Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008 

1

Summer 2008 

FICTION 

POSTGRADUATES 

Ben Hart 3 World Gone Wrong 

Carolyn Skelton 8 Parting Gift 

Jo Hurst 10 Hodge 

Johanna Yacoub 12 Magilligan 

Kate Simants 21 Canal 

Perry Bhandal 24 Chicken Jack 

Ali Sheikholeslami 35 Paradise, Etc. 

FACULTY 

William Leahy 38 Emotional Spaceman 

John West 42 December 1945... 

UNDERGRADUATES 

Laura Brown 43 A Lesson Learned 

Maria Papacosta 53 Piano 

POETRY 

UNDERGRADUATES 

Marc Spencer 11 Pantoum - The Prophet 

Kerry Williams 13 Decadence in the Bathroom 

13 Been There, Done That 

Emanuele Libertini 8 Pure Research 

Mark Woollard 27 The Snail 

Jean-David Beyers 29 Thirteen Ways of Looking 

at Scissors 

32 Filth 

Maria Ridley 39 Weeping Woman 

45 CC’s 

Kerry Williams 48 Paranoia 

Shane Jinadu 15 Scarf Me Up 

15 Johnny 

Marc Spencer 11 Haiku 

Visit us on-line: 

Metropolitan Lines 

http://arts.brunel.ac.uk/gate/ml/index 

Brunel University 

http://www.brunel.ac.uk/ 

The Department of English at Brunel University, School of Arts 

http://www.brunel.ac.uk/about/acad/sa/artsub/english 

2 

postgraduate fiction 


Summer 2008 

Editors: 

David Fulton 

Robert Stamper 

Subediting, Layout and Formatting: 

Samuel Taradash 

Metropolitan Lines is the literary 

magazine of Brunel University’s School 

of Arts. It exists to showcase the 

creative writing, prose and poetry of 

students, faculty and staff connected to 

the School of Arts at Brunel University. 

Questions, comments or submissions 

are welcome, and should be sent to 

david.fulton@brunel.ac.uk 

Any submissions should be sent as 

attachments to e-mail in the form of 

.doc or rtf files. Please, check your 

spelling and grammar before sending. 

The copyrights of all works within are held by their 

respective authors. All photographs by Samuel 

Taradash, except for page 42, which was was 

first published anonymously in the Soviet Journal 

Ogonyok, and is currently in the public domain. 


Contents 

Editorial Staff

World Gone Wrong 

Ben Hart 

1. Trying to get to Heaven 

The rain slid cautiously down 

the angel’s faces, dripping off 

their noses and falling to the floor. 

Below them a lone hobo sought 

shelter within the church that they 

guarded, his knocking echoing out 

dully through the empty building. 

Bemoaning the lack of response 

from within the church, the hobo 

brushed his soaking hair away from 

his face and staggered out into the 

churchyard. Pulling his battered 

coat around himself as tightly as it 

would go, he lay down on a sodden 

bench and did his best to sleep. 

The night was a bitter one and 

sleep did not come easily to the 

hobo, but he was exhausted from 

the hardships of the day and 

eventually it took him, wrenching 

him away from the world and into a 

wholly better one of his own 

devising. For the next three hours 

he drifted in and out of 

consciousness, hearing the tongues 

of angels and men singing in unison 

to a tune that his mind couldn’t 

place. 

Gradually the music began to tail 

off. Then it stopped altogether. The 

hobo’s eyes snapped open and he 

saw the face of a policeman peering 

down into his own. 

‘Come on you, on your bike!’ 

The hobo rolled off the bench 

and rubbed his bleary eyes. 

‘I need to speak with the 

Reverend,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll be on 

my way’. 

‘I’m sure the Reverend has better 

things to do than tend to the likes of 

you!’ boomed the policeman. He 

grabbed the hobo roughly by the 

shoulder and shoved him in the 

direction of the church gates. 

‘I have as much right to be here 

as anyone!’ protested the hobo, 

gazing up pleadingly at the concrete 

angels that towered above him. 

‘Sleeping rough on church 

property is against the law. I’m 

obliged to move you on.’ 

‘Was Jesus himself not an 

outlaw?’ 

*** 

2. My Name Is Nobody 

My mind’s a mess. Congested. 

Like a town centre in 

desperate need of a bypass. I stare 

out the window, notepad in hand, 

and chew at the skin around my 

well-bitten nails. It’s a fine old day 

outside: sunshine mingling sociably 

with a sweeping wind and deft 

flakes of snow. It’s the kind of 

weather that would usually sound 

poetic however you described it, but 

today my brain just isn’t up to the 

challenge. It blanks me, cutting my 

prose off before I’ve even written 

anything. Sighing, I clamber up 

from my seat and make coffee – 

black, no sugar. The caffeine does 

its best to stimulate but my body’s 

having none of it. I drain my cup 

and return to the window, its 

grubby pane now flecked with 

snow. 

I’m starting to think that the 

world’s turned its back on me. The 

girl I picked up last night left before 

it was light and didn’t leave a 

number. Nobody else is answering 

my calls. No one’s calling either. I lie 

on my bed, put a CD on and spend 

the next six minutes listening to 

3 


Bob Dylan attempting to cure 

America’s ills by calling forth the 

spirit of a long-dead blues singer. 

That fails to inspire me much either, 

so I turn off the player and lie in 

silence, counting down the seconds 

until I have to rouse myself and head 

off to work. 

I’m the assistant manager of a 

video shop. Correction: a back-alley 

video shop. Our closed sign’s 

scrawled on a piece of Weetabix box 

and our selection’s limited. Often I 

try to broaden our customers’ 

horizons, suggesting they try 

something a little artier than the 

norm, but rarely are they having any 

of it. Tonight it’s particularly quiet. 

There’s a new multi-national store 

due to open up the road in a couple 

of weeks and I reckon most of our 

clientele are saving themselves for 

that. It’s a sobering thought. I really 

don’t see how we can stay in 

business after it hits. 

I decide to amuse myself by 

staring at the wall and asking 

rhetorical questions. Who am I? 

What am I doing here? Basic 

existential stuff. A couple of girls 

come in while I’m doing this and 

leave hurriedly, giggling. It doesn’t 

really bother me. I get paid the same 

whether they rent anything out or 

not. Later, about ten, just as I’m 

preparing to head home, the shop 

fills up and I find myself bombarded 

with videos from all angles. A Hugh 

Grant flick here, a Halle Berry 

there. One kid, obviously underage, 

tries to get out a Van Damme – one 

of his later straight-to-video jobbies. 

I ID him and he presents me with a 

laminated piece of cardboard that 

he’s obviously scanned off his 

computer ten minutes beforehand. 

Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008

When questioned about its legitimacy he just shrugs 

and asks what harm it can do. 

Before cashing up I check the inbox on my phone. It 

makes unpleasant reading: no new messages. I turn off 

the main lights and complete my chores by the flickering 

of the popcorn machine and the second-hand rays of the 

streetlights outside. 2ps, 5ps, 10ps, 20ps…I arrange 

them all in order, in rows, just how the boss likes them. 

The door flies open and a man comes barging in, 

collar pulled up high, his head masked by a balaclava. I 

draw his attention to the closed sign on the door but he 

doesn’t want to listen. He wants the money in the till, 

the money I’ve just spent the last 

twenty minutes arranging, the 

money that was providing me 

with an excuse not to head home. 

We struggle and the money goes 

flying everywhere. This angers 

me. I hate to see my handiwork 

undone, and I go for him, biting 

and scratching, trying to wrench 

the wool from his face. He’s far 

too strong for me though, and I 

find myself flung against the wall, 

a knife pressed up close to my 

throat. 

‘Make another sound,’ he hisses, ‘make another 

sound and I promise that I’ll fucking kill you!’ 

‘Kill me?’ I chuckle. ‘I’m already dead.’ 

3. The Silver-Tongued Devil 

*** 

The beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad, so I had 

another for desert. Pellets of rain clattered into the 

windows, launched from the swirling wisps of cloud 

that circled above. The clock hit eleven with a 

begrudging ‘thunk.’ I gathered up my overcoat, slung it 

on and headed for the door. 

Outside a kid swore at a can that he was kicking; the 

tires of a U-Haul truck squealed; a man with a badge 

skipped on by; the smell of frying chicken aroused my 

nostrils. I passed it all by and blundered into the nearest 

bar, rubbing my malnourished eyes as the artificial 

lights hit them. 

She was stuck in a world 

where she didn’t belong; if 

she left him then she left 

everything. Gutsy little thing 

went ahead and did it. 

Credit to her. 

4 


The barman nodded and handed me a beer. I 

thanked him and surveyed my surroundings, mapping 

out the day. Drank my beer down and gazed out the 

window. Traffic flashed past, a girl in an orange dress. 

The bar was filling up now; people were on their lunch, 

eating, drinking. Smoke hung low in the air and I had to 

rest my chin on the bar to escape it. Time passed and I 

went with it: some kids being refused admission, the 

whirring of a fruit machine, the monotony of the 

barman’s chatter. Life became a haze, a smoke-filled 

oblivion. My eyes strained against it, working harder 

than anticipated. There was a girl alone at a table – 

brunette, nice smile. 

I introduced myself. Talk 

flowed freely. I lied about my day; 

she did likewise. There was a 

copy of the local rag on the table 

and we skimmed through it. 

Seems there’s a killer on the loose. 

The press have dubbed him ‘The 

Silver-Tongued Devil’. He 

charms his way into people’s 

houses, wins their trust and then 

slays them. Uses whatever’s at 

hand. Sometime last month he 

caved an old lady’s skull in with a brick. It made one hell 

of a mess on the carpet. I pointed this out to the girl and 

warned her against being out late at night; she did 

likewise. We laughed, inhaled smoke, watched it follow 

its tail, round and round. She was alone for the night, 

had walked out on her bloke. The barman came over 

and brushed aside the glasses, winking at me. We 

continued talking, had lots in common. Poor little thing 

had got involved with the wrong guy and hadn’t realised 

until it was too late. It was a nasty situation: she was 

stuck in a world where she didn’t belong; if she left him 

then she left everything. Gutsy little thing went ahead 

and did it. Credit to her. 

The drinks kept flowing and our jaws kept jacking, 

hours melting into hours as we exchanged stories about 

a world gone wrong. Then the bell rung, last orders 

were called and we were out in the street, arm in arm, 

heading for her place. The rain still came but it was 

almost apologetic now, its rage quelled. We bantered 

on the doorstep, standing in defiance of the cold. The 

door was opened and we staggered inside. Laughter, 

jostling, the smell of wet denim. 



Ben Hart

Glasses were cleaned, filled and 

clinked. Lips touched lips. We 

joked about the Silver-Tongued 

Devil, wondering what he’d do if he 

caught us now. She wanted to fuck 

him and fuck the world. Lips again, 

chapped, balmed. Then the carpet, 

the burning, the pleasure, the 

screaming. I left her there, smiling, 

as happy and beautiful as anything 

I’d ever known. She was rigid, 

sleepy. I headed for home. 

The night was souring. Water 

sloshed around my ankles, seeping 

into my socks. A crack of a twig, the 

dirty stench of dying. The Silver- 

Tongued Devil was there, walking 

behind me. I fell, hands clammy, my 

throat choked with dust. Footsteps 

moving away, slowly, then quicker. 

I lay there, watching the rain flow 

into the gutter, wondering why he 

did what he did. Then the answer 

dawned: immortality. The death of 

the weak made him a God. You, me, 

them, she – we only live until we die. 

He will live forever. And to be 

remembered…is that not all any of 

us can ask for? 

The next morning I gargled, spat 

and headed down to the bar to face 

the day. The barman handed me a 

beer, told me the police had been in 

earlier, asking about the girl. I 

picked up the rag and browsed. He 

was in it again, that Silver-Tongued 

Devil. The opening of a new coffee 

shop had consigned him to page 

two. It was a paid advertisement. 

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. 

I tried to reason, to understand. I 

knew why but not how. Couldn’t 

comprehend how anyone could do 

what he did, without remorse. 

Except he did feel remorse, didn’t 

he? The days after the nights before 

the nights were spent in bars, 

slumping into depression, trying to 

find a reason not to go home. 

Eventually he’d probably find so 

many that he wouldn’t go back at all. 

He’d just sit there, always, searching 

for the adulation of the press. 

The smoke was hanging around 

again. My eyes saw page two. Page 

two. He killed and only made page 

two. Sad, like a child deprived of a 

bike, like a mother seeing her boy off 

to war, like a man who can’t see the 

road for tears in his eyes. Smoke. 

Everywhere. Take it back, passive, 

causes cancer, fuck it, we all die 

anyway. He’ll see to that. Nothing 

annoys the Silver-Tongued Devil 

more than being deprived of his 

rightful place on the front page by 

the opening of a new coffee shop. I 

was there when it happened and I 

doubt I will ever forget his rage: 

tables were overturned; cups and 

curses flew in unison. 

Pantoum – The Prophet 

The End Is Nigh! 

The Prophet yells, 

Words echoed in the sky. 

You have been told, 

The Prophet yells, 

The blasphemy of it all, 

You have been told, 

Heed Gods call! 

The blasphemy of it all, 

Reaching to the air. 

Heed Gods call! 

He yells a dare. 

Reaching to the air, 

His arms wave aimlessly. 

He yells a dare 

To those that can see. 

5 


The smoke was a shield, it broke. 

His anger continued unabated 

throughout the night. He swore 

he’d kill again. I felt him slip from 

the shadows, the smoke coming 

down like a curtain across the latest 

act. The girl was gone; the police 

were coming; it was time for him to 

leave. 

Rubbing my eyes, blinking, 

disbelieving, I watched as The 

Silver-Tongued Devil ran. I went 

with him, alongside him, keeping 

pace. Our eyes locked, trust was 

established. The clouds soared, the 

rain danced, the sun was tentative, 

the horizon near. 

Ever since that day we’ve been 

brothers, the Silver-Tongued Devil 

and I, though some say we’re one 

and the same. 

*** 

undergraduate poetry 

His arms wave aimlessly, 

Grasping the ideas. 

To those that can see 

They spark many fears. 

Grasping the ideas 

He thrusts them below. 

They spark many fears 

An unholy blow. 

He thrusts them below, 

Words echoed in the sky, 

An unholy blow. 

The End Is nigh! 

Marc Spencer 



Ben Hart

4. Hard Times 

Ihad spent many lonely, restless nights dreaming of 

how I was going to greet my family when I was 

released from prison. On the day, I settled for a 

rudimentary hug from my mother and sister, and a slap 

on the back from my old man. They hurried me out of 

the prison gates and bundled me into the car. My mum 

muttered something about a party and how the guests 

would already be arriving. I smiled, seconds and even 

minutes flashing past as a blur. My sister hugged me 

again and told me how much she’d missed me. I forced 

another smile. As we drew ever nearer to home the 

conversation became stilted: I had little to tell them and 

they had told me all in their letters. Slumping back in 

my seat, I stared out the window and watched the birds 

soar out majestically above the 

hills, searching for food, secure in 

their purpose. 

We pulled onto our driveway 

some thirty seconds later. The car 

door was flung open and I was 

coated in relatives. Some regulars, 

others long lost. They grabbed 

and prodded me, commented on 

my weight loss, my muscle gain, my aged features. It 

was as though I, their former golden boy, was a rough 

diamond they were determined to polish up until I 

regained my former glory. Tea was served soon after, 

brought out promptly on the hour. As the wine flowed 

more freely so did the chatter. I dipped in and out of the 

conversation, riding it like a wave, jumping off 

whenever things got too much for me. 

At around ten-thirty my mother decided I must be 

tired and ushered me up to bed. It had been made up 

specially – duvets and pillows both uniform blue. 

Thanking her, I cast aside my clothes and flopped down 

on the bed, shuffling uncomfortably as the mattress 

sunk down and threatened to engulf me. My mother 

collected up my clothes and placed them in the washing 

basket. 

‘Breakfast will be at seven,’ she whispered, bending 

down to kiss me on the forehead. 

I murmured my acknowledgement and did my best 

to sleep. 

It was a rough night. Free from the catcalls of my 

fellow cons and my cellmate’s snoring, I was left at the 

I spent the rest of the day 

being paraded around like a 

trophy. By the end I had just 

about perfected a false grin. 

6 


mercy of my own dreams. Time and time again they 

came and, try as I might, I was powerless to stop them. 

Snippets of conversations, half-formed figures, 

encounters long since forgotten. I saw my life before I 

was sent down, I saw prison, and I saw my future. None 

of it seemed all that different to me. 

The next morning I slouched downstairs dead on 

seven and was greeted by the glorious smell of wellgrilled 

bacon. After bidding good-morning to all, I 

pulled up a chair and sat down alongside my sister. She 

smiled sweetly and offered to do something about my 

hair. The bacon was placed in the centre of the table and 

we all made a grab for it, laying slices out on slabs of 

thickly buttered bread. The taste was unparalleled but 

caused me to feel oddly nauseous. My stomach 

churning, I left the table and 

charged upstairs to the bathroom 

to be sick. 

I spent the rest of the day being 

paraded around like a trophy. By 

the end of it I had just about 

perfected a false grin. After being 

marched around the shops and 

kitted out in the threads my 

mother and sister agreed that I ought to be wearing, 

and enduring a dinner of lamb and sweet potatoes, I 

finally managed to slip away. Breathing deeply and 

savouring every breath, I reached the edge of the street 

and surveyed my surroundings, marvelling at how little 

had changed in the three years I had been away. The 

same people still scuttled around in the same houses, 

doing the same things. I paused to admire the stars that 

winked out in the night sky, stately yet ominous, the real 

masters of the universe. 

I pushed open the door to the ‘Jolly Bargeman’ and 

stepped inside. The musty air hit me and I longed to 

wipe it from my face. Over in the far corner sat my old 

crew, drinking, smoking, playing cards, pretending not 

to gamble. They hollered me a greeting and I raised my 

hand in acknowledgement. The barman had already 

poured me a pint when I got there. Someone must have 

briefed him about my arrival. I paid for the drink, 

fumbling my coins slightly, and took a seat alongside my 

friends. 

‘Great to have you back!’ One of them yelled 

‘We’re up for a biggun tonight!’ yelled another. 

‘Pub crawl next week? It’s Johnny’s birthday!’ 



Ben Hart

‘Gotta be done!’ 

‘Got to!’ 

‘Got to!’ 

‘Got to!’ 

I wanted to stand up and scream, 

tell them to shut up, to shove their 

stupid ideas and mind their own 

fucking business. Their voices were 

relentless, piercing, incessant. I 

leaned back in my seat and closed 

my eyes, dreaming that I was far 

away, in another land, another time. 

‘So,’ someone asked. ‘How does 

it feel to be free?’ 

I opened my eyes and stared 

across the table, looking them all in 

the eyes individually. Finally I 

spoke. 

‘Go find me a man who knows.’ 

*** 

5. Good as I’ve Been to You 

Old Dougie was a local treasure. 

He spent his days returning 

stray shopping trolleys to their 

rightful owners. To him they were 

lost sheep that were pining for their 

flock. He received no monetary 

reward for his actions, or thanks, 

but it gave him a purpose, a reason 

to exist, something to occupy his 

time with as he approached his 

eightieth year on the planet. 

At night he’d huddle on a park 

bench, sleeping bolt upright, knees 

pulled up close under his chin, his 

face crouched down below a flatcap. 

If the weather was bitter then 

he’d pull up the collar of his grubby 

mac to muffle its advances. The 

bench he most often frequented was 

situated near the town’s Catholic 

Church, directly adjacent to its 

huge iron gates that rose up high 

into the sky. Above these gates, 

mounted on a concrete plinth, were 

three concrete angels playing 

trumpets. 

One night, as he was admiring 

the angel’s architecture, a downand-out 

took a seat alongside him 

and began to swig noisily from a 

bottle of cheap cider. 

‘Lo,’ said Dougie, regarding the 

man with interest. 

The man grunted nasally and 

held out the cider. ‘Want some?’ 

Dougie shook his head. ‘Don’t 

touch the stuff.’ 

The two men stared up at the 

angels, their ragged features bathed 

in ethereal streaks of moonlight. 

7 


‘How long you been out here 

for?’ asked the man. 

‘About two years. My son was 

manoeuvring to put me into a home. 

I ran.’ 

The man turned towards 

Dougie, his mouth quivering and 

threatening to gape out from behind 

his greying beard. 

‘You’re out here on your own 

will?’ 

Dougie nodded. 

There was a service in the 

church, always was on Thursday 

nights. As the clock struck eight, 

ringing out mightily through the 

caustic night air, people started to 

file out of the building: kids, 

parents, grandparents. They were 

laughing, joking, singing snatches 

of hymns. They passed Dougie and 

the old man by, barely affording 

them a glance. 

‘Do you think anyone hears the 

music that they play?’ asked Dougie, 

suddenly, gazing up at the angels 

that stood high above him with 

their trumpets clasped tight. 

‘Do you reckon anyone even 

tries?’ 



Ben Hart

Parting Gift 

by Carolyn Skelton 

He opened the door to her, not 

even bothering to hide his 

irritation. Hadn’t he told her only 

last month that it was all over? All 

over before it had really started, 

she’d said, ripping her paper 

handkerchief into shreds. For days 

after he’d found tiny bits of mangled 

tissue paper behind the furniture in 

the living room. Like a paper trail 

from the heart which led nowhere. 

‘Ray! How’s things?’ she asked, a 

smile stretched taut across her face. 

She hitched her tote bag higher up 

on her shoulder. It was then he 

noticed the leather gloves. They 

looked incongruous with her light 

sweater and jeans. He ignored the 

thought that she might be covering 

up some sort of self-mutilation. In 

any case, it would be more like her 

to flaunt the results of a half-baked 

suicide attempt, knowing it would 

press all his guilt buttons. 

‘Hey, Carrie.’ 

‘I was just passing and . . .’ she 

continued. 

‘I’m packing.’ 

‘For Pakistan?’ 

‘Uh-huh. I’ve loads to do. The 

flight leaves tonight.’ 

‘I’m not stopping. Just wanted to 

give you this.’ She bent her head 

over her bag, auburn curls flashing 

in the sunlight. He remembered the 

softness of her hair as it brushed 

against his thighs, and shook his 

head to dislodge the memory. It 

wouldn’t do to get too sentimental. 

Not now. 

She pulled out a small gold box 

and handed it to him. ‘Don’t open it 

yet. Keep it for the twentieth.’ 

‘I’m not sure . . .’ 

‘See it as a parting gift. A way of 

saying “thanks”.’ 

‘For what?’ 

‘Helping me to realise that you 

and I would never have made it.’ 

‘Oh.’ He felt deflated now. ‘Do 

you want to come in or something?’ 

‘Another time maybe.’ 

Pure Research 

8 


‘Perhaps. I’ll be away for a month 

at least.’ 

‘Just promise me you’ll keep it for 

the twentieth. You might need it out 

there in all that heat.’ 

Outside, ominous cobwebs of tree, branches waving at the window pane, 

A sea of freeze-dried paralyzed limbs inside. 

I hear words like dripping blood and a thunder in my right ear: 

Warm, delicate, sinewy, scaly, oozing with the viscosity of mud, 

Murderous, fleeting, shady. 

Here talks a scientist in the bud, blossoms of grey crystalline cells, 

Alongside chrysanthemum and blue bells. 

This Bourne building is a prison for my carcass, bound in flowers, 

a garrison for plaster and tape people, the waste bubbling up, 

when Enrique, with great haste, belches words 

about dominant negative mutants. 

Unfortunate, to be all crammed in this office, like ants: 

Robert is indifferent, honest; 

Claudia, with laser beams and paper moons, idly staring at the ceiling; 

Christine reaches with intensity, dedication, reaches for science’s secret; 

Prajwal perches on the sofa, stifling a yawn; 

Enrique, flamboyant and patronizing, throws jargon at people; 

And all the while I smile arrogantly at the trees outside. 

Paul, diligent, calm, 

argues his point with care, 

while Wang, vampire-like, 

stands in awe of his master. 

Virginia sits 

in front of them, 

indulgent 

and benign, 

betraying a sense of superiority. 


Michael, being English, 

fumbles with 

hands and floppy hair, 

while Laci, 

smiling like a Japanese fox, 

curls in his seat, 

ready to fire yet another question. 

Emanuele Libertini 


He looked down at the box in his hands as if he’d 

only just noticed it. ‘Sure. I’ll send you a postcard.’ 

‘Great.’ She bent forward as if to give him a kiss and 

he instinctively moved his head away. Her lips landed 

on his ear and he pulled back. She turned away quickly 

and headed up the path, only pausing at the gate to take 

off her gloves and stuff them into her bag. He watched 

her go and felt nothing but relief. 

Several times that afternoon he was tempted to open 

the box. His thirty-eighth meant nothing to him: 

birthdays never had been celebrated much in his family. 

But he remembered that look on her face when he’d 

dodged her kiss. It had reminded him of his mother’s 

that time he’d told her he wanted to live with his father. 

All hurt and defiance. An expression designed to make 

you feel bad. 

In the end he just threw her present into the suitcase. 

He was running late as usual and he’d planned to do 

some duty free shopping before his flight. Of course the 

ubiquitous malt was out, but the research team always 

appreciated a tin of shortbread or a mouse mat of the 

Cuillins. Something they couldn’t get in Karachi. 

The airport was crowded with families. He’d 

forgotten it was spring half term. That was the thing 

about not having children: you had no idea of the school 

calendar and were always surprised when they suddenly 

appeared everywhere. The queues for Malaga and 

Tenerife snaked out across the concourse. He dodged 

the track-suited families with their bulging bags, smug 

in the knowledge that he was travelling light. His small 

suitcase on wheels jerked and whined behind him like a 

recalcitrant dog as he headed over to the Pakistani Air 

desk. 

‘Window or aisle?’ asked the check-in clerk, giving 

him one of her professional smiles. 

9 


‘Window.’ He wouldn’t see anything at night, but he 

hated being disturbed when others wanted to get out 

of their seats. He hoped the flight would be smooth – 

not like the last time when they’d run into turbulence 

somewhere over the Middle East. 

A couple of security guards, machine guns strapped 

to their chests, glanced at him. Travelling nowadays 

was like being in a war zone. Particularly when flying to 

what were now casually referred to as ‘volatile regions.’ 

He picked up his passport and boarding card and 

headed towards departures. No doubt there would be 

the usual nonsense of queuing for ages only to 

eventually be manhandled by some bored guy with an 

electronic baton. Thank God he only made the trip once 

a year. He pitied those exhausted looking executives 

who seem to spend their lives shuttling from one time 

zone to another, permanently bloated from airline food 

and cheap whisky. 

‘Dr Noble?’ 

He turned to see one of the security guards at his 

elbow. 

‘Yes?’ 

‘Would you come this way, please.’ 

‘Of course.’ Stay calm. Stay calm and polite. ‘Is there 

anything wrong?’ 

‘Please just follow me.’ 

He allowed himself to be steered into a small 

windowless room. A bench ran along one wall. In the 

middle was a table where his suitcase lay gaping open 

like a wound, its disembowelled contents spilling out. 

His breathing came faster. Something wasn’t quite 

right with this scenario. He was Raymond Noble PhD, 

heading off to work on the diseased phytoplankton in 

the Bay of Karachi. He was the Pakistani research 

station’s great white hope, bringing new observation 

techniques to the underfunded fisheries lab. 

‘What’s going on here? What are you doing 

with my case?’ 

A pair of handcuffs slid around his wrists. 

The cold metal made him wince. His bowels 

slackened. 

It was then he saw it. The little gold box, 

slashed and broken. The red silk cravat 

poking out of the tissue paper like a malicious 

tongue. But beside that something far worse. 

The false bottom smashed and ripped to 

reveal a dark, oblong object wrapped in 

cellophane. Something which looked like an 

overlarge laboratory faecal specimen. 

Carrie’s parting gift. 


Parting Gift 

Carolyn Skelton

Hodge 

by Jo Hurst 

During the daylight hours I am 

a respectful returner. I don’t 

rampage as the menagerie up at 

Newstead Abbey do. I am quiet and 

creep around the rooms that I once 

had full run of. 

That we only appear at night is 

untrue. That we choose to appear 

more frequently after darkness, 

when we are alone, when our home 

returns to us, is more the truth; 

though coming back often fills me 

with melancholy. 

It saddens me to think that our 

house has become an institution. 

It used to live and breathe with 

us, around us, through us. Now it 

is a just a space, orchestrated to 

offer visitors authenticity of times 

passed. 

To this end, the interloping 

custodians have employed a cat; 

to maximise the potency of the 

recreation. To recreate me, no less. 

To meander and muse her way 

around the parlour furniture, while 

strangers exhume memories of and 

pontificate on, my Master and His 

world. My Master and His Work. 

