-Sunlight is the best antiseptic
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Aphorism
Tuesday 23 February 2010
Replacement Invoice
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PAYMENT OVERDUE
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Please note: Any further delay in payment
could result in a further 10% surcharge.
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Issued by: Total Cleaning Solutions, 24B Elm Street, Liverpool, L8
--------------Tel: 0151 455 8790 Website: TCS.co.uk
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Payable by: Dr Stephen Hillington, 18 Acacia Avenue,
---------------West Kirby CH49 7NG
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Invoice Number: 01/02/A
Invoice Date: 12/8/09
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Item --------------------------------------------------------------Amount
4 x Performance Power Hammer Drill 710W PHD710----------£240
500 x 80/42 Masonry Screws/Wall Anchor Frame Fixings -----£18
12 x 5m2 4.8mm Security Mesh ------------------------------------£370
40M 6x19 Class Preformed Stainless Steel Wire Rope-----------£290
4 x Performance Power Hammer Drill 710W PHD710----------£240
500 x 80/42 Masonry Screws/Wall Anchor Frame Fixings -----£18
12 x 5m2 4.8mm Security Mesh ------------------------------------£370
40M 6x19 Class Preformed Stainless Steel Wire Rope-----------£290
I.W.R.C.-Type 302/304
4 x AK3857: Ratchet Crimping Tool Interchangeable Jaws -----£87
4 x Fire Retardent Pyrovatex Antistatic Coverall WD507-------£164
4 x AK3857: Ratchet Crimping Tool Interchangeable Jaws -----£87
4 x Fire Retardent Pyrovatex Antistatic Coverall WD507-------£164
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10 x 5L Plastic Fuel Can 48358---------------------------------------£30
50L Kerosene------------------------------------------------------------£45
Labour--------------------------------------------------------------£40 000
Total ---------------------------------------------------------------£41 244
50L Kerosene------------------------------------------------------------£45
Labour--------------------------------------------------------------£40 000
Total ---------------------------------------------------------------£41 244
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We thank you for prompt payment.
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Sunday 21 February 2010
Social workers. People bad mouth them all the time, but the truth is that most of their detractors wouldn’t even drive through the neighbourhoods they have to work in. Not all social workers are saints of course. Far from it. But many do their best, and some even make a difference.
I like to think that my Lola did. She certainly gave enough of herself to the job. Too much of herself, in fact. That’s why we finally broke up. It’s nice when your girlfriend has a vocation and all, but if she doesn’t have anything left for you after she’s done saving the world for the day then what’s the point ?
Towards the end I got so sick of her blocking me that I started snooping through her client recordings when she was at work. The city required all of her meetings to be recorded, both electronically and on paper, and that all such recordings be signed and checked off by the line manager, and also randomly scrutinized by . . . well, like I say. Who the hell would be a social worker ?
They were a predictably damaged and pathetic bunch, Lola’s clients. Junkies, weirdos, creeps, losers. They were what most people would have called the dregs of society. Most people, but not Lola. To her they weren’t dregs to be scorned but casualties to be helped.
I really miss her sometimes.
Anyway, that’s how I found little Joshua Heyes. He was the son of one of Lola’s clients. He was twelve, although he looked about half that, and what made me stop and rerun the recording of him was his twitch.
His mom’s case file said that he’d seen all kinds of specialists, and that they’d all agreed that his twitch had no physical cause. It was psychosomatic and, trust me on this, if you’d seen his mom’s case file that wouldn’t have surprised you any more than it surprised me.
But it wasn’t the case file that kept me rewinding and rewatching twelve year old Joshua Heyes. It was the six years I’d spent in the marines. In particular, it was one piece of training that is damn near obsolete but that the Royal Navy, hidebound bastards that they are, make guys like me learn until it is as much a part of us as our bones.
So I sat and I watched . Then I grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and started copying down what I was seeing. I don’t know why. Maybe just to nail it down, prove to myself that it was real. Considering the implications, I needed to be sure.
