It was in all the papers. And everyone felt they knew old Vic because he was always in town with his little dog and his collecting cup. He liked a chat with anyone who was passing and you could often see him walking unsteadily from pitch to pitch. People sometimes bought him a Starbucks coffee or a Greggs sausage roll rather than put money in his pot (there was a bit of a moral dilemma around giving money in case it got spent on booze, drugs or fags. My view has long been that if drugs booze or fags are just what you need, then so be it ).
Continue readingTag Archives: his
My Old Man Vamoosed
Alright I’ll tell you the score. My old man said I was a mistake, said marrying my mam was a mistake, said his whole bloody life since he first met her was a goddam major mistake.
My mam, knocked up at nineteen, possessed a good catholic heart and insisted on keeping the baby (moi) whilst her old man metaphorically whipped out his shotgun, demanding that my dad do the right thing.
Despite his pleas for adoption (if abortion was out of the question) dad decided to stick it out. At least until I was six years old, before saying: “Fuck this” and vamoosed. Yeah, picture me still with my baby teeth, being told that dad isn’t coming back. He’s not dead or sick, he just isn’t around anymore.
Continue readingHangman
‘C?’ he says.
C is for Claire. That’s her name. The other woman.
‘Nope.’ The gallows and most of the stick man are already finished. I draw a wiggly line for his mouth to indicate fear and trepidation. ‘One more mistake and you’re dead.’
I try to deliver the line pointedly, with ominous eye-contact, but Steve’s attention is drawn to the other side of the waiting room, where the only other person, ‘Tim Barrett,’ is being called in to see the dentist. Tim Barrett puts down the out-of-date issue of Marie Claire magazine that he has been pretending to read – precisely the reason we have resorted to pen-and-paper games – and follows the assistant into one of the clinics. A muffled greeting and a waft of disinfectant mixed with dust escape the room before the door clicks shut. There are only two dentists in this surgery, so this means Steve is next. He thinks I can’t tell, but I know his hands are sweating because he’s wiping them on his jeans.
Continue readingLate Bloomers
Noah was still taking a deep, pollen-filled breath beneath the wisteria when Carrie opened the door. He hadn’t yet manifested his Cat-Shelter-Worker persona, let alone pressed the doorbell.
He’d always thought the photos of Carrie in those speculative articles were filtered, but here she was, not a line on her sixty-year-old face. Her sharp blue eyes narrowed as she regarded him.
Continue readingForgive me Father for I have Murdered
“Forgive me Father,” the boy’s voice whispered in the dark, “for I have sinned.”
“And what,” asked the kindly voice of Father McDonald “have you done?”
“I’ve murdered someone.”
A brief silence.
“I see, my child.”
“I poisoned Father McPhearson.”
Continue readingA Cultural Climate
The dwarf realm of Barin-Ti had held strong for a thousand years but now it was dreadfully sick.
The native dwarves had resisted the attacks of the warriors of Am-Nor and An-Morn, defending themselves with axes and cannons, refusing to surrender.
Only now a more persistent and insidious threat had appeared. These new invaders method of conquest was importing huddled masses, coming to the dwarf kingdom in hopes of a better life.
Continue readingGumboot and the Meteorologist
‘Trail my wife and get me evidence of hanky-panky. That way I can divorce the bitch cheaply.’ The guy, Ben Blaidd, had mean eyes that might have been filched from a rat. Then he hissed, ‘I want dirt, I want grubby.’
I’m Johnny Gumboot, private detective. Grubbiness, you could say, is engrained in my calling. Blaidd added that his missus was seeing an audiologist whom he referred to as Huw Jeers. Was that the man’s name or his affliction?
Continue readingGlorious Vanity
Bob Hawkins nudged his empty pint glass across the beaten copper of the barroom table. Opposite him sat Jim “Kipper” Jones, whose weather-beaten face was an object lesson in why digging roads through West Wales winters was no career for an aspiring film star, especially not after thirty years. Bob was no picture himself, either. His lived-in face topped a scrawny frame wrapped in a Gannex mac two sizes too big, fished from the back rail of an Oxfam shop fifteen years earlier.
Continue readingTHE ART OF CHAOS
Hearing the side gate opening, Mavis sighed. What’s happened now? Mitzi, Mavis’ poodle, raised her head and groaned, and disappeared behind the sofa. Puffing into sight was Eva, her daughter-in-law with the twins in their buggy. Thankfully they appeared to be asleep.
She stomped in: ”You’ll never believe what your waster of a son has done now!”
Continue readingIn Wales, We Call March Tuesday
For three years, the paintings had been stacking up against the walls of Rhys’s studio. Mostly landscapes: the Preseli Hills under lowering skies, the Teifi estuary at low tide, the Pembrokeshire cliffs captured in thick, honest brushstrokes. Everyone agreed they were beautiful. The bank statements confirmed they were unsellable.
The Bwthn Colony had eight members left. There had been twenty, once.