That they have chosen a feminine 

feline confuses; though I feel it is 

because they believe everything they 

hear or read on us. Therefore let me 

put straight, any distortions 

immediately. When the Master, 

while I entwined myself around his 

leg, said to his very excellent friend, 

Boswell, those many years ago now, 

‘I have had better cats,’ you believed 

that he loved me less? That I wasn’t 

the favourite? That those who 

graced his presence be they male or 

female, before or after me were held 

in higher esteem? 

To those who say such things, 

utter such mutterings, I say this. 

Whose bronze statue adorns the 

entrance here? Who was there 

when the real writing was done? 

When history was made. Whose 

name do they remember now? 

Together, my Master and I made 

something out of not much indeed 

and there wasn’t a multitude of us 

like there was in France. There was 

just the Master and His quill, and I. 

Hearsay can become heresy if 

attention is not paid. So take heed. 

Take all that you hear or read with a 

pinch of salt and a dollop of vinegar, 

the way I used to take my fish down 

at the Wharf. Pay attention to the 

unreliability of scribes historical and 

‘He is a very fine cat,’ my 

Master said. 

And He was a very sensible 

Man. 

certain memorists with perforated 

remembrances. 

And as you weren’t there I shall 

repeat the actual words spoken of 

me. 

‘He is a very fine cat,’ my Master 

said. 

And He was a very sensible 

Man. 

As was Poet Stockdale who 

wrote on me in his Elegy on the 

Death of Dr Johnson’s Favourite 

Cat. So what further proof do you 

need of my beloved status? 

Of course two such intelligences 

living under the same thatch can 

often bait each other’s 

imperturbability. And that my 

Master some time later broke a little 

piece of my small beating leonine 

heart when I uncovered my entry in 

the Dictionary, I have put behind 

me. And I lay it bare, the exact 

words here for all to see, to show my 

10 


spirit has left all base worldly upsets 

in the physical sphere. 

‘A domestick animal that catches 

mice, commonly reckoned by 

naturalists the lowest order of the 

leonine species.’ 

For I can assure you I was my 

Master’s cat and I did much more 

than catch mice. 

For our achievements were 

mountainous; that the strangers 

whom I see here and chose to like 

not, have made mere curiosities of 

us, goads me. They do disservice 

our memories. Though I am not 

allowed to voice my disapproval. I 

am reminded that my memory is 

short and in the days before we’d 

gone to the Gods, we welcomed 

waifs and strays, strangers all. 

And this is true enough. 

‘Hodge,’ He says, to remind, 

‘We kept our door ajar so that they 

could share tea and brandy with 

me and milk and oysters with you. 

So that they could find welcome at 

whatever hour.’ 

I hadn’t forgotten. I am my 

Master’s cat. But a stranger once 

talked to is a stranger no more. 

What do I have in common with 

these people who haunt our home 

now? They are not the loose 

moggies and prostitutes, the 

vagabonds and wayward tabbies 

and ally cat beggars that frequented 

our home in those days, who were 

all welcome. Not just welcomed, 

needed. We did indeed keep our 

door ajar for the misfortunates, 

because we ourselves were 

misfortunates. They kept us sane 

and although we enjoyed the 

company of respected human and 

feline folk, the melancholia we 

shared, my Master and I, sat well 

with them. 

These unfortunates suffered too 

our illnesses, tics and complaints 


that visited upon us. For they like us 

were afflicted. We, like them, from 

base beginnings. And being from 

such base beginnings we were 

forever humbled, and knew what it 

was like to forgo experience and 

knowledge. To forgo such natural 

entitlements because we did not 

have the money to pay for such 

things. That my Master devoured 

books, borrowed before he could 

buy, was the measure of the Man’s 

Majesty. Myself, the same. I too was 

known for my intelligence and could 

discourse on topics of the day at my 

Club as my Master did at His; 

when the melancholia left us alone. 

Oh, history teacher, my history teacher 

His shirt, trousers and socks were beige, 

But he was not. 

He was a history teacher. 

A damn fine history teacher. 

The King of all Kings of historical matter. 

What he didn’t know about the Tolpuddle Martyrs or 

the French Revolution 

Could be written on the back 

Of his unstarched, dirty shirt collar 

Coloured walnut brown, 

The same as his squashy shoes and buckled belt. 

He arrived for class as unmade 

As the bed he’d got out of, 

His hair worn long and thin 

Greased stagnant as he breezed in. 

He had what all great teachers should have: Presence. 

And this Presence was Flagrant. Felt. Electric. 

So electric that if your elbow happened to overhang 

the aisle 

He bestrode like a colossus, 

You’d feel the wrath of his nylon trousers 

And be zapped into participation 

By the static he’d built up in them 

Through his continual pacing. 

He talked non-stop with nasal-voiced authority 

Constantly swirling round to engage everyone. 

His bodily fluids set free. 

Spittle cascading out of his mouth 

Like the spray off a water-logged dog drying off. 

But accompanying the spittle and the sweat 

For at times it did blanket and 

overwhelm us. 

The year the Master’s beloved 

died, lost to age and unclean living, 

in particular left us heavy of heart 

and alone to witness the unveil of 

His life’s work. At times the 

despondency was like a fog, so thick 

that one had to step on to the streets 

for air and vision; to seek life. I 

forever marvelled at what I saw. 

Though I had seen it a thousand 

times, I never grew tired of it. For to 

grow tired of London is to grow 

tired of life. And it kept us both from 

succumbing for eternity to our 

depressions. 

11 


My Master would go and see his 

eminent friends for solace and I 

would go to the Wharf and watch 

the nature unfold. Freed from the 

confines of a house dominated by 

sickness; we could contemplate, 

ruminate, think on the reception my 

Master was receiving and the praise 

I had heaped on me for my dutiful 

companionship. And when we 

returned from the streets and to the 

Square, the melancholia lifted, we 

would thank the good Lord that we 

had found contentment and 

consolation. My sensible Master 

and His Favourite and Fine Cat, 

Hodge. 

History poured out of his apertures. 

History, and nothing but. 

For those forty-five minutes, you were with him. 

Bearing banner on the battlefield at Hastings 

Holed up in the Tower, 

Exchanging notes through nooks. 

By his side with bayonet pointing east at Flanders. 

Marching on Washington, 

Arms and thoughts linked with belief 

In what should be. 

So what that he looked liked a bonfire Guy Fawkes 

And smelt like a spare room between guests? 

So what he bypassed the shower? 

He was a busy, learned man 

With things to teach and students to be taught. 

Washing was a luxury for other people. 

And thankful we were for this diligence. 

Thankful for those 45 minutes 

When we were made to feel like he felt about history. 

When we became a Roman centurion 

A scared stiff Tommy 

A White Russian for a day. 

Looking back, I wager there’s not one person 

From that classroom, 

Having lived half a life by now, 

Who wouldn’t give up their loofah and soap 

To feel that passionately about something. 

Not one. 

Jo Hurst 


Hodge 

Jo Hurst

Magilligan 

by Johanna Yacoub 

Employment 

Henri Magilligan, a short 

stocky man, seemed to stand 

at a lop-sided angle to his 

surroundings. One shoulder sat 

lower than the other. One leg was 

shorter than the other. His left arm 

hung farther down his body than his 

right arm. This right arm, visibly 

smaller, tucked itself into the 

waistband of voluminous but 

threadbare jodhpurs bunched up by 

frayed baling twine slotted through 

their waistband. He counteracted 

the discrepancy in his legs by 

keeping the longer of the two limbs 

slightly bent and positioned a foot’s 

length to the front. His head, 

topped by a burning bush of ginger 

hair, was graced with an off-centre 

crescent smile which wrapped itself 

around his face. He appeared to 

have all his teeth. 

It was six thirty in the morning. 

The grate had been cleaned and the 

fire made up, but not yet relit. The 

room was cold. A gunmetal sky 

threw its dark cloak over the 

chateau and the gusting wind 

clattered the shutters against the 

wall on either side of the long 

windows. Jeanne had lit the oil 

lamps. Generator fuel was in short 

supply and electricity was only 

switched on for visitors. 

André twisted an old regimental 

scarf into a makeshift turban to 

protect his sensitive skin from the 

ferocious draught howling along 

the corridor. He’d wound his body 

in a Berber camel hair burnoose, a 

souvenir of colonial life. Examining 

himself in the mirror, he recollected 

the day he’d met Alexia, the spirited 

cavalry charge and the mock 

capture of Abdel Kadir. ‘Poor Abdel 

Kadir,’ he thought. ‘Even you 

looked better than I do now. Who’d 

have thought I’d end up like the 

monster in Frankenstein.’ Then he 

wheeled himself unaided from the 

bedroom, allowing Alexia to return 

to her room and change. As she 

scuttled past Henri, she paused, 

gawped, looked with incredulity at 

Jeanne and fled. 

They’d had a difficult night. 

André had grown accustomed to 

the hospital beds and found the soft 

mattress unsettling. His wounds 

were tender and every accidental 

movement in the bed painful. He’d 

woken frequently, each time 

disturbing Alexia. The enormity of 

their problem had sunk into her 

head. She was ready to grab any 

straw within reach with both hands. 

‘The name Magilligan,’ began 

André in his quiet voice, ‘it’s not 

exactly French....? Are you...were 

you a member of the armed forces?’ 

Henri wrinkled his face in 

concentration, glanced briefly at 

Jeanne, then replied, 

‘Do I look like a soldier? I’ve 

great skill with horses and I did 

offer myself but neither your lot nor 

my lot were interested. They’ve 

already got enough horse copers 

and no-one detected the fighting 

potential in me. So, the answer is 

no, I was not in the armed forces.’ 

André hesitated, as if 

reconsidering his tactics. He started 

again. 

‘I’m trying to find out if you’re a 

deserter.’ 

‘I was never in the army to run 

away, Sir.’ 

‘Magilligan, if that is your name?’ 

André, confused, stopped. He 

wasn’t sure what he was trying to 

ask this odd-looking little man. ‘It’s 

not a French name yet you speak 

12 


French like a Frenchman. What if 

you’re a spy?’ 

He regretted the question as 

soon as he’d asked it. ‘He’ll think I’m 

paranoid,’ muttered André to 

himself, but Magilligan seemed 

unperturbed by the insinuation. 

‘My grandfather was the 

Magilligan. Irish, but I never knew 

him. Drank himself to death before 

I was born.’ 

Magilligan looked at André and 

raised his bushy eyebrows as if to 

deny any involvement in the 

inebriated downfall of his forefather, 

then let them subside to their 

natural resting place above his vivid 

blue eyes. André threw a fleeting 

look of bewilderment at Jeanne, 

whose face remained expressionless. 

‘My grandfather and father 

worked with the racehorses at 

Chantilly. I can ride as well as 

anyone but the gaffers wouldn’t let 

me race, so I stayed a stable lad. 

Chantilly’s closed now, as you 

know. My mother, God rest her 

soul, had relatives near Chalons. I 

found farm work, Sir.’ 

Remembering the main thrust of 

André’s investigation, he added as 

reassurance, 

‘Nobody would take me into the 

espionage. I stick too much to 

peoples’ memories.’ 

‘Do you know this man well, 

Jeanne?’ 

André manoeuvred the chair to 

face her. She nodded and was about 

to speak when André swung round 

again to Henri. 

‘I’m looking for a valet; a very 

personal valet. I need a man to help 

me with the basic functions of 

living.’ 

André removed his hands from 

under the blanket and held them 

forward, as if for inspection. The 

fingers on his left hand were fused 


together though his thumb was free. He turned his gaze 

to Henri and asked, 

‘What in your previous experience qualifies you for 

this work?’ 

André’s tone was sceptical. Jeanne closed her eyes in 

resignation. The net would have to be cast wider. 

Henri, however, replied with pride in his voice. 

‘I’ve soothed nervous foals and mares. I’ve gentled 

yearling colts to the bridle, without being bitten. You 

need a soft touch for that, and the ability to predict their 

next move. I’ve kept their rugs clean and saddles 

polished to perfection. What’s the difference between a 

harness and a pair of shoes?’ 

André nodded and was about to answer, but Henri 

hadn’t finished his self-justification. 

‘I’ve laundered silks for Rothschild’s jockeys and 

ironed shirts for the trainers. The shaving might take a 

bit of practice but I’ve a steady hand and to be truthful, 

Sir, I don’t see much to shave.’ 

Remnants of André’s beard straggled in isolated 

tufts around the areas of less burned skin. A few strokes 

of the razor would take it off in the blink of an eye. To 

overcome that uncomfortable truth, André focused his 

eyes on Henri’s right hand. It left the waistband in a 

flash, described a couple of circles in the air, waggled 

its fingers, then returned to its resting place once it had 

demonstrated its viability. No-one spoke. 

‘You see,’ said Henri interrupting the silence, ‘It’s 

much shorter than the other and 

bothers folk to look at it but I 

promise, it works as well as its 

partner. I’ve learned to drive a car, 

even had lessons in its machinery 

and I’m a good shot. I can reload a 

gun blindfolded. You want me to 

show you? 

‘Not at this precise moment, 

thank you.’ 

André was at a loss. Henri was 

not what he’d had in mind for a 

manservant. He adopted a different 

approach. 

‘May I ask a personal question?’ 

‘By all means, Sir. Ask whatever 

you want,’ replied Henri with an 

unconcerned shrug. 

‘Your, er, disability?’ André did 

not wish to be impolite or indelicate. 

‘Was it as a result of a riding 

accident?’ 

Decadence in the Bathroom 

Porcelain-white tiles shine with gold, 

Soft candle flames bounce about the 

room, 

Unworldly. 

The drip-drop of water hits the floor, 

Bath overwhelmed, candles, dancing 

flames sent overboard, 

Waxy scent of vanilla is overcome by 

the stink of burning. 

And it started with such a tiny light, 

Dancing in the water, 

Playing with its reflection – 

A metamorphosis. 

Burning, out of control. 

13 


‘No, Sir. God sent me like this into the world. He 

wanted to keep me safe from harm.’ 

‘I don’t quite follow?’ 

Henri’s logic escaped André. Jeanne, who’d known 

Henri’s maternal family since childhood, wondered 

what was coming. She couldn’t follow his logic either. 

‘Well, Sir,’ Henri adjusted his stance as his shorter 

leg was getting tired. ‘I’ve prepared horses for the 

military. All the officers to begin with are like you used 

to be, and often end up like you are now; that’s if they’re 

there at all. My bodily misfortune has kept me out of the 

fighting. At the end of it I’ll be what I was at the 

beginning, not better, that’s for sure, but no worse.’ 

André closed his eyes. It was too early in the morning 

for this. He needed breakfast to unravel Magilligan’s 

clarification of God’s benevolence. Turning to Jeanne, 

he asked, 

‘Are you sure this man is up to the job? He looks as 

if he slept in the stables last night.’ 

Before Jeanne had a chance to answer, Henri butted 

in. 

‘Indeed I did, Sir. I wanted to be here nice and early 

after Jeanne sent word you’d need a groom.’ 

‘I don’t need a groom,’ countered André in 

exasperation. ‘I need a gentleman’s servant.’ 

‘That’s what I meant, Sir. Instead of brushing down 

the horses, I’ll be doing you. There’s no difference. I’ll 

be just as careful with you as I was with them.’ 


The taste of blood is rich and metallic 

in the mouth, 

Delicious if cut with tequila and lime, 

The rouge invisible on ruby red lips. 

Now it rages all around, 

The golden porcelain charred. 

The heat burns, 

Those tiny candles 

Consumed - 

All to nothing. 

Now in the mirror the flame sees 

what it’s become, 

The mirror glows in recognition: 

A monster. 

Kerry Williams 


Magilligan 

Johanna Yacoub

André looked down at his hands, 

then at Jeanne and finally at Henri. 

‘I’ll give you a week’s trial. Jeanne, 

can you find him something more 

suitable to wear? Make him take a 

bath. Find somewhere for him to 

sleep and bring my breakfast. I’m 

starving. In fact, send Denise 

through right away with a pot of 

fresh strong coffee. I’ve had nothing 

but lukewarm dishwater for the last 

four months.’ 

He wheeled the chair towards 

his room, then stopped and turned 

back, 

‘And for God’s sake, light the 

bloody fires. I’m freezing.’ 

Jeanne tugged Henri’s sleeve and 

led him from the room. As 

Magilligan left, André noticed he 

was slightly hunched and the line of 

his spine skewed to one side. At that 

moment, Alexia entered. Henri 

stepped back politely to allow her to 

pass. 

‘Morning, Ma’am,’ 

He greeted her cheerfully with 

his off-balance smile and a slight 

nod of his head. 

‘I’ll be back to bathe the master in 

a moment. He’ll be spanking clean 

by the time I’ve finished.’ 

‘Come on Henri,’ muttered 

Jeanne. ‘I’ve got to make you 

presentable and set out a few rules 

of the house.’ 

‘You do that, Miss Jeanne. I 

won’t mind a bit and if I get it 

wrong you can wallop me with that 

big stick you hide in the pantry.’ 

Jeanne pursed her lips and 

propelled Henri down the corridor. 

Despite his misgivings, André 

began to laugh. Alexia looked at 

him, her eyes wide with 

astonishment and dismay. 

‘You haven’t taken him on, have 

you? You must be out of your mind.’ 

‘It’s the gas, Alexia... just keep 

telling yourself... your husband was 

gassed.’ 

‘May God help us,’ she moaned 

as she collapsed onto the sofa. 

‘Well,’ said André, ‘God’s 

certainly with Magilligan, so maybe 

he’ll adopt us too.’ 

♣ 

That other small room behind 

the library had become a 

building site. Old tarpaulins were 

spread over the floor to protect the 

parquet and a construction of 

planks on trestles provided a raised 

walkway round the walls, giving 

access to the higher reaches and 

ceiling. A wooden ladder leant 

against the doorframe, and an old 

tea chest with a chipped wood block 

over it doubled as a worktable. 

Spare brushes bristled from a jar of 

turpentine and smaller paint pots 

nestled against a large bucket of 

white emulsion. Magilligan stirred 

this with a broken broomstick, 

before pouring the paint into the 

smaller pots. They were easier to 

manage and, if he did drop a pot, it 

wasn’t a disaster. He used his longer 

left arm for the painting, although 

he was by nature right handed. 

Balancing on the trestles, he 

dipped the broad brush into the 

paint and began covering the walls 

of the small bedroom with smooth 

strokes of colour. He worked 

methodically, tipping into the 

cornice below the ceiling then 

sweeping down to the skirting 

board, which he’d completed the 

day before. Hopping on and off the 

trestles was tiring, but he was 

determined to do a neat job. At the 

end of each panel of paint, he 

feathered out the edges and 

scooped up any drips with the dry 

14 


brush he kept in his overall pocket 

for that sole purpose. Then he 

wiped over the gloss finish of the 

wood, cleaning off stray spatters as 

he progressed round the room. 

He’d get this second coat on in a 

couple of hours, but would leave it 

to dry overnight. Many decorators 

thought fingertip dry was sufficient 

and added the next layer as soon as 

possible but he, Magilligan, knew 

better. That kind of short cut 

produced a patchy result as the real 

density of cover only showed when 

it had “gone off”, as his father used 

to say. It could look perfect at first, 

but the flaws soon appeared once 

the thorough drying process was 

finished. 

By the next day, after he’d 

touched up those patches where the 

under-colour was “grinning” 

through, another of his father’s 

expressions, it would be ready for 

the final application. He’d need to 

gloss over the skirting boards once 

more, but then he’d be into the first 

proper bedroom he’d ever had in his 

twenty-eight years. It had a 

washbasin with a mirror over it, and 

a bathroom further down the hall 

was for his sole use. 

March wasn’t the best month for 

decorating as the cold damp 

weather made it hard to leave 

windows open, but he needed to 

sleep within earshot of André. The 

sooner he finished, the quicker he’d 

be able to do that. An alternative 

had been a bed in André’s room, a 

proposal which had not appealed to 

anyone, least of all Alexia. She knew 

her husband needed quiet privacy 

until he was well enough to return 

to a more normal life. Alexia liked to 

sit with André in the cosy library 

and then in his room until as late as 

possible before retiring to her own 

bedroom on the first floor. The 


Magilligan 

Johanna Yacoub

presence of an extra person would have made that 

awkward. 

She’d also listened carefully to the advice of André’s 

doctors. They were united in the opinion that he’d 

recover more quickly in a peaceful and familiar 

environment. For four years, he’d led an 

institutionalised existence. Solitude was the first real 

casualty of war and the hospital, Spartan in its facilities, 

thrust the distress of devastating wounds into his face 

everyday. After his injury, a high level of medication had 

been inescapable. Painkillers remained a necessity, but 

opiate sedatives had been reduced. These powerful 

drugs had eased his initial physical agony and pacified 

the beasts dancing in his mind. Now those 

psychological horrors, exacerbated by morphine’s 

withdrawal symptoms, slipped off their chemical 

shackles and began to torment him with renewed 

ferocity. 

Memories of the battlefield traumatised every 

unguarded moment. The screams of wounded and 

dying soldiers echoed in André’s head. Foul imaginary 

smells plagued his senses, rising even from the food 

placed before him, and his hands trembled in the 

remembered cacophony of shellfire. Phantasmagoria 

filled his room with ghostly faces. Spectres waved from 

dark corners and leapt screeching from the folds of 

curtains. Spurts of flame from the fire in the grate 

became flashes of hallucinatory shell burst, pressing him 

into his pillows in terror. His ears filled with the crump 

of artillery as wind blustered through the gables of the 

old house. Shutters rattled like machine-gun fire and the 

cry of an owl howled with the horrific agony of a 

dismembered man. 

André frequently woke drenched in perspiration, the 

nausea rising in his throat as he clutched his burnt face 

and groaned with the excruciating pain pulsing through 

his absent leg. Magilligan, who was sleeping in the 

corridor on a folding camp bed he’d found in the attic, 

calmed André as none other could. Squatting on a low 

stool by the bed, Magilligan talked to him of races and 

horses, of stallions and bloodlines, all spiced with 

anecdotes of owners and trainers. He talked and talked 

until the phantoms were vanquished by André’s sleep 

of utter exhaustion. ‘Even hellhounds get tired,’ said 

Magilligan to himself as he slipped noiselessly from the 

room until the next sortie of the banshees of battle. 

The attic was a wonderland to Magilligan. Three 

hundred years of one family’s discarded debris lay 

strewn under the beams of the great house. Despatched 

up there by Jeanne in his quest for furniture, he’d 

15 


unearthed a cornucopia of rubbish. Impervious to the 

startled scuttle of mice, or the rustle of nesting birds in 

the eaves, he’d patiently plodded through the spiders’ 

webs and mounds of dusty droppings to disinter an old 

armchair whose stuffing bulged ominously through its 

faded upholstery. Later, he’d chanced upon a 

serviceable chest of drawers with no apparent trace of 

worm, a bed and a wardrobe. He’d had doubts about 

the wardrobe, having nothing to hang in it but, 

reckoning his fortunes were on an upward trajectory, 

decided notwithstanding to bring it down in 

anticipation of his future prosperity. 

Magilligan, of whom life had expected nothing, was 

determined to demonstrate his unacknowledged 

qualities. He’d already rigged up a makeshift bell system 

from his bedroom to André’s room. Cords, plaited out 

of farmyard hemp, were looped along the corridor 

through a series of old curtain rings he’d found in a 

dilapidated trunk. As he’d touched the silk velvet they’d 

once supported, it disintegrated in brittle shreds 

between his fingers but the rings were sound, if a trifle 

rusty. The bell, decorated with smiling cows’ faces 

painted on the white outer enamel and bordered by pink 

and lavender pansies, was a souvenir André’s father had 

brought back from Switzerland. After enthusiastic 

admiration, it had been swiftly banished to attic 

purgatory from whence it now re-emerged, resonant 

with newfound purpose. The arrangement was rough 

and ready, but in these hard times it was the best he’d 

been able to do. Above all, it was fit for the task. 

He laughed to himself as he slapped on the paint. 

‘Me, a gentleman’s gentleman; who’d have ever 

thought it?’ he repeated, pinching himself in his pride 

and good luck. Sad his parents hadn’t lived to see the 

day, he thought, and resolved never to permit their 

demons to flow down his throat. 

‘Not that I don’t mind a little tipple every now and 

then,’ he said, ‘but there’s a time and a place for 

everything.’ 

He dabbed at a corner of the wall to ensure enough 

colour was forced into the crease and continued his 

monologue, ‘and the whisky bottle has no place on the 

breakfast table.’ 

Another expedition to the attic had produced a pair 

of cotton curtains overlooked by the legions of moths 

who’d feasted royally on nearly every other fabric they 

could sink their insect teeth into. By chance, he fell 

upon a couple of threadbare rugs. Clouds of dust 

billowed out of them as he’d staggered sneezing into the 


Magilligan 

Johanna Yacoub

kitchen, his trophies held high above his head. Jeanne 

had screamed, 

‘Get those filthy things out of here... out.. out out,’ 

and shooing him with the broom, had steered him into 

the laundry, where they were first bundled with enough 

naphthalene to eradicate the moth population of 

Champagne. The curtains had washed up quite nicely, 

he thought, and could be hung once the paint was dry. 

He’d had a problem with the rugs. Rolled up for years, 

they were cracked and encrusted with dirt. Magilligan 

rigged up a line between two crossbeams in the stables 

and, slinging the rugs over it, had gone daily to shake 

and beat the grime out of them. 

‘It’s not the dust and mildew,’ he’d complained to 

Jeanne, ‘They’ve been self-composting for years. There’s 

enough muck here to start a flower garden.’ 

‘What are you going to do about the tears and holes,’ 

she’d asked. 

‘Don’t worry.’ Magilligan wasn’t concerned about the 

occasional hole. ‘Isn’t there a saddler in Chalons? He’ll 

have strong thread and those big needles with eyes like 

snaffle rings. I’ve mended harness, so I can mend a rug. 

It won’t look great, but it’ll cover the floor. That’s all I 

need.’ 

Magilligan was excited by the notion of his own 

room. He’d always shared with his brothers or with 

other lads. On his uncle’s farm in Chalons, a boarded-off 

corner of the barn above the horses had been considered 

more than adequate for him, although the family lived in 

comfort in a large house with spare rooms. Washing 

had been at the pump by the kitchen door and his few 

possessions were kept rolled in a canvas cloth. 

‘No, Magilligan,’ he said. ‘This is not a step 

backwards. Finally you’re on your way.’ 

♣ 

Charles saw the doors to his kitchen refuge close in 

his face. His father’s return to Chateau de 

Belsanges opened the house to a stream of visitors for 

the first time since the beginning of the war. A 

disorientated toddler clinging to Jeanne’s skirts was a 

distraction. Too busy to devote time to him as before, 

Jeanne now chased him back to his sisters, where he 

was equally unwelcome. Violette and Inez resented his 

intrusion into their private world of dolls, or jigsaw 

puzzles and skipping competitions. A governess taught 

them at home and the local priest supplemented 

Mademoiselle’s basics with extra mathematics and a 

smattering of Latin. There was even talk of sending 

16 


them to the village school once the war ended. They’d 

grown out of Charles. He was no longer the baby 

brother they wheeled around the garden in his pram, or 

dressed up in their clothes for fun, but an annoying little 

boy who broke their playthings and interrupted their 

secret games. 

His familiar world was crumbling before his puzzled 

eyes. Everyday he grew sulkier and more disconsolate. 

His tantrums increased in frequency and ferocity and, 

to the horror of his mother, he was once again wetting 

the bed. Since that first dreadful encounter with his 

father, he hadn’t dared approach him. Alexia had tried 

to overcome his aversion but her encouragement was 

insufficient to quell his irrational fear whenever he saw 

the wheelchair. A reassuring grip on his hand and 

coaxing words, or promises of special treats, met with 

the same spectacular failure as threats and the 

occasional sharp slap. He’d come close enough to see 

André’s face, then wrench away his hand and run to the 

safety of the nursery. Once inside and with the door 

banged shut behind him, he’d kick his sisters’ toys 

around in a rage he couldn’t explain whenever Jeanne 

asked gently why he was so upset. 

To his deepening distress, Charles saw the girls 

conquer their initial reserve and re-establish their loving 

relationship with their father, a relationship he’d never 

known. His singular position as the only male in the 

household had been usurped by this man who now 

occupied centre-stage in everyone’s attention. The 

arrival of a strange russet-haired person, who seemed to 

be everywhere at once, also relegated him to a lower 

position in the domestic hierarchy. Wherever he turned, 

he was excluded. 

Charles crept along the corridor behind the library. 

His father was resting after lunch and Alexia had left for 

an afternoon of local social calls. Although 

apprehensive, his curiosity egged him on and, lured by 

the smell of fresh paint, he tiptoed to Magilligan’s room. 

