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?''

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.... 

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

Black Rock Secrets

Among the neatly manicured lawns and freshly painted trellising at the municipal park sits a large black rock. It's about as big as a Ford Sierra, give or take a bumper or two, and gleams in the sunlight like an outsize patent leather shoe. The reason for its highly polished appearance is plain to see, if you hang around the park until lunch time, when the children from the local Primary School are let out.

        ''Last one to the rock’s a wally''! Is the usual war cry, as fifty or so pocket delinquent’s race past the dozing lollipop lady. To the third year smokers at the front it's a make-do screen against prying park officials. To the slower second years, weighted down with Nintendo’s and lunch bags it becomes the fin of a giant Somethin-asaurus breaching the green slimy sea, or even the tip of a dragon's claw probing for wholesome tit bits. For the naive first years it's simply a slide that craves attention.

        Not all its attendants regard the rock with the same degree of awe and affection. Vagrants and wino's curse the fact that it lies smack in the middle of their nocturnal stagger from the off licence on Queens Street to the park toilets. White flannelled bowls players call it the blot on their pristine landscape and campaign tirelessly for its removal, so that yet another perfect green rectangle can be installed.

       

        On one particular cold day, in February, when all colour had drained from the park, and the school kids were condemned to indoor playtime, the black rock became just another shade of grey. An old lady shuffled through the massive iron gates, carrying an easel under one arm and a bum-weary shooting stick under another. It was deserted and quiet, save for the plaintive cry of a land-locked seagull, poking its orange bill into the tired grass

        "Storm at sea, eh''? Said the woman, as she pursed her lips and blew softly.

        ''No fish down there I’m afraid. I'd try the lake if I were you. That's if the Parkie don't shoot you first'' With that last comment she let out a short squeaky laugh that swapped coats with a bout of chronic bronchitis. Muffling the wheeze with her coat sleeve she continued walking, while the itinerant bird flew away.

It’s funny how public spaces change with the seasons. The people that frequent them also change, like new actors in some long running West End play. Summertime brings with it a whole pot pourri of visitors for immediate as well as more nostalgic reasons. Winter throws open it's doors to a more rattle-bag crowd. The tramps still come, as do the joggers and dog walkers, but along with these hardy perennials are more solitary souls. Perhaps the season draws them out.

        The old lady stopped a few feet in front of the stone, unfolded her shooting stick, and jammed the spike into the grass. She took out a few twisted tubes of paint from one deep pocket and withdrew a stunted horsehair brush from another.

         ''Wot yer paintin, lady?'' said a loud voice from behind her. She spun round clutching her chest and screamed at the onlooker

        ''Don't you ever do that again. You almost gave me a heart attack!''

        The object of her wrath furrowed his grimy brow and dropped the bottle of cheap Sherry from a gaping mouth.

        ''Shorry lady, I wosh only curious,'' said the old man, as he bent to retrieve the bottle, now glug-glugging its contents into the soil. He raised it to his lips again, took a final swig, and spat out a small pebble.

        ''Shit! Now I'll ave ter scrounge another one fer tonight''.

        As the tramp went through an alternative hand-grenade drill, Lilly studied him closely.  His appearance bore all the usual hallmarks of living rough and acquired alcoholism. Dried vomit epaulettes on the shoulders of a thick army greatcoat instantly elevated him to the rank of alcoholic first-class. He had large bloodshot eyes, a broad weather-scoured face, and grey wisps of hair that peeped out from under a shrunken woollen cap. She thought he'd probably spent some time in the forces, as the screeched orders seemed word perfect, if a little slurred and disjointed, plus the occasional stagger was more regimented than freeform.

        ''Prepare to pull the pin, sho, enshuring that a good grip is maintained at all times, hic''

        ''There's a litter bin not ten feet away, said Lilly pointing to a green receptacle emblazoned with gold lettering. Why don't you just drop it in there?''

        The man paused momentarily, his arms held straight out, like a fast bowler in freeze frame. Lilly gulped, audibly, and just had time to duck before the spinning missile shot through the space where her head had been, exploding on impact with the large rock.

        ''I name this ship H.M.S. ROBBY. God blesh her and all who shail in her.'' He saluted, with an exaggerated flourish and promptly fell to the ground.

