A World Apart and Other Stories
By Tommy Dakar
Published by Tommy Dakar at Smashwords 2012
Other books by Tommy Dakar
Balls. A full length literary comedy.
The Trap-Door. A short, dark fantasy novel.
Falls the Shadow. A dvandva novel consisting of two separate but inseparable stories.
http://www.wix.com/tommydakar/tommydakar
Artwork courtesy of Melanie Kimble. Visit her site at http://mkimble.smugmug.com/
Table of Contents
A World Apart - First published online at Storychord and in print by SNReview. Also selected for online and print publishing by Monday Night Lit.
Bellavista - First published online at Language and Culture
News of the World - First published online at Write From Wrong
The Longest Night - First published online, in Spanish, at Palabras Diversas and Ariadne-rc.
The Mystery Tour - First published online at Write This
"We only have to look at ourselves to see how intelligent life might develop into something we wouldn't want to meet." Stephen Hawkings.
Gene typed:
We are alone. We are born alone, and we will die alone. Even after we make love we gradually disentangle, gently pulling away from each other: an arm, a leg, one last caress. Our final contact before we drift into sleep, alone.
He saved it and then sent it out into cyberspace where maybe one day it would be found by another lost soul, like the capsules Humanity launches into space from time to time. He used one of his pseudonyms, for anonymity. He had no desire to be found and identified by like-minded people; people full of doubts, of ugly thoughts, of inexpressible fears, people trapped between a ferocious survival instinct and the absurdity of living. People like himself.
It was his twenty-fifth birthday and so far he had received a text message from Kora, half a dozen emails, computer generated congratulations from the office, and a digital greeting card from his mother. She said she had tried to send a video, but had not been able to follow the instructions correctly. She would try again next time. In the meantime a photo of her smiling in a straw hat with her new husband, Heinrich, hanging off her shoulder. Lots of love from the other side of the world, and hope you have a great day.
Kora wished him luck, and suggested a meeting, if he wanted, no obligation, whenever he liked. He understood her stunted text. She wanted to give the impression of desire, but not harassment, of attraction, but only if mutual. It would mean contact again, but it was worth considering.
Gene worked from home, and on this special day the first thing he did was erase the felicitations sent via the office software. He had helped design the message and it embarrassed him now to receive it himself. Somehow the fact that he had been part of its creation made it seem even less sincere, even more impersonal. If he remembered he would take himself off the mailing list for next year. Or re-word it, perhaps. Then he opened up his instructions for the day and set to work.
Lunch arrived punctually as always. The door bell rang, and a young man in an orange uniform handed over the tray. There was no need for a signature or payment, it had all been processed through his account. Two seconds, not a word uttered, and he was back inside.
It was how he preferred it, nearly all of the day to day administration of his life was managed in the same way. If he shopped it was at the hypermarket where he could mingle with the hordes unnoticed, like a pixel in a photo. On the rare occasions he had to visit the office he was fortunately no more than an identity pass, a number, and he could float through the installations like a ghost. Personal contact was thankfully kept to a minimum, and although he had read stories about shopkeepers and bar staff, had seen films and television programmes with friendly postmen and nosey neighbours, he felt grateful that they did not form part of his modern world. To him they were things of the past, like picnics in the country or extended families. His life was different, individual, invisible almost, a single cell in the multi-organ city.
Over lunch he browsed through his personal emails. They were from his chat contacts around the globe - Happy Birthday Genie! Stefan and Melinda had photos to add to their names, photos you could trust as actually belonging to the person behind the name despite the mandatory digital enhancement. The others used spoof photos, like Big Boy, whose picture was of an enormous bearded man in a checked shirt sitting at the wheel of an articulated lorry. Or Watchthisspace, who was a small blonde girl holding a dandelion clock and gazing up at the clouds. The others used constantly changing symbols or photos they had downloaded from the web. Gene used a photo of himself, but heavily made up and disguised by creative lighting effects. The Genie of the Shadows - it was unlikely that he would be recognised.
He prepared a thank you message and sent it to all of them, except Kora. Today was a special day, so to her he sent a place and a time. All she had to do was return the message to agree. If he received nothing, some other time, then. But today was his birthday, and fifteen minutes later a tiny ping pong sound told him her reply had arrived.
That afternoon he tried to concentrate on his work, but found that he was less efficient than usual. He was not good at analysing his emotions, but had he possessed this ability he might have realised that he was excited, excited about seeing Kora again, excited about celebrating his birthday in company, but also nervous, nervous about the contact, about what she might be thinking or feeling, unsure what it all meant, or if it may lead to something else, something less controllable. Or to nothing at all. As it was he just thought he felt uneasy, cause unspecific.
He had arranged to meet her at the Power House. It wasn't his favourite haunt, but after last month's drama at the Blue Chip he had no desire to return. That night he had bought twelve pills, a whole dozen! when one was enough to send you into another dimension for hours at a time. What had pushed him to do something crazy like that? He had ended up outside, kneeling against the wire fencing, trying to count the small, off white pills still left in the palm of his hand, but was unable to get past three. There were more, surely, but try as he might he could not get beyond that figure, the rest of the numbers dancing round each other and refusing to stay still long enough to be counted. His memory of that night ended there. The hospital staff had been efficient but distant, the police official routinely rude. They had filled out the required forms and left him to get back home on his own the following afternoon.
There, it had happened. He did not have the ability to comprehend it. But now, like everything, it was in the past, which is our common destiny. Best not dwell on it.
