NO TALKING WHILE YOU WAIT

Brian Turner

NO TALKING WHILE YOU WAIT

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Printed and bound by Kall Kwik Cambridge

Cover sketch:Artwork:

Proofreader:

Ray BolandGrace LeeGill Rowlands

A Millstone PublicationCopyright Brian Turner 2011marcus.turner@ntlworld.com

My thanks to the above

Nothing moves, no one speaks;

whatever waits for you waits...

“Find a girl,” he said; “Someone gentle like her; not one who will break

you to prove how emancipated she is. It’s revenge you see, like the Empire, the years of oppression have to be paid for, but not by you if you’re smart.”

He stood up and stretched before reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, blowing smoke contemptuously at a warning sign in the hospital corridor, aiming ash at a stain on the floor, missing.

“ Take your Mother and me. There was always this understanding between us, there was no war. I knew when I was out of order, she made it clear. And me, well you know me, I explode and then it’s forgotten; but there was never this urge

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to dominate.”

He stopped suddenly, realising that he was using past tense. Tears welled. A black nurse with the high cheekbones of an Ethiopian appeared as if from nowhere. She looked at the cigarette and the tears.

“ Best give me that,” she said gently, heading for an exit.

So they sat together without speaking, like bookends on a church shelf, waiting for a miracle to come.

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The Zulus had passed under the leaf camouflaged tree that he was hiding

in, beyond that rockery where the snake bitten cat was buried and the cricket square he had created. The gardener had not given him away, although he smiled and shook his head as he watched him leap from the branches onto the last warrior and slit his throat with a kitchen knife borrowed from the house. Nor had he revealed his presence in the bushes as he ambushed a revenge party, picking them off with his air gun as they tried to rush him, their raw courage no match for his cool head and deadly aim; massacring them before stepping carefully between the bodies on his way to the icebox, where the frozen orange lollipops were for this

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was a thirsty man’s work.

And at night, watching shooting star fireflies, dangerous aliens attacking Earth and hearing the crickets, their allies, calling them before he, the defender of the human race had rushed outside to silence them as his mother ordered him in, saying that it was unwise to be out after dark in Africa. Of course it was. He himself had heard the leopard’s purr outside his window, leaping onto its back and commanding it to carry him to the forest like Mowgli and Bagheera and in his dreams, they passed elephants dancing and crocodiles talking as the hyenas sang in rhyme and the moon blinded them all.

And in the morning, not knowing if the sun, warm even then had woken him or the birds’ chorus, or the kitchen’s laughter, or his father’s motor scooter that he loved to ride pillion on, leaving for work. Then cornflakes with powdered milk and joking with the Africans before swimming, ‘cycling, or hunting man eating lions on wasteland by the harbour.

But now the pain was back and the ambulance closed like a tomb and the paramedic was doing something to him and he felt ashamed because he had lost

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control of his bladder. She touched his shoulder to say that it was allright and the hurt lessened and her look reminded him of another time....

It was his first day. His parents were leaving in the blue car, waving as they did, while he tried to smile, knowing that they were going to Africa and who knew when they would return. His heart breaking as he cried himself to sleep, trying not to be heard by the others.

“Is the new boy blubbing? Someone shut him up. I’ve got double Latin with “Twitters” tomorrow and I need some rest.”

“Cry baby.”

“Woman.”

“Oh, mummy where are you?.”

Giggles, thrown socks and blows and Matron ordering quiet; and his despair. For weeks, despair.

Then the shutters came down and nothing would hurt him ever again; not love, not loss nor human suffering or compassion; he was steel, he was stone, he was invincible.

She was new. She had known only

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goodness and Christian love so that it was natural for her to follow a caring path but here in the grid locked ambulance time was of the essence and there was none. She could only keep him alive for a little longer. Outside, the sirens wailed and a thousand exhausts spewed filth; a distant helicopter hovered. She held his hand and wept as he opened his eyes and saw her weakness.

“It’s all right,” he whispered; “it’s not your fault.”

And although his words were lost in the oxygen mask, she understood..

In the tin can wedged in a traffic jam they knew redemption; he who had felt nothing and she who cared so much, looking into the face of God.

***

I t had been a good battle. There had been honour and courage, with the

dead stacked high at the end like piles of driftwood , in preparation for their journey to Hades. The funeral pyres had burned for three days, suffocating and nauseous, with the sun rendered a pale imitation through the dense clouds of

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smoke and ash.

Hesiod himself had fought bravely, he and “The Sacred Band”, an elite corps formed by none other than General Pelopidas specifically for the Battle of Leuctra, had fallen upon the feared Spartans before they could form their “Wall of Death” and slaughtered them in disarray. Lesser troops would have scattered to the hills and been easy prey for Athenian cavalry, but not the Spartans. They had reformed and counter attacked, wreaking bloody vengeance as the battle crimsoned the earth and the casualties mounted. Eventually the Athenians had prevailed although the losses on both sides were so great that it was difficult to tell victor from vanquished.

