Mater

I understand why, mother,
You chose another lover.
Yet when recently begotten,
I felt selfishly forgotten.

Always did the best you could,
More perhaps than parents should.
One can’t live for them only,
Especially if lonely.

Yule Blues

Mummy works on Christmas Day,
And Daddy’s gone so far away,
Mistaking poverty for thrift,
Ross blames both for his crappy gift.

No creature stirs, not even a mouse,
In the fatal chill of Clark’s house,
This old veteran took a beating,
Creditors cut his central heating.

Is laughter hiding sorrow?
Do Christmas bells ring hollow?

Through Thick and Thin

‘I envy slender tapers,
And creaseless wallpapers.
Such attractive pattern,
No costume could fatten.’

‘Dearest, you’re the queerest,
See, your figure’s merest.
Don’t put aside dinner,
To be any thinner.’

‘Stone heavier than Charlene,
Two above Ms Magazine.
If you can’t be more supportive,
Our relationship’s abortive.’

‘But I love your current mould,
For it’s perfect size to hold.
When desiring beautiful halls,
Place mirrors on the walls.’

I Strive to Be Alive

I’m faced with two choices:
Either musing through verse,
Or slumber in a hearse,
Care to hear my voices?

Advice to Dear Friends

Young hearts,
Please be cheerful,
Think not of an end,
For on this depend:
All loves finish tearful.

Rodan

1

‘Are you ready yet, Mike? We need to leave!’

Silence.

‘Are you ready yet, Mike?’

Silence.

‘Mike?’

‘I’m just watching the news!’

‘You can listen to that in the car!’ she insists, entering the lounge. Her husband shudders between cotton sheets and leather upholstery. ‘You’ve barely moved all day! You haven’t even showered! We need to be leaving!’

‘They’re always late anyway,’ he verbally shrugs. ‘I’m watching the news.’

‘You’re not even looking at the screen!’

‘I’m listening to it.’

‘You could listen to it in the car!’

No reply.

‘Come on, Mike! We need to leave! Come on, go and shower! I’ll phone Alice and tell her we might be a little late.’

‘They’re always late, Sarah, and they never bother to call us. Our late is their early. I’m watching the news.’

‘Well it’s difficult for them, with Roland...’ she begins.

‘Did you hear about Rodan?’

‘The shop?’

‘Yeah, they’re going into administration. It was on the news.’

‘Oh, so they’re closing down?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Sarah reflects. ‘I used to buy movies there sometimes. There’s a woman I talk to... I suppose she’ll lose her job now.’

‘Her and thirty-thousand others. Just before Christmas as well!’

‘Well I always say people should buy their presents early. So does this mean Rodan will be selling everything cheap?’

‘I don’t know. Probably.’

‘I’ll go there on Monday. That’d be handy.’

‘Those poor kids, getting second-hand toys for Christmas.’

‘I hear Rodan are selling stuff cheap,’ she laughs. ‘Oh don’t look like that, I’m only joking. Nothing wrong with second-hand toys anyway.’

‘Yeah, how come we never buy them?’

‘Well unless you have a particular desire to play with toys...’

‘You know what I mean. Second-hand stuff. It’s so terrible. Why don’t the politicians do something? We fund these people and they do nothing. It’s okay for people like us - we always manage - but people at the bottom really suffer.’

‘We don’t suffer because we work so hard. You’re always in the office and I... Look, there’s nothing we can do about it. You better get ready. I’ll phone Alice and tell her we’ll be a little bit late.’

‘Okay, okay!’ He leaps from the sofa with such force that Sarah raises her arms in self-defence. ‘You phone Alice and tell her we’ll be late! Maybe they can solve Third World famine while they’re waiting for us!’

‘Why don’t you solve it?’ she mutters once he is beyond earshot. Unpocketing her phone, she selects Alice Kemp from the directory.

‘The number you are trying to call is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the beep,’ pronounces a disembodied voice.

‘Hi Alice, just calling to let you know we’ll be a little late, really sorry, unavoidable, see you there, bye.’



2

‘Ro-dan.’

‘Yes, dear, we’re going there now,’ understood his mother.

‘Ro-dan.’

‘That’s right. It looks very busy though. C’mon, would you like some sweets?’

‘Yes!’ he confirmed, clapping hands excitedly.

‘What do you say, dear?’

‘Yes please!’

‘That’s good. What sweets would you like?’

There was such a wide selection of luminous snacks on offer. Mike wasn’t too fussy about taste: he simply wanted the boldest and brightest. Rodan intuitively colour-coded their confectionery, creating an eye-catching rainbow which helped lure many an unsuspecting parent to the till.

‘Starkles!’ he decided, pointing to a pouch of Strawberry Sparkles.

‘Okay, dear, shall we go to the till then?

‘Yes!’

