It is more blessed to give than to receive.
Acts 20:35
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
Monday, 15 November 2010
“Excuse me, I want to speak to your manager.”
I looked at her. Mouth like a dog’s arse. Nasty little eyes, probably sharpened by years of reading the Daily Mail. The tense, nervous look of a woman who hasn’t had an orgasm for decades. Or maybe ever.
“Did you hear me? I want to speak to your manager.”
I know that I should have pretended to give a fuck about what she wanted, but to I was going back to college at the end of next week so I sighed instead.
“Why?” I asked, breaking customer service guidelines for shop floor colleagues one, three and probably six.
Those nasty little eyes narrowed even more and I foun myself thinking about pissholes in snow. Decided not to mention it though. Not yet, anyway.
“I want to complain” of course she did “about this.”
So saying she thrust a can of something under my nose. I didn’t deign to glance down at it. Like Poirot I’m a man who knows the fucking score.
“It’s a can,” I said, and if she didn’t catch the bored contempt in my voice than it was only because that rat’s nest of a hairdo deafened her.
“I know it’s a can,” she snapped, loud enough to attract interested glances from some of her fellow shoppers. “Look what’s on it.”
She thrust it towards me as vigorously as a paratrooper with a bayonet. I rolled my eyes up before looking down. When I did I suddenly forgot all about how much I hated this job. Forgot about everything really. I was too surprised.
“Shit,” I said, and I meant it.
“Yes well,” the complainant said, obviously torn between joy at this fresh outrage and gratification that she was being taken seriously. “I don’t think that this is very funny, do you?”
And for the first time it occurred to me that bugger me rigid but the customer might be right after all. It wasn’t funny. Not ha ha funny anyway. Not funny like Chris Rock or Viz or the time that prick of a manger went over on his arse whilst discovering the spill on aisle seven. No, not funny like that at all.
More funny like the way bad things come in threes, or funny in the way that a light might switch itself on when there is nobody else in the room, or funny like the extra lump you suddenly find beneath your skin.
Which thought made me look down at the can again. She offered it to me and I hesitated. Then, reasoning that whatever was inside I’d only be touching paper and aluminium, I reached out and took it.
“So as I say, I would like to see your manger. I don’t know if this is supposed to be some kind of marketing, but it’s sick. Sick, I tell you.”
Her voice was getting shriller, much to the delight of the bored queue at the Lotto counter. I held the can up and examined the label more clearly. It had the store’s own brand logo on it. Had the monochromatic packaging that said cheap and cheerful and the nutritional information that said nah, you don’t want to read this. It looked like just one more can full of crap in a cut price supermarket.
Except, written upon the front in big bold letters, was the word cancer.
“My husband . . . “ the customer said, then stopped. She was scowling even more, and for the first time I realised that there was something behind that mean spirited facade. Something which had been hurt and hadn’t been able to find a way to heal.
I felt suddenly and horribly ashamed. Then I felt angry. Very angry. My grip tightened on the can, white knuckles as hard as the metal beneath, and I wanted to hit somebody with it.
I hit the intercom instead and, making an effort to keep my voice just as disinterested as always as I said “Manager to customer complaints, please. Manager to customer complaints.”
Then we waited, me and the customer and the can of cancer.
“Where was it stacked?” I asked more to break the silence than anything.
“In the tinned fruit section,” she said. “There is a whole shelf of them, between the pie filling and the peaches.”
I was relieved to see that the pain I’d glimpsed in her was gone, once more hidden behind shutters of pursed lips and hard eyes. I still felt guilty, though. And angry. Not sure where one ended and the ohter began, to be honest.
As the manager trotted busily up I think he sensed my mood. Or perhaps it was just that he saw the can. Either way he slowed, licked his lips and glanced around as if looking for an escape route.
“Manager to customer services” I barked into the intercom even as I caught his eye. “If you don’t mind, of course.”
I was hoping that it would annoy him but for once the officious little prick didn’t take the bait. Instead, looking as shifty as a shoplifter with one too many bottles of gin under his jumper, he came over to us.
“This lady has a complaint to make,” I said and held out the can. He was as hesitant to touch it as I had been, but I didn’t give him the chance to refuse. Instead I pushed the metal into his hands. He almost dropped it and I realised that his palms were slicked with sweat.
“Oh yes?” he said and looked at me. Not at the customer. No, not at her. Not one little bit.
That was weird. What was weirder was that he was looking at me with something close to pleading. He looked like a puppy that has been caught in a puddle of its own pee.
