Mike Hoban was sitting in the armchair of his apartment in Finchley, London. At his feet, Amanda Abraham, his girlfriend, was working on a quilt she’d started just before Christmas. Mike is reading “The World According to Garp”.
“Is that good?” Amanda asked without looking up.
“Very,” Mike replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever read anything like it.”
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In retrospect, I suppose it was kind of like stepping through a door with no staircase on the other side. That’s what it seemed like initially anyway, the rush of fear, the clenching knot in your stomach that you’re dropping, the knowledge you’re going to really… and I mean really hurt yourself when you land.
Funny thing is, I don’t know how long it’s been now, but I’ve still not impacted on anything solid, and I’m not sure anymore that I’m falling, either. I look around… at least, I presume I’m doing so, but I can’t see any light receding behind me. Or one growing in front of me either, I’m pleased to report. It’s scant comfort to not be in a long tunnel with a light at the end, but I’ll take it.
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I must say, it was the weirdest outing ever. I can try to laugh about it now but really, it just reinforced all my early fears about not getting into things where you can’t see a clear way out. (I completely blame the Brothers Grimm for this, what with Hansel and Gretel having such a close encounter with an oven – nightmare).
Dilly, my sister, (Delia, but she hates the name)and I live far apart so we take the occasional weekends together and meet up for hotel stays, meals out, the odd show and whatever we fancy.
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Of course, the forest was dark that night, in these sorts of stories it always is. But, even as I stumbled through the undergrowth, the wind whipping razor-sharp branches into my face like an enraged banshee, I couldn’t allow myself to slow.
There it was, by some miracle, a light up ahead. I almost physically stretched toward it, like a dying man in the desert offered a flask of water or, perhaps, to flip the analogy, a drowning man thrown a rope from a passing ship.
What it was, was hope. Lower case, yes, but hope nonetheless.
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Okay, there’s certain stories you really dig. Sometimes it’s high art that you feel smart for liking. An approving conscience says well done, yada-yada.
Sometimes you like silly fluff for reasons you can’t justify but it was Crimson Camel who said a good paperback is preferable to bad literature.
Think about it, what would you rather eat, a fresh big mac or mouldy caviar?
So, this story, penned by the always entertaining Arizona Davies, takes us to a modest house. It’s during lockdown and two people are fucking.
They’re roleplaying with the guy doing a hearty pirate voice: “Yer be my kidnapped wrench ha-ha” but the gal decides to dial up the romance instead.
“I love you,” she states with puppy eyes “My heart aches for you.”
He frowns somewhat puzzled.
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‘Do you swear to never rat on any of us?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you swear on your mother’s life, you’re committed to the gang?’
‘I do’.
Harry just played along and said what was expected of him, it had all seemed like proper boy’s stuff until Adam pulled out his knife.
Harry’s lower lip started to tremble.
‘We won’t have any cry-babies,’ Adam stated as he used his penknife to initiate Harry into his gang.
Harry winced.
‘We’re blood brothers now, there’s no turning back,’ announced Adam.
Harry had thought that it would be fun to be accepted into a gang at his new school. Now, after seeing the pleasure that inflicting pain gave Adam, he was beginning to have some doubts.
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“Where the hell is he?” growled Mike, as Lenny’s phone pinged with a message.
“It’s ‘im, it’s Dave,” Lenny said, unlocking the screen. “Says Be there in a minute, had another commitment to deal with.”
“Another BLOODY commitment?” Mike yelled. “Who’s ‘e fink ‘e is?”
“Itchy,” moaned Two. He’d also been christened Dave, and the group didn’t have much imagination.
“Oh, bloody shut up,” Graham snapped. “Don’t you think we’ve got better things to worry about than your sodding skincare regime at the moment?”
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Light from the hallway shone through the glass of the door. A signal to say it wasn’t safe. She turned away straining to stay calm when time was running out. The next place was easily a mile away. Not too far in daylight, but in the dark and with what she carried under her cape it would be difficult. Nudging the weight into a different position, she cautiously moved on, her arm numb. The road was quiet, but sensing danger, she slid into the shadow of the wood. It wasn’t much safer. If she was caught it would be said that a woman alone at night was asking for trouble.
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I can’t finish the game on my tablet. Usually I rattle through Patience, but tonight I’m flustered and keep putting the cards in the wrong place.
My mind is at the pier where two fifteen-year-olds scan the stars. ‘Way things are progressing that might be you and me one day up there in a spacecraft, Jade,’ he says. I feel again my shuddering at the thought of darkness, of being eternally lost in the void.
There’s a clicking noise. The monitor’s coming on.
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Yet another interview, let’s hope I get the job this time. I think this is the eighth or ninth job I’ve gone for. OK, I know I wasn’t qualified for some like the nanny’s job, but they could have given me a chance.
Why do they always keep you waiting? Sometimes I think they do it on purpose just to make you nervous, but today I’ve taken one of my mother’s diazepam, so I’m not fazed. The other two waiting look very la-di-da but a little nervous. One keeps dashing back and forth to the loo, while the other one is twisting her hands. You’d think she was on her way to the gallows. I think they have realised that I’m the obvious choice.
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Memories of the past ebb and flow around me like a fast-running stream. Here and there, I pick out snatches of melody, laughter or tears, heartache or guilt. Occasionally, small groups clump together in eddies, circling round, threatening to drag me into the whirlpool of emotion of a particular moment; a birth, a death, singing with joy until my voice is hoarse. I linger at each of these, but the need for closure presses me onward.
This is my personal Hall of Ancestors and, as I walk its length, portraits on the wall show each reincarnation; the twenty-first century social media star, the patent office clerk, the eighteenth-century Swiss craftsman. Here, a rural Italian mother garnishes a steaming pasta dish, and there a mediaeval herbalist offers a concoction of their own devising that claims to be a panacea for any illness from a sore throat to parasitic infections.
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My name is Stephen Sacks and I’m a complete faggot.
Oh, I know, I know, bluntness is discouraged these days and words like that reek of self-loathing but I’m not pussy footing around, tonight I aim for honesty.
I’ll tell you about a revelation I had last week which stoked the embers and relit my passion. I was at an outdoor pool party, held by my sister’s in-laws. A celebration over the fact they had stuck it out for fifty years.
So, there I was, meekly maundering by the barbecue when I became aware of somebody’s nephew, Johnny whatever, wafting by the swimming pool. And as that handsome youth, wearing nothing but tight trunks, beer in hand, talked to another Adonis, dear reader I felt the desire.
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I first met Jose Luis Vercas on the concrete apron jutting out into the mouth of the Targus where the splendour of the Manueline Port of Lisboa ends and a wide expanse of river divides the city from Alcântara. He was short, but well-muscled and possessed of that curiously Portuguese combination of a mane of swept-back, black and wavy hair; and a forehead so high it begged to be labelled, “domed”. He said he too was a teacher, but offered no hint of subject or at what level he taught and, to be frank, my interest did not extend that far.
“Do you have it?” I asked in my formal Portuguese. He smiled and nodded – a slight movement of his head, causing a lock of stray hair to struggle free. Patting his messenger bag, he said in accent-free English, “It’s here.”
Continue readingI’ve lived in Swansea all my life and the lights in town used to be across the lamps, and brightly lit. The parades were great and fun with always Lewis’ Pie van going past. The tree was always great. But times have changed and the lights are new, and are more up to date. But I think the lights now are not as good as they were before. The tree is still good but Swansea seems bare across the sky. And the parade now is not the best but the waterfront is lovely and bright, and the wheel is nice, also the ice-rink is fun.
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