The Word Cloud

I’ve always liked to live in my memories, rather than the present. Mainly because memories are mouldable, they’re flexible. You can choose what you want to remember, you can change what you don’t. The idea that real life is better than anything, well, that’s a lie. It’s easier to hide yourself in imagination, bury your head in the deep colours of your mind rather than face the truth: That infact, none of us are good enough and we’re all just trying to survive the best way we know how.

 

I’m seven. I’m holding court with Mr Muntsburger and the rest of my teddies. They’re lined up arrow straight at the end of my bed, and I lord over them all, bleating my childish idea of law and order. That’s when you walk in. I’m only seven, but even then, to me, there was something magnificent about you, you’re eyes sparkled with promise and hope, you smelled like mown grass and dirt.

You look at my teddies, eye Mr Muntsburger thoughtfully before picking him up, holding him tight to your chest, “He didn’t do it.”

It wasn’t until now that I realise: You can hide away from so many things in your life, shut them out with fond memories and made up stories, but the truth of it will always bleed through, like a single black thread woven into a tapestry of colour. It’s hard to see at first, but as it grows, thick as a worm then a babies arm, it’s hard not to. And then one day we have no choice but to face what we’ve been hiding from. What we’ve spent our lives living in fear of: The truth.

 

It took you ten years after that for you to kiss me. Do you remember? When things get bad do you, like me, hide away in this thought, and cover yourself in it like a blanket? It’s one I revisit more often than not these days, it was winter and we were at my school levers dance. I couldn’t stop laughing at you because you looked so stupid in your suit, but as the night grew on you’d unbuttoned the top two buttons, and your tie hung loos around your neck. I thought you looked like a movie star.

I had done my hair especially for that night; it was pulled over one shoulder and fell in curls down to my breast. I don’t know if you noticed, but every now and then you’d run your hands through it, curl strands around your finger while we talked about nonsense. I don’t know if you noticed, but I did.

The room was quiet now, it was late and everyone was starting to leave, but you told me you didn’t want it to end, you said you wanted this forever.

It was cold outside; I had chosen my dress out of style, not practicality. I wore bangles around my wrist and they danced as you held my hand, led me out past the car park, past anything we knew before you stopped. Your hand was tight in mine and when you turned to me, you’re eyes were bright, just like that first day I had saw you, and in the glow of you I felt complete. I felt warm.

It was perfect. The way you held me, the way your mouth moved with mine, the way the wind ruffled my dress around my knees and you wrapped your blazer around my shoulders. Perfect.

 

We’re a secret, you know.

We were never something elicit, something to be shunned. That’s what made us great, between us we nursed our secret from the world, shielded it from anything that may harm it.

But then that’s the thing, isn’t it? Secrets as beautiful as ours should never be contained; they always find a way out. They blossom and grow until even the sun is blocked with the size of it.

 

Do you remember when we first slept together?

I was going off to college and you held me so sweetly in your arms it made me want to weep. It took me so long to understand my love for you, without even knowing that it was never meant to be understood. That like all good things and all good memories, we must cherish it.

So this moment I will hold in my heart forever. This moment where you pulled me into you whispered into my ear and ran your arms the length of mine until I shivered with anticipation. This moment I will cherish. Just like I do you. Just like I do now.

 

It’s odd to find you here, now. I see your face and it’s not as I remembered it, it’s weather beaten and worn, tiered and grey. Your hair is thin, your right eye swollen. You look so frail; I’m scared for you. I bury myself in my memories, in you. And as the juror stands, my heart stops.

Because I know you, I know us. I know you’re not what they’re saying you are, that it isn’t right, isn’t you. But they don’t listen. They don’t understand that I love you and that most of all you love me. But that doesn’t matter to them. It doesn’t matter to any of them.

 

We’re a secret me and you, one that I’ve kept since I was seven. One that blossomed so uncontrollably and unexpectedly I never saw it coming, and before it was too late it had blocked the sun.

THIS IS HOW THE WORLD ENDS...

 

I went for a walk yesterday afternoon.  The grey slush on the pavement had a pleasing texture under my boots – not unlike wet cement, with the odd surprising oily slip.  Grey roads, grey houses, grey trees, grey sky. 