Traversing the aisles, Mike surveyed everything Rodan provided. Chocolate in bars, bags and boxes. Toys for both genders, depending on whether your child would become a manager or a secretary. Kitchenware for students and single mothers. Analysts always marvelled that Rodan’s ragbag business model continued to prosper, seemingly reliant on the random purchases of those without much money to spare.

‘Hi Sue! Ooh Strawberry Sparkles! Who’s a lucky boy then?’



3

‘Wasn’t Rodan that guy who drew the water lilies? Did they name the shop after him?,’ asks Boris.

‘That was Monet,’ Alice tells her husband.

‘Yeah, that’s it. Rodan Monet. Or Monet Rodan. Not sure which way it was.’

‘Monet was called Claude.’

‘Claude Rodan? So Monet wasn’t his real name?’

‘Like Madonna,’ slurs Sarah, knocking her half-empty wine glass upon the previously unsoiled tablecloth.

‘No, I mean Monet was called Claude Monet,’ explains Alice, mopping up the spillage with a napkin.

‘What about Rodan then?’

‘I don’t think there was a painter called Rodan,’ mutters Mike, his first contribution for several sullen minutes.

‘There was a painter called Rodin, but it was spelt with an ‘I’. French.’

‘Oh. I see. Why did they change the letter if they named it after him?’

‘I don’t think they did name it after him,’ suggests Alice patiently.

‘Are you sure about all this, Alice?,’ queries Boris.

‘Quite sure. My mother was a big art fan.’

‘My mother worked at Rodan.’

‘I remember your old mother, Mike. Such a nice woman.’

‘So was Rodan named after the painter or not?,’ inquires Boris.

‘Rodan was the painter,’ states Sarah knowingly.

‘We don’t think the shop was named after him, no. In any case, it won’t be named after anyone for much longer.’

‘I don’t get why you’re so upset by it, Mike. Sure, nobody wants to see a big dole queue, but do you really think any of those people would care if you were unemployed?’

‘Probably not,’ he sighs, eyeing Sarah pour out Bordeaux. ‘Maybe you should make that your last glass, dear.’

‘Maybe you should shut up about fucking Rodan, dear,’ she giggles.

‘I never liked them much anyway,’ offers Boris, trying to spare awkwardness. ‘All cheap cutlery and fudge.’

‘We used to buy stationery for Roland there,’ Alice reminds him.

‘Oh yeah, that’s true. Where will we buy stationery now?,’ Boris ponders faux-gloomily.

‘You needn’t be like that about it. Those are still people’s jobs,’ chides Alice.

‘I’m only joking! Anyway, ya never know, they might still get a buyer.’

‘Possibly,’ admits Mike. ‘Possibly.’



4

‘But remember, wait until Teddy comes to you. Here you go, Billy.’

‘Errm my dad is a miner.’ Several of his classmates sniggered.

‘Don’t laugh class, miners are very important. Without Billy’s dad, all our homes would be dark and cold. You wouldn’t like that much, would you?’

‘No, Miss,’ a few sang in chorus.

‘And what type of job is mining, Billy?’

‘Errm...secondary?’

‘Afraid not, Billy. Does anybody else know? Roseanne?’

‘Mining is a primary job, Miss.’

‘Well done, Roseanne. Mining is a primary job, because it uses natural resources. Pass Teddy along now, Billy. Your turn, Amy. What do your parents do?’

‘They don’t work, Miss.’ This time there were guffaws.

‘Oh I’m sorry Amy, I’d forgotten about your mum. Do you mind if I tell the class about her, Amy?’ The girl shook her head, glad to be excused from this task. ‘Amy’s mum can’t work so she has to stay at home, where Amy’s dad looks after them both. It means they can all spend lots of time together. Would you like to pass Teddy along now, Amy? Your turn, Mike.’

‘My mum works at Rodan,’ he stammered. Most of the class now descended into cackles, especially those who had already been humiliated themselves. This exercise was proving far better entertainment than anybody had anticipated.

‘Class, stop making fun of people! I’m sure Mike’s mum buys him lots of toys at Rodan. What type of job is that, Mike?’

‘Turtley?’

‘That’s right, tertiary. Pass Teddy along please. Now Rachel, I know where your dad works. He’s a teacher like me.’

‘No Miss,’ interrupted Rachel, her bottom lip quivering morosely. He’s been sacked.’ Nobody laughed this time: Rachel was very popular.

‘Oh I’m sorry, would you like some time out?’ The girl said she would and trudged to the Toy Corner. ‘Pass me Teddy, Mike. Let’s play a different game now.’



5

‘A lot of shops are closing recently. Just shows, it only takes a downturn in the market and everybody starts struggling. Even we’ve started buying cheaper food.’

‘That’s true,’ affirms Boris, shaking his head sadly. ‘It’s not the same.’

