The Bus Journey

There were three things I saw that I don't think I'll ever forget. The first, seeing an old woman take off her hat, and a little live baby bird being under there, chirping, holding up its head and opening it beak wide, hoping its mother would drop worms in. There she was, just walking down the street with this little thing balanced on her head as I passed by on the bus. I turned my head to watch her, peering through the condensation until she was out of sight.

Then I turned my head back and saw the second. Her almond-shaped face, large brown curious eyes, pink glossed lips and hair cropped very short, like Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby. And she was looking directly at me, inches away. She must have been turning to see the bird lady too, from the seat in front, but she was still looking when I had finished, and suddenly we were there, close enough to kiss and I breathed in the mint on her breath. I smiled and she smiled back, but she didn't turn away.

“That was...” she said.
“Yeah,” I know... just... crazy” I said.
“No,” she said. “Well, yes, but also, wasn't it... Margaret Thatcher?”

I gave a little laugh, one that I hope didn't come out as malicious or belittling to her, but just from surprise. “Ha. No, no, I don't think so”
“I'm sure it was.”
“I'm pretty sure I'd have recognised her” I insisted. “Even with the bird on her head.”
“Bird?” she said.
“Yes. The little bird that was... under her... hat” I trailed off, realising she didn't know what I was talking about.
She had a... bird... on her... head?” she said.
“Are we talking about the same woman?” I asked.
“Well, I'm talking about Margaret Thatcher, who was just sitting next to you on the bus. And you're talking about a woman with a bird on her head, so... we're probably not.”
“No. No. I guess we're not”
There was a very awkward silence. She studied me quizzically for one last time before sighing and turning back to face the front. I could feel my face burn and I felt annoyed, like she judged me! I wasn't the one with the bird on my head for God's sake, and why wasn't this traffic light changing? Shouldn't the lights have changed by now?

And then I saw the lights had changed, who knows how long ago, but we still weren't moving, because there she was, the Iron Lady, holding up the traffic, as she stood in the road right in front of the bus, bending over and regurgitating worms into a baby bird's mouth which sat on the head of an old woman kneeling beside her. I'll never forget it.

Missed Opportunities

I woke up with a shudder after troubling dreams that I already couldn't remember. I lay in bed for at least half an hour more, desperately telling myself I wasn't enjoying lying there and that I had to get to work or I'd be late again for the fourteenth day in a row. Eventually I made my way up onto my elbows, and then to sitting on the side of the bed. My pyjamas were still moist from sweat and I could smell them. I peeled off my top and dropped it on the floor. With my half-open eyes I looked down and was depressed to see my belly sitting on my lap like a bald and apathetic pet. I stumbled into the bathroom and sat on the toilet, really just to have an excuse to sit for a while longer.

The bathroom scales looked back at me as I sat, the two glaring red zeros on its display outstaring me easily, and I looked away, ashamed and judged. Once the toilet was flushed I knew there was no way of putting it off any longer and stepped out of my pyjamas and onto the scales to watch its eyes roll.

I jumped as a loud alarm sounded from the scales and a flashbulb went off. "Winner!" was scrolling across the screen again and again. And then from somewhere inside the scales came a familiar voice. It was the voice of that northern quiz show host, the one with the endless enthusiasm and all that personality.
"Congratulations. You've hit the jackpot weight. One million pounds and a holiday of a lifetime to the Four Seasons resort in the Seychelles. Don't Delay! Take this print out to your local post office to claim your prize today!"

I watched as a piece of paper printed out from a slot I'd never noticed before on the front. On it was a picture of me just seconds before from the scales point of view. Short legs, a withered little penis, a pot belly, double chin and a startled ruddy face. I sighed. I could never take it to the post office of course, which was a shame, because I really could have done with that million, and a holiday would have been a delight.

Synesthesia Sentence, 24 june 09

Synesthesia Sentence, 24 june 09

Synesthesia Sentence, 24 june 09

Synesthesia Sentence, 24 june 09

Synesthesia Sentence, 24 june 09

Synesthesia Sentence, 23 June 09

Synesthesia Sentence, 23 June 09

Synesthesia Sentence, 23 June 09

Synesthesia Sentence, 30 June 09

Synesthesia Sentence, 23 June 09

On Writing

He wrote every day, but he knew that no-one would read it. He knew this because he screwed up what he'd written each night and threw the paper balls toward his unlit fireplace. He knew the day was coming when he would take a match and burn the paper and himself, and with a bit of luck, his neighbour below with her foul smelling dogs.

Sometimes he wrote about what that day would be like. Somewhere near the unplugged television were thirty pages all about the sound of a match as it struck the matchbox – the box with ‘Ed’s Place’ written on it, with a cartoon of Ed staring at him and smoking a pipe. He had grown to hate Ed’s face and looked forward to the day it burned along with everything else.

He rarely returned to pages once they were written, but sometimes, despite every effort not to, he couldn't help it. Occasionally he would feel an emptiness that he knew only inspiration could fix. He hated scrabbling around amongst the thousands of paper balls, searching for that one sentence that would put him back on course. Often he threatened himself, told himself that the next time he reached for one of the balls he'd just light a match, nevermind the schedule. In the end though, he knew that the schedule was unbreakable.

It was a bright summer's day when it came. He woke up as normal, following his usual ritual of shaving and standing on one foot in front of the mirror. It wasn't until the smell of burning toast reached his nostrils that he felt nervous. He finished his breakfast in the kitchen, the pieces slowly becoming harder to swallow, and walked into the living room. Like every day he locked the door behind him and put the key in his pocket. He sat down for his last day of writing.

His last day of writing mainly focussed on the way light hit the dust in his room and how seemingly unconnected particles moved with him as he shifted in his chair. He was pleased with that.

Towards mid-afternoon he screwed up the final piece and threw it towards the fireplace. It toppled down the thousands of other paper balls and fell back towards his feet. He picked up the matchbox and took a deep breath, shutting his eyes. He felt along the side of the box with his finger and slid it open. He didn't open his eyes until he had struck the match. As the match burned in his fingers he was annoyed at the words that popped into his head: "that wasn’t worth thirty pages".

He threw the match at the paper mountain and watched fascinated for a few moments as dust was sucked into the flames. He wished he'd written about that.

A lot of things surprised him about the fire that afternoon. He hadn't expected the television to explode or for his flesh to smell the way it did. He hadn't expected the pain in his lungs or the blindness to come so quickly. He hadn't expected the heat, despite the fact that he had once spent three full days writing all about it. His final thought, as he succumbed to the ashes, was: "cobalt green green green green". He hadn't expected that.

Everything About Her

Everything about her said fuck me I'm vulnerable. That's what I thought, as I sat in my car drinking a red bull and chewing half a Ginsters sausage roll in a petrol station, watching her in the dark. What was she doing out here anyway? It was the middle of nowhere. The middle of nowhere. I watched her stagger out of the shop, short skirt, hair scrunched up with mousse or gel or something else. Behind the glass she paid for something, cigarettes I think, maybe condoms, or aspirin.

Everything about you says love me, I'm vulnerable, I said to her as she sat in my car. I could see the unease on her face, the disgust as I gently squeezed her knee. I tried not to let the anger get too much. I've lost it before and I don't like how that makes me feel. I'm not a bad person.

I'm not a bad person, I said, as we drove around and around the block as I pretended to be lost. I just need someone to talk to, some people don't understand, but I know that you do. I can feel it. I couldn't feel it. Fucking bitch, I wanted to feel it. She wasn't saying anything.

You can talk to me, I said, as we sat.

Can you talk to me? Please, I said. I heard the sound of my desperation and it was disgusting.

Take care, I said, as I dropped her off on the corner and watched her run away. Don't run too fast I thought, it makes me look bad. I took the other half of the sausage roll out of the glove compartment.

Grab It While You Can, Feel It While It Lasts.

1.

It’s been how long Sugar? Eight years? Eight years. A lot’s happened since then. A lot to both of us I guess - more to me though I think. I don’t want to seem arrogant, but I do think that. If you can top it I’ll give you a medal. I’ll try and keep it all brief, but here’s a quick run down: married, divorced, relationship, child, dead child, end of relationship, remarried, divorced, booze-soaked party, mild nervous breakdown, emergence like a butterfly from a cocoon as the magnificent specimen who writes to you today.

I know –so clichéd isn’t it? They say you couldn’t make it up, but really you could. People do all the time, and sometimes I look at the last eight years as just a story to tell you, just a tall story. That’s what I’m doing now.

I sometimes think about the person I was when we were together. I don’t know what I’d feel for him. I think I’d almost feel paternal towards him, I think of him and my dead boy in a similar way. Neither of them were properly formed yet, they didn’t know what they were. I can’t honestly say that my dead boy was an angel, that’s what his mother described him as, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t even close. How could he have been with a father like me? All crushable flesh and not much soul. And the fact that I couldn’t describe him as that to her, to Anna, my girlfriend, his mother, that was a lot of the reason we didn’t stay together I think. She wanted me to make him into something he wasn’t and I couldn’t. Sometimes now I still get angry about it. Why couldn’t I have lied? To her, to me. Why couldn’t I have said he was perfect? Because he wasn’t. But he was only four. And four’s no time to reach perfection.

I was a joke when we were together Sugar, I let everyone walk over me at work and I took it out on you in subtle and devious ways that I didn’t even think about, just because you stood by me through it all. Maybe I hated me, so I hated you for not hating me. Who am I kidding? I didn’t hate me. I hated you sometimes though, because I could be cruel and you’d let me, you’d moan and cry and scratch your head, and not talk to me for a few weeks, but really you’d still let me. And I hated you for that, because in the end I knew I wasn’t a cruel person and you let me be that. I can see you rolling your eyes now as I say this. You’d say I always did this – how could someone so self-probing be so cruel? How could someone who could look at himself like I did, like I do, still be such a walking disorder? I guess the only way I can describe it is to say I find it so hard to analyse until afterwards. Granted, sometimes for me, and this is what kills me, kills people around me, sometimes for me, afterwards is only a moment afterwards. I see what I’ve done and I get enlightened, I’m above my head looking down at the mess and I know everything.

Ok enough of this, I’m drifting. What do you want to know about first? Do I start at the beginning or do I get to the nitty gritty, the really painful dead boy stuff? How would they do this in a story? Can I distance myself enough from it to just tell it like a story, pause on the detail, the sweat on his forehead as I watched him go, the blood matted hair that stuck out and pointed at me. Could I use those to push your emotional buttons? I don’t want to manipulate you, but it’s an emotional story, and if it didn’t move you, maybe you’d feel cheated. If I couldn’t move you with this, maybe you’d think less of me. How can I come out of this without you thinking less of me than you already do?

I was so pleased to get your letter by the way, I’m really happy that you’re happy. Kieron sounds like a good guy, hard working, loving, loyal. Sugar, you must be bored out of your mind! I’m kidding. I’m largely kidding - Damn, I’m doing it again, I’m bringing it back to me, I’m putting Kieron on one side and I’m using him to reflect back on me. And I’m using his good (dull!) traits against him, just to make me seem exciting. Why do I care about being exciting to you, after all this time? Why don’t I let go of that? It’s hard to do.

Drifting again. So, my dead son… yeah, let’s get back to the good stuff: matter of fact or manipulative? Could I talk to you about it without being manipulative? Wouldn’t the straightforward facts manipulate you anyway? They would manipulate me. Am I shocking you with the way that I’m talking about it? It’s not in your face shocking though is it? It doesn’t seem to be, but I’m just treating it like it’s just an event, a day at the races where I lost a few or something, and of course it’s not. But if I can treat it like that, what does it say about me? Fuck it, I’ll put the facts in straight. I’ll try harder to be honest. I’ll tell you something about his death that will shock you.

It doesn’t mean as much to me as it should.

There, I’ve said it. That’s something, I’ve never written that before. I’ve never admitted that before to anyone. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Jesus, I’m actually getting upset. This is ridiculous. I’ll stop. I’ll come back later.


2.

