Pulling the Plug

As the soap suds popped around Steven's ears, he shivered, raising a frothy arm out of the water. The air temperature was definitely dropping.   Opening one eye, he perused a pale limb, noting the white goose flesh and wrinkly  hand. Foam tassels dripped into the liquid below. His skin felt like cold porcelain, so he quickly re-immersed it, comforted by the   warmth of the water. An hour had tried on five minutes for size, and liked the fit.

          Winding the sharp links of plug-chain round his big toe, it tightened, and he yanked it free with a soft “BL-UPPING'' sound. Fatigue pressed down like an unseen hand, forcing him down into the bath shaped mould. He was too tired to suction his heel to the plug hole and play ‘musical purling's’; apathy occupied the space left by the receding water. It gurgled and gulped, carrying with it sloughed off layers of sealed-in memories. How odd his body felt. How numb and heavy. Elbows, hips, ankles, all nudged the hard enamelled surface, as he sank. Should he open his eyes and stop the descent, or see where it took him; what thoughts it displaced?

          A sheet of cold air fell on the emerging islands of flesh. Knees first, then toes, followed by chest, thighs, until three land-locked puddles of scummy water remained; down both sides and between his hairy legs. An icy tongue licked moisture from a pensile frame. Suspended animation or flotation tanks probably treated you to the same unity of sensation,           He thought

          Trying to gauge the location of any body part was impossible; something had melted all his flesh, blood and bones away, leaving only his mind, naked and shivering. A monochrome picture dimmed, flickered and brightened. Garbled sounds thickened, becoming coherent voices. Then, a scar was slowly peeled away.

         

A kitchen; large, modern and well equipped. No doubts about middle class occupation here, with the fridge door wide open, harbouring expensive wines, chilling well ahead of schedule. Top shelf; salmon mousse cling-filmed into separate ramekins; precision stacked, three deep, rim on rim, on rim. Middle shelf; game pie, still warm, hindering the group above. Bottom shelf, Crème` Brulee`, with primed Demerara fuses.  Door slammed shut in frustration. Nowhere to hook a cleanish finger or tear a strip from an old carcass without being traced. Mars bars', Twixes', biscuits'. Icy refugees, relocated in some sticking bottom drawer, glimpsed in a three inch chink, alongside last years Christmas cards and blue spiral drinking straws. A line of teasing bar-codes and taunting sell by dates, out of reach to all but pianist’s fingers. Silence, save for the laboured hum of a fridge making up for lost time.     Owner /employers out golfing at some tedious eighteen-holer, for some deserving charity and the consolation of a gallon of Bells. House empty, if you discounted Suzy the old sausage dog; belly-worn and smelly with tiny Yves-St-Lauren briefs to cover her ‘delicate’ condition.

          In the middle of the floor, (having assembled and avoided the scissor-snip legs of the ironing board) stood a young man, dialling the hi -tech iron to Linen. Twenty four napkins hot from the drier, stood bunched and crinkled like poppadum’s on the draining board, awaiting attention.

          No problem with ironing. A Therapeutic pastime, pressing creases, ironing out anxieties and worries. Pride in one's appearance, left over from daily inspections in the Army. Starts with one, too easy. Two, then three. Four's much too thick. Sticks with a wad of three, lining up the tartan checks until a leaning tower crowds the scene.

          Suddenly, a trilling phone causes the man to overrun, and iron his thumb. The tap runs fast and cold; one hand picks the receiver up while the other gets a soaking. Can't quite make out the caller above the din of gushing water.

          "Hang on a sec.'' Twisting the tap to a trickle, thumb still smarting.          "Hello. Are you still there.''  Silence.

          "Hello. Is there anyone there?''

          "Ste-ven, is that you?'' whispers a voice.   "Dad? Dad, what's wrong?'' Pain in thumb vanishes. Transfers both hands to receiver.

          "Ste-ven''. Spoken in a gravely, hoarse voice. Someone crying in the background. He already knows that in between those syllables a life has gone.

"Steven its Rachel!” A monotone sentence, words glued together with necessity.        

          "She's been killed''. More glued words. Background voice  recognised as mother bawls down the phone, screaming Steven's name over and over, followed by a stream of sobbing "No's''. Then father again.

          "In a car accident.''

           No reply.

          "N-n-no!'', stammers Steven.

          "Come home son, come home''. Words becoming far off now. Cli-ck.  Dialling tone.

          He places the receiver gently back on the hook, like a wrong number. Steam iron still on. Smell of scorched linen. Face, cancer yellow. Distance from home, three hundred miles, might as well be three thousand. Nausea, mixed with coldness; a numbing coldness from the inside out, giving his heart a strange crushed and brittle feeling. A vacant stare out the window into the bright eyes of summer. Emotions welling up inside. Must get out and run away. Must run fast now, to beat the tidal wave. Legs buckling, knees hitting the cool floor tiles. Kneeling now, then curled up, tight as a young fern.

