Let’s Dance

The intercom next to the metal door of the industrial unit in Plympton, was answered immediately.  The metallic voice that emanated from it, was quite specific.

“Come in, turn right, and the changing room is the second door on the left.  Find a gown, get changed, and come straight into the main auditorium.  Hurry up.  We’re running late.”  Adrian hesitated.  It was not the sort of response he was expecting.  His agent had sent a brief text.  ‘Be at Unit 12, Glen Road, Plympton at 1300 tomorrow.  Short piece of filming, not sure of the theme, but am sure you can wing it.  Top fees being paid.  My usual 10%’.  It was still only 1250.  

He hesitated, then after re-checking his mobile, turned the handle on the door.  There was a gloomy, damp-smelling passageway in front of him, with subdued lighting, peeling paintwork, and a stained, well worn carpet.  As he approached the second door he saw it had a handwritten sign  ‘Ace Films’.

He entered what appeared to be a small storeroom, utilised as a changing room.  On a wooden batten along the wall, hung a variety of male and female clothing.  There was a table adjacent to the door with a dressing gown on it.  It appeared to be a man’s garment, so whilst retaining his underpants and socks, he removed his clothes.  Passing a mirror fixed to the wall, Adrian saw that it might equally be considered suitable for a woman, and drew it more tightly around him.

A whole series of arc lights faced him as he walked into the next room, causing him to temporarily blink, and hold his hand up to his eyes.  There were a number of figures behind the lights, and one of them appeared to be perched on a raised platform.  As his eyes adjusted to the room, Adrian saw was in fact a a stepladder.  The person, who was also wearing a gown, spoke directly to him.

“I’m Jason the Director.  You’re late.  Everyone’s been waiting ages.  Appreciate you’re new here, but don’t have time to make lengthy introductions, so you’ll have to catch up as the action moves on.”  The man speaking had a pronounced lisp, and a sing-song falsetto voice.  Momentarily, Adrian’s brain went into overdrive, trying to understand the message and frame a response.  In the end he gave a simple nod, which seemed to satisfy Jason.  

At both ends of the arc lights were tripods with cameras mounted on them, with a fully dressed person, making adjustments to them.  Adrian, in his pursuit of a career as a male model, had participated in indoor and outdoor shoots for various products; this one felt quite odd.  

A number of other people were also in gowns like the one he was wearing.  His instinct about oddness, had been correct.  Apart from himself, there were four men, and two women.  They were of a diverse range of ages, sizes, and languages.  The latter became apparent as he cautiously moved towards them.  Whilst they were in full conversations with one another, English appeared to be minimal.  The women were in their mid-40’s, thin, and both had dark cropped hair.  Adrian hesitated for a moment, as they suddenly embraced , kissed one another fully on the lips, and then moved to a nearby carrier bag, withdrew matching blonde wigs, and put them on.  Jason spoke again.

“If any of you fancy a loosener before we start there’s a couple of bottles over there.. Whisky, Gin and some mixers.  Jason’s eyes seemed to embrace the room, and in particular, the men.  Adrian began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.  “As for you boys, there’s a little dish on the side with some special sweeties.  Ethan as you’re new here be careful.  Not too many.  We’ve only got the studio for 2 hours, and need you to be able to ‘walk’ out of the door, if you understand my gist.”  

Adrian certainly didn’t.  He thought to himself ‘Why is he calling me Ethan?’ but decided to explore the drinks table and the mysterious ‘sweeties’ anyway.  He’d occasionally used a spliff, and once on a shoot in London, had followed a number of other models sniffing a white substance from the top of a low level suite in the Gents.  

This sweet was different.  It was blue, and had a distorted rectangular shape.  One of the other male models picked up three and tipping his throat back, washed them down with a large scotch.  His cheeks puffed out briefly, he grimaced, and then a broad smile spread across his face, as he held the dish out to Adrian.  “Fizzers.  Fizzers.” he repeated with a strong Eastern European accent.

Adrian took a tablet from the dish and examined it.  It had letters inscribed.  Looking at his companion Adrian laughed.  “Not Fizzers!  They’re Pfizers!  That’s the company that makes them.  Swiss.  Multi-national.” he continued.  His companion shrugged and walked away, still muttering “Fizzers”.  Adrian paused, reached back into the dish, then lifting the whisky bottle poured himself a large glass.  ‘First time for everything.’ he thought as the purpose of the afternoon’s filming began to sink in.  This was reinforced, as he walked further down the set, and saw the Romanesque dais, covered in red silken material, with two fairly large plastic cherubs at each end.  

“Right everyone.  Gather round.  One last briefing and then it’s Lights, Action and Camera.”  Jason paused.  “Any problems?”  One of the wigged women put her hand up and complained about the cold.  He looked over his shoulder and signalled to his camera assistant.  “Tony.  Can you fix that?”  Tony nodded and moved towards a nearby electrical panel and touched a few switches.   “Anything else?” asked Jason impatiently.  The other wigged woman held her hand up, then indicated she wanted to go to the toilet by jabbing at her groin and grimacing.  “Oh for Christ’s sake.  Hurry up Rulenska.”  She returned after a few minutes looking quite subdued.  Her female friend moved across and gave her another pronounced kiss on her lips.  “Thank you Zita.  That’s enough of that, for now.” said Jason.  

With that, he dropped the gown he was wearing, placed a gold coloured crown of thorns on his head, and walked completely naked over to the dais.  He sat down, carefully crossing his knees, reclining back and composed himself.  As he clicked his fingers, Tony moved across the room and switched on a music centre.  

The sound of a classical harp boomed into the room.  Rulenska dis-robed, picked up a bowl containing a large bunch of grapes, and similarly naked, walked across to the dais, nodded in deference to Jason and then held the bowl out to him.  She was joined by a naked Zita, who was carrying a small flagon and a slender stemmed glass.  She spoke.  “Glorious Emperor what is your command?”  The Emperor clicked his fingers dramatically, and with that, the four men in front of Adrian, now naked, paired up, held hands, and with their arms forming two arches, proceeded to skip across the floor in unison.  

Adrian noticed that Mr Fizzer clearly had an erection, as he and his dance companion, moved towards the dais and began to gyrate on the spot.  The Emperor observed their movements for a few moments, before clicking his fingers once again, and they danced backwards to be replaced by the second pair of male dancers.  Adrian glanced down at their groins, but saw nothing untoward, however, clearly they were of little appeal because they were quickly waved away by the Emperor.  Then with pronounced crooked finger, The Emperor beckoned Adrian.  

He remembered the opening sequence from Saturday Night Fever, when John Travolta had danced down a city pavement holding a can of paint and decided to replicate it.  The other two pairs of male dancers, were still gyrating around one another to the side of the dais.  Ethan could see that Pfizer & Co was now having its effect on them; and him.

Taking a deep breath and with the image of Travolta in his mind he strutted forcefully towards the Emperor.  The reaction was immediate.  The Emperor was pointing at his feet, and Adrian realised that he still had his socks on.  He’d seen a film called ‘Gypsy’ once, and halting briefly, tried to replicate the artistic movement of the main character in the film, as he pulled his them off, and again moved towards the dais.  

The Emperor was still pointing.  Adrian, who was by now beginning to feel the impact of the whisky, slipped his gown off, and after swinging it carelessly around his head, threw it into the darkness.  It landed over Tony who looked surprised, delighted and anticipatory in sequence.  

Adrian took another deep breath, then with the thumbs of each hand hooked into the elastic of his Y Fronts, pushed downwards, just as the door of the studio opened and several policemen entered.  

Who Dunnit?

 

I didn’t get a Valentines Card last year, nor the year before.  In fact when I really thought about it, I realised I hadn’t had one for nearly 10 years.  It was then, I decided to do something about it.  In the office I’ve had the odd Birthday Card, and at Xmas we usually manage to exchange cards. However, Valentines Day, for me, has always been a dead loss, a complete and absolute Dodo.  Am I really that fat and unattractive?

I work on the twelfth floor at Plymouth Council.  Over the years, it’s become a ritual for staff to exchange the contents of their Valentine cards, no matter where they came from.  People would even bring them in from home, and open them in front of everyone.  Shrieks and sighs would be the order of the day.  If only the poor devils that sent them had known, they’d have died of embarrassment.

“Oh Debbie.  How sexy.”  They’d chorus, as she carefully opened her padded card, releasing a few verses from Barry White.  John would gently open his card from Janet.  No sounds, but lots of romantic twaddle, which he dramatically reads out to an adoring audience.  Craig’s was hysterical, as usual, and as usual, quite rude.  Matt’s cards from Tim were moronic, and inevitably from a clear out sale at Poundland, with the price usually still displayed on the back.  Claire’s was probably a repeat.  I distinctly remember her, coming into the office with the same one, in previous years.  I’m sure she simply glued the envelope down again.  Was I the only one to notice?  Nah!

I never questioned their enjoyment, nor joined in.  Cos I never got one.  Although I knew they were mouthing to one another behind my back “Ellie  got nothing as usual.”  This time it would be different.