I wrote that sentence before but then I couldn’t help writing the next thing about me crying. I needed you to think I was human, but I don’t want you to think I was crying for him. Don’t fall for it. I was crying for me, I only felt pity for me. I am haunted by his death. That’s another cliché isn’t it? I am though. I’m haunted not because I’m mourning, not because I miss him, or miss spending time with him, not because of that, but because I don’t feel that. I’m just wallowing in self-pity for the love I never felt.

I’ve got a tattoo with his name on it. I got it done during the party. Somewhere between February and April I think. It’s on my forearm, just a simple tattoo that says Charlie in italics. I said I did it so I wouldn’t forget – at some points during the party I nearly forgot everything so it’s not so ridiculous. But I really just did it to prove to other people that I loved him, to make me feel like less of a shit.

But now I’m sober (yes, all the bloody time) I feel embarrassed about it. Maybe I was a nicer person as a drunk, or just more sentimental, more willing to fool myself that I did it for pure reasons. Here’s the shameful thing: I try and keep it covered. I don’t want people seeing his name on my arm and thinking I’m a queer.

Hey, I’m no homophobe, you know that. Me and your brother, we used to get on well didn’t we? He was my greatest supporter when everyone else told you to get the hell out. I respected him for that. He was wrong of course, you should have got out. Not left me to constantly try to summon up the courage to leave. I didn’t deserve you, so he was wrong. He made a mistake, but everyone can do that. Yep, he made one big gay mistake. I’m kidding Sugar.

So it’s not like I’ve got a problem with gays, I just don’t want people to think I’m one if I’m not, and they see Charlie written on my arm and that’s what they think. Well, it’s what I think they’re thinking. Maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re thinking, ‘oh look at that guy with a guy’s name written on his arm, must be his dead son’. Actually Charlie can be a girls name too, can’t it? I don’t know what people think, but I keep it covered.

It serves a purpose though, even if it wasn’t the purpose I got it for, it keeps the dead boy alive in my thoughts. Every time I catch a glimpse of it, there he is. Or maybe it doesn’t, maybe I’m just thinking about me not thinking about him again, maybe he doesn’t come into it. Here’s another thing:

I hardly knew him.

How can you really know a four year old? Anna couldn’t believe how cold I was about it, and I can’t either. I’m not saying you can’t love a four year old, and I never said to Anna that she didn’t love him, maybe I loved him too, not enough, but I did. I’m just saying that he was too young for us to know what he might be. Maybe I'm evil or something, but I keep seeing it like he had this potential, this kernel, in him, and it just never got the chance to change from that. You can guess what he might have become, but you can’t see it. He was only four.

Here’s the thing Sugar. Ok, here’s the thing. He was a mistake. A beautiful mistake, and I could have been a better Dad maybe, but I didn’t think I’d have to become that for a while, I thought I could grow into it. There was maybe a kernel in me for that, but it stopped, I stopped nourishing it. I barely started.

But here’s the other thing, everything was a mistake. Everything that’s happened to me shouldn’t have happened because I shouldn’t have left you. I know it’s too late. I know, but I wanted you to know anyway. That must seem ridiculous to you now. I feel ridiculous saying it; I didn’t set out to write that to you, but what the hell, why shouldn’t I just be honest? If I can be honest about not loving my dead son, I can be honest about loving you.

So many times I’ve told myself that it isn’t how you feel but what you do that counts. That’s so obvious really, but I’ve never been able to live like that. I move through life on the whim of my feelings, like a feather on the breeze or something. There have been times when I’ve thought that was how I enjoyed life, because I was free and nothing was tying me down. But then, and I know I’m pushing this metaphor beyond its limit, there’s nothing free about a feather. It’s a slave, pushed around wherever the wind takes it. It just looks free.

Look, don’t dwell on what I said too much. I’m telling you because I’ve got nothing to lose now. I’ve got nothing to gain either, but that’s life. It’s not all about getting resolutions and happy endings.

I’d better stop again I think. This isn’t going the way I thought it would.

3.

Before I get to his death, I’ll tell you a story. It’s about Charlie, but of course it’s really about me. One day I’ll learn not to make everything about me, but right now I just want you to understand where I'm coming from.

When I was little I used to love science. I bet you didn’t even know that about me. I’ve hardly ever talked about it, but one of my earliest memories was of sitting on my Dad’s knee and watching as he tipped out a little glass tube of iron filings from a chemistry set onto the table. Then he got a magnet (though I didn’t see this at the time) and gently put it on the underside of the table, beneath the filings. I remember the iron filings suddenly standing to attention and marching around the table. And I remember him telling me that it wasn’t magic, but science that made them do that, and one day I’d find out why. There was a reason why unexpected things happened, you just had to find it. And so I guess I’ve loved science because of that memory, because I’ve always thought that science is really just men trying to work out the rule book for magic. I always wanted to be one of those men, but I never went to University and nothing came of it.

I hardly saw Charlie before he died. Anna and I were separated. It sounds awful, it is awful, but I was seeing a lot of Julie again, the woman I left you for, my first wife. I don’t know why she still wanted to see me. I don’t know why I wanted to see her. Mainly, she just seemed to want to call me up to scream at me. I think she has anger issues. We were already divorced, so I didn’t see why I was responsible for her life. To be honest, I didn’t see why I should have to be that responsible for anything. I was drinking, not as much as I later would, but fairly heavily and every night, and all I really cared about was being out at the bar, not thinking about my ex-wife again. My life with her was never going to work out – there was a lot of lust to start off with, but I don’t think either of us really liked each other. Not like you and me. I know I said I hated you sometimes, but I didn’t really. It just felt like I did.

Before Charlie died, I was thinking about anything but him and Anna. So when Anna called me up to baby-sit because she wanted to go out I wasn’t that interested. I had other things on my mind. Work was stressing me out and I had this feeling hanging over me that I was going to get fired. But she insisted, and so eventually I went. In the whole four years since he had been born this was the first time I’d been with Charlie on his own. I know that’s terrible, but Anna and I got together almost straight after Julie and my divorce and then suddenly she was pregnant. Of course I said I was happy at the time, Anna had no idea that I resented it, but I did. I resented having to take responsibility for something that was basically just a careless error. She said straight away she didn’t want an abortion and I was never going to argue with her. Part of me was excited about it too, part of me thought that this was what I needed. Maybe I could have become a better Dad if there had been more time.

It wasn’t like I had no interest in being a Dad, sometimes it was all I wanted to be. But at the same time I couldn’t help but feel it was an ambition to fulfil rather than something I already was. But I had my moments of really wanting it. By the time I’d got to the house that day I really wanted it, I’d bought him a present that I wanted him to see.

So I remember just being disappointed as soon as I arrived. Anna left and I remember just staring at Charlie, trying to work out what I should do with him. Look, I’m just trying to be honest here ok? I know I sound so heartless, but I didn’t know what to do with him. Half of the things he said didn’t make sense. And he would just sit on the sofa, in his little school uniform, and stare at the cartoons on the TV. He didn’t even look at me.

I walked over and turned the TV off at the mains.

“Daddy, no!” he was saying. “I’m waiting for (some children’s programme I can’t remember) I’ve been waiting for ages!”

“We’re going to do something else.” I said, trying to be firm, show him some authority. But no matter what I did he wouldn’t listen and he worked himself up into a huge tantrum that I had no idea how to deal with, so I just switched the TV back on and walked out the room.

I sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out the chemistry set that I’d bought him. Isn’t that stupid? To want to give a child your own memories. But it was what I wanted and he just wanted to watch some cheap cartoon. I pulled the cellophane off the box and opened it. Amongst other orange and yellow powders was a magnet and a little glass test tube of iron filings. I tipped the filings out, put the magnet under the table and watched the little metal pieces dance again. I don’t know how long I did that before I became aware that Charlie had come into the room. He was looking at me, his eyes still puffy, snot dripping down his face.

“Hi.” I said.

“I’m hungry.”

“You can’t be hungry. Your mum said you just ate.”

“I’m hungry”

“Charlie,” I said, trying to change the subject. “Come here a minute.”

He walked towards me.

“Sit on my knee.” I said, secretly putting the magnet down next to me on the chair and lifting him on to my lap.

“What’s those?” he said, pointing at the filings.

“Those are tiny bits of metal.” I said. I picked up the magnet and quickly slid it underneath the table, making them jump suddenly.

“ooh,” said Charlie. I remember smiling.

I started to move the magnet again and made the filings march around. Charlie watched for a couple of seconds.

“I want to watch cartoons.” he said.

“You’ve just watched cartoons!” I said frustrated.

“Get off!” he said as I held him to my lap. “Get off!” He began to squeal.

I let go of him and he ran off.

“Charlie!” I shouted to him, knowing he wasn’t listening. “That’s not magic Charlie! That’s science!”

I guess it’s just an example of how things were, how I didn’t get him. I’m not saying he didn’t have potential, I just didn’t know where to begin to let it flourish, I couldn’t find the kernel.

I’m not saying I didn’t care about him, I did, but sometimes I think the sadness I felt about it was more like the sadness I feel when I hear about a child being killed on the news. The stupid thing is, if I ever see that on the news I just feel so sorry for the parents, as though the experience of having a dead child is something that I could never understand. I have no idea what they’re going through, and I’m sure they’re not like me, they wouldn’t feel about it like I do. I guess sometimes people who know about Charlie’s death must look at me, see my tattoo if I let them, and feel so sorry for me. I haven’t the heart to tell them the truth.

I just can’t help but think about what I could have been like if I hadn’t left you, if I hadn’t got involved with Julie. You were always so constant, never buffeted by the wind, keeping your head down, fighting through everything. Being caring, day after day. Look, I’m not pretending you were perfect, I’m not seeing it as though I’m looking through misty glass, I’m seeing it as it was, and it wasn’t great, but it could have been if only I’d have got myself sorted out sooner. Maybe I’d have loved Charlie more if he was your child, if he looked like us. I’m a fucking disgrace to think that, but maybe I could have.

I’ve got one more thing to tell you, I didn’t mean to go on for so long before getting to this, I didn’t intend for it to be the story’s great climax, but somehow It happened. I don’t need to tell you about my second marriage, there’s nothing to dwell on there. That was another one of my patented grab it while you can, feel it while it lasts moments, it’s not worth dwelling on. And the breakdown, if you can call it that, I don’t know what else to call it, but that’s not something I want to talk about too much. It was the result of the party, which was the result of Charlie and the quick disintegration of my second marriage. And it was just a point being reached where it couldn’t go any further without death, and some survival instinct in me just began to shut me down, made me stop functioning altogether until someone helped me out.

Isn’t it ridiculous that I call it the party? I’ve got to stop doing that. It was just six months or so of waking up in the morning and drinking, not caring, not answering my phone unless it was for something fun, of just trying too hard to enjoy myself, to feel something while not feeling anything. I guess I call it a party because I want to think of it as fun, or I want other people to think of it as a glamorous time, like John Lennon’s year and a half of drinking that he called his lost weekend. I only lasted six months, but it was enough for me. And it wasn’t glamorous, not by the end. I don’t need to dwell on it. I got out, and I’m grateful for that. I hope it’s forever.

So I guess the last thing to tell you about is how it happened, about how he died. I want you to know this. If I want you to understand, you’ll need to know. I’ll go for a walk now, try and work out how I want it to be.

4.

How would they tell it in a story? I don't know if I can tell it calmly, or in the most effective way. I'll just tell it quick. I was babysitting for him again, it was maybe only the third or fourth time I’d done it. I wasn’t excited about it this time; I didn’t have any hope that I would be able to enthral him anymore, or plant anything in him that would last. He just wanted to watch cartoons again and I wasn’t going to try and stop him. So I just sat there with him, my fourth or fifth large gin in my hand, while he watched the same dull cartoons again and again. It was all he wanted to do.

Then Julie called. I’ve tried to think back to what she said to me so many times, but I can’t even remember. All I remember is that the next thing I knew she was shouting at me again, and I was feeling horrible that Charlie would be able to hear her voice from where he was sitting. I walked out and sat at the kitchen table.