The door was open. Charles hesitated on the threshold 

and leaned forward to peek inside. He was afraid to go 

in. The room was empty. There was no sound of 

footsteps pacing up and down, or a body shifting in a 

chair, or snoring from the bed. He took a tentative step 

forward, flattening himself against the side of the door 

to be less visible. At the edge of the door, he stopped 

and quickly looked behind to see if anyone was hiding 

there. Charles often hid behind the door then jumped 

out with a loud ‘boo’ to frighten Violette or Inez. There 

was no one. In the silence of the corridor, an irresistible 


Magilligan 

Johanna Yacoub

force gathered behind him to propel his small form 

through the doorway and into the deserted room. 

A narrow table stood by the bed. Straining on 

tiptoes, he stared up at the wood-framed photograph of 

a man and woman surrounded by children. Rosary 

beads lay to the side of the photograph. A pair of round 

glasses in fine wire frames and a pencil sat neatly aligned 

by a small book. Charles wasn’t tall enough to climb up 

onto the high bedstead without a struggle. Clutching 

at the counterpane and the brass corner rail, he 

managed to drag himself up. His short legs thrashed 

the air until he was perched on the quilted counterpane. 

He scrutinized the room with the intense concentration 

of a child. Apart from the battered chair and the 

wardrobe, its furnishing was meagre and bore no 

resemblance to the family bedrooms on the first floor. 

‘Well, little man. What are you doing in here?’ 

Charles had been so engrossed in his inspection, he 

hadn’t heard Magilligan’s uneven footsteps on the 

limestone flags of the hall. He recoiled in shock, leaped 

to the other side of the bed and tried to jump down. 

Instead, he caught his foot in the bedcover and crashed 

headlong to the floor with a thump. Abandoning his 

earlier attempt to escape, Charles sat on the carpet and 

screamed. He wasn’t hurt, only startled, but over the 

years he’d discovered the best way out of a difficult 

situation was to start crying. Everyone would fuss over 

him, try to silence him and his original misdemeanour 

would be quickly forgotten. 

Magilligan limped round to Charles and said, ‘Now, 

why don’t you get up from there? The floor’s cold. 

There’s nothing wrong with you. Come on up!’ 

This was not the reaction Charles expected. Why 

didn’t Jeanne come rushing in to pacify him? Where was 

Denise, pleading for calm with soothing words? He 

clambered to his feet and stared at Magilligan, who 

stared back. Charles expected more consolation than 

this man was offering. He began to roar with 

frustration, his mouth open so wide, Magilligan could 

see his tonsils. Charles felt two hands around his waist 

as he was lifted back onto the bed and plonked down 

with his legs dangling over the side. The hands 

continued down his torso, felt his arms, prodded his 

legs, checked that all limbs moved in the normal way 

and then chucked him under the chin. 

‘There’s nothing broken, so there’s no need for this 

terrible din. You’ll waken the dead with it. Think of the 

17 


bodies climbing out of their graves and chasing you 

going whoooo...’ 

Magilligan waved his arms around his head like a 

ghost. Charles swallowed, sucked up a monumental 

inhalation of air and gathered every muscle in his body 

to expel another explosion of sound. Magilligan burst 

out laughing and clapped his hands together to 

emphasise how funny he found Charles’s behaviour. 

The shriek died in the back of the boy’s throat with a 

huge hiccup. 

‘That’s better,’ said Magilligan. ‘Your father’s asleep. 

We don’t want to wake him do we?’ 

Charles didn’t know whether he wanted to wake his 

father or not. He stared at Magilligan and sniffed 

loudly. Magilligan produced a handkerchief, pressed it 

to Charles’s nose and ordered, ‘Blow!’ Charles blew, 

sniffed again and wriggled on the bed. Confused, he 

stuck his thumb in his mouth and wondered what to do. 

‘Why don’t we take a little walk?’ asked Magilligan. 

‘It’s a fine day, too nice to be cooped up indoors. What 

do you think?’ 

He stretched out his hand to the boy. Charles eyed it 

suspiciously. 

‘Come on,’ he continued. ‘Let’s get you down from 

there, into a warm coat and out. A big boy like you 

needs to be running about. Let’s be having you.’ 

Before Charles could start another bout of crying, he 

felt himself being lifted from the bed, set down on the 

floor and his hand gripped firmly. Henri marched him 

back along the corridor, across the ground floor of the 

house to the garden door near the kitchen where his 

spare coat always hung. He lifted it from the hook and 

taking Charles’s arm, pushed it into the sleeve, pulled 

on the other sleeve and buttoned up the coat. 

‘Now, we’re protected against the elements,’ stated 

Magilligan, as he opened the door. ‘Out we go, into the 

world. We’ll have an adventure.’ 

Jeanne, who’d heard the commotion, but had chosen 

not to intervene, sneaked a quick look from behind the 

kitchen door and watched man and boy tramp across 

the deserted wintry garden to the woods behind the 

chateau. 

‘Both of them lost children,’ she thought. ‘They 

might do each other good, and if not, they’ll serve each 

other right.’ 

♣ 


Magilligan 

Johanna Yacoub

Magilligan’s Gift 

At the time, I didn’t appreciate 

what Henri did for me. I’d 

never been into the woods, alone or 

otherwise. It was forbidden. Woods 

teemed with savage animals; lions, 

tigers, wolves, even bears, all of 

which ate little boys, or so I was 

told. The truth was less exciting. 

Little boys explore forests with 

their older brothers or with children 

from their neighbourhood. I didn’t 

have an older brother and the 

reserve my mother upheld towards 

local families reduced our everyday 

social life considerably. She couldn’t 

slip into those easy-going 

friendships young mothers take as a 

matter of course. Visits to other 

families with children of my age 

were by written invitation and 

involved my being dressed in my 

best clothes and warned to behave. 

The reciprocal invitations were even 

worse and inevitably ended with me 

and at least one other child in tears, 

my sisters furious, and my being 

banished to the nursery in disgrace. 

To be fair to Maman, a war of 

attrition was in its death throes a 

mere fifty miles from the gates. Halfcrazed 

deserters from both the 

French and the German armies 

were living rough in the dense 

forests of the Champagne, surviving 

by poaching, theft and scavenging. 

The greatest danger however, apart 

from wild boar which rarely 

attacked or the occasional rutting 

stag, was that Champagne is a 

region grounded on chalk. This soil 

composition imparts its unique 

“terroir” and produces the wines for 

which we are famous. It also creates 

a network of cool, natural caves in 

which our glorious nectar is 

matured. The drawback of this 

geological phenomenon is that, at 

certain places, the upper chalk 

strata, thin as a girl’s skin, is held 

together by the root systems of 

trees, the grace of God and not 

much else. Without warning, the 

land can collapse into vast sink holes 

or vanish down the secret tunnels 

carved out by subterranean 

watercourses. Disappearances were 

not unknown and on one occasion, 

after heavy rains, an abyss appeared 

in a local farmer’s yard, swallowing a 

plough and the unfortunate old 

horse hitched to it. I believe they 

recovered the plough but the horse 

was past redemption. Jeanne, 

nervous of the woods to begin with, 

was afraid to explore with me in 

case we stumbled into one of the 

smaller chasms, so my early days 

were restricted to the garden. 

As the trees grew in whispering 

immensity before my eyes, I began 

to lag back, sensing I was stepping 

into an unknown world. 

Magilligan’s hand held me tight and 

I’d no option but to accompany him, 

though he wasn’t dragging me. I 

could have started another tantrum, 

but by then I’d grasped he was 

immune to those, so it wasn’t worth 

the effort. And, deep inside my three 

and three-quarter-year-old heart, I 

wanted to explore with the 

desperation of the born adventurer. 

A high stone wall protected the 

garden, and separated it from the 

estate land. There was a gate, but 

Magilligan steered me towards a 

four-step stile built at the point 

where the forest straggled down in 

closest proximity to the boundary. 

When we reached it, he swung me 

into his arms and, despite his 

disability, trotted up the steps with 

the agility of a mountain goat. Then 

he rolled himself and me over the 

top and down the other side. My 

safe familiar world now lay behind 

those grey stones, and the man I’d 

spent the last two months avoiding 

18 


had hoisted me out of it like a sack 

of pilfered potatoes. 

I’m sure my father must have 

lifted me into his arms as a baby but 

I’ve lost any memory of it. Jeanne 

had long ago stopped doing so. I’d 

grown too heavy. Despite the 

strangeness of the experience, I 

wasn’t anxious. On the contrary, I 

felt comforted and secure, even 

when he set me back down on my 

own two feet. From my low vantage 

point, the turrets of the chateau 

were just visible above the wall but I 

didn’t succumb to a momentary 

urge to run home. I could already 

smell the musty, rotting odour of 

ancient forest freshened by the 

bright green aroma of sprouting 

grass in the surrounding fields. My 

nostrils twitched like a hamster’s as 

the herbal fragrance of ferns rose 

from the mulchy soil to beckon me 

into this woodland paradise. A 

wave of elation swept over me and, 

tearing my hand loose from 

Magilligan’s clasp, I dashed 

headlong up a moss-springy path 

into the shadowy dapple of the 

trees. 

‘Oy, you little ratbag... where do 

you think you’re going?’ 

The voice followed me up the 

path but freedom was so 

exhilarating I didn’t want to stop. I 

felt one hand on my shoulder to 

slow me down as the other hand 

restrained me. 

‘Not so fast. I don’t want to lose 

you in the woods and we’ve all 

afternoon. Now let’s just go a bit 

slower.’ 

I remember I turned and asked 

what I should call him. 

‘Henri,’ he said, as he took my 

hand and led me deeper into the 

coolness of the woods. Pigeons 

gurgled on hidden branches and the 

wind through the treetops rustled 

like taffeta dresses at a ball. A 


Magilligan 

Johanna Yacoub

clattering whirr of wings startled me and I grabbed 

Henri’s trouser leg in alarm. He laughed and, putting 

his hand to his lips in a shushing sign, pointed out the 

white scut of a deer as it leapt silently over tangled 

undergrowth at the side of the path. 

‘Henri,’ I asked. ‘Can we catch something?’ 

‘I don’t think so,’ he laughed, ‘but we can fill our 

pockets with cones and acorns for the fire. And maybe 

we’ll find some pretty pebbles in the stream.’ 

I’ve no idea how far we walked. It seemed miles, but 

I was young and this was my first expedition to the 

outside world. We followed the path and crossed the 

stream on the stepping stones. I was too scared to jump, 

so Henri piggy-backed me over, then found some stones 

with beautiful striations. I use them as paper-weights to 

this day. My pockets were full to bursting. I was 

staggering like an overloaded pack donkey in an oriental 

bazaar. 

‘I think you’ve about had it,’ 

said Henri as he crouched down 

in front of me. Without hesitation, 

I climbed on his bent back, 

hugged my arms round his throat 

and let him carry me home. 

Whether it was exhaustion or his 

strange side-to-side roll, I fell 

asleep and didn’t wake until we 

were crunching up the gravel of 

the main drive to the chateau. 

There was a welcome party, or 

rather, an unwelcoming party, as 

my over-protective mother, 

Jeanne, Denise and other members of the house-staff 

were pacing the cobblestones of the courtyard. They 

were all frantic with worry. 

‘Where have you been?’ shouted Jeanne as Henri set 

me down. 

Before he could answer, I rushed to my mother to 

show her my stones and exclaimed, ‘Look what I’ve got.’ 

In my hurry to extract the treasures from my pocket, I 

dropped one of the stones into a puddle. The water 

splashed against my mother’s leg, but in my eagerness, 

I didn’t notice. 

‘And I found pine cones and saw a deer.’ 

I stopped babbling and looked at Maman’s face, as 

she wiped the splashes from her stockings. I shrank 

back, biting my lip. She was angry. Foraging in the 

forests with the likes of Henri was not her idea of 

suitable amusement for her only son. Her face became 

He laughed and, putting his 

hand to his lips in a 

shushing sign, pointed out 

the white scut of a deer as 

it leapt silently over tangled 

undergrowth at the side of 

the path. 

19 


cold as the stones I was offering her. She turned to 

Jeanne and said, 

‘Take the boy in. I wish to speak to Magilligan.’ 

As Jeanne moved towards me, I shrank back to 

Henri, my spurned stones clutched to my chest as tears 

pricked the back of my eyes. It had been the most 

wonderful afternoon of my life. In my distress, I didn’t 

hear the squeak of wheels as the chair approached. 

‘Let me see them,’ said the voice. ‘Are they like the 

stones in my study? I found mine in the same stream.’ 

Without thinking, I went to the chair and laid them 

in my father’s lap. His scarred hands picked them up 

and held them high against the light. Their metallic 

layers glistened like jewels in the late afternoon sun. 

‘They’re lovely,’ he said. 

I was still too shy to look him in the face but my 

horror of the wheelchair had been conquered. I was 

touching it. 

‘Jeanne,’ he asked, ‘didn’t you 

make an apple tart this afternoon? 

I think we’ll have some. Charles 

would love that, wouldn’t you? 

And I can show him my stones.’ 

I looked at him and nodded. 

Close to, he wasn’t frightening, 

despite the patch over his lost left 

eye. The other eye, as blue as 

mine, regarded me with kindness. 

Magilligan grasped the 

wheelchair and propelled my 

father back into the house. I 

followed. My mother and the 

other women were left standing on the cobbles, and not 

quite sure what to do. Papa turned his head and yelled 

at my mother, 

‘Come on, Alexia... don’t you want cake? And bring 

the girls down. We’ll all have it together.’ 

My mother jumped as if an electric current had been 

passed through her and hurried after us into the house. 

Henri positioned Papa in front of the fire in the library 

and tactfully withdrew, leaving us together. A rattle of 

footsteps and the chatter of high, girlish voices 

announced the arrival of my sisters. 

‘André,’ my mother began, ‘don’t you think it’s better 

for the children to take their cake in the nursery? They’ll 

only make a mess here and I don’t want them to get used 

to coming into these rooms. I’ll call Jeanne and...’ 

‘No you won’t,’ interrupted my father. ‘This is their 

house until they grow up and marry someone who has 

a house for them to go to. One day it will all come to 


Magilligan 

Johanna Yacoub

Charles so the sooner my children 

get used to the rooms the better. 

Anyway, I want to show them my 

stones.’ 

Maman became silent. Papa 

wheeled himself to his bureau, a 

great, roll-topped oak monstrosity 

with glass fronted bookshelves 

towering above it, and pulled open a 

drawer. I couldn’t contain my 

curiosity and followed him, all fear 

or revulsion I’d once felt for his 

disfigurement now forgotten in the 

joy of discovery. It was full of stones; 

geodes, fossils, rocks and splinters 

of quartz which flashed diamondbright 

in the flicker of the oil lamp. I 

gazed at this magic trove of geology 

and began to take them out one by 

one, passing them to my sisters once 

I’d pored over their every detail. I 

was too young to know what a fossil 

was. I hadn’t even started school, 

but their colours and textures 

fascinated me from the first time I 

saw them. 

There was a soft tap at the door. 

Magilligan entered with my father’s 

reading glasses and, before leaving, 

turned to my mother. 

‘Madame la Marquise,’ he began 

nervously. ‘If I had the boy out too 

long, I apologise. I won’t do it 

again.’ 

Before my mother had a chance 

to respond, my father cut in with, 

‘Rubbish, Henri. You’ve nothing 

to apologise about. It’s what the boy 

needs, so you will do it again and 

20 


when I’m well enough, I’ll do it with 

you.’ 

Magilligan was surprised and 

looked at my mother, who looked at 

the floor. 

‘Very well, Sir. Will that be all for 

the moment?’ 

‘I’ll ring when I need you.’ 

As he left, I observed my 

mother’s tense face and made a 

child’s vow always to look after 

Henri Magilligan. He had broken 

down the barrier between my father 

and myself. Papa was right on 

another issue. I’d spent too much 

time with women who spoiled and 

cosseted me. It was time to be a boy. 

Otherwise, I’d never be a man. 


Magilligan 

Johanna Yacoub

Canal 

by Kate Simants 

He wasn’t a stranger, of course. 

She’d seen him many times 

before, along that algae-lined 

stretch of the Great Western Canal, 

Tuesday afternoons and Thursday 

evenings, canoeing with the 

children. She looked forward to it, 

watching from her kitchen table, 

through the smudged windows, 

down to where they passed the end 

of her garden as it collapsed slowly, 

year by year, into the water. 

Pauly kept her glasses near her 

on the canoeing days. Often, the 

little plastic flotilla would appear 

and shoot off westwards before she 

had a chance to search through the 

faces in the dripping melee, and she 

would slowly shuffle down towards 

the canal, waiting for their return 

leg. With a wheelbarrow and a sheet 

of old fibreboard leaned up against 

it, the apple tree she had claimed 

from a dead neighbour’s garden 

twenty years ago was enough to 

hide behind. When she saw the 

ripples on the water get jumpier, she 

would peer around and check the 

familiar faces of the children. Then 

she would watch him. His muscular 

neck, his bright teeth. The children 

obeying, earnest and regimental, the 

shouted instructions that she could 

not hear. 

It had been years since Pauly had 

bothered with a hearing aid. As far 

back as her sixties she’d found the 

effort of straining was rarely 

worthwhile. It was easier, more 

dignified to stop trying, she found. 

So she receded into a quiet world 

where her other senses 

compensated, doing what they 

could to hear for her. With good 

eyesight and the use of her hands, it 

wasn’t necessary to be told that 

something was too hot to eat. If 

something was on fire, she would 

smell burning, or perish: the 

batteries for the alarm had long 

since been removed. If the doorbell 

rang, the dog would jump around. 

But visitors were rare – the closest 

neighbour was the Post Office on 

the edge of the village. 

Without her hearing she could 

read the general emotions of her 

grandchildren when they smashed 

into and around her home. What 

was detail? A sisterly feud, a ruined 

ice-cream, a scraped elbow – the 

tears would be the same, the 

comfort easy enough to dole out, 

and the drama resolved in roughly 

the same time. People weren’t so 

complicated as they imagined. 

Words were of little importance. 

Since sealing herself off aurally 

from the world, Pauly had learned 

to compartmentalise. An open beak 

signified a song, but probably one 

she had heard before. A relative 

with a hand on a hip, a sincere 

expression – these meant Pauly had 

done something wrong, something 

that concerned them, something 

dangerous. They’d want her to start 

or stop doing something, eat more, 

work less, stop smoking, move 

somewhere less isolated, ask for 

help with things. But why worry 

which? She too old to start 

appeasing them now. 

She had all she needed. 

Everything important was silent. 

Her books. The daffodils. The 

passing canoeists. 

One Thursday, Pauly missed the 

group’s westward journey. She 

waited behind the apple tree, 

cramped but concealed, hoping to 

catch them returning. 

The ripples came later than 

usual. She edged out, peering 

between branches. The teacher’s 

bow came into view first, paring 

21 


through the bubbly scum. But the 

peak of the slow, chunky boat was 

slightly raised, as if cantilevered 

above the water by a weight at the 

aft end. Maybe he was reclining; she 

had seen him do it, effortless, 

confident. Pauly held her breath. 

He slid past the branches and 

into her view. His black hair was 

slicked, clumps of it stuck to his 

face. His pale skin, even from yards 

away, appeared blotchy and 

translucent, its smooth surface 

puckered by a frown. He held the 

dripping oar across his legs with 

one hand, as if using it to balance. 

He held his other arm out behind 

him. 

He wouldn’t have seen Pauly if 

she hadn’t cried out. 

On the back of the craft, held in 

place at the feet by a rope, was a 

child. The pink t-shirt and shorts 

damply clinging to the limp body 

indicated to Pauly that the drowned 

infant was a girl. She was positioned 

face down, the teacher’s hand 

holding the little head against the 

fibreglass. Her fingers dragged in 

the canal, the water bunching in 

front of them, then splitting into a 

triangular wake behind. Pauly 

recognised a cheap, treasured 

charm bracelet on the girl’s left 

wrist. 

She covered her mouth, but the 

sound escaped. The teacher 

jumped, expertly dug the oar into 

the water, coming to an immediate 

halt. Pauly flattened herself against 

the tree, her aging hands pressed 

against her open jaw. She clenched 

her eyelids shut. 

She waited. 

* 

After their third cup of tea, the 

police left her in peace. It was 


touching of them to have brought along the interpreter 

– a Special Constable, no less – who, though not deaf, 

knew British Sign Language. The two detectives 

looked pleased with themselves for this show of 

consideration. But as the young woman flapped and 

gestured her way through the interview, her wide 

cheeks and chubby forearms reddening with exertion 

and embarrassment, it became obvious that it was 

useless. Pauly understood not a word. 

The younger of the detectives began to write 

questions out instead, in big half-witted capitals on 

Pauly’s best writing paper. She waved the sheets away 

and pointed sadly to her eyes, and 

shifted in her seat to cover the 

glasses-case with her hip, praying 

they wouldn’t notice. 

She could lip-read a little, but 

she already knew the purpose of 

their visit. She had seen the 

newspaper, even seen the police 

boat going up and down a few 

days after Emmy had drowned. 

Been drowned. 

She had nothing to tell them. 

She didn’t take their pen, she kept 

silent, shaking her head and 

shrugging in apology. Her blueish 

fingers touching her ears, her 

eyelids. 

- No. 

- Can’t hear a thing. 

- I’m blind, too. 

- I can’t read your questions. 

- I didn’t see anything. 

- I’m sorry. 

* 

Past the blackcurrants, where the lip of two-by-four 

marked the end of the lawn and the start of the 

water, Pauly untied her shoelaces. Squinting briefly 

about her, she lifted the hem of her polyester dress and 

drew her tights down, slowly, to halfway down her 

thighs. She crouched and rocked carefully backwards, 

and wriggled free, shedding them like snakeskin. 

Edging forward, she rested her feet on the water, barely 

touching, watching the meniscus lift around her tender, 

hardened soles. 

Opening her eyes, her irises still readjusting, she saw 

him on the south side of the water. He was motionless 

He paddled towards her, 

diagonally across the water, 

not taking his eyes from her 

face. 

With each plunge of the 

oar, another detail pulled 

into focus: the hair peeking 

over his t-shirt at his throat. 

The wedding band, lit by 

the low sun when he raised 

his right arm. The serene 

smile, pulled slightly to the 

left, the lips closed 

22 


in his canoe. Arms crossed. A perfect silhouette against 

the late autumn sunset. 

Pauly rose to her feet, disguising the struggle as best 

she could. She saw him raise his oar, and took a step 

back. She felt in her pocket for her secateurs. 

He paddled towards her, diagonally across the 

water, not taking his eyes from her face. She gripped the 

grass with her toes, and didn’t move. With each plunge 

of the oar, another detail pulled into focus: the hair 

peeking over his t-shirt at his throat. The wedding 

band, lit by the low sun when he raised his right arm. 

The serene smile, pulled slightly to the left, the lips 

closed. 

The coil of rope, stuck with 

thick black tape to the upper 

surface of the back of the scuffed 

vessel. 

He lay the oar across the boat, 

the fulcrum on his lap, and dipped 

the ends briefly port, then briefly 

starboard, until he came to a stop. 

He maybe ten feet from the 

battered planks that held Pauly’s 

garden in. Taking hold of the sides 

of the cavity he pushed himself up, 

shifted backwards, slipped into the 

water, and disappeared. 

Pauly gasped. She leaned 

forward, scanning the surface of 

the water for him, but could see 

nothing past the ellipses of orange 

light, reflected from the sky and 

fractured over hundreds of little 

swells in the surface of the water. 

He emerged, his chest and 

abdomen springing up from the 

riverbed, shooting upwards. He 

shook his hair. Lifting a palm, he 

gestured to her to join him. 

Pauly glanced at the empty canoe. It rocked 

rhythmically, the rope slipping slightly from side to side. 

The teacher waved his arms above his head for her 

attention, and made a beseeching face. He beckoned 

again. Pauly approached the water. 

Her knees cracked as she lowered herself into a 

crouch, then crack again as she stretched her bare legs 

in front of her. She was cold, but her skin felt loose on 

her bones. Her blood thudded in her temples. 


Canal 

Kate Simants

The teacher wrapped his fingers 

around her ankle. He pointed to his 

mouth, and spoke, mouthing the 

words carefully. 

- You know 

Pauly fixed his eyes with hers, 

seeing his lips at the periphery of her 

vision. 

- I do 

He began to pull. She kicked at 

his shoulder. He took her free foot, 

and with a firm tug brought her 

down, into the canal. 

The water parted and closed 

over Pauly’s head. His fingers 

pushed down on her crown, holding 

her hair. She felt something – a foot? 

a knee? press into the small of her 

back, and pin her against the side of 

the canal. Her white hair floated 

darkly around her. Her mouth, 

opening to scream, filled with 

water, tasting metallic, leafy. She 

felt the canal moving violently 

around her. 

She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers 

locked around the secateurs, she 

pushed the safety lock open with her 

thumb. The heavy blades sprang 

open. She thrust them upwards and 

outwards, her weak arms aided by 

weightlessness, until they met their 

target. The hand in her hair 

convulsed, released, then pounded 

at the side of her head. She 

squeezed the steel handles together 

into his ribs. It wasn’t easy, like 

cutting through a chicken’s wing: it 

took all of her strength to close the 

sharp edges together. The hard 

outer exterior of the bones 

splintered and crushed against the 

softer core. She felt a last crunch at 

the final effort. She withdrew, and 

thrust again, snipped, thrust, 

snipped. She opened her mouth 

again on reflex, her lungs frantic for 

air. She tasted blood as the water 

flooded in. 

He clutched her shoulder, 

forcing his weight down on her. 

They were both fully submerged, 

and twisting around to face him she 

saw his eyes open wide. She forced 

the thinner top blade into his left 

cheek and then upwards, the eye 

offering little resistance as the steel 

dug in. She tried to force the blades 

shut but the upper orbit was too 

thick to split. She twisted the 

secateurs in the hole. The hand on 

her shoulder slackened. She kicked 

to the surface, and filled the vacuum 

in her chest with air. 

* 

Turning the corner into the culde-sac, 

a shapeless, boredlooking 

woman of twenty struggles 

to disengage her seatbelt from the 

socket. She curses as a corner of her 

white tunic tears in the mechanism. 

Next to her is a man, the driver. The 

minibus is half-full of elderly women 

on their trip into town. The girl 

speaks in a broad West Country 

accent. 

‘Awful, ‘bout Pauline. Saw her at 

the funeral. Her littlest grandkid, 

that one was.’ 

‘Ar,’ says the driver, nodding. 

‘Nothing to be done now 

though.’ 

‘Nar.’ 

The minibus pulls up outside 

Pauly’s bungalow. In her buttondown 

mackintosh and waterproof 

rain-hood, she waits calmly on her 

step, peering out into the drizzle. 

The girl gets out, opens an umbrella 

and hurries towards her. She shields 

Pauly from the rain, walks her back 

to the bus. 

‘Just going to the cemetery today, 

Pauline,’ the girl says, loudly. 

Pauly watches her own feet slap 

soundless against the glossy black 

23 


tarmac. The girl slides the side door 

of the van open. 

‘Only time to tend the roses. In 

and out. Alright?’ 

Pauly doesn’t answer. Without 

acknowledging the others, she 

settles into her seat, facing forward. 

She rests her gardening bag on her 

lap, and folds her hands over it. 

Through the rough Hessian she 

feels the little plastic bottle of 

insecticide, the Brasso for the 

plaque, and the heavy, solid handles 

of the secateurs. 


Canal 

Kate Simants

Chicken Jack 

by Perry Bhandal 

Chicken Jack eased his 

Mercedes into the slow 

moving traffic, keeping an eye on 

the family estate in the rear view 

mirror that slipped in a couple of 

cars behind. He’d spotted the car 

even before the sergeant had 

mentioned it. Fuck did he think he 

was pointing out the obvious. Shit! 

The day he needed a fat fuck like 

that to point out when he was being 

watched, he may as well turn hisself 

over to the cops. Chicken Jack 

smiled at the thought of the number 

of people that would suddenly 

become very uncomfortable if he 

ever found religion and started 

walking the path of repentance and 

confession, and along with all the 

associated statement-making and 

paperwork that entailed. He 

imagined the great cloud of flatus 

that would accompany the 

collective bowel bowel-emptying 

across the country and up and down 

Europe. There was just one reason 

why the Chickster remained at the 

top of his game when many around 

him had fallen and been buried by 

the wayside, stripped away like the 

layers of a meteorite in perpetual 

fiery freefall, abraded away by 

laziness, stupidity and good oldfashioned 

greed. 

That reason was Insurance. 

Chicken Jack’s fondness for 

insurance was so great that had the 

brokers at Lloyds of London known 

of it, their trading floor would be 

awash with semen. 

It was a shame that it wasn’t that 

kind of insurance. He kind of would 

have liked to have seen that. 

The revelation had come to him 

when he was bent over, face down 

in a pillow and feeling his nine year 

old sphincter being stretched to 

tearing point by his sixteen stone 

social worker. 

Life up until that point had been 

fairly shitty to old Chicken 

Jack, then known as Pierre 

Lumbord. He’d grown up in the 

parts of Paris that most tourists 

didn’t see, t. Those that did 

normally didn’t come back to Paris, 

or France for that matter. 