The Power House was a mesh of swirling lights: blue, white, amber, purple. A huge sound system blasted conversation to pieces with rhythms in keeping with the off white pills. They were easy enough to get once you had learnt the ritual – who to look for, how to approach, how to stand, to wait, to pay, to disappear. Swift, well-practised manoeuvres camouflaged under a display of lighting and twisting torsos. He made his way to the bar and struck a pose – Kora might have already arrived and be watching him from behind her heavy make up.
She appeared suddenly by his side. They said nothing. For a while they nodded and swayed to the insistent beat, drinking. Eventually they turned to each other. Hi. Happy birthday. He slipped her a pill, and they took one together. Dialogue was impossible under that barrage of sound, so they danced, separately, staring at the floor where they could eye each other from the waist down. After some hazy footwork they both stumbled outside.
Under the overhead motorway there were a number of arches offering a little intimacy. Under each arch a couple or a group. You didn't look, or stop, or make a comment of any sort, you just kept walking until you found a free arch of your own. Gene and Kora leant against opposite sides of the narrow archway. She hitched up her skirt, licked a finger, and slid it into her pants. He unzipped his trousers and pulled it out. They began to masturbate. Kora opened her jacket and showed him her left breast. He made a move towards her, and this time she did not pull away, not abruptly, not immediately. He inched towards her until he cupped her breast in his hand. A few precious moments. Then she shifted, and he understood, slinking back to his own side of the arch. They finished in a muted mutual orgasm. It was time to go back and dance till dawn, or until the effect of the pill wore off. She vanished sometime around four in the morning, so he went back to his apartment on his own.
He did not check his mail before he fell onto his bed, but if he had he would have read this:
Akira.
We are not alone. We shall be reunited. Join us.
The following morning he awoke with an empty feeling that was all too familiar. After the drugs, reality appeared drab and lifeless, drained of colour, of interest. After Kora Gene felt that way too. It was difficult to put into words, and that meant it was difficult to understand, he knew, and therefore to combat. After various incidents as a child his psychologists had explained to him that it is essential to name the problem, to isolate the emotion, and to comprehend the interconnectivity of human relationships. He had never managed to grasp those lessons, and now his failure to express himself could only help worsen the situation. Empty was the only word that sprung to mind.
Through the afternoon he entertained himself with music and videos, the curtains drawn, the computer turned off. He wanted to be entirely alone so that his emotions could rest undisturbed, untarnished by contact. Perhaps if he lost himself in idle activity he would not think that Kora was a drug, or that sex was painful, or love impossible.
It was late in the evening when he eventually saw the message. He read the text over and over again. We are not alone, it said, a bold statement. We shall be reunited, it promised. But above all join us, it pleaded. Join us. There was a link to follow at the bottom like a door begging to be opened.
He felt uncertain, like the first time he had undressed before Constantine, her flesh so white, with dark hairs running up to her navel. (One day she had sent him an sms, it is over, and he had seen her no more). Or like the time he had taken his first pill, expectant but reluctant, unsure what lay ahead but determined to find out. If he just clicked on the link, one tiny movement......
The site was a black screen with these words - Access by invitation only. He clicked once more, and was led to a short questionnaire. They required a user name, a password, and acceptance of their internal rules, which he agreed to without bothering to read. He was then allowed to pass into the forum, where a conversation of sorts was slowly being developed.
At first he was unable to grasp the meaning of the interchanges, they seemed disjointed and full of strange references to events of which he had no knowledge. It felt like he had walked into a room where a heated debate was taking place, but in slow motion, full of pauses, such as when passionate politicians try to communicate through interpreters.
He scrolled down, trying to follow the thread, and little by little it dawned on him. This was a suicide group. He double checked. Yes, it all added up. As far as he could see there were five members. He would be the sixth, a reasonable number for what they had in mind. Their plans were quite advanced by this stage, and it appeared that all they needed was to decide where and when – the method had already been discussed and agreed upon.
Gene stood up. His mouth had become suddenly dry and he needed to drink something, water preferably. A suicide group. He had heard of these before, but had assumed they were an urban legend, possibly based on an element of truth but embellished as passed from mouth to mouth. Except that now he had been invited into their midst.
He had seen their names, or at least their aliases. Lucy, Akira, Goran, Doris and Wesley. Who were these people? Why did he imagine that these were indeed their real names? Why had they decided to invite him along? Was it really that obvious?
That indecision again, that insecurity. He stared at the computer as he drank, as if by scrutinising it he would be able to unravel its mysteries. It would be simple enough to click out of there and never return. He was anonymous still, having used no more than HalfEmpty as his user name. Or he could become a voyeur, and observe from a safe distance as the group finalised details and carried out its sombre plan. But it was the third route that unsettled him most, for he knew how easy it was to go from one small pill to a whole dozen. The screensaver kicked into action and the forum was hidden behind the dark immensity of the universe.
Two weeks later Gene typed.
Gene.
I believe it is our natural state. It is our destiny. We are always, in the last instance, terribly alone.
He was not sure why he signed this entry under his real name.
There was no immediate reply, which was frustrating. He watched the screen for what seemed like an age until at last these words appeared.
Akira.
Yet you send out your messages, because you hope to be proven wrong.
He had read some of Akira's messages before and for some reason imagined he was the ring leader. There was always an air of mystery about his posts that reminded Gene of himself. An hour or so later he read.
Lucy.
Don't fight it, Gene. There is nothing to fear. Be at peace with yourself.
The spiritual one? It was hard to say. He had a picture of her in his mind. She was pale, fussy, nervous, yet also strangely calm, as if the idea of her suicide had given her some kind of peace at last.
Goran came on line.