I remember telling her that I couldn’t go over to her. But she just kept insisting, saying I had to. I know how weak this sounds. I remember telling her to hold on a second. I put the phone down on the kitchen table and went to look at him. I sound so stupid, I know you can’t leave a four year old, but I convinced myself I’d be gone for only half an hour. He probably wouldn’t even notice. He didn’t look up at me when I went in.

I walked back to the kitchen and picked up the phone.

“I’ll come over, but only for twenty minutes.” I said.

She responded in some way, it’s all a blur. I hung up and left the house. I got in my car and remember pausing after I’d put the key in the ignition. This might sound like an excuse, but I honestly don’t think I would have left him. I was just playing with the idea in my mind. Gin had loosened me up a bit and I wanted to be reckless. I wanted to leave, but I don’t think I would have done. Maybe I would. It all happened so quickly after that. I put the car into reverse and began to back out. Here’s the thing:

I hit my son with the car.

I just didn’t see him. He was too small, he was in my blind spot or something. It’s all a blur. I think I looked in my mirrors, I’m sure I did. I just remember feeling the bump. I can’t have hit him that hard. I probably did reverse out quite fast, I said I was feeling reckless, but still, the car had only just started moving. At first I didn’t know what it was. That first sight of him lying on the concrete drive, I’ll never forget that. He just looked so shocked.

“Christ. Charlie, are you ok?” I said, I think.

He didn’t say anything. It was like he was trying to, but he couldn’t. I remember his eyes being so wide open, just staring at me.

“I thought you were watching cartoons.” I said.

He wouldn’t say anything back.

“Can you get up?” I asked.

He just kept staring, his mouth half open, gawping at me. I remember his little white teeth and a line of saliva hanging between his lips.

I’ve tried to work out what he must have been thinking to come outside. He never showed any interest in what I did. Why did he suddenly care this time? He must have heard me shut the back door and followed me out. I don’t know why I didn’t think to lock it. If I was really going to leave I know I would have locked it. I was testing myself. I know how it sounds like I’m trying to justify it, but I honestly don’t think I really would have left. Think about how honest I’ve been already, doesn’t that prove I’m not trying to justify myself?

Then he began to get up. I just remember the relief. He was ok. I saw his head was bleeding then though; it was dripping through his hair on the right side of his head.

“Fuck. Charlie, are you ok?”

God he was small, are four year olds normally that small? He nodded his head and it just seemed unreal. But he was saying he was fine. He was standing up and nodding, showing he was fine.

“Let’s go inside ok?” I said.

He nodded again and I picked him up and went into the kitchen. I sat him down on the kitchen counter.

“Let’s take a look at that little bump.”

It didn’t look so bad, I couldn’t really see. There was too much hair in the way. I ran some hot water and tried to clean it off with a cloth. He breathed in suddenly when I did that, and I thought that was a good thing. That was how he was meant to respond, it was meant to hurt, and he was responding normally.

I cleaned it up as best I could, and when it had stopped bleeding it didn’t look that bad. His face was still so white.

“Do you want to go watch cartoons Charlie” I said. “Let’s go watch cartoons.”

He nodded and I picked him off the counter and we went into the living room.

He died while watching cartoons.

I remember waiting for the ambulance to arrive and knowing he was dead. Looking at him, and feeling nothing. I didn’t know that little boy, but I should have tried. It should have excited me that I didn’t know him. His life could have gone in so many directions, and I hadn't even cared.

I went into the room where all of Charlie’s things were kept. Anna had put the chemistry set on a high shelf out of Charlie’s reach. I pulled it down and took it into the living room where Charlie lay, still looking like he was watching television. I took out the tube of iron filings and tipped them into the box. I kept expecting Charlie to flinch, but he didn’t. I knew he was dead but I kept thinking he would move. I pulled back his hair and picked gently at the little scab that had begun to form. He started to bleed again. I collected some blood in the empty tube. It’s strange, I remember feeling so calm as I did all this, like I had worked out the answer.

I don’t suppose there’s much point in going on for longer. I know there are so many questions about how I acted and I can’t answer them all. I know I should have got him to a hospital sooner, but I didn’t realise how bad it was. And part of me was scared too; I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. For a little while as we watched television it seemed like it hadn’t. We were sitting in the same places as we had been in only twenty or so minutes before. How could so much have changed? But I was also scared about what I would be asked if I did call the ambulance. They would know I had been drinking. I didn’t want to call anyone until the alcohol in my blood had gone down.

I’ve never admitted that to anyone either Sugar. Even Anna doesn’t know I’d been drinking. And she doesn’t know why I was reversing the car. I told her I was just moving it and she believed me. I don’t know why. People do. You can lie to people all the time, and if they want to believe you they will. If they want to see the good in you, they will. I’ve taken advantage of that too much.

I said I’d emerged like a butterfly from a cocoon, and in some ways I was being truthful. I have changed since then, I haven’t drunk for months now, and I don’t think I will again. And the breakdown was a cocoon in a way. I guess a cocoon exists to give a caterpillar total protection, a way that it can change without being thrown about by the outside world. I needed that time. But I also know that I’m still the same person Sugar. I know I have to live with the consequences of what I did. And I also know that I'm not like a butterfly, because I’ve got to keep growing.

It's hard to know how to stop writing to you Sugar, but I've said all I wanted to say. By writing it down I've put some distance on it, and it's easier for me to treat it like a story sometimes. I don't know if I'm manipulating you, but I didn't know how else to tell it. Maybe it's ok to manipulate you. I'll never send this to you anyway.

There is no fitting ending. My son died before he should have died, before either of us were ready to grow. In the end I guess it's all about timing, and I've never been good at that. Maybe in a story they would end by talking about the test tube. I never look inside the chemistry set, but I keep it safe. Maybe one day scientists can use it to bring him back. When I see his name on my forearm I think of the millions and millions of microscopic kernels lying inside his blood. Maybe when the timing's right, when they've written the rule book for magic, they can become something more.

A Strange Kind Of Illness

Matthew sat in his locked office and prepared to do it again. No one knew. Not even his wife. It was a strange kind of illness, so invisible, but so consuming. He was surprised that it had happened to him.

Sometimes thoughts that he believed to be long gone came back and he used them. That was why Charlotte was wearing the same clothes now as that day the four of them had gone to the fair.

He missed those days so much. Matthew lifted Charlotte's hand to his mouth.

He kept his eyes shut as he sucked her fingers. This was always the moment when he could almost believe, almost get lost in it. He could almost feel her again, he could kiss her, as he should have done twenty years ago. But then, as always, Charlotte's eyes glazed and all he could see was how she must have looked after she died, and then just before he killed her, breathing her last breath, terrified as he loomed over her. He tried desperately to bring her back as she used to be, gritted his teeth with effort, but he couldn't. Then all that he had was Lee, smiling at him, giving him the same arrogant look that he'd given him last year. Not a hint of remorse for what he'd done. Lee began to laugh. His fingers were in Matthew's mouth. He bit them.

The pain rushed quickly through his numb hand and he stopped. He always felt so sleazy afterwards. He promised himself never to do it again. But he knew he would.

There was a knock on the door. The door handle was pulled down, but Matthew had locked it.

"It's Mary." came a voice. "I thought you might like a sandwich. Cheese and Pickle all right?"

"I'll be there in a couple of minutes Mary." Matthew called. "I'm a bit busy at the moment."

"I'll leave them outside the door for you then."

"Thanks."

She must know you're up to something, he thought. Who would lock the office door in their lunch hour unless they're up to something? Maybe she wouldn't notice if he went out to see her quickly. Matthew cut the tight elastic band from his wrist and stood up, wiggling his fingers to try to get some feeling back.

*

Matthew was in love. Well, he knew he wasn't really in love, but according to a magazine, he was feeling some sensations, very common sensations, which at thirteen can feel just as powerful. All that he was feeling was a strong crush - (Fuckers!), he thought silently(as he never swore out loud). He would grow out of it, like a pair of shoes.

If he asked Charlotte out he had a chance, but he didn't dare. If she did say no, he would never live it down, and he'd have lost her forever. And anyway, he would feel too embarrassed to tell his parents, and he couldn't take it if he didn't tell them and they found out. They would think he was too young and that he was just being stupid. They would laugh, or worse they would take it seriously and talk to him about it. That would be too much. (Fuck! The thought of it) No one else seemed to have this problem. He had been to his friend Tom's house once and Tom just started talking openly about girls he fancied to his Dad, as if they were mates. Matthew knew he was repressed and he hated it, especially because he was the most open-minded thirteen year old that he knew.

For one thing, it seemed to Matthew that he was the only thirteen year old in the world who had questioned that it might not be wrong to be gay. Well, if any other thirteen year old had, they were keeping pretty quiet. But then, so was he. He had to, or he'd get beaten to a pulp for being a queer. And he was almost a hundred percent sure that he wasn't gay, because of Charlotte for a start, but no one could know about that, because if they did, and they knew he was scared to ask her out, they'd call him frigid. And to be called gay and frigid, that would be hell.

He was always called queer boy, but he could take that, so were lots of kids. It was just something that all the less... aggressive boys had to put up with. If Matthew didn't have so many morals he would have said it back, but since he did he just had to say: "No, I'm not actually." which meant that everyone immediately thought that he was, which Matthew shouldn't have minded, being completely open minded about the issue, but did, because he fancied Charlotte, which was pointless, because he didn't have the guts to ask her out, because he was too worried about what his parents might think. (you fucking loser! Maybe they're right and you are gay. Don't say that Matthew, there's nothing wrong with being gay. Sorry) Matthew's life was a mess and he knew it. He would have been unhappy if it wasn't for the fact that most people liked him.

*

Mary was talking to him about the troubles that she was having with her husband. He was smiling.

"Well, I try to get him to do these things, but he's just so lazy. A typical man." Mary said, trying to stir a reaction.

Matthew's smile widened a little and he nodded. "Absolutely," he said. "We're disgraceful."

"And the heating's playing up again." Mary continued. "I keep telling Dave that we should get the plumber out to look at our pipes, but he tells me to stop whining. You don't think I'm whining do you Mr Johnson?"

Matthew winked. "Of course not Mary." he said.

"So I just don't know when it's going to be fixed. It can't be tonight, it's the pub quiz tonight. Big game of course. Semi-finals."

"Do you want me to test you?"

Mary laughed. "Go on then. I won't get it right though. I'm terrible."

"Right." Matthew announced, sitting up. "Capitals."

Mary groaned.

"What's the capital of Peru?"

Matthew pulled his sleeve back to look at his watch and covered it again quickly.

"Bzzzzzttt." said Matthew. "Times up! Last chance Mary. I'll repeat the question for the benefit of the hard of hearing. What... is the capital of Peru?"

"You're bleeding Mr Johnson."

"Wrong Mary, It's Lima. What?"

"Your fingers."

Matthew looked down. "Fuck!" he said.

*

The bell for lunchtime had already gone.

"Today's last question. Do you know, What's the capital is of Peru, Matthew?" said Mr Friday, whose sentences never made sense.

Matthew sat up straight. He had been so close to getting away with it.

"Oh." he said. "Um... it's on the tip of my tongue..."

"Come on Matthew," said Mr Friday. "You were have meant to learn these for today."

"I did Sir... Oh... Oh... Umm..."

Mr Friday sighed. "What about you Sean?"

Sean didn't even look up.

"Dunno."

"You 'dunno'?"

"No."

Mr Friday gave a long sigh.

"Well Sean," he said. "I guess you'd better stay behind and have made sure you do know it then, hadn't you?"

"Oh si-ir."

"Everyone except Tom, Sean, Mary... and Charlotte dismissed."

Matthew got up from his seat slowly. He was sure that the four left behind were staring at him. He could tell the look from Charlotte was total hate. He should have been there too and they knew it. He couldn't stand the thought of her hating him.