Giant grey snowballs and the remains of grey snowmen littered the junior school field, some posed in conversation.  I imagined the fun and the arguments and the hurting cold fingers afterwards.

And in the trees along the side of the road, a host of comfortable woodpigeons.  Fat, contented and not even shivering.

This is how the World ends.  On my left, in greyness, slush, a plague of fat, silly pigeons and an absence of songbirds.  And on my right, with the indomitable play, inventiveness and joy of children.  This is how the World begins.

This was fucking weird, but I was beginning to get the hang of it.

 

“Well?” Gordon asked expectantly. He, Frank and I were sitting next to the caskets enjoying the acrid taste and the pungent aroma of his coffee.

 

I looked from Gordon to Frank, then back to Gordon. Where should I start?

 

“First of all, you’re going to have to revise your belief that Colin here is prepared to receive visitors…”

 

“How do you mean?” Gordon was first to the question with Frank close behind.

 

“Think nature – nurture…”

 

I was met with blank gazes so I carried on, “He may have believed in his heart of hearts that the folk visiting him in his head were from here and now – but there’s a whole world, led by psychiatry, that says ‘Voices in your head that don’t belong to you clearly means you’re nuts’,”

 

“But surely he must know he’s right?” Frank was having difficulty with the notion that his little plan had fallen on its arse.

 

“Come on Frank! You must know that when there are enough folk telling you you’re wrong, or you’re mad, you begin to believe them…it’s all about conformity…”

 

It was my turn to shut up. We weren’t conformists. We were anything but.

 

I told them how Colin had screamed when I’d first entered his head…and then I told them everything else; it just cascaded out in a whole ‘what I did on my holidays’ kind of a way.

 

“So you’ve got her name?” Gordon enthused.

 

“Yes…but only a first name…”

 

“That should be enough for Ralph to find out the rest, don’t you think?” I could tell Frank wanted to be supportive, but it was clear he shared my doubts.

 

“Hmmm…listen, I have to go – I want to see Ralph. Could you get Colin to contact me when he finishes up here?”

 

“Of course, anything,” I think Frank was beginning to warm to me.

 

****

 

“Chris you say?” Ralph looked thoughtful.

 

“Yeah – sorry I’ve only got the first name…”

“That should be enough…I’ve a feeling I know who that is…” he smiled enigmatically.

 

“How will you…?”

 

“I’ll have to go into, er, work – I’ll have to see them face to face – I won’t be taking any chances,”

 

“Are you going to be ok?”

 

He gave me the slightest glimpse of a smile and said, “Yeah, I should be ok…”

 

I watched as Ralph left the flat. Even now I doubted him. I’d given him, possibly, the identity of a government agent who was using the system to live a little. The conservative powers that be were most unlikely to see this type of behaviour in a favourable light.

 

It was mid-afternoon and I was knackered. Piloting, albeit for a short time, was exhausting. Manfully, I took to my bed. I was so close…so close. So close to what? Finding the only woman I’ve ever felt this way about? What if she isn’t all she seems? What if I’m a shallow bastard and looks are everything? Maybe it’s not just me – maybe that’s how we all choose our mates – we just pretend it’s otherwise because that would be shallow. No, that’s how we get to know folk in the first place – we’re attracted to them – then we move onto the more emotional and cerebral phase. I’d fancied hundreds of women in my time – I’d only ever felt that connection with Jen…er, Chris…

 

I was woken up by the interminable ringing of that bloody thing next to my bed. No matter how long I tried to hang onto sleep, it just kept on ringing…

 

“What?” I barked, poking the screen.

 

“Hi, er, Barney, it’s me, Colin… George… I was wondering if we could meet up…?”

 

“I…er…what?” then as it gradually came back to me, “Colin! George!! It would be great…where do you want to meet?”

 

“There’s a children’s play park just around the corner from you – no-one ever goes there, I’ll meet you there if that’s ok?”

 

“Sure…when?”

 

“How does now sound?”

 

“Perfect, I’m on my way…”

 

I sat in the sunlight on one of the swings – it was amazing – nobody, absolutely nobody was around. I breathed in deeply. The air outside was astonishingly similar to that inside – processed and fucking homogenised – I’m sure it was good for me.

 

“Colin? Hi…” I stretched out my hand and wobbled on the swing at the same time.