I bought the biggest blooming Valentines Card in the shop.  It cost me nearly a tenner and weighed a ton.  Sonia, who runs my local pub on the Barbican, helped me fill it in.  She understood some of the problems I was having, and was very sympathetic.  In her own way, Sonia was an agony aunt for various middle-aged men and women who frequented her bar.  Always sympathetic, caring and available, but with strict house rules.  Especially with men.  For Sonia business and pleasure didn’t mix.

She could listen, to the most detailed and graphic explanations, as to why a person”s relationship had broken down.  Sonia would sympathise. Sonia would empathise. But that’s as close as any man ever got to her actual thighs.  Me?  I didn’t even get the chance of a man fancying me. Nevertheless, Sonia was brilliant. So was her daughter Mandy who helped out in the bar.

‘Ellie.’ she said. ‘You’ve spent a lot of dosh on the card, but it needs a little extra oomph.  Leave it to me.’  A few minutes later, Mandy came back downstairs from her flat.  She had a photograph in her hand, and said it was a former boyfriend, a Royal Marine called Jason.  She passed it to Sonia, who wrote a few words and some kisses on the back, then put it inside the card before sealing it and addressing it to me at the office.  

Whilst it was only a brief glimpse, I personally believe that a man’s assets are best displayed with a modicum of clothing, and with as much left to the imagination as possible.  Mind you, I was quite looking forward to opening the card, and Sonia seemed to enjoy adding to the content.  As an added safeguard, before posting it, I took the card into Dingles and whilst pretending to put it on the back of my hand, gave it a spray from a really expensive sample on the men’s toiletries.

On Valentine’s Day I deliberately took a day’s leave.  That wasn’t unusual, but I wanted no other distractions.  Next morning, I immediately noticed how quiet it was in the office.  There was a distinct air of expectancy.  I felt many eyes on me, as I approached my desk in the Civic Centre.  I nodded, to the usual people that I nod with, and ignored those that, I knew I could afford to.  I looked down at my desk.  There it stood.  Propped up against my PC screen.  Erect and alone, like the Statue of Liberty.  My first office Valentine’s card.

I took my jacket off slowly, put my sandwiches away on my bookcase, and placed my umbrella in the adjacent stand.  Dame Helen Mirren, would have been hard pressed to beat my performance.  I sat down and casually switched on the PC, whilst in the same movement removing the card blocking the screen.  Opening it nonchalantly, I pretended to study the content, whilst carefully palming the photograph, so that I could glimpse what Sonia’s daughter had enclosed.  My God it was hot!

I deliberately tore the card in two, in a disdainful but precise way, and carefully placed it in the adjacent waste bin.  I left the photograph face down on my desk, put my jacket back on, picked up my handbag, and told the receptionist I would be back in an hour.  After 45 minutes, the tension was too much.  I stood up, massaged my numbed buttocks, opened the cubicle and re-entered the office from the adjacent toilets.

There was a distinctly different atmosphere, particularly amongst the women.  I strode confidently towards my desk, nodding graciously to the left and to the right.  Even Sue the autocratic office manager seemed impressed.  I felt like an Empress returning in triumph.  Helen of Troy.  Cleopatra.  Unusually and significantly, men were also deferring their gaze, in my presence. Well that’s what it seemed like.

As I approached my desk I felt the ultimate surge of adrenalin.  Clearly the photograph had been examined and the waste bin had also been moved.  My card had been read by some, but pronounced to many.  Ellie reigned supreme.

I sat down slowly, and opened my desk drawer to put my handbag away.

‘Oh my God‘  There, sat another Valentine’s Card.  The handwriting was totally unfamiliar.  It was masculine, strong and bold, and clearly it hadn’t been posted.  An internal office Valentine for me!  With trembling hands, and discretely enclosing it within a file on housing policy, I teased open the envelope, and from a distance read the contents.

“I’ve loved you from afar.

No day has gone by,

As each night I cry

To be with you,

To have you lie

In my safe strong arms,

Our bodies would gel

Ellie, Oh Ellie

Will you please be my girlie?”

‘Bugger it.’  I thought.  ‘Trust me to get it wrong.  10 years I’ve been waiting for a card.  And now?  Who Dunnit?’  

Then I realised, that I wasn’t just thinking to myself, but had begun shrieking.  Loudly.  Everyone was definitely paying attention to me now.  I picked up the phone and rang the pub.  Mandy answered.

“I’ve had enough of your mother” I said triumphantly “Tell her thanks for her help, but I got my own card as well.  So there!”

“Oh it arrived did it?  We thought you might chicken out, and not send the one you bought.   So we sent one in as well, just in case.  Jason filled it in, and even wrote the poem.  Ellie can you hear me?  Ellie?  Ellie?”

O.C.D & ME

A play for radio

 

ALL ACTION TAKES PLACE WITHIN THE CONSULTING ROOMS OF DR ETHAN STREET, A CONSULTANT PSYCHOLOGIST EMPLOYED BY THE LOCAL NHS.  THE DOCTOR IS IN HIS MID 50’s, COLIN HIS PATIENT IS MID 20’s).

FX (KNOCK TO DOOR)

DOCTOR Come in Colin.

FX (KNOCK TO DOOR)

DOCTOR Hello, Colin come in.

FX (SOUND OF DOOR OPENING, THEN SHORT PAUSE)

COLIN Hello Doctor. Nice to see you again.

DOCTOR Colin, please come in and sit down. Hello? Please sit down. Sit anywhere you like Colin. There’s a choice of chairs, but I do need to be able to see you, and talk.

FX (SOUND OF CHAIR BEING SCRAPED ACROSS FLOOR)

DOCTOR Thank you Colin. First of all, I think it would be helpful, if we review why we’re meeting today. OK? Yes?  Right Colin, I started to see you some six months ago, when you were referred by your GP. OK?  You’ve nodded Colin, so I will assume that so far we’re in agreement. You presented as a lonely, isolated young man, who had difficulties in making relationships and friendships. Yes? Those that did occur, were primarily short-term and in respect of work and fellow employees – right?

COLIN Yes Doctor.

DOCTOR In other words, if your job ended, so did your friendships?

COLIN Yes Doctor.

DOCTOR Can we therefore look at why you lost your three most recent jobs. Firstly; a food production unit, wasn’t it?

COLIN Quality Controller on the hand-made Pasty line, local Company.

DOCTOR Colin, in your first shift, you rejected around 90% of the products. The MD couldn’t believe it. Operatives engaged on pasty hand crimping are primarily women. Women, like men  have different size hands, fingers and techniques – yes?

COLIN I was looking for crimping consistency. Thought it was important for the customer.

DOCTOR Two shifts and you were sacked Colin. Now, what about the Fish & Chip shop? In one weekend you nearly made the owner bankrupt. Queues down the street, fish portions getting cold, whilst you rifled through the chip tray, insisting that every chip should match.

COLIN Looks nicer on the plate if they do. Again it’s about what’s best for the customer.

DOCTOR Thank you, Colin; now the petrol forecourt? As the cashier, when customers paid for their petrol, did you think your comments were helpful. I quote. “Pump number five? Thirty pounds and three pence? Wahoo. Not much hand/eye co-ordination there Madam. No test pilot career for you. Eh?’

COLIN It was a bit insensitive. But many customers use the pumps like a Video Game, trying to hit the exact moment when they’ve spent £30. They get quite aggressive, and think us till operators are controlling the pumps. Just trying to encourage her for the next time.

DOCTOR Colin, my assessment of your behaviour was that you were showing classic O.C.D. symptoms. Obsessive, definitely compulsive and creating disorder. This aggravated your work situation, and reinforced your isolation and loneliness. Agree?  You’re nodding Colin. So far so good. Two months ago, I asked you to do two things. Firstly, try and find an interest, hobby or activity totally unrelated to work. This would enable you to actively explore friendships and relationships, not directly affected by your apparent death wish in terms of employment. Secondly I asked you to keep a detailed diary or journal.

COLIN I did the diary. Gave it in.

DOCTOR Colin, thank you for handing it in before our session today. I’ve studied it with great interest, however, can you explain why having suggested you find an activity, you appear to have taken on multiple experiences? In a two month period, 26 events! Colin, on some days you were engaged in three different activities, organised from A to Z.

COLIN Could look like that I suppose. Didn’t have a job, so wanted to keep busy and try your ideas out in full. Was that wrong Doctor?

DOCTOR Not wrong Colin. Definitely not wrong! Just different. I’m trying to understand what you set out to achieve, as opposed to the actual outcome. Now can we refer to your journal. Page 1 – A – Art for Amateurs?/

COLIN Found it on a local website. Run by the Council.

DOCTOR How many sessions?

COLIN It was meant to run for eight weeks.

DOCTOR What happened?

COLIN Week two, I suddenly realised it was all about “life art”, proper models and all that. Tutor said he thought some of my drawings were “crude”. I thought he meant like amateurish, but he meant rude. I mean if a naked man is sat in front of you, with his thingy on display, and you’re asked to a detailed drawing, of some aspect of his torso, what decision do you make? I clearly got it wrong.