He had almost survived; fighting skillfully and with discipline among the bodies of the dying, until a big Spartan had thrust a spear through his heart as he had stumbled over a fallen comrade. It should have been a quick death but the pain had lasted until he could bear it no more and tears ran from his eyes. Ashamed, his final movement had been to cover them.

In the hinterland before the river Styx,

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the dead gather and wait in quiet groups for the journey across that poisonous flow to their eternal home. It is the darker edge of twilight there, half desert, half scrub, with piles of rocks adopting the forms of demons in that deceitful light. Hesiod had found Thucydides from “The Sacred Band”. He had seen him fall and knew that he would be waiting there. They greeted each other in the soldiers way and although neither showed it, both were more afraid now than they had ever been in war.

“I regret your death and would not have wished it upon you, but it is good to be with friends in this terrible place” said Thucydides, looking uneasily around him.

Gradually, group by group, the Ferryman carried the spirits of the dead soldiers across the poisoned river which steamed and bubbled like a cauldron. As he began each journey, his bony hand collected the two coins that had been placed on their eyes before cremation as is the custom, putting them in a deep pouch that hung at his side. Dark and still, nothing could be seen of him behind the black cloak and hood that covered all except those terrible hands. His boat, simple, open,

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propelled only by a long pole that seemed impervious to the acidic water, carried many more than it appeared to be capable of and although the slaughter had been extreme, the waiting dead moved relentlessly forward to the waters edge.

As they drew nearer, Hesiod and Thucydides spied another from “The Sacred Band” standing alone and to one side, looking forlornly at the ground in front of him.

“Join us Demosthenes,” said Hesiod, “There is courage in numbers.”

“I cannot” answered Demosthenes in anguish; “I have no coins to give the Ferryman. They were not placed on my eyes before the fire.”

The soldiers went to him immediately for this was terrible news, anyone without the means to pay was doomed to wander forever the land between life and death. As they looked around them at the shadows and strange rocks, they could imagine no fate worse.

“We will find a way,” swore Hesiod. “We will not leave you here.”

“There is nothing to be done,” whispered the doomed soldier.

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As they spoke a thin, wiry man joined them. Petras had been famous among the Athenians for his stealth and cunning. Many times he had entered the enemy camp undetected to slit the throats of sentries and then escape into the night. His was a special kind of skill and courage that had earned much respect. When they told him of the awful fate that awaited Demosthenes, he became thoughtful as the others attempted to console the unhappy man.

“There might be a way,” spoke Petras after a long pause. “If you can create a distraction to draw the attention of the navigator, I will steal from his pouch two coins for Demosthenes. I will pick the very pocket of Death.”

It is not often that the dead smile on the banks of that river, but Petras did in the gloomy aftermath of the Battle of Leuctra. Nothing that he had ever done in life, glorious though it had been, would compare with such a deed. His eyes shone with anticipation. Gradually the others began to smile too, even Demosthenes. There was still glory to be had, even here; if they succeeded, this story would be told until the end of time itself.

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Hesiod and Thucydides wasted no time in enlisting the help of fellow soldiers. A passing group of Spartans stopped and listened to their story, readily agreeing to help, for all men are brothers in death. A plan was soon formed to create a pretended quarrel between the three Athenians and the Spartans over some battlefield injustice once the river’s edge had been reached and they were about to board. When the Ferryman’s attention had been captured, Petras would use all his stealth and skill to remove the coins from the boatman’s pouch. It was a daring plan and none knew what the consequences of failure would be but the Spartans in particular had been raised from birth to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. But to risk their immortal souls ? This was courage indeed, for if Death suspected treachery, they might all be refused passage.

The Ferryman was making his one hundred and thirty fifth crossing after the great battle. His back and arms ached and his temper was bad. He did not like humans; petty, vicious and stupid, they slaughtered each other for no apparent reason save that their leaders had quarrelled over some small matter. As

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if their meaningless lives were not short and diseased enough, they took every opportunity to shorten them further. He was the one that suffered the consequences, he was the one that carried them over this foul smelling water to their resting place. There was no rest for him. He felt pity for himself today; after all, he had been performing this repetitive and thankless task since the beginning of time.

Yet there was something about these self destructive, unhappy beings, they had a certain quality. In the midst of their selfishness, greed and barbarity a light shone. There was sacrifice and compassion, even love. He steeled himself against such thoughts, he could not afford them; still his mood softened a little as he watched the ripped and shocked souls jostle on the bank, eager yet fearful at his approach. As he landed, he saw the quarrel that had been arranged, felt the hand in the pouch at his side, understood and knew everything as he had always done, yet allowed it to happen. This small, selfless defiance, born of love, touched him. The Spartans, risking all for an Athenian stranger, the brothers, who would not leave without their comrade; this day was different, this day he would make

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an exception. Demosthenes would enter Hades, he would allow it. His decision would not be questioned; he could do anything. He was the Ferryman.

***

The past crept like shadows across the floor, from the cooker and the

television and the corners of her little flat. She could hear talking below and footsteps above but neither disturbed her reverie. Pretty Annie was placing an order for her birthday.