 

The shortish, roundish completely bald Colin to my hand in both of his and shook it warmly, “Barney – it’s a pleasure…”

 

He sat on the swing next to mine, “You know,” he smiled, “if I hadn’t just been in a life where I’d grown up with swings, I’d have no idea what to do with this,”

 

“No…but there again, we haven’t got any children – there haven’t been any children for hundreds of years…”

 

“…and that’s why all the swings and stuff are adult sized – of course…”

 

“Colin?”

 

“Yes Barney?”

 

“Are you ok? I mean do you remember who you are and what this place is?”

 

“I’m fine…I’m fine…I remember everything from being George – fuck, that was some roller coaster ride…!”

 

“Did you get any visitors after I’d left?”

 

“No, thankfully…” he looked down at his feet, “You know Barney, for most of George’s life I really thought I was mad – I don’t think co-hosting’s a good idea…”

 

“But you don’t feel any amnesia – I mean, this is all familiar to you?”

 

“Yes, yes it is…If I’m honest though, I just feel incredibly sad…”

 

“Sad? Why?”

 

Without looking up he sighed a big sigh, “I just feel I’ve lost someone really close to me…I’ll get over it…”

 

“No, tell me, what do you mean? Did you meet up with Jen again? Did you see my mum? What happened?”

 

“The Jen you knew left shortly after you died…”

 

“What? How do you know?”

 

“I tried talking to her – she genuinely had no idea who I was or who you were…”

 

“So she…the real Jen…must have spent all that time bound and gagged at the back of her mind?”

 

“Yeah, she must have – from what I could make out she knew nothing about that particularly dark period of her life…”

“So this Chris who I’m looking for – as well as coming back to get me – chose to use Jen’s life as some kind of theme park?”

 

“Well, yeah, I guess…”

 

“So Jen…the real Jen…has no idea what happened to her over those months?”

 

“No…”

 

“Fucking Hell – that’s outrageous!” I was fuming.

 

“That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about though…” Quietly and firmly.

 

“It’s not?” It fucking should be.

 

“No, after all this had died down I went back to see your mum…”

 

“You did?”

 

“She really was beautiful…”

 

The skin prickled on the back of my neck, “She was? Yes, she was…”

 

Colin smiled a sad smile and told me how she and he had started going out together. How he’d eventually moved in, and how they enjoyed a beautiful, normal, life. I laughed as he recalled the first time he saw her. I’d taken scant notice of him in the refectory that day – I only had eyes for her. Seemingly he’d felt exactly the same way. They lived and loved right up until he died in his late eighties.

 

I was crying unashamedly – so was he – we both remembered how beautiful and wonderful life could really be.

 

“That’s really all I wanted to tell you,” he sniffed, “I told Frank and Gordon that I couldn’t do that again,”

 

“No…no, I understand,” I felt so happy and sad all at the same time. I was delighted to hear that mum hadn’t been alone for the rest of her life. On top of that though, I was overjoyed to know that it had been with this lovely, warm and affectionate man.

 

 “Barney, I think I know why you kept going back for more…”

 

“Yeah, I know, but you said you’re not…”

 

“No – I don’t think I can…I mean, I don’t want to…”

 

“Colin, are you ok? Is there anything I can do?”

 

“No…nothing I can think of…” after all he’d told me about his wonderful life with my mum he sounded so flat.

 

“You realise you’ve given me more here than I had ever hoped for? I mean – fuck – to hear that mum had had this life – this life with someone like you – Colin, I can’t thank you enough…”

 

“Sure,” he flashed me a quick smile, “It was fantastic – you know how to get in touch with me…”

 

He stretched out his hand for me to shake it. I hopped off the swing and gave him a full life-depends-on-it hug.

 

Wow! Wow! I hadn’t expected that. I watched his lonely, slightly hunched figure walk off and out of sight.

 

****

 

I had a definite swing in my step when I walked back into the apartment. I was met with Ralph and a squintish smile dancing around his lips.

 

“You first,” he nodded seeing my ludicrously happy gait.

 

I spilled everything Colin had told me.

 

“Hmmm…you know something Barney?” he was nibbling his bottom lip.

 

“No, tell me…”

 

“This living thing might have something to it…”

 

“You know Ralph, you could be right…”

 

“Far be it for me to lower the happy ambience…”

 

“Oh, you didn’t find out anything?”