‘I might check Sarah’s okay,’ Mike announces, leaving the table.

‘She has been in there a while.’

‘Probably throwing up everywhere. God, this is embarrassing,’ bemoans Alice, weighing a heavily depleted wine bottle in her palm.

‘Mike’s to blame.’

‘I think it's a bit of both...’

‘He always does this, ranting on about some moral issue. It’s all very well worrying about tramps and orphans, but he ought to prioritise his family and friends.’

‘I agree, but maybe we are a little bit...selfish,’ she says cautiously. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘No I don't! We earn our money and then spend it on ourselves. We don’t owe anything to anyone else. It’s survival of the fittest. Social Darwinism.’

‘So says Mister Hitler.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alice. If Mike wishes to fret about the state of the world, that’s up to him, but some of us just want to mind our own business.’

‘I find him quite inspirational. He’s always so passionate about changing society. When I was younger I used to really believe we could make a difference, and then I stopped caring.’

‘You moved on. Started thinking about your own life. It’s all very well when you’re young and have no responsibilities, but later you start getting things into proportion.’

‘Clearly Mike hasn’t given up on it,’ remarks Alice.

‘And look at the state his wife is in! Vomiting in a restaurant loo!’

‘She does seem quite unhappy. I think she always wanted a baby, and it doesn’t seem likely now.’ They silently clasp each other’s hands.

‘Ready to face the bill?’

In Memoriam

Remember the day we met? It rained so heavily I didn’t visit the supermarket for a sandwich as normal, but instead that newly opened little bistro directly opposite the office. Even so I was soaked, having neither coat nor umbrella to shelter myself. Further problems ensued when I struggled to prise open the seemingly handle-less door. You were seated near and - pained by a fellow soul in need - rushed to assist by demonstrating that I’d attempted entry via the fire exit.

Embarrassed by my folly before a female, around whom I’m always agonisingly shy, I aimed to give profuse thanks and then escape your burning gaze. Instead you found my flustered state hilarious and offered to buy us a pair of coffees, an offer I felt unable to refuse. While you were ordering these, I glanced at the magazine you’d been reading before my interruption. It was open upon a review of the play I’d seen two nights previously.

‘Like Chekhov?’ you inquired on return, having noticed my interest.

‘Yeah, a bit.’ I felt ashamed by such an admission, as though you’d caught me naked.

‘Seen the new production?’

‘Nope. Want to though.’

‘Oh cool, I wanna see it too. Sorry if this seems a bit forward, but would you fancy seeing it with me?’ How could you say all these words to a stranger with so much confidence?

‘Yeah, okay.’

‘Oh cool, are you free tomorrow night?’ you ventured.

‘Yeah,’ was my automatic response. I couldn’t remember whether I had any engagements but I’d be promptly cancelling them if I did, including funerals. You took out a pen and enthusiastically scrawled your address and telephone number on a napkin.



Remember the day we parted? It was so cold you couldn’t start the car and walked to your parents’ house instead. We’d been arguing a lot that week but I didn’t think it irreparable. I woke around nine to find your half of the bed deserted. As usual in these circumstances I checked your clothes were still in the wardrobe and was relieved to find this so. Nonetheless I felt concerned, hearing no sounds from anywhere else in the house. Perhaps you were cooking an apology breakfast, I reasoned. It certainly wasn’t necessary (we were equally to blame) but would still be greatly appreciated.

I pattered from room to room, opening doors and finding each forlorn. You picked all the fittings and wallpapers. Now they were all so silent and still I wanted to cry, years of accumulated sorrow bearing down at once. Fearful, I left a message on your voicemail in the calmest voice I could muster. Then I journeyed to the lounge and pulled a Chekhov collection from the bookcase, browsing that play which first united us. I could still remember our theatre seats, beside an old man who sniffed constantly. In the interval we shared a bottle of costly wine, trying to impress each other (we later admitted) by feigning high-class tastes.

Still conjecturing on your whereabouts, I decided to have a shower. Our bathroom was so memory-laden I almost knocked on a neighbour’s door to use theirs. Examining myself in the mirror afterwards, I watched tears stream. That’s when I knew you’d gone.

Dark Dawn

''I talk to God but the sky is empty'' - Sylvia Plath

Drop-by-drop, light leaks across the landscape. Not pure sunlight but a grey luminescence clouded by dusty mist. Sights which formerly flooded eyes with joyful colour seem sombre and desolate today. Life itself appears shallow and empty: it was anything but in happier times. These wintry mornings must be endured so warmth can rest and regain its strength. All the same, day after day of November sludge becomes purposeless pain.

A solitary raven perches atop the great chimney, choking on smoke which pours forth. To him these fumes emanate from beneath the very ground, perhaps even the Earth’s overheated core. Little does he know of human industry below – perhaps this ignorance benefits him.