His spine suddenly shivered and he felt a sudden surge of panic, he couldn't just walk out, what was he doing? He didn't want to do it, but... (fuck fuck fuck I'm doing it)

"Umm... Mr Friday?" Matthew said, as the rest of the class were leaving. His hands were shaking and he stuffed them in his trouser pockets. "Mr Friday?"

Mr Friday looked up from his desk. "Yes Matthew?"

"I didn't know the capital either."

Mr Friday frowned. "What?"

"Should I get detention too sir?"

Matthew imagined the other four in the class, looking at him in total disbelief. Sean would be beginning to make hand gestures. He'd be right to.

"You want a detention Matthew?"

"No sir, I just want things to be fair."

Mr Friday laughed.

"Okay Matthew." he said. "Detention tomorrow after school, all right?"

Matthew's shoulders sank. "Can't I have it this lunchtime sir?"

"No."

"Well, that's not fair then is it?" said Matthew, suddenly feeling angry. He took his hands out of his pockets. "Everyone else is getting them now!" (if people didn't know you were in love with Charlotte before Matthew, they will now. Oh fuck.)

"Are you shouting at me?" said Mr Friday.

"No sir." said Matthew, trying to calm down.

Mr Friday was silent for a second. "I want to get you out of my sight Matthew. Now."

"Yes sir." said Matthew quickly, feeling the tears well in his eyes. His heart was thumping as he walked out of the room. (fuck fuck fuck you can't even stand up to anyone can you?) He could feel the eyes of the four in detention on his back as he left. He began to take big gulps of air through his mouth.

(What was the fucking point of that? Why did you have to make a scene Matthew? I hate you. I hate you. I hate you)


The news would be around the whole school by tomorrow. Gay Matthew had asked for a detention. He had only done it so that he could spend a bit more time with Charlotte. He had already passed the fire alarm button when he thought of it.

He knew he was going to cry and he had to stop himself. He had to do something. He had to release. He had to hit something.

A moment later the fire alarm was clanging around the school.

The release was huge. Matthew had never felt so calm.

*

"What have you done Matthew?" asked Mary.

Matthew looked down at his right hand. "Oh, it's nothing." he said. "I was chasing a really fast bird and an anvil fell on me. It's nothing."

"It's all over your shirt. Hold on a second, I'll get the first aid kit."

"There's no need Mary."

"It's no effort Mr Johnson."

"No Mary." said Matthew coldly, but it was too late. Mary had already left the room.

It was finally over. When Mary came back in she would see his hands, see how far down his nails had been chewed. The teeth marks on his knuckles. Then, after that, she would see the permanent red line wrapped around his wrist, the rubber band ring that he use to tie himself to Charlotte.

He was sweating. He reached up to undo the top button of his shirt and left a blood stain on his collar. Mary wouldn't understand. She lived in a world of lazy husbands and pub quizzes, she couldn't understand why he had to do it, he was a freak and he always had been. He couldn't cope with this.

*

Matthew's first memory of Lee was him and his mates urinating at each other in the school showers when he was eleven. Matthew was changing in the corner, and trying to ignore them.

"Look, Lee's taking a slash!" one of them yelled. "Dirty fockin' bastard!"

"Fock off!" replied Lee and took aim.

In some ways Matthew felt jealous of Lee. Perhaps it was his lack of inhibition. Lee could shower, swear, shout and urinate and not care who knew. No one called him a queer - and he pissed on other boys for fun. But it wasn't just that. There was just something that separated him, even from his mates. He was short, fat, had hardly any charisma, but he had a willingness to go a step further, to get into more trouble than anyone else. When Lee's friends misbehaved they did it because they cared about impressing each other. Lee did it because he just didn't give a (fuck).

"Fockin' squares!" he would say to Matthew and his friends, and they would laugh when he was well out of the way.

*

Charlotte had gone out with a lot of boys at secondary school. When he was seventeen, Matthew had worked out that she had averaged one boyfriend every half term. Sometimes he would have given anything to join that club, but he still didn't dare ask. In a way he knew it was because he was cowardly, but he would occasionally reassure himself that this in fact wasn't the case. No, of course not. What Matthew had with Charlotte was far more important, and that was a great friendship.

"Great. Fucking Friendship! With no fucking at all, ever." said Matthew, to himself and out loud. "Just what I've always dreamed of. If you're lucky and you keep on the same route Matt, who am I kidding, you can't get away with Matt. If you're lucky, Matthew, you might live you're whole life without kissing a girl. Thank fucking Christ!"

Still, perhaps in a way it was true. At least he had been able to keep seeing her for far longer than any of her old boyfriends. On the other hand, he couldn't help feeling that perhaps if he had asked her out at the age of thirteen then maybe now his life wouldn't be in such tatters. If he had just got it out of his system when he had the chance maybe he could have moved on. Maybe then he wouldn't have chosen his A-level subjects because they were the same ones that Charlotte was taking.

"You ridiculous fuck! Your A-levels! What is wrong with you?"

He regretted it all the time. For one thing it hadn't even worked. They'd been put in separate classes. Part of him had even been relieved. It meant that he didn't have to cope so much with the guilt. And he could help Charlotte with her homework.

"Patronising fucker. She's capable of doing her own homework!"

*

Matthew was sitting down and staring at his knees as his father spoke to him in their living room.

"Look Matthew," said his Dad. "I don't want to be angry with you, but it's important that we understand why you did it."

Tears began to fall on to Matthew's trousers and he supported his head in his hands. His father moved across the room and sat next to him on the settee. He put his arm around him.

"I know you're upset Matthew, but it's important. You disrupted the whole school. What were you thinking of?"

Matthew shut his wet eyes. "I don't know Dad." he said. "I really don't."

His father was silent for a moment. He kept his arm around his son's shoulders.

"It's just not like you, Matthew, we all know that. Are you getting on all right with the other children?"

"Yes."

"Do you like the school?"

"Yes."

His Dad took a deep breath.

"You know that your Mum and I love you more than you can ever imagine, don't you?"

"Yes Dad." said Matthew. He began to concentrate on his jeans, where a hole was beginning to work it's way through. He began to pick at a loose piece of thread.

"Don't do that Matthew." said his Dad calmly.

"Sorry."

There was another long silence.

"You do know how serious what you have done is, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You know that they won't let you back to school until you apologise to the headmaster."

"Yes." said Matthew and took a deep breath. "But I'm not going to."

Matthew could tell his father was shocked.

"What?" he said.

Matthew looked up at his Dad for the first time.

"I can't apologise."

His father's eyes widened.

"Yes you can." he said.

"I'm not going to."

His father stood up. "WHY?"

"Because I needed to do it."

Matthew could feel his nose running and the tears running down his face. His Dad tried to speak calmly, but it still came out as a half shout.

"I've tried to reason with you Matthew, but I can't do it anymore. You will apologise, and that's the end of it."

Matthew tried to speak, but his voice was choked up.

"I..." he said and took a deep breath. He tried to swallow. "I won't."

His father made a low grunting noise. Then the explosion.

"GO TO YOUR ROOM!" he shouted. "I'M SICK OF THE SIGHT OF YOU!"

Matthew ran upstairs and sank down on his bed. It was the first of three arguments that he had with his parents about apologising to the school. Eventually he gave up. He had cried again in front of the headmaster.

*

It was at least half an hour before he decided that maybe Charlotte wasn't coming and he should begin cycling home. He had a pocketful of change and decided to stop at the newsagents to get a snack. On the way there he met his alcoholic friend Gordon, wearing his school uniform and sipping from a beer can.

Matthew counted his change quickly, grabbed a few things and went to the counter. He handed the money to the woman behind the desk and she sighed as she saw the pile of coppers he'd given her.

"I'm sorry, you haven't got enough." said the woman behind the counter. "You'd better put back the chocolate mice."

Matthew winced. "Oh, sorry." he said. "I must have miscounted, I'll... uh... yeah, I'll put them back."

"Wanker." muttered the person behind.

Matthew ignored him and took his food back to the shelves. As he looked back he realised the person behind him in the queue was Lee. He hadn't changed much. If he'd grown then he hadn't grown as much. He was still fat.

"I bet you feel stupid now!" Lee said, grinning as he walked passed Matthew.

Matthew gave a sarcastic laugh.

"Oh, I feel terrible." (shit I might have overdone the sarcasm there)

Lee's grin disappeared and he left the shop.

Matthew left the shop a couple of minutes later and offered a chocolate to Gordon. He declined and handed back Matthew's bike. They walked down the road together.

"Oy!" said a voice from behind a few steps later. Matthew turned and saw Lee walking after them. He ignored him.

"Oy!" Lee said again. "Oy! Say you feel terrible!"

Matthew carried on walking. He felt a thud on his back.

"Say you feel terrible!"

Matthew turned around.

"All right!" Matthew said. "I feel terrible."

Lee punched him in the face, just below the nose.

"Say you feel terrible, ya fockin' wanker!" he said, hitting him again.

Matthew took a few steps back. Lee bounced towards him again and punched him in the chest.

"Why are you hitting me?" Matthew shouted, feeling disoriented. "Why are you hitting me?"

Lee hit him in the face again.

Matthew was nearly six foot and Lee was at least a head shorter. He thought about it a lot afterwards, why he didn't hit back.

(Jesus wouldn't hit back. But you tell people you're an atheist! Well, maybe I am maybe I'm not. Anyone with sense would have hit back. John Lennon wouldn't have! I bet he would)

Lee punched him once more on the bridge of his nose and then suddenly he was gone, bouncing up the road.

(He must have been embarrassed that you weren't falling down. Thank God I didn't fall down. You probably would have if you'd have remembered)

Then Matthew was sobbing in the road. He tried to pull himself together, feeling embarrassed. He was seventeen. He had no right to be crying. He gasped for air. Matthew looked across at Gordon.

"I was... er... holding your bike for you." he said.

*

Matthew's face was pale. There was a blank look in his eyes as he stared forward at the old man crying. He wanted to listen to him, but he just couldn't. His mind was numb. If only he had gone to the police all those years ago. Then things would be different. Lee's path would have changed. He could have stopped this.

Caroline was sitting next to him. Matthew hoisted the five-year-old on to his lap. She was still for a few seconds before she began to struggle again.

"Let go Daddy." she said, pulling at his arms around her waist.

Matthew snapped out of his trance.

"Quiet sweetheart." he whispered to her. "Not long to go now."

Caroline continued to struggle.

"Let go!" she yelled at him.

"Quiet!" said Matthew.

"I want to go home!" screamed Caroline.

Matthew sighed and looked at Lisa.

"I'll take her outside." she whispered to him. "Come on. Let's go for a walk."

"Is Daddy coming?" said Caroline.

"No, Daddy's staying here for a while."

Matthew put his head in his hands and shut his eyes. He couldn't think why he had insisted that Caroline come anyway.

Her husband was crying in the front row. Matthew envied him. If only it was that easy to release his emotions. He hadn't cried once. He just wanted to let it out, but it was clinging to him. If it was just sadness it might have been possible, but he was too angry. For the first time in his life he wanted to kill someone. He wanted to put his hands around Lee's fat stubby neck and squeeze it tight until his head turned blue. It might not make him feel better, but it would be something. Christ, the little bastard didn't even have the courtesy to be drunk when he did it.

Lee got off with a caution for careless driving. That was the worst thing in Matthew's mind. Sixty miles an hour on a road with a thirty-mile an hour speed limit and he had been let off. The jury didn't even think his driving was worth calling dangerous, because there weren't clear signs. And the judge noted his genuine remorse.

That was typical of Lee, hiding behind a technical excuse. He couldn't even say it was his fault. He had lived in the town all his life and he knew the speed limit. He hadn't even given up driving.

He had driven again since the accident. He'd visited his children in the car last Tuesday and gone out with his mates on Wednesday. Matthew had been watching him. Genuine remorse, he had hardly shown that. Matthew had gone into the pub and Lee had been bouncing around, laughing with his mates as usual. At one point Lee had looked at him, sitting alone on the other side of the pub. He hadn't even shown recognition.