DOCTOR Did you deliberately give the model certain enhancements?

COLIN That was meant to be a joke. Mind you, it wasn’t me with the lady.

DOCTOR What lady, Colin?

COLIN Week three. She walks in, all calm and collected, in a silk gown, then drops it in front of all of us, and sits down in a pose.

DOCTOR And?

COLIN Wasn’t me. Someone at the back muttered “Look at that fattie.” It wasn’t me, but I got the blame. She put her gear back on, walked off in a huff and I got chucked off the course. Not fair.

DOCTOR What about B – Bridge for beginners?

COLIN I put my hand up for that. Always wanted to understand more specialist card games. Got in the room and found I had a partner and opponents. Then all my childhood experiences and training kicked in.

DOCTOR What do you mean? Kicked in?

COLIN Well until then, my total experience of cards, was when I played with my brother and sister at Xmas. Sometimes Mum and Dad would join in. We’d play Snap all day….constantly. So when I got into the Bridge game, as soon as anyone put down the same card, I went into auto mode and began to shout ‘Snap, Snap, Snap.’

DOCTOR What happened?

COLIN They did snap; I got evicted after only two games.

DOCTOR What happened with the Psychology Department at the University?

COLIN Saw an advertisement in the local paper. University were paying £5.00, to people willing to help their Psychology students carry out behavioural studies, tests etc. Sit down with the students, answer a few questions, let them analyse the responses and then go home with a fiver. At the same time, a chance to make friends. Easy peasy.

DOCTOR And?

COLIN Two of the students immediately resigned from the course. Said apparently, they hadn’t reckoned on dealing with “People like me” for the rest of their working lives. Course tutor went daft. Totally unfair and still haven’t been paid. Not my fault.

DOCTOR What about the prison?

COLIN I read this report, which said that over 50% of homeless people, and especially those in prison, were illiterate in terms of English and Maths. So I joined a volunteer tutor group and ended up walking into Dartmoor Prison.

DOCTOR Sounds interesting Colin. How did you get on?

COLIN I was taken hostage.

DOCTOR What! I saw nothing in the media about it. For how long?

COLIN Long enough. My organisation never even reported me missing. Seemed to think prison  was the best place for me! Some loyalty. Prison Officer nearly died when he found me in a cupboard the next day. Mind you, I really needed sanctuary shortly after that.

DOCTOR Why?

COLIN I’d joined this conservation group. Lots of really nice, very committed ladies, all ages and sizes. Felt quite at ease, until we had the saga of endangered species. Went for an urgent briefing and was told that someone walking on Dartmoor that day had found “one, of only three” known species, of this particular plant. Everyone got excited, started jumping up and down, hugging each other and kissing. Didn’t mind that. Even began to enjoy it and respond;  then suddenly we all piled into vans and off we went.

DOCTOR What happened Colin?

COLIN We spread out across the moors and were told to “seek and find. I struck lucky straight away, and after an hour, nearly fell over the plant. I got back to the assembly point with it, looking for praise and found everyone really hacked off with me.

DOCTOR Why?

COLIN Apparently, there were now only two known species of this plant left alive, ‘cos I’d just killed number three. They made me walk home.

DOCTOR That’s sad. Talking of death, how did your Landlord’s cat die? This is listed under T for Taxidermy?

COLIN Doctor, I genuinely don’t believe I killed it. The course was interesting. I love nature and nurture and wondered if it would be possible, to retain the body and the spirit of a deceased animal, thereby giving additional comfort to the owners. I was simply holding the cat, stroking it, considering future options for it, when it became clear that the future was here and now.

DOCTOR What was the outcome?

COLIN Landlord gave me notice. Got to find somewhere else to live. Not easy. That’s why I joined the Medieval Re-Enactment group. Knew they had several local landlords amongst them.

DOCTOR Fascinating rationale Colin.  And?

COLIN Got carried off the battlefield on my first encounter.

DOCTOR I thought it was all carefully controlled?

COLIN Well it is normally and basically it was my fault.

DOCTOR Your fault? Again?

COLIN Properly this time. I was meant to be basic foot soldier; carried a heavy stick with a chain. On the end of it, there was a supposed spiked and dangerous ball. I had to swing it around and strike objects and people.

DOCTOR And?

COLIN Well it quickly became clear to me, that the ball on the end was only made of rubber, and it wouldn’t swing properly. It was like a black tennis ball with bits.

DOCTOR So what did you do?

COLIN Put a lead insert into it, so it swung better and harder.

DOCTOR And?

COLIN Problem was during my first battle, got a bit carried away and hit Sir Guinevere, of the local LGTB group, and took him out. Next thing I know, his official aide and Protector, is charging at me with this bloody great medieval sword. Woke up in Derriford Hospital. Apparently Sir Guinevere was the biggest landlord in town, so that scuppered that idea.

DOCTOR Colin, I’m exhausted. Having read your journal, I need to take time out and reflect on options for future support.  I’m conscious that we’ve not covered your experiences in other activities such as Zulu dancing, Tibetan cooking, Alcoholics Anonymous or Classic French. The Evangelical Church experience also looks quite interesting, but that’s for another day, as will be your feedback on Sexual deviances through history. Hadn’t realised the local Council were still running it.

COLIN What have you done that one….? By the way, it’s not in the diary but I’ve just finished Xylophone or Xenophobia. That was a hoot.

DOCTOR (Hurriedly) I’ll see you in a month Colin. Make an appointment with my Receptionist Sarah, as you leave.

FX (SOUND OF DOOR OPENING FX DISTANT SOUND)

COLIN Bye Doctor. Thank you. See you soon. Thanks again.

FX (FADE DOWN)

FX (FADE UP. SOUND OF KNOCK TO DOOR)

DOCTOR Come in Colin. Hello! Please come in Colin, or whoever you are.

FX (SOUND OF DOOR OPENING)

COLIN Hello Doctor. Sorry. Couldn’t hear you first time round. Still had my headphones on. Do you know Adele?

DOCTOR Adele who? If she’s one of my patients, I clearly can’t talk about it.

COLIN (Laughing) Doctor, you’re pulling my leg, aren’t you. Adele? Best British female singer, won more awards in the past few years than any other artist. Three albums, Adele 19, Adele 21, Adele 25…….No?

DOCTOR No! Sorry Colin. They don’t mean a thing (SHORT PAUSE) However, Colin I’ve just realised that what I’ve just said was sung by Ella Fitzgerald (SINGS) “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing” 1950’ish!

COLIN I wasn’t even born then!

DOCTOR Neither was I, but it doesn’t mean one cannot benefit and move on after a particular experience. For example Colin, you’ve had problems in the past with relationships in both a work setting and a leisure or recreational environment. I can see you’re making an effort to resolve that. Last time we met you mentioned Zulu dancing. What happened?

COLIN Doctor, that was before I saw you last month. Since then, I’ve also made progress in terms of trying to find a job

DOCTOR Oh, well done Colin. Hadn’t realised. So tell me about the jobs, and then we can have a look at the Zulu dancing and perhaps other experiences, and how you dealt with it.

COLIN Job Centre sent me to work on a local farm. Picking daffodils. Hard work. Made my back ache like buggery.

DOCTOR How did you get on? I have a sense of deja vu.

COLIN Don’t know about deja who? But I had the same problem as in the chippy. All daffodils look the same, but if you look closely, there are distinct differences in size of the heads, colour, even the stalks.

DOCTOR Can I presume you lost the job?

COLIN Not immediately. They tried me on potato picking, not the heavy stuff, but the quality end – new potatoes.

DOCTOR That must have been very challenging for you.

COLIN Challenging ain’t the word for it Doctor. My mind began to freeze/

DOCTOR That’s fascinating……..tell me more

COLIN I got completely overwhelmed. Everywhere I looked, there were these round objects all virtually looking the same, perhaps at last I didn’t have to make choices, I could just shove them in the sacks/

DOCTOR That must have given you a real sense of relief..

COLIN It did and it didn’t

DOCTOR Please explain

COLIN It did. It did give me a sense of relief. But it didn’t. Didn’t last. However, there were some nice people working there, Polish mainly, so I did make some friends. Even picked up bit of the lingo. Have a guess at the Polish for “Thank You”

DOCTOR I’m sorry I haven’t a clue.

COLIN That’s a radio programme! No in Polish you say “Jen koo ja”. “Please” is Prosze”

DOCTOR Thank you Colin..

COLIN One of them put me onto another job option, with a Polish building company.

DOCTOR Well that’s positive. Doing what?

COLIN Electrician

DOCTOR Colin I don’t remember you including that in your list of skills and experience?

COLIN I decided to wing it.

DOCTOR I don’t quite understand. I’m not familiar with that term….”wing it”

COLIN You know, you know. Enhance my skills.

DOCTOR Do you mean lie?

COLIN Well some might call it that. But I really wanted to try, so yeah, I winged it. Sort of.