You must be sure. There must be no pressure. The decision is yours only to make.
Goran spoke clearly, even tactlessly. He wanted it all dealt with as soon as possible. He had no time for philosophy or emotions.
Lucy.
Is that for me?
Goran.
It must be made clear.
Much later.
Doris.
Gene, is that your real name? I trust you, and I am sure you know what you are doing. If you decide to join us, welcome!
Welcome to our suicide group! He was tempted to reply, but held his hand.
Eventually Wesley chipped in. He did not participate much, but when he did it was usually to make light of it all, as if in reality what they had in mind was of absolutely no transcendence in the slightest.
Wesley.
Don't listen to them, Gene, they are all mad, we are all mad! Is Wesley my real name? Ha, ha. I don't even know myself!
Gene signed out.
As their staccato conversations stumbled on over the next few weeks, Gene learnt how to interpret his new colleagues. Akira was not the leader, they had no need for such a figure, but he took it on himself to personally address Gene's soul searching. In response to Gene's comments he would ask – are we naturally alone, or do we contrive to be alone? Or – alone, or unique? Or worse still – alone, or in hiding? However he never attempted to answer these questions, nor gave away anything about himself, as if his existence were no more than a response, a reaction. Each of the others in their own way lay open their hearts, expressing their innermost thoughts and beliefs, albeit in the succinct, curt vocabulary of internet chats. So he learnt how Lucy was at last at peace after so much suffering, or how Goran in his no nonsense manner was keen to drive ahead and be done with this vacuous life for once and for all. He thought he could understand Doris's reluctance to go into detail, to explain her situation. She requested respect for her intimacy and it was granted. Wesley the joker hid his anguish under a mask of humour and acid wit, though every so often he would unveil himself and admit it was all façade. Here, thought Gene, was naked Humanity, where there was no need for pseudonyms or misleading images, where emotions could be expressed without ulterior motives. It was bare-chested Humanity devoid of the vanity and stratagems of the future.
Gene had accepted their invitation, had accepted the rules, and he now accepted that he belonged to the group, formed part of their plan. His capsule had been intercepted and contact had been made. Perhaps after all he had been wrong, and we are not alone.
He would have preferred to have left no loose ends, to have bid farewell to his mother, his email contacts, Kora, but he could not compromise the confidentiality of the group. If they were discovered now they would all face internment. Suicide is never a socially acceptable option and must be carried out secretly, with subterfuge, but above all in private. The city had been designed to avoid such rebellious attitudes. Motorway bridges had been fenced in, the stairwells of office blocks swathed in fine meshing, security windows sealed, access to roofs denied. To succeed they would need to be cautious and meticulous.
It was four thirty in the morning, dark and threatening rain when Gene arrived at Central Station. Lucy had hired a camper van, and would be parked at the rear. According to the plan she would already have picked up Goran and Wesley, but Akira, Doris and himself would arrive on foot. The place was all but deserted, so it was not difficult to imagine that the plump blonde girl in a plastic raincoat was Doris. He watched as she scoured the car park for the van, reluctant to approach her.
‘Gene?’
Asked a male voice, and he turned to see a short man, with jet black hair – Akira.
Gene nodded and followed him to the camper.
They greeted each other with serious smiles, but there was no conversation. It was strange how much they knew about each other whilst at the same time being perfect strangers. Each member took up a position then fell into silence. Lucy, a middle aged woman in a dull brown headscarf, started the engine and headed up towards the wooded heights above the city as it started to rain steadily. Gene, seated between Doris and Goran in the second row, stared out at the wet tarmac, unable to let himself catch furtive glimpses of his companions. He had not imagined this cold reality, had expected some camaraderie, some introductions, a handshake at least, some real contact. As it was they travelled on in silence and fearful respect, like the passengers on an underground train.
The streets and highways were empty and it was not long before they pulled up and parked under some willows in a secluded area well away from the picnic areas and playgrounds. That had been Doris's idea, she did not want children to stumble across the van later in the day. They waited quietly for a while until Wesley got out and attached the tube to the exhaust whilst Lucy protected him from the rain with her umbrella. The tube was pulled back into the van through a small side window, then sealed off with plastic bags and masking tape. They were ready.
There were no speeches, no mutual farewells. Each member of the group sat immersed in their own thoughts, patiently waiting for the engine to start up once more.
Just before Lucy turned the ignition key Gene leant across Doris and opened the sliding side door.
‘I'm sorry. I, I... I'm sorry.’
He closed the door gently behind him. They watched him walk away, but nobody spoke. There would be no recrimination, they had all signed that.
Gene stood under the trees in the rain and watched the scene through the zoom lens of his pocket camera. The windows of the camper van were by now covered in condensation, but he could just make out Akira's jet black hair, and Lucy was still partially visible in the driver's seat. All of the passengers were gradually fading, dissolving into grey, until he could see them no longer. He turned and began to walk back along the deserted streets towards the city.
The architects had designed Bellavista so that every home would have a view, even if it meant having to crane your neck out of a side window. Any blind spots had been reserved for commercial space, garages and service areas.
The natural beauty of this part of the world could best be appreciated from the verandahs of the south facing villas, like the one belonging to Carlos Schneider, owner of a successful building company, and President of the Proprietors Association. This morning he sat on a wicker chair sipping his coffee while his eyes wandered idly past the perimeter fence down to the glittering sea.
Then Johnny the Drunk came into sight, from the left.
Today he was wearing gold football boots, white pirate trousers, and a tight-fitting black T-shirt with a picture of something gothic on the chest. His matted hair was plastered down under a white golfing hat, and enormous sun glasses, probably meant for a woman, completed his disguise. Johnny was the resident vagabond, and as such had first pick of second hand clothes.