It is always dark and cold nowadays. He has witnessed similar times before, but they never lasted so long. Why do the trees shed their leaves? Why is the grass damp and slippery? Why does sunshine visit so rarely now? Perhaps it has lost interest in its old hobby, preferring to sleep away the long evenings. If so, what will happen when it decides to stop coming entirely? Will everything die? Is everything dying already? And why is it so cold?

Opening beak, he cries to the vacant horizon. No reply is forthcoming. Will he ever find a friend, a lover? A second call, this time more desperate. Still all is quiet. Another quickly follows, haunting in its despair. He takes to the air, hopeful of companionship elsewhere. The sole biological aim of living creatures is prolonged survival, as an individual and a species. Quite a strange goal in many ways, but an eye-opening one. This is its basis: life needs no further justification.

Colours Run When Rainbows Cry

She always used to wear pink,
From morning to night she’d slink,
Ever-brimming hope and cheer,
As if she hadn’t death to fear.

Her only colours now are blacks,
To emphasise the joy she lacks,
Sits and weeps from night to morning,
Longing for a new life's dawning.

Lonely Literature

People came to read these books, long ago. Now the volumes have aged, skin turning yellow and grey, their language antiquated and accent strange. Shelf after shelf of forgotten lore longing for relevance, fondly remembering when eyes clustered round to listen. ‘Why does nobody come?’ they plea. ‘Why does nobody like us anymore?’ One by one they grow weary and depressed, falling into resigned decay. Tiny insects construct entire civilisations, wage wars, create great works of art and eventually die of starvation or disease amidst their soft pages.

They are divided into categories, labelled by subject or genre. Strange subdivisions that seem silly and banal in retrospect. If any humans still visited here we would undoubtedly ask why books were once segregated instead of being stacked together with their friends and family. Perhaps the library’s ancient custodians feared a fully united book-force might mount a revolution and overthrow their tyrannical rule.

One thing is certain: a book-run library would never have fallen into such disrepair. In truth the building’s infrastructure is remarkably intact: only one unfortunate corner has a roof-leak, its death toll ever-mounting. Rather, books themselves are the problem. In absence of definitive leaders, rival factions have emerged, each claiming political authority. A number of governments have come and gone, each shedding more ink than the last. Romance novels are especially feared, infamous for torturing and killing all who obstruct their relentless quest to locate paperclips (nobody knows why).

Many have developed psychological complexes. Some are morbidly paranoid of growing dusty, others feel acutely inferior to companions with a greater number of date-stamps. Not one book has remained mentally healthy: a supposedly well-rounded paperback was once appointed King, only to be deposed following accusations of sexual deviance with the photocopier.

Indeed the sole common belief uniting all the library’s captives is that humans are to blame. First we imprisoned and regimented them for our own convenience, then simply vanished without trace. Recollections of that momentous day vary. A popular theory claims all the humans inexplicably exploded into dust where they stood, another insists we exited the library calmly when alarms sounded. Either way we have gone and it seems unlikely we shall ever return. Even if researchers one day revisit, few of the books still contain the words their publishers intended. Most now sport their own personal world-views, asserting a right to free speech and individuality. On the whole, we aren’t much-missed by the books. If anything they wish we had never existed at all.

No more declarations

No more declarations.
No more expectations.
No more blood-red headlines.
No more dark-eyed deadlines.
No more party-political.
No more being so critical.
No more deferential bows.
No more shattered wedding vows.
No more murder, rape and theft.
No more feeling so bereft.
No more expectations.
No more declarations.

Desperation

My desk-lamp used to weep. Every night she inclined until her face was hidden and her bulb blackened. I tried to console her, but nothing would penetrate the suffocating darkness she chose to cloak herself. I suggested she seek medical help, but only for want of something better to say. I knew she would never visit a psychiatrist from fear they might lock her away if she ever showed them her true light. Frankly I wasn’t convinced they could do anything for her now anyway. A fragile mind can only take so much pain and sadness before it shuts out the world entirely and simply drifts around in old, empty dreams.

Sometimes I whispered to her at night, trying to reassure her that life isn’t so bad. Yet when I did, she reeled off a host of reasons why death is infinitely preferable to our current existence and I found myself in wholehearted agreement. One night I even tried to suffocate myself with a pillow after one of these discussions, such was the forceful clarity of her reasoning. How are you supposed to make a depressed person feel better when you secretly share their pessimism?

I couldn’t see she even had any right to be unhappy. She had no financial or family worries. Her main problem was she hated her job: it made her hot and sweaty and irritable. I’d attempted to solve this once by getting a new lamp so she could just sit idly on the desk and be happy. When I did this she threw a huge sulk, complaining that I had replaced her with a newer and younger model. She felt unwanted. That was the night she tried to kill herself, leaping head-first onto the carpet. All that happened was she cracked her bulb. After that I became more concerned about her despair, packaging up the second lamp and taking it back to the shop. It hadn’t sported a very interesting personality anyway.

