. but all to no avail. but there were no nice girls. they talked of politics. feminism. sex. not like his mother at all. his dear mother. his dear departed mother.

maybe it was because he had attended the groups. had read the sports pages. had two beers after a match. but kevin did not get a present that year. 

vowing to do better. kevin stopped the groups. joined the church. stopped drinking. avoided female sports. gave regularly to christian aid. but still no present. on adjudication day. nothing. no orange. no chocolate. no nuts. not even a lump of coal. how had he been so bad? he had done everything. he had been good. better than good. john in the office had got a watch. and he was sleeping with jane from accounts. be he. good kevin. had got nothing.

it dawned on kevin. it was not his fault. he was not to blame. he had not broken the contract. he had fulfilled his part. fully. to the full. the blame did not lie with him. it was the other to blame. he had broken it. he had torn the unseen threads that lay between them. something had to be done. retribution had to be sought.

so before judgement day. kevin lay in his mother’s house. on his mother’s bed waiting. waiting. waiting for the tell tale sounds. he was prepared. the traps were set. he would have it out. in a calm.reasonable. manner. 

it was after midnight when he heard the sound. the clatter on the roof tiles. the sprinkle of coal dust down the chimney. a sneeze. kevin hid behind the closet door. baseball bat at the ready. in case. he could hear the scrap of the glass on the mantelpiece. he pulled the string. there was was a cry. a thud.

it took kevin a while to position the man on the chair. he being so large and all. and the need to make the ropes tight. real tight. but he got the job done. he removed the hood to see what was there. a ruddy face. white hair. white beard. a red hat. with bell. it was him.

‘where’s my bloody presents?’

‘i’m sorry Kevin. What do you mean?’

‘last year. christmas. no presents. my mum even died.’

‘i’m sorry kevin. a foul up in the system. one of the elves…’

‘that’s not good enough. i was good all year. every year. every year of my life. and you didn’t come. a filing error. i’m worth more than a filing error.’

‘we’re all a little bad,sometimes, kevin.’

‘i’m not. i’m always good.’

‘and now. this isn’t being good kevin.’

‘screw you. you broke the contract.’

‘well kevin, if you’re going to be like that. we may have to forget presents this year.’

‘you wouldn’t…’

‘well, you’ve certainly put yourself on the naughty list…’

‘you bastard.’

‘now now kevin. this isn’t looking good for you.’

‘i want my presents.’

‘maybe next year..’

it was those words that did it. and the smile. and possibly the hoo-hoo on the end. but kevin couldn’t stop himself. he saw blazing red. a lot of red. the red of Father Christmas as he brought the bat down on the fucker’s head. not once. but several times. each time harder than the first. he ignored the crack of bone. the smash of teeth. the blackened eye. he just kept brining it down. all those years. all those opportunities. all those women. and he said this. the bat shattered with the last blow.

the body was easy to deal with. a spade. his mother’s large garden. a dark night. all pre-occupied with celebrations. festival delights. a quick sale of the house would sort that out. he would be long gone. abroad probably. somewhere with a wild nightlife. parties. bikini clad women. no worries. but what to do about the reindeer on the roof? that was a problem.

cleaning woman

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Woman in white robe standing in kitchen

It was the towel that did it.

Karen returned home to her bungalow at quarter past six.This was her usual time after cleaning the offices in the evening. A day spent wiping down the surfaces of the food preparation areas. Scrubbing at stubborn coffee spills on counter tops. Vim usually did the trick for that problem. Vacuuming the coarse office carpets. Often in colours no respecting householder would have. Dingy greys, dark blues, grass greens. The toilets were always the worse. Particularly the executive loos. Maybe it was some sort of power play or a case of ‘because they could’ but the floors around the bowls were always covered with pee and carelessly discarded tissue. She really had to work her magic there to get rid of the smell and yellow tell-tales. 

Karen trudged through the open front door stepping over her husband’s discarded jacket on the floor. Precisely where she had told him numerous times not to leave it. She picked it up and put it on the nearby coat peg. 

She carried the bags of shopping through to the kitchen. He was there at the cooker frying. She watched as egg, sausage and bacon spat fat up the wall of tiles around the oven. Each little spit landing and leaving a yellow mark. Hanging there at first then gradually making a trail down the wall towards the surface of the hob where it rested satisfied. A mark of defiance. Defiant at her cleaning. The hours she had spent scrubbing those tiles white last week. The toothbrush she had used dipped in the best bleach then worked into the grout between each tile. The only way. All gone. All lost. Lost to the sizzling spit of a frying pan.