I didn’t enjoy his discomfort as much as I supposed I would.
“Yes, I have a complaint to make” the customer snapped. “And I would be grateful if you would have the common courtesy to look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
The manager swallowed and looked. For the first time I realised that he was blushing.
“I am sorry madam,” he said, and to my amazement he actually sounded as though he was. “Can I help you?”
“What do you mean by putting this vile . . . this vile joke I suppose you will call it . . . on your shelves?”
His mouth worked and he looked at me. I can’t remember ever seeing a man look so helpless.
“Well?” the complainant snapped, her voice a well practiced whip lash.
“We have to,” the manager whined. “The company decides what we stock and where . . .”
“But look what it says!” This time her voice wasn’t a whiplash so much as a sledgehammer “C-a-n-c-e-r. It’s just disgusting. What’s it even supposed to be?”
“I’m sorry,” the manager said. Then he did the impossible. He managed to do something which made me respect him even less. “I have to go, but young Michael here will explain it to you.”
Then he turned and, if he didn’t run, he walked in a way which was pretty close to it.
“Well!’ the customer said, and I had to agree with her.
“You know what?” I told her, making an executive decision. “I don’t know what this is supposed to be but you’re right. It’s sick. I’m going to take these off the shelves and put them in the dumpster. In fact I’m going to do it now.”
And I did.
X X X
That was six months ago.
There were almost a pallet full of the cans on the shelves and I got rid of them all. As far as I know they were never restocked, and nor were there any enquiries as to where they had gone. I left not so long after that to come up here to college.
Although of course I didn’t get rid of them all. I kept one. This one here. Somehow I could never bring myself to throw it away, and not being able to throw it away has turned into not being able to resist opening it.
I know that I shouldn’t. I mean, what could possibly come of it but something bad?
But I just have to. It’s the curiosity that’s doing it to me. The curiosity and the hurt I saw in that woman's eyes.
I don't know what's going to happen when I pop this lid but I've got a litre of acid, a litre of petrol and a lighter and if it doesn't kill me I'm going to kill it.
Wish me luck.
I looked at her. Mouth like a dog’s arse. Nasty little eyes, probably sharpened by years of reading the Daily Mail. The tense, nervous look of a woman who hasn’t had an orgasm for decades. Or maybe ever.
“Did you hear me? I want to speak to your manager.”
I know that I should have pretended to give a fuck about what she wanted, but to I was going back to college at the end of next week so I sighed instead.
“Why?” I asked, breaking customer service guidelines for shop floor colleagues one, three and probably six.
Those nasty little eyes narrowed even more and I foun myself thinking about pissholes in snow. Decided not to mention it though. Not yet, anyway.
“I want to complain” of course she did “about this.”
So saying she thrust a can of something under my nose. I didn’t deign to glance down at it. Like Poirot I’m a man who knows the fucking score.
“It’s a can,” I said, and if she didn’t catch the bored contempt in my voice than it was only because that rat’s nest of a hairdo deafened her.
“I know it’s a can,” she snapped, loud enough to attract interested glances from some of her fellow shoppers. “Look what’s on it.”
She thrust it towards me as vigorously as a paratrooper with a bayonet. I rolled my eyes up before looking down. When I did I suddenly forgot all about how much I hated this job. Forgot about everything really. I was too surprised.
“Shit,” I said, and I meant it.
“Yes well,” the complainant said, obviously torn between joy at this fresh outrage and gratification that she was being taken seriously. “I don’t think that this is very funny, do you?”
And for the first time it occurred to me that bugger me rigid but the customer might be right after all. It wasn’t funny. Not ha ha funny anyway. Not funny like Chris Rock or Viz or the time that prick of a manger went over on his arse whilst discovering the spill on aisle seven. No, not funny like that at all.
More funny like the way bad things come in threes, or funny in the way that a light might switch itself on when there is nobody else in the room, or funny like the extra lump you suddenly find beneath your skin.
Which thought made me look down at the can again. She offered it to me and I hesitated. Then, reasoning that whatever was inside I’d only be touching paper and aluminium, I reached out and took it.
“So as I say, I would like to see your manger. I don’t know if this is supposed to be some kind of marketing, but it’s sick. Sick, I tell you.”
Her voice was getting shriller, much to the delight of the bored queue at the Lotto counter. I held the can up and examined the label more clearly. It had the store’s own brand logo on it. Had the monochromatic packaging that said cheap and cheerful and the nutritional information that said nah, you don’t want to read this. It looked like just one more can full of crap in a cut price supermarket.