It was after midnight when I slipped into Ms Heyes‘ flat and found the boyfriend. He was doing just what I’d known he’d be doing, the fucking subhuman. He didn’t see it coming, but Joshua did. His eyes widened even further as I slipped the wire around the boyfriend’s neck and pulled him off the kid. Those eyes, they didn’t look grateful or scared or even relieved. All they did was twitch.
I worked quickly, bundling the body into the sheet I’d brought. I knew Mom wouldn’t find us. I’d read her case file. Tonight, as every night, she was doped up to the eyeballs in the next room, just as dead to the world as her cooling Romeo. Well, not that he'd been just her Romeo, of course.
I watched Joshua pull his clothes back on and wished I could kill the same man twice. I couldn’t, though. All I could do was make sure that I didn’t get caught.
‘Good luck, mate,’ I told him and patted him on one narrow shoulder. For the first time I realised that the twitch had gone. I wasn’t surprised. Message sent, message received. Over and out. I tried to think of something to say.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said as I slung the body over my shoulder and turned to go. ‘You’re never alone.’
I felt it then, a brush of something that wasn't there. There wasn’t much power in it. It wasn’t like those poltergeists who can throw a man out of a window, or whack him with an iron, or even just twist his ankle out from beneath him on the stairs. No, this one wasn’t much of anything. All it had the strength to do was to pull on a nerve for long enough to semaphore a message in morse out into the world.
I winked at Isaac and let myself out into the night.
I like to think that my Lola did. She certainly gave enough of herself to the job. Too much of herself, in fact. That’s why we finally broke up. It’s nice when your girlfriend has a vocation and all, but if she doesn’t have anything left for you after she’s done saving the world for the day then what’s the point ?
Towards the end I got so sick of her blocking me that I started snooping through her client recordings when she was at work. The city required all of her meetings to be recorded, both electronically and on paper, and that all such recordings be signed and checked off by the line manager, and also randomly scrutinized by . . . well, like I say. Who the hell would be a social worker ?
They were a predictably damaged and pathetic bunch, Lola’s clients. Junkies, weirdos, creeps, losers. They were what most people would have called the dregs of society. Most people, but not Lola. To her they weren’t dregs to be scorned but casualties to be helped.
I really miss her sometimes.
Anyway, that’s how I found little Joshua Heyes. He was the son of one of Lola’s clients. He was twelve, although he looked about half that, and what made me stop and rerun the recording of him was his twitch.
His mom’s case file said that he’d seen all kinds of specialists, and that they’d all agreed that his twitch had no physical cause. It was psychosomatic and, trust me on this, if you’d seen his mom’s case file that wouldn’t have surprised you any more than it surprised me.
But it wasn’t the case file that kept me rewinding and rewatching twelve year old Joshua Heyes. It was the six years I’d spent in the marines. In particular, it was one piece of training that is damn near obsolete but that the Royal Navy, hidebound bastards that they are, make guys like me learn until it is as much a part of us as our bones.
So I sat and I watched . Then I grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and started copying down what I was seeing. I don’t know why. Maybe just to nail it down, prove to myself that it was real. Considering the implications, I needed to be sure.
It was after midnight when I slipped into Ms Heyes‘ flat and found the boyfriend. He was doing just what I’d known he’d be doing, the fucking subhuman. He didn’t see it coming, but Joshua did. His eyes widened even further as I slipped the wire around the boyfriend’s neck and pulled him off the kid. Those eyes, they didn’t look grateful or scared or even relieved. All they did was twitch.
I worked quickly, bundling the body into the sheet I’d brought. I knew Mom wouldn’t find us. I’d read her case file. Tonight, as every night, she was doped up to the eyeballs in the next room, just as dead to the world as her cooling Romeo. Well, not that he'd been just her Romeo, of course.
I watched Joshua pull his clothes back on and wished I could kill the same man twice. I couldn’t, though. All I could do was make sure that I didn’t get caught.