 

“Indeed I did – here’s the name and address of the person of your dreams…”

 

“What really?” I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, I was so excited. I held the piece of paper with her name and address in front of me as if I could somehow will myself there.

 

“Really, be careful what you wish for…” were the words I hardly heard as I sped out of the door.  

 

I jumped in the car and spoke the address. It thundered into life. The journey time, it told me, would be just over half an hour. Fuck, can’t this thing go any faster? I looked around frantically for a button that said ‘Go Faster’ but it didn’t exist.

 

“Go faster,” I shouted.

 

The car proceeded to torture me with a long boring tale about how it travelled at the optimum speed for my safety, the safety of pedestrians and the safety of the environment.

 

It obviously hadn’t fully taken into account my safety since when it finally finished its monotonous diatribe I was quite ready to kill myself.

 

The door was opened by a tall, dark curly-haired, bearded man.

 

“Chris?”

 

 My mind did cartwheels as I tried to come to terms with it all.

 

We – as in the bit of us that exists as consciousness are subatomic particles. As such it stands to reason that we must, in essence, be asexual. OK, ok, come on John… this was looking good on paper, but did I really believe it?

 

There was this guy at school, Paul, who, if the circumstances had been different may have been the object of my desire. When I was talking to him in the sixth form common room he’d repeatedly undo and redo my school tie. I really liked the attention. It would have been one easy step to…

 

But we didn’t. I got my jollies from women. They looked lovely with their feminine faces and womanly ways… But what was that? What was a feminine face? Surely there was a continuum somewhere of the masculine through to the feminine appearance? There were men who appeared on the feminine side and there were women who appeared on the…

 

What about the Ladycocks of Bangboy??? If I was completely honest I wouldn’t have minded doing a few rounds with any of them. But that was because they looked feminine – they were supposed to look like girls.

 

Nature or nurture?

 

I don’t fucking know. I remember mum ensured that I played with dolls when I was little – I had some vague recollection of slipping into a frock when I was eight…

 

What about internet porn and what I got up to in the privacy of my own computer pornworld?

 

Does love truly transcend all?

 

That fucking beard would have to go though…

 

“Chris? No, she’s through here,” the big hairy man smiled as he guided me through to the lounge.  

 

Just a questions really, do you hang on to people when  you leave a job, area, club or whatever - or do you walk away and make a fresh start?

I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people.  Apart from work related stuff, I make three phone calls a week: one to my sister and two to my parents.  I text other members of my family and close friends but unless you are 'in the fold' I don't have time to keep relationships going.  Don't get me wrong I do have friends :o)

I joined Facebook a while back to keep in touch with my son's life, as he's away from home studying, and since then have received messages from people I went to school with almost 30 years ago - and haven't seen since!

Am I odd that I don't hang onto people if they aren't 'friends' but just people I've met through work, or that they live in the same area etc?

Do you Hang On or Move On?

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... that was the noise I made when I read my Foundation English Language result. C!!!!!

I can now do the Higher English Exam in summer which means I can get anything from a A* - U (where as Foundation only lets you get C - U) and if I can get at least a B I can do English Language at A-Level.


Yayy! 

 

Jack Homley was a young boy at the age of ten; though his scrawny appearance made him look younger still. But there was something much stranger about Jack Homley; He had the most perfected memory in existence. Most ten year olds had forgotten most of their lives as infants, but Jack could remember everything since the beginning of his first birthday. He could perfectly recall, learning to walk and talk and all the other things he had done. Most people thought it strange, that it was an abnormality, but for Jack it was a gift, a gift from the most putrid thing in the whole of London. The river Thames.

Jack could recall and more or less relive that day if he focused his mind enough. At the age of one, on his first birthday Jack could walk. He remembered how he had walked everywhere wanting to explore his home at a new height. On his birthday his older brother and sister had left the house to go and buy a loaf of bread for their mother, who was cleaning the upstairs, and they had left open the front door.

Being a curious infant, Jack went outside the house to explore the outdoors for what would be the first time in his life. He was amazed at the outside world. The hustle and bustle of the streets as people ran past. None of them wore rags like his parents, Jack remembered the man he saw wearing a fancy top hat and tailcoat and a woman in a bright pink dress.