          "Steven! We're back.'' Steven is impervious to the cheerful greeting. Tears slide off his oily cheeks, irrigating the dry cement between a cracked floor tile. 

          Young pig-tailed girl skips into the scene, to check on Suzy and pillage from the fridge. Steven lies unnoticed, whimpering like a run-over-dog. Girl wrestles with the squeaking, sticking drawer, slender fingers scrabbling for a Mars bar. Parental footsteps advancing closer. Rips off the wrapper and wolfs it down in two bites. Mouth full, she swivels and sees him curled up.

          "Bub!  Bub!'' she screams, disgorging the caramel ball onto the floor.      

          "Mum!''

          Mum and Dad arrive, in matching yellow Pringles, carrying their putters like hip-slung rifles.

          "Look! There! Says the girl, pointing. I think it’s Steven. What's wrong with him mummy? Is he dead?''

          Mother scoops up her daughter, while father, slots in the St Johns Ambulance tape from last years  office refresher course.

          "Breathing, bleeding, bones. Or is it bleeding, breathing, bones? Hand to mouth puzzlement. Wife shoos daughter into lounge and steps in.

          "Steven, are you hurt at all? Can you hear me?''  She says, nervously, crouching down.

          "Steven, can you hear me?'' Said in a louder, teacher’s voice. No touching.

          Husband in backseat, remembers right order.

          "Breathing, bleeding, bones, that's it! Sarah! Feel for a pulse. No, not there, in the carotid, I mean in the     neck.''

          Daughter, bisecting the kitchen door with a thumb-sucked face. Mother orders her to run across the road and fetch Dr Jenkins.

          Husband paces, dishing out advice like a proper know it all.

          “Breathing Ok? Good. No sign of injuries. Good, put him in the recovery position.” Wife shoots him a look usually reserved for interfering parents at a P.T.A. meeting.

          "Show me!" she says, with supplicating gesture.

          Then, suddenly, the fern unwinds, jerking up straight. Onion-stung eyes. Face, swollen like a dead fish. Hands washing the air. Then faints again, onto the wife’s generous thighs.

          Sometime later, laid out on the sofa, he comes to. The realisation of the terrible news making him shake and mutter deliriously.

          ''A brandy. Fetch the poor boy a brandy. He's had a terrible shock,''

Says Sarah, shooing her husband away, whilst cradling a damp face in her gloved left hand.  Steven can smell cut wet grass and new leather. David retires to the dining room and rootles in the drinks cabinet for a bottle of cheap cooking brandy.

         

The phone rings again. It keeps ringing. Steven's body convulses, as he cracks his foot on the bath tap. The mobile keeps ringing. He sits up, shivering, and glances at his wristwatch, before grabbing the phone, and presses the talk button.

          ''Hello'', he says, sleepily.

          ''Steven! You haven't forgotten what tomorrow is, have you son?''

          ''Tomorrow, what do you mean, tomorrow?''

          ''It's been six years Steven. Had you forgotten?''

Spring

                         

There’s no going back

For rising sap

committed to engorging bulbs

bursting buds, fixing shrubs and showy plants

with enduring photogenic smiles

before the pressure falls.

This drip fed operation

teems behind closed doors,

The press release reads

NATURE – CALM AS A LUNAR SEA.

Blackbirds sing without scripts

ad-libbing ancient hymns

and one-hit wonders

to suit the more discerning dawn

Sadly, our subtle lives

require more time

to take in mother nature’s elemental cues,

her obligation’s steeped in chaos

like a frilly-knicker-pink azalea’s

bold and brazen hues.

But when she’s forced to make the call

we act like well-intentioned understudies

doing Lear.

We know the lines

and re-rehearse

but have no clue

To why on earth we’re here.

Invisible

Sometimes, when I venture out for a newspaper or a carton of milk I feel as though another tiny part of me has disappeared. This GBD (gradual body depletion) is difficult to quantify as I know I’m still virtually the same person as I was yesterday, with the possible exception of an extra grey hair or new found wrinkle. It’s as though the more routine and predictable my journeys are the more insignificant I become. Perhaps I should attempt to halt or even reverse my slow disappearing act with a naked one man band impersonation in the dead of night?

It also seems as though the less I interact with my surroundings the more this invisibility is accelerated.  A hearty ‘good morning’ or ‘lovely weather today’ with any complete stranger tells me I’m still here. It’s when I refuse to engage with my fellow humans or choose to hide myself under hats, and behind sunglasses that the situation is exacerbated.

Certain senior citizens can slip through our observational nets without even trying. Their body language, gait, and dress all conspire to render them a kind of walking background noise.  A particular brand of adolescent filters out these urban ghosts because they refuse to accept or believe that one day they too will be shuffling towards Tesco’s with a beige and orange shopping trolley wondering if they remembered to lock the front door. Either that or they see no personal advantage from elderly interaction.