Every city had a shitty part, just 

like every body had an asshole. 

Chicken loved making comparisons 

to the human body, especially cities. 

There was the face, good-looking, 

that everyone saw when they were 

being encouraged to come to their 

city and spend their cash. There was 

the pussy, the places you could go to 

get laid, there was the brain, 

government and business, there 

were the roads and railways, arteries 

and nerves, and there was the 

asshole. Sometimes there were was 

more than a single asshole, but 

Chicken’s metaphors didn’t stretch 

to explaining rare congenital 

disorders. 

Pierre Lumbord had been born 

and brought up in the north of 

Paris, right bang smack in the 

middle of the asshole. His mother 

Janine was young when she had him 

and was already an addict, pimped 

out by the local hoodlum, Franco 

who had shot his father dead as he 

handed over the contents of the 

grocery store’s till, simply because 

he didn’t like his face. Janine lived 

with a couple of the hoodlums’ other 

girls in a two bedroom apartment, 

sleeping in one bedroom and 

turning tricks for 50 euros a shot in 

the other. Pierre grew used to the 

rhythmic pumping in the room next 

door, comforted by it as luckier 

babies were by the rhythmic rocking 

of the their cots. 

24 


Even the occasional scream 

failed to disturb the toddler as he 

slept in his filthy cot. Sweaty and 

sticky fingers eased Pierre from his 

cot as each of the three took in turns 

to feed the little boy his badly mixed 

little bottle of milk formula, cooing 

to him as he gulped at the grimy 

rubber teat. Miraculously, Pierre 

Lumbord never became ill, was 

never sick, no matter how badly 

mixed his powdered milk was or 

infrequently he was fed. He never 

had any jabs or any checkups. 

He sometimes went days 

without being washed, yet no sore 

developed. He never cried and 

when he was picked up he would 

give a great toothless smile. Had 

Pierre become sick even once, he 

would have died; that much would 

have been obvious to any of the 

three women had anything been 

able to penetrate the drug and 

alcohol-induced fog that they 

roamed in. But he didn’t and his life 

went on; life as decay, a slow 

ruinous onslaught by ambient 

bacteria that was eating away at the 

flesh within those soiled walls, held 

at bay by briefly glimpsed moments 

of joy, a tinkle of laughter, a kiss, a 

hug, a giggle, each emanating from 

the tiny form of Pierre. Like a tiny 

wriggling maggot, little Pierre 

nibbled away at the sickness and 

decay that surrounded him, keeping 

the infected alive. 

Pierre took his first steps alone 

and tottered across sticky bedroom 

carpet and stood at the door of to 

watch the two shapes writhe and 

contort on the bed. When his 

mother finally saw him, her face wet 

with sweat and saliva, and her 

mouth open as wide it could go so 

as to accommodate the large pink 

prick, he smiled his toothless smile 

and held out his arms to her. 


Pierre giggled as his mother’s eyes widened in shock 

and she snatched her cupped hand away from the man’s 

balls and pushed with the other, his prick jumping free 

of her mouth and hanging heavily in mid air, a corpulent 

turgid horizontal exclamation, slick with her spit. 

He laughed and tried to run away from his mother’s 

outstretched arms as she lunged to pick him up. Now 

that he was on two legs, instead of four, he put the extra 

speed he had at his disposal to good use and tottered 

round the door frame as his mother sprawled at the 

empty space where he stood a moment ago. Pierre 

staggered along the hall towards the stairs, behind him 

he could hear a deep shouting. Pierre liked the sound 

of the words in the air and tried them out. ‘Fukin bich, 

fukin bich, fukin 

bich’, he repeated in 

his imp-like voice as 

he wobbled along 

the landing. 

Behind him he 

heard his mother 

scream his name. 

He doubled his 

efforts, swinging 

his arms. Whatever 

it was, he liked this 

game; he hoped 

there would be 

more now that he 

was on two legs. 

The deep words 

in the air changed. 

Pierre liked the 

sound of these too. 

The top step loomed and little Pierre chortling, ‘Blak 

Bich, Blak Bich’, stepped off the end and fell. 

Something clamped onto his ankle and he fell heavily 

against the wooden steps. For the first time in a long 

time Pierre started crying. His mother pulled him to her 

and held him, cooing and rocking, rubbing his side 

where he fell against the stairs. 

Slowly his crying subsided and all that was left was 

the occasional ‘Blak bich, blak bich’ as he fell asleep in 

her arms. 

What it was that had penetrated Janine’s stupor that 

afternoon she did not know. She did not have the 

mental tools with which to analyse and dissect the 

reasons why one minute she was so and the next minute 

she was different. She had no idea what it was that 

changed inside her and how it had been triggered, but 

25 


something that had been screaming silently inside her 

had suddenly found a voice, like a shipwrecked sailor 

marooned on a desert island, screaming at ships on the 

horizon, and suddenly being heard. 

Janine didn’t even notice the man leave, didn’t care 

that he had not paid. She picked herself up and 

collected the few possessions she had from her room. 

Keeping Pierre with her she went into the filthy toilet 

and lifted the lid of the cistern. She pulled at the thin 

string that was tied to the float and drew out a small 

black plastic bag. Pulling aside the waterproof zipper 

she checked the money was still there. She knew by 

taking it that she was signing her own death warrant. 

This was Franco’s stash, one of many, that he kept 

dotted around 

town. She only 

knew about this 

one, drawn to it 

after hearing 

unusual clinking 

and scrapings that 

were very unlike his 

normal noisy 

exertions whenever 

he availed himself 

of their bathroom. 

One thing about 

Franco, you always 

knew when he was 

taking a dump. 

When she was 

sure he had gone 

she had searched 

the toilet top to 

bottom, gagging at the thick stench in the air that 

filmed her nose and mouth and threatened to bring up 

her meagre breakfast. Swallowing down the thick 

phlegm that had built up in her throat, she finally found 

the waterproof bag stuffed full of euros. She replaced it 

as she found it. At that point she was had been too 

scared of what Franco would do to her to consider 

taking it. But not now. 

Janine left with Pierre, flagged a taxi to the train 

station. She picked a station at random, not daring to 

return to her hometown, as that would be the first place 

Franco would look for her. 

Franco returned later that afternoon. He found the 

open cistern and the missing money bag. Janine wished 

she could have warned the other two girls that had 

shared the flat with her, but she could not have risked it. 


Chicken Jack 

Perry Bhandal

She hoped that they would be 

spared the inevitable spasm of 

violence that would spout forth 

from Franco like the gushing of a 

freshly severed artery. 

For the next few years, life 

changed for Pierre Lumbord 

and his mother Janine. His name 

was Pierre Laforge and his mother 

was Jeanette Laforge. The town of 

Toulouse was large enough for two 

new arrivals to join it anonymously, 

but was still small enough to have 

the communities that made the 

difference between a building and a 

home. Keen to conserve as much of 

the money as possible but, equally 

careful to avoid the worst parts of 

town, Jeanette settled on a small 

community mostly populated with 

first generation Indians and 

Pakistanis. She liked the smells 

from the shops and the friendly 

people who greeted her in broken 

and funny accented French. That 

she was different from them was no 

problem. She was black, however 

her skin was light; unlike Pierre who 

had taken after his father, a deep 

dark brown. Jeanette settled in a 

small block of apartments, the 

tenants were all poor but proud and 

the place was scrupulously clean. 

Many of the tenants had small 

children too and soon Jeanette was 

able to go out to work, happy to 

leave her little Pierre with Manjit, 

her kindly next door neighbour. 

Pierre was a quiet withdrawn 

boy. Too quiet. Jeanette worried 

about him a lot. She had put him in 

a local nursery, however, after a few 

days it became clear that he wasn’t 

settling in and getting on with the 

other children. Then there was the 

incident with the two boys and a 

girl. Jeanette still refused to believe 

what he had supposedly done. 

Anyway she had had to take him out 

of the nursery and now Manjit 

looked after him during the day. 

School was a year off so she didn’t 

have to worry about it yet, but all the 

same it was going to be difficult to 

get him a place anywhere that was 

local. The fact that the little girl had 

still not returned to classes was still 

fresh in everybody’s mind and would 

continue to be until she was allowed 

to return. Jeanette had seen the 

child and had always thought her to 

be overly sensitive and there were a 

lot of people that saw it the same as 

her. She shuddered involuntarily 

and pushed the thoughts from her 

mind. She shouldn’t dwell on the 

negative; after all she had so much 

to be thankful for. 

Jeanette worked at a local 

Pakistani Cafe as a washer-upper in 

the kitchen, then as a waitress and 

as the years wore on and she became 

a trusted member of the family, the 

manageress. 

For a time life was good. It was 

hard work, but it was honest work, 

and she was amongst people that 

she cared about and that cared for 

her and her son. 

The Pakistani and Indian 

community thrived along with the 

Italians and native French, and 

much was made of the success of 

this town in France which, against 

the odds and Jean Marie Le Pen’s 

National Party’s exhortations, had 

‘integrated’. To the extent that the 

Prime Minister himself visited, to 

congratulate the town and their 

folk. Much was at stake in this 

community, for there were many 

detractors that sought to overthrow 

the convivial relations that they had 

enjoyed for many years. The 

incessant nibbling at the edges of 

their community by the Nationalists 

had threatened to overturn all their 

hard work. Ceaseless vigilance had 

26 


prevailed. The elder representatives 

of each community remained in 

continual dialogue. Their doors 

remained open to each other, 

regardless of the reckless and fickle 

deeds of the youngest amongst 

them. That way many an incident 

that could have been fanned quickly 

out of control by the racists 

withered and died, starved of the 

oxygen of hatred, as the community 

closed its ranks. 

The informal structure that had 

been employed to such success here 

had been written about much 

within the newspapers and been the 

subject of scholarly works also. The 

French government wanted to use 

it those for places where the melting 

pot had boiled over. 

In a country where the 

nationalistic opposition ran out of 

fingers when counting out 

illustrative examples of the great 

integration experiment gone wrong, 

this was the one the government 

needed to combat the growing 

feeling of resentment within their 

borders. Perhaps they would even 

be given an opportunity to look 

down on their brothers across the 

Channel, instead of wringing their 

hands and looking at their collective 

feet. 

The choice of the face of this 

community was so important that 

the Prime Minister’s aides were 

dispatched to find their poster boys 

and girls. Their search ended when 

they walked into the Pakistani 

restaurant and saw the light skinned 

negro manageress discussing the 

layout for a wedding party with the 

Pakistani owner, and the white 

head waiter. The little black boy 

playing with the small light-skinned 

Pakistani girl was enough to make 

the slim, conservatively-dressed civil 

servant shudder in anticipation. 


Chicken Jack 

Perry Bhandal

This was as close to an orgasm as she would get for a 

few years yet. 

The negotiations were short, the promise of the 

Premier’s visit and national television coverage for his 

restaurant more than made up for the inconvenience of 

having secret service men closing it down for the week 

prior to his arrival. 

On the big day everything went without a hitch. 

Jeanette was introduced to the dashing Prime Minister 

and his beautiful wife. Jeanette had expected her to be 

a stuck-up snob, especially if what she had seen of her 

on TV as anything to go by, but she was charming and 

certainly seemed to be taken by her little Pierre. Jeanette 

smiled at the woman, liking her despite herself and 

wondering what she would have made of her had she 

seen her son with his hands outstretched to her as she 

sucked off a fat man for 50 euros. Mentally she shook 

the image away. Damn, why was it that her mind 

insisted on reminding her of her past, and always with 

an image the depravity of which was directly 

proportional to the joy she felt at that point? ‘To keep 

you grounded, my dear, to ensure you appreciate what 

you have got’, the good fairy whispered in her ear, 

drowning out the voice of the bad one on the other, 

‘...because you’re a dirty whore...’ 

They all sat at a large table filled with food as the 

newsmen and reporters quizzed the Premier and his 

guests. Once the newsmen had gone, Jeanette & Pierre 

Laforge had lunch with the Prime Minister of France. 

Across the country, a flickering TV faithfully 

reproduced the live images from the cameras in the 

restaurant on the retina of the man sitting at the bar. 

His eyes widened as he took in the coffee-coloured 

woman that stood next to the Prime Minister. Then he 

smiled, showing small yellow nicotine-stained teeth that 

looked like little daggers. 

Jeanette pulled the blanket over the sleeping form of 

her son. Both were exhausted after this very special day. 

Jeanette flopped into the armchair and closed her eyes. 

She looked back on the day’s events and couldn’t quite 

believe it. She opened her eyes and looked around the 

small threadbare apartment which she had shared with 

her son for the last three years: the dark green two seater 

sofa that she and Pierre and her enjoyed cuddling up on 

during the cold dark winter evenings to watch the small 

black and white television that had a remarkably clear 

picture; the little dining table set against the window 

that they sat at for meals and homework that looked out 

27 

over the communal courtyard that they sat at for meals 

and homework. She remembered the tutting, turbaned, 

bespectacled form of Khansa, Manjit’s husband, as he 

went about the apartment at Manjit’s insistence. He 

tapped and pulled, inspected and noted in his little blue 

notebook, as he stroked the triangular orange beard 

that give him a piratical appearance, albeit a very cuddly 

and kind one. For the next three weekends he left his 

turban at home, preferring instead a handkerchief over 

his topknot, as he went through the apartment fixing 

and mending. When she had tried to pay him he had 

raised his hands up in horror and refused any money. 

Jeanette told Ali, her Pakistani boss, and he smiled 

knowingly and provided her with the means of thanking 

them for their kindness. 

Jeanette threw a dinner party for Manjit Khansa and 

their children. It was a wonderful night filled with 

laughter. The children all decided they wanted to stay at 

Jeanette’s but there was no room, they all pointed to the 

bare floor but Jeanette would not have it, it was too 

hard. It was then that Khansa brought in the red, 

intricately flowered rug and lay it in the middle of the 

room. It had come all the way from India. She 

remembered the smell of it first as alien as the odours 

that had met her when she first arrived in this block. 

Alien no more, for these were the smells of home. 

Jeanette looked up at the clock that sat on top of the 

television. It was late and the restaurant would re-open 

tomorrow and she needed to be there early. 

With a deep sigh and to the sound of creaking joints 

she pushed herself off the armchair and went into the 

bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. She 


The Snail (after Matisse) 


Orange the frame, 

Sunset path glistening to the sea, 

Blue the sky the sun thrives on. 

Green the grass where the snail sits, 

Yellow the slimy trail. 

Pink the candyfloss beach 

With a rich blue sea and green seaweed. 

Black, when colour is seen no more 

And light has gone. 

Mark Woollard 


Chicken Jack 

Perry Bhandal

ditched her clothes in the laundry 

basket, wrapped the white 

towelling gown around her, tied the 

belt at the front and walked back 

into the living room, her nose 

wrinkling at the faint smell of 

something rotten. 

A hand clasped itself over her 

mouth, killing her scream. 

In the middle of the room, both 

hands held behind his back and 

with a big smile on his face stood 

Franco. 

‘Hello, Janine.’ 

The scream died in her throat, 

the chemical-soaked rag clamped 

across absorbed it along with her 

consciousness. 

Janine came round with a jerk, her 

head snapping back involuntarily 

trying to put as much distance as 

possible from the unbearable 

ammonium smelling salts under her 

nose. That was all she was able to 

move though, the rest of her was 

bound to her armchair. She sucked 

in air through her nose, her mouth 

unavailable as she was gagged. 

Through blurry eyes she saw 

Franco put the smelling salts back 

in his pocket and settle back on the 

sofa opposite her. Beside him her 

little Pierre, also bound and gagged. 

Her heart twisted in her chest and 

for a moment she felt as if she was 

going to throw up. She fought the 

nausea down with the unbearable 

sadness that cracked her heart; she 

had failed him, her little baby. She 

looked into his little eyes, wide, like 

a rabbit’s, full of fear. A stream of 

tears fell from her face and even the 

gag was not enough to stifle a 

wretched moan of despair. 

A slight movement caught her 

eye and she saw that there was 

someone else in the room. Her eyes 

widened as she took him in. 

He was all wrong, he had all the 

things that made a man in the right 

places, but he looked wrong all the 

same, like a man with too many 

joints. 

The cut of his tailored black suit 

was expensive, his shoes were brand 

new and spit-polished shiny, his 

crisp white shirt, although buttoned 

up to the neck, still left enough of a 

gap for Janine’s hand, he was so 

skinny. He looked like a dead man 

dressed up for a wake, the pallor of 

his skin, the bloodless lips, the 

wasted frame. Only this one was 

walking, a walking cadaver. His 

receding hair was slicked back and 

she could make out pitted and 

scarred skin visible between the 

greasy strands. But it was his eyes 

that would have made her scream 

out loud had she not been gagged. 

The pupils were impossibly small, 

almost black dots against the 

bloodshot eyeball. 

Other objects resolved 

themselves around the room, a 

camera on a tripod and a large white 

light on a stand, like those found in 

television studios. 

On her dining table, the table 

that she shared with her little boy 

was an open case; there were things 

in the case, they were all shiny and 

sharp. Janine jerked her gaze at 

Franco and mumbled urgently 

behind her gag. 

Franco looked over to the other 

man. He considered for a moment 

and then nodded his head slightly as 

if giving permission. 

Franco got up and walked over 

to her. He bent down and 

whispered in her ear. 

‘You make a sound and that little 

nigger is dead, you unnerstan’ me?’ 

Janine nodded quickly. 

Franco removed the gag. Behind 

him the man folded his stick-like 

arms and perched himself on the 

28 


edge of the table. His glittering eyes 

seemed to suck the light from the 

room. 

Janine coughed clearing her 

throat. When she spoke it was with 

a trembling high pitched voice. 

‘Franco, please don’t do this...’ 

she pleaded. ‘Look, I’ll come back, 

I’ll start working again, make all the 

money back that I took from you. 

Please don’t hurt him...’. The words 

tumbled desperately from her 

mouth, dashing meaninglessly over 

Franco’s ears. Even as she spoke 

them, she knew it was of no use, but 

she continued nonetheless, hoping 

that perhaps that he heard 

something, that something would 

pierce, resonate, ring, and open a 

path in his mind, a future possibility 

that appealed to him and would 

make him see that there was a value 

to her life, something that he could 

exploit, make money with, that she 

had a future value greater than what 

he had in his pocket now, a simple 

financial comparison appealing to 

his greed that for her and her son 

meant the difference between life 

and death. 

‘I...I... still have most of the 

money left, it’s in the toilet behind 

the cistern, I used the same hiding 

place as you did, baby. Go-on, look, 

it’s there.’ 

Franco just stood and looked at 

her, an almost pitiful look on his face 

and she begged. 

‘Please, baby, I’ll work hard, 

makes lots of money. I’ve kept in 

shape, I look good, please, if you 

hurt me, then you’ll make no money 

right, no-one wants damaged 

goods, right?’ 

Franco smiled faintly at this. 

‘That’s what you’d think...,’he 

said more to himself than her. 

‘What, what...what are you 

talking about...?’ She entreated, her 


Chicken Jack 

Perry Bhandal

eyes flicking between the camera and the man sat on the 

edge of the table. 

‘I’m sorry, Janine, I’m just not on that whoring 

business anymore...I found something that pays a whole 

lot more.’ 

Franco picked up the gag again and something in 

Janine realised she was going to die. All she could do 

now was to save her son. 

‘He’s yours, Franco’ 

‘I know that,’ he replied as he moved to push it into 

her mouth 

‘No, no, I mean he’s yours.’ 

Franco stopped, the gag held in mid air, his mouth 

slightly open. Then he smiled at her. 

‘You’re good, I’ll give you that, but then again you 

always were.’ 

‘Look in his eyes and you’ll know, pl-,’ and he stuffed 

the gag back in. 

Franco turned to look behind at 

the man and then back to Janine. 

‘This is, Mr Rollins, you belong 

to him now....’ 

Franco sat back on the sofa as Mr 

Rollins skipped lightly away from 

the edge of the table. 

Franco watched the man as he 

prepared to go about his work. 

There was once a part of him that 

would have just wanted to walk out 

of here, a part of him that jarred 

against what he was about to see, 

something deep within him that 

refused to be ignored. There was 

something very wrong with the man 

that bent and checked Janine’s pulse, 

opened her gown and checked her 

heartbeat. When he had entered into 

Franco’s life, perpetual night had 

entered with him. 

Rollins had wanted disposable 

people. He paid extremely well and 

Franco had been more than happy 

to oblige. He had known his own 

regulars to go too far on occasion 

and Franco had learnt what needed 

to be done to clear up after their 

excesses. Now, this man only 

wanted expendable, so it was just a 

case of making it the norm as 

Thirteen Ways of looking at Scissors: 

I'll run; 

I'll run all day if I want to. 

Are any of us truly harmless? 

You could put out someone's eyes 

with that. 

At the start of this lesson 

there were thirteen pairs; 

Now there are nine. 

No one goes home 

until they are all found. 

Small, they are a tool. 

Medium, they are ceremonial. 

Gigantic, they are a nightmare. 

The Scissors of Repetition 

wish the Frying Pan of Doom 

a good day. 

Standard utensil for emo kids; 

a spreading method of expression, 

or self-control. 

All that crisp, clean white paper 

makes them as hungry as you. 

29 


opposed to the exception. Franco knew many 

expendable people that no one would miss. 

However, this man’s appetite, and the appetites of 

the people he served, seemed without end, and the 

number and frequency of his requests increased to a 

point where even Franco was now hard pushed to 

satisfy. 

Franco was a bad man, he always had been. He had 

left the corpses of men in his wake as he steered a course 

towards the riches and power that all men of his kind 

sought. He had killed, methodically and with purpose 

as part of his business dealings, arbitrarily and 

whimsically when he just didn’t like the look of 

someone. 

But this man was different from any he had met. Not 

many men scared Franco, but this man did. His 

instincts had told him to keep his distance from this 

strange creature. Why, then, he asked himself, had he 

We have come 

to cut your Hammers 

and tear down 

your Wall. 

Yin and yang 

joined by a single bolt. 

Though they are twinned, 

they think they are one. 

Plant overnight. 

In the morning, 

harvest the cars. 

I used to like my fingers, 

but I need them no more. 

Destroyers of words. 

Printed words, beware. 

Use and discard. 

Not worth 

another thought. 


Jean-David Beyers 


Chicken Jack 

Perry Bhandal

asked him what he did with all the 

men, women, boys, girls and babies 

that he provided him with? He did 

not know. That part buried deep 

within him still regretted it. He had 

expected to be told to mind his own 

business, but instead he was handed 

a video tape. That night, so long 

ago now, he had sat in his living 

room and entered a world that he 

had only thought might exist, a 

world beyond his, beyond the 

handshakes, suitcases of money, and 

vans full of people driving off into 

the distance. Until now he had been 

separated from this world, cut off 

from it, earthbound, unwilling to 

step into the vessels that took the 

expendable across the blackness to 

their far-off destinations. By 

pressing ‘play’ on his video recorder, 

he had done just that, he had made 

the journey alongside them to their 

final destination. 

Shadows scurried here and there 

around him as he sat unable to tear 

his eyes away from the television as 

the images and colours changed, 

slowly the blacks and browns gave 

way to red and the screams gave 

way to small, wet, sodden sounds. 

Through cold, involuntary tears, 

and against a background of white 

noise and static that signaled the 

end of the tape, he entered a world 

which he would rather not have. In 

the carved up faces of the young and 

innocent Franco saw his own 

reflected; what he had initially 

reviled, he grew to like. Since then 

he had seen many first-hand, and a 

few times had even taken part. Over 

time he could no longer hear the 

small voice of protest. 

Franco looked down at the little 

boy sitting next to him. His face 

stained with tears, his terrified eyes 

locked on his mother’s, not knowing 

was happening to him, pulling 

helplessly against his bonds, not 

understanding the world that he 

was being introduced to. The little 

boy looked up at Franco, tears 

dripping freely from the corners of 

both eyes. Brown eyes. Beautiful 

eyes. His eyes. 

From far, far away, Franco 

thought he could hear a voice. 

A little voice. 

A protesting voice. 

Mr Rollins switched on the 

light, bathing Janine in harsh 

brightness, and then the video 

camera. 

Janine’s eyes tracked him as he 

put on a plastic tunic like the 

surgeons wore in hospital. Taking a 

syringe from the case, he 

approached Janine and injected her 

with a clear liquid in the arm. Janine 

felt the tension drain from her and 

her head loll forward as all her 

muscular control faded. The man 

took a roll of tape and secured her 

lolling head back against the sofa 

30 


headrest. Then ungagged her. 

Janine could not move a muscle but 

she could feel every touch. 

Franco marvelled at this the 

drug, Ketamine, that could do this. 

Rollins stood back and fished out an 

antique watch from his waistcoat 

pocket. It glinted in the harsh light 

as he stood there unblinking, 

counting seconds: tick, tock, tick, 

tock. 

Streets away, an old man tugged 

at his dog’s leash, pulling him away 

from the small dried turd that he 

was sniffing at. ‘C'mon, Pepe, 

c'mon.’ A flash caught his eye and he 

turned to look at a bright square of 

light in the middle of the apartment 

block in the distance. The old man 

lingered, wondering why on earth 

someone would want such a bright 

light. Then it flickered as if someone 

had passed in front of it and then 

was bright again. The old man 

shivered, despite the warmth, and 

hurried home, away from that light. 

Pierre watched the scary man 

pick a shiny thing from his case and 

walk to stand beside his mummy. 

He stooped slightly and brought 

the silver thing close to his mummy’s 

face. He could see the end was really 

sharp, he could see it was a knife. 

Mummy had told him not to play 

with knives because they were 

dangerous and he could cut himself 

with them and hurt himself. 

Pierre’s and Janine’s eyes locked 

for a moment and in them he saw 

the look of love, helpless, 

unconditional love, for the last time 

in his life. 

The man placed the edge of the 

knife against his mummy’s ear with 

the tenderness of a lover’s caress. He 

paused a moment, closing his eyes, 


Chicken Jack 

Perry Bhandal

and sighed as if in prayer, then he opened them and 

pushed and everything became red. 

Franco looked at the small child and the eyes that 

looked so familiar. The man in the gown had done his 

work, it was amazing how much blood the human body 

held, much of it had soaked into the armchair that the 

ruined body of Janine sat in, the rest had pooled on the 

floor and spread, like wings of blood. 

The air was thick with the smell of iron. Rollins 

looked to Franco and gestured to the little boy sitting 

beside him as if to say he was ready for his next subject. 

Franco looked from the man to Pierre and back to 

the man. The eyes in this little boy were identical to his 

own. 

Franco shook his head and got up. 

‘Finish up. We’re done here’ 

‘The agreement was for two. A woman and child.’ 

Mr Rollins said in a strained whisperous voice, as if the 

words struggled to make it past his throat. 

Franco turned to face him. He gave him his ‘don’t 

fuck with me stare’. Mr Rollins did not seem to notice. 

‘Promises have been made. People are expecting 

two,’ he continued. 

‘I’ll find another kid for you, not this one.’ 

Rollins looked like he was going to argue for a 

moment, then the blank look returned. 

‘It took you long enough to find these. You perhaps 

no longer have access to the supply that I need’, he 

replied 

He stripped off the gown and the surgical gloves 

placed them in a small plastic bag. 

‘The way you’ve been going through them is that any 

fucking surprise?’ argued Franco 

Rollins toggled a switch on the video recorder and 

watched the screen for a few moments, nodding with 

satisfaction. 

‘Maybe it is time to move on.’ 

Franco ignored him and turned to the little Pierre 

who still sat looking at the wrecked form of his mother. 

He turned his face to look at him and removed the gag. 

‘You’re mine now’ he said as he undid the bindings 

on his feet and arms. Behind Franco, Rollins 

approached silently and draped something thin and 

shiny over his head and then pulled. Pierre watched as 

the garrote slid into Francos’ throat with a gasp. Franco 

pushed back and they fell hard onto the floor, his weight 

winding Rollins. As they struggled amidst sounds of 

choking and spurts of Franco’s arterial blood, little 

Pierre reached up and opened the front door. He 

31 


turned to take one last look at his mother and then 

stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind 

him. Pierre looked across the hall to the door of the flat 

belonging to their neighbours Manjit and Khansa. His 

mother had always told him he should go to them if he 

ever go in trouble or needed help. 

Pierre waddled down the stairs, taking them one at 

a time. When he got to the bottom he heard a sound 

and looked up. At the top was Rollins leaning over and 

looking at him. 

Pierre ran as fast as his little legs would carry him, 

out of the block entrance around the corner and 

into the alleyway. He found a dark corner and sat down, 

pulling rubbish over him and making himself as small 

as possible. He waited. 

Pierre tried to calm his breathing. If he was quiet and 

did not move the scary man may not find him. He did 

not want the man to do to him what he did to his 

mother. He tried to remember his mother’s face, he 

could not. All he could see now was a red thing. 