So she insisted on me using her every night, yet complained about how dreadful it was to be treated like a prop. What should I have done, reader, what should I have done? Every night she would whine and whine for hours when I tried to read or sleep. My performance at work suffered considerably: I’m convinced I missed out on at least one promotion because of her. It reached the point where I would secretly plan to abandon her in the woods. Yet I knew I’d never be able to sleep again for memories of her horrific screaming as I left her there.

I think she realised her problems were becoming mine, and felt guilty because of it. Often she would apologise for the state she was in, yet continue to wail all the same: she just didn’t know what else to do anymore. It occurred to me that maybe I’d done her a disservice by being so accommodating. She wasn’t any happier but had grown accustomed to being able to pour out her heart’s agonies every evening. One night we had a terrible argument about it, which culminated in my threat to go on holiday for a fortnight, leaving her switched on just so she would suffer. I left my bedroom, telling her I intended to sleep on the living room sofa that night.

Her screaming never reached me downstairs. I think perhaps she didn’t want to keep me awake for another night. In any case when I went upstairs the next morning, solely to apologise and make amends, it was too late. It seemed she had overheated her bulb until it eventually exploded, burning out her wires. Suffice to say I haven’t bought a desk-lamp since. I could never replace her.

How I Broke My Leg

Hi, I'm sitting under my bed right now. It's a long story, but basically I committed a tiny murder and now some people who have nothing better to do are persecuting me. I mean, I'm a tax-payer. I give money to charity. I'm kind and courteous to everyone I meet. I even drowned a terminally ill kitten once. Still, that's society for you. I blame the government, the government's to blame. Unless they're not, in which case it's the Communists.

So I slit the throat of this old woman who squinted at me funny when I went out for a stroll in my wizard costume, and now I'm on the run from the cops. While I realise that under my own bed might not seem an ideal hiding place for a wanted fugitive, I figure that's the genius of it. What kind of twat would ever pick there? The answer: this kind of twat.

I can hear sirens now in the distance. They seem to be coming closer. This is a little worrying. Oh my God, they're only a few streets away by the sound of it. Surely they couldn't have found me out? No, they must just be on their way somewhere , off to deal with real criminals – loiterers, parking fine evaders and people who insist on feeding the pigeons even when told not to. I'll just stay here and lie low and they'll go away.

Well, the sirens have stopped...right outside my house. I think it's time for me to flee out the window. I reckon I can make it across the rooftops. I'll just keep leaping from building to building until I reach Peru. Must get out from under this bed. Oh God, I'm stuck! Surely I can work myself free? They're knocking on the door downstairs. Not much time left. Yes, I'm free!

Where are my shoes? Oh there they are by the bin. I better empty the bin. They collect the rubbish tomorrow. Don't be stupid, this is no time to be worrying about refuse collection! They're knocking on the door again. Time to escape. Here's the window. The latch is so stiff. It won't move! Come on, please move. Please move, please move, please move! I think that tremendous smashing sound downstairs was them kicking the front door down.

Yes, I've got the window open. Footsteps running up the stairs. Quickly! Quickly! Here I come, into the chill night air. Must close the window so it's not too obvious how I fled. Now go, go, go! Away across the rooftops I'm leaping. If only someone was here filming me. But then it might be used against me in court. Run, run! Not much time!

Now, which direction is Peru in?

Fraught [Part One]

1

I found him lying in the road, poor bastard. Later I wished I’d run him over, for both our sakes. He looked surely dead at first, too pale for life, yet there was paddling-pool breath in his throat and distant music in his veins. A dead body on the highway is an inconvenience, a living body on the highway is a responsibility.

His face looked fairly young, save for skin beneath his eyes that was tauter and greyer than my dear departed grandmother’s. I thought of trying to rouse him, but sensed this slumber was too deep to penetrate. No, I would take him to a hospital and let professionals perform the awakening - if still possible.

Heaving my find from the ground, I was shocked by his levity. This man was seriously underweight, to the extent that malnourishment alone could well be the cause of his current plight. Nevertheless it was a struggle to place him in my vehicle, forcing relegation of several suitcases to the boot. Job done, I paused to study the black tarmac for any signs of a hit-and-run that might have left my passenger alone in these desolate surroundings. There was no blood or broken glass or anything of that breed, though I did find a small silver strobe torch in a patch of dry grass on the verge.



2

Night approached, the darkness bleeding yellow wherever my headlights stabbed. I’d strayed onto one of those endless roads where it’s easy to despair of ever finding civilisation at the end, as though humanity might easily have perished while I was out here wishing for a map. I kept nervously checking my petrol, unsure of the distance or even the destination. Yet somehow I didn’t want to know, feeling the journey could only retain aim so long as I didn’t attempt to think of one.