He watched, in awe as the horses and carriages rode past him. Perhaps it was because he was too small to notice or because everyone was simply too busy to notice him; but Jack went unnoticed by the crowds.

A labouring man carrying an assortment of tools knocked little Jack over and when the tiny infant got to his feet he saw what he thought was the most amazing thing he had ever seen.

Behind his home he saw a huge black body of a thick murky liquid. Jack wanted to go closer to touch it and being a curious young baby that was precisely what he did. So, Jack ran back towards his dilapidated home and went round to the back garden where he found the back gate open and the black liquid was mere metres away. Jack ran forwards and ended up on a path that went beside the liquid and the path was completely deserted except for two lovers kissing passionately on a nearby bench.

Jack ran to the edge of the path and saw his reflection in the black liquid; he wanted to see if it really was him staring back at him. So, being the curious young infant that he was, he leaned forwards to touch it.

SPLASH!

There was a loud splash as Jack fell from the side of the path and into the swamp like liquid. It was extremely thick, rife with all of the rubbish that people had tossed into it. Being so small Jack was able to float at the surface, which he did so and he laughed and splashed around.

The two lovers who had been kissing one another broke apart and they looked in horror as they saw Jack in the Thames.

“Oh, my goodness,” the woman screamed. “Arthur, get someone to help!”

Jack may have been light, but eventually the Thames noticed him and slowly, pulled him under the surface of the water.

Even as he sank and could not breathe Jack played with the putrid liquid, completely unaware that he was drowning. Then he opened his mouth to laugh and swallowed the black liquid. It was the most revolting thing that he had ever tasted and as he tried to spit it out more came in and he panicked.

Jack wasn’t sure what was happening but he heard a loud splash from above and a sudden hand clasped around his shoulder. When Jack reached the surface he saw the handsome face of the man whom had been kissing his lover on the path.

“Here James!” James’s lover yelled. “Is he alright? Did he survive?”

Jack wasn’t crying. He was just still and his eyes were open, but he was not dead. He was just silent.

“Here Ella,” James called. “Take him.”

The woman called Ella took him. She was a kindly looking woman with yellow hair and a radiant rosy face. Her touch was gentle and she handled James with great care as though he were her own. Pulled himself out of the Thames’s clutches and as the three of them stood there, there was a silence. One thing that Jack could never remember was how long that silence had lasted. It felt like minutes, hours or days, James couldn’t be sure. But one thing was certain; the silence was shattered by the shrill, fearful yell of a woman.

“Jack! Oh, my goodness! What happened, he fell in the river, oh my, is he alright!”

Mrs Homley was in a deep state of panic. Her face was pale as snow with panic and worry; even her lips were drained of colour. She took her son in her eyes and held him close to her breast to keep him warm.

“He’s fine ma’am,” said James tipping his hat to her. “Just fell in the river, but we got him out of there before any harm came to him.”

Mrs Homley smiled and hugged both James and Ella, before kissing her own son’s soggy head.

“Thank you ever so much!” she exclaimed with great joy and relief. “I only left him for a minute to clean up; Paul and Sarah need to learn to keep that front door shut! But thank you, thank you ever so much, if I were much richer I’d invite you all round to dinner!”

The lovers beamed at Mrs Homley.

“Really, there’s no need,” said Ella. “We were just simply in the right place at the right time.”

Mrs Homley beamed back, James opened his mouth to speak but only a fit of coughs came out.

“Come on love,” Ella said to him. “We need to get home, goodbye miss?”

“Jane, Homley, goodbye then. And thank you!”

The Bleak Midwinter

 

He gazed down at the stark whiteness below. A world with no contrasts or contours, a harsh barren landscape, unforgiving and foreboding.

 

He stared harder. Once children had played here, racing and chasing, laughing and crying…living. Perhaps a sledge had raced down that hill – an over zealous father tripping as he launched his daughter and her friend into a soft and chilly oblivion.

 

There – the snow-laden sky seamlessly merging with the winter landscape. Maybe a tree stood there with grey squirrels living within and without – deemed outcasts because of the colour of their fur.

 

He allowed himself a chuckle as he remembered that these little rodents never remember where they have buried their nuts. As they forage around they dig up the tiny caches left by others of their species.