DOCTOR OK Colin. How did you get on.

COLIN Only lasted a day. You know what I found most difficult?

DOCTOR I’d be fascinated to know.

COLIN Well I’m colour blind ain’t I.

DOCTOR I should have remembered, so you had problems identifying the negative and positive leads.

COLIN Big time. Supervisor tested a piece of work, next thing there’s a bang and a flash, and I’m our the door.

DOCTOR They sacked you?

COLIN No. I ran. He was a big bloke and he used another Polish word I’d learnt.

DOCTOR What about tools?

COLIN No that wasn’t the word they called me.

DOCTOR Colin I meant what did you do about your tools.

COLIN Oh. I’d told them I was awaiting a grant from the Job Centre, so they lent me all I needed. I just hoofed it.

DOCTOR That’s seems like an ideal link and to address the issue of Zulu Dancing.

COLIN That was short and sweet as well.

DOCTOR I had an instinct it might be.

COLIN Oh no! This was definitely one, I could say was entirely outside of my control. I’ve always been interested in Africa. Ever since I saw that film with Michael Caine.

DOCTOR Zulu?

COLIN Cor that was clever Doctor. You’ve seen it obviously.

DOCTOR It’s one of my favourites. Demonstrates the best of British.

COLIN (Puzzled) Yeah I think I know what you mean. Anyway I went to this evening class at the local University. They’ve got lots of overseas students there, and one of them was from Natal, which is where the Zulu’s primarily live. Said all the gear he had was genuine.

DOCTOR What do you mean “gear”

COLIN Well, the swords, shields, beads, drums and the costumes. Looked like leopard skins, but you could tell they were fake. Smelt a bit as well.

DOCTOR Sounds fascinating

COLIN Well it might sound like that, but it wasn’t a pleasant experience.

DOCTOR Why?

COLIN Well they went for it big time. We had to take our clothes, shoes and socks off. All except our pants, then we put the costumes on, and the beads around our necks and   ankles. Then it started.

DOCTOR What did?

COLIN The itching. My costume must have been live. Within minutes, I’m twitching around, scratching, pulling at it…..then the leader told me to stop dancing, we hadn’t started yet. Still waiting for the drummers to get kitted up. Told him I wasn’t dancing and that my costume must have been lousy.

DOCTOR What did he say?

COLIN Nothing. Just stood there. Meanwhile, I’ve already got a rash developing around my crotch and couldn’t stop scratching. So I thought bugger this and walked out, took my kit off, had a shower, and left. The only consolation was that the treasurer hadn’t turned up, so I hadn’t paid.

DOCTOR What do you think you gained from the experience?

COLIN Nothing apart from an itchy crotch and backside. Still twitches when I think about it.

DOCTOR That must have been very distressing for you.

COLIN Not as much as Fifi.

DOCTOR Fifi? I’m completely lost Colin. Explain.

COLIN Well I’ve always fancied learning a language, and my experience with the Polish lads on the farm brought it all back to me. Luckily, or so it seemed at the time, in the window of my local newsagent was a card. It looked quite genuine. “Local French lady offers lessons. Cheap rates for students.” I still had my student card from the University course, so used that. Rang up, went round and was shown into this waiting room.

DOCTOR You sound a little apprehensive, what happened?

COLIN Well, it was a funny room. I was looking for posters and things in French, or advertising the course, perhaps some books. Couldn’t seen any. All there was were a couple of dodgy magazines, stuffed away in a corner.

DOCTOR Dodgy?

COLIN Adult stuff! Anyway the woman who let me in, explained she was Fifi, and that she was on the phone, and would be back in a couple of minutes. She didn’t actually sound French, more Devon, even Cornish. Mind you those counties have strong links to France, so I put it down to that.

DOCTOR This is very interesting. Tell me more. Oh, and where was this house?

COLIN Just round the corner from the High Street, traffic lights. Smith Street. House with red curtains, just on the left. Do yah know it?

DOCTOR No sorry, I was simply trying to get the geography right in my head.

COLIN So did I, especially where the front door was.

DOCTOR What?

COLIN After about 10 minutes, I was just getting fed up, when this Fifi suddenly appeared again, and she’d got changed. She was wearing a Kimono. I’m thinking French lessons – dressed like that. Then I cottoned on. She wasn’t French. She was on the game, and here am I sitting in one of those dens of iniquities. So I made my excuses, said I’d left my wallet at home and legged it.

DOCTOR How did you feel?

COLIN I think the word is relieved. Nearly messed myself.

DOCTOR Was it the sexual aspect that made you nervous? We may need to explore that Colin.

COLIN No, it was what my Mum would have said, if she’d found out, she’s got a friend in that street and they meet once a week. Just imagine bumping into her as I came out. Or one of my mates, they’d have a field day! Fifi and me! I’d die!

DOCTOR I completely understand Colin, however, once again I would ask…….what have you gained from the experience?

COLIN Well nothing really, ‘cos I did a runner.

DOCTOR No Colin, I didn’t quite mean that, as in just a physical experience. I was trying to explore how you deal with situations generally, and what has changed, particularly since we started meeting some 6 months ago. Colin in normal events, I would be bringing this session to a close, however, I’d like to suggest we continue a little longer, as I sense we are approaching a crossroads.

COLIN Crossroads?

DOCTOR That’s a metaphor – a way of expressing ideas and things in a different form. For example, after 6 months, we are now reaching a point in our working relationship, and I am asking for us to both review progress, from either person’s point of view. OK?

COLIN When you put it that way, come to think of it, my life recently has been a series of crossroads. Get to a point, have a choice or choices to make. Make the wrong one and I’m in trouble, like the chip shop, but make the right one, and I’m on the road to success. Like when I found the flower on Dartmoor. Success in finding it, but then the downside, wrong crossroad, then I had to walk home, and was ostracised.  

DOCTOR I think you’re generally getting the gist of what I’m trying to establish.

COLIN Gist? That’s a nice word, like the sound of that..what does it mean?

DOCTOR It means Colin that you have a general understanding of an issue or matter, without needing a detailed knowledge.

COLIN What like being an Electrician and nearly killing the Supervisor.

DOCTOR Exactly. However, detailed knowledge was definitely needed, and missing.

COLIN Right. What’s next?

DOCTOR Colin, would you like a cup of tea or coffee? I’ll buzz Sarah, and ask her to pop in.

COLIN That’d be nice. Tea please. Oh and by the way, I’ve got some good news. Should have mentioned it earlier, but got so involved in this therapy thingy.

DOCTOR Good news? I feel quite overwhelmed already, by some of the developments this afternoon. Explain! What is your good news?

COLIN (Excitedly) I’ve been offered a job, and it’s a dream. Never in a month of Sunday’s would I have thought that I would being doing that sort of thing. But it’s happened!

DOCTOR What’s happened? Why are you so clearly excited….?

COLIN Couple of weeks ago, my sister Mandy rang me. Her car had broken down, and she was in a panic. Needed to collect her daughter Vickie from the Nursery before they closed. Asked me to do it.

DOCTOR And?

COLIN Shot round there. Found out I had masses of time on my hands, so the staff let me join in their games with the kids. Singing, dancing, reading from books, painting, cutting up paper and material. It was wonderful. Apparently quite a lot of kids have never known a male person in their lives. Single parents and all that. Don’t know what they see as the difference, but apparently it’s there.

DOCTOR So what happened.

COLIN Well it was weird. It was as if the kid’s knew I had my own issues, but they weren’t bothered. Kept coming up to me with things to do, things they wanted to share. Ended up reading to them, some even sat on my lap. Mind you as in all things, there had to be a clever clogs.

DOCTOR Please explain Colin.

COLIN Well Doctor, as you well know, I can hardly read myself, so when this little boy came up to me with a book, I decided once again to “wing it”.

DOCTOR Like you did with the Electrician’s?

COLIN Yeah, but in this case, all I did was make up a story, rather than what was in the book. Most of the kids seemed to enjoy it, however, the little clever lad who gave it to me, could clearly read better than me. He realised I was reading porkies.

DOCTOR What did he do?

COLIN Nothing. He just looked at me in a special way. I knew, he knew, and he knew I knew he knew – but he didn’t say anything.

DOCTOR What did that experience give you?

COLIN I finally realised what I wanted to do. No matter what! As long as the kids needed me, I needed them more, and we had a bargain. Anyway, the Supervisor was obviously watching what went on, ‘cos they’d have to, especially with me being a bloke and all that.  At the end, just as I was taking my niece home, she asked if I was interested in a job. Subject to all the police checks, references, intensive training, and the lot. Thought I had potential, especially as a male figure.

DOCTOR How did that leave you I wonder?

COLIN Feeling on top of the world. I was walking on air, all the way to my sisters. I start in two weeks time. Kid’s have already given me a nickname. Uncle Col Col. Nice!

DOCTOR (Excitedly) Colin, I feel a little bit of air under my feet as well. Now all we have to do is find you a girl friend and your life will be complete.