The light from the streetlamps penetrated only a few 

feet before surrendering to the shadows. Into that, 

stepped Mr Rollins. 

He moved silently, scanning this way and that, 

looking for a him. 

‘Come out, Pierre,’ he whispered ‘Your mother is 

calling for you, boy.’ 

Pierre sat still in the dark, his little breaths silent. He 

knew his mother was dead. 

Pierre could see the scary man now, he stood in the 

middle of the alleyway straight across from him, looking 

from one side to the other, slowly, over and over. At one 

point he stopped, looking directly at Pierre, his eyes 

glittering like a cat’s. Then he turned and walked away. 

Pierre did not want to move, he was too scared. 

Slowly his eyes began to droop and close. In his dreams 

ran from red things, red things with open arms that 

wanted to catch him. 

A little boy fell asleep. 

When the refuse collectors found him in the 

morning, it was not a little boy that awoke but a soul 

beyond repair. Pierre had been lost to the abyss. What 

remained was something else. 

The newspapers reported a brief story, of a woman 

attacked and killed in her home, survived by a child. The 

child was placed into the care of the state. The killer or 

killers remained at large. 


Chicken Jack 

Perry Bhandal

Pierre’s abuse began during his 

first week in the children’s 

home: sodomised, beaten, made to 

indulge in all manner of sex acts 

with men and other children. After a 

time it became a way of life. 

It was whilst being pounded 

from behind by his sixteen -stone 

carer that the revelation came to 

him. For four years he had endured 

the worst kind of abuse that could 

be imagined. He was alive because 

he did not complain. Others had 

and they had disappeared, never to 

be heard from again. He had 

become a vessel into which was 

dumped the sexual gratification of 

others. The ones that liked him 

called him Chicken Jack, a 

nickname acquired from a certain 

technique in which he had become 

proficient. He had been fucked 

every which way but loose. But he 

had not surrendered, he had 

watched and he had learnt, learnt 

how to avoid the beatings, how to 

please his masters, how to hide his 

true feelings and how to lie expertly. 

In that dark place he came to know 

the nature of men, their desires, 

their capacities, their weaknesses. 

The headmaster looked up as the 

fifteen-year-old boy placed the 

stills of the headmaster himself and 

the two boys he was sodomising on 

his desk. The boy pressed a button 

on a tape recorder and the wood 

panelled and richly furnished office 

filled with the sound of him 

grunting with out gravelly 

exclamations of love. A soundtrack 

to the images he held in his hands, 

occasionally punctuated by winces 

of pain from two children who 

otherwise remained silent 

throughout his exertions. 

His florid features looked like 

they were going to melt, the colour 

rose so quickly in them. The tips of 

his forefingers and thumbs were 

white with pressure as he held the 

photographs. The tape finished and 

the boy pressed the stop button 

with a click. 

Slowly the colour returned to his 

fingers as if draining from his face. 

He listened to the boy as he talked, 

as the boy told him what would be 

set in motion if anything happened 

to him. That unless he made a 

phone call to a very special number 

every day these pictures, the tape, 

and everything else would be 

Filth 

32 


released to the media and the police 

at the same time. 

The police did not worry the 

Headmaster, the media did. 

‘What do you want?’ he asked 

finally, when the boy had stopped 

talking. 

He expected a series of 

ultimatums centred around the 

halting of all abuse. He couldn’t 

have been more wrong. The boy 

wanted money. The abuse was not 

only to continue, but increase as 

Oh, ok. So that's how it works. 

I had no idea the world was this simple to figure out. 

I was overthinking things all along. 

I always thought the world was such a big, scary place to live in, 

with no place to hide. 

But no, once you figure it out, it's all so easy.” 

“See, I told you it would be.” 

From the front garden of my second home, 

I could see a spindly old woman stalking 

Down the road. 

She had her arms raised up above her head, 

And her fingers were hooked like claws. 

As she was passing, 

She suddenly turned towards me, 

Letting out a guttural noise. 

Her face was unclear, 

But despite that, 

The resulting wave of fear was like 

The closing of an iron maiden, 

Slamming into me 

And piercing my body bone-deep. 

And for a long time, 

I was unaware 

That none of it 

Had actually happened. 


Jean-David Beyers 


Chicken Jack 

Perry Bhandal

paying patrons were sought and 

acquired. 

For the next few years the abuse 

continued and expanded. The 

headmaster became rich, as did the 

boy now known as Chicken Jack. 

Chicken Jack grew to be ruthless 

and vicious in his dealings and 

his reputation for being the man 

that could get you anything became 

quickly established in the 

underworld. He moved to Eastern 

Europe, gravitating to the edges of 

the war in the Balkans where life 

was cheap. His black skin made him 

stand out, but his money made him 

invisible once more. He spread his 

net wide, tendrils that flickered and 

hovered around places where all 

that remained were war-torn 

buildings and abandoned children. 

These children, starved and 

forgotten, many mentally ill, were 

cared for, fattened and then shipped 

all over the world to satisfy the 

cravings of the insatiable. 

The demand for leftovers 

seemed to grow all the time 

and even Chicken Jack was finding 

it hard to fulfill it. More and more he 

was been forced to recategorise 

perfectly good chicken as leftovers. 

He was taking too many risks, but 

the money was too good to turn 

down. 

Anyway Chicken had his 

insurance. There were far too many 

people with a vested interest in 

keeping him free and in business. It 

would have been easy to get 

complacent but Chicken had seen 

too many men brought down by 

their own sense of invulnerability 

Chicken wasn’t going to repeat 

their mistakes. He was clever. He 

kept his material in both hard and 

electronic form. The hard was in a 

Swiss vault with explicit 

instructions for its distribution if he 

did not call in once a week. The 

electronic was encrypted and spread 

across various servers, each with a 

countdown that only he could reset 

weekly and, which if he missed, 

would automatically fire off packets 

to competing global news 

organizations and the world’s mafia, 

guaranteeing a rain of fire on all his 

associates, whether complicit in his 

demise or not. 

With the end of the Balkan War 

and his network firmly established, 

Chicken chose to base himself in a 

place where he could disappear 

amongst those that were similarly 

coloured. In Brixton, England. 

He continued to travel 

frequently. He liked to move 

around, to witness his operations 

working firsthand and look into the 

faces of those that maintained them 

for him. He had an eye for duplicity, 

he could smell it and doing the 

rounds kept any young Turks in 

check, making sure they got no 

ideas of their own. Every so often he 

would have to make an example of 

an upstart. Then, bathed in blood 

and gore, he would lavish riches 

upon others that remained loyal - 

the extremes of carrot and stick. 

Time moved on and Chicken’s 

riches grew. He began to feel an 

equilibrium, one occasionally 

punctuated by spasms of vicious 

violence, but an equilibrium 

nonetheless. He even considered 

the pursuit of more legitimate 

business ventures. But equilibrium 

rarely lasted for men like Chicken 

Jack. 

The beginning of the end, when 

it came, was ushered by the sound 

of knuckles tapping softly on glass. 

He was in his Mercedes one 

bright afternoon in a car park at 

33 


Heathrow Terminal 5. He’d just 

returned from Brazil: an anarchic 

country that would prove a major 

addition to his supply chain. He 

jumped at the tap on his driver’s side 

window. He could see a slight 

figure standing next to his car 

through the heavily tinted windows. 

Chicken checked the gun he kept in 

his lap between his legs and pressed 

the switch to lower the window. 

The figure bent down and Chicken 

found himself looking at the face of 

a man he thought had been lost to 

the past: Mr Rollins. 

Rollins joined Chicken in his car. 

He introduced himself and without 

ceremony proceeded to outline 

Chicken’s business activities over 

the last five years in worrying detail. 

He gave no indication that he 

recognized him. 

Rollins paused to let his words 

sink in and then went on to outline 

his requirements. Chicken’s mouth 

became drier and drier as the 

syrupy, hypnotic voice washed over 

him. 

‘Can you help us?’ 

Rollins turned to look at 

Chicken: the same hair, the same 

eyes, everything the same. He tried 

to respond, but his words died in his 

throat. Instead he nodded like a 

school child. 

Rollins smiled, revealing small, 

uneven teeth. 

‘Good. We will be in touch.’ And 

with that he left. Chicken watched 

him walk across the car park and 

disappear. Only then did he notice 

the overpowering stench of rotting 

meat that filled his car. Chicken 

scrabbled frantically at the door 

release and fell vomiting on the 

tarmac. 

With the arrival of Rollins 

everything changed. His appetite 

was insatiable and he had seemingly 


Chicken Jack 

Perry Bhandal

limitless funds to finance them. 

Chicken had never been one to tie 

himself to one particular customer, 

but Rollins paid twice the market 

price for chicken. Problem was it all 

had to be leftovers. 

Chicken’s operations expanded 

quickly with Rollins’ arrival. He 

began to take greater risks. Time 

from grooming to delivery became 

shorter and shorter. Mistakes were 

made. Some of those picked up 

were not as expendable as first 

thought. Paying off the cops and the 

occasional politician had been part 

of the deal from the outset and they 

had come cheap, but they were 

taking more heat and buying them 

off was becoming more and more 

expensive. One sergeant in 

particular was beginning to turn 

down more and more requests. 

There was a momentum building 

here. Chicken could see that at 

some point in the future it would 

come apart. Shit, they couldn’t even 

keep him out of the courts. He had 

greased so many palms he shouldn’t 

even have come close to this. But he 

couldn’t stop. The thought of saying 

‘no’ to Rollins never entered his 

mind. 

A few months after their first 

meeting, Chicken had asked him 

what he did with the children and 

the young men and women that he 

sent him. He had expected to be 

told to mind his own fucking 

business, but Rollins merely smiled 

and offered to show him. That night 

he took him to an old warehouse 

and Chicken watched as Rollins 

methodically dismembered a young 

woman to the occasional sound of 

mewling and the faint whirring of a 

video recorder. 

When he finally stopped, he had 

turned to Chicken and asked him if 

he would be interested in seeing his 

video collection. 

34 


Chicken checked the rear view 

mirror. The station wagon was 

still there. The money sat in the 

boot of his car. The final batch of 

human cargo was due in the 

afternoon. One last deal and he was 

gone forever. It had been a hard 

choice for Chicken but he couldn’t 

bury the memories that had been 

jarred loose by that night in the 

warehouse. It wasn’t repentance or 

any such shit like that. It was 

survival instinct, pure and simple. 

Chicken felt himself being 

consumed, inside and out, 

dissolving as if soaked in a foul toxic 

brine, the diluted essence of Rollins 

slowly eating him away. 

His planning had been 

meticulous and quiet. He was sure 

Rollins suspected nothing. He had 

only one more stop; everything had 

been going like clockwork. Until 

this idiot started tailing him... 


Chicken Jack 

Perry Bhandal

Paradise, etc. 

by Ali Sheikholeslami 

‘…a nation of warriors and fanatics, 

marching forward in perfect unity, all 

thinking the same thoughts and shouting 

the same slogans, perpetually working, 

fighting, triumphing, persecuting - three 

hundred million people all with the same 

face.’ 

1984 – George Orwell 

Summer 1984 

Volunteer Training Camp – Southwest Iran 

The khaki uniforms were not the coolest outfits for 

weather over 45 degrees in the Ahvaz region. The 

heated introductory talk had made the men sweat even 

more under the razor-sharp sunbeams. Their first day 

of training was taken up in getting acquainted with a 

new set of rough clothes and heavy equipment, learning 

what was where in the camp, listening to the PR clergy, 

and having two long meals. The second day was 

dedicated to basic military skills, marching, a shooting 

lesson with AK-47, and another talk expounding the 

advantages of martyrdom over dying in bed. The third 

day, on the other hand, was programmed for learning 

techniques in defusing land mines, including jumping 

on them in case of extreme emergency, when an 

offensive was on its way and there was no time to waste, 

which was normally the case. 

Morteza lived in the barracks for almost the whole 

of the war. He was one of the rare few who had 

survived the Khorramshahr siege, as he belonged to the 

same province and his local knowledge saved him. He 

then returned to the harbour city when it was freed 

several months later. He participated in most of the 

major assaults and always carried his RPG-7, a light 

missile-launcher that had earned him the reputation of 

a tank-hunter. 

Morteza got married a few years before the war 

alarms were first heard. His daughter was 

growing her first teeth when he was arrested as a 

revolutionary by the Shah’s secret police. They confined 

him to solitary for quite a while in Tehran’s special 

prison, caressed his bare body, including his bare balls, 

35 


with bare metal. After the Ayatollah’s victory in ‘79, he 

was freed and went back to Soosangerd, his home town 

by the Iraqi border. 

The family business had deteriorated as a result of 

the upheavals. His aluminium framing trade that was 

being managed by his younger brother didn’t even pay 

the monthly mortgage. People were too poor to build, 

and therefore had no need of new windows or doors. 

The real catastrophe came in the first month of the 

war. Morteza was trying to figure out what he could or 

should do with his workshop when he heard deafening 

explosions and roaring war planes nearby. A few 

minutes later, in utter amazement, he was taken to his 

one-time home, which now didn’t look like anything but 

rubble. The search led to nothing, except the finding of 

his wife’s corpse and his daughter’s scattered limbs. 

When the new forces arrived at the base, Morteza 

was waiting impatiently for the next attack. He 

didn’t want to accept his results during the last one: only 

4 tanks, not even close to his normal standards. He 

longed to make up for it. If he could destroy 10 this time, 

he’d feel relieved. But the trouble was it was an Iranian 

offensive and it all depended on the Iraqi intelligence. 

If they knew about it, they’d be prepared, with tanks in 

place, all ready for Morteza to shoot. If not, it’d be 

another disappointment for him. 

‘Oh, no! I don’t believe my half-blind eyes. Is that you, 

Morteza?’ 

‘Habeeb!’ Morteza hugged the man in his forties, 

with a grey beard and hair, and astonishingly thick 

glasses. 

‘You still alive, brother? I can’t believe you’ve survived 

it all.’ 

‘I did, with God’s help. They didn’t, though.’ 

Morteza pointed to his nuts laughingly. 

‘Oh, brother. We all left something there. None came 

back whole. They made me quite good-looking, 

though. Look at my classy glasses.’ Habeeb made an 

actor’s gesture cheerfully. ‘Thank God you have your 

little princess; otherwise you’d have to live all your life 

with no children. They are truly the fruits of life, aren’t 

they? God bless your daughter.’ 

Morteza took a lungful of air; exhaled, looked up to 

the sprinkled clouds on an azure background, rubbed 

his hands together forcefully and shook his head, ‘Not 

anymore. No princess; not even a queen.’ 


The newcomers formed six 

groups of seventy-two. The 

plan was for them to attend the 

largest-scale offensive of the year on 

the southern front. The schedule 

was to start a few days after their 

arrival; they’d never announce when 

exactly till a short time before the 

actual operation. There was a fear 

there’d be a rat that the Iraqis could 

smell. 

Even the nights didn’t cool off 

much. You had to own a chafieh, a 

one by one metre checked cotton 

fabric, loose and ugly, but extremely 

useful to wipe off the sweat and 

send you to sleep. After the curfew, 

the guys normally kept on 

chattering, either at the foot of the 

man-made hills or inside the 

shelters. The flies and mosquitoes 

never lost their loyalty to the 

conversations. Although the juniors 

had their designated holes to live in, 

Morteza arranged accommodation 

for Habeeb in his own shelter. 

Habeeb was a box filled with stories 

of his eventful life, whose details 

were as hazy as his vision. When he 

talked about the prison days, he had 

a surreal calm, as if he was only 

talking about the daily chores of a 

happy housewife. He neither 

glorified the revolution, nor played 

it down. For him, the necessity of 

what had happened was a given, a 

simple matter of what was supposed 

to occur. 

Have you been in contact with 

any of the cell-mates?’ 

Morteza asked. 

‘I must admit, I still see 

Ebraheem and spend quite some 

time with him. I can’t deny that he is 

my brother.’ Habeeb was in one of 

his funny moods. ‘But, apart from 

him, I’ve only seen Majeed twice, 

and still keep getting letters from 

Alvand.’ 

‘Do you remember Hameed?’ 

‘The football-fanatic?’ Habeeb 

asked, getting obviously interested. 

‘We lost him in Hoveyzeh, 

during a siege.’ 

‘Good for him. I’m sure he’s set 

up his own football team with other 

martyrs.’ Habeeb nodded. 

‘Yeah.’ 

Morteza was busy lovemaking 

the whole morning. He gave 

it a nice massage inside out; used 

the best lubricant he could find in 

his oil box, rubbed it all over, tried 

every angle. People, watching him 

so passionately cuddling his RPG, 

got a sense that the time was short. 

In the evening, the meal was quite 

substantial. A prolonged prayer 

session and then a cleric in uniform 

and turban declared the intentions 

of God for making nations fight 

wars because he loved to see how 

his believers were ready to sacrifice, 

to forget about themselves, to leave 

their dirty, earthly lives and turn to 

martyrs. Many were weeping, 

envying the fortunate ones that 

already inhabited the closeness-of- 

God. 

‘…Islam is in danger, more than 

ever before. Since the bloodthirsty 

vulture started his attack on our 

homeland; since the infidel started 

bombarding Islamic Iran four years 

ago, we’ve had a moral duty, a 

national and Islamic duty to defend 

our land and our religion, our 

dignity. Saddam is the Hitler of our 

times; he’s done things more horrific 

than America did in Vietnam. We’ve 

given blood for our Islamic 

revolution; we’ve been tortured by 

the Shah and his agents of horror. 

We are prepared to sacrifice again, 

to sacrifice ourselves, our families, 

and our blood. This is only a small 

token of what we can give for our 

36 


Islam and our Iran. Martyrdom 

runs in our veins...’ 

The priest also gave a heartrending 

presentation of how being 

martyred on a mine would mean a 

shortcut to heaven. He described 

the naked angels that would come 

to the gates of paradise, exclusively 

to welcome the lads and change 

them out of their torn garments. He 

grinned while predicting the 

consecutive events and the different 

nature of the heavenly joys: that you 

can eat a fruit that tastes of every 

fruit all at once; that you can have a 

rock-hard erection for as long as you 

wish; that there are springs of milk, 

wine, honey, and a lot more. The 

volunteers were mobilised in the 

front, with hungry dicks and raging 

desires. 

The shameless rain didn’t really 

decrease the heat, but instead 

turned the thirsty soil to gluey mud. 

It couldn’t possibly stop those 

giving the commands; several 

regiments from different front bases 

had already kicked off. The artillery 

had been fed with ammunition 

during the past weeks and the air 

raids were perfectly planned. The 

minesweepers worked hard for 

nearly two weeks, clearing pathways 

through vast minefields for the 

troops to cross. The men were 

struggling, especially the ones who 

had suffered enormous physical 

pain in the prisons of the Shah, or 

the ones in higher age groups or of 

lower athletic prowess. Habeeb had 

it all double: both problems as well 

as higher spirits; he was limping 

with lumps of sludge stuck to his 

boots, nearly unable to see anything 

in that pitch dark; but, worst of all, 

he had to keep silent. 

‘God! Please invite me to your 

side. Please let me come to you. 

Please give me the opportunity to 

present my body, my soul, and my 



Ali Sheikholeslami

lood in your way. Let me not rot in this filthy world.’ 

The guy, who had just finished his studies in Quantum 

Physics, kept repeating these lines in his head. He knew 

one way of convincing God was to stick to what you 

wanted him to give you, ask, and ask, and ask, and he’d 

answer. That was the promise, that if you took a single 

step along his path, he’d take ten towards you. 

Morteza remembered his childhood. When he was 

born, borders didn’t mean set in stone rules that couldn’t 

be changed. The people on both sides spoke to each 

other comfortably in Farsi and Arabic; they shared a 

similar way of life. The children of the villages had 

friends on the other side; there were lots of games to get 

involved in. The adults went on a pilgrimage to Karbala 

and Najaf whenever they wished; it was easier than 

travelling to Tehran to go to a good doctor. But now 

he had no vision but busting Iraqi tanks. Everything 

had changed since the first border disputes; the line 

between the two countries had changed status, its 

existence had become an inevitability. 

Get down, get down, everybody get down, now!’ 

One of the four professional soldiers was running 

around, nearly shouting, trying to make the raw 

volunteers understand the gravity of the situation. 

The sky was illuminated. The troops were showered 

with bullets. The bright lines of red and yellow, like 

gold powder, were waving all over the place. Men were 

down; some already encircled by the naked angels, some 

still struggling with panic attacks. The invaluable 3-day 

training acted like a stimulus: a mix of rapid heartbeat, 

raised blood pressure and a bizarre feeling of having a 

baby kicking from inside. Half the people were crawling 

ahead, while the others decided to remain where they 

had fallen. They didn’t have any other choice; they were 

too wounded, or too dead to move. 

Why not?’ 

‘Because we’ve already lost half of our boys. Because 

the next unit will be here in two hours. Because we’ve 

miscalculated the minefields in this region; there really 

isn’t a route. If we don’t retreat soon, there’ll be a 

massacre. Every other unit that arrives will be 

slaughtered in no time.’ 

‘Just carry on.’ 

The radio transmission from the operation 

headquarters demanded the advance continued. The 

field lieutenant was in charge of injecting more 

37 


adrenaline into the heads of the remaining volunteers: 

they needed the way; Islam was in danger of extinction. 

Adull sun was rising over the playground. Dried gut 

and prostate, odorous body contents, useless limbs 

and organs and metal rubbish lay silently entwined in 

the growing heat. A baby jackal was licking the blood 

off a shining RPG. 



Ali Sheikholeslami

Emotional Spaceman 

by William Leahy 

Iwas six when it happened. We 

were eating our Sunday meal in 

the living room when I noticed 

Jenny frothing at the beak. As I 

watched her she seemed to topple 

from her perch and land gently in 

the sand and droppings that 

covered the bottom of her cage. I 

stared at the vacated perch for a 

number of seconds, hoping that our 

budgie would suddenly flutter 

upwards and come to rest upon it 

once more, healthy and cracking her 

seed. She did not reappear however, 

and the noise she made as she struck 

the bottom of the cage had 

prompted my brother to look up 

also, and he squinted at the empty 

silent space. He stood up and 

walked over to the corner of the 

room where the cage hung on a 

large, red, metal stand, next to tall 

yellow pampas grass that shot from 

a massive chocolate brown vase. On 

his way, he passed a dark blue and 

tangerine lamp which stood on a 

teak-effect sideboard, and a tartan 

table which held a wooden bowl of 

plastic fruit and a miniature clay 

donkey that contained a cigarette 

lighter in its saddlebags. Reaching 

the cage, my brother peeked over its 

frosted glass side panels and 

stopped chewing. 

Dad, dad, he said quickly, his 

mouth half-full, there’s something 

coming out of Jenny’s beak. It’s all 

bubbly. 

Come and eat your dinner and 

leave the budgie alone, my mother 

said, swallowing some meatloaf. My 

father continued eating, chewing his 

food slowly. 

But Mum, there is. And she’s 

lying on the bottom of the cage and 

looks all funny. He was almost 

hopping with anxiety, and stood 

half-turned between cage and table. 

Colin! Come and eat your 

dinner. Right now! my mother 

demanded. 

But he’s right! I chipped in, 

pointing at the cage with my knife, I 

saw her drop off her perch. My 

mother was about to reply when my 

father stood up quickly, pushing his 

chair back over the carpet. He set 

down his knife and fork on the 

tablecloth, and I saw gravy and 

carrot mark its purple-flower 

pattern. My mother’s eyes followed 

his as he rose, looking worried. He 

did not look at her but moved 

around the table towards Colin, 

squeezing past my chair as he did 

so. My mother turned to follow him, 

and gave me an unhappy look as her 

eyes momentarily met mine. 

Just what we need on a Sunday 

afternoon, Freddy, she said, 

somewhat mysteriously. 

My mother and father had earlier 

carried the kitchen table into the 

living room as they did every 

Sunday afternoon, for us to have a 

posh-lunch. It was the only day of 

the week that we all squashed into 

the room in order to eat, and the 

only day also on which both the 

tablecloth and the gravy boat 

appeared. We would, no doubt, 

have used the good crockery and 

cutlery had we possessed any, but 

we made do with the everyday. 

Mother’s special Sunday trifle was 

intended to make up for that. 

Having the table in the middle of 

the room presented difficulties in 

terms of space, difficulties my father 

now encountered as he pushed past 

my mother’s chair. Lifting it slightly, 

he eased his way through and 

reached the corner where the 

birdcage hung. He shoved Colin 

away, towards the window. Colin 

38 

faculty fiction 

looked over to me suddenly, his eyes 

widening in his nervousness. I 

looked back at him and, without 

wanting to, giggled. As Dad looked 

into the cage, my mother absently 

lifted a piece of boiled potato 

toward her mouth, and a spot of 

gravy dripped unnoticed onto her 

turquoise trouser-suit. 

What is it, Frank? she said, the 

potato slipping between her teeth 

and into the pocket of her cheek. 

What is it? My brother and I both 

looked up at my father and then at 

my mother. Her empty hand shot 

up to her necklace, with which she 

began to fiddle. Frank, what is it? 

My father said nothing, but turned 

and moved back to the table with a 

look of determination. 

Dad, dad, my brother halfshouted, 

hopping with anxiety. My 

father reached over and grabbed the 

fork from beside his plate, and I 

could see his knuckles turn white as 

he gripped it tightly. He squeezed 

his way back again towards the 

cage. My mother stopped fiddling 

with her necklace and my brother 

stopped fidgeting. I swallowed a 

piece of carrot. A stream of sunlight 

was coming into the room and 

thousands of particles of dust were 

caught by the light. Outside there 

was silence, or so it seemed; no cars 

driving past, no dogs barking, no 

children shouting. My father 

opened the spring-door of the cage 

with his left hand, and raised the 

fork in his right. In a fifteen-second 

burst of energy, he finished Jenny 

off. He repeatedly skewered her 

through the throat and then, using 

the wooden perch as a lever, rubbed 

her off the fork when she became 

stuck. Finally, breathing heavily, he 

watched for any movement on the 

bottom of the cage. With his face 

returning to its normal shade of 

smoker’s yellow, he extracted the 


hand in which he held the fork, let the spring-door snap 

shut, turned and walked into the kitchen. Our three 

pairs of eyes remained on the swinging cage as we heard 

his footsteps on the kitchen floor and then the sound of 

running water. The tap was turned off and he returned 

to the living room. He sat down heavily and, after 

shaking excess water from his fork, picked up his knife 

and forced it through a lump of meatloaf. He pierced 

the severed piece with the fork, dipped it into the gravy 

that flooded his plate, and popped it into his mouth. 

Outside, a car drove by noisily, a dog barked and some 

children shouted. In the corner of the room Jenny’s cage 

continued to swing gently back and forth. 

Jenny’s death had been so sordid that her burial had 

to be grand. Colin and I demanded an appropriate 

ceremony, one that acknowledged the centrality of the 

budgie in our family life. 

We should bury her next to Granny, my brother 

suggested, and say some prayers. Colin and I were 

sitting on the roof of the communal garages, around the 

corner from our terraced maisonette, looking across a 

field that belonged to Farmer Dobbs. The field was 

part of a suburban farm and was used as a shortcut to 

the Dipton estate. The grass was high, and the path 

trodden by people walking between our estate and 

Dipton traversed the field from corner to corner. 

Maybe we should, what’s it called, er, create her, 

y’know, set her on fire. I said this with a blade of grass 

dangling from my mouth, swinging my feet over the 

garage rooftop. It was barely an hour since Jenny had 

met her end and we had been sent out to play by my 

mother so that she could wash the dishes in peace. After 

our pudding she had shooed us out while my father 

retired to the toilet. 

No, we don’t want to burn 

her, do we? That’s horrible. Colin 

looked across the field, the long 

grass swaying in a gentle summer 

breeze. And it would be all 

smelly. 

Anyway, I said, I suppose she 

wouldn’t catch fire. You can’t set 

fire to a bird, can you? 

I know, Fred, my brother said, 

we should give her to next door’s 

cat. 

You’re joking, I replied, 

turning and snatching the blade 

Weeping Woman (after Picasso) 

Eyes wide, white. 

Ready to rush. 

Green, not with envy, 

Yellow, not with light, 

But sorrow, fright, 

So sinister and sharp. 

39 

of grass from my mouth. Aren’t you? My brother 

considered. I noticed the soft, blond hairs on his thighs 

being blown by the breeze. 

No, Fred, really. It’s natural, isn’t it? You know, like 

birds eat worms, and cats eat birds, and dogs eat cats 

and so on. 

Dogs don’t eat cats, I said, replacing the blade of 

grass in my mouth. Do they? 

Well, they would if they could catch them, my 

brother said, raising his eyebrows. Colin was two years 

older than me, and I had to bow to his superior 

knowledge, his age guaranteeing his authority in all 

things. At school I often watched him with his 

classmates in the playground and wished that I could 

participate in their mature games. It was, I knew, 

forbidden territory, however. In the distance, coming 

from the Dipton estate, a figure climbed through the 

barbed-wire fence that enclosed the field, and began to 

walk in our direction. This figure kept to the path of 

trodden grass. 