 

He sipped at his mug of hot-chocolate as he looked harder. There was nothing.

 

This used to be so easy. He felt agoraphobic. The vast white expanse was just too great. Tiny ripples appeared in his drink as his hands shook.

 

Where have they gone? It wasn’t just the children that he missed – it was their barking dogs – beware of yellow snow – jumping and twisting in the air to catch a flying snowball. The park bench laden with caustic old men, huddled together drinking their flask-flavoured tea, complaining about kids today and how they have no respect for their elders.

 

There was a time when this world would positively pulsate with action. Down there, just next to the bench, just as the robin flitted away having had it’s fill of the stale crumb offerings of the old guys, a suspicious Eastern European man would hover. No, not Eastern European – more Eastern Bloc - a package concealed inside his long black coat, waiting for the drop. 

 

There she was. She was a lot younger than him, dragging a small boy behind her, wearing high-heels, a ludicrous choice given the weather. Furtively, the man looked around and handed her what looked like a box of chocolates. They walked off in opposite directions without looking back.

 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A leather clad person, probably a man, raced by on a trials motorbike, spraying snow in…

 

Another sip. The hot-chocolate had cooled somewhat into warm-chocolate.

 

There must be something! Maybe the old guys on the bench had been gay lovers…a twist on the fem-fatale theme – maybe one of them had known the Eastern Bloc guy – a lover scorned?

 

Ok, time to look at the wildlife. A lone dog, wolf-like, pads across the landscape. He looks this way and that hoping for an opportunity.

 

He allowed himself a small snort of derision. Opportunity – that would be a fine thing.

 

He drank down the remainder of his tepid drink. He carefully scrutinised the dregs at the bottom. He walked through to the kitchen to wash his mug.

 

It was quiet…too quiet.

 

Oh for fucks sake, how clichéd is that?

 

He sat down again. Look at that – a polar bear! That’s more like it. An Inuit in a fur lined coat was waving a spear, no, a crossbow, no, it was more likely to be a gun…protecting his young who were all huddled up in the igloo. The bear had obviously come this far south because of global warming. A wonderfully poignant juxtaposition where man, the cause of the bear travelling south, and the bear meet face to face. Wouldn’t it be ironic if the bear devoured the man and all his family?

 

No, not here. Even in the land where he was king, the bear is now the underdog. Maybe he doesn’t have to kill it? Who are you kidding? In this cold and bleak world the bear has come looking for food.

 

More hot chocolate. It wasn’t as if they’d died! The twins had only gone to university. But their joint noise – their joint clatter and clutter is what had kept the house alive after Sheila had gone.

 

It was quiet, too fucking quiet. It wasn’t a cliché – it was true.

 

He sat down again. The Inuit and his adversary had gone – obliterated by the sudden snowstorm. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Where had they gone? What had they been doing there anyway? What about the spy and his gay lover? What ever became of the man with his kids on the sledge?

 

It was a female bear – there, through the clearing snow, he could make out the shapes of two…no, three cubs trotting obediently behind her. The Inuit had obviously found somewhere safe…or something.

 

The smallest bear at the back would be calling out, “Is it far now mother?”

 

She would turn back and smile kindly, “Not far now…”

 

No, that’s too anthropomorphic, he didn’t do anthropomorphic.

 

Shit!

 

He put down his mug and stalked off to the boys’ bedrooms. Carl’s Arsenal Duvet lay pristine over his bed. All the drawers were either neatly packed or empty. He’d taken his drum kit and his stereo with him. He looked at the small cuddly bull they’d got him as a baby. It was so funny, his nostrils used to flare and he’d snort whenever they tried to get him to do something he didn’t want to do. He sighed and closed the door behind him.

He walked into Michael’s room. His West-Brom duvet lay slightly squint across the bed.

 

He laughed at the memory, “For fucks sake – who supports West-Brom?”

 

He looked at his son’s first acoustic guitar propped carelessly in the corner of the room. He smiled as he remembered the years and years of practiced chords then tunes.

 

The boys had been in a band together for a while – they’d got a few gigs at the Ship-Inn. Lennon and McCartney they weren’t. More Lenin and Stalin. Now there’s an image.

 

He walked into his own room. He hadn’t slept there since the boys had left. Ideally he wouldn’t have slept there after Sheila had died – the bed felt too big. But that was years ago – they’d been babies when that policeman and woman had come to the door with their solemn news.