‘Mr. President!’
He gruffed, and stood to attention. Mr. Schneider didn't reply, hoping that if he ignored him he would go away.
‘Good day to you! Good day for hunting, Mr. President, sir!’
Johnny stood his ground; he would have an answer.
‘Good morning Johnny. For hunting?’
‘Indians.’
He started to laugh, then broke into a coughing fit.
‘Scalp 'em. Scalp 'em before they carry off your daughters!’
Carlos paid no heed to Johnny's drunken remarks, the man was a buffoon. If it were up to him he would have him ejected from the grounds at once, but the women would have none of that. They had adopted him as if he were some kind of stray cat. They fed and clothed him, and gave him odd jobs to do so that he would always have a little cash for his drink and cigarettes. Whenever Carlos brought the issue up at the meetings a number of lefty types, best not mention any names, whinged on about Humanity and Samaritans and the like. Compassion for the less fortunate, they preached. Nothing about social leeches, parasites, scroungers and good for nothings. So Johnny was allowed to sleep in an old tool shed just outside the walls of the development, and could come and go as he pleased – the guards would only stop him if he were drunk.
He thought of pointing out that it was the Indians that did the scalping, not the other way round, but was loathe to encourage him. The tramp hung around a little longer in the hope of a sign of generosity, but Carlos just sipped his coffee. Eventually he shuffled off, mumbling something to himself.
It was not until that afternoon that Mr. Schneider learnt about the immigrants.
There were three of them, two men and a woman, and they had moved into one of the empty properties at the back of the development. Michael Moretti had seen them that morning, and some of the children had been along to corroborate. They were Africans, sub Saharan Africans by all accounts. The police were called. No doubt the problem would soon be resolved.
The following day Carlos Schneider was aghast to discover that the immigrants had not been evicted, moved on or deported. He demanded an explanation, which he received in all its twisted detail. They were not illegal immigrants. They were rather alegal, having slipped into the country via an administrative loophole. They were now squatting, and until they were reported to the police by the owner of the property there was nothing to be done. But this is private property. Yes sir. They must have found a way past the guards and forced entry. Yes sir. He decided to call an emergency meeting.
The apartment taken over by the Africans had been empty for some time. Weeds grew from the most improbable positions on the terrace, and the windows were opaque with accumulated grime. It belonged to Cedric Gustafson, an ageing chess reporter based in Stockholm. All the bills were paid religiously, but Cedric himself had not been seen for a number of years. They would get in touch and demand that he report these intruders to the police. Then an eviction order could be obtained. All those in favour please raise their hands. Passed unanimously.
Cedric Gustafson, they discovered, was dead. He had died eighteen months earlier but nobody had been informed. His estate was now being disputed between a number of ex wives, children and step children. But President Schneider was not a man who gave in easily. He called another meeting.
It was agreed, by simple majority, that the intruders be approached by the Community as a whole. Perhaps they could thrash it out and come to some kind of amicable agreement? A little carrot and stick? Mr. Schneider would go, as President, accompanied by Ms. Mary De Klerk, vice- president, and Dr. Vasilis South, treasurer.
Johnny the Drunk sat on the kerb and drank warm beer as the welcoming committee tried to communicate with the newcomers. He watched as waves of civic pride crashed against the rugged rocks of necessity. They courteously declined the community's kind offer for them to abandon the premises forthwith or face the consequences. They preferred the consequences.
Unlike the apathetic gatherings of the past, the following meeting was a raucous affair, full of foul language and interruptions. Order, please! If we all speak at once...... The once homogeneous community had now fractured into small but vociferous groups that vied with each other for attention. Raising the volume and shouting down rivals appeared to be the commonly agreed manner to achieve this. Try as he may, Carlos Schneider was unable to control his neighbours and was fast becoming hoarse. He waved his arms, he personally approached especially distraught cliques, he tried sitting in silence, banging his hand on the table, feigning a walk out. But his fellow members would have their rant. He decided to suspend the event and was all but lynched.
Two days later, once everybody had let off steam, he was able to conduct a tense but relatively calm reunion where it was decided that two very different approaches be put to the test.
First, the stick. The squatters would be virtually imprisoned in their new found home. The guards would let them know that if they ever left the development, they would never make it back in again. They would also be warned that the property they had illegally invaded was being watched round the clock, and that the moment it was left empty, the community would change all the locks, brick off the doors and windows, and put a guard at the main entrance. Only if the gilded cage idea failed would they put into the practice the contingency plan.
Somehow they survived. It was difficult to know how, (sabotage was suspected), but the fact is that after a month they were still there. They seemed relaxed. They had barbecues in the long summer evenings, and put flowers in the window boxes. They chatted to the children, or shared a beer or two with Johnny on the front porch. Rumour had it that the elder man was a teacher and spoke fluent French. Rumour had it that Petra Idigoras was taking classes with him, and paying handsomely. Rumour had it that certain members of the Kitchen Club had secretly asked the woman for authentic African recipes.
Plan B was exactly what Carlos had hoped to avoid, but his hands were tied. The three were approached again. The elder one would be teaching French on an official basis, the second man would help out on the gardens, and the woman would become an honorary member of the Kitchen Club. They would get papers, they could come and go as they pleased, they would be offered alternative legal accommodation, with a fixed rent. Welcome to Bellavista.