If I stopped going out would anyone miss me?  I could always don a disguise such as a false beard or wig and discover for myself. I’d frequent my usual haunts and say something like:

                “Whatever happened to that middle aged guy that used to come in here day after day for his paper and carton of milk? The newsagent might scratch their head or frown and say:

                “Oh you mean that quiet fella who wore the same drab clothes? Dunno, praps he moved away or died?”  Not exactly a heartfelt eulogy is it? I could always stick up for the mute fashion disaster with some heartfelt anecdote or even unmask myself with a jubilant “Fooled Ya!”

To be honest, I think some days we feel more anonymous than others, wearing our transience or disconnection like a heavy overcoat.  I also think we prefer to make a conscious decision to emerge from our prospective dwellings ‘camouflaged and unremarkable’ or not at all, because we don’t wish to stand out and be noticed. We can’t all be in the limelight at the same time and sometimes it’s infinitely more preferable to watch a firework display than to try and be the firework itself.

I wrote a poem once about an elderly man who was released from a mental health establishment to fend for himself in the community. Sure, he was told he had the backup of a CPN (Community Psychiatric Nurse) twenty four seven, but this man had fallen into a daily routine so entrenched that no one was ever going to alter it. Unlike me he was extremely visible until one day he completely disappeared. Below is my tribute to him.

Noel Coward lives in our street.

Each day at nine he promenades

wearing his best Oxfam smoking jacket,

recently died fawn slacks

and slippers

First he pats his pockets, 

before taking out an imaginary cigarillo

clamping one hand to his forehead,

mouthing “ooh silly me” and,

realising fags are normally filter first

removes it, bows and re-inserts.

Once lit, he stands at the pedestrian crossing

on Prospect Road parodying an old prostitute,

soliciting winks from passers’ by,

taking great sucks at his pincer’ed butt

like a reverse breathalyser

and blows pseudo-smoke rings at traffic cops

His gait is something to behold.

Not quite John Cleese from the ministry 

more a speed skater in slow-mo

who trips over an imaginary toe

and slews to a teetering stop

I heard he feigned death

in Granton Park,

doing a very convincing heart attack.

Trouble was, the pretend Paramedic

Arrived too late

As did the imaginary undertaker, leaving

an eight-year-old girl feeding swans

to mark the body

face down in the lake

with two soggy rounds of bread

and a mouldy bap

Silent Running

David squeezed out the last blob of deep-heat onto his hands and rubbed it into the front of both  thighs. He did this to improve the blood circulation, but he also loved the pungent smell, that reminded him of Grandma, comforting somehow.  He flung the empty tube into the bushes and started to warm up, glancing at his  watch.   

        The journey over had been uneventful, save for a couple of patches of black ice and the absence of traffic lights at Rayners Hill. He liked the early morning races, particularly if there was a longish drive, giving him time to mull over any last minute tactics or weigh up the opposition.

        All around him the pine trees were encased in frosty overcoats, sparkling like chandeliers in the weak sunlight.  At the very top  of the canopy a light breeze had brushed away the ice, leaving a dark green head on milky-white shoulders. When the wind passed by, a skirt of ice crystals fell to the floor       

        He loved to run in a cold snap, when the air stung his legs and made his lungs burn, it was only then he felt truly alive. Quite often, in such conditions he experienced a wonderful state of euphoria, known to joggers and serious athletes as a 'runners high'.   

        This race was an important one to do well in,  as it acted as an eliminator \ qualifier for the forthcoming county trials. He couldn't afford to make any mistakes if he was finally going to  break into the big league. He jogged up and down, scanning the rest of the runners who were also warming up, and recognised a few old familiar faces. John Matthew's was easy to spot, David called him the "bounding banker'' as he always took such large springing steps. He never appeared in the same running kit more than once, choosing to dazzle the opposition with his latest lurid lycra ensemble. His success in racing was negligible, it wasn't so much the taking part for John more the dressing up. Mind you, anyone forced to wear drab  three piece suits six days a week  was entitled to let their hair down once in a while. 

        The ladies race was due to start any minute, and the dozen or so hopefuls jostled for position at the tape. Nearly all of them were sporting expensive compression suits, that looked as if they’d been applied with a sable brush. Among these assorted colours stood a tall, well built woman of about thirty, wearing enormous baggy shorts  and what looked like old rugby boots. Her bare legs were heavily muscled and brown like those of a small pony. The top half of her body was swathed in a faded white bed sheet, which she tucked under a broad leather belt. For all her apparent lack of femininity her face was by comparison well defined and broad, like a cats. Lapis-blue eyes stared straight ahead in deep concentration. The gun cracked, echoing around the woods, and the race was on.