Except, written upon the front in big bold letters, was the word cancer.
“My husband . . . “ the customer said, then stopped. She was scowling even more, and for the first time I realised that there was something behind that mean spirited facade. Something which had been hurt and hadn’t been able to find a way to heal.
I felt suddenly and horribly ashamed. Then I felt angry. Very angry. My grip tightened on the can, white knuckles as hard as the metal beneath, and I wanted to hit somebody with it.
I hit the intercom instead and, making an effort to keep my voice just as disinterested as always as I said “Manager to customer complaints, please. Manager to customer complaints.”
Then we waited, me and the customer and the can of cancer.
“Where was it stacked?” I asked more to break the silence than anything.
“In the tinned fruit section,” she said. “There is a whole shelf of them, between the pie filling and the peaches.”
I was relieved to see that the pain I’d glimpsed in her was gone, once more hidden behind shutters of pursed lips and hard eyes. I still felt guilty, though. And angry. Not sure where one ended and the ohter began, to be honest.
As the manager trotted busily up I think he sensed my mood. Or perhaps it was just that he saw the can. Either way he slowed, licked his lips and glanced around as if looking for an escape route.
“Manager to customer services” I barked into the intercom even as I caught his eye. “If you don’t mind, of course.”
I was hoping that it would annoy him but for once the officious little prick didn’t take the bait. Instead, looking as shifty as a shoplifter with one too many bottles of gin under his jumper, he came over to us.
“This lady has a complaint to make,” I said and held out the can. He was as hesitant to touch it as I had been, but I didn’t give him the chance to refuse. Instead I pushed the metal into his hands. He almost dropped it and I realised that his palms were slicked with sweat.
“Oh yes?” he said and looked at me. Not at the customer. No, not at her. Not one little bit.
That was weird. What was weirder was that he was looking at me with something close to pleading. He looked like a puppy that has been caught in a puddle of its own pee.
I didn’t enjoy his discomfort as much as I supposed I would.
“Yes, I have a complaint to make” the customer snapped. “And I would be grateful if you would have the common courtesy to look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
The manager swallowed and looked. For the first time I realised that he was blushing.
“I am sorry madam,” he said, and to my amazement he actually sounded as though he was. “Can I help you?”
“What do you mean by putting this vile . . . this vile joke I suppose you will call it . . . on your shelves?”
His mouth worked and he looked at me. I can’t remember ever seeing a man look so helpless.
“Well?” the complainant snapped, her voice a well practiced whip lash.
“We have to,” the manager whined. “The company decides what we stock and where . . .”
“But look what it says!” This time her voice wasn’t a whiplash so much as a sledgehammer “C-a-n-c-e-r. It’s just disgusting. What’s it even supposed to be?”
“I’m sorry,” the manager said. Then he did the impossible. He managed to do something which made me respect him even less. “I have to go, but young Michael here will explain it to you.”
Then he turned and, if he didn’t run, he walked in a way which was pretty close to it.
“Well!’ the customer said, and I had to agree with her.
“You know what?” I told her, making an executive decision. “I don’t know what this is supposed to be but you’re right. It’s sick. I’m going to take these off the shelves and put them in the dumpster. In fact I’m going to do it now.”
And I did.
X X X
That was six months ago.
There were almost a pallet full of the cans on the shelves and I got rid of them all. As far as I know they were never restocked, and nor were there any enquiries as to where they had gone. I left not so long after that to come up here to college.
Although of course I didn’t get rid of them all. I kept one. This one here. Somehow I could never bring myself to throw it away, and not being able to throw it away has turned into not being able to resist opening it.
I know that I shouldn’t. I mean, what could possibly come of it but something bad?
But I just have to. It’s the curiosity that’s doing it to me. The curiosity and the hurt I saw in that woman's eyes.
I don't know what's going to happen when I pop this lid but I've got a litre of acid, a litre of petrol and a lighter and if it doesn't kill me I'm going to kill it.
Wish me luck.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.
-
Raymond Chandler
I can’t remember where I came from exactly. My only childhood memory is of a dusty attic with lots of old board games in it. I can’t remember my parents, either. Or my brothers or sisters, if I had any.
But I do remember my friends. Chess. Risk. Mah Jong. Stratego. And I remember how cold it was while I sat there playing these games against myself, sometimes for days. I wouldn’t say I was happy, because happy doesn’t quite fit. I was absorbed though, and even better I didn’t have to think about . . . about other things.