COLIN What do you mean? I’ve got one. Been going out for about 3 months. Getting on like a house on fire. Love her to bits, and I’m getting the feeling she feels the same way about me. Who knows – a few more dates, and I might be asking her a serious question.

DOCTOR What sort of question?

COLIN Whether she wants to continue being your receptionist!! It’s Sarah. Whilst I’ve been sitting in the waiting room all these months, and after my appointments, we’ve had lots of chats and things. She’s lovely, and I think she likes me as well. Let’s hope she hasn’t read your notes. Might change her mind.

FX (SOUND OF DOCTOR ACTIVATING INTERNAL MICROPHONE TO RECEPTION).

DOCTOR Hi Sarah. Could you pop in. Oh and by the way, in the office fridge there’s a bottle of   Dom Perignon, left over from Xmas. Bring it with you, with some glasses/

COLIN Sorry Doctor, I haven’t explained how I got mixed up between Xylophone and Xenophobia yet. Nearly cost me a pasting, when I met all these skinheads by mistake.

DOCTOR I suggest you keep that one in your memory box. It would make a nice opening at a wedding reception speech.

FX (SOUND OF DOOR OPENING)

DOCTOR Ah, here’s my delightful and undoubtedly lovely Sarah with some glasses and the champagne. Please excuse my familiarity with my Receptionist, but until today Colin, you hadn’t realised you’re dating my daughter.

COLIN Is that OK Doctor, or should I say Father in Law?

DOCTOR Get pouring!

END OF PLAY – OCD & ME.

Three sketches broadcast and paid for, on Radio 4’s Recorded for Training Purposes” (RFTP) a satirical comedy sketch program in 2011

Two of my poems were published last year in BunBury Creative Anthology Volume 1 ISBN 9781786154071 (available from Amazon) I have had around 20 other poems published in various magazines throughout the years and one other in a private anthology. I regularly publish a poem in Bunbury. A Quarterly E-Magazine:

Buy the anthology here

I have made the following shortlists

The 7th Kenneth Branagh Award for New Drama Writing with 30-minute stage-play “Stephens Birthday Puzzle”

Stage-play “Puzzle in the Park” shortlisted for the Arundel Festival Theatre Trail 2011 and given first reserve

Shortlisted for Pint Sized Plays on 3 occasions 2013/15/16

In 2013 BBC Opening Lines Shortlisted Short Story

In 2014 BBC “It’s my Shout,” 10 minute T.V. screenplay shortlisted
I have been shortlisted so many times that I’m thinking of changing my name to “Davey Shortlist!”

Ongoing:

Regular writer for “Bunbury.”: Quarterly E-Magazine:

Slam Poetry readings at various venues

My writing ambition is to work together in Theatre with actor’s directors etc. with a view to an eventual public performance

CAP IN HAND

Douglas Bruton

 

You ever knowed someone who’s mam died and they was all broken like glass inside and they was your best friend ever? I din’t know what to say or what to do and so I just looked at Carl, looking sad as wet sunsets or dead kittens, and being just as silent, and one hand on his shoulder and not sure that was ok to do.

She wasn’t sick, his mam, leastways not so far as anyone knowed. She just died. Sudden as thunderclaps and no grey sky warning before it and no sparking flash-bulb light. Doctors said her heart just stopped and they said it can do that sometimes and not ever start again. And Carl swore hard as any man, all his words like thrown stones and all of ‘em thrown ‘gainst God and doctors and even his da. And ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ and ‘bastard’, he said. Over and over again. And I told him to just let it out, like a poison released, and it wasn’t never no sin to be doing like Carl was doing, I thought, not even though he was doing it in front of the church.

The minister came out to see what all the commotion was and his face was red as wasp stings and he was holding his fist up to hammer the blaspheming air. When he saw it was Carl, well, I think he understood, and he let fall his slack fist and he said ‘There now,’ and ‘It’s you is it?’ and he asked us if we wanted to come gentle inside.

Carl shook his head and turned away and I turned away with him. The minister called to our backs, saying as how the door to God’s house was always open. When we was ready, he said, anytime, day or night, and he blessed us in God’s holy name. And Carl said all his best swear words again, saying ‘em under his breath this time so only God and me could hear ‘em.

We din’t plan it or nothing. Not nohow. We just decided there and then to go, not knowing the place we’d go to or for how long, but knowing we had to get away and be by ourselves for a while.

We stopped off at my house and I picked up a bedroll and some apples and a leg of pork that’d been cooked and was cold and mam’d said was for tea and then for sandwiches for the rest of the week. She’d be mad as a shook bag of ferrets when she found out, but it din’t matter none to me, not with Carl the way he was and his mam waiting to be laid in the ground.

Then with the pork and the apples and the bedroll we just left, me and Carl. There wasn’t hardly no words ‘tween us and there din’t need to be. We just walked up out of the town, the pull of the hill like something holding us back but not holding tight enough, and we kept on walking and not ever looking to the town we’d left behind.

The day was still and warm, and Carl beside me so close I could hear his breath catching; and my own heart drumming in my ears, I could hear that, too, and birds getting it all wrong and thinking this was a day like any other day and a day to be singing in.

We stepped off the road as soon as we could and headed into the trees, walking through deep ferns and wild garlic, and sticks breaking sharp like gunfire under our feet. It was cool in there, as cool as church stone, and the sky was in bits ‘tween the trees and we walked till we was nowhere and till we was out of breath and out of the will to walk more. And we just sat down beside each other, sitting on a old fallen log with the sound of running water playing like music somewhere over our shoulder and the smell of Sweet Flag hanging all about, and Carl sucked air and blowed it out again, and I did, too, and it was like the weight of everything was in that moment we’d been brought to.

I wanted to say something then. I wanted it to be like in a movie and I’d have something important to say, something simple and clever both at the same time, something that’d make sense of where we was and what we was about. I wanted to make a small speech that’d stay with us forever after and we’d always be friends no matter what the world threw at us – cos the world could not throw anything worse than this, I thought, not anything worse than Carl’s mam’s heart stopping and never starting again. I wanted to say something.

But all I had was sorry, sorry for Carl’s mam, but sorriest for Carl. So I said just that, said I was sorry and real sorry and sorry right down to my boots. And Carl started crying – which the occasion told me was alright and sometimes crying ain’t just for girls like people say it is. I put my arm round Carl and I held him tight as not letting go and he just cried hisself down to quiet and to sob and I din’t have more to say to him.

Sitting like that, all still and near to silent, well it was like we slowly became invisible and a nat’ral part of the forest. It was like time stopped, or slowed at least, and nothing mattered ‘cept me holding onto Carl and Carl holding onto me. And we might have stayed like that forever and it would have been enough – like the last frame in a movie and the music playing quiet and dwindling, and the picture fades slow to black and the credits come up in silence.

Then suddenly this glassy eyed red-flame squirrel just ran under our feet, skittering through last year’s fallen leaves, and it stopped to look at us and to get a sense of everything, sitting up straight and it’s tail curled into a question mark at its back. And Carl and me just looked at the squirrel what was looking right back at us, and bits of sunlight making rare gold on the forest floor, and me and Carl still holding to each other. And like that I reckon as it was better than any church and I could hear the voice of the minister saying soft as whispers that the door was always open, anytime, day or night. And I felt something then, and I think Carl felt it too, and God was there, I swear it, in that moment, sure as eggs, there with His cap in hand and saying He was sorry, too.

Wind Song

Sheila Blackburn

When the wind screams from the sea, it flings the gulls like rag toys and makes the windows sticky with salt. The brave trees stoop and turn away, branches teased to spiked quiffs.  The winter wind sings a bitter song, a harsh song, abrasive and demanding.

 

This is home now. The hebes and sturdy evergreens I planted in the early days grow strong and confident. Defiant against the song of the wind.  Hardy fuchsias finger at the shelter of thick stone walls and the sleepy horses nod at the fence for peppermints and apples.

 

Spring-time winds soothe, but gust unexpectedly; they are the high and low notes of a whole symphony. The summer breezes have a liquid melody and in autumn, the wind tugs and bumps along with a strong bass note.

This is home. My home until the wind sings a very different song.

 

“There’s lovely!”

Mrs Griffiths straightens, pulls at her corsetry and steps back to admire our seasonal arrangement. An unlikely couple, we have become the mainstay of the church flower rota. She doesn’t care for my choice of hair-dyes; she wears her distaste as openly as her plain jumpers and sensible shoes. But I pose no threat; my diligence and reliability suit her and she has become a staunch ally.

 

Later, I plan to take more home-made pickles to be sold in the corner shop. Dewi Jones will brew a welcome pot of tea and twinkle over his half-moon glasses. He has reinvented and diversified – as we all must – with an eye on the tourist trade and a steely determination that is open to modern ridicule.

I find it inspiring.

“Never give up.”  Dewi clings to his business with the tenacity of lichen on the windy cliff-faces. The fixed belief that I have had since first I came here…

 

Now, a crisp-cold December evening skitters tiny frost-sparks into the shop as I shoulder open the door and heave my produce onto the counter. Another cheerful jangling of the bell when I push the dark-cold back into the street. Dewi is already reaching for the kettle.