        A crowd of colour swept past as the runners made their way to the first climb, about two hundred yards away. At the back of the group, the mysterious booted lady lumbered on  with an awkward rolling stride. Ahead, the leaders were encountering some difficulty on the hill. The frozen ground was thawing quickly, and as the majority of runners were wearing  trainers they slipped this way and that in an effort to find a firm footing. By stark contrast, the big tail-ender snowploughed her way through the logjam of scrambling bodies, digging into the soft earth like a mountaineer. She'd already made up seven places, before  disappearing over the crest of the hill.

        She may look like a running refugee , thought David, but she definitely has guts. 

         The men's race was announced over the tannoy, so he stuffed his number down his shorts and jogged over to the tented assembly point. The sunshine was quite strong now and small veins of water dripped from the large awning. He fumbled with the tiny safety pins that secured his race number,  blowing on both hands to improve his circulation. Hadn't they heard of Velcro, he thought, as he stabbed first his finger and then his stomach. Finally, with the number 13 pinned awkwardly to his chest, he joined the rest of them at the start.

        The gun cracked for the second time, sending a small ring of blue smoke into the air. It took him by surprise, and the rest of the starters had gone five metres before he realised that meant him as well. At the first hill he remembered  the firmest footing was to be found on the left where the lower branches cast their shadows. Most of the leading group made for the middle of the track but were soon sent careering down the bank as they too succumbed to the thick mud. David took full advantage of their mistakes and forged ahead to take first position. This was new unexplored territory for him, only a few hundred yards into the race and he was in first place.

        The narrow path snaked away into the thicket, marked only with a few red and white streamers that were tied at indeterminate intervals. Keep the advantage, he thought, glancing back to see how close the chasing group were. To his astonishment they were nowhere in sight, so he swallowed hard and forged onward. The hill had had more of an effect on the runners than he could possibly imagine. Not only had they failed to reach the top, but any attempts to find an easier route were hampered by the thick impenetrable pines on either side. By the time they discovered David's secret route he was five hundred yards ahead.

        As he approached the first Marshall at the three kilometre point the thought dawned on him that not only had he created a commanding lead but he may be able to win his first race. The sunlight strobed through the pine trees and he wondered if any runners had ever suffered epileptic fits.   

        The track tapered with each stride, forcing him to adopt a running style like an eggbeater. There were also hidden dips and hollows, where old trees had been uprooted,  which demanded intense concentration. He tried to imagine running  through the woods near his home after a Friday night liver-meeting with the lads. The alcohol always relaxed him, producing a sort of high speed stagger, but he never fell over.  

        By keeping his eyes fixed on the ground  he failed to notice a lone Marshall peeing against a nearby tree. Startled by a snap of bracken,  the official looked over his shoulder, but didn't see him, resuming the task of initialing the frozen tree stump with warm yellow ink.

        After  a couple of minutes he reached a fork in the track. He looked around anxiously for a day glow waistcoat or red ribbon, there was nothing. 'Jesus, he thought, where are all the bloody Marshall's ?’ He jogged on the spot, shaking the stiffness out of his arms as clouds of body steam swirled about him. He didn't have a clue what to do next. The following group were nowhere to be seen which meant one of two things, either they were still a long way back, or they were lost as well. He favoured the latter. 

        The vegetation was so thick and dense that what little sunlight made it through was squeezed back into the sky by the tightly packed trees. This was the wooded version of the deep-sea, with it's bizarre looking creatures and rank smells. Even the frost dared not enter. The water, (if it was water at all) stained the floor in rusty pools, as though aged cars had crawled there to die.

        Just then, he heard a loud creaking noise, like a giant door opening  followed by a loud splash. Looking behind him he could see a figure standing  knee deep in one of the orange ponds. It waded through the stuff and sloshed over to where David was standing. As it moved closer he recognised it to be the female Goliath he had seen earlier.

        ''Are you lost ?" he said, raising both eyebrows and shrugging slightly.

        She nodded, and began scooping off stinking sludge from her boots with the side of her hand.

        ''Do you think they'll send out a search party for us both?'' he asked, with a weak smile,  She remained silent and continued to rid herself of the swamp . He was about to repeat the sentence when she bent over and he saw a small pink plastic blob lodged in her left ear. After she’d stood up and was facing him he spoke slowly and clearly in that wide mouthed condescending tone usually reserved for senile old people and two year olds'.

        "T - h - a - t - s   r - i - g - h - t," she replied, in an even slower more deliberate manner, grinning at the same time.

        "I  can lip read you know, just don't speak too quickly. Can you sign?'

        David shook his head. ''No, but I can read subtitles"  

        The woman nodded  and smiled. "I was so far in front I didn't see any Marshall's at that last checkpoint, did you?"

        "None at all, not even a bit of tape or an arrow. The bloody organisation is terrible. The one time I'm in the lead and I get lost". He looked at his stopwatch, which was still relentlessly grinding out the seconds. By my reckoning both races will have finished, the question is will anyone actually miss us both. They wont miss me, I came on my own, how about you?"