After I was taken it was clear that I’d developed a wonderful set of transferable skills in that cold attic. Instead of dice and cardboard abstractions I started playing for real, using contracts and the warriors of my Lord’s goblin hosts. And what happy days they were !
I found that I had a natural appreciation for the elegant economy of the severed artery. The straight path of the sliced tendon. The sweet snap of the separated vertebrae. Magnify that by the thousands my Lord’s minions dispatched at my instruction and you might understand how fulfilled I was, how content in the calm eye of an eternal storm of war.
To this day I don’t know what went wrong. Although, no. No that’s not quite true. I do know what went wrong, at least in a general sense.
What went wrong is that we lost.
When I realised it was all up I joined the exodus of my fallen Lord’s followers. We were a pitiable bunch, although it wasn’t pity that saved me from the vengeful glee of my pursuers. It was just that I chose to escape through the hedge rather than try to hide within it.
So here I am, looking for enough pieces to start a new game.
Interested ?
But I do remember my friends. Chess. Risk. Mah Jong. Stratego. And I remember how cold it was while I sat there playing these games against myself, sometimes for days. I wouldn’t say I was happy, because happy doesn’t quite fit. I was absorbed though, and even better I didn’t have to think about . . . about other things.
After I was taken it was clear that I’d developed a wonderful set of transferable skills in that cold attic. Instead of dice and cardboard abstractions I started playing for real, using contracts and the warriors of my Lord’s goblin hosts. And what happy days they were !
I found that I had a natural appreciation for the elegant economy of the severed artery. The straight path of the sliced tendon. The sweet snap of the separated vertebrae. Magnify that by the thousands my Lord’s minions dispatched at my instruction and you might understand how fulfilled I was, how content in the calm eye of an eternal storm of war.
To this day I don’t know what went wrong. Although, no. No that’s not quite true. I do know what went wrong, at least in a general sense.
What went wrong is that we lost.
When I realised it was all up I joined the exodus of my fallen Lord’s followers. We were a pitiable bunch, although it wasn’t pity that saved me from the vengeful glee of my pursuers. It was just that I chose to escape through the hedge rather than try to hide within it.
So here I am, looking for enough pieces to start a new game.
Interested ?
Friday, 12 March 2010
What a piece of work is a man.
How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty.
In form and moulding how express and admirable.
In action, how like an angel, in apprehension, how like a God.
The beauty of the world, the parragon of animals.
And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither.
-Shakespeare
I’m sick and tired of never feeling warm.
And that husk feeling. Even when I’m as full as a tick I feel empty, and you know what I mean by that. Don’t pretend you don’t. It’s like you’re a broken vessel that can’t be filled, so that all that’s left of you is an endless, aching hunger that does nothing but grow when you feed it.
I used to think that there might be a way, but there isn’t. The elders, I used to think, the elders have a way. Look at how they glow. But they don’t glow, those powerful, pitiable things. They throb like a wound.
Although we don’t have wounds do we ? No, not us. We have holes which melt back together as easily as plastic, and bodies which are just as worthless. Souls which are worth even less than that.
So that’s it. That’s it for me. I won’t accept this lie any more. The dregs of a life. The scuttling misery of a cockroach existence. And I can’t stop thinking about what I did to my sister.
Carver can have my wardrobe and Freeman can have my guns. The rest you can fight for.
And that husk feeling. Even when I’m as full as a tick I feel empty, and you know what I mean by that. Don’t pretend you don’t. It’s like you’re a broken vessel that can’t be filled, so that all that’s left of you is an endless, aching hunger that does nothing but grow when you feed it.
I used to think that there might be a way, but there isn’t. The elders, I used to think, the elders have a way. Look at how they glow. But they don’t glow, those powerful, pitiable things. They throb like a wound.
Although we don’t have wounds do we ? No, not us. We have holes which melt back together as easily as plastic, and bodies which are just as worthless. Souls which are worth even less than that.
So that’s it. That’s it for me. I won’t accept this lie any more. The dregs of a life. The scuttling misery of a cockroach existence. And I can’t stop thinking about what I did to my sister.
Carver can have my wardrobe and Freeman can have my guns. The rest you can fight for.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Nothing moved.
Not the hands of the clock, which were frozen in a permanent salute to the hour. Not the shower of debris from his entry, which hung in the air as if suspended in amber. Not even the guard dogs who had stopped in mid-snarl, their fangs as still as their glass-bead eyes.