I don’t want to give her to next door’s cat, I said 

sullenly. I can’t stand that bleeding thing, anyway. With 

this we were silent for a while, both of us chewing on 

grass-sap, the sun warm on my bare legs. My eyes were 

fixed on the young man crossing the field, and high 

behind him I saw an aeroplane crawling through the 

pale-blue sky. My brother and I continued to swing our 

legs over the rooftop edge, kicking the wall with the 

heels of our shoes. The figure grew larger as it 

approached. 

We could bury her at sea, I suppose, my brother said, 

like they do with pirates and sailors. As I turned to look 

at him his expression suggested the impossibility of this. 

If dad would drive us to the seaside, that is. We both 

knew that our father would not contemplate such a 

journey for our budgie, and the thought melted away as 

soon as it was spoken. 



What about Marley Wood? I 

wondered aloud. Dad might 

drive us there, because it isn’t that 

far. Colin lay down as I 

continued, flat on his back, his 

legs hanging over the garage 

edge. We could take her there 

and bury her. We could take her 

right into the wood and dig a 

hole and put her in and make a 

little cross with her name on it 

and stick it in the ground. Like a 

real grave. As I spoke I became 

Maria Ridley 



William Leahy

excited at this realistic possibility. 

My brother gave me no response, 

but I could see that he was taken 

with the idea. 

And we can say a few prayers, I 

said, trailing off, looking at the 

swaying grass. The young man had 

almost reached our side of the field 

by now, and as I watched him he 

passed underneath us. He gave me 

the briefest of glances as he walked 

past, puffing on a cigarette and 

stumbling slightly. His shoulderlength 

hair was greasy and his face 

a deep red. He bent and climbed 

through the barbed-wire fence, 

almost falling as he did so. He 

disappeared around the side of the 

garage block. I looked back out 

across the field, still swinging my 

feet and searched for the aeroplane 

on the horizon. It too had 

disappeared. My brother levered 

himself up, took the blade of grass 

from his mouth and tossed it into 

the field. He stood up. 

Come on Freddy, he said as he 

rose, let’s go and ask mum. Let’s see 

if she’ll ask dad to drive us. I tossed 

my blade of grass down and stood. 

Yeah, alright, I said, come on 

then. We turned and climbed down 

from the garage roof, hanging with 

our arms stretched and our backs to 

the field and then letting ourselves 

drop. After landing we wiped our 

hands on our shorts and headed for 

the barbed-wire fence. 

I wonder if Jenny’s still in the 

cage? Colin asked. Or if dad’s taken 

her out yet? We reached the fence 

and Colin began to climb through. I 

made a gap for him by holding one 

strip of wire in my right hand and 

pressing down on the lower strip 

with my foot. When he was 

halfway, bent almost double, he 

stopped and spoke to the ground; 

I hope he hasn’t chucked her in 

the bin, he said. I hope he hasn’t. He 

passed through the strips of wire 

and then held them for me in a 

similar fashion. I passed through 

without difficulty despite catching a 

thread on my t-shirt. I stood up and 

walked alongside my brother, 

returning home, silently planning 

Jenny’s grand send-off. Kicking a 

stone a thought suddenly struck me: 

Colin, I asked, what do worms 

eat? 

He thought for a moment and, 

without missing a step replied, Oh, 

you know. Dead budgies and stuff. 

The drive to Marley Wood was 

almost completely silent. Colin 

and I sat in the back seat of the car 

looking out of the side-windows. 

My mother made the occasional 

comment, usually relating to the 

weather or to the large number of 

cars on the road. My father drove 

without uttering a word. 

What a lovely afternoon, my 

mother said to the windscreen, so 

warm and sunny. Jimmy and I did 

not respond. So warm and sunny, 

she repeated. Jenny was inside a 

small, brown paper bag that lay next 

to the handbrake of the car, 

between the two front seats. My 

father had wrapped her up inside 

the bag, and then placed her in the 

car as we were all climbing in. 

There are so many cars out 

today, said my mother, where can 

they all be going? She fiddled with 

her necklace as she spoke, staring 

out of the windscreen in front of her. 

I hope they’re not all heading for 

Marley Wood. As she said this an 

insect smashed into the windscreen. 

I glanced down at the small brown 

parcel on the floor between my 

parents and wondered if Jenny were 

really dead. Perhaps she was still 

alive, still breathing. I watched 

closely for a while to see if there was 

movement, but could not detect 

40 


any. I looked across at my brother 

who was stretching slightly to look 

out of the window. He was 

watching the white lines on the road 

as we sped past them, his eyes 

flicking back and forth. We had told 

our mother of our burial plans for 

our budgie, and she had promised 

to speak to dad. She had said that 

he was very tired, but that he might 

be persuaded. The fact that we were 

heading for Marley Wood seemed 

to suggest that she had convinced 

him to carry out our plan. As we 

approached the wood I felt sweat 

running down the backs of my legs 

caused by the plastic covering on 

the seat. I wiped one leg with the 

back of my hand and raised it to my 

mouth. The taste of salt was intense 

and stung my lips slightly. My 

brother noticed me doing this and 

did the same. He looked across at 

me with a bitter expression that 

became a smile. The car entered an 

area of shade as we drove into the 

wood. Trees bordered each side of 

the road, and sunlight occasionally 

flickered through their gently 

swaying leaves. We slowed slightly 

as we continued, the road 

narrowing as we drove deeper into 

the wood. I tried to see if I could 

find an ideal spot to bury Jenny as 

we passed, a clearing in amongst the 

trees. Colin seemed to be doing the 

same. My father slowed the car even 

more and, lifting his right-hand 

from the steering wheel, wound 

down his side-window. A warm 

wind rushed in and I felt the sweat 

on my legs immediately cool. Dad 

returned his right-hand to the 

steering wheel and, letting-go with 

his left, reached down and picked 

up the brown paper bag containing 

Jenny. From the corner of my eye I 

saw my mother’s head turn toward 

him. In one movement, he gripped 

the paper bag and tossed it out of 



William Leahy

his open window. I stretched to 

watch it land in the undergrowth on 

the other side of the road and then 

disappear. Colin hadn’t noticed 

until he saw the bag land and, 

disbelievingly, glanced back in 

search of it. He could see nothing. 

We had already begun to gain speed 

as my father pressed down on the 

accelerator. Colin sat down again 

and I saw water spring to his eyes. 

My sight blurred as water came into 

mine. Dad wound up his window as 

the car continued to accelerate. 

Mum looked to the front, fiddling 

with her necklace once more. Colin 

and I sat staring at the backs of the 

heads before us, trying to hold back 

tears. Colin succeeded, but a tear 

rolled from each of my eyes, one 

after the other. They crawled to my 

chin and I wiped them with the 

back of my hand. I raised my hand 

to my mouth and tasted the salty 

moisture. It was intense and stung 

my top lip slightly. 

School tomorrow, boys, my 

mother said. Bath time, tonight. As 

she spoke another insect hit the 

windscreen and splattered like a 

raindrop. My father had both hands 

on the steering-wheel again as we 

reached a steady speed. We 

emerged from the shade and Marley 

Wood slowly disappeared behind 

us. 

41 




William Leahy

December 1945... 

by John West 

Arsenal 3 (Rooke, Mortenson 2), 

Dynamo Moscow 4 (Bobrov, other scorers unknown) 

You draw deeply from your Victory, feel the smoke 

expand your lungs as it goes about its lethal but 

invigorating work. Now you rub your mittened hands 

against the wintry chill, exhale and watch your breathe 

dissolve into the general fug, see it thicken and expand 

to fill the ground. You're here, at the Lane, to write 

about the Dynamo and the Arsenal for the Tribune. Or, 

at least, that was the idea. You were going to write 

about the game, but instead you're stood here shivering 

and sniffling and staring at low cloud. You take another 

puff of Victory. It draws a rattle from you as stirring as 

that of any whirled above their head by a young 

enthusiast. You peer out and vaguely sense there's still 

a pitch behind the secretive curtain of fog. You're here, 

at the Lane, to watch the Arsenal play at home and 

somewhere a clock must be striking thirteen. 

You're here to watch the Dynamo play the Arsenal at 

the Lane, but this isn't really the Arsenal. How could a 

team containing Matthews, Mortenson and Rooke be 

called an Arsenal team? That is what the Soviets will 

claim. And you know, if no one else does, that this is not 

a Dynamo team but a Soviet team. You don't want to 

admit it, don't want to be their stooge or help do 

Pravda's work for them, but deep down you 

acknowledge that the men from Moscow are correct. 

How could it be otherwise? This is Dzerzhinsky's team. 

So this will not be Dynamo v. Arsenal. This is England 

v The USSR. This is not football, this is propaganda; 

this will not be sport, it will be war minus the shooting. 

And you are here, at the Lane, recording the 

particulars, tugging on a Victory smoke and grimacing 

a little with every waft of the whiff of the flat-capped 

42 


crowd around you. They are mainly here to see these 

sporting heroes from the realm of Uncle Joe. Uncle Joe. 

There's nothing avuncular about the reign of the Soviet 

Tsar. You've tried to tell them, but they will not listen. 

But you'll keep going, trying to find the words to nail 

this slippery, wriggling and inconvenient truth to the 

cathedral door. After the match you'll peel away from 

the dispersing crowd, head back to Canonbury Square 

and tap away at those sturdy iron keys, alone once more 

with that interrogating consciousness; the last man in 

Europe. 

You peer through the fog at where the teams should 

be. You can see the ghostly frames of the two Soviet 

linesmen, their boots hugging the chalk of the same 

right-hand touchline in a Soviet perversion of the norm. 

The game kicks off and straight away the Russians 

score. "Bobrov", suggests a flat-capped cockney in the 

crowd. Then Rooke scores; then another two for 

Mortenson before the Russians pull one back and score 

again. There's a scuffle between the players, a white 

shirt arm strikes out through fug. Half time arrives, a 

break in the hostilities; this war without the weapons 

pauses for a brief cup of tea. 

The fog grows ever thicker; the restart is delayed. 

Low heavy cloud obscures the machinations in the 

tunnel. A rumour starts to work its way around the 

ground; the Soviet officials will call off the game if their 

team has not drawn level before the end. Finally, into 

the murky gloom the 22 emerge. Red and white shirts 

flash out of the fog like plane tails plunging through low 

cloud. The Russians score. They score again. The final 

whistle blows; the air is foul. 

You'll trudge back down the Seven Sisters, past 

beastly charred facades. Ill and filled with ill-will, you'll 

shuffle up the stairs. Another whooping, rattling cough 

as you unwind your tight pulled, 'tache tickling scarf. 

You'll roll and shift and clunk and jab until gradually the 

black words seep and thaw the sheet of snow before 

you. Your spirit slowly warms. Another Victory. You let 

it dangle, downward pointing, 

held steady by a tight-lipped 

smile. Tap tap tap. Clunk. Tap 

tap tap tap tap tap as you type 

your weekly Tribune piece: As I 

Please, by George Orwell; "The 

Sporting Spirit"... 


A lesson learned 

By Laura Brown 

One: A Date with Disaster 

So far this month I have been on 

three very unsuccessful dates. 

Tim the trainspotter was the first. 

He awaited my arrival outside the 

Italian restaurant with his jotter pad 

open and his pen poised. Perhaps he 

likened me to a long awaited engine 

pulling into the station. As I 

approached and introduced myself 

he began to write something. It got 

me thinking that possibly he wasn’t 

a trainspotter at all, but something 

far more sinister, some sort of 

woman-spotter. For all I knew this 

could be a hip new sport. Under the 

guise of the trusty anorak, men 

could lurk about in groups noting 

down women’s vital statistics in 

their fusty little pads. Then on a 

Sunday afternoon in a country pub 

they could all sip from one orange 

juice and reminisce about the time 

they saw the 36-24-36. I couldn’t get 

this thought out of my head as he 

reached for my hand with his own 

grubby mitt that had just been 

wiped down the leg of his trousers. 

What the hell was he wiping off? I 

took it begrudgingly and tried not 

to think of the possible bacterial 

infections he could be giving me. 

As the food arrived I prayed he 

would remove the stripy scarf he 

had tightly wrapped around his 

neck, or at least take off the bobble 

hat. My prayers were answered and 

he slowly unwound the scarf and 

placed the hat next to his plate. 

God, I wish he hadn’t. With the hat 

came a snowfall of dandruff that 

sprinkled over his pasta like 

Parmesan cheese that hadn’t been 

grated finely enough. The scarf hid 

its own array of sins. Once removed 

spots, shaving scabs and what even 

looked like a love bite were all on 

display. I couldn’t bear to look at 

him and my stomach turned as I 

tried to tuck into my own spaghetti 

bolognese. It is safe to say that I 

won’t be seeing him again. 

A week later, outside the same 

restaurant, it was my turn to wait for 

a date’s arrival. And wait I did, for 

an hour and a half. As I was just 

about to throw in the towel, I spied 

what seemed to be an attractive 

man strolling slowly towards me. As 

he got nearer my heart rate 

quickened. He was a fine example 

of a man. A white t-shirt was 

stretched tight across his broad 

chest. His arms were muscular and 

almost as big around as my thigh. I 

resisted the urge to squeeze them as 

he introduced himself simply as 

‘Ollie’. I was a little disappointed 

that he chose not to apologise for 

being late, but what the hell! A girl 

can’t have it all. Once inside the 

candle-lit restaurant, he pulled out 

my chair and began to ask me all the 

right questions that are part and 

parcel of a first date. It was going 

well and as I answered I couldn’t 

help but look into his giraffe-lashed 

blue eyes. As he quickly broke into 

conversation about himself I 

noticed that his hair was completely 

faultless; like Barbie’s boyfriend 

Ken, it looked plastic and sprayed 

into place. His tan was also a 

worrying shade of burnt umber. In 

the dim light he could well have 

been Man Friday’s long-lost 

brother. I looked to his wrists for 

the signs of fake tanning and was 

not shocked to see white hands with 

orange palms. It is amazing what 

lengths people go to in the effort to 

look good and impress. At this 

point I realised that for the past ten 

minutes I hadn’t actually listened to 

a single word the man had said. I 

nodded heartily to whatever it was 

43 

undergraduate fiction 

he was talking about and began to 

pay attention. For two hours I 

learned the perils of not wearing 

sweat absorbent trainers on a hot 

day, the best gym equipment to use 

to work on my legs, bum and tum 

and, most importantly, what colour 

t-shirt shows off finely-toned abs. 

Surprisingly, I have actually put this 

man on my ‘possible second date’ 

list. However, as yet I haven’t called 

him. 

The last date so far this month 

was with a gentleman named Tony. 

I had very high hopes for this date 

as he’d phoned in advance and 

asked what food I liked and where I 

would like to eat. I suggested my 

local Harvester as the salad bar is 

free and there is an endless supply of 

white rolls. He was a little taken 

aback that I picked such an ordinary 

restaurant, but seemed happy with 

the choice. On the night of the date 

I made a special effort to look nice, I 

applied a face pack, shaved my legs 

and sprayed myself with my most 

expensive fragrance. Waiting for 

him to arrive I felt confident that the 

evening was going to be a success 

or, if not a success, I would certainly 

be able to fill my plate with plenty of 

food. 

I looked around the quiet 

restaurant hoping to spot my date; 

I couldn’t see anyone that I thought 

could be him. There was a fat man 

in the corner already tucking into a 

plate of ribs, a young schoolboy 

trying to get served an alcoholic 

drink and a small man sitting in the 

corner who looked like Barry 

Manilow. I hoped that none of them 

were my man. Barry in the corner 

was getting up and looking in my 

direction. I’m not religious but I 

began to cross my chest and pray for 

divine intervention. He swaggered 

towards me like a 50s film star and 


kissed my hand. Barry was Tony 

and my skin was already crawling. 

The food was good, really good. 

The salad was crunchy and the 

bread rolls were fresh. I ordered half 

a chicken and ate it all. My date was 

a funny little man. Part of me 

wanted him to whip out a small 

Casio keyboard and serenade me 

with a medley of classic Barry hits. 

Unfortunately nothing so exciting 

happened. Instead, I ate while he 

talked about accounting and told 

me his clients’ life stories. As we 

parted company he declared that I 

was wonderful. I doubted his 

sincerity, but agreed that I had also 

had an enjoyable evening. At this 

point he tried to kiss me; luckily my 

expensive perfume caught the back 

of his throat and sent him into a 

coughing fit as I bade him 

goodnight and ran into the 

darkness. 

Tonight I am preparing for my 

fourth and last date of the month. 

After the previous three fine 

specimens I don’t hold out much 

hope of a romantic liaison. I have 

gone against my own better 

judgement and let my mother 

organise another encounter of the 

male variety. I could kill my brother 

for buying her a laptop and showing 

her how to use the internet. Lately 

she has been coming out with some 

rather strange things, and I fear that 

she is perusing web pages that are 

highly unsuitable for a woman of her 

growing years. Talk of bondage, 

whips and crotchless knickers is not 

what you want to hear from your 

mother’s lips, even if it is just to ask 

why people enjoy such things. 

Internet dating is the latest fad to 

take her fancy, and so far I have 

fulfilled her wishes by going on 

three quite frankly rubbish dates. 

Tim, Ollie and Tony were hardly 

the best possible candidates for 

dinner dates. I wonder where she 

found them, if she was using a 

website called www.weirdmen.com 

or something. Tonight she has 

assured me that I will ‘hit it off’ with 

her latest offering. All I know is that 

he is young, called Gary and that he 

works in a school. My friend Emma 

has decided that after the last three 

catastrophes she is coming with me 

as she fears for my safety and sanity. 

I am thankful for the offer, as my 

mother has refused to disclose the 

date venue. It’s troubling how 

excited she is getting about this date 

and the secrecy surrounding it. 

In the mirror my face looks puffy 

and tired, the thick cream I am 

rubbing into my skin is described as 

having ‘anti-aging oxidants’ and 

‘amino acids’. Perhaps I am allergic 

to them or my skin is just beyond 

repair. I have been using this gunk 

for two months and to me nothing 

has changed. I try to get a closer 

look at the open pores, which are 

like gaping cavities on my nose, and 

manage to head butt the mirror. 

Now I have a large red bump to 

contend with. 

“What’s going on in there? Are 

you doing yourself an injury again?” 

Emma is laughing as she asks me 

the question through the closed 

door, “What are you wearing? What 

shall I wear? Where are we going 

again?” 

I open the door and answer her 

string of questions. On her advice I 

decide to ring my mum and find out 

exactly what is going on. I pick up 

the receiver of our battered old 

phone and begin to dial the number. 

As usual there is no response. 

“She isn’t answering. Just wear 

anything. You know it’s going to be 

rubbish anyway.” 

I laugh as I say the last part and 

enter my room to begin the arduous 

task of getting ready. It is hard to 

44 


know what to wear when you are 

meeting a stranger, don’t know 

where you are going, and would 

rather be staying at home watching 

TV. I drag out a red dress from my 

crammed wardrobe and root 

around on the floor trying to find the 

matching killer red stilettos. I try on 

the whole outfit and surprisingly it 

looks quite sexy. The dress hugs my 

size 12 curves in the right places and 

the high heels make my short legs 

seem longer. A slick of red lipstick 

and a shot of hairspray on my new, 

short, dark bob and I’m done. I 

emerge from my room to find 

Emma in the lounge chatting to my 

mother. 

My mother offers, “Going for the 

lady-in-red look?” and begins to hum 

the classic De Berg tune. 

“Thanks for that, I thought I 

looked quite good, actually. 

Anyway, what are you doing here, 

all dressed up like a dog’s dinner?” 

I stand with hand on hip, waiting 

impatiently for her reply. 

“You look lovely, dear, like a 

plump tomato. I thought I would 

come along and see what it is you’re 

doing to scare all these dates away.” 

I want to tell her that all the men 

she has so far picked have been 

oddballs and that I didn’t scare 

them away: I simply didn’t like 

them. I refrain from retorting as I 

catch a glimpse of her bare leg and 

the stark realisation of what she is 

wearing hits me. She has been 

rooting through my old wardrobe 

again, and managed to put together 

an outfit that I probably once wore 

when I was 15. A short, frayed 

denim mini-skirt with a black and 

white, frilly, polka-dot shirt, open to 

reveal a cleavage that I didn’t know 

she had. To top off the hideous 80s 

look she somehow managed to find 

some white plastic boots. 


A Lesson Learned 

Laura Brown

I could see Emma eyeing her 

suspiciously, finally complimenting 

her and asking, “You’re very dressed 

up tonight, Maggie, where are we 

going?” 

Emma tried not to laugh when 

my mother chirped happily, “I’ve 

booked a cab to take us to this really 

happening club in town called 

Loose.” I had to correct her before 

she embarrassed herself further. 

“Mother, the club is called ‘Juice’ 

and it’s full of young people. I don’t 

think you’ll like it.” 

CC’s 

“Why not? I thought it would be 

nice to spend an evening together. 

Anyway, I’m not that old.” 

Luckily I don’t have a chance to 

reply as the doorbell rings and we 

huddle out to the waiting cab. It 

feels strange going out clubbing 

with my mother. Somehow the 

roles have been reversed and I am 

now the mature responsible adult 

looking after the clueless child. I 

want to make sure that nothing 

happens to her, yet I somehow want 

her to look after me. I see the bright 

Slumped on sofas, we watch the bustling room in terror, 

Keeping forced mouths upturned. Coming here was an error: 

Pissed-up preppy girls on the arms of leering ‘flash your cash’ men. 

Think its time to go to the bar and get another drink – or ten. 

We manoeuvre through crowds of clicking heels, flicking hair, 

Take our position at the bar, packed in tight, but no one’s aware. 

Glasses ring, pushed together as the punters are told. 

An extortionate price tag: the vodka should be laced with gold. 

Makeup- and hair-filled restroom, 

Choking on a dense mist of perfume, 

I stumble, anxious to get out. 

Could leave already, without a pout. 

Pulled to dance with chants of ‘under my umbrella’. 

Would rather sit in my local with a pint of Stella, 

Listening to the drunks slurring their words, 

Telling me how they used to get all the ‘birds’. 

Smiles still standing as I observe your jaded stance, 

Whispers in my ear while there’s still a chance. 

It’s either get to the bar or get out the door, 

Quick, before friends catch us leaving the floor. 


No one surrounding us seems to notice. 

Lack of lustre within, something ceases to exist. 

It’s only you, looking at me who seems to understand, 

As we escape the mass, fingers lightly touching my hand. 

Maria Ridley 

45 


orange florescent sign like a beacon 

over the dirty doorway. Emma is 

jumping up and down on the seat 

like a child and my mother can’t help 

shouting, “There it is, there it is,” like 

she had never seen a doorway and a 

sign before. As we get out of the car 

I find it hard to resist the urge to 

pull my mother’s skirt down. 

Luckily it is early and there isn’t a 

queue of people to watch Emma 

and I usher my mutton-like mother 

into the club. The club is old and 

dirty and the décor isn’t up to much. 

It is 6 years since I last came here 

and celebrated my 21st birthday and 

I never thought I would return 

sober and with my mother. 

Emma breaks my contemplation 

as she begins to question my mum 

about my impending date, “So, 

Maggie, what is this guy like? Is he 

fit? What does he do?” 

“He’s young, very good looking, 

works in a school…” She trails off, 

almost in a dream-like state; her 

enthusiasm over the words ‘good 

looking’ is a little exaggerated for my 

liking. The drinks begin to flow and 

the club starts to fill up with 

underage drinkers. Over the hustle 

and bustle and drunken shouting I 

can barely hear a word of what 

anyone is saying. My mother has 

nearly fallen off her stool twice and 

Emma is telling a story, which I 

haven’t caught much of, with so 

much enthusiasm she is spilling half 

her drink on the already sodden, 

ash-covered carpet. 

“Where is he?” My mother shouts 

at me in a disappointed tone. I am 

about to answer when I notice she 

is staring at something in the 

distance. 

“What are you staring at?” 

“It’s him, it’s him….” 

She trails off and jumps down 

from her stool. Emma and I both 

look in the direction she is walking. 



Laura Brown

My god, the man walking through 

the door is gorgeous. Dark haired 

and rugged, he reminds me of a 

young Mr Rochester, though better 

looking and less weathered. Quite 

frankly I wouldn’t care if he had two 

mad women caged in his attic. If 

this is my date, my mother has 

surpassed herself. 

“He is good looking!” Emma 

offers these words and straightens 

her skirt. I can tell I have 

competition. 

I look expectantly in my mother’s 

direction to see whether she is 

leading this hunk towards me. My 

dream man has walked straight past 

her and she is talking to someone 

else. Even through the smog of 

cigarette smoke I know he is young, 

very young. My mother is tottering 

towards a table and he is kissing her 

on the cheek, his arm is draped 

about her shoulder and she is 

staring up at him, he is looking 

down on her with a loving gaze. 

“Do we know him?” 

Emma looks puzzled. I think for 

a minute, and realise that I do. He 

went to my school; he is the much 

younger brother of one of our 

friends. 

“It’s Gary Granger…” 

Emma looks shocked 

“It can’t be, he’s only 17.” 

I look for my mother and she is 

still under the spell of the toy boy. 

So much for ‘working in a school’. 

He is still at school! I feel the urge 

to drag my Mrs Robinson of a 

mother away from her latest beau. 

Yet, I also want to wait and see 

what happens. After all, he was 

supposed to be my date for the 

evening, not hers. What is she 

playing at? 

“They are getting very cosy over 

there, don’t they make a lovely 

couple?” 

Emma is laughing and looking 

over at them. I can’t stand it any 

longer. I decide that enough is 

enough. 

“She is old enough to be your 

mother!” 

I stare at him, waiting for an 

answer. 

“So... is she old enough to be 

your mother too?” 

His response is feeble and 

patronising and reinforces my hate 

for the youth of today. 

“She is my mother, and if you 

don’t hop it, I’m going to tell your 

brother that you have been out 

underage drinking.” 

After the last comment I realise 

that I am too much of a teacher for 

my own good. He is looking up at 

me with a defiant gaze in his eye. 

“You do that.” 

As the schoolboy and I eyeball 

each other, my mother is slinking 

lower and lower in her seat. Gary 

isn’t giving an inch and my mother’s 

bowed head proves that perhaps I 

should just leave them to it. 

“Fine,” I murmur defiantly, shrug 

my shoulders and head back to find 

Emma. She isn’t where I left her. In 

fact she isn’t anywhere to be seen. I 

scan the seating area, the dance 

floor and finally the bar. Out of the 

corner of my eye I see her, taking a 

drink from Mr Rochester. The 

Judas, she knew I liked him. Not 

just any drink, it looks like a bloody 

expensive cocktail to boot. He is 

either trying to impress, or wanting 

to see her knickers. What do I do 

now? Go and join my mother and 

the infant or stand by Emma and 

watch my ideal man throw his best 

moves her way. I decide that neither 

option is a good one, and go to buy 

myself a large drink. 

The bar is relatively quiet; only a 

few pervy old men with last night’s 

gravy on their polo shirted beer 

46 


bellies are leeching by the bar. I feel 

a little disappointed that not one of 

them sees fit to buy me a drink. I 

give the fat bald headed one the eye; 

he looks in the opposite direction. 

What the hell is wrong with me? 

I take my double vodka from the 

spotty barman and down it in one. 

“Fancy another?” 

I look in the path of the voice. 

This must be a joke. I’m desperate 

but not that desperate. The man 

could easily be Borat’s face- and 

body double. 

“No, I’m alright. Thanks 

anyway,” I offer him as kindly as I 

can. 

“Guess where I’m from then?” 

The guy is leaning eagerly 

towards me. 

“I don’t know, Kazakhstan?” 

He looks perplexed and replies,” 

No, Cornwall.” 

I nod and smile and back away 

from this very strange man. I don’t 

even look for my mother or Emma 

as I hail a cab and leave. 

The flat is cold and empty as I 

return miserable and deflated. I sit 

in the dim light and try and eat the 

greasy chicken kebab I have just 

brought from the grotty eatery on 

the corner of my road. Bits of lettuce 

and blobs of mayonnaise are falling 

on my dress. I wish I had the selfcontrol 

not to buy rubbish food after 

a dreadful night, but I don’t. 

Two: Room to Move 

My mother is still dating the toy 

boy. I have been counting; it 

has been precisely 3 months and 5 

days. I pray to God that it is merely 

a platonic relationship. My brother 

finds the whole scenario strangely 

amusing and has even joked that we 

start calling him ‘dad’. This is not 

funny and won’t be happening. 

Emma has just broken up with Mr 



Laura Brown

Rochester. It seems he does have a 

wife. Not caged in the attic as first 

suspected but living in a house with 

his two children in St Albans. She is 

rightly devastated and has declared 

herself to be a ‘plain Jane’, which I 

found slightly ironic. I have given up 

on men entirely. I am not about to 

become the image of Mrs 

Havisham and mope about my flat 

in a grubby wedding dress, pining 

for a lost love. No, I have just 

decided that the single life isn’t all 

that bad. 