Lilly stood up and gingerly walked over to the tramp to see if he had injured himself in the fall. She felt the oddest feeling as she crouched over him, watching the slow rhythm of his chest, rise and fall. It wasn't pity or repugnance, but a sense of overwhelming sadness, as though this sleeping giant were some dotty Uncle who'd fallen from   favour. The type of relative who's spoken of in whispers or unflattering generalisations when curious children are nearby. A vague memory had left some sort of impression. - Once vivid, now dormant and diluted by time, like a blind tasting; the flavour recognised but not the food. The more she concentrated the less she remembered. She gnawed at her thumbnail, but nothing surfaced, only blood and frustration. A thin film of spittle ballooned on his cracked lower lip. She had the urge to wipe it off with her handkerchief

        ''No!'' she yelled, and kicked at his muddy boots. There was no response, not even a groan.

        ''What am I doing?'' she cried, clasping both hands to her mouth. ''I don't know this man. He's a stranger, a complete stranger. Just some drunk sleeping off Wednesday's hangover. Just paint the stupid stone and go home.'' With that she turned, glancing round to see if anyone was watching, before setting up the easel. From around her waist she unbuckled an old ammunition belt, sliding out the remaining tubes of paint from each stiff canvass loop. Her hands trembled as fingers numbed by the cold tried to cope with unscrewing tiny tops. Impatience made her stuff them back into the pockets.

        ''Ok, sketch today, paint tomorrow. Pencils.... where did I put those bloody pencils?'' A frantic search ensued. Frisking herself for the elusive HB's, a coat lining surrendered two small splinters of charcoal. The large canvass was unclipped from the easel, to be replaced by an A4 sketch pad littered with numerous doodles and half finished drawings. That's the trouble these days, she thought. I never manage to complete anything. She swivelled round on the shooting stick to check on sleeping beauty.

        ''Perhaps I should paint you instead. I could do with brushing up on my still-life subjects.'' This was followed by a light chuckle, not prolonged enough to incite another coughing fit, just one of those ticklish ‘nut-in-the throat’ affairs. The tramp grunted and, opening both eyes performed what can only be described as a kind of slow motion sit up. He thrust both his arms straight out and reached the half way position before collapsing back onto the grass, with a loud thunk.

         Eat your heart out Jane Fonda. Thought Lilly, wincing at the sound of scalp hitting turf. The snoring resumed, bringing with it a noisy bout of digestive gurgling’s and anal fanfares.

        ''Jee-sus!'' exclaimed the old woman. ''All you need is a backing track, and you'd make a bloody fortune.'' She resisted the urge to start conducting, turning her attention to the drawing, and began scratching a rough outline of the black boulder. As she etched and smudged, a weak finger of sunlight caressed the surface of the wet rock, giving it more depth and outline. The veiny striations of quartz and mica sparkled like fools gold, before a passing cloud snuffed out their momentary brilliance.

        ''Killjoy!'' said Lilly sarcastically, squinting at the monochrome sky. ''I knew I should have taken that photo in June. I wouldn't have had to sit here in the teaming rain, hatching haemorrhoids, as well as having to contend with other distractions.”

        Strange, she thought, staring at the stone. In all the time I've been coming here, I've never touched it. I've had the opportunity, that's for sure, but it never seemed important till today. Can't figure out why it should be now.  With that she stood up and stretched, rubbing the blood back into her numb posterior. Around the base of the boulder she saw a shallow moat, only a gutters width, containing submerged fag ends and faded sweet wrappers. Any emerging childhood reminiscences were quickly quashed though, by the sight of a knotted condom and a syringe crossed together like some druggy coat of arms.

This stone witnesses everything. Every pimply arse. Every hurried coupling. Each Torniquet’ed forearm, bloody nose, whispered lie. It sees it all. Year after year it sits and waits for some new sensation to sustain it. Better than any great  oak tree or dark alley. You can scratch your name on it, and a few years later, if you’re suffering an identity crisis, you can return to see who you are. By then the memory's done its usual glossing -over-the -truth- bit and everyone’s happy.