*

Matthew shut his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. She would be back in the office in a minute and there would be no escaping it.

He had intended to walk over, but he ended up running.

The fire bell sounded loudly around the building. Matthew waited. He didn't feel any different.

Mary rushed in.

"Come on, we've got to get out." she said.

Matthew sighed.

"I pressed it Mary."

"What?"

"I pressed the fire alarm."

"Why?"

"It was an accident. I tripped over and pressed it."

Mary looked shocked for a second and then laughed.

"Oh dear." she said, "We're in big trouble!"

Matthew smiled. "I guess I'd better go and explain."

Mary nodded.

"You don't think I'll get a detention do you?" he asked.

This is Not a Knee Play.

This story was originally published in the first BBC Get Writing Anthology.

BBC - Get Writing Anthology




Your problem is you’re mucky, said head.

Shut up head, I said disapprovingly, I don’t have any problems.

Head was a head. A pig’s head. Which I had got because it reminded me of the one that used to scare me as a kid, laughing at me from the butcher’s window.

Oh you’ve got big problems, said head. Massive! You’re mucky, you smell, you never leave the room.

I leave the room, I said, not looking at him.

I tried not to look at head too much these days, mainly because whenever I did he seemed to be looking less and less like a pig.

Not unless you have to, said head.

Well you never leave the room either, I said.

That’s because I have no body to go with!

Was that a joke?

Well, in a way but it was the kind of joke that’s tinged with sadness because at the bottom of it is the truth. And it’s a sad truth, said head.

Stop complaining, I said.

Head didn’t dwell on it. Why don’t you ever go out though? he asked.

Head, I said. I go out when I want to. And anyway I’m not ready yet. You know what a knee play is?

I’m pig ignorant.

He spoke with this European accent, and had done since I mounted him on the broom handle which I’d stuck in a large flower pot. I asked him why once, he said because he was Polish. It was another one of those jokes. Typical that I get the head with a love of word play. I took him off the broom handle when the pressure slowly forced its way through the top of his skull and he slid down the pole and rested on the soil. Even I felt sorry for head that day. But he’d got the voice fixed by then. It was just head’s voice now. Fake Polish. Which is something like Russian combined with Turkish.

Enthrall me then, said head.

You know I like Phillip Glass? I said.

You pretend to like Phillip Glass, but your favourite song is Drumming is my Madness by Ringo Starr.

Shut up head. It’s not my favourite song, but I can’t stop listening to it. It’s horrible, but it’s got this hold on me, I can’t let it go. It’s the most disturbing thing I ever heard and I don’t quite know why. It’s meant to be fun, I think. From Stop and Smell The Roses, 1981. Track 3.

Well anyway, Phillip Glass wrote this 5 hour opera with Robert Wilson in the 1970s called Einstein On The Beach and it had no break in it, I said.

I wouldn’t have made it through five hours, said head.

They invited you to wander in and out as you wanted.

Pah! said head, you’re so insensitive to my condition.

Sorry head. But anyway, in between all the scenes they had these things called knee plays, which were small plays to join the scenes together. Like a knee you see. A joining part between the bones.

I see already! said head.

And that’s what this is. What you and me are. We’re just a knee play between the important bits, while I get myself up to scratch.

Always look after your knees, said head bitterly.

I ignored him.

So I’ll go out when I’m ready.

When will you know you’re ready?

I’m not big enough, not strong enough yet. Got to build up my body more, can’t be a skinny little boy anymore.

Look at you though! You’re a mountain of a man! You’re carved from oak, you’re a beauty. Not like when I first knew you, skinny little runt. Shouldn’t say runt of course, my dead brother was a runt, but you were a bit. And now, well, you’re a beauty!

You’re very kind sometimes head, I said, feeling my pride swell, I had worked hard. Made a vow, wouldn’t leave until I’d become something. Until I could go and take her back, make her wish she’d never gone, new body, new outlook, new way. She’d be sorry. And he’d be insignificant in comparison.

Sometimes… said head, then stopped.

What is it head?

Well, just sometimes I wish I was loved like you loved her.

Love her, I corrected him.

Yes, just sometimes.

Oh head, I said, don’t get like that. You’re loved.

You don’t even look at me anymore! head cried. Then he did one of his horrible piggy squeals, the kind that make your toes curl, the kind that make you not guilty for eating bacon. Sometimes I wish I had an apple to shove in his mouth. Once head started squealing I knew he wouldn’t stop, not for a good while. Not until something was done to settle him, but I just couldn’t look at him now. Last time had given me such a fright. And he was shrill. Very. Becoming worse.

And then the light bulb shattered. I didn’t have shoes on either, I never work out with shoes on. It was pitch black, which meant that I was bound to cut my feet while scrambling around. Unless I made a leap up onto the bed, but I didn’t want to now, seeing as head was on there. What an idiot he was. The plunge into darkness had stopped his squeal. But then he began to weep.

Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you head. You can’t just do that. It’s too immature.

I was just upset, said head, between sniffs. You, you, never look at me!

Well now I can’t look at you can I! I snapped. I was really annoyed, frozen to the spot and only half way through my work out. Head was silent for a moment. Then the inevitable:

I’m sorry.

Yes, well, I said.

Stuck in the black. It may only have been a couple of minutes, but I listened as head’s sniffing slowed down and eventually stopped. And then I couldn’t hear him at all, and after that time quickly began to drag. I hoped one of us would say something soon, I didn’t want it to be me. Finally I heard head’s voice behind me.

Would you mind if I ask you a question? he said, his voice meek and sycophantic.

I sighed, pretending it was the last thing that I would want. Go on then.

I don’t know if you’ll like it, he said.

Well I probably won’t.

Why don’t you look at me?

I suddenly realised how cold I was, motionless in the dark, only my track-suit bottoms on. Would have liked to be under my duvet. But that was near head.

Oh I don’t know head, I really don’t.

Try, said head.

Well, you’ve changed so fast, I said, and I didn’t expect that to happen.

Nobody does, said head.

Look I’m cold okay, I said, I’m going to jump on to the bed because I don’t want to cut my feet open on bits of glass, then I’m going to get under the duvet.

Could I go under the duvet too? said head.

I’d really rather you didn’t. No offence, I just like my space.

Head didn’t say anything, and I was worried he was giving me the silent treatment. But then: Just don’t land on me okay? I’m delicate enough as it is.

I won’t I said.

So I jumped and landed on the bed, relieved that I didn’t land on head. But then I lost my balance somehow and stepped back off, putting my foot in the glass. I felt the skin tear open and the glass go deep. There was no pain at first, but I knew it was coming. I didn’t scream, but head knew something was wrong.

Are you all right?

Not sure. Stupid. So stupid. How am I going to work out now?

Upper body work only, said head.

The pain was coming now and I wished there was some light so I could see how bad it looked. I stepped back up onto the bed and lay down.

I’m sorry, said head.

I ignored him, but he was very close now and I wasn’t sure I liked it. I wasn’t sure why head was upsetting me so much at the moment. No wonder he felt neglected. I sat up with my back against the wall, I knew head was right beside me. I pulled my foot up and felt gently for bits of glass. There was a huge shard still sticking out of the ball of my foot. I gently tugged at it, but it was stuck. Ouch.

I wish there was something I could do.

I pulled hard at the shard and it cut my finger as it came out.

When you say that I’m changing, what do you mean?

This isn’t the time head.

I could feel blood ooze between my toes onto the duvet.

I just want to know because things change, you know that, that’s all your trying to do is change, but you don’t want me to change. That’s not really fair.

Head! I said , I’m in a lot of pain.

So am I!

No you’re not.

I am, I’m sad.

Yes but this is real pain head.

This is the most real pain there is, and I’m feeling it now... I-

Then I lost it.

YOU’RE A PIG’S HEAD! I shouted.

Head went silent. I carried on trying to pull bits of glass but my concentration wasn’t in it.

A pig’s head? said head eventually.

Yes, I said, you know that.

What? A pig’s head? If you’d have bothered to look at me you’d have seen I haven’t been a pig’s head for some time.

I DON’T LIKE TO LOOK AT YOU! YOU’RE NOT THE SAME ANYMORE! I shouted.

I could feel the blood pumping out of my foot. It was making me slightly hysterical. I was expecting head to unleash one of his squeals again, but he was just silent.

Eventually I realised there wasn’t much more I could do until there was some light. I lay back on the bed.

Goodnight head, I said.

Head didn’t say anything. I was silent for a moment, giving him another chance to reply. Saying nothing was just rude.

Goodnight head!

Still silence. I sat up.

What? I said, really annoyed, there was no need for this.

I didn’t say anything, said head.

Oh don’t be like that.

Like what?

You know.

A few more seconds quiet. I started singing quietly to myself: Drumming makes me crazy, ha! Ha! Ha! Ho. And then head’s rant began. When it started I wanted to get off the bed and roll in the glass but I stopped myself, endured it, listened.

I do everything your way. You act like I’m unjust but I’m the one stuck here, I can’t do anything unless you want me too. And I might make fun of you occasionally, and annoy you because I tell you you’re mucky, that you need to tidy your room, but generally I just listen to your problems and I do what I can to help. And you don’t even have the respect to look at me! You act so superior, you say YOU’RE A PIG’S HEAD, like that’s my fault. And even when I’m not a pig’s head, you still call me it. Well I can accept that you’re changing, and I can tell you how proud I am, and that you’re going to dazzle her when you go back, but you know what I think? I think you can do better. I mean it’s good that you got in shape, but come on! You don’t need to go back. Times have changed. Stop seeing this as a knee play, start seeing this as your life.

I was silent for a while. I’m sorry head, I said, after a while. You’re right I know. But part of me just can’t help but think that I want to change things, that things could have been better.

Things are better said head. I’m here now.

And you’re important, you really are, I said.

I am, said head. It means a lot that you say that.

But things are changing, said head, or was it me? I can’t remember.

Things are changing, one of us agreed.

I won’t be here for long now, said head.

What do you mean? I said.

I’m changing too fast. If you’d just looked at me.

The thing is, you were looking less and less like a pig, I said, and I wasn’t sure that you were, and the implications of that scared me.

Everyone’s scared by implications, said head. But what you’ve got to know is that everything has implications. For better or worse, everything you do has implications.

When did you become so wise? I said.

I’m not wise, said head. I just haven’t got a choice to do anything but study you.

Sometimes I don’t know if this is a knee play or a morality play, I said.

It’s neither, said head.

I think my foot had stopped bleeding, it was a dull ache now. I hoped I didn’t have glass stuck in it. Okay, I said, implications.

Implications, said head. I’m going soon.

I don’t want to lose you, I said.

Want or want not, I’ll be gone, said head.

I don’t like being alone.

Cope, said head. Very strong. I couldn’t hear the Polish anymore.

This has got to end, said head.

I don’t want it to.

Yet it must, said head. It will, you’ve no choice.

And then I felt sad. Really sad, and I let out this piggy squeal. For a long time. Getting more shrill. And head squealed too, high pitched together, until we were both so tired we couldn’t do it anymore.

If you’re not a pig then what are you? I asked eventually, when I’d got my breath back.

Think, said head, and don’t be scared of the implications. Or be scared, but don’t pretend they don’t exist.

I think… sometimes… I said and stopped. I think sometimes I don’t look at you because I know that part of me knows you’re not a pig, but you’re him. Her… her lover. And I don’t want to think about that. Don’t want to think about a human head that I mounted, neck dripping blood, brains squashed by a pole.

Too obvious! said head, and there’s no need to be disgusting. You know I’m not him! Him? How can you say that about me, I look nothing like him! If you ever looked at me.

I know you’re not actually him, I said. But I think I wanted him to be you, because I hated him so much, I wanted to have power over him. And sometimes I got confused, I thought you really were.

Oh, you’re projecting him onto me.

I guess, I said. But there’s no need to make it sound like I’m stupid.

I didn’t.

Sometimes you don’t know you’re doing it.

Think harder, said head. What am I?