Charles tried not to feel bad as he slipped past them. Even after all these years he still liked dogs. It was true that when they weren’t attacking him they were usually barking him back into the night, but he didn’t hold that against them. They were only doing their job, just as he was only doing his.
Resisting the urge to pat one of the Dobermans on the head he scuttled along the brightly lit hall. The overhead strip lighting revealed a world of institutional green, of rubberised flooring and interior doors that looked as solid as those in any prison.
As he followed his map through the facility Charles noticed the smell which pervaded the place. It was mainly bleach but beneath it there was something else. Something nasty.
Eventually he came to the door he had been searching for. It bore a brass plaque into which had been inscribed the characters XV. The gothic intricacy of their design was at odds with the institutional blandness of the rest of the facility, but Charles didn’t worry about that. He was too busy worrying about the warnings he’d been given.
Standing to one side of the door he unscrewed the stopper from a steel vacuum flask and upended it over the plaque. Warm blood streamed from the flask. It ran down the plastic coating of the door to sizzle and hiss in the grooves of the X and the V.
When the flask was empty Charles looked cautiously at his handiwork. The brass plaque was gone. In its place there was nothing but a smear of sizzling blood and melting plastic. The stink brought tears to Charles's eyes and he blinked as he selected a tool to open the door lock. It was a simple tumbler, and he popped it open on the fifth turn. The door swung open and he stepped inside.
The room was sparsely furnished. Apart from a steel locker the only other objects were a plastic table and a security camera that glowered down from the corner. Charles tugged at his balaclava as he studied the device. If he was surprised that his reflection didn’t show up on the concave lens then he gave no sign of it. He had seen weirder stuff than that while running Mr Anderson's errands.
With a shiver he turned away from the glass eye and got to work on the locker. It took him a moment to realise that it wasn’t even locked. The door swung open and there on the floor was a shoe box. Charles lifted it as carefully as if it were an unexploded bomb and set it on the table. After a moment's hesitation he removed the lid off to reveal what lay within.
For a moment he stopped breathing.
He had known what it would be, of course. He had known as soon as he had been given the job. Mr Anderson was always upfront with him. But it’s one thing to hear about the impossible and quite another to actually experience it.
‘Fuck a doodle doo’ said Charles as his breath returned to him. Inside the box was a cube of plastic. It weighed maybe a kilogram and was perhaps twenty centimetres to a side. It was also a completely new primary colour.
He hadn't realised quite what that meant until now that he saw it, and now that he saw it he knew that yes, yes it WAS impossible. There couldn't be a new primary colour. There couldn't be.
Except that there was.
Charles reached out one cotton-gloved finger to stroke its surface, and when his finger brushed against the cube it exploded into a whole myriad of new colours. He stared at them, eyes as wide as a toddler’s on Christmas morning, and laughed delightedly.
They were beautiful, these colours. So beautiful. They were a glimpse of a better, brighter, cleaner world. A world with countless dimensions and limitless possibilities. Charles pulled off his balaclava and removed his gloves. Then he just stood there, his face lit with wonder as he caressed the living kaleidoscope he had found.
There was no way he was going to hand this over he decided. No way at all. For once Mr Anderson would have to do without.
It was the thought that killed him.
No sooner had he reached the decision than the clock ticked, the debris pattered to the floor and a chorus of snarls echoed down the corridors. Charles’ reflection popped into the concave lens of the camera above and an alarm began to blare.
He thrust the cube into an inside pocket and started to run. It was a vain effort. He hadn't gone a dozen steps before the gas which poured from the air vents caught up with him. His legs stopped working just as the dogs saw him.
He struggled to get back to his feet but his muscles merely twitched. When the dogs reached him he was flopping around on the rubberised floor like a gutted fish and a second later he found that paralysis was not anaesthesia. He felt every rip of the dogs’ teeth, every sliced nerve and ruptured artery. But even his blood, bright red though it was, couldn’t compare with the colours he carried in his pocket.
Charles thought about the colours, about how they glowed, and even as the dogs tore off his face he was smiling.
Not the hands of the clock, which were frozen in a permanent salute to the hour. Not the shower of debris from his entry, which hung in the air as if suspended in amber. Not even the guard dogs who had stopped in mid-snarl, their fangs as still as their glass-bead eyes.