        "No one. I gave my fan club the day off. They needed the rest."

        Between them they decided that the best plan was to try and retrace their steps. As the woman's footprints were easier to follow, (for reasons that did not require explanation) they began to backtrack. She insisted on taking point  on account of her 'far superior eyesight', which she quickly demonstrated to avoid argument.

        "Do you see that tree creeper on the crooked branch up ahead"? David squinted, admitting  he could barely discern the branch let alone the bird.

        ''Ok , I give in, you lead,"

        It was not difficult to see the route taken. Having ignored all conventions like trails and tracks, she had opted for the rampaging   Elephant  approach.  This consisted of bulldozing through any obstacle smaller than a tree. David half expected to meet a gaggle of ramblers coming the other way, thinking they had discovered a new route through the forest.

        "Hey! " screamed the woman, at the top of her voice. Through the tangle of trees and vines was a small figure winding day glow tape onto a twig. The person, clad in a  voluminous khaki parka looked round briefly before resuming his task

        "Hey!" she screamed again, only this time the pitch was much higher like that of a Regimental Sergeant Major.

        The winder stopped winding and pulled down the fur lined  hood to get a better look.

        "Over here", screeched the woman, frantically waving her arms. It was only then that the Marshall locked on to her,

        "What's the matter, are you lost?''

        At this point both David and the lady looked at each other and, unable to control themselves any longer, started to laugh. The Marshall furrowed his brow and spoke again.

        "What's so funny, care to let me in on the joke?"

        David  was the first to regain his composure and asked if the race had finished. Apparently, it was declared void because some of the runners had over anticipated the starters gun.  The appalling race conditions and poor light hadn’t helped much either.  A re-run was organised for next weekend.

        'After all that effort,' thought David. He repeated this information to Sarah who looked as dismayed as he did.  Trailing after the Marshall, she turned to David saying.

        "I can't make it next week, I'm off to America on business, how about you?''

        "Me neither, I've got to take the car in for a service. It looks like our day of glory will have to be postponed - for now.”

Christopher Crumb's Strange Experiments - An extract.

Christopher Crumb lives at 21 Rectory Close, in the semi-boring village of Gladsby Minor. I would have labelled it completely boring had it not been for this one remarkable resident who changed my life for the better. 

 ‘Crispy Crumb’ as his bullies liked to call him was reasonably bright, but not brainy. At Middle School, he applied himself to what was asked of him and was awarded several above average scores in the annual examinations. He didn’t smoke, swear or chase girls like most of the other boys, because he said that was ‘predictable behaviour’ and he preferred the unpredictable.

I met him during my first year at High school on a very windy October morning.  The playground was pitching like a tilted sea, while we clung to it for dear life. Chris was standing on his own, in the corner of the playground, with his coat fully unzipped, holding the ends out like bats wings. He had his back to me, and for one awful moment I thought he was flashing at someone.

          “What you doin?’’ I said. The wind instantly snatched the words from my mouth screwed them up and tossed them into the sky.

          “What are you doing?” I shouted, tapping him on his shoulder. He spun round, his fingers still gripping the ends of his coat and glared at me.

          “Waiting!” He said, and spun back round.

          “Waiting for what?” I shouted. This time the wind was a bit more lenient. Chris didn’t speak, or turn to face me. He just stamped one of his feet, as though he was kick starting an invisible motorbike. Then something amazing happened. The wind paused between breaths and Chris flung out his arms and jumped into the air. Whether gravity had decided to take a nap, I wasn’t sure.

At the same split second he jumped, the wind roared back into the playground with a vengeance. It picked him up and blew him a good ten or twelve feet backwards. He landed on his back, arms outstretched and I winced at the sound of bum hitting tarmac. I walked over to the crash site and saw his hood had fallen over his face like a shroud. I leant down and peeled it back. His eyes were tightly closed.

          “You ok?” I said nervously.  He opened both eyes and smiled broadly.

          “How far?” he said, excitedly.

          “Scuse me?”

          “How far did I travel? “

          “Erm, I dunno. Twelve, fifteen feet?” Chris got up and smiled again, patting me on the shoulder.

          “Next time I’ll manage twenty.” Over the far side of the playground a group of teachers were huddled together like nervous referees, blowing tired whistles. Eventually, the wind moderated a little and pupils started walking back to class. Chris was striding out purposefully, so much so I had to do this sort of half-run-half-walk just to keep up.

          “The name’s Crumb- Christopher Crumb. What’s yours?”

          “Michael, Mike Poulter.” I replied.

          “That thing back there, with the wind I mean.  Mum’s the word eh? I don’t want anyone to steal my idea. Ok?”

          “O-k. Can I ask what it was you were doing?”

          “If I tell you, you must swear...” He turned to face me, narrowing his eyes.

          “You must swear not to tell a soul - not yet anyway.” As he spoke, he poked me in the chest. Not roughly, like a bully seconds before he punches you with your own fist. No, this was more of a gentle tap, as though he was testing plaster walls in an old house.