 

“It’ll be a sharp one tonight,” he beams and peers into the box. “The wind has dropped – there’s maybe snow on the way.”

He smiles approvingly at the red bows and holly sprigs I added to the jars, happily arranges them on a display with local wintry-greeting  cards.

 

“The roads will be impassable!” His is a cheerful pessimism. “The gritters won’t get this far – we’ll be cut off…”

 

This has been my home for some years. Yet I have only just arrived. Being accepted takes time; it brings trust, but it is always tinged with reluctance.

I have trust, too. But mine is tainted with something else. The friendship I want and offer always carries a deeper truth, like a betrayal.

“There now, you’ll have one of Maia’s mince-pies?”

 

Tea and mince-pies and gossip are what I have earned over the years. Youthful willingness traded for cosy familiarity. I have come a long way to be here. The achievement is to be celebrated. But it comes at a cost. I carry it close – smile and say very little.

 

“Mind how you go.” His words and the jangly bell carry me back out into the winter streets, where the wind holds its breath. Waiting. We are all waiting.

The huddled cottages are warm with window lights and sparkling trees; the night sky arcs and turns and the steel-white star-eyes are piercing, – searching out the darkest secrets.

My boots beat a muffled rhythm along the empty road to sagging gate and

holly-wreathed front door.

 

This is my home now. Scent of cinnamon, glowing log-fire and a small tree ready to shed its needles. My old dog thumps his tail on the floor.

 

I heat some soup and take a tray to the fireside.  So much warmth is soothing, but the agitation is never far away. Restless, I move around the room, touching things, wishing for the wind to sing again, to bring what it will.

 

Two travellers on the road tonight, looking for a place to stay, looking for a land-line when their mobile signal has failed. The knocking at the door startles me, brings back the old fears that I would have buried all that time ago on another night as clear and dark as this.

At the sound of strange voices, the old dog stirs from his grumbling sleep and frets at their feet. But these are not my persecutors. They will come, one day, for their justice. Perhaps I might lack the will to let them in.

 

But tonight, I open to a city couple, road-weary and lost. He is unshaven and in a long thin coat that flaps at his heels. The girl is diet- frail and vulnerable in clothes the elements mock and seer right through. And tonight, my compassion brings them in to a cheerful fire, to a welcome hot drink and to a phone call to the local hotel.

 

This is my compassion. But it is a short-lived, easy thing. It is given and they are gone –  back on their wind-quiet winter journey.

 

Tonight, my compassion is simple; it has no struggle with things that are hard and final. I let myself be swallowed into the depths of the fire-side chair and the dog settles at my feet with a simple, unconditional love. Would that it was always so.

One day the wind will take all the compassion and love I have and fling it back in my face.   And the song will reach a just and triumphant crescendo.

 

I allow myself to be lost in thought…dare to reach into memories… How he walked into my life when the winter wind moaned long and low. He brought me calm and understanding and a little green pot plant with a red ribbon bow. In a short time, I let him in and let myself think he could give me love, where there had been no love before.

He came with so little, wanted little, thought to take nothing. He was gone when the late winter winds blew themselves to a haunting memory. Thought to leave so very little of himself for me. Not thinking, nor backward-looking, he never knew how much he truly left… A sweet, new song, stirring within.

My tiny stranger; a sense of shame, of foolishness, of trust too freely given. Of love that rose and fell on the wind.

No need to tell. Nobody to hear. – The new song, stirring, taking shape.

Stirring, humming softly, but not strong enough to hold its own life-beat.

 

I lost my child when the late summer breezes came to whisper at the smallness and the hugeness of it all. Nobody knew. Nobody heard. Nobody came.

 

I worked in a corner of the garden and at night, while the quiet stars watched and only the wind-song mourned, I wrapped her in a white sheet and carried her easily to where the apple tree branches creaked and pointed. I covered her with earth and a bag full of spring bulbs. It was only then that her song ended.

 

I stayed with her at the house until two seasons of bulbs had grown and bloomed and faded away. But then when the late spring winds had flattened the withered brown flowers, I sold to a young family who could unknowingly share their easy happiness near her.

And then I followed the wind here, where it can roam and sing freely.

Here is home. Here is where I shall stay. For now…

 

This night, I lie awake and think of Christmas and the kind invitations that mean I can choose not to be alone.

I lie awake and think of the city-wise travellers, in a hotel that will be no more than a basic comfort on their journey.  

 

I lie awake and think of Spring and new life – and all the old worries come rushing and crowding in…

Will it be this Spring that the wind turns?  When they finally dig the furthest corner of the old garden? And make their find? And think they have uncovered a truth?

Tonight, there is no wind, but I hear the horror, the gasps, the words of  their disbelief.   

And where will acceptance be then? Compassion? Who will understand my special song?

Tonight, I lie awake on my own journey. I have arrived and am at home – but I will not stay.  I cannot stay.

 

And tonight, there is no wind-song to whine or scream. Tonight, my own breathing moves the cold air with a haunting song of fear.

I lie here and wait for the wind.

It will be a wind that gnaws and worries and will not rest until the whole song is over.

Bycatch

Grant Price

 

The Captain was lying on his bunk when the deck chief appeared in the doorway and told him there was a situation upstairs. His beard was soaked through with rainwater. The Captain put on his oilskin and followed the chief out onto the deck. The seiner was rolling hard on the waves. It was the type of cold that had a man pinching the meat on his cheeks to keep the blood flowing. The boys were standing by the roller at the back of the boat, backs turned and hoods up. They were ankle-deep in dead sockeye and peering over the stern.

‘What’s the hassle?’ the Captain asked as he and the chief joined the pair of them. The boys didn’t take their eyes off the water.

‘Something in the net,’ shouted one. He was an inbreaker, new to the seiner and not yet old enough to have reached his third decade. The Captain liked the boy. He was quick to learn and impressed without making a show of it.

The senior deckhand grunted. ‘Something big.’ The rain rolled off his orange oilskin. He pointed. ‘Over there. Tangled up proper.’

The Captain narrowed his eyes and looked. He’d ordered the boys to gather the net in before it became too choppy. It was usually a quick job to pull it in with the drum, but not if a dolphin or a small whale had strayed into the seine and was trying to thrash its way loose. He watched the surface of the sea for the foamy spot, but saw only the rain lashing down.

‘Nothing on the surface.’

‘Went below a minute ago,’ said the chief. ‘Then I came for you.’ There was a tone in his voice that the Captain couldn’t place. He was gripping the coaming with both hands.

The four men waited in silence. The seiner rose and fell almost like it was breathing. The net dropped down from the roller and disappeared into the ocean. The senior deckhand coughed. The chief adjusted his hood and wiped at his eyes with a dirty palm.

‘What did you see, boys?’ asked the Captain. None of the men answered. The wind started to whip itself into a fury.

Then the inbreaker yelped and pointed. They looked. A form flailed in the water several metres away from the stern. The net held it fast. A tail quivered and disturbed the glassy grey surface. The Captain’s relief was spoiled by a touch of regret. A dolphin. Unfortunate, but it was easier to dispose of than a whale.

‘Reel her in, boys,’ he ordered. The senior deckhand grabbed the slick rope and pulled. The net began to retract and hug the coiler. The inbreaker busied himself with the fish that slopped over the roller and hung suspended in the net. He clutched one in a practised hand and drove a spike into its hindbrain. The fins flared for a moment and then the fish fell still. He dropped it on the deck and moved to the next one. The bright orange handle burned in the Captain’s eyes.

‘That’s right,’ he said, encouraging the boy. ‘Quick as you can. The storm will be on us soon enough.’ The inbreaker nodded and kept on sticking. His mouth was a pencil scratch on bone. He needed a hot drink and a rest. Once the dolphin was out of the net, they could all get below deck.

‘Get the gaff hooks ready,’ called the chief, leaning over the stern. The Captain fetched them himself and handed one to the inbreaker. The senior deckhand made ready with the rope. The inbreaker wiped his spike and clipped it to his belt. He and the Captain joined the chief.

‘Gone below again,’ he shouted. ‘Once it hits the surface, get it with the gaffs. Then we’ll drag it in.’ He held his hand up, ready with the signal. Behind them, the senior deckhand counted the seconds. The rain beat against their oilskins. The Captain blew through his nose.

The water parted and the tail smacked against the surface. The Captain held the gaff aloft, ready to lunge.

Then a pair of arms appeared.

Fingers poked through the holes of the net.

An osseous head crested the wave and stared up at the men.

The inbreaker screamed and threw the gaff into the water. The chief’s hand fell to his side. The senior deckhand pulled hard on the rope and the net retracted over the roller. The Captain turned and called for him to stop, but the sound was snatched away on the wind. The deckhand gave a final heave. Something slid over the top of the roller and slapped onto the fish-laden deck.