I was silent for a long time.. I thought hard, thought if I dug deep enough inside I’d understand. I don’t know, I said eventually.

EXACTLY, said head. You’ve got it, you don’t know and you’re too afraid to find out. I just want you to stop being so afraid. Feel me, you won’t be able to for long.

I didn’t like the idea of feeling head, but I knew I had to. I reached out and put my hands on him. Felt his cheeks, cold soft skin, slightly damp. I felt his nose, not a snout, but something like one. His hair. Ears much smaller than they once had been. I reached inside his mouth and felt his teeth, wobbling slightly now as I touched them.

I still don’t know what you are, I said.

I don’t know what I am either!

I felt very fond of head at that moment, felt very bad for how I had treated him. I picked him up and held him above me as I lay down, looked into where I imagined his eyes would be. I lowered him to me, touched him nose to nose. I shut my eyes, loved him. Head began to weep again and I felt his tears drip into my eyes.

It’s got to end now, said head. It can’t go on.

You’re right, I said, pressed my cheek to his.

I want to go out in style.

You will.

It won’t be nice for you.

But the only fitting ending.

You know it won’t hurt me.

It will hurt me.

Start it now then. Enough of this.

I knew the glass shard was beside me on the bed. I put head down and picked it up. I carved through the middle of head first, split him in too. He was much softer than I expected. Then into quarters. Then eighths, sixteenths. He was as soft as jelly. I popped each piece of head into my mouth, swallowed it down whole, which was easier than I expected. I would be very ill, but it was the only way.

When he was gone I lay back down and shut my eyes. Waited. Ringo kept playing in my head again and again. I let it play out until there was silence. More waiting, sweating slightly now. I felt my face and couldn’t work out if that was how I expected it to feel. I shut my eyes.

Time to go.

Branded Memories.

Branded Memories.
This story was originally published in issue 12 of Spiked Magazine, November 2002

SPIKED MAGAZINE



I can't help staring at you. At the long scar that works its way down the side of your left leg. You're wearing a red dress and I sit in the dark, huddled with my chin on my knees. Sometimes I think you must be a magic woman because the fire is almost too hot even from my position, and you're no more than an arm's length away. Your clothes should have caught fire by now, but you don't seem bothered by the heat at all. And as you continue to dance around the furnace, closer than anyone else can manage, twirling your red dress so that the flames try to lick the hem, I can only think about your scar.

I have to keep reminding myself that you're not magic and you never will be. You made me feel loved like no one else has ever managed, but you don't even know me. It's been a long time, but you haven't changed since you gave me that hug. Not like I have anyway. And you were the one who stopped me changing too much. Thank you.

I don't know how you got that scar, but I first saw it when I was nine, the day it happened. I remember sobbing, screaming with the pain, unable to control myself. It must have hurt your ears I screamed so loud. You just held me and didn't try to make me stop. You were naked and kneeling on the kitchen floor, your arms tight around me. It's weird to be frightened by the sound of your own screaming, but even now I am. Ten years on and sometimes when I shut my eyes I can still hear my own blistering cry, accompanied by the image of the scar on your leg that was all I could focus on. Sometimes I have to open my eyes and take a few deep breaths to make it go.

Seeing the scar again somehow brings back the memory of the pain and I almost feel angry, as though you're taunting me with it. I keep having to stop myself from being annoyed that you would wear something that shows it. I don't know whether that's because it makes me remember or because it means that you're sharing it with other people. My body itches as I look at you. It feels like ants are crawling over the mangled lumps and bumps of skin on my chest and sides and legs. The heat from the fire makes me want to shut my eyes, but somehow I daren't. I don't want the sound of the scream to come back as well.

I wouldn't have come to this party if I'd known you would be here and that's terrible because you're my saviour and I think your the only woman I'll ever love. But my memories of you are too wrapped up in the pain. It's late now, well past midnight and people have left me well enough alone. I guess they assume I'm drunk like everyone else is. No one seems that bothered to talk to me anyway, everyone seems enthralled by the dance that you're taking part in. I don't know what you're doing here because I'm sure you don't know any of the same people as I do. And you're ten years older, what are you doing at a party full of kids like me?

This is ridiculous, I've got to stop this. You were just my baby-sitter. I think you looked after me a few times when I was younger, but after the incident you never came again. You used to stay the night and Mum or Dad would drive you back in the morning. I hope the reason you never came back wasn't because you felt guilty. You musn't even feel that. You didn't do anything wrong. I hope my parents told you that as well.

But you're not just my baby-sitter because you've grown in my mind since then. You were the first naked woman I ever saw; of course you're going to become my fantasy, my only ideal. You've become a myth to me because I haven't seen you since. Maybe if you hadn't just disappeared after that day then I'd be over you by now.

There have been times when I haven't been able to get the scar out of my head and so instead of trying to get rid of it I linger on it, imagine how you got it. Perhaps in a mad dash through the forest as you escaped from wolves, carrying the baby that they had abducted against your chest. Perhaps as you battled your way through the thorns that had grown around the enchanted castle, you determined to save a child whose tortuous screams echoed through the walls. Mostly though I try not to think about it at all.

But now I can't help it, because you're right here in front of me. The fire glows orange on your skin and it makes me upset at how disgusting I am in comparison. Most of the guys here are still wearing shorts because it was so hot today, but I can't because I'm too ashamed of the way I look. My life's been hell since you gave me that hug.

My memories of that day are strange because I know some of it can't have happened like it did. It's turned into a slow motion movie in my head. I always see the pan turn three times in the air before the water and vegetables spill out. But first I see my parents going out and leaving you in charge. You silhouetted against the bright sunshine as you wave goodbye to them from the door. You turning and coming into view as you step out of the light. I don't know how much time really past before you said to me "Right, I'll put on your dinner and then I'll have a quick shower...", but in my mind it happened immediately.

And then you in the shower, which I know I never saw, hearing my screams and dashing out, wrapping the white towel around you, and finding me bawling, in more pain than I let myself remember. You running towards me, and pulling off my hot wet clothes. Tipping freezing cold water over me with anything you could find and then ripping off your towel and soaking it before wrapping me in it. Holding it tight around me, only letting go to tip more cold water over me.

I'm sure you spoke to me, but I don't remember much after the hug. The movie stops at the unsatisfying finale, the sound-track stuck on the sound of my own scream; the image frozen on your scar. And I know the movie will never end acceptably because my own scars will never go away. There can't be a happy, healing ending. At the most there will be this: an improper epilogue where I see you again and again and again.

You continue to dance around the flames as you always will when there's nothing else to distract me. You, who's become the magic woman in my mind. You, who held me so tight and then disappeared from my life. I don't know where you are now, but sometimes I can almost not hate my scars because they brand me with the knowledge that you were once real, not just an adolescent's fantasy girl. Soon someone will talk to me and I'll be distracted again. The flames that are licking so close will again consume you. And I can get on with my life.

Memory Book

Start now. Don't think about it, just write. Where did it start? Last week I guess. Only last week. Yes that's it. At about midnight last Tuesday, at exactly the same time as I was thrown off the bike. That's when I suddenly remembered seeing the mermaid. The chain locked and I somersaulted over the handlebars. Then, as my head was flying towards concrete, she was all I could think about, this woman-but-not, smiling at me, and I was a kid again. I smiled back and she began to swim closer.

And then... BANG! My chin met road and the mermaid was knocked back out of my head.

Was this really only last week? I remember it took me a minute or so to stand up. I squinted, trying to find a familiar object in the dark and by luck I spotted a phone box. That's typical Sam luck that is. God throws me off a bike, but he'll do it by a phone box. It's like when I nearly died drinking a bottle of vodka, but was saved because a nurse happened to be passing. Or like when I fell through that green house and only cut myself on a cactus. Well, maybe that's not quite the same, but there's something weird going on I'm telling you. It's like I'm cursed or blessed or something. If I was religious I'd think I was being punished. Maybe the only reason I keep being saved is because I'm a loveable rascal. I tell you, if I lose my boyish charm, I'm screwed. I'll be struck be lightning on a sunny day.

I phoned home. My brother grudgingly agreed to come in the car and get me. I thanked him and put the phone down, trying hard not to begrudge his grudgingness too much. Blood was dripping onto my shirt from my chin and for some reason the backs of my hands were really grazed. I was freezing, even though it was summer.

I'm freezing now. A bit scared.


My brother didn't seem to be talking. He'd hardly said a word since picking me up.
"I must have been at Nan's." I said.
"What?" said my brother.
"When I saw her."
"Who?"
"The mermaid."
My brother glanced across at me and sighed. "Don't think that I don't know what you're doing."
I frowned. My chin was still bleeding and I was holding a tissue to it now. "What?"
"I know what you're doing and you can just stop it now. It won't work." he said.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're pretending to have concussion so that I won't mention that you stole the bike. You deserve everything you get, you little runt."
My brother gets like this sometimes. All self righteous, like he has any right to tell me off. He's okay though, most of the time. It's just when he thinks that he's my Dad or something that I hate him. Normally I wouldn't have let him do it, but I remember he began to sound a bit distant as he had a go at me. All of a sudden I didn't feel so well. I felt really sick, and I was sweating. I couldn't even summon up the energy to argue back.
"Whatever you say." I said.

We got back home and my Mum was up waiting for us. She rushed outside in her dressing gown as I got out of the car.
"Baby." she said, pretending I was about five. "Are you all right?"
"Ummmm..." I said. "Yeah. Just a little dazed I guess."
"Aaaahhh, diddums." said my needy parent, sticking out her bottom lip and trying to hug me.
To be honest, I would have appreciated a bit of motherly comfort, but I knew I'd be back to seven-thirty bedtimes before the end of the week if I let her. I was feeling really sick though. My shirt was wet with sweat.
"I'm sixteen, Mum." I said. "I... I..."

And that's all I remember. Apparently, I was sick over my Mum's dressing gown and then passed out.


I remember the dream I had that night. It was kind of sexy - technicolor and terrifying. I was underwater in a green sea and her face was much clearer. She looked like nothing I'd ever seen before, not in books or movies. Her scales started just below her breasts, shimmering silver and green. The scales covered a tail that was more like an eel than a fish, ending in this thin wiggling point. The un-humanness of it made me feel uneasy and I looked back at her upper half. She smiled at me and I saw that she had beautiful white teeth, ever so slightly pointed.

Then she was so close in front of me that I could touch her with my nose. She put her arms around my waist and touched her cheek to mine. It was almost as soft as the water. She moved her head back slightly and I looked into the brightest green eyes, framed by the tanned skin of her face. I realised that I wanted to kiss her. I shut my eyes and placed my lips on hers. I was relieved when she kissed me back. My mouth opened slightly and my tongue met hers. I immediately wretched, revolted at the feel of the scales on her tongue. The mermaid looked hurt and put her arms out for me to come back. I began to swim away, but she followed. Then I saw that she had no hands, only turtle fins at the end of her wrists. I screamed, panicking as she touched me.

A light was on in my room when I woke up and it disoriented me, I wasn't sure if it was morning or night. My curtains were just above my bed and I reached up and pulled one of them across. I was relieved when daylight streamed in, pleased that I could get on with life. I put my hand to my chin and realised that there was a large plaster over it, stretching from one cheek to the other.
Subtle, I thought, peeling it off carefully and chucking it on the floor.
Normally I tend to lie in my bed until people start throwing wooden objects at me, but this time I decided to get up straight away. To be honest the dream freaked me out. I don't know, in some ways I liked it, but it scared me as well. I just wanted to forget about it.