True enough, jagged initials began appearing. Some were sanded smooth by elemental fingers. Other, fresher ones, hastily chipped out or painstakingly carved by the narrow blade of a knife or tooth-edged key were plain to see - F.K. WOZ ERE. And a date. In some places the autographs had been overwritten two or three times, maybe by jilted girlfriends or supplanted lovers? Lilly stroked her hands over the cool scorings, jamming fingers into older, deeper engravings, while skipping over the more superficial ones

        This tactile exploration was becoming vaguely erotic. Like petting the glossy coat of some fat lap-cat and feeling the dormant power beneath its thick fur. For one split second she had the urge to taste it, as though it would reveal some fragment of itself to her. She suddenly remembered licking pebbles on a school trip to Llandudno. On the way home in the coach, Mrs Bradshaw, a frosty old dame had slapped the back of her hand saying firmly, ''Don't do that child, didn't you see the dogs on the beach?'' When the old fart had gone she'd popped the whole thing into her mouth and sucked it like a gob stopper.

        Lilly smiled wistfully; completely unaware that someone was behind her, watching her every movement.

        ''Find anythi'n intresti'n amongst the graffiti?

        She screamed again, clutching her chest in an action replay.

        ''Twice! Have you ever thought of...of clearing your throat or doing anything to forewarn me of your imminent arrival? I swear you do it on purpose. She took a couple of deep breaths to steady her nerves before continuing. ''Well, what do you want now? I haven't any money you know.''

        The man flinched as the rush of words came pouring out.

        ''I...I didn't mean to startle yer. I'm sorry lady. I have this habit of creepi'n 'bout the place. You never know when the warden’s nearby. He hates me, see. I'm the fly in his ointment. Most of the other blokes doss down under the Band stand. Don't want any trouble. Me, well I kinda like the old park, reminds me of when I was a child.'' he paused, and Lilly thought she saw his eyes redden slightly. ''Anyways, me and this stone go way back'' As he spoke, he moved alongside the rock and patted it affectionately. ''I see them you know, the artists who make there marks on my stone. I remember their faces. It might be a few years but they all come back, to look and linger a few minutes. Some of 'em go right to the spot. Others circle it a few times to get their bearings. There was this one guy...

        ''Is this leading anywhere, interrupted Lilly. Only I'm very busy.''

The old man lowered his eyes and rubbed his hands together, silently. Lilly felt a twinge of regret at having snapped at him. His script's probably the same every day. It's just the audience that changes.

        ''I made my own mark you know, down there, where the water laps the side'' said Robby, almost resentfully.'' He crouched down on his haunches and scooped away the water. ''Here it is RN. NINETEEN FORTY SEVEN. Robert Newton, Nineteen Forty Seven.''  He gave the explanation slowly, his voice steady and distinct.   ''Nineteen Forty Seven. I was twenty years old then. Full of myself. God, I was full of myself. At that age you think you're indestructible. Capable of anything, don't yer?''

        He looked up at Lilly for a moment, and then sprang up and stumbled through the bushes on the edge of the grass. She followed his gaze and realised the warden was advancing towards her in a curious half run half walk, as if running would  somehow affect a loss of dignity. She smiled, ruefully and looked back to see the leaves of a large Rhododendron quivering gently.

        ‘‘Let’s see what all the fuss was about, eh?'' She stooped down and swished away at the pool of water that had quickly reformed. Lowering her head she squinted at the rock face.

        ''Here we are. RN. 1947.'' Just as she was about to stand up she caught sight of the top portion of some other lettering below, half buried in the alluvium. Pawing at the soft mud, with anxious fingers, she stopped to read the inscription.

        ''Damn! I can't make it out. It's obscured by all the filth.''  She cupped both hands and scooped up some water from a nearby puddle. Throwing it at the rock loosened the filled-in-grime. She pecked off the remainder with the end of her paintbrush.

        ''Has he been bothering you Madam'' said a rather officious voice from over her left shoulder.

        ''LOVES LILLY MAKEPEACE?'' she said, incredulously. ''Loves Lilly Makepeace!''

        She repeated it over and over to herself, quietly at first and then louder and louder, until the whole park could hear her shouting. The warden removed his cap, and scratched his bald head before speaking.

        ''Another bloody drunk,'' he said, under his breath, shaking his head and tutting. ''Come on now, enough's enough, move along will you?

        The figure hunched over the stone, ignored the first few requests, and it wasn't until the Parkie cleared his throat and tapped her on the shoulder that she turned to look up at him.

        ''Loves Lilly Makepeace, she said, softer now, her face streaked with fresh tears.

        
        ''That's me, she said again. Lilly Makepeace, that's me!''  


(c) Simon Daniels