The men jumped back and pressed themselves against the sides of the seiner. The shape twisted in the net and tried to pull the fibres apart with knotty bluish fingers. The tail sent sockeye skidding towards the drum. It flipped itself over onto its back. Blood poured from underneath one of its arms and mixed with the water on the deck. Then it lay still.

Clutching his gaff hook, the Captain edged closer until he could see the face.

‘Don’t go near it,’ shouted the chief. He was holding onto the inbreaker’s oilskin.

A pair of fluid black eyes locked with the Captain’s. The form had an enlarged forehead, nose and jaw. It opened and closed a wide-set, lipless mouth, but no sound emerged. Two rows of teeth stood out like broken glass.

The Captain turned the gaff hook over in his hands and held it out, wooden end first, towards the form. The blue fingers stretched and wrapped themselves around the wood. There was strength in the grip. The eyes continued to hold his gaze. The blood began to pool near the top of its tail. The Captain stood, legs glued to the deck of the bobbing seiner.

It let go of the gaff. Slowly, the other men approached and formed a circle around it.

‘Captain?’ asked the senior deckhand. His voice sounded as though it had been cracked in half and taped back together.

‘I don’t know,’ said the Captain.

Then it lunged. The bony hands found the deck chief’s ankle and yanked the man off his feet. His skull struck the body of a sockeye and the breath exploded from his body. Jagged teeth pierced the fabric and buried itself in the chief’s flesh. The Captain bellowed and brought the gaff handle down hard on the tail, but the form refused to let go. The senior deckhand dropped to his knees and tried to prise its jaw apart. The tail thudded against the wooden boards.

Before the Captain could strike it again, the inbreaker dived past him and drove the orange-handled spike again and again into the back of its neck. The form trembled and its eyes froze solid. The tail stopped moving. The senior deckhand opened the jaws and the chief pulled his mangled ankle free with a cry. The Captain dragged him across the deck to the drum and told the chief to press down on the wound.

‘Help me,’ called the inbreaker. He and the senior deckhand cut the net off the roller and wrapped it around the body as best they could. Then the inbreaker grabbed the wrists. The deckhand took the tail. They lifted it to the edge of the seiner.

There was a splash. The two deckhands looked over the side before sinking to the floor. The chief moaned and clutched at his ankle. The Captain stared at the roller and the tattered remains of the seine.

And the men were alone.

In the Dark

Richard Hooton

 

EVERYTHING’S dark. Pitch black. Where am I? I can’t move. My eyes won’t open. What the hell?

I’ve been buried alive with mounds of suffocating earth slowly crushing me. I have to get out. Wait. There’s no pressure; nothing’s weighing me down. It’s like floating in space with no stars.

It’s not real. Just a nightmare. My alarm clock will sound, I’ll awake, laugh with relief, then make a cup of tea and my world will be right again.

But I’m thinking too much to be asleep. I’ve always been afraid of the dark; anything could be lurking out there. Come on, Sarah, open your eyes. After 40 years of instantly obeying me, my body rebels. My mind screams “move”, yet I’m frozen.

I yell. Silence mocks my pathetic efforts to make noise. So that’s it. I see nothing. Feel nothing. I am nothing. I’m dead. Is this it? An immobile black silence. Am I in hell? Purgatory?

All I know is that I’m alone.

There’s a noise. I can hear. It’s rhythmic: a deep, whistling whoosh then a pause. There’s a quiet beeping in the background and a mechanism that wheezes and clunks. It’s like the world’s most musically challenged orchestra; completely in time, never missing a beat, but with no melody or tune.

In their moments of silence I can hear the beat of my heart. It’s faint, but life is pumping through my veins. My head’s as fuzzy as radio static. I smell antiseptic and bleach. And something fainter. A sweet, delicate fragrance: the subtle notes of my favourite roses. I have senses. Am I blind and paralysed? I’ve read about locked-in conditions: A fully functioning mind trapped inside a broken-down body. Am I confined inside a personal hell?

I long to know; but I’m afraid of the truth.

I lie here — what choice do I have? — and wait. How did I get here? I piece together the jigsaw from fragments of memory. Rushing to an appointment; always rushing, from one place to the next, one duty to another. I remember a letter; ominous black words on smooth, white paper. I dropped my four-year-old son off at nursery. How could I have forgotten Joey? Is it still morning? I think of his forlorn face when I don’t arrive to pick him up, thinking his mummy has abandoned him.

I will myself to move. It’s futile. I’m lost in the dark.

What’s that? A new noise. A tapping that gets louder. Closer. Footsteps. A muttering, like someone talking through cloth, then it’s clearer. They’ll rescue me, surely?

‘Five more minutes then I’m off.’ A voice from my left. A woman’s soft tones enlivened by eagerness. They must see me.

‘Where you off tonight?’ Another female voice. To my right. Why aren’t they doing something?

‘Round the pubs in town then I’ll hit the clubs. Can’t wait.’ A night out. Excitement. Entertainment. Pleasure. I’m trapped in a black tomb.

‘You ready? On the count.’ Ready for what? ‘One, two, three.’

A sensation, like I’m flying. Am I soaring up to meet my maker after all? Then back down. I think I’m stationary again.

The footsteps resume, then fade until they’re gone. Just the noise of the machine is left. I’m as helpless as a trussed animal in a slaughterhouse. I can’t rush now. All I can do is think about how I wish I could kiss Joey’s feather-soft hair and breathe in his sweet scent. My little firework. To feel warm sunshine on my skin and be dazzled by its brightness. How sweetly frail like spun sugar those cherished moments seem now. All I have in my cocoon are memories.

There’s footsteps again. A familiar musky scent in the air stirs me. Voices. This time male.

‘I’m afraid there’s been no change.’ The tone is serious, sombre. ‘I conducted the most basic reflex tests.’ A nervous cough. ‘But there was no response.’ That fragrance. Is it?

‘There must be more you can do?’

The voice chimes in my heart like a clapper striking a bell. Deep, masculine and as familiar to me as my name. It is him.

Pete, my husband of twenty years, my lighthouse, is by my side. His aftershave is comforting, his voice reassuring. Help is here. And he’ll have made sure Joey’s safe.

‘We’ve done all we can.’ What are they contemplating? ‘It’s been three days now.’ I’ve been lying here that long? ‘I’m sorry.’ The stranger’s voice is quiet and burdened with sadness. ‘There’s no chance of recovery.’

If my body could shake it would. Clearly, I’m in a hospital bed and the stranger’s a doctor. It’s a life or death conversation. My life or death. And I can’t intervene. I want to shout out, to throw my arms into the air. All I can do is listen to them discuss my existence. Tell him, Pete. There’s always hope. Never give up.

‘It’s too soon. She needs more time.’ He does as I ask. But his voice drips with fear, sounds strangled by panic. You need to convince him, Pete.

‘It’s possible your wife’s mental ability has been impaired by the lack of oxygen while we were restarting her heart. It may have caused catastrophic brain damage.’ Why can’t they tell there’s nothing wrong with my mental ability? ‘Consider her wishes. Would she want to be kept alive on a ventilator?’

I bloody well do want to be kept alive.

What’s happened to me? I must think harder to shine a light through the fog. I remember pins and needles in my legs, still managing to get Joey to nursery before work, a pain snaking up me. I collapsed, recovered, went to the doctors, then hospital. That letter casts a shadow. The doctor gave it me, it described some condition, something about the immune system attacking the nervous system, leaving your brain unable to control your muscles. I was waiting at hospital. Then darkness.

I wonder what I look like, laid flat, all ghostly white in a hospital bed. Not too revolting, I hope. I imagine myself angel-like, long blonde hair flowing backwards against a crisp, white pillow, my complexion pale but clear.

The doctor said I’d had a heart attack. I must be in a coma but somehow able to hear. It’s quiet. Pete hasn’t answered the question. What’s there to think about? I picture my husband, his stance: legs together, back straight, head bowed, hand on chin, contemplating.

He’ll be as alone as I am; though we’re just inches apart.

Our futures hang in this moment.

‘We have to be realistic about your wife’s prospects.’ The doctor’s voice is matter-of-fact grim. ‘I think it’s time to turn the machine off.’ I see my danger. My life support. Keep that machine on, Pete.

‘We did talk.’ I’ve never heard Pete’s voice so low, as if it’s scraping the earth. Then I know what he’s going to say. Please don’t recall that conversation.

‘About the right to die.’ He gulps, near chokes on the words. ‘Sarah said if she was permanently incapacitated she’d no longer want to live.’

If I could cry, I would. It’s exactly what I said. But this isn’t that situation. I try to scream out. I wish I could open my eyes. I can’t bear this darkness. There must be some way of getting their attention, just the slightest movement: the flutter of an eyelid or trembling hand. Despite terror gripping my mind, my body remains still.

My death is sealed.

I’ll never see Joey’s bright eyes, burning with energy, again. I won’t be there to catch him when he falls, to guide him, to teach him. I’ll never see him grow, flourish, achieve. I’ll have left him and Pete behind. For one last time I want to tell them I love them. They’re all I’ve ever wanted in life – now I have nothing. Now I stop to appreciate. Why does it have to be dark to see the light?