          “Sure.” I replied, crossing my heart. Although, why a lapsed agnostic would do such a thing was beyond me. Before he could say any more we reached the reception area. He pointed left down the east corridor, smiling.

          “Double maths for me I’m afraid.”

          “P.E.” I replied, shaking my head and pointing in the opposite direction. We nodded to each other and parted. As I was about to enter the changing rooms, I glanced back and could easily spot him with his head held high, still striding down the corridor, as though he owned the world.

During the next two hours of punishment goalkeeping, I passed my time under the cross bar trying to get an angle on Christopher Crumb. Occasionally, when the cannon-ball-cum-Casey was blasted in my direction I would fall on or near it, in an attempt to quell Mr Ripley’s dislike for me. Every time the ball struck my ample thighs he shot me a look that had ‘serve you right fatty’ written all over it.

I didn’t recall ever having seen or heard of Chris Crumb before today. Normally, anyone with his M.O, or surname for that matter would be right at the top of my ‘boys to avoid’ list.  Such a list was only formulated out of self-preservation to reduce the risk of any ‘bullying by association’. It struck me that the only reason I’d noticed him today, was the fact he’d chosen to perform his wind assisted experiments alone. I too was a bit of a loner, more by accident than intention. Perhaps likes did attract after all?

With my plate brim full of assorted cholesterol I chose an empty table and sat down. Once I’d scraped off all the cheese from the pizza and milked the grease from the cheap sausages I assembled my own pizza base hot dog.

          “Very impressive hot dog”. I looked up and saw Chris Crumb carrying a tray full of rabbit food. “D’you mind”? He said, pulling out a chair.

          “Feel free.” I answered, through a mouthful of dough and pig flavoured sawdust. Chris sat down and started chomping noisily on his salad. For the first few minutes we remained silent, doing a sort of bizarre nodding and grinning routine while we each tried to finish our meals. Chris finally broke cover.

          “So Mike, have you worked out what I was doing this morning. In the playground?” During my time on the goal line I’d narrowed it down to three possibilities:-

1.     

Some sort of weird science project

2.    

Borderline insanity

3.   

Indecent exposure

          “At first I thought you were flashing. Then when I got closer I realised you were alone.” Chris spat out a slice of carrot and started to laugh. It was quite an odd laugh for such a gangly eccentric - part squeak and part asthmatic wheeze. If I was him I’d practise a new one so as not to attract attention. A couple of fourth year thugs stopped throwing chips at each other and glanced over.

          “Flashing? Seriously?”  said Chris shaking his head. “No I wasn’t flashing. I was proving a theory.”

          “What sort of theory?” The thugs stopped looking and went back to chip throwing as soon as I said the word ‘theory’.

          “It hasn’t got a name yet. It’s to do with numbers and probability. Do you know about probability Mike? I wanted to say ‘of course I do’ and accompany it with a wry smile or a face-lifted tut. What I actually said was…

          “D’you mean like working out odds and stuff?” I couldn’t have sounded more like a yokel if I’d chewed on an ear of barley and spoken in a West Country accent. Chris saw I was floundering.

          “Sort of. It’s all to do with natural patterns and rhythms. They’re everywhere.” He threw out his arms, palms upwards, making me look around the packed dining room for signs of black balaclavas and grappling hooks.

          “Ri-ght” I said, hoping the next explanation would actually reveal something.

          “Look. You know when you’re on holiday and you decide to go for a dip in the sea. Haven’t you ever bobbed about waiting for the big seventh wave to come?”

          “I can’t swim.”

          “Really?” Well, every so often there comes an extra big wave. Surfers wait for it. The best ones even know when it’s coming. Well I can predict, with an eighty five per cent certainty the precise moment when the wind will increase in strength. I’ve been gathering data for a few months now and I think I’ve cracked it.” He leaned back in his chair and placed both hands behind his head.

          “Impressive though that sounds, why did you feel the need to turn into batboy this morning?”

          “Ah, that was just me having a bit of fun. I suppose I could have just logged the gust in my notebook. But then we wouldn’t have met, and I wouldn’t have had a witness.” I resisted the urge to shout ‘bravo!’ clap or even ‘help there’s a psychotic batboy on the loose!’ Instead I fielded the fried potato missile away from Chris’s face and shook my head in disbelief.

For the next thirty minutes he talked while I nodded and said ‘yes’ and ‘oh right’ a lot. It soon became clear he was a bit of a closet boffin. His scientific knowledge seemed to know no bounds. I was desperate to ask if he’d proved a theory that would simultaneously kill all bullies and endow me with the super-hero powers of flight and invisibility. I’m sure it was well within his capability. During the one-way discourse he offered to show me a few of his ‘works in progress’ at his house after school. There were no obvious signs of burgeoning homosexuality (whatever they were) so I agreed, with the proviso that I mustn’t be drugged and used in some freakish Frankenstein re-enactment. He laughed again, patted me on the back and we went our separate ways.