“Should I call him?” 

Emma stares up at me with tears 

in her eyes and chocolate ice cream 

round her mouth. 

“No, I don’t really think that is 

the best idea….” 

I trail off because I see her 

reaching for her mobile phone and I 

know that nothing I can say will 

stop her. By late afternoon Mr 

Rochester is on my doorstep with a 

green canvas bag, begging me to let 

him move into our flat. I am a weakwilled 

pushover. He has only been 

moved in for twenty minutes and 

has already got Emma making him 

tea and unpacking his clothes, 

refolding his shirts so they don’t 

crease. His bag seems to be 

bottomless; in the style of Mary 

Poppins, more and more things 

keep flying out all over the front 

room. I have learnt that he is an 

experienced yoga teacher or, as he 

calls himself, a ‘master yogi’. The 

mat, resistance tubing and large 

blow-up exercise ball, which he is 

currently pumping up with a 

ridiculously small bike pump, all 

indicate that at least this much 

about him is true. The man is a 

terrible flirt; he has already declared 

that he can contort himself into all 

sorts of ‘positions’ and that his 

favourite of all is the ‘downward 

dog’. He gave Emma a flirty smile 

when he said it, which sent her into 

a tizzy, and then winked in my 

direction. My door will be firmly 

bolted tonight. 

“What’s for dinner, ladies?” 

He asks chucking himself onto 

the sofa with his muddy shoes still 

on. Emma runs to the kitchen to 

search through our half empty 

fridge, 

“Chicken curry?” 

He pulls a face, “What else have 

you got?” 

Getting up he leisurely strolls to 

the fridge and starts rummaging 

through like a cave man. Eventually 

he decides what he wants and leaves 

Emma in the kitchen to cook it. 

Walking back to the lounge he 

grabs the TV remote, chucks 

himself on the sofa and starts 

flicking through the channels. I 

actually hate him. I can’t stand being 

in the same room as the bendable 

adulterer and decide that the 

possible chance of poisoning him is 

too good to miss. 

“What are you cooking? Want a 

hand?” I ask, hoping to merely talk 

and not help. 

“He wants chicken pieces, 

marinated in paprika, with egg fried 

noodles and a tossed salad.” 

She repeats the food order with 

an air of sarcasm that proves that it 

is not just me that is irritated by his 

presence. 

“It’s nice to see women working 

in their rightful place,” he laughs at 

his own joke grabbing the last cold 

can of diet coke from the fridge 

before wandering out of view. 

Emma stares at me with a look of 

horror in her eyes. “Lindsay, what 

have I done?” 

I laugh and rub her shoulder. 

“There must be something good 

about him.” 

She thinks long and hard and 

finally comes up with “sex.” 

47 


Personally, I don’t think being good 

at sex is a valid reason for moving a 

married man into our tiny flat. 

Although, I might be tempted if one 

threw himself at me. 

“We’ll think of something.” I offer 

these words with absolutely no 

thoughts on how to get rid of the 

chauvinistic imbecile. 

I felt like an outsider in my own 

home as the evening progressed. 

After devouring dinner, they 

decided to devour each other. Lying 

together on the sofa, shrouded in 

my expensive cashmere throw I 

could distinctly see a bit of fumbling 

going on. I was forced to sit on the 

floor as there is only one sofa in the 

lounge and the ‘happy couple’ were 

lolling all over it. My bum was 

numb and my neck sore as I had 

nothing to rest my back against. I 

would have gone to my room, but 

there was a film on that I wanted to 

watch. Just as it was about to start, 

the kissing commenced. Slurping 

and sucking, gulping and gurgling, 

at one point even a low moan. The 

TV remote was wedged between 

them. I needed to retrieve it before 

the humping started. I tried to 

grope and grab it. I pulled 

something else that was long and 

hard, but unfortunately not the 

remote. Eventually I managed to 

find it and increased the volume. 

The kissing stopped abruptly and 

he demanded, “Do you have to have 

it that loud? I’ve got a bit of a 

headache.” 

How dare he question what I do 

in my own home? What I really 

wanted to say was, ‘You didn’t have 

a headache when you were sucking 

my friend’s tongue like a demented 

Hoover.’ 

Instead I opted for “Yes, I do.” 

Silence fell in the room and the 

atmosphere was tense. Finally he 

muttered seductively to Emma, 



Laura Brown

“Shall we retire to the bedroom?” 

She nodded dutifully and followed 

him. Before exiting the room she 

turned and mouthed ‘sorry’. 

I feel alone, miserable and sad. 

Now, in bed, I can’t sleep. Partly 

because I feel sorry for myself and 

am worried about my first day back 

at school tomorrow, but mainly 

because I can hear them shagging. 

I have never liked the first day of a 

new school year and the thought of 

a brand new class is always 

daunting. 

Three: Class Rules 

The school gate has received a 

fresh lick of blue paint during 

the 6 weeks I have been away and 

the wisteria over the entrance is 

slowly shedding its spongy summer 

leaves. The staff room is humming 

with talk of expensive holidays, new 

cars, and new homes. I have 

nothing to say; over the summer 

break I have done zilch but put on 

10 pounds and watch TV. I scurry 

to the corner of the room and sit 

with my tea and biscuits avoiding 

the gaze of everyone. 

“ Good morning, Lindsey, have 

a nice break?” 

I know the voice before I see the 

face. 

“ Lovely, yourself?” I ask, not 

really wanting to hear the answer. 

“Wonderful, wonderful. David 

proposed in Dubai and the sale 

went through on the 4-bed in 

Chalfont. So not a lot really.” She 

trails off to a titter. I look up at the 

fresh blonde highlights of the 

bobbing head above me and realise 

that I haven’t answered. 

“That’s great for you, how 

fantastic”. I try to say the words 

without sarcasm. 

“I know, it’s a dream come true.” 

She walks off in the direction of 

another sucker willing to hear her 

‘wonderful’ news. I remember the 

days in college when I helped her 

pass her exams. Now, she has been 

promoted over me, is marrying a 

music industry mogul, and has a 

lovely house in the suburbs. Not 

that I’m envious. I, on the other 

hand, haven’t had a proper 

boyfriend in three years, live in a 

rented flat, and am professionally 

overlooked. I have a feeling the day 

is set to get worse. 

My new classroom is bigger than 

my last one, and is flooded with 

light from a large window that 

overlooks the school playing field. 

As yet the walls are white and 

empty, awaiting decoration. I barely 

have a minute of contemplation 

before the room is heaving with 

boisterous 8 year olds. I enjoy the 

happy hubbub. On first impression 

they don’t seem like a bad bunch. 

The girls are chatting in intimate 

groups and the boys are playfully 

kicking one another. But one boy in 

particular is standing completely 

alone. Sam has a reputation 

throughout the 

school as being 

disruptive in 

lessons and 

anti-social 

towards other 

pupils. Even 

though I can’t 

see his face, I 

know it’s him. I 

call his name 

and he turns 

round and 

stares at me 

dolefully from a 

lowered head. 

He has the 

features of a 

cherub; golden 

blonde curly 

locks frame his 

plump face and 

48 

Paranoia 


large sad blue eyes that he stares at 

me with. Everyone is seated apart 

from him. 

“Can you sit down please, Sam?” 

I instruct him firmly. 

He takes no notice and continues 

to stare out of the window. 

“Something worth looking at 

outside?” I ask, walking closer to 

him. 

Still he gives no answer. 

Running out of the classroom, he 

slams the door. Maria, my 

classroom assistant, goes after him. 

Within minutes he is back, sitting at 

his desk, refusing to work. Playing 

with the lid of his pen, he is already 

wearing my patience. 

At lunchtime I purposely sit with 

Mr Trent, a small German man 

with black hair styled in a slick side 

parting. Rude and unwelcoming, he 

has few friends among the staff. As 

he stares down my top, I ask him 

questions about Sam’s behaviour 

last year. In between taking large 

bites of a greasy sausage sandwich, 

the only explanation he can offer for 

Paranoia is whispers on the back of hands, 

Paranoia is clutching a plane seat before it lands. 

Paranoia is feeling watched as you walk upstairs, 

Paranoia is finding three grey hairs, 

Paranoia is checking your teeth when someone stares. 

Paranoia is walking home late at night, 

Paranoia is flight over fight. 

Paranoia is smoking spliffs on your own, 

Paranoia is acid changing music’s tone, 

Paranoia is God talking on the phone. 

Paranoia is a knife shining bright, 

Paranoia is when your throat gets tight. 


Kerry Williams 



Laura Brown

the way the boy behaves is to call 

him a “little fucker.” 

After asking several members of 

staff about Sam, I have uncovered 

nothing, apart from the fact that his 

parents have never attended a 

parents’ evening to discuss their son. 

I am giving him a week to improve 

his behaviour and this year his 

parents will be attending the open 

evening. 

Four: Spiders Legs 

It has been 5 weeks since the 

bendable adulterer moved in. 

Unfortunately, he and Emma are 

still dating. Emma has asked him 

numerous times to find his own 

place to live with no success. We are 

currently plotting his demise, but 

seeing as his wife has found a new 

man and dumped all of his clothes 

in a black sack on our doorstep, it is 

becoming increasingly hard, as he 

now has nowhere else to go. As 

much as I loathe him, I would hate 

to reduce him to the depths of 

homelessness, forcing him to buy a 

three-legged dog and charity shop 

blanket to beg for pennies. 

Sam’s behaviour has worsened. 

Last week he threw a rubber at my 

head, poked a girl in the ear with a 

pencil and shoved the corner of a 

hard back book up the classroom 

assistant’s nose. I am at my wit’s 

end; thankfully, parents’ evening is 

tonight, so at least I will be able to 

discuss his many problems. Adding 

further anguish to my troubles is my 

mother’s engagement to the 

schoolboy. 

I look terrible. The suit Emma 

has leant me is a size too small, so 

sweat patches have formed under 

my arms and are visibly seeping 

through the fabric. The skirt is so 

tight, it is stretched over my bum 

like the skin of a drum. And to top it 

off I have lost a button on my shirt, 

and my boobs are hanging out like 

a centrefold. In my haste this 

morning I forgot to pick up my 

make-up bag. With no powder or 

lipstick, my face looks oily and 

drained. I just saw the parents of the 

class clown and am about to talk to 

the guardians of the class swot. His 

father looks like an Oxford reject, 

complete with leather patched 

elbows and tweed trousers. His 

mother is, as expected, shy and 

mousy. I talk mainly to the father. 

Expressing his wishes for his son to 

go to Cambridge University, he 

informs me he has already made the 

eight-year-old study the prospectus 

and pick a subject; I try not to laugh. 

I am glad when they eventually leave 

and I can have a few moments 

respite before the next gaggle of 

pushy parents ambush me. 

“Miss McKay…” The voice has a 

charming Devonshire twang and 

the face is ruggedly handsome. His 

skin is weather-worn and covered 

with a light sprinkle of dark stubble 

that matches his mop of dark curly 

hair. I have seen his eyes before; 

large and blue, they look sadly into 

my dark brown ones as if almost 

searching for something. 

“Please take a seat.” I shake his 

hand with my own clammy one and 

look down my list to see which child 

this adult belongs too. 

Before I can find the name he 

offers his own, “I’m James Pearce, 

Sam’s dad. Sam thinks a lot of you. 

Talks about you all the time.” His 

father is staring at me now 

expecting me to say something in 

return. There are so many things I 

want to say about Sam, things I fear 

his father won’t like. As much as I 

want to, I can’t lie about his son. 

“Sam is a very disruptive 

influence in my class.” I offer gently. 

“Perhaps there is something going 

on at home that is affecting his 

49 


behaviour?” I am greeted with the 

same silence that I have come to 

expect of Sam. 

“I haven’t been at home much 

lately, his Nan has been taking care 

of him. You know how it is: when 

work comes up I have to take it.” 

He lowers his head, and rests it in 

his hands. He seems to be truly torn 

by the need to work and the welfare 

of his son. I wonder for a second 

what work it is he does that takes 

him away from his family and why 

Sam’s mum can’t take care of him. 

“He has always been a difficult 

child. We have had some really 

tough times. Lately his behaviour at 

home has been improving. 

Hopefully, he will be able to transfer 

it to the classroom.” He smiles 

broadly at me with a hopeful raise of 

one eyebrow. I want to believe him 

I really do. As he gets up and walks 

away, I watch him and hope his son 

doesn’t improve completely. 

Otherwise there will be no reason 

for me to see him again. 

The rest of the parents’ evening 

goes without a hitch and as I arrive 

home, my thoughts return to Sam’s 

dad, his lilting accent, cheeky grin 

and sad eyes. There was something 

he wasn’t telling me: he knows 

exactly why Sam is misbehaving. 

Why did he put his head in his 

hands and almost pull his hair out 

with despair? And why couldn’t his 

mother be bothered to come? 

“Alright, gorgeous,” the 

irremovable houseguest is 

wandering from the bedroom 

wrapped only in a towel. 

“Still here then?” Is all I can offer 

as he gets so close that beads of 

water plop from his still wet body 

onto my arm. 

“Afraid so,” he answers huskily 

and looks me up and down. The 

man loves himself so much that I 

wouldn’t be surprised if he kisses a 



Laura Brown

gilt-framed picture of his own slimy 

visage before he falls asleep. He sits 

on the edge of the sofa a little too 

close, with his legs wide open. The 

towel between his manhood and my 

gaze is thin and I’m starting to feel a 

tad uncomfortable. “Are you tickling 

my foot, honey?” he asks with an 

expectant raise of eyebrow. 

“No, you wish,” I simply answer. 

He looks to his foot; jumps up 

immediately and begins shouting 

hysterically, “Get it off me. Get it off 

me. Please do something! 

Anything!” 

His towel drops to the floor and 

he is left stark naked, gripping his 

manhood, shaking like a scared little 

child. 

I jump up too and begin to 

bellow, “What’s wrong? What do 

you want me to do?” 

“Didn’t you see it? The spider? It 

was huge! It ran over my foot. Can 

Scarf Me Up 

Scarf around my neck, 

And the old lady in mustard leggings, 

Flagging 

Tesco bags, 

Gently flanks me, 

Serpentining through hoodies, 

With the goodies in her denim trolley. 

A rising grey, 

She gazes up at me - 

hair in disarray - 

Eyes, 

Blasphemous black. 

Beautiful. 

She smiles, 

‘Make sure you stay warm, dear.’ 

A scarf over the mouth, 

Things are different. 

People edge away, 

Even someone’s carrier bag skirts round me, 

‘Guttering, choking, drowning’ 

Under our windless bus shelter. 

you look for it?” 

Hopping from one foot to 

another, I can’t help but laugh at 

him. 

“A spider?” I almost mock. 

“Arachnophobia is a valid fear, 

you know. Not something to 

ridicule. It affects millions of 

people.” He preaches the last bit as 

he runs to the bedroom to, I hope, 

put some clothes on. I look for the 

feared animal, expecting to find a 

hairy fiend. Instead I discover a 

medium-sized house spider, 

cowering in the corner. I pick it up 

and set it free. Perhaps getting rid of 

him will be easer than first expected. 

Five: Teacher’s Pet 

It is nearly the end of term. It has 

been 6 weeks since parents’ 

evening, and Sam has become my 

new best friend. Giving him jobs to 


50 


do within the classroom has 

boosted his morale and at the 

moment his disruptive behaviour is 

gradually improving. Currently, he 

is my book monitor. I have become 

very attached to seeing his cherubic 

features in the morning, so much so 

that I feel a pang of disappointment 

when he is late or absent. However, 

there is still a tiny part of me that 

wishes his behaviour would slip ever 

so slightly. Then I would have a 

perfectly valid excuse to see his 

handsome father again. Somehow, 

unfortunately, I think Sam has 

learnt his lesson. My plan for 

removing the unwelcome 

houseguest is coming together 

nicely. I just hope and pray it works. 

The classroom is empty, apart 

from Sam. I can see him placing 

textbooks on the appropriate tables 

through the rectangle of glass in the 

door. 

“Morning, Sam,” I offer 

cheerfully as I plonk my heavy pile of 

marking on my cluttered desk, 

making pencils fly off in every 

direction. As I turn round he is 

opposite me, rocking from side to 

side, gripping something nervously 

with two hands behind his back. 

“Can I ask you something, Miss 

McKay?” His voice is trembling 

slightly and his cheeks have turned 

hot pink. 

“You know you can, Sam.” I offer 

softly and perch on the edge of my 

desk, so I’m not towering over him. 

“Well, it’s just, if you want to. I 

mean you don’t have to or anything. 

Only if you want to…” he trails off. 

“If I want to what?” I ask 

expectantly. He is really rocking 

now and his head is lowered, I 

think, with embarrassment. 

“Come and watch me play 

football on Saturday?” He asks the 

question as a mutter and looks up 

eagerly with his huge, watery blue 

Shane Jinadu 



Laura Brown

eyes wide open. I don’t know what to say. I would like 

to see him play football, but I’m sure the school wouldn’t 

be too happy with teachers spending personal time with 

individual students. 

“I’d like that, very much.” I answer and take the ticket 

from his hand. I feel strangely emotional that he has 

chosen to invite me to something that clearly means so 

much to him. The contented smile that works its way 

almost over his whole face convinces me that I have 

made the right decision. 

“What shall I wear?” I shout to Emma, hoping she 

will hurry from the front room and assist me with my 

wardrobe dilemma. 

“Anything. It’s a children’s charity football match, not 

Ladies Day at Ascot.” She looks at the red feather and 

crystal-encrusted hat I am holding and shakes her head. 

Now she is rummaging through my wardrobe, pulling 

out jeans and a sweatshirt. 

“No short skirt, no high heels and lose some of the 

makeup.” Her instructions are firm and direct and 

although I hate to admit it, I know that she is right. 

I leave the flat with my hair tied back in a scruffy 

ponytail, wearing tight jeans, low heels and a fitted, 

black, casual jacket. The walk to the park is a long one, 

and because I’m running late, very brisk. The boys are 

huddled in a group around a muscular man that I 

assume is their coach. Stretching and running on the 

spot, they all look nervous. I stand at the back behind a 

group of proud mothers, who are shouting heartily at 

their respective sons to ‘bend down low into the stretch’, 

‘take the orange segment’ and surprisingly, from one 

rather loud mother, ‘kick their arses.’ I feel out of place 

and don’t quite know if I have picked the right place to 

stand. 

“I’m glad you could make it.” I instantly recognise the 

Devonshire accent. Turning round, I almost bump 

straight into him. Conscious of my colouring cheeks, I 

don’t look him in the eye as I take his outstretched hand. 

The hand squeezing mine rather affectionately is rough 

and warm. Now looking up at him, I notice his cheeks 

are also reddening. 

“It’s going to be a good match, Sam is a great player. 

He has really come out of himself over the last few 

weeks.” James is smiling in the direction of his son and 

Sam is giving a tiny wave in our direction, big enough 

for us to see, yet small enough for his team mates not to 

mock. The roped spectator area is beginning to fill up 

with aggressive parents, all vying for the best view. I 

can’t see a thing. James is somehow managing to push 

his way to the front at the same time as grabbing my 

51 


hand and pulling me forward. Standing in front of him 

with his hands on my shoulders, I can’t concentrate on 

the match. All I can think about is how much I like the 

feel of his warm chest against my back. His hearty 

encouragement of his son endears me to him further and 

when Sam comes and hugs me at the end of the match, 

I feel strangely part of their family. James breaks my 

contemplation and asks if I would like to join them for 

some lunch. I find it hard to say no and after a bit of 

persuasion in the form of sulking Sam, I eventually 

agree. 

The café James chooses has a large slide and 

numerous swings and seesaws, and after we have eaten, 

we venture out to watch Sam play. Sitting on a damp 

wooden bench, I long to ask about the whereabouts of 

his mother and why his behaviour has so drastically 

improved. 

“Does Sam see much of his mum?” I blurt out the 

question before I have the chance to think of a better 

one. 

“No, he doesn’t see his mum at all.” James’s voice is 

melancholy and staring in the direction of his playing 

son I wish I could take back the question. 

“Oh, right,” I answer, not really knowing what to say 

next. 

“Me and Sam have had a really hard time without 

her.” He pauses just as he is about to go on. 

“Where did she go?” I eventually venture, trying to be 

sensitive to his situation. 

“She didn’t go anywhere. She died.” He doesn’t look 

up from the spot he is staring at on the ground. “She 

died, giving birth to Sam.” Now he glances up in the 

direction of his son and smiles. “For a long time I 

resented him, blamed him for her death. I wanted my 

wife back, not a tiny baby I had no idea how to care for.” 

He runs his hand through his dark curly hair and looks 

at me, his features full of remorse. 

“It is my fault Sam behaved so badly. I didn’t care for 

him the way I should. I have realised now that I was 

wrong, and what happened to her wasn’t his fault.” He 

wipes away a tear, and speaks as if contemplating his 

own feelings for the very first time. “She would have 

wanted me to love him, and I do. I just went about 

showing it in the wrong way. At the open evening, you 

made me realise that Sam’s bad behaviour was because 

of my absence. You helped me understand that I needed 

to be there for him.” He takes my hand cautiously, and 

gently continues, “He likes you very much, but it was my 

idea to invite you today. I want to thank you.” 



Laura Brown

“That’s alright. Sam is a very 

special little boy to me.” I shrug and 

try not to become tearful. Since my 

own father’s death when I was only 

ten, I know too well the difficulty of 

growing up with one parent, and 

hearing James’s story makes me 

realise how hard it must have been 

for my own mother, and how much 

I love her. We watch Sam play until 

the winter air makes our hands cold 

and our noses red. 

Six: Good Riddance 

It has been 3 weeks since the 

charity football match, and James 

and I have hardly spent an evening 

apart. I have given my blessing to 

my mother’s forthcoming nuptials 

and foolishly agreed to be a 

bridesmaid. So far, I have 

successfully warned her against 

wearing a white wedding dress with 

a thigh high split, and am currently 

trying to convince her that ‘Dancing 

Queen’ is not a suitable song to walk 

down the aisle to. Emma has 

secretly been on several dates with a 

Johnny 


He thinks he’s a rebel, 

Johnny boy. 

Watch on his right wrist 

Burberry cologne on his crotch, 

Dancing, and biting his lower lip 

With scally scorn. 

The orange ladies love him - 

He’s all smiles 

And beers in the air, 

When they’re about. 

Don’t worry, son, 

He tells himself, 

You’re a rebel 

And they, 

They can’t fight their feelings 

forever. 

Shane Jinadu 

new man, even though her old one 

is still living in our flat, eating our 

food and making our bathroom 

dirty. Sam is still by far my favourite 

pupil. 

“It’s horrible, I don’t like it.” 

Emma can barely look at it as we 

both pace round the table deciding 

the best possible place to put it for 

maximum impact. “I don’t have to 

touch it, do I?” 

I assure her that she won’t have 

to. We decide that the mantelpiece 

in the front room will be the 

optimum place. I am positive that 

lifting the heavy tank singlehandedly 

is causing strenuous 

damage to my lower back. 

“Perfect,” I muster as I let out a 

sigh of relief and step back to 

admire our expert positioning. 

“How did you manage to get 

one?” Emma questions me, her 

mouth still agog in adoration of my 

brilliance. 

“My brother knows people,” I 

shrug. 

“Do we have to keep it?” Emma 

asks, slowly exaggerating the ‘it’. I 

would love to say yes, just to see her 

face, but I don’t have the heart. 

“No. We have it on loan until 

8pm tonight, so if this doesn’t work 

I think we might be stuck with him.” 

The large pink-footed tarantula 

is eyeing us suspiciously out of its 

four pairs of eyes and leisurely 

touching the side of the tank with 

one front leg. It is definitely larger 

than my hand, although I’m not 

going to get it out and check. Now 

all we have to do is wait. 

“Honeys, I’m home,” he shouts 

loudly as he slams the front door 

and makes his way into the lounge 

where we are both sitting. Emma 

can hardly keep a straight face. At 

first he doesn’t notice it, strolling to 

the kitchen, we both stay put. The 

tank looks empty as the tarantula 

52 


crawls beneath a large piece of bark 

and curls up. “What’s in the tank?” 

he asks, walking eagerly up to it and 

tapping loudly on the side of the 

glass with his middle finger. We 

both stay silent and move to the 

edge of our seats. He taps again. I 

see it gradually move, unfolding one 

leg at a time from its tiny ball. We 

edge forward again. He lets out a 

high pitched shriek and backs 

towards the door. Emma begins to 

laugh. I keep a straight face and 

declare, “Say hello to your new 

house guest!” 

By the time the tarantula’s owner 

comes to pick her up, he is gone. 

The only things we have left to 

remember him by are an empty 

fridge and a dirty bath. I give Emma 

a scornful look, as her new man gets 

a little too comfy on the sofa. She 

knows what I mean and we both 

laugh when she asks him “Are you 

afraid of spiders?” 



Laura Brown

Piano 

Maria Papacosta 

Lily 

When I get up in the mornings, 

I’m usually a very cheerful 

person. But today I woke up and 

the first thing I wanted to do was 

shout at the cars to stop driving by 

my window so loudly. I miss 

Freddy. His house is about fifteen 

minutes away by train. I can visit it 

whenever I want, but he isn’t there 

any more. The house belongs to me, 

but it will never be my house; I don’t 

feel I have the right to change it. 

Tomorrow I am going to my 

Music Appreciation Society. There 

are nine of us that go every week and 

we usually manage to get on with 

each other. We meet in a little scout 

hut not much bigger than a bird 

box. It’s quite a secluded place, 

really. I don’t like the fact you have 

to walk through about a hundred 

metres of woodland to get to it, but 

it’s worth it once you get there. 

Apart from me and my friend Suzie, 

there’s a married couple in their 

thirties, a man called Tony who 

looks like an ageing rock star; 

Elvira, who’s succumbed to the 

surgeon’s knife, whose real age must 

be near sixty, a boy and girl who 

look so young it’s a wonder they 

were allowed out on their own, and 

Ryan, the leader of the pack who is 

unreasonably knowledgeable at the 

tender age of twenty-four. He’s a 

music graduate who likes folk, 

classical and contemporary music, 

as well as everything in between. He 

tries his best to get his members 

interested in music they think they 

won’t enjoy. 

Every week we hold a discussion 

about a certain field or genre of 

music. This is chosen at random by 

Ryan who often finds himself in the 

position of fighting the right to talk 

about things like Hip-Hop and 

Dance music that, I have to say, my 

interest strays from. It’s a fairly 

democratic system though because 

Ryan always welcomes suggestions 

from others. 

“I want you all to feel part of 

these discussions. Please tell me if 

you have any ideas about other 

topics you would like to talk about 

and I’ll note them down for next 

time.” 

Ryan’s a nice boy, I like his style 

of running things; he isn’t too 

confrontational and respects what 

we all have to say, even if someone 

thinks he’s wrong. I keep telling him 

he should become a teacher. I never 

have a problem with someone so 

young advising me on musical 

topics, but others seem to display 

their trouble with him. I’m looking 

forward to tomorrow’s meeting 

because we’re going to be talking 

about Jazz. I think Ryan thought 

it’d be a nice thing to do after I told 

him my cousin the jazz pianist had 

died. 

1925 

Rosetta Chambers was hanging 

out her washing in the usual 

fashion, when Robert came out of 

the James’ club. She had noticed 

him on numerous occasions but 

didn’t know him by name. She had 

spoken to Mr Frost only once, when 

he was moving into the building. 

“Hope you ain’t gonna be 

creating too much of a racket in 

here, because my family and me live 

upstairs,” she had said, jokingly but 

with serious intent. 

“Don’t worry ma’am, so does 

mine,” he added. 

Since that day, Rosetta 

Chambers had seen all the changes 

made in the jazz club, but she still 

didn’t think it would be successful. 

53 


She heard from Harry, who had an 

unbelievable weakness for telling 

strangers his family’s private 

business, that James was having 

trouble finding a decent performer. 

Rosetta lived with her husband 

Anthony on the apartment 

building’s 5th floor. They had been 

there since they married. They were 

young when they moved in and 

weren’t fussy about it being small or 

having holes in the floorboards that 

could catch your feet and make you 

stumble. 

Now in her fifties, she 

remembers her childhood as though 

it was a dream. She married 

Anthony because she was pregnant 

with his child. They told everyone 

they were in love, even though they 

probably didn’t know what it meant 

back then. Over the years they had 

grown to love each other and now 

they were closer than they ever 

thought they could be. 

They had lived in the apartment 

for almost thirty years and in all that 

time they hadn’t dared redecorate 

for fear the walls would fall down 

around them. Hank, who was their 

only child, lived with them 

throughout this time. He was a 

twenty-seven year old with no real 

aims in life. This put a strain on his 

parents. Rosetta wanted him to be 

a minister and work in a local 

church where he would gain the 

respect of the whole community. 