At the following year's AGM the by now pregnant African woman sat amongst her drab neighbours dressed in her best colourful robes, like a pineapple on a plate of plums. All three had been invited to take part in the lively debates, though as non proprietors they would not be able to vote. Carlos Schneider suggested, in view of recent events, that security be tightened. The perimeter fence was full of holes and control at the main gate was lax. Are we all agreed on this point? The Africans nodded with their new colleagues. Yes indeed, unanimously.
It was a windy November morning as Carlos was about to climb into his car when he heard the news. The Gustafson place again. They had crow-barred open the security doors. Eastern Europeans by all accounts, a whole family, eight or more.
Call the police!
Inspiration
exists, but it has to find us working.
Pablo Picasso
8.57 Sit down at my desk.
8.58 Prepare writing materials.
8.59 Take a deep breath.
9.00 Ah, the challenge of the empty page! Now what shall I write about today?
Something satirical, a diatribe? A touch of pathos and bathos, those two musketeers, or
something unputdownable, a riproaring tour de force? A tear-jerker, perhaps. Although
it’s been quite a few weeks now since I last wrote a piece of comedy.
Maybe first I ought to think about who it’s aimed at, what market I have in mind.
Middle-class middle-aged parishioners who’ve never heard a four letter word or
imagined even the tamest erotic scenes? The plebs? A bit of light-hearted fun for those
who have no time for tragedy or profundities of any type? Fellow writers? Again?
Of course it would be easier if I were, say, a musician. Then I could spend the morning
whizzing through major and minor scales, practising tricky finger techniques, going
over the difficult passages until I got them off pat. But it’s not much use me writing out
the alphabet backwards, or making exhaustive lists of synonyms and antonyms. Could
try out a few rhymes, I suppose, or a touch of onomatopoeia. Or both - crunch my
lunch and the like.
No, let’s be serious. Maybe I should decide on the genre. How l like that word, genre, it
sounds sort of sophisticated. Hmm, or pretentious. Depends who’s listening.
So, to choose!
Poetry’s never been my strong point, though I’ve turned out one or two reasonable little
ditties over the years. But it’s nitpickety stuff, what with pace, and rhythm, and
measure, and all those shades of meaning. Anyway, nobody seems to have much time
for it nowadays. It’s earned a bad name for itself; like Philosophy or Ancient Greek.
Do you fancy an ode, a sonnet, a piece of free verse?
No way, mate, couldn‘t think of anything worse.
9.25 Pause, for thought.
9.30 A short story’s not a bad idea, I don’t have to develop the characters very much,
which is a boon, and I might be able to get it published in a magazine. Naturally I shall
have to be careful which magazine I send it to, I don’t want to make the mistake poor
old Darren made by sending a torrid soft porn bit to “Women Today”, a staid old ladies’
rag he took for something much more upbeat. “Not suitable” and straight on the
blacklist. One really should do one’s homework beforehand. Let it be a lesson to us all.
Length’s a problem, as well. Some demand no more than two thousand words, others
between five and ten thousand, and it’s such a bother to pad it out or trim it down
once it’s already written and typed out and everything. Still, if I could think up some
kind of elastic plot ...... or borrow one from something that’s out of copyright. The
paper is often a source of inspiration.
9.45 Read the press.
10.30 If only I were a columnist, then it wouldn’t matter what I wrote, I could go on
about the magnets on the fridge door and get away with it. All you need is a clever
twist at the end, something along the lines of how much we resemble those tiny, many-
shaped magnets in that, despite our different outward appearances, in reality we are all
the same, and that our sole purpose in life is to cling tenaciously to our mod cons. The
art of coherent waffle. That’s why there’s so much competition for the post. Still, who
knows, one day I might get lucky and end up working for one of the big dailies, then I
could stop worrying about being creative and just get on with the job in hand.
10.55 Pause, for reassessment of literary career and future job prospects.
11.15 Let’s go over the list again. Film or T. V. scripts, theatre. Kids’ adventure stories,
romantic fiction, historical novels, biography. Autobiography. Ha, that’s a good one.
Me, from my point of view. Scintillating stuff. What happened to me and what I did as a
consequence, guiltily edited by yours truly. What a scam! No, I couldn’t. Or rather, I
shouldn’t. The only problem is, they sell. God knows who buys them, but there’s
invariably one in the top fifty. My past life, I wonder. Made a trifle more colourful,
phrased so as to mislead without actually lying .... I’ll bear it in mind, at least Part 1.
11.45 Pause, to idly wonder what’s for scrunchy lunch.
11.55 Sorry about that, it’s a lack of discipline, I know. It’s so easy to lose
concentration, but there really is no excuse for it. If you want to get anywhere in this
business you really have to buckle down, to work at it, to train yourself, to force
yourself to sit down at your desk everyday as if it were a real job. After all, I’m getting
paid for this and there are deadlines to be met. It’s a question of will-power, of strength
of character, of responsibility towards those who have put their faith in me. To strive,
that is the word, I feel. I sit at my place of work, like any other labourer, so that later, on
completion of my allotted task, I can safely, indeed proudly, claim that I have,
emphatically have, striven. I can then cash the cheque with a clear conscience.
But there you are, I’ve gone off at a tangent once more. This won’t do at all.
Well, I knew we’d end up here. Most of us do in the end. Alright, a novel it is, then.
I’ve nothing against writing novels, I’d rather write them than essays or works of
critical appreciation, but they take so long. The plot’s not a problem as just about
anything goes nowadays ( let’s face it, it’s all been said before), and I can always chop
and change as it moves along. No, it’s all that detail that tires me out, how it takes three
pages of descriptive narrative to get him from the garden gate to the front door. And the
psychological analysis of all those characters! Then you can’t remember if they lived at
number 26 or 36, whether she had been married to a stocky broker or a broke stocker,
Was it November or early May? So it all has to be mapped out and sorted out
beforehand so that when you eventually get to have to put pen to paper you can hardly
make the effort.