 

Again, he allowed himself a grin – he’d done pretty well as a single dad – sure it had been difficult, but his own mum had been fantastic – giving advice, her baby-sitting time and money when things had got a little tight.

 

He slept on the sofa now. He enjoyed the company of the TV. A voice, a constant murmur in the background as he fell into yet another dream-filled and restless sleep.

 

Back in the living room his eyes fell upon the magnificent installation that was their stereo system. Three boys with no female voice of reason to suggest that the Bose integrated set-up might be beyond their means. The same female voice that may have pointed out that eating took priority over sound quality.

 

Not to worry though, eh?

 

Tubular Bells played at, say, half volume ought to do the trick. He closed his eyes as he wandered through the house bathing in the beauty of Mike Oldfield’s finest as it filled every room.

 

Alone no more. He smiled at the thought of the boys shouting in unison, “Dad, what’s this shit?”

 

He sat back down in front of his computer. The stark whiteness of the empty page no longer held any fear for him. Gone was the cold unyielding snowscape upon which he’d tried to carve his earlier story – gone too were the bizarre restrictions that he’d placed upon his writing.

 

Stromboli stared with satisfaction at the merging colours of his Tequila Sunrise. He shifted his gaze and smiled at how the caricature in a glass so beautifully represented the perfect end to his day. The cool steel of his Luger pressed against his thigh provided quiet comfort as he awaited the arrival of Mr Jones.

Touch

 

She sat alone on the tube. She was a thirty-something, well dressed. Her beautifully cut long bob, normally dark-brown and shiny, was stuck to her face with grief. Her tears causing comedy panda eyes with the mascara she’d so carefully applied that morning.

 

Who’d be a Rhesus monkey? Almost invariably born into a life of experimentation – social, developmental, medical or otherwise. Year after year scientists have used our primate cousins to give us a greater understanding of ourselves. Year after year we’ve chosen to ignore it. Which begs the question – who’d be a Rhesus monkey?

 

He was young, gifted and black. He hung from one of the old dangly knobs on the tube, the rhythm of the train in perfect disharmony with the contents of his stomach and his head. If he kept his eyes closed he could keep the nausea at bay.

 

It was rush hour. The train was packed with commuters of all shapes and sizes all united in two common goals – to get to the office on time and to have as little contact with other members of the human race in doing so. She pulled a hanky out of her Prada bag. Her purse fell out spilling its contents of credit cards and family photos onto the floor of the train. As one, the commuters ebbed away as if any contact with the flotsam and jetsam of this woman’s life would contaminate them.

 

Opponents of his experiments said that Harlow "kept this going to the point where it was clear to many people that the work was really violating ordinary sensibilities, that anybody with respect for life or people would find this offensive.” Yet his experiments in the 1950’s and ‘60’s were seen as groundbreaking and a valuable contribution to our understanding of the behaviour of abused children.

 

Jesus Christ! How much had he had to drink last night? What had started off as a fine party had ended in him waking up behind a sofa with a puddle of his own drool in his ear. One of the guys had produced some Ganja, as they’d called it – what a laugh. They’d said it was 95% pure with no artificial additives or colourings. Just close your eyes and you’ll be fine.

 

Ineffectually she tried to rub the combination of make-up, hair, tears and snot from her face. She accidentally nudged the dark suited man to her left as she did so. She smiled an apology as he looked away.

 

What was more important, Harlow must have asked himself one day, food or comfort? Bowlby had argued that the mother was seen as most important to the infant because she was the primary supplier of food, essential for survival. How to measure that though – that was a tough question.

 

He reached inside the deep pockets of his coat. He fingered the knife handle and immediately felt secure. Fuck, mum would bollock him for wearing another hole in his coat though. Maybe he should have some kind of sheath? That might make his reactions too slow though. “Hang on a minute mate – I’ve just got to get me knife out – no, don’t stab me, I’ll be there in a tick…”

 

She looked around at the other passengers. She was one of them. She’d been one of them for years. She recognised some of the other folk on the carriage but in all those years they never exchanged a word, a smile or a glance.