After school, he waited for me outside the gates, and seemed invisible to the pupils streaming past him. As I approached I could see he was scribbling something in his pocket notebook.

          “Working on a new theory?’’ I said, peering over his shoulder. He closed his book, and shoved it in his pocket.

          “Just observing.  Fancy a shortcut?”

          “O-k.” This was a little like asking a blindfolded hostage the same question? I could tell by the way his face lit up that we were about to put a little theory into practice.... 

On Windy Days

On windy days
the playground pitches
like a tilted sea
and kids hang on for dear life

On windy days
Children skip about the place,
their coats unzipped for that one gust
while gravity takes a nap

On windy days
teachers band together
like nervous referees,
blowing tired whistles

while ninety fledgling fighters
gleefully ignore them.

Extract taken from my Novel - The Compost of Memory

Chapter 3

Bulled Boots and Cocoa

I forgot to mention that prior to me disgracing myself at High school I’d applied for the position of Police Cadet. Why such an institutionalised career choice I hear you ask? After all I have already confirmed (ad-nauseum) my status as a free spirit who doesn’t care to have all his burgeoning creativity and free-will snuffed out. If truth be known I thought the uniform might improve my love life, and the fact that nearly half of the 30 strong cadet troop were women.

The selection procedure was surprisingly rigorous and involved 3 separate interviews, a series of psychometric and I.Q tests - 165! (I asked for a recount) as well as a detailed background check. This was the only bit I was worried about. Did they have the resources to uncover my milk-money scam or worse still, when I pretended to be another paper boy in order to get all his Christmas tips? For whatever reason, these petty crimes were overlooked and I was accepted as a Staffordshire Police Cadet.

I moved out of my cosy bedroom on the 16^th October 1979 and into one of Seigfried House’s 3 bed dormitories. It was situated at Aldershot HQ, right next to the Police Dog Kennels and just to the left of the mounted division. To this day, if I catch a whiff of Jeyes fluid or steaming horse manure I’m instantly transported back to Baswich.

My two roommates seemed ordinary enough. Steven (Doc) Holiday was a lanky, strong jawed individual who rarely spoke. Dave Williams sported the full Mod regalia of bulls-eyed parker, pork pie hat and drainpipe jeans. A mop of blonde curls and rosy cheeks belied a brittle demeanour, underlined by the home made H.O.T.E. and L.A.V.E tattoos on both knuckles.

I chose to file my poetic sensitive side away under ‘M’ for much later on, and re-invented myself with a more masculine, rugged persona. I loved sports (big lie), was veritable fly-paper for females (bigger lie) and adored heavy metal (straight to hell!). The trouble with this new and improved me was his propensity for overlaying lies and exaggeration one on top of another. Good and convincing liars have a well-rehearsed script and excellent recall. I fluffed my lines and forgot everything.

In less than a week I was rebranded as wanker and weirdo by Steve and Dave. It took almost two years to convince them otherwise

In the initial meet and greet, Superintendent Jones mapped out our duties, responsibilities and educational curriculum for the year ahead. From what I could fathom, this consisted of three more ‘O’ Levels, loads of P.E and hours of drill practice. There wasn’t a sign of any police based activities until the second year when we were seconded to various police departments such as forensics, firearms and Scenes of Crime. In the third year (if we hadn’t resigned or been dismissed) we’d get the opportunity to observe a fully functioning police station close up.

Each year brought with it a different coloured lanyard to separate us from the regular police force - first red, then blue and finally gold. To emphasise our role further, these colours were also duplicated on our bus-inspectors hat bands. So, all my dreams of a bobby’s helmet and shiny black truncheon soon evaporated. Probably for the best really, as none of us wanted the stress or responsibility of the real deal.

The job of teaching us to square bash fell to a formidable ex-guardsman, Sergeant Sweet. I never saw his eyes, which were hidden by a sawn-off cap peak that rested on the bridge of his nose at 90 degrees. For a little man he had the loudest voice I’ve ever heard. It was a shout of two parts - starting with a low guttural growl, and ending in a blood curdling scream. During the explosion his jugular vein stood out like a liquorice snake and anyone within five yards was showered in spit.

By day we were drilled, exercised and schooled to virtual collapse. By night, an element of public school cosseting crept in, in the shape of an optional supper treat. Mountains of cheese and pickle sandwiches and jugs of steaming cocoa were left on the shuttered serving hatch in the dimly lit canteen every evening at 7pm. At first, it was a great success. We used the time to let off steam, tease the girls and gorge ourselves on dairy products. Gradually though, the novelty wore off and the numbers waned. 