Of course, that’s just it. One has to make an effort if one wants to be a professional
writer. One has to look that sheet of blank paper in the eye everyday of the week, except
weekends and holidays, and say “here I come !”.
Yes, yes, that’s it decided, then. A novel, in whatever genre. Oh, half past twelve. Time
for lunch.
IN SELF DEFENCE
The chain saws came in three different sizes, but Juan reckoned the small one would be perfect for what he had in mind. It would be lighter, easier to hide, quicker to clean, and would have her cut up into manageable chunks in no time. He would also need an axe and a good kitchen knife. Ah, and a large pan. Then each little part of her, from her studded ears down to her stubby toes, could be stewed in tomato sauce, popped into bin bags and dumped one by one into rubbish containers all over the town. She would eventually end up scattered all over the municipal tip.
‘Juan. Could you help la señora, please, she needs six metres of garden hose.’
There were so many tools to kill her with in the ironmonger's. Nails for her coffin, huge plastic pots in which her entrails could be mummified, spades for digging graves. Christ, I could even classify her and file her away according to weight and size. I could lure her here under some pretext or other, come on in, don't be afraid, and once inside, swish, and off with her head. The grim reaper.
He showed his customer the different types of nozzle available as he continued to fantasise. There were wreaths of barbed wire hanging from nails banged into the wall, any number of scythes and knives and butcher's equipment, rope for hanging, lengths of metal for impaling, welders torches that would reduce her to ash in a matter of seconds.
She chose the multifunction nozzle and asked if he would be kind enough to fix it onto the hose for her as her hands were not what they used to be.
‘Juan, when you've finished with la señora, there's a new delivery just arrived.’
Or a sledge hammer, something blunt and effective. Because she'd be a difficult bitch to kill, would no doubt put up a tremendous fight. But the blood! There had to be a neater way.
He had to be free of her somehow, but she would just not take no for an answer. How many times had he begged her to leave him alone, to steer clear of him and his family, to stay away from the shop? To no avail. Irene had pushed her way into his life and had decided that he was the chosen one, the one who would have to accompany her on her self destructive road to hell.
It had all started innocently enough. He had met her at a concert, and that very night they had all but devoured each other. They had met again over the next few weeks, always with sex and passion as their common language. Then she had started to stalk him. She would phone twenty or thirty times a day; his mobile, work number, home number. She would be there as he came out of his flat in the morning, he would often see her pass the ironmonger's half a dozen times during working hours. He had asked her not to dog him, but she had told him, in tears, that it was because she loved him, adored him, and had realised that their destinies were interwoven. How could she possibly not want to be with him every minute of the day?
He had tried to reason with her, to explain how he needed more time, more time, Irene, time to be alone, I need my own space. She had just pulled him closer and put his hands on her breasts. I love you, Juan. He had forbidden her to phone him at all hours, and she had promised, on her mother's deathbed, but after a couple of days she was back at it again. Don't be angry with me, Juan, just fuck me. So, hating his weakness, he did.
But it was all becoming too oppressive, and he had decided that it was time to call it a day. He had told her so in the bar under her flat, and she had said nothing, just stared at the floor. The next afternoon she had turned up at the ironmonger's full of tears and begging forgiveness.
‘I need to speak to Juan. I need to speak to him now,’
she had told the boss, who had not been very impressed.
‘I would rather die that live without you, Juan.’
So he had tried to re-establish the relationship, this time with rules, rules that had to be respected. And for a few weeks she had complied, had been subdued and heavily passionate. She had given up phoning him at work and was nowhere to be seen when he returned home. He thought perhaps he had pushed the right button, that what she really needed and understood was a firm hand, his forceful, manly attitude.
Until one night when she had decided it was time to meet his parents. The bell had rung, he had opened the door and there she had stood, flowers for the mother, wine for the father. She had been charming and correct, she had played with him under the table, she had been attractive and sensual to him whilst appearing perfectly presentable to his parents. But she had not been invited, and Juan had seen red.
Down in the park by her flat he had refused to let her get close enough for her ploys to work. No, no, listen to me, Irene. It is time we split up, we can still be good friends, we can still maybe see each other every so often because the sex is fantastic, but there is no way we can carry on like this. It is stifling, it is obsessive, it is out of control.
She had flown at him then, clawing at this face, kicking at his ankles and trying to bite his hands. He had tried to keep her at arm's length, but every so often she had managed to get in a blow or a scratch. What to do? Run.
He had returned home, where thankfully his parents had already gone to bed. He had unhooked the phone, turned of his mobile, put the latch on the door and tried to get some sleep.
The next morning, just as he was about to leave for work, the police had arrived and taken him in for questioning. He had been accused of attacking a young woman called Irene Vázquez Montilla. Marked by various cuts and bruises, she had been first to the hospital then to the police. His statement had been taken and he had been released with charges. His boss had not been impressed.
He went out the back to sort out the delivery of chicken wire, taps and electrician's belts that had arrived a little earlier.
She had lifted charges once he had promised not to abandon her ever again. She loved him, and her tight young body was his to do with as he would. Could I please cut it up into a thousand pieces and feed it to the dogs?
There had to be a way to be free of her. Unfortunately she had won over his parents who had no idea just how persistent Irene could be. They thought he was exaggerating, that the poor girl was quite simply head over heels in love with him, which they saw as understandable given that their son was the apple of their eye. Patience, they advised, passion will give way to love.