I got out of bed and realised that my whole body was stiff, like that time when I decided to get muscles and spent the entire day in the YMCA gym. With embarrassment I realised that I was naked and that my Mum must have stripped me last night. I examined my chin in the mirror. I was impressed. There were blood stains all the way down my neck. Then I noticed that my hair was combed. I mean, how weird is that? I never comb my hair. I pass out and my Mum takes the opportunity to strip me naked and comb my hair. What is wrong with that woman? I know things aren't easy for her, but what is she like? It really annoyed me at the time, I remember. I put on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts and walked into our lounge. She was in there.
"Morning Jane." I said to her, winking as I passed.
"I'm not Jane, I'm Mum." she said.
I started to walk towards the kitchen to get some breakfast, but she called me back.
"Sam." she said. "Come here."
Her voice was stern and I knew I was in trouble.
"What?" I said, in an equally stern voice.
"Sit down."
I slouched in our armchair, waiting for the tell off.
"Why did you steal that bike?"
I looked innocently at her.
"I didn't!" I protested, looking doe-eyed.
"Yes you did." my Mum answered back.
"It was Tommy's bike. He let me borrow it."
"Don't lie to me Sam. I can tell."
"I'm not lying!"
"Look, the bike's in the back of the car. We can either drive over to Tommy's and I'll ask his Mum, or you can tell me the truth."
I am so stupid! As soon as I'd said it was Tommy's I knew it was a mistake. I sighed.
"All right." I said, trying to act cool. "You got me. I took it. But I think it was abandoned anyway. I mean, the person didn't even lock it. How stupid is that?"
I waited for the shouting to start, but it didn't. Instead my Mum just got up and walked into the kitchen. I don't know if it was a deliberate tactic on her behalf, but it surprised me. She was normally more a scream now and think later kind of person, like me. I followed her. She was standing by the kitchen table with her back to me.
"Mum?" I said innocently.
She turned around and there were tears in her eyes. My Mum never cries.
"Mum, what's the matter?"
She sniffed. "WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU?" she blurted out. "Why do you do this to me?"
"I'm not doing anything to you, Mum." I answered.
She was really crying, I couldn't believe it. "Yes you are, Sam. You're draining me. Can't you see that?"
I shook my head. I didn't know whether to shout back or to hug her. I went up to her, but she shoved me away.
"I'm sorry, Mum." I said, almost feeling like crying myself.
My Mum took a breath and pulled herself together a bit. Her eyes were puffy and she looked more angry with me than I'd ever seen her.
"You're not sorry though are you?" she said.
I looked at the floor.
"Yes I am."
"But you keep doing it Sam." my Mum said, suddenly disconcertingly calm. "Why do you keep doing it? It's not the bike, it's everything. The shoplifting, not telling us where you are... Why Sam?"
I kept staring at the floor.
"Why?" she repeated.
Then I did something that I hadn't done in three years. I started crying too. I tell you, it was an emotional morning. I kept expecting my Mum to hug me, like she had done every time I'd ever cried before. But she stayed where she was.
"Why Sam?"
"I don't know." I sobbed. "I just do."
My Mum stayed quiet and I suddenly felt embarrassed to make such a fuss. I sniffed as hard as I could, like I was trying to pull the tears back or something.
"You just think you're the Artful Dodger, don't you?" my Mum said, when I was quiet.
I frowned at her. "Who?" I asked. I want her to think I'm stupid. That way she'll be more prepared for when she gets my exam results next month.
"Sit down." My Mum said, pointing at the kitchen table. "We're going to sort this out."

But we didn't sort it out. Not really. I've screwed everything up so badly. And she'll think it's her fault. Sometimes I think if she just left me alone I'd be okay.
Jesus, I sound miserable. And I'm definitely not. I'm Sam, people like me. They like my smile. I'll be fine. I know that my Mum's heart's in the right place and everything, but she just worries too much. I mean, I know I do things that aren't exactly legal sometimes, but never anything serious. I didn't say it, but to be honest I think she's a bit hypocritical. She almost always drives ten miles over the speed limit and I've seen her park on double yellow lines loads of times. It's all the same thing. She's just scared that I'm in with the wrong crowd, I think. And that's just stupid. I mean, I'd agree that a lot of the people I hang out with are idiots, but they're not dangerous. Well, maybe a couple of them are getting that way, but it's better to be a friend than an enemy, right? And that doesn't matter anyway now. I probably won't see any of them again after the summer. I just think my Mum needs to relax more. I'm not violent and I don't take hard drugs. She should be grateful.

Going to stay at my Nan's was my idea and my Mum agreed straight away. For the past few years I'd avoided her house like the plague and so I think my Mum was relieved that I'd remembered I even had a Grandmother. Don't get me wrong, my Nan's a great lady and everything, she's just so old. And there's just nothing to do when you're there. She bakes you cakes and you eat them. That's it. But things were different this time. It seems really stupid saying it, but to be honest this whole mermaid thing was just becoming more and more clear in my mind. I can't really explain it, but this memory kept coming back. It sounds ridiculous, but it's true. I was definitely at the beach near my Nan's house when I saw her, and I had to investigate at least. It might be absurd, but after that dream I had, I was beginning to think that it was some sort of calling.

I didn't think this straight away or anything, it just began to seem more and more that way, as though all the pieces were falling into place. In fact, at the kitchen table, when I first suggested going, the mermaid was hardly on my thoughts at all. Mostly, I just wanted to get away from the house and this town for a while. And I wouldn't tell this to my Mum, because she'd just take it as proof that they were all murderers or something, but part of me did want to get away from my mates for a while as well.

The problem is that they just come round every day and expect me to do whatever they want. It's not that I don't like them or anything, but most of them are so stupid it's painful. Tommy's quite bright, and maybe Griff, but the rest of them can hardly tie their shoe-laces. It's pathetic. And do you know what's worse? It's embarrassing, but the worst thing is that I do exactly whatever they want me to. I hate to admit it, but it's true. It's like I'm afraid to be different or something. I don't know. With brains like they've got I should be moulding them into my own private army or something, but instead I'm just a foot soldier for the hollow heads. People see me and they think that I'm just like them, and that's the worst thing. When this summer's over I'm sure we'll all go our separate ways and that'll be the end of it. I hope so anyway. I just want to be alone when I join the dole queue. I don't want them there, making crap jokes about the enormous tits of the woman behind the counter. I don't want to be laughing too.

So it was agreed. I would stay at my Nan's house for a couple of weeks and I would go on Friday. The image of the mermaid stayed with me more and more over those two days, more so because it was something that I was embarrassed to talk about. I mean, mermaids and stuff, it just sounds really childish when you think about it. Finally, the urge overtook me and I mentioned it to my brother.
"This is going to sound really dumb," I said on Thursday. "So just bear with me. You know you thought I was concussed the other day..."
"No, Sam. I didn't-" my brother started aggressively before I interrupted him.
"-Okay okay, you know you thought I was pretending to have concussion..."
"Oh yes I remember that."
He wasn't even looking at me. He was staring at a magazine. FHM or something.
"Well, I wasn't."
"You weren't concussed or you weren't pretending?"
"I wasn't pretending."
"Yeah right." he said sarcastically.
He was already getting on my nerves and I was starting to think that talking to him at all was a really bad idea. For some reason I persevered. "Look, I'm with you on this one." I answered back sternly. "What I'm trying to say is that I wasn't pretending to be concussed at all. I was just trying to talk to you about this memory I had."
My brother looked up.
"What?" he said.
"I told you this is going to sound stupid, but it's true. I've got this really vivid memory of being about six years old and seeing this mermaid. It only came to me just before you collected me in the car."
My brother smirked and a mock-serious look appeared on his face.
"Mermaids...." he said. "Okay."
"Look." I said. "I just thought that you might remember something about it too. I mean, it happened when I was six and I know I wouldn't have been allowed out on my own then. You were probably with me."
My brother was silent, but his expression remained.
"Well..." he said. "I don't remember any mermaids... but you know my memory always has been bad. I remember the faces but not the bodies."
I think he was expecting me to laugh, but I didn't. God, I hate him sometimes.
"I'm serious about this." I said. "I remember it really vividly."
My brother stared at me. It was probably the expression on my face which made him stop.
"Look Samboy. I have a vivid memory of flying around my bedroom when I was little."
"Really?" I said.
"Oh yeah. You know those bunk beds we used to have? I jumped right off the top and flew around the light bulb until I got tired. But the fact is that I know that I couldn't have been flying and so it can't have happened. It must have been a dream or something. I'd probably watched Peter Pan or something before going to bed. There's no point in dwelling on it."
I sighed. It kind of depressed me.
"Yeah," I said. "I suppose you're right."
But I couldn't give up that easily. I just couldn't. There was something more to my memory than watching a film or reading a book before I went to bed. I was sure of it. It just felt so right. And going to my Grandmothers just seemed to fit in so perfectly. I've told you I'm not religious, but there was something going on. It couldn't be just coincidence. The mermaid's face was so clear to me now. It had happened. It must have. Why would my memories lie?

So I arrived yesterday evening, and walked the ten minutes to my Grandmother's house. I rang the doorbell twice and then knocked. Eventually I heard the floorboards creaking. A little old lady answered the door, much smaller and older than I had expected. Her white hair was tied back in a tight bun and a delicate pair of gold rimmed spectacles sat low on her nose. I don't think I've ever seen her look through those glasses, only over them. It made anyone who received her glare feel like a naughty child. I felt six years old again as soon as I saw her. If my mermaid had fallen out of the sky at that moment I don't think I would have been surprised.
"Hello boy." my Grandmother croaked. "This is a surprise."
I swallowed before I spoke, feeling guilty that I hadn't seen her for so long.
"How are you Nan?" I asked.
The old woman in front of me smiled and I felt a sudden panic that it might tear her face. Her skin had aged the most. It wrapped itself tightly around her cheekbones and was slightly oily from where she hadn't rubbed her moisturiser in properly. I feel bad saying it, but her face reminded me of a greasy paper bag. I half expected there to be a crinkling noise when she moved her mouth. There was no sound though, and instead two rows of perfect teeth were revealed, pristine white. They had to be false, but I don't like to think it. She seemed so old that seeing her teeth made me feel like there was something still young about her, something more than the croaky little antique standing in front of me.
"Do you really want to know how I am?" she asked.
"Of course." I said, lying.
A twinkle appeared in the old woman's eye.
"Fuckin' Freezing!" she said with a giggle. "Now get inside before I die of this wind chill factor that they're always talking about."
My worries vanished and I grinned. She hadn't changed. God, I love that woman. How she ever spawned a woman as nervous as my mother is beyond me.


Have you ever gone back to your Primary School and been amazed by how small everything is? The chairs that you used to sit in comfortably are suddenly really small, and you feel like a giant. That's kind of how I felt at my Nan's. It wasn't that the rooms that were small, just everything in them. Even my Nan. It was really disconcerting. When I went into the living room the chairs were these tiny things that I thought I might break when I sat on. I mean, they probably weren't much different from your standard size chairs really, it's just that when I was a kid I'm sure they used to swallow me up. My parents used to panic because they thought I'd gone missing and then they'd find me two days later, stuck down the side of the sofa. But now they were just normal chairs. It gave me a fairly odd feeling, it didn't quite upset me, but I suddenly felt a bit isolated, like I used to belong here but didn't now. I don't know. I'm probably just whining for the sake of it now.
"Well, sit down, Scarface." my Nan said, looking at the scab on my chin. I sat down quickly, as if she was an army officer. "I baked you a cake."
"Oh thanks, Nan." I said.
"I'll get you a slice now."

She left the room. I don't think I'd ever noticed it before, but she moved in this really odd way. Her back had become hunched with age, making her bend slightly forward. But, despite this, she still seemed to glide across the floor, like she was on little wheels or something. It made me realise how graceful she must have looked when she was young. I remember being pleased that I'd found another thing that didn't seem so old about her.

My Nan brought in the cake and sat down. "Help yourself."

I sat there perfectly happily for the next couple of hours, slowly chewing on the dense creation in front of me. Don't get me wrong, it was a lovely cake, it just had a certain firmness that most others lack. That's how my Nan makes them. That's how I like them. Anyway, my Nan was talking at me, and I was vaguely listening, trying to watch the television at the same time, when she asked the question I'd been dreading for ages.