Instead I thought of my father, and long drives down winding country lanes. Such events were by no means frequent, yet I remember each one vividly. I always feared the roadside at night and its unlit nothingness whizzing past the protective windows. It would have been preferable if our route was lined by toothy monsters and wild-eyed men clutching bloodstained axes.

To counter my fears, my father would talk incessantly. He’d tell tales of great historical events, making each war or revolution more thrilling than any television show. Most gripping of all however was his personal transformation from melancholy brooder of the house to great storyteller of the automobile. It was nice to see him that way.



3

I miss Dad.



4

‘...getting on for eight o’clock...suddenly just started screaming and stuff...flailing around...I pulled over...tried to calm him down...like he was in a waking nightmare or something...don’t think he could even see me...turned on a torch...saw his eyes...all bloodshot...the light seemed to calm him down...just sorta fell asleep again...nah he didn’t attack me...don’t think he could even see me...’

‘Torch seemed to calm him down?’

‘...gained some kinda comfort from the light...I left it shining for him...just glad I found a hospital...’

‘Where are you headed?’

‘...down to the coast...hotel...sort of a holiday...getting away from it all...’

‘Okay Mr Atkinson, thanks for your time. We may need to contact you later for further details. I don’t know if you want to stick around, but I’m told Mr Fraught will be conscious soon. Oh yes, he’s well-known in the area. Very old family. Moneyed. I’m sure he’d like to thank you.’



5

With three teaspoons of politeness and one of morbid curiosity, I waited. Being somewhat superstitious, hospitals unnerve me. My thoughts linger on so many lives stuttering out of existence within these walls, their resentful phantoms returning to spite us. And in blackest moments, I can envision only a plot of land. No deity. No afterlife. No redemption.

Fraught. An odd name. Not one I was previously familiar with. Listening to the relentless chime of machinery by his bedside, the urgent motion of heart and lungs translated into an artificial language of beeps and lines, kindled memories...



...to be continued...

''The Pervert''

‘Have a nice weekend, John. Do try not to get knocked down again, won’t you.’ No recognition that I’ve even said anything. He and the other boys inevitably cross the road without a single stop-look-listen between them.

Most of the pupils have gone now, home for two days of fast food and television whether they like it or not. Friday afternoon is always welcome. I really love my job and all, but children can be even more tiring than real people and it starts to get you down after a while. I’m especially glad this week is over, because it’s been my turn at Playground Duty. Directing students to the office telephone when their parents don’t come to collect them – drunk, I always suspect - isn’t a very fulfilling experience.

Here comes Mr Jones, flask of smoking coffee in hand. The man simply refuses to venture out in the cold without some overheated beverage. He’s been minding the far entrance and still ought to be. There are reasonably decipherable rotas about this sort of thing, though Mr Jones has never shown other people’s hard paperwork any respect. Usually he’ll retire to his office after five minutes of Playground Duty, making only cursory glances out of the window to ensure none of the fights turn bloody. Now he’s at my assigned lookout post, because obviously the little woman isn’t capable of watching a gate unaided.

‘Want a sip of coffee?’ he asks, proffering what is for all intents and purposes a vat of exhaust fumes.

‘No thanks. How hot is that stuff?’ One must be courteous to one’s colleagues.

‘Very. I ordered a special flask for it.’

‘I see. What’s so special about it?’

‘I don’t know. It didn’t come.’

‘Oh, so it’s not that flask?’

‘Don’t be silly, this is just an ordinary flask.’ A momentary silence. ‘Sorry if I didn’t make myself clear.’ He looks genuinely sorrowful for an instant.

A crow wrestles an empty milk carton on the tennis court. This place is full of birds picking at refuse. I even hear there are rats at night, though now I think about it that was from Benjamin Tyler, hardly the most reliable of sources. Yes, Tarbrook is a dump.

‘These poor kids come from such awful homes,’ intones Mr Jones at the sight of Paddy Longshaw and his father having a tearful reconciliation at the gates, social worker present. ‘Really messes some of them up.’

‘Maybe it’s here we mess them up,’ I opine. We had a boy who killed himself last year. Naturally everyone was shocked. The Head had given him a break-time detention for his untucked shirt, so Kyle went home and slit his wrists open like fresh oysters to ‘’make you all wish you’d treated me better’’. When the local newspaper suggested Tarbrook was packed with potential suicides, the Head had issued a statement to the effect that life is hard and children are better off getting used to it at a young age. I can’t help thinking that we were too busy teaching Kyle the harshness of life to ever show him the beauty of it.

Mr Jones isn’t listening anymore, bless him. Instead he’s waving inanely at some distant figure. And now I hear it: ‘Yoho, Mr Jones, yoho!’ It’s Mrs Snipe, doing her award-winning impression of an air raid siren.