‘Good luck, mate,’ I told him and patted him on one narrow shoulder. For the first time I realised that the twitch had gone. I wasn’t surprised. Message sent, message received. Over and out. I tried to think of something to say.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said as I slung the body over my shoulder and turned to go. ‘You’re never alone.’
I felt it then, a brush of something that wasn't there. There wasn’t much power in it. It wasn’t like those poltergeists who can throw a man out of a window, or whack him with an iron, or even just twist his ankle out from beneath him on the stairs. No, this one wasn’t much of anything. All it had the strength to do was to pull on a nerve for long enough to semaphore a message in morse out into the world.
I winked at Isaac and let myself out into the night.
Tuesday 16 February 2010
On his thirty first birthday Collins realised that he hadn’t spoken to another human being in over a year.
He hadn’t been avoiding it. Not exactly. It was just that since leaving the city he had been happy enough living alone in the mountains. He’d built a shack, shot some deer, grown some weed. A good life. A peaceful life. But on his thirty first birthday, Collins realised, not life enough.
The next day he went down to the town where he bought his ammunition and supplies. There was a bar there, and he went inside to find some company. At first it was awkward. He was out of the habit of being sociable and after he had ordered his drink he couldn’t really think of anything else to say. Then he ordered another, and another. Then some more.
Eventually, when he was on his sixth whiskey, the alcohol in his bloodstream reached some sort of critical mass and he hesitantly began to join in the conversation of the other guys clustered around the bar.
They were mainly loggers and teamsters, and they were bored enough of each others’ company to welcome Collins into their circle. They were soon exchanging opinions and sharing jokes and, even though not a single one would have called it that, gossiping like old women.
Then they started telling stories and that was when the trouble began. Maybe it was because by then Collins had finished a whole bottle of scotch. Maybe it was because of something deeper. Whatever the reason, once he started talking he realised that he couldn’t stop.
At first the guys didn’t believe him, but as he went on they did. Yes they did. How could they not when he cried and laughed and whispered in a way that no liar ever could?
When Collins had finished the barkeeper broke the silence by closing up early. A couple of the guys slapped Collins on the back as they left. One offered him a gun. Most of them just scuttled away, furtive looks hidden beneath baseball caps and loggers’ hard hats.
The next morning Collins woke at dawn and, ignoring his hangover, packed everything that he could into his truck. Then he set fire to his shack, got behind the wheel and started running again.
He hadn’t been avoiding it. Not exactly. It was just that since leaving the city he had been happy enough living alone in the mountains. He’d built a shack, shot some deer, grown some weed. A good life. A peaceful life. But on his thirty first birthday, Collins realised, not life enough.
The next day he went down to the town where he bought his ammunition and supplies. There was a bar there, and he went inside to find some company. At first it was awkward. He was out of the habit of being sociable and after he had ordered his drink he couldn’t really think of anything else to say. Then he ordered another, and another. Then some more.
Eventually, when he was on his sixth whiskey, the alcohol in his bloodstream reached some sort of critical mass and he hesitantly began to join in the conversation of the other guys clustered around the bar.
They were mainly loggers and teamsters, and they were bored enough of each others’ company to welcome Collins into their circle. They were soon exchanging opinions and sharing jokes and, even though not a single one would have called it that, gossiping like old women.
Then they started telling stories and that was when the trouble began. Maybe it was because by then Collins had finished a whole bottle of scotch. Maybe it was because of something deeper. Whatever the reason, once he started talking he realised that he couldn’t stop.
At first the guys didn’t believe him, but as he went on they did. Yes they did. How could they not when he cried and laughed and whispered in a way that no liar ever could?
When Collins had finished the barkeeper broke the silence by closing up early. A couple of the guys slapped Collins on the back as they left. One offered him a gun. Most of them just scuttled away, furtive looks hidden beneath baseball caps and loggers’ hard hats.
The next morning Collins woke at dawn and, ignoring his hangover, packed everything that he could into his truck. Then he set fire to his shack, got behind the wheel and started running again.
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