Maybe people got tired of the unchanging menu, or perhaps they preferred to sample smuggled in contraband (beer and crisps). I kept coming, mainly because I loved the peace and quiet of the place. The humming freezers and foodie aromas made me think of home. Sometimes I’d glance at the wall clock, shut my eyes and let my mind find Mum, all aproned-up in her galley kitchen, stirring cauldrons of boiling jam or tomato chutney. In the lounge, telly tuned to Match of the Day was Dad - virtually horizontal, nodding in his armchair with two chubby hands anchoring a tumbler of whisky to his rolling chest. In her tiny bedroom, bent under the beam of an ancient angle poise lamp sat Sam, revising about terminal moraines or the Jurassic plates. My old bed probably held a pair of cats, curled up like young ferns, in amongst bin bags of stuff waiting to be stored in the loft.

The only other staunch supper addict was Mickey Rice, a close friend and fellow weirdo who could talk for England, with a quirky sense of humour not unlike my own. His father was an inspector and everyone assumed he’d used his influence to secure a place for Mickey. We’d jabber away to each other about nothing in particular, playing a sort of verbal paper chase with neither of us knowing the route or eventual destination. I loved this free flowing banter, devoid of rules and conventions. There were animal impressions, jokes, armpit farts, and best of all sandwiching eating contests. As soon as the seconds hand hit 12 we were off, grabbing and stuffing like starving refugees. The trick was to keep chewing and swallowing, and definitely no talking. Mickey nearly always ignored the rules cramming, speaking and then disgorging his soggy ball of bread and cheese onto the table in a fit of giggles and streaming eyes. Occasionally, we’d both cram at the same time and stare goggle-eyed and hamster-cheeked at the other until somebody buckled and coughed up.

A year after leaving the cadets, I learned that Mickey had stolen a police vehicle from his father’s station and gone for a drive around Stafford. With several jam butty cars in pursuit Mickey bottled it on a bad bend near a low bridge and hit one of the supports at 90. He was killed instantly – aged 20. Rumours about drink and drugs filled the local papers, but nothing was confirmed. The force of the impact caused a fire, destroying most of the evidence.

I went to his funeral, as did a lot of the other cadets. When it came to the ‘ashes to ashes’ part I waited till everyone had sprinkled their handful of dirt and wandered away. I checked the coast was clear before reaching inside my coat pocket and pulled out a rather dented cheese and pickle butty, wrapped in Clingfilm. It hit the lid with a soft thud and I smiled to myself hoping that Mickey was watching nearby, giving me a double thumbs up and crying with laughter.

During my three years as a police cadet I never attempted to make a name for myself or try for the coveted cadet ‘baton’. This was handed out to sporty arse-lickers who were 'likely to succeed'. I was likely to slip into complete anonymity if I became any more disinterested. Joey Walsh, the rugby loving PE instructor loathed me with a passion. He took every possible opportunity to sweat some sense into my pallid, pensile frame with endless shuttle runs and punishing cross country runs.

      

        “Come on Daniels, you bone idle fuckwit!” he’d shout, as I ran straight into the box during gymnastics. I suffered many sleepless nights’ merely contemplating gymnastics. Most of the other cadets loved it because it gave them a break from mindless circuit training or commando sevens. It also gave the sporty arse lickers another chance to shine. My body coped with the run up fairly well, but as soon as the box loomed into view my imagination took over and that was that.  Every possible variation of spinal paralysis flashed before me. I even pictured Joey setting fire to the box with lighter fuel and cackling as he kicked the crash mat across the floor.

I did pass my Duke of Edinburgh’s Gold Award, much to the surprise of Joey and my family. Mum was chuffed to bits when I asked her to accompany me to the palace and rang everyone in her address book to boast. The awards ceremony took place on the hottest day of the year, and it was a Buckingham Palace production line, but at least I’d achieved something.

Sadly, my transition from police cadet to police constable never happened, following an examination catastrophe at Ryton Training school and a pernicious final report. Years later I discovered that Joey Walsh was responsible for writing it and according to a reliable source he didn’t pull his punches. While part of me was a little disappointed at my persistent lack of career ambition, the pragmatist in me felt relieved I’d been prevented from becoming a proper policeman. I wouldn’t have been a good probationary constable because I was much too soft to book old ladies for defective tail lights or wait in pub car parks for drunken drivers. I’m sure I’d have made lots of friends, but accrued zero Knock Offs.

(c) Simon Daniels

The Schizophrenic's Garden

In the Schizophrenics Garden

Roses are ripped from the soil

And with outstretched hands

Given to Staff

In lieu of Parents

In the Schizophrenics Garden

Plastic chairs are strewn like toys

Around a trashed bedroom

Seconds before section

In the Schizophrenics Garden

Delusions and memory

Are indistinguishable

From tired lawns and paths

In the Schizophrenics Garden

Weeds are relatives who rarely visit

Unless a flower is weak or dying

In the schizophrenics Garden

A Wisteria tendril bounces on a lip of air

Like a cliff diver arching his spine

Seconds before the leap into space