And alone, inside your head, is the darkest place I’ve ever known.

Then Pete speaks. ‘I still think she should be given more time. I’ve a feeling she can pull through.’

For the first time, I’m so happy Pete’s going against my wishes. Relief isn’t an adequate word. Time is all I need. If my mind is functioning my body will follow. It’s up to the doctor now. Is his silence hesitation?

‘I’ll book Sarah in for an MRI scan to see what brain function there is and keep her on the ventilator until then.’

A lifeline. I know the scan will reveal me and they’ll bring me round. I can’t wait to open my eyes and see my two boys again. I’ll kiss my husband. I’ll hold my son in my arms until they ache and breathe in his heavenly scent. Whatever it takes, I will rise and walk away from this hospital bed.

I’ll be out of the darkness and into the light.

Detroit

Erik Lofroth

 

‘There’s bacon and eggs if you want it.’ She gestures towards the stove.

The man pulls out a chair. ‘I’ll just have coffee.’ His cigarettes are on the table. He flicks a finger at the bottom of the pack, bringing one out, and lights it. The ashtray has been emptied but not cleaned. He places the lighter on top of the pack, then straightens it. ‘Listen, Lauren,’ he says. ‘About last night.’

‘Don’t.’ She holds out the frying pan. ‘You sure you don’t want any?’ As he waves his cigarette in dismissal, she empties the contents in the trash. ‘Eat up,’ she tells the boy.

His protest is weak. ‘Aw, Mom.’

She ignores it. Her elbow sticks out at a sharp angle as she dumps the frying pan in the sink. It sizzles.

The man pulls on his cigarette. ‘You know you don’t have to go through with it. We’d manage.’

‘That’s what his father said.’ Her shoulder indicates the boy. She keeps her back to the table, scrubbing at the pan. ‘A month of dirty diapers and broken sleep and he was gone.’ The frying pan hits the side of the sink. She rinses it off and gives it a quick dab with a dishcloth before returning it to the stove.

The kid’s head is bent forward, inches from the cereal he has hardly touched. ‘You’re not my dad,’ he mumbles.

Unsure of his meaning, the man hesitates. ‘I am for now,’ he says. It seems a safe enough claim. He taps his cigarette against the ashtray. Coffee, he thinks. He puts his hands on the table to push himself up.

But Lauren is ahead of him — she has finished clearing up and pours them both a cup. ‘Tyler will have to stay home,’ she instructs him. ‘I may not be out in time to pick him up from school.’ Some coffee spills as she hands him his. ‘There’s leftover pizza in the fridge. There should be enough for you both.’ She unties her apron and drops it over a chair.

‘Will you be able to drive after they’re done?’

‘Can’t see why not.’

They sip at their coffee in silence. He stubs out his cigarette, lights another.

‘Remember the lilacs?’ he asks.

She doesn’t.

‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘You’d better be on your way.’ He empties his cup and takes it over to the sink, along with the ashtray.

She joins him. ‘A hug?’

He holds her. Over her shoulder he can see Tyler. The kid is looking away.

‘If you should change …’

She places a finger on his lips and frees herself to go and get her coat. Passing the boy, she gives him a sideways cuddle. ‘See you tonight,’ she says. And she is gone.

 

The man spends the rest of the morning tidying up. He strips the beds, theirs and Tyler’s, hangs the sheets out the window, turns the mattresses over. He gathers Lauren’s clothes, but not certain precisely where they go leaves them on a chair. Unhappy with the result, he transfers them to another chair, folding each item to form a neat pile. Tyler, who must have trashed his cereal as soon as there was no one watching, stays in the kitchen with a coloring book and a set of felt-tip pens. Had Lauren told him to? In it are pictures of spacecraft, robots, aliens. The man hears him fire a gun. ‘Pow! Pow! Pow!’ When he looks in on him, he sees him point a pen at the roach motel by the stove. ‘They check in,’ he whispers. ‘They check in …’ He bends his head to the right for a better aim. ‘Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! You’re dead.’

‘You can’t read yet, can you?’ asks the man.

‘Some.’ The kid goes on firing.

When Lauren brought him home in the spring, she’d made no mention of Tyler. Had he taken even a casual look around, he would have seen signs of the boy everywhere, but he didn’t — in two days, they hardly left her bed. In fact, she didn’t refer to him until she had to collect him on the Sunday. ‘He’s been with his granny,’ were her words. She’d wanted a weekend to herself. Seeing that he’d stayed on, it had been the only one. How many had there been before him?

‘Where does your granny live?’ he asks.

The kid has his nose in the book. Is he nearsighted? ‘On the farm.’ He uncaps a black pen for the robot’s handgun.

‘Nearby?’

Tyler shakes his head. ‘They have chickens.’

He should have found out from Lauren.

Deciding that the sheets have aired long enough, he makes the beds before he proceeds to sort out his belongings, few as they are; his backpack, still in the hall, held them all. A glance at his watch tells him he should heat the pizza. It is gone twelve o’clock.

‘Hungry?’

Tyler has finished the picture he was working on. The colors make each shape stand out. He nods.

The man lifts down two plates to heat the pieces separately. ‘Remember the time there was a fly trapped in the micro?’ He opens the door for Tyler’s, having changed the setting to high. ‘We couldn’t figure out where the buzzing came from. It sounded like the whole thing was about to explode. Amazing that it survived.’

‘It hit the window like a bullet.’ The kid’s eyes sparkle. ‘The fastest fly in the world.’

They had searched the floor afterwards but found no trace of it. Perhaps it had ended up on one of the strips of flypaper that hung in the kitchen well into September.

‘Here’s yours.’ The man has shifted book and pens to the side. He slides the plate down in front of the boy, adding a knife and fork and a glass of water, to get him to tackle his food while he is in a good mood. He sets the timer for his own. ‘Eat now.’

And the kid does.

But halfway through, he interrupts himself.

‘Your name’s not Detroit, is it?’

‘No.’

‘Mike’s brother says it’s a place.’

‘It is.’

Tyler pokes at the corner of his mouth with the fork.

‘So why does Mom call you Detroit?’

‘She’d seen some program about it.’

‘Detroit.’

‘It was just an idea she had.’

The kid gives him a blank look but doesn’t pursue the matter. They finish their meal in silence. Having cleared the table, the man washes the dishes, dries them, puts them away. Tyler has disappeared. He finds him in his room, staging a fight between a knight and a dinosaur.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he suggests.

They set off down the road, past the abandoned farmhouse, their nearest neighbor, where he’d cut a few twigs of lilac after a row, a conciliatory gesture that brought its own reward. Now the bushes are empty of both flowers and leaves. ‘You cold?’ he asks.

Tyler shakes his head.

The man slows down; the kid, he realizes, is half running.

They pass the barn, which looks more derelict than the house; it must be decades since it was last used. A circular wire corncrib at its side, a giant birdcage, is equally deserted. This part of Wisconsin is old farming country with little to recommend it, except to the die-hard few.

They move on to the Anderson place.

 

Having returned on his own, relieved of his charge, the man debates with himself what else he could have done, but finds no feasible alternative. Besides, where is the harm? He’d sensed the instant they approached the house that the kid had known what was coming. He must have been left with the Andersons before. He will be fine until Lauren is back.

And she? He tightens the straps on his backpack and hikes it onto his shoulder. A heave, and it is in place. He opens the door. For her, relief will be mixed with a sense of guilt, where the blame will ultimately fall on him — more easily if he is gone.

The kid, when he left, wouldn’t look at him. His lips had moved. ‘What was that?’ the man had asked, unable to make out the words. ‘Will you still be Detroit?’ was what he heard. But Tyler chose not to repeat it.

Detroit. As the house recedes behind him, it comes to him that he never was. Whichever view you took, he wasn’t it. He shrugs, then quickens his step. Ahead lies the road by which he had arrived. He will go on from there. Traveling frees the mind when you have no set destination.

Hi, I’m Sarah Adams. I moved to Plymouth in 1983, to study Literature and Philosophy at Marjons. After I finished my degree I decided not to return to my native Surrey, but set up home here, to be near the moors and the sea.

I met my partner John in 1990. We have 2 children. I spent a number of their school years home educating, which took up a big part of my life. I think I learned as much or more during that time as I did when I was at school!

With my partner I have worked at many camps and festivals. In past years we gigged at these and locally, and still do a lot of drumming. I am also very involved with voluntary and community work. The other great loves in my life are horses, and walks in our beautiful countryside, and in Plymouth’s green spaces, both of which inspire my long-held pagan beliefs.

Throughout all of these years of course, has been books and writing. From straining my eyes to read under the bedclothes with a torch as a child, to my degree, to more recently becoming involved with various writing groups in the city. I wrote and produced a poetry booklet in the 1990s, and have had several pieces published in the Herald earlier this year. I have some work in the last and present PWG anthology, have plans to produce 2 childrens’ books, and hope to publish more of my poetry.
Sarah Adams
Plymouth
Devon