She walked in on a Tuesday in March, her bright American accent cutting through the warm, sharp smell of linseed oil.
Continue readingA SPECIAL GIFT
Adam Taylor bounced out of the office, a ruggedly handsome man. His life revolved around getting that sensational story that would guarantee his fame and fortune. Life had other plans, he would become famous just not in the way imagined.
Adam had been working on something secretly for months. He was getting close and the lady Audrey, his snout, promised it was the real deal, she had inside information. Walking to the quiet gardens in Kensington he smiled to himself. At last it was going to happen. He was writing the story in his head.
Continue readingThe greatest gift of all
Late that afternoon, Donald re-emerged aboard what the crew referred to as “Hair Forced One”. He stepped into the press cabin with one arm hanging limp at his side. Face frozen in a blank stare, eyes heavy, he reached up to steady himself on the door frame and launched into an off-the-cuff monologue, giving the press no chance to ask questions.
Continue readingThe Macbethinator
Will leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, steam from his green tea curling around his beard. With a theatrical groan, he tossed a stapled stack of A4 papers onto the table.
“They want a rewrite, Ben,” he sighed. “The script editor, a man with the soul of an old shoe, and the imagination of a month-old brassica, says the pacing is problematic.”
Ben Jonson took a sip of his espresso, suppressing a smirk. “Problematic, Will? What exactly did he say?”
Continue readingThe Anti-Santa
“Anti-Santa!” scoffed Mr. Cushing “Dear me. Can we even admit that regular Santa isn’t a real thing.”
Mrs McCulikn merely stirred the pot on the hob, humming to herself as she did around 5:45 when Mr. Harding would sneak into the pantry and shove his hands into whatever jar he fancied, Mrs. Harding would have words with the staff when he did so but if the pantry was locked Mr. Harding would have words instead. At times such as this, it paid to be deaf.
“According to little Christopher” explained Mrs Marks “the anti-Santa is for bad girls and boys. How does it go again? Good girls and boys leave offerings to Santa Claus.”
Continue readingThe Outback Mysteries
“Fucking mozzies” muttered Bob half asleep as he swatted another of the bastards with his hand. “And fucking flies!” he yelled, batting away another attacker.
Can’t stand it here, he thought bitterly, knowing he couldn’t voice his hatred of this new homeland out loud. Surrounded by Sheena’s Australian family who were all thrilled to have her back, had put paid to that. Christmas here was all wrong. Blazing sunshine, barbecued seafood, chilly salads – where was the tradition in that? He missed carol singers, his mother’s crispy roasties and the possibility of sledging in the snow. What he’d give for a Baileys to hand, the EastEnders Christmas special blaring and a box of Quality Street to while away the afternoon.
Continue readingIllumination
Sorcha was thinking of her ‘A’ level exams in the summer. She really wanted to go to university; find herself. She stirred the gravy as her mother moved around the kitchen, busy. Last night Mum had spent an age on the food, this morning longer.
‘What do you think?’ her mother eventually said.
‘Are we done?’
‘Yes, I’ll tell your dad we’re ready to eat.’
Continue readingTHE HONORABLE THING
In a private club tucked away in central London three gentlemen sat savouring their brandies. The oldest, a plump figure bald, lived-in face, his eyes bird-like darting everywhere.
”The memorial service was pukka, don’t you think?”
His colleagues nodded their agreement. The man with a military bearing leaned forward, glancing around.
”Just thank the lord he did the honourable thing after his traitorous behaviour.”
Continue readingLiberation
‘Bring the traitor in,’ the major said.
Flaming orange hair topped his rugged head. Next to him sat the captain, his blue eyes chill discs. Fire and ice together hunkered behind a desk. A youth in khaki pushed in a tall man, his hands tied behind his back.
‘You’ve been found guilty of treason,’ the major said. ‘You will be executed by members of the people’s liberation army immediately. Any last words?’
The man spat on the floor in contempt and was dragged out.
Continue readingSoulless Wretch!
Kevin Bentley is an evil, soulless wretch, and has caused me nothing but pain, misery and utter suicidal despair.
We were once (I thought) best friends. I remember the first day of school, a frightened Kevin stood all alone in the corner of the playground and only I cared enough to talk to him. Our first few years of friendship were great, we would hang out at each other’s homes, sit next to each other in class, share our toys and video games but alas then puberty arrived and although it was remorseless to me, (my nickname was pizza face) it transformed the runty Kevin into an adonis, and that’s when his utter cruelty began.
Continue readingA Good Life
He stands on the corner of East Bank Way and Fabian Way, in the long winter shadow of Swansea Dockers Sports and Social Club, his tragic, asymmetrical body a cautionary tale of what might be.
The traffic is slow. It’s the usual blockage: cars, vans, buses and trucks, turning into Quay Parade, ignoring the yellow cross-hatched box that says to new drivers, “Do not enter unless your exit is clear”, but in the hurried world of nine o’clock deadlines, a warning to be ignored, along with the cheery horns of the oncoming traffic.
Continue reading