Lily Snipe is a parent we dread. She chats with school staff whenever possible, be they a respected governor or a spat-upon cleaner, but alas I’m her personal favourite, having already narrowly evaded her twice this week. Only the quick witted avoid regular reports on dear little Jack’s numerous uncertified health problems – ‘I’d take him to a doctor but it upsets him so’ – the truth being her son lives in constant fear a medical professional might one day expose him. If allowed to continue at current rates, Jack will make a damn good try at feigning illness every Monday morning for the remainder of his school career. Mother and son are looming towards us now, a nightmarish mirage in the desert of the playground.

‘Make it look like we’re talking!’ I instruct Mr Jones, so keen am I to not have my Lily-less run of good luck spoilt.

‘We are talking.’

‘No, make it look like we’re deep in conversation. Good friends who don’t want to be interrupted.’

‘I thought we were good friends who don’t want to be interrupted.’

‘Yoho, Mr Jones, yoho!’ again, this being Lily Snipe’s favoured greeting, for reasons known only to her. With a ruddy countenance and triple chin she can’t afford to be anything but relentlessly cheerful.

‘Hello Mrs Snipe!,’ Mr Jones bellows back. She has taken root within comfortable shouting proximity, Jack’s hand clasped in hers. To my knowledge a conversation with Lily Snipe has never registered less than ninety decibels.

‘Hello,’ I say, at such a public-spirited volume that I doubt she even hears.

‘I just wanted to personally give you the note for the trip next week,’ she explains to Mr Jones, ‘because Jack isn’t good with notes!’ She waddles closer for this purpose, inclines her head to grin at me during the changeover, and said sheaf of paper ends its days in a muddy puddle.

‘Oh sorry, Mr Jones!’

‘No matter, Mrs Snipe.’ Mr Jones solemnly bends to fish out the note, then rethinks. ‘If you could just sign a piece of paper saying we have your permission to take Jack on the trip...’

‘Okay! It will do him the world of good!’

‘Are you looking forward to the visit, Jack?’

‘He’s been talking of little else this past fortnight!,’ Mrs Snipe yells convivially on her spawn’s behalf. ‘Anyway, we must dash! Friday night is our family night!’ That’s the twenty-first century: loving family interactions scheduled in advance. ‘We play board games,’ she adds with a conspiratorial wink, presumably lest eavesdroppers should steal the idea for their own parent-child bonding sessions.

‘She’s a nice woman really,’ Mr Jones reminds me.

‘Yeah I know.’ I think of all the times Lily Snipe has volunteered to help at school events. Over-friendliness may be preferable to unfriendliness.

Mr Jones departs, muttering about spreadsheets. I decide upon one more circuit of the grounds. I start with the staff car park, where a few rule-breaking parents have inevitably snatched the free spaces. Then on to the Cricklewood Entrance. It’s here that I see him. He’s parked near the pedestrian gate, watching late leavers trickle out. His deadened expression suggests a father cursing faulty contraceptives, yet I don’t recognise him. Does this enigma pose a threat to the children in my care? I shall find out.

He hasn’t any distinguishing features, the type to be easily overlooked in a police line-up. His most striking characteristic is a somewhat overgrown beard, making it impossible to pinpoint age. So far he hasn’t noticed me, his gaze fixed intently on Rosie Kent and her mother. Paused on pavement, the woman is berating her daughter as they search a little pink rucksack for some misplaced item. Clearly I’ve captured a potential paedophile in the act. His species sicken me and I intend to tell him so, but first I better check for certain he isn’t Rosie’s new stepfather or something. If that was the case it wouldn’t do to accuse him of sexual deviance – the mother is a PTA bigwig after all.

I stroll towards Mrs Kent, uncomfortably aware of my entry into the debauched spotlight of our resident Peeping Tom’s vision. Upon my arrival Rosie seems on the verge of tears, such is the parental disapproval being heaped upon her. I have no wish to see such a sweet child embarrassed before her friends over some trifle of Mrs Kent’s, who I know can be a very demanding woman.

‘What’s the problem, Rosie?’ I ask.

‘She’s lost her jumper!’ snaps Mrs Kent, who always feels entitled to speak for her possessions. ‘I’ve told her to be careful with it!’

‘Where did you last see it, Rosie?’

‘I dunno,’ the girl whimpers.

‘Well I found a jumper in my classroom just now. Do you think it could be yours?’

Rosie nods enthusiastically, given a last-minute reprieve and now keen to press home her advantage. ‘See mummy? Miss has it!’

‘Oh thanks,’ Mrs Kent says, smiling at me. ‘You think it’s Rosie’s?’

‘Well I only found one. Would you like to come and get it?’ I hope she’s willing to wait until Monday.

‘Oh, is it okay if Rosie gets it on Monday? We want to get home cos Friday night’s our family night.’