Charles tried not to feel bad as he slipped past them. Even after all these years he still liked dogs. It was true that when they weren’t attacking him they were usually barking him back into the night, but he didn’t hold that against them. They were only doing their job, just as he was only doing his.
Resisting the urge to pat one of the Dobermans on the head he scuttled along the brightly lit hall. The overhead strip lighting revealed a world of institutional green, of rubberised flooring and interior doors that looked as solid as those in any prison.
As he followed his map through the facility Charles noticed the smell which pervaded the place. It was mainly bleach but beneath it there was something else. Something nasty.
Eventually he came to the door he had been searching for. It bore a brass plaque into which had been inscribed the characters XV. The gothic intricacy of their design was at odds with the institutional blandness of the rest of the facility, but Charles didn’t worry about that. He was too busy worrying about the warnings he’d been given.
Standing to one side of the door he unscrewed the stopper from a steel vacuum flask and upended it over the plaque. Warm blood streamed from the flask. It ran down the plastic coating of the door to sizzle and hiss in the grooves of the X and the V.
When the flask was empty Charles looked cautiously at his handiwork. The brass plaque was gone. In its place there was nothing but a smear of sizzling blood and melting plastic. The stink brought tears to Charles's eyes and he blinked as he selected a tool to open the door lock. It was a simple tumbler, and he popped it open on the fifth turn. The door swung open and he stepped inside.
The room was sparsely furnished. Apart from a steel locker the only other objects were a plastic table and a security camera that glowered down from the corner. Charles tugged at his balaclava as he studied the device. If he was surprised that his reflection didn’t show up on the concave lens then he gave no sign of it. He had seen weirder stuff than that while running Mr Anderson's errands.
With a shiver he turned away from the glass eye and got to work on the locker. It took him a moment to realise that it wasn’t even locked. The door swung open and there on the floor was a shoe box. Charles lifted it as carefully as if it were an unexploded bomb and set it on the table. After a moment's hesitation he removed the lid off to reveal what lay within.
For a moment he stopped breathing.
He had known what it would be, of course. He had known as soon as he had been given the job. Mr Anderson was always upfront with him. But it’s one thing to hear about the impossible and quite another to actually experience it.
‘Fuck a doodle doo’ said Charles as his breath returned to him. Inside the box was a cube of plastic. It weighed maybe a kilogram and was perhaps twenty centimetres to a side. It was also a completely new primary colour.
He hadn't realised quite what that meant until now that he saw it, and now that he saw it he knew that yes, yes it WAS impossible. There couldn't be a new primary colour. There couldn't be.
Except that there was.
Charles reached out one cotton-gloved finger to stroke its surface, and when his finger brushed against the cube it exploded into a whole myriad of new colours. He stared at them, eyes as wide as a toddler’s on Christmas morning, and laughed delightedly.
They were beautiful, these colours. So beautiful. They were a glimpse of a better, brighter, cleaner world. A world with countless dimensions and limitless possibilities. Charles pulled off his balaclava and removed his gloves. Then he just stood there, his face lit with wonder as he caressed the living kaleidoscope he had found.
There was no way he was going to hand this over he decided. No way at all. For once Mr Anderson would have to do without.
It was the thought that killed him.
No sooner had he reached the decision than the clock ticked, the debris pattered to the floor and a chorus of snarls echoed down the corridors. Charles’ reflection popped into the concave lens of the camera above and an alarm began to blare.
He thrust the cube into an inside pocket and started to run. It was a vain effort. He hadn't gone a dozen steps before the gas which poured from the air vents caught up with him. His legs stopped working just as the dogs saw him.
He struggled to get back to his feet but his muscles merely twitched. When the dogs reached him he was flopping around on the rubberised floor like a gutted fish and a second later he found that paralysis was not anaesthesia. He felt every rip of the dogs’ teeth, every sliced nerve and ruptured artery. But even his blood, bright red though it was, couldn’t compare with the colours he carried in his pocket.
Charles thought about the colours, about how they glowed, and even as the dogs tore off his face he was smiling.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Replacement Invoice
-
PAYMENT OVERDUE
-
Please note: Any further delay in payment
could result in a further 10% surcharge.
-
Issued by: Total Cleaning Solutions, 24B Elm Street, Liverpool, L8
--------------Tel: 0151 455 8790 Website: TCS.co.uk
-
Payable by: Dr Stephen Hillington, 18 Acacia Avenue,
---------------West Kirby CH49 7NG
-
Invoice Number: 01/02/A
Invoice Date: 12/8/09
-
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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