"So, have you got a girlfriend at the moment, Sam?"
I cringed immediately. I'd known it was coming, but I'd hoped to avoid it for a few more days. At least she hadn't use the word 'courting'.
"No." I said, staring at my cake, wishing she'd start talking about her kitchen lino again. I knew she'd persist. She's that type.
"What about that girl your mother was telling me about, Amanda. What happened to her?"
"Oh," I said, trying to hide the fact that it upset me to even talk about her. "She's still around."
"What's she like?"
"She's nice."
"What's she look like?"

Now this is where I didn't something really weird. I can't explain it really. The thing is, I hadn't seen Amanda since Christmas because she wasn't speaking to me after I spread the rumour that we'd had sex. I don't know why I did it, I didn't really mean to. I just didn't deny it when Tommy was interrogating me about it. And then it got out of hand. So when my Nan asked what Amanda was like I did this really odd thing. Instead of describing Amanda, I described the mermaid. Not the tail of course, but the mermaid's face. Her tanned skin and green eyes. I stared at my cake as I did it, concentrating on how I'd seen her. It was a really embarrassing thing to do, I guess. I'm such a freak.

I wish Amanda didn't hate me though. It's not like I painted her in a bad light or anything. I mean, I'd said she was good. I feel really stupid about it now. All my mates just started making fun of her when she passed them at school. I wish I hadn't done it. It's not like it did me any favours. When she started denying it, they started having a go at me as well, saying I couldn't get any. And they still acted around her like she had. Both of us ended up looking really dum.

I actually went up to apologise to her a couple of months ago, when I'd finally given my mates the slip for a while, and she just started screaming at me. Apparently one of my friends had been giving her these really dirty phone calls to her house late at night. And she'd thought it was me! She accused me of it really loudly in front of loads of people. It was really embarassing. It really made me look sleazy. I just got really angry with her and started calling her some really horrible names. I wish I hadn't now. I started regretting it as soon as the words came out of my mouth. I mean, those phone calls must have really freaked her out, and I guess I was the obvious suspect. She shouldn't have accused me in front of everyone, but I shouldn't have said what I said either. We haven't spoken since. I really liked her as well, that's they annoying thing.
"She sounds beautiful." said my Nan.
"Yeah," I said. "I guess she is."
"You knew each other at Primary school didn't you?"
"Yeah."
"So..." my Nan said, giving that ominous pause which meant she was about to say something rude. "Have you slept with her yet?"
I looked over at my Nan and she was smiling at me, blatant as anything.
"Nan!" I said.
"What? I know what kids your age get up to. I watch a lot of daytime television."
"It's none of your business."
"Of course it's my business." she said. "I'm your Grandmother. I'm old. Pure osmotic pleasure. Have you done it or not? It's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm unshockable."
I shook my head. "No."
"Are you going to?"
"No!" I said, not quite believing that I was talking with my Grandmother about sex.
"Why not? Is she religious?"
"Nan," I said. "I really don't want to talk about it. It's embarrassing."
The dirty old woman sighed. "I blame your father. You're mother wasn't at all repressed until she met him. How often do you see him these days?"
For a moment I was relieved that she'd changed the conversation.
"Most months."
"And has he had the sex-talk with you yet?"
"Nan." I said, smiling slightly now as I realised that she was only doing it to embarrass me.
"What?" she said, laughing at how easily flustered I was. "Honestly. Young people these days."
And then I felt a sudden need to pour my heart out to my Nan. I wanted to tell her about Amanda, about my mates, about the mermaid, about everything. I wanted her to know what it was like to be me. I wanted her to know what it felt like to have my life. I just wanted her to listen. I'm kind of annoyed that I didn't now.
My Nan went to bed about ten thirty. I stayed up for a while to watch television, channel surfing for porn. I think I went to bed about midnight.

I didn't sleep well last night. I just couldn't turn off my brain. My head goes crazy when I'm trying to sleep sometimes. My thoughts just seem to be happening twice as fast as they do during the day. I think when Nan mentioned Amanda it sparked off memories of school. I suddenly felt guilty about everything. I began to realise that I probably wasn't a very nice person. I do stupid things for no reason. I steal bikes and nick the hubcaps off cars because people dare me to do it. I feel like I'm Robin Hood or something, but last night it hit me that the poor probably don't want my hubcaps. I just do it because I'm scared. And I shouldn't be scared because there's nothing to be scared of. But I'm still scared.

I don't want you to think that I hate myself. At the same time I was also kind of thinking that I'm charming too, and pretty funny. I'm sixteen years old and I'm blessed with good skin. That's pretty rare. I should be taking advantage of my luck while I still have it. There are plenty of other girls apart from Amanda. Plenty more mermaids in the sea. Okay, so my loveable rogue image cracked a little when I shouted at her, but how many people knew about that? Twenty at the most. Just twenty people who thought I was more Bill Sykes than Artful Dodger.

But then I began thinking that if each of those people told two of their friends, and they told two of theirs, then practically my whole year would know about it. And I began to think that maybe people were treating me a bit differently for those last couple of months. It had never occurred to me that it might be because they didn't like me. It was a weird thought. Everyone likes Amanda, just everyone. They were bound to side with her. It freaked me out a bit. But then I realised that I was blowing it out of proportion. Those people who saw me shout at Amanda just didn't care enough to go whispering about it to their mates. I wasn't that important. But for some reason this wasn't as comforting as I thought it would be.

I think it was about then that I turned the bedside light on and sat up in bed. I decided to read a book until I became drowsy, but I hadn't brought one with me. There were a few books on a shelf on the opposite wall, but they were all really dull romantic paperbacks. I flicked through a few of them for porn, but they were too romantic even for that. I was about to give up on finding anything to read when I noticed a cardboard box under the bed. I pulled it out and opened it. It was completely full of hardback writing books. On the front of each one there was a label saying 'Memory Book' in my Nan's spidery handwriting. I picked one out at random and got into bed.

I don't know why I decided not to read it. My brother used to keep a diary and I had no problems reading that. I mean, that was as dull and romantic as the paperbacks on my Nan's shelf, but the curiousity kept me coming back at least three times before I got caught. But something stopped me reading about my Nan's memories. Maybe it was the fact that it said 'Memory Book' rather than diary. I don't know. I think I was still feeling a bit guilty about not being a nice person or something, and it felt a bit like maybe this was the first test that I'd been given to prove myself as someone better. I really wanted to read it though, but I'm not sure why. My Nan had been speaking to me about her life just a few hours earlier and I wasn't even listening. Now she'd written about it and I was desperate to know what she'd said. I stopped myself. I just kept staring at the cover.

I don't know how long I was looking at it, but eventually I did begin to feel drowsy. I put the book back in the cardboard box and pushed it under the bed.

I didn't dream about my mermaid last night.

I woke up this morning to the smell of bacon and my Nan's out of tune humming. I almost always wake up happy and today I probably felt better than usual. I don't know why really. I guess things just felt different. My brain had slowed down to a trot again and it probably helped. I went downstairs.
"Oh." Nan said. "The scarface is up. I was going to treat you to a breakfast in bed."
"Thanks Nan." I said, and kissed her on the forehead.
She giggled. "What are you doing today?" she asked.

"Oh I don't know." I said, but then added, "I thought I might wrestle a few sharks, hunt down a few mermaids. You know, the usual things in these sleepy seaside towns."
Nan smiled. "Yes, your brother told me about that on the phone. I thought you just visiting me for the sake of it was a bit too much to expect."
"My brother told you about what?" I asked quickly.
"About you and the mermaid."

I flet so angry. I can't believe my brother did that. God, I hate him sometimes. I felt really stupid. It made me feel ridiculous being here. I mean, what exactly was I planning to do?

"Oh that." I said, and pretended to laugh. "That was just a joke."
"A joke?"
"Well, yeah." I said. "It's dum really. I have this stupid memory of seeing one in the sea here when I was about six. I mean, I know mermaids don't exist and everything, so I can't have."
"How do you know that?"
I looked at my Nan, and she looked at me, peering over her glasses and smiling slightly. I wanted to play along, but I couldn't. I wasn't a kid anymore.
"Look Nan," I said. "I'm sixteen now. You don't need to entertain me with fairy stories anymore."
My Nan looked back at the bacon, but she kept smiling. She didn't speak for a few moments.
"I'm old Sam." she said eventually. "But I'm not dead. I've been your age. I know what I needed when I was your age."
"With all due respect Nan," I said, in a tone that must have sounded really annoying now I think about it. "You were my age a long time ago. Things have changed."
"Times have changed. I'm not denying it..." She opened her mouth to say more, but then seemed to change her mind.
I waited for her to speak, but she just carried on cooking. She still had this really weird little smile on her face.

Anyway, after breakfast I watched a bit of TV and then decided to go for a walk. And as soon as I left the house I felt the gloom descend. I've never really thought about it before, but my Nan really lives in the most useless town. It's always dead during winter and these days it's dead during summer. I suppose, years ago, people used to come here because they couldn't go abroad. But now only the really fat old chinless grey people come here. Everything's grey. Sometimes I wish there was just a bit more colour around. I mean, it's meant to be summer, but I couldn't even work out which direction the sun was meant to be in. It really began to make me angry.
I walked for a long time, down to the sea shore and along the pier. I played the 2p machines in the arcade for a while, but I lost everything I won and so I left. I remember that it wasn't even midday and I wanted to get drunk. I sat on the beach for a while and watched the tide. I just felt so angry that I'd come here all of a sudden. I felt like I'd been duped, I felt like this mermaid had stood me up. I decided to try my luck at getting a pack of beer at the off-licence and was relieved when the guy there didn't check my age. He looked even younger than me though.

I went back and sat on the beach and opened a can. I sat there for a long time, just thinking. I guess my Nan was expecting me back around lunchtime, but I knew I couldn't go back to my Nan's smelling of beer. I did my coat up to the top and waited. I thought about a lot of things. Amanda again I guess. And what I was going to do after I failed my exams. I guess I could do resits, but to be honest I really can't be bothered. I just want to get on with my life. But then I began thinking that at the same time I don't want to forget how I feel about stuff now. I guess that's why I'm writing this. I guess that's why I finally got up off the beach and went to the newsagents to buy myself this book and a biro. I sat on one of the benches that lined the shore for a long time before opening the book, but even when I did I didn't know what to write. I began to think that maybe I should have looked at my Nan's memories. I began to wish my life wasn't so crap.

And then the weirdest thing happened. It began to rain. Not proper rain, just drizzle. But when I looked up I saw this huge rainbow, arcing across the sky. I swear it was as bright as any I'd ever seen. And I just knew it was there for me. The more I stared at the rainbow, the more the memory came back to me. I could see myself, six years old again. And I knew where I was on the beach when I saw her. I stuffed the remaining two beer cans in my coat pockets, put my book under my arm, and ran towards the rock pools. I kept glancing across to check my rainbow was still there and it was. I knew it was there for me.

I guess I kind of half expected my mermaid to just be there, but she wasn't. I slowed down to a walk and looked out to sea. I sat down on the beach and waited, staring at the rainbow. I'm sure it was getting brighter. I was only about two minutes walk from where they keep all the wooden row boats, tied to this old wooden jetty. They float up when the tides in, but at the moment they were just sitting there on the sand. I could see them in the distance. Most of them were so old now that they were hardly ever used. And I remember thinking: 'What the hell!'

So here I am, in this row boat, telling my story. And I haven't found my mermaid yet, but I figure it doesn't do any harm to wait. I haven't got anywhere else to go. The shore's a long way off now, but it doesn't matter. I'm in fate's hands now I guess. I'm okay. I felt stupid about it again a minute ago, but I'm okay now. I've got these beers and my coat will keep me warm. The rainbow's gone now, but maybe it's just behind those clouds. I mustn't forget about it. I know it was meant for me. It's really cold now, my hands are numb. Maybe tonight the sea will freeze. I can step out of my boat and I'll walk behind the clouds. Perhaps I'll get my lighter and set fire to the end of the rainbow and I'll watch it crackle across the sky like a burning ribbon. And then she'll appear under my feet and smile and beckon me to join her. And maybe I will.

John Griffiths, 1999