 

So Harlow, in his quest for absolute knowledge, separated groups of rhesus monkeys from their mothers. He replaced their mothers with surrogates he’d made himself. Some were made from soft cotton towelling and provided no food, whilst others were fashioned from wire. The wire mothers provided the young monkeys with food.

 

He looked through the crowd of commuters at the bowed head of the weeping woman. She was like them only different. He had so rarely experienced this strange disconnected world, this world void of feelings and empathy.

 

She watched as the stations passed – Holborn, St Pauls, Temple – London’s financial square mile. The suits decanted themselves, racing to find their first caffeine hit at Starbucks, Costa’s or café Nero, every one keen to demonstrate that they were more important, more busy and in a greater rush than those around them.

 

When Harlow, or one of his colleagues, introduced a frightening stimulus into the monkeys’ cage, those with a towelling mother would race to her for protection. Those with a wire mother did not. They would only seek out the wire mother when she provided food.

 

Strange, he thought, she hadn’t got off the train. Tears aside, he would have figured her to be one of them. Well dressed, she was certainly one of the beautiful people. And now, and now she sat alone in her misery. He allowed himself a little snort of irony. She’d been alone before – but within the crowd it had seemed less obvious. Now though it was screamingly apparent. She’d been abandoned by her pack to suffer what the world had to throw her. Alone. Alone and vulnerable. He could almost hear the rasp of his skin as he rubbed the blade with his thumb.

 

Her stop had come and gone. She’d watched helplessly as the others had left her. Rendered torpid in her sadness, she’d been unable to join them, to meet even the most simple of challenges. She felt lost. And then she saw him.

 

When placed in unfamiliar surroundings, the young rhesus monkeys would seek comfort in their towelling mothers. They would hold on to her until they felt it was safe to explore their new world. Those placed in unfamiliar surroundings alone, or with only their wire mother, froze in fear and sucked their thumbs as they cried and screamed with fear.

 

Fuck, she’d seen him. He’d been staring right at her in the otherwise empty carriage and she’d seen him. Oxford Circus. His eyes darted towards the doors and then back to her. No-one had come on. It was still too early for tourists. Ok, he thought, he’d have a couple of minutes before the next stop. Opportunities like this don’t come around every day. With his eyes locked on hers he strode confidently towards her.

 

How could she have been so stupid? She’d been so lost in her pathetic emotion she hadn’t stopped for one moment to consider the risk she’d put herself in. If only she’d shown her face at the office. She could have told her boss what had happened, listened to a few platitudes and then gone home early. Passively she watched her assailant as he came ever closer.

 

Harlow had overthrown the zeitgeist that emotions were of little value, that children bonded with their mothers because of the connection with food. In his experiments, he claimed that children craved physical contact and comfort and that they were every bit as important as nourishment.

 

With his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets and his eyes never leaving hers he arrived on her side of the coach. His heart was pounding as his thumb rasped again and again over the blade.

 

Her tears flowed easily as she looked up at the black youth standing before her. He was dressed in a baggy coat, wearing what she would have called a ‘beanie’ hat. His lips were slightly parted – he appeared anxious, his breathing was rapid. She felt strangely relaxed.

 

He stood looking down at her for what seemed an age. She was slightly younger than his mum. She looked a mess. In one swift movement he squatted as he removed his hands from his pockets, “Are you alright?” he looked at her earnestly as he reached out and touched her shoulders.

 

She was tired and defeated, “No, no I’m not alright,” her tears welled and flowed with renewed passion as, at last, she allowed herself to cry hard.

 

“Hey, hey…” he embraced her, pulling her sad head closer to him.

 

She closed her eyes as she welcomed the kindness, the softness and the compassion.

 

“Sshh now, sshh now,” he whispered as he felt her body convulse in anguish, “It’s gonna be alright…you’ll see…you’re gonna be alright.”

Leaving work this morning, my eyes fell on 'The Time Travelers' Wife', a book  my girlfriend asked me to read once upon a time and for which I have an irrational hatred - and a thought struck me: we all post up our ten favourite books/authors on our respective profiles. I realise we may not be doing our chances of getting published much good, but would anybody like to list their ten least favourite books?

It's easy to scoff at Dan Brown or to say 'Ulysses' unreadable, so these should be books which are both popular and which have also enjoyed critical acclaim. Just to make it interesting.

Anybody?