It was almost dark as he neared home, and on the patches of wasteland between the high rise blocks the setting sun tripped on pieces of smashed glass which glinted like sequins. He approached with caution and ….. shit! There she was, smoking, mounting guard and muttering four letter words under her breath.
This is incredible, I can't even get into my own home. She is totally mad. Look at her, pacing up and down like a nazi. Every so often she would glance at her watch, the watch he had given her as a present in happier days. And then he saw it – a bandage. Her left wrist was wrapped in a fucking bandage! Oh, Irene, for heaven's sake, again? You are sick, really sick. Now what?
What to do? The last thing he wanted was to confront her now. He was tired and dirty, he wanted to go home and shower, to relax, maybe watch a little TV. He certainly did not want a showdown with Irene, he did not feel up to that. He leant against the wall. What to do, then? Take refuge in a bar she would not think of looking in, hide behind the bushes until she tired of waiting for him? But she never gets tired of these scenes, not Irene, she was capable of staying there all fucking night, the mad bitch.
So another suicide bid, another botched job. For fuck's sake, woman, if you're going to kill yourself, do it properly! Fill the sink with tepid water, take some sleeping pills, hold the razor blade tightly between your black painted nails and ….. Slice. Once and for all. Do us all a fucking favour and save me the trouble. But no, not our Irene, she cuts herself just deep enough to frighten the doctors, but never enough to really suffer, to run any real risk. It is childish, it is just a fucking scratch, a tiny plea for attention. Again. Hey everybody, look at me, Princess Irene, I'm bleeding for love. Fuck you, woman, one of these days I'll do the job for you, I swear.
He was desperate, unable to go forward or backward, paralysed by indecision. The street lights came on one by one, in orderly fashion, like a counterbalance to his chaotic thoughts and feelings, as if they wanted to add an element of logic to his seething sentiments of hatred and frustration. He wanted to be strong, to believe that he controlled the situation, that in his worker's hands, his man's hands, and yes, why not, in his murderer's hands, lay the solution. Yet at the same time he wanted to cry, to implore, to reach out for his mother's embrace, like a child frightened by ghosts. Don't worry, my boy, look, the phantoms have flown.
‘ Juan! Come out of there! I can see you, you coward! Juan!’
Shit, now she'd spotted him with her fucking x-ray eyes. Superbitch. Well it was just as well, he was tired of hiding anyway. And although he had no desire for yet another public spectacle he decided it was probably for the best. Get it over and done with, be firm, tell her straight, and put things in their place.
‘You were hiding, hiding like a coward.’
‘Don't be silly, I've only just got back from work. I thought you'd be waiting for me outside the shop, but no....’
‘You don't want me to be seen by them. I'm not good enough for you.’
‘Come on, you know it's only the boss. How are you?’
‘How do you think?’
She let her shoulders droop. This was typical Irene, one minute a ferocious animal ready to attack, the next a beaten, broken rag doll. Then back again, combative, aggressive. Her moods were like the swish of windscreen wipers – attack, cry, attack, cry.
‘Why didn't you phone me at lunchtime?’
‘I couldn't get through, too much traffic on the line or something.’
‘You are a bastard’
‘It's true, but you don't have to believe me if you don't want to.’
‘I don't believe you, you are a bastard, you don't love me. You say you do, but you have no right to treat me like this.’
He had deliberately not mentioned the bandaged, so she toyed with it visibly. They fell into a long silence. She had been crying and her make up had run forming a kind of robber's mask around her eyes. She resembled some kind of American animal, a skunk, or something like that. No, raccoon, yes, that was it, raccoon.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘About how pretty you are when you've been crying.’
A twisted compliment, but strangely enough it worked.
‘Oh, Juan, hold me, I've been so sad!’
‘There there. Come to Juan. Of course I love you, you know that. Come on, Irene, I'll look after ‘you.
He was proud of himself, he seemed to have calmed her down, and he had managed to avoid talking about the new 'suicide' attempt. He walked her home. Come on up, she had begged, and despite himself he had agreed. As they had fucked in the bathroom she had whispered 'don't ever leave me, Juan, don't ever leave me, never, never'. Frightening. Until death do us part.
They had arranged to meet at nine in the bar on the corner, but he knew she would be late. Irene was a woman, and proud of it, and women had certain privileges. She would be systematically late, it was a gender statement. Nonetheless as each minute passed he was growing ever more angry, quite possibly on purpose, as it would then be easier to spit out what he had to say. It's over, Irene, finished. For good, this time, it's finito, kaput, dead. This time he was going to tell her straight. How do you want me to put it, eh? This is the end, the grand finale, it was nice knowing you, but good bye and good riddance! Love! Love? I've just about had enough of love for one lifetime, ok?
Far from getting better things were worsening by the day. She would be at his house when he went home for lunch, helping his mother in the kitchen. Look, Juan, I've bought you a new T-shirt, do you like it? His mother would smile knowingly – such a sweet girl, and so in love! She would follow him to the bathroom and rub herself up against him. For heaven's sake, Irene, not here! Then she would pout, sulk, become sullen and short with him. After I bought you a present – you don't love me. If you loved me........... Fill in the gaps. It was true that she had stopped ringing him at work, which was a relief, but to compensate she would spring on him when he least expected it, making him feel that he could never be alone again, never be free of this torment.
‘Por favor, another beer.’