His father wanted him to carry on 

the family trade. He was a butcher 

who had worked every day of his life 

and still didn’t see the light of 

retirement at the end of the tunnel. 

Hank didn’t care to get a job. His 

parents were too soft on him, so he 

decided to take advantage of this for 

as long as possible. They felt guilty 

that they had brought him into the 


world while they were still children themselves. 

Anthony tried to talk to him about it. 

“I think you ought to start making your own life, son. 

Don’t you wanna have your own home with your own 

family and some kids too?” 

“Dad, I’m too young for all that business. I still need 

to find myself first.” 

“Well, you ain’t gonna find yourself anything if you sit 

here all day doing nothing.” 

“I go to church on Sundays, don’t I? And I offer to 

play the organ too.” Hank was good at playing the 

accompaniment for the hymns they sang. While he was 

playing, he could forget about everything else in his life 

and concentrate on that. No other thought entered his 

head as he worked his fingers across the keys. He 

received lots of compliments at the end of the service. It 

was mainly from old women who said they had a nice 

granddaughter to introduce him to, but it was always 

someone he thought too unattractive, too short, too 

talkative or sometimes it was someone he couldn’t find 

anything wrong with and this bothered him even more. 

“But that ain’t enough. What about working for me 

at the butcher’s?” 

“Dad, what makes you think a career in cutting up 

dead animals is appealing?” Hank looked precisely like 

his father from certain angles. He had a prominent 

brow that rested neatly above his thickly lashed eyes. 

Anthony had the same brow line but had started to lose 

his hair. 

“Oh yeah, I forgot, it’s much more fun for you to get 

drunk listening to Fats Waller records, just so you 

forget what a miserable life you lead. You know what? 

You remind me of a hobo. You’re probably the only 

hobo I know that has a permanent residence.” 

Anthony didn’t like arguing with his son but it was 

the only way he could get his point across. He wanted 

his son to tell him he knew what he wanted out of life 

and find something he was passionate about. 

Rosetta, on the other hand, knew a job that her son 

would love. She didn’t want to mention it though. It 

would lead him off the moral path she had planned out 

for him. Just because she conceived him before she was 

married didn’t mean she was going to let him be 

damned for life. Rosetta preferred to send her son out to 

do odd jobs for neighbours and friends. At least this 

kept him occupied. In the afternoons she would send 

him to her cousin Maurice to help him with various 

repairs around his house. She knew he would soon find 

out about the jazz club’s lack of performers but she 

54 


didn’t think she would ever witness it from her 

apartment window. 

Hank was on his way to church to practice hymns on 

the organ since he had no real way of rehearsing at 

home. There was nothing else he would get up early for 

but music was so important to him and he enjoyed it so 

much that even having a lie in wasn’t as appealing as 

playing out few chords. 

Rosetta was proud of the fact that he wanted to do 

something at the church. 

“And if you see Reverend Joseph, please say hello 

from me and tell him I’ll be seeing him at the coffee 

morning on Sunday,” Rosetta said as her son walked 

out. 

“Okay, mom, he might not be there because he gave 

me the keys to let myself in.” 

Hank was a little on the chubby side, thanks to his 

mother’s amazing cooking, but he was nevertheless a 

handsome young man. His face held within it a beauty 

that was young and alluring. He checked his reflection 

in the mirror and started walking down the stairs of the 

apartment block. 

At the same time, on the ground floor, Robert was 

saying goodbye to Harry and Sandra and putting his 

hat on before opening the door to leave the club. He 

noticed the next-door open but he didn’t have time to 

stop. Hank hadn’t expected a man to be standing in the 

vicinity of his doorway so he briskly walked into Robert. 

Neither of them could stop fast enough and as Robert’s 

hip hit against Hank’s chest, it made his satchel fall to 

the ground and pages of sheet music spill out like liquid. 

“Watch where you’re stepping!” Hank said angrily. 

“I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t expect anyone to come out 

of there.” 

Robert stood frozen for a moment as though any 

other movement he made would create another mishap. 

He hadn’t counted on the wind picking up. 

“Oh man, you’ve made me drop all my stuff and now 

the wind is carrying it away.” 

Hank opened his arms out and tried to run after 

the straying sheets. Robert knelt down on the ground 

and started picking up as much as he could and putting 

it back into the brown leather satchel. Realising what 

they were, he looked up at Hank. 

“You sing hymns?” 

“No I play them, the congregation sings.” 

“On the piano?” 

“It really ain’t none of your business but it’s on the 

church organ,” Hank said getting ready to leave. 


Piano 

Maria Papacosta

“I'm sorry, I know it’s none of my 

business but I’m just trying to find 

someone to play jazz here at the club 

on opening.” 

“Jazz? Like Fats Waller?” 

Robert realised Hank was 

interested. He handed him a few 

more sheets of music that had 

blown a few feet away into 

the road. 

“Sort of like Fats Waller, 

yeah. Can you play any of his 

songs?” 

“I only play hymns. I’ve 

never tried to play anything 

else because I don’t own an 

organ of my own,” Hank 

said, looking up to his living 

room window. His mother 

was cooking his favourite 

dish of chilli-fried chicken 

and chitterlings. He hoped 

she hadn’t seen him talking 

to Robert because when he 

went back home later there 

would be a lot of questions 

like ‘Who was that man? 

What did he want? Why 

were you talking to him for 

so long?’ 

Of course Rosetta had 

seen them talking and she 

knew exactly what they were 

talking about. James had 

already told her they were 

desperate for performers, yet 

she neglected to mention her 

son could play. She looked 

out the window again and 

saw Robert ushering him 

into jazz club. ‘Why should 

my son play the devil’s 

music? If his father knew he 

wasn’t going to church, he 

Haiku 

would go and smack some sense 

into him,’ she thought. 

Hank entered the dark room 

without question, figuring that 

whatever was behind that door 

would be much more exciting than 

rehearsing at the church. 

“I brought this piano over from 

England and we still haven’t found 

anyone good enough to play. You 

can practice your hymns on it. It’s 

the least I can do after I knocked all 

your manuscripts to the floor.” 

A tarmac tapeworm 

Lives through the blackened built heart 

Of the city’s form. 

Cars flashing red blood 

Along the dark blackened roads, 

Shining wet in rain. 

Headlights of white blood, 

Staving off the night's darkness, 

Lighting up the vein 

Orange streetlights shine, 

Illuminating the path 

Of staring cat's eyes, 

Lining the way back 

To the giant concrete heart, 

Beating to the flow. 

Burning neon signs, 

Cannon-sounding club music, 

A flickering strobe. 

By road flows the blood 

Keeping the concrete alive 

Feeding the city 


Robert suddenly remembered 

that Harry and Sandra were still 

downstairs and that he’d have to 

introduce them to this new person. 

55 


Marc Spencer 

“That’s Sandra, she’ll be playing 

trombone, and Harry, he just…er…” 

Robert struggled to introduce him. 

“I supervise what goes on here 

during the day,” Harry said, with 

slight seriousness. 

“Hi, nice to meet you both. I 

didn’t realise I’d have an audience. 

Maybe I can come back, if 

you’ll let me practice on 

another day,” Hank said, 

hoping that Reverend 

Joseph wasn’t waiting for 

him. 

Harry gazed with 

suspicious eyes at Robert. 

“Hey Rob, can I speak to 

you for a moment out here,” 

He said, pointing towards 

the alcove where the 

stairway began. Robert 

walked over to him leaving 

Hank standing by the piano. 

He admired the glow that 

radiated from the natural 

wood and the glossy varnish. 

It reminded him of a shiny 

apple. The restoration work 

Robert had been doing on it 

was hardly noticeable. To 

Hank, this was a new piano. 

“Is everything okay?” 

Robert whispered 

“What are you trying to 

pull? You told him he could 

practice just so you could 

listen to him play.” 

“What’s the problem?” 

“The problem is that he 

doesn’t know he’s having an 

audition.” 

“So?” 

“I’m trying to say that 

you’re gonna end up 

exploiting him.” 

Before Robert could reply, Hank 

started playing one of the hymns he 

was going to practice at the church. 

*** 


Piano 

Maria Papacosta

Play me anytime 

Oh my gosh I think he’s got it. 

Put the paycheck straight in his pocket. 

He can play me 

Anytime he likes. 

Wow yeah. 

Some people play with apprehension. 

He knows which buttons cause me tension. 



Where’d you find such a specimen of musical grace? 

Did you know he was this good? 

Or did you think he couldn’t even play double bass? 

Oh my gosh he knows how to play it: 

Any song, just as long as you say it. 



Wow yeah. 

*** 

Lily 

Iwent back to Freddy’s place earlier today and found 

something that I’d never thought I’d find. As I was 

sitting by the piano, I opened the keyboard lid and the 

knock of the wood against wood made a piece of paper 

fall out of the bottom of the piano. I picked up the 

yellowing sheet. I could see the ink of the writing 

through the back and it looked like the veins of a 

creature. It was a letter: 

My Dear Elizabeth, 

I am sorry. I didn’t want to do this but I couldn’t go on 

any more living a lie. I had to battle every day living in this 

weird mixed up world but perhaps it is best if the world 

goes on without me. Lily, my darling, I love you so much 

and I’m sorry to leave you. It is hard to write this because 

you have been a good cousin and friend to me and I feel as 

though I have disappointed you. I have not been as truthful 

with you as I should have been. Lily, this is what you 

deserve, the truth. 

You were always happy in your quaint little house. I 

loved visiting you there every now and then and you would 

always ask me why I would seldom invite you back to mine. 

The truth is, I wasn’t living alone. For the last eight years, I 

56 


have had someone living with me. I couldn’t bring myself to 

introduce you to him because I knew you would want to 

know so many things, I thought it was easier for me not to 

explain anything. He was my partner, my lover. I am sorry 

I couldn’t tell you. It was a huge secret to keep from you and 

I don’t want you to think I was deliberately hiding it from 

you. I didn’t want you to stop talking to me just because of 

my different lifestyle, just the way Hilary did all those years 

ago when I tried to confide in her. She said ma and pa 

deserved a better son than me and it really hurt me, more 

than she could know. Now you can see why I had to laugh 

off all your comments of me getting married and having 

children. The reason I’ve decided to end it all is because my 

partner left me. He said he didn’t want to be with me any 

more so I felt I had no-one left that could possibly 

understand me for who I was. 

Lily, it wasn’t just you that I was hiding this big secret 

from; it was the rest of the world too. I want you to 

remember me the way I used to be: a big smile on my face, 

playing my piano and jumping up and down trying to make 

people laugh. I can’t be that person anymore. My partner 

kept telling me I’d changed. The problem is, I’d gone too 

far in one direction to change back. I am sorry, Lily, I’m so 

sorry. 

Love you always, 

Frederick Chambers 

I didn’t understand what I was reading. The letter 

wasn’t dated but it looked old. I didn’t think he wrote it 

recently before his death. But I didn’t understand 

because it hinted at his death. It must’ve been some kind 

of suicide note. Was this a joke? I never in my life 

thought Freddy was gay. Why didn’t he tell me? I was 

upset that he didn’t confide in me. Did he really think I 

was going to turn my back on him like Hilary? I wasn’t 

just upset, I was angry. 

*** 

1925 

Where we going tonight then, Louisa?” Irene 

asked. 

“There’s this new place just opening tonight. I hear 

they’re gonna be playing some hot jazz.” 

“That’s what they say about every club in this town,” 

Irene said. 

“Yeah but we might as well check it out. It’s nice to 

go somewhere different on your birthday, isn’t it?” 

Louisa said to Bertie while adjusting her outfit. 

Bertie was celebrating her 18th birthday. They heard 

about the jazz club through some young people at 

church. Their mother spoke on a regular basis with 

Petunia Frost, who explained her husband was opening 


Piano 

Maria Papacosta

a new place. All three girls had 

matching outfits on. Each girl had a 

floaty knee-length dress with a lace 

trim around the neckline and hem. 

Bertie’s was powder blue whilst 

Louisa had the red version and 

Irene the white. All three had a long 

string of pearls and an ostrich 

feather in their hair that matched 

their dresses. 

“I hope we aren’t going to stay 

out too late. We don’t want mom to 

be worried about us,” said Bertie, 

who at eighteen still hadn’t found 

the urge to rebel from her parent’s 

rules like her two sisters did. 

“Don’t worry about that. She 

won’t know what time we’ll be back 

anyway,” said Louisa. 

Bertie always worried. She’d 

never been on a night out before. 

“I’m just saying, we don’t wanna 

worry her, so we’ll just tell her we’re 

going to Rosie’s café,” Louisa said as 

she powdered her nose. 

“Don’t worry, girls, we’ll see how 

it goes,” said Irene reassuringly. 

“Hey, maybe they’ll let us sing if we 

ask them nicely.” 

“I doubt that very much. It’s a 

professional club ain’t it? 

Sometimes, Irene, you come up 

with the strangest suggestions,” said 

Louisa. 

The girls enjoyed singing. They 

often got together and practiced 

harmonising with each other on 

hymns and popular songs they 

heard on the wireless. They liked 

singing in the church choir but 

didn’t enjoy it as much as singing 

together as a trio. 

When each of them had finished 

preening their way to perfection, 

they came out their front door, with 

their heels clomping against the 

sidewalk and their laughter rising 

up through the dark street. 

The jazz club was pulling in a 

decent sized crowd. James Frost 

was too nervous to hold a 

conversation with anyone. He kept 

rubbing the knuckles of each hand 

together to hide the fact they were 

shaking. But somewhere in his 

nervous rattle, he was happy to see 

the club looking so full. He had to 

bring down extra chairs from his 

apartment because of the amount of 

people. James was glad that he 

advertised in the local paper as well 

as telling everyone he came across. 

“Who says word of mouth 

doesn’t work?” he asked Harry, who 

was perched on a bar stool next to 

him. 

“Well it’s just lucky we know so 

many people, ain’t it?” 

“Is Hank ready?” James asked 

nervously. Hank was due to start 

playing in less than ten minutes. 

“He’s round the back in the 

storeroom, probably sucking on 

some kinda alcohol.” 

“He’d better not be! And I told 

you, don’t call it a ‘storeroom’ 

anymore, it’s a dressing room.” 

“Yeah, whatever, he’s in there 

with a girl that he stole off me.” 

“Oh really?” James said and 

started walking towards the 

dressing room to see if he could get 

Hank to make an appearance. 

Ever since he’d been practicing 

his music at the club, Hank had 

developed a thirst for fame. It was 

now beginning to surface as a 

problem because as his talent grew, 

so did his ego. Apart from his 

appearance, he was unrecognisable 

as the shy young man who walked 

into Robert that windy day. Robert, 

who was currently talking to 

Sandra, knew that he and James 

had created a sexual monster. His 

appetite for beautiful young ladies 

was never satisfied. Once he realised 

he could impress them with his 

musical talent, he would try his luck 

with everyone. 

57 


Tonight, on opening night, 

Sandra was going to be playing 

trombone. She was excited but 

nervous. Not so much for herself 

but for Harry. She wondered 

whether he would keep up his piano 

playing with so many other 

potential distractions for him. 

Robert wished Sandra good luck 

but she had a feeling there was 

something else on his mind that he 

wanted to say to her. 

“So you’re ready to go on then, 

Sandra?” Robert asked her, looking 

at the buttons on her blouse and 

wondering whether she had 

intentionally left one of them 

undone. He liked Sandra a lot but 

was too much of a coward to admit 

his feelings because he dreaded to 

think what her family would do to 

him if he told her how he felt. 

Besides, he had a good idea that she 

didn’t like him at all so his 

declaration would be wasted. 

“I’m ready, I just hope Hank is. 

We’d better get started soon ’cause 

this crowd is getting restless,” she 

replied. 

“Oh, they’re just excited,” Robert, 

said reassuringly. “I wonder what 

my grandfather would say if he 

could see his old piano being used 

in a jazz club.” 

Sandra smiled at him. 

The club looked so different now 

it was full of people. He thought 

back to the first day and how he 

walked into the empty room and 

never thought it would look 

anything like it did now. Even over 

all that crowd noise, he could hear 

the muffled voices of Hank arguing 

with James. 

“Okay man, just a second, I’ll be 

out soon, besides, people love to 

wait for talent,” Hank wailed. 

“It’s your first night. You ain’t no 

star yet, so don’t push your luck.” 


Piano 

Maria Papacosta

The dressing room looked a state. Hank’s clothes 

were draped over lamps and chairs and there where 

various pairs of shoes, men’s and women’s, strewn 

across the floor. 

On the other side of the club, three young ladies 

entered the front door and made their way towards the 

tables. Realising there was no spaces to sit; they stood 

in a line by the bar. Louisa lit a cigarette and put it right 

on the edge of her lips, it was a wonder it didn’t fall out. 

“You smoke?” Bertie said with shock as she looked 

at her sister. 

“Yeah, of course, it’s good for the nerves, you know.” 

“And what have you got to be nervous about?” 

“Okay, you got me, I do it ’cause I enjoy it.” 

“Welcome, welcome everybody to what can only be 

described as a musical extravaganza for your ears,” 

James addressed the crowd. He noticed the bright faces 

of people, eager to hear some good quality jazz. 

“I’d just like to say 'welcome to Jimmy’s Jazz Joint’. I 

want you to feel at home, so make yourselves 

comfortable. Now, I will bring on our first act of the 

evening: a talented young pianist who goes by the name 

of Hank.” 

“Honky-Tonk Hank” a voice said from behind the 

stage. 

“Yeah, okay. Please give a cheer for Honky-Tonk 

Hank.” 

The audience applauded as a seemingly tipsy man 

came to the stage. He bowed, thanked the crowd and 

sat down on the piano stool and began to play Laugh 

with me, not at me, one of his own compositions. The 

crowd got into it very easily, but they weren’t all looking 

at Hank. 

“Have you noticed that people are staring at us, I 

wish we’d found seats,” Bertie whispered to her sisters. 

“That’s because we all look so swell, honey!” Louisa 

said, smiling at Bertie. 

“Well you girls had better get used to people looking, 

‘cause we’re gonna be on that stage later,” Irene said. 

“What are you talking about? We ain’t performing 

here, mom would kill us,” Bertie said. 

“What mom doesn’t know, won’t kill her,” Louisa 

said. 

The crowd clapped and cheered at the end of Hank’s 

performance. Hank bowed slightly more graciously 

than he had at the beginning. 

“Thank you, thank you all. What did y'all think of 

that?” 

The crowd carried on clapping. 

58 


“It was passable,” Irene said, her voice so 

unintentionally loud so that Hank and the rest of the 

club heard. Hank stared at her and the whole room 

became silent. 

“Passable?” Hank asked. “I’ve been practicing piano 

for ten hours a day, I’ve made my fingers so sore I 

couldn’t even hold a glass and now someone is fresh 

enough to say my performance was ‘passable’?” 

Before Hank had a chance to get angry, Robert 

jumped onto the stage and tried to calm him down. He 

whispered something in his ear but it didn’t seem to 

help matters. Hank tried to punch Robert in the jaw 

but he missed and stumbled onto the piano stool. Harry 

appeared out of nowhere to introduce the next act. The 

crowd was also getting rowdy and was clapping at 

Hank’s spectacular finale. 

“Okay folks, we’ve got a bright young performer for 

you now. She is my niece Sandra and...” Harry stopped 

as Hank fell from the piano stool to the floor. 

“…Boy oh boy can she blow that trombone,” he said 

nervously and started the applause to get her on stage. 

Sandra shook her head. She didn’t feel like performing 

now but got up on stage anyway and started playing her 

favourite swing medley. 

Everything was a mess. As Sandra was playing, she 

looked around at what people were doing: drinking, 

smoking and laughing with a hysterical glint in their 

eyes. She wanted it to be more civilised. She heard the 

smash of glass as it hit the floor. She turned around to 

see Robert sitting on the piano stool, slumped against 

the instrument. His eyes looked exhausted. It was hot 

and people took their layers of clothing off, throwing 

them to the floor with spontaneity before getting up to 

dance. It wasn’t the perfect set-up, Sandra thought, but 

they all seemed to be enjoying it. 

Robert attempted to accompany Sandra on the 

piano. He decided to stick to the simplest of chords but 

Sandra was flying off on her improvisation and he 

couldn’t play fast enough to keep up. The crowd 

laughed at him thinking he was purely there for comedy 

purposes. Sandra looked out at the smoke cloud that 

hung above the bobbing heads. In the distance, by the 

bar, she could see Hank talking to the woman that had 

offended him earlier. He had turned into such a sly dog 

and she didn’t like him one bit. Did everyone always 

have to change for the worst when they got into this 

business? She thought. The only person that had 

changed for the better was Robert. He wasn’t shy and 

awkward anymore. He was a more confident version of 

the man that had walked into the jazz club just over a 


Piano 

Maria Papacosta

month ago. Sandra looked at him 

again as he sat there. They held a 

gaze for a few seconds. She felt 

something strange inside her but 

she didn’t know if it was attraction 

or just that she felt sorry for him. Of 

course she would never tell him how 

she felt, there were so many 

differences between them it was 

unthinkable. 

People cheered as Sandra 

finished her performance. She 

stepped down from the stage to 

make way for Hank once more. He 

didn’t look as unruly as he did before 

and she hoped his performance 

would reflect this. 

“How's about we bring some 

girls on who think they can sing 

against my ‘passable’ piano playing?” 

Hank said, curling his lips into a 

smile as though it had all been an 

act. 

“What is that fool doing now?” 

James asked. “He's ruining the 

order of things.” He fumbled with 

his pocket watch before putting it 

back in his jacket. 

Louisa, Bertie and Irene joined 

Hank on the stage. 

“I can’t believe we’re doing this. 

Have you seen the crazy bunch of 

people that are watching?” Bertie 

said. 

Stella, the woman who 

auditioned to James in that strange 

manner, was jumping up and down 

and fanning herself with her 

jewelled hat. 

“Lets get goin’,” Hank shouted 

and pounced into the first few bars 

of the song that just so happened to 

be one the girls were practicing a 

few hours earlier. 

*** 

Leaving when I’ve got the chance 

IRENE: Baby you left me. 

BERTIE: Left me, I was all alone. 

IRENE: I said, baby you left me. 

LOUISA: Left me out in the cold. 

BERTIE: You didn’t mean to. 

IRENE: That’s what you told me. 

LOUISA: But that excuse is 

getting old. 

IRENE: They said they saw you in 

the back of a jazz club, 

BERTIE: getting friendly with 

some dame. 

IRENE: They said they saw you in 

the back of a jazz club. 

LOUISA: I doubt you even knew 

her name. 

BERTIE: You didn’t mean to. 

IRENE: That’s what you told me. 

LOUISA: So now go hang your 

head in shame. 

IRENE: Woo… 

HANK’S SOLO 

IRENE: Baby it's over. 

BERTIE: Ain’t nothing left for you 

to say. 

IRENE: I said, baby it's over. 

LOUISA: If not tomorrow then 

today. 

BERTIE: You see I’m leaving, 

IRENE: Because you’re two-faced. 

LOUISA: So don’t be trying to 

make me stay. 

BERTIE: Oh boy, I’m leaving. 

IRENE: (spoken) I should’ve done 

so long ago but I never had the guts 

to go through with it so… 

LOUISA: Don’t be trying to make 

me stay. 

Lily 

*** 

59 


So what did we all think of that 

guys?” Ryan asked as he lifted 

the needle off the record. The 

gramophone he brought in 

reminded me of the one my mother 

owned. In fact, she told me that she 

named me Lily after the lily-like 

shape of the gramophone’s speaker. 

“I couldn’t hear it very well. It 

was too grainy,” moaned Aneeka, 

the youngest of the group. “Why 

didn’t they make a better 

recording?” 

“The music was alright, quite 

bluesy. The voices of the singers 

were strong but the lyrics were a bit 

basic,” said Tony. “No offence Lily. 

I mean, they probably thought it 

was good turn of phrase or 

something but to be honest, the 

vocabulary isn’t that great. It could 

be more lyrically inventive if you ask 

me.” 

I thought the group would enjoy 

the Hartman sisters' record. Why 

would they give me so many 

negative comments? These songs 

brought me a personal happiness 

that I won’t let anyone destroy…just 

because they think ‘the lyrics were a 

bit basic’. They probably didn’t 

understand them. This was my only 

copy of the Hartman sisters record. 

Of course, they recorded it a few 

weeks after that first performance 

on opening night but together with 

the story she used to tell me, it was a 

complete memory. It’s a story she 

told me many times. She had it all 

planned out and spoke to Hank at 

church about whether they could 

sing with him on opening night. He 

agreed but said he didn’t have time 

to convince James or Robert to give 

the girls an audition. So they made 

up this idea of the girls being 

hecklers to Hank’s mock 

drunkenness. She always said that it 

was the funniest thing she ever did 

because it was so convincing. She 


Piano 

Maria Papacosta

managed to keep it a secret from her sisters too. After 

the performance, James had dollar signs in his eyes and 

asked them to be part of the house band along with 

Sandra. 

“I think the lyrics were supposed to be basic. Isn’t 

that right Lily?” 

“Actually I don’t think my mum and her sisters really 

cared for lyrical quality. They were more concerned 

with feelings and I think they did a good job of it. After 

all, isn’t that what blues is about?” I said hoping that 

someone would agree with me but everyone remained 

silent. 

“That’s a good point Lily. Blues is about emotions 

above everything else.” 

“Did a lot of people buy the record?” Simi asked. 

“My mother and aunts made a few copies to sell at 

the bar but people at the time preferred to come into the 

club to see them for real.” 

“You’ve brought along another record for us to listen 

to, haven’t you Lily? It’s by your cousin Fred who, sadly, 

passed away quite recently?” 

“Freddy, yes. He was an extraordinary pianist who 

surpassed everything his father taught him. I have a few 

of his records because he did a lot of stuff throughout 

his life.” I said and gave him the record, which still had 

a shine to it, being at least thirty years newer than my 

mother's, which now had a matte finish. He placed it 

on the turntable and placed the needle gently down. 

How soothing it was to hear Freddy’s opening to 

‘Riviera.’ I closed my eyes and imagined I was sitting by 

his piano as he played. 

“I couldn’t keep up with that one,” said Aneeka. “It 

was too fast at some points.” 

“Well it was supposed to be varied. Freddy told me 

that he wrote this piece as a story and as he played it, he 

would tell himself the story so that he could remember 

which section came next.” 

“That sounds a bit pointless to me, why not write 

each bit down?” said Tony, who liked to argue about 

everything so I saw it coming. 

“The point is so that he didn’t have to write it down, 

he created a narrative to remember.” 

“Isn’t that a waste? All the audience would 

experience is the piece he is playing. I'm sure they would 

love to experience the story too,” said Ryan, who was 

starting to question my explanations. 

“But surely the audience does get to experience a 

story, because the musical structure of the piece mirrors 

the structure of a story,” said Dennis Ray, who up until 

that point hadn’t spoken. 

60 

“I’m not convinced. If you didn’t mention anything 

Lily, I think we would’ve been none the wiser,” said 

Elvira, who arched her eyebrow and turned her mouth 

up at me. “Just like if a story was inspired by a song, we 

wouldn’t necessarily know unless the author told us.” 

“But it’s all about emotion again, you would notice it 

in the structure.” I said. 

“He is a good pianist though,” said Simi. 

“Well, you’ll be interested to know that it was his 

father playing piano on my mum’s record, and it’s the 

same piano.” 

There was a chorus of “oh, okay” from all the 

members. I don’t think they were that interested. 

“You know, for a music appreciation society, you 

lot aren’t very appreciative!” I said, realising I was 

getting angry. 

I think I knew who would appreciate such a legacy 

that my family was leaving behind. I decided then to 

donate the piano to the Jazz Institute, where people 

could admire its beauty and wonder about the stories 

behind it. I think Freddy would’ve liked that a lot. I 

wanted to go home at that point and start planning the 

piano’s final journey. I sat back and tried to forget where 

I was by listening to the gramophone in my head that 

was playing Little Lily’s Swing. 

In Retrospect 


*** 

If I could cry real salty tears, 

My varnish would dissolve, 

But I’ve been silent for forty years 

So what would that resolve? 

No warmth of human hand has played, 

My strong and sturdy keys. 

My crevices are filled with dust, 

Seems more like centuries. 

And what will happen to me now? 

Perhaps my time has come. 

To be cut into firewood, 

But will my soul live on? 

Please play on me one last song, 

A hopeful melody, 

So music can awake once more 

My tuneful memory. 


Piano 

Maria Papacosta

61 

postgraduates 


Visit us on-line: 


http://arts.brunel.ac.uk/gate/ml/index 

Brunel University 

http://www.brunel.ac.uk/ 

The Department of English at Brunel University, School of Arts 

http://www.brunel.ac.uk/about/acad/sa/artsub/english

Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles

Delete template?

Save as template?