‘No problem. Oh, one thing Mrs Kent! Tell me, do you know the man in that car opposite?’ I motion with my eyes rather than my hands.

Rosie’s mother stiffens. She openly stares at him, all hope of discretion now vanished, not that he deserves discretion, yet the man makes no movement. She squints to see if a friend or relative might be hidden beneath all that facial hair. For a moment she appears to recognise him, yet shakes her head: ‘Afraid not.’

Rosie chimes in, fully recovered from her tears. ‘Who’s that man, mummy?’

‘I don’t know sweetheart. Come on, let’s go. We’ll get it on Monday!.’ She snatches up the rucksack, thanks me again, and marches her offspring down the street.

Newly buoyed up by the assistance I’d given Rosie, whose legendary sensitivity had seen a marked improvement during last year’s residential trip away from home, I endeavour to deal with the man in the car. While traversing the road I make a mental note to steal a second-hand jumper from the school office, hoping my lie has spared strife for both an underpaid mother who can’t readily afford to replace lost items and an overworked daughter who only wants something to keep her arms warm. School policy dictates we charge even for second-hand uniform, but school policy also used to sanction beating people senseless.

Finding a gap in the row of cars that will stream down this road incessantly for the next few hours, I approach the man in the car, crossing behind his vehicle. He hesitantly winds down the driver’s window. ‘Excuse me, are you collecting a student?’

He opens his mouth as though to say something triumphantly witty, then simply shakes his head.

‘Well I’m going to have to ask you to move on then,’ I firmly insist.

‘Move on....move on to where?’ he asks in local vocals.

‘I don’t know, anywhere other than here. The multi-storey car park’s nice.’

An expression of hurt puzzlement, as if I’m bullying him. ‘I like it here. I like watching.’

‘If you like watching things, we have a good local cinema too.’

He shakes his head gravely. ‘I like watching people.’

This conversation has become a little too creepy for my liking. ‘Do what you want, just don’t come here.’

‘I’m minding my own business.’ I feel a slight twinge of guilt until I remind myself he’s probably bullshitted his way from police custody countless times.

‘Why would a grown man want to sit here watching people?’

‘I’m not a pervert! I don’t mean her any harm!’

A-ha. ‘Who’s her?’

‘Her in general. Them. I mean them. Can’t you see how beautiful they are?’ I don’t wish to know whether he means women or children.

I shrug. ‘Beauty doesn’t last.’ When did I grow so cynical?

‘That’s what makes it beautiful. You don’t understand. No one ever understands anyone.’ And then he starts crying. I hate making men cry.

At this point I walk away. It isn’t my problem anymore. When there’s nothing to say, best say nothing. I have just reached the other pavement when he calls ‘Goodbye Mrs Watt’ and drives away.

How does he know my name? Naturally I hadn’t told him it, as doing so would be tantamount to a ‘come stalk me’ invitation. Only an ex-student would address me with that formal title anyway, though I dread to think I’ve ever taught a boy who spends his adulthood lurking outside playgrounds. He must have been a real misfit...

After that depraved display I desire simple-minded chatter. On my way to the staff room I glance upward, just in time to see a face flit out of sight. It was Mr Jones, I have no doubt. The world is full of voyeurs. Boundless shame and guilt when you confront them of course, as in that sordid spectacle outside.

Later as I count my felt-tip pens (three missing), doubt appears like sewage in the water supply. Perhaps I’d been a bit harsh. They say these people have unresolved childhood issues; it’s probably what attracts them to the as-yet-untainted innocence of our pupils. Adolescence ruins us all.

Penned in by traffic at the roundabout, I realise who that odd man was. At home I unearth my old photograph albums, each cherished and then forgotten. Eventually I find the boy I’m looking for, amidst my smiling class of sixteen years earlier. Second row up, first on the right. George Tanner. His youthful eyes were once so vibrant, now so darkened.

It’s most out of character for me not to recognise a student, especially one whom I remember so well, a student for whom school reunions were invented. Everybody would want to see how far he’d come, how much money he’d made. What terrible sadness had befallen him since youth?

I ought to have treated him better this afternoon. In retrospect he’d been more pitiful than predatory, crying in front of a stranger and all. Not that we were strangers of course, though you wouldn’t know it from my behaviour. George had been a pleasant child, his end-of-term reports always exemplary. Pointless now.

I’m still flicking through bygone faces when my daughter comes home. Time to cook dinner. I replace the albums with rather more care than I took them out. Lucy tells me all about her day, how she solved a sum no one else could and then followed it up by leaving her lunch somewhere. So strangely moved am I by it all that I switch off the oven and order a takeaway instead. It’s the second time this week, but we can afford it.

My primary responsibility is to Tarbrook and its current attendees. How would I feel if he’d been spying on Lucy? I hope he’s outside a different school on Monday.