Karen left the shopping by the kitchen table to be sorted later. Made her way to the bedroom. Worn and unworn men’s clothes littered the bed and floor. A battlefield of linen. Reds, blues, greens intertwined with each other. Day used socks and sweaty underpants slept on her pillow. He was always such a dirty man. Unclean. She wondered what had attracted her to him in the first place. He had turned up at their date in a crumpled dark suit, crumpled shirt, crumpled tie. Unpolished shoes. Maybe she felt he needed looking after. That she was the one to do it. A challenge to be taken on. Or was it just to annoy her parents. Knowing his long hair and t-hs dropped for fs would be an a-front to their prim and proper ways. Whatever it was, they were married a year later and she set about trying to train him.

She left the bedroom. Went next door. Her favourite room of the house. She had insisted on the decor. It was her non-negotiable. A fashionable free standing bath. A wide white basin with victorian taps. A wooden bench on which rested three scented candles. Dimmable lighting to set a mood. Tiled flooring with heating. Her sanctuary. But it had been defiled. Again. Two used white, wet towels lay on the floor. In the middle. In the middle of her room. Her place. The clock work in her mind clicked another notch. The final notch. Rang the bell.

Karen made her way back to the kitchen. He was sat at the table eating his fry up. Bacon, eggs, sausages, fried toast. The frying pan had been dumped on top of the pile of washing up in the sink. She lifted it up. Turned around. Hitting him hard on the head. Metal against bone. There was a crack. He slumped in the chair.

He was always a slip of a man. So it was easy work dragging him from the kitchen to the bathroom. She looked with disgust at the trail of blood along the carpet. But she knew she had a fluid that would sort that out. She stripped him of his oil stained jeans and t-shirt. Damn that garage. And with a mighty heave, practised from lifting large vacuum cleaners up flights of stairs, she got him in the bath. 

She put in the plug and turned on the mixer tap. Something nice and warm. She fetched the large container of bleach from the cupboard under the stairs. Pilfered from work. There had to be some perks. She emptied the 5 litre bottle into the bath. Watching the gentle trail of the thick liquid hit the water. His skin. She would teach him how to be clean even if it killed him. 

She turned off the taps. It still wasn’t enough. He still looked grubby and dirty laying in the bath. Her bath. Something more was needed. Something to get him really clean. She went back to the cupboard under the stairs and lifted down the brush from the shelf. The steel wire brush. The one she used to clean the bottom of blackened pans. That would do the job.

She set to his skin. Scrubbing furiously. Scrubbing as if he were the pissed stained floors of the executive loos. The coffee  marked surfaces of the food counters. The tiles in the kitchen. The bath water turned red. She ignored it. She was doing good. Getting the grime away. The years of fried food, engine oil. Dirt on her clean sheets. A late night hand feeling for her arse leaving  fingerprints. He was always so grubby. She scrubbed away.

She pulled the plug and watched as the dirty water receded. A gradual reveal of her handiwork. A pinkish rim was left around the bath marking where the water had been. That would take some sorting but it had been worth it. She had finally taught him how to be clean to the bone.

moment 7

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old men with ghosts in their eyes sit sipping the first of the day. lost friends and family float in the air as carcasses chew on a roasted nut. they remember happier laughter when mates were plenty and pints 50p. now the laughter is full of bitter tears that fall on froth making sad eyes. No Name sits in his usual seat pouring down blackcurrant soda. he looks enviously at the amber glasses. no longer. doctor’s orders. Racist Phil peers angrily over his drink at the diverse staff then takes a sip of his barcadi and coke. they always smile politely. a lone lady with ruddy face and dye streaked silver hair takes a dash of wine then places a beer mat carefully over the rim. she waits for Harold. what’s keeping him? it’s his round. over cooked sausages, too crisp bacon, and soggy hash browns are presented to customers as a culinary delight. even the watered sauce wants to steer clear. businessmen too tight for Costas sit drinking free refill coffee while loudly demanding attention on their mobile phones. charge points are plenty but none are free. the dregs of the morning hang on as the lunchtime crowd are drawn in by special thursday curry with drink. laughter flies up as banter is machine gunned across tables and mobiles are compared. have you seen this photo? are they real? they can’t be. a lost family wanders in search of convenience. a grubby white high chair is offered like a fallen throne and gratefully accepted. a quick wipe down and it’ll be all right. a fruitshoot and chips for the kids, salad and spritzers for the mums. aren’t we being decadent. what would Michael say? thank heavens for colouring sheets and crayons. No Name orders a blackcurrant and starts the sun crossword. the lone lady, cursing Harold, drinks another wine. peppered curry arrives with lone poppadom and too sweet mango chutney. somewhere a cook cries in his grave. the rush comes to an end and the hearty remain. long gone the businessmen and mums – children to collect. Lone lady gives up, sinks her wine and asks for a taxi. she never has a phone. the writer smile’s at the content, sips his beer.