Nine twenty. Come on, where are you now, slashing your wrists a bit, or down at the police station reporting me again? I'll give you some gender violence if that's what you're after, give you something worth telling the cops. He was deliberately winding himself up. How she exhibited herself in front of anyone, always hot and ready to go, the shouting matches, the tearful scenes, the cynical way she paraded herself in front of mum and dad, the good girl, so doting and domestic, the text messages, hundreds of them, unintelligible nonsense, the mood swings from love to hate and back again, always with a fuck in the middle.
By the time she turned up at twenty five to ten he was beside himself. But Irene, who had guessed his urgent need for a date, had come prepared to get him back under her spell one way or the other. To start, high heeled ankle boots, black stockings, tight leather mini skirt. White blouse, unbuttoned generously, hair half up, half down, a sensual tousle which declared her intentions. She sat down and crossed her legs slowly.
He refused to be taken in.
‘Thanks, thanks a million. I've been here since nine o'clock. Over half an hour waiting on you. Christ I've had enough, really. I'm sick of it, sick of it.’
‘Oh, Juan, forgive me, please. I know how you hate waiting on your own. ‘
She touched his hand, but he refused to look at her, fixing his gaze instead on the bottles behind the bar.
‘I'm sorry, Juan. I'm sorry.’
‘Leave me alone.’
He tried to pull his hand away, but she insisted, she had no intention of letting him go. Juan was furious and he knew he wouldn't be able to control himself much longer. He had to get out of the bar, he couldn't bear another scene in public.
‘How much is that?’
Irene still clung to his hands, but she said nothing.
‘Let's get out of here. Come on. ‘
He almost dragged her into the street.
‘Let go of me!’
And he pulled himself free. Luckily outside was almost deserted. A bus passed by on the other side of the street, lit up in the dark, and stopped a few hundred metres off. When it started up again Juan shouted
‘It's over, Irene. I don't want to see you any more. I don't want to carry on with you. It's over.’
‘Juan, you're angry with me, I told you I'm sorry....’
‘It's finished, don't you understand that? Over. Full stop. ‘
‘Juan.’
She tried to grab his hands again.
‘No, don't touch me. Do you hear me? Don't even try, I'm warning you.’
‘What are you on about, are you mad? I only want to hold you, my love, I only want to...’
‘Don't touch me!’
‘But Juan, I only want to....’
She held out her arms to him but Juan, blind with rage........No, no, there is no need for this.......but Juan could no longer hold back........don't make me do it, please!...... in an attack of anger......I beg you, please, not this, no.....clenched his fist........ no..... clenched his fist and punched her as hard as he could in the face......No! Irene!.........She fell to the ground........you bastard!........... with blood pouring from her nose.......... enough! ..........whilst Juan turned and started to run, run, run.
Sunday evening. Parents in bed, Juan lying on the sofa, the football results marking the end of the weekend. Tomorrow Monday, Monday morning, again, yet again. Juan closed his eyes and saw how the days stretched out before him as monotonous and predictable as a calendar. Days like government forms, always filled out the same way, always with the same boxes to tick, always with the same information, always. Dull days, written in official terminology on off-white folios, signed, stamped, dated. He tried to imagine immaculate white sheets of paper with wide open spaces where poems could be written, he tried to imagine virgin canvases awaiting the imaginative brush strokes of an inspired artist, he tried to imagine a future full of light and hope and spring sunshine. But it all turned grey, the grey of the pavement, the pavement tinged with red, the red surrealistic drops on cold slabs of concrete, and Irene unconscious.
On the television they repeated the highlights.
Irene tries to grab Juan as if she has no intention of ever letting him go again, and that is how he feels; trapped, ensnared, his future already decided for him. She has unfathomable eyes, thin, ungenerous lips, with terse skin pulled too tight over her shoulders. She is strong, strong like a madwoman, her embrace a straight jacket. Juan cries for compassion, screams for his liberty. But she closes in nearer and nearer with her tempting tentacles. The bus glides past like an urban cruise ship, the windows of the high rise flats look down with blind eyes. There is an overwhelming desire to break loose of this madness, to run. To run from the insanity, the hidden forces of this narrowing world where words dance without rhythm to a machine-like, deafening beat. Her arms outstretched, menacing and imploring, a few tremulous incredible seconds, then Irene falls and Juan, like a rioting prisoner, scurries from yard to yard, savouring albeit for a handful of fleeting moments, his illusion of freedom.
The phone rang. Who else? Wearily, guiltily, he answered.
She must have feared that he would hang up on her because she blurted out
‘I have been to the hospital and the police and this time I am not letting you get off so lightly and you needn't think I'm going to leave you because I never will because I love you.’
‘This has got to stop, Irene,’
but she had already rung off.
This has to stop.
A week later Irene phoned again. She wanted a date, to talk about the charges brought against him. She would expect a full capitulation, an unconditional surrender, promises of undying love. In return all charges would be dropped, and she would be his, forever. Defeat. Except this time it was perfect for Juan, it would suit his purpose ideally and serve as a pretext for him to put his plan into action. Poor Irene, tempting fate once more, one last time.
Irene's room was a curious mix between a young girl's bedroom and a cheap whore's den, two extremes which had at first stirred in Juan the most diverse and perverse fantasies, but which he now found repugnant. Dolls in pink dresses, silver platform shoes, tiny porcelain owls, a pot of vaseline on the bedside table, cushions with ribbons, purple satin sheets. She was mirrored by her soft furnishings and decorations: Irene the little slut, Irene the big kid. Bitter sweet Irene who had a small plaque on the door which read Irene's Room, adorned with tiny wild flowers, and on the door knob, stolen from some hotel, Do Not Disturb.
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(Pages 1-35 show above.)