“Oh Mum, I saw it in Next and it’s so right for me that I will just die if I don’t get it.”

She reached out to rearrange an imaginary curl. “We’ll see, we’ll see” she murmured.

Then Simon, limping towards her and pouting with disappointment.

“Why can’t I play football like the others, what’s wrong with me ?”

But all she could do was bite her lip and hug away his frustration. She saw them both before her and her dead husband in his uniform and her smiling parents

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whose cup was always half full even though mostly with poverty; and herself in childhood, playing with “Cinderella” as she was nicknamed by the others because her mother was always calling her in for tea and disapproved of her friends. She spoke in a posh accent and was teased but she was nice and they lost themselves together in a special place long ago. She had gone to her funeral two years past, or was it five ?

She had been the best of her friends and now there was no one to share with.

They had buried Simon during the January snow that he loved. He would drag his Wellington boot in it until the weight pulled it from him and then dance on his good leg, laughing. Losing him was harder than anything she had known. Annie was married with children but lived in Australia and her husband was always out of work so they could not afford the fare home to visit her

A cup of tea would bring comfort and ease the solitude and fear of the twilight world outside in the corridors of the misnamed Safe Haven tower block on her weekly journey to the supermarket. The drug addicts and dealers stared as

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she passed and there were no kind words or looks either from them or the trolley pushers and young girls who clicked their tongues as she carefully counted out her change to pay for the few small items in her basket. It was as though a cloak of irrelevance and semi invisibility had descended onto her frail shoulders. Yes, a cup of tea was the answer as always. It was not so much the drinking of it as the ritual, the carefully organised procedure beginning with the correct level of water in the kettle, just enough to cover the element and therefore not waste electricity, followed by the placing of a dried teabag; she could if careful, extract three cupfuls from one bag into her special Chinese cup that seemed to add extra flavour to the episode. Sometimes she would add a little milk but sugar was a luxury she could no longer afford. Then, as she felt the warmth slip down her throat all was right again and the World in order and she could plan her day. The window needed cleaning and she was sure that she had seen a cobweb somewhere...

There was a knock on the door and she approached it warily, peeping through the spyhole that the Police had recommended

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she have installed after someone had tried to break it down and then relaxed. It was the Salvation Army. She sighed before opening the door; she had little to give but they were special, they had been kind to Simon, providing him with support and her with comfort as his condition worsened.

“Please come in.” She put on her best smile.

Three people entered, an older man and two youngsters, trainees possibly she thought and all smart in their uniforms. The usual exchanges followed, an offer of tea, a polite refusal, an enquiry as to how she was coping.

“I’ll fetch you something” she said, knowing that there was only a little change left that she had saved for the gas meter but she would go to bed early and keep warm that way. As she turned, the man placed a hand on her arm. Surprised by the contact she looked up at his face and saw a kindness and depth of understanding that she had not known for a long time.

“We’re going to give you something today,” he said smiling and placed a package with a semi transparent cover

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on the kitchen table through which she could see tins of food and some milk and sugar and tea bags. There seemed to be an awful lot in such a small parcel and for an odd moment she thought of the miracle of the seven loaves and seven fishes.

“I can’t take this, I should be giving you something,” she managed to say a little unsteadily. But the three were already moving towards the door. It was then that she caught a glimpse of the face of her youngest visitor which had been kept lowered beneath his cap. It seemed familiar but she could not be sure and tried to look more closely until the older man moved, blocking her view.

“If you are in need again we’ll come back,” his gentleness distracted her.

Then they were through the door and moving quickly along the walkway, except for the youngest who limped and half turned as if to say goodbye and although she still could not see his face, she knew who he was.

***

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“Marita, please find me I am almost thirty.”

An odd, isolated sentence in a book of poems and he wondered why it interested him. Who was Marita and how had she been lost ? Was it due to the chameleon changes of a turbulent past; a ghettoed, refugeed, abused childhood past, sistered, sweet hearted, orphaned memory that needed to be exorcised before life could continue in a normal way ? And why thirty; was that the watershed, the moment the body began to die instead of grow and the reflective process began, powered by longing and regret ?

“Marita, please find me I am almost thirty.”

It became his companion, tapping his shoulder in the midst of a busy day, waking him before dawn. He left the book open at the page it was printed on, stopping as he passed to see it once more as one does with a colour chart to be given new inspiration, but none came.

Then he realised that this was the point of it, inserted on page one hundred and sixteen like a splinter under the finger nail, impossible to remove, impossible to ignore, an impossible irritant and

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insoluble problem that intrigued only a strange few. Still, he kept the book open on that page waiting, waiting for the answer to come. Perhaps the author had been wrong, perhaps there was an explanation that would come to him as he walked through the door and saw it for one last time. But the weeks passed and his friends, troubled by his odd separation, asked if all was well and telephoned on small pretexts, talking for hours like counsellors until he realised that this could not continue and tore the page from its socket, setting fire to it in the kitchen sink. But the flame died and “Marita” could still be seen so he doused the blackened paper with water and flushed it away.

He was safe now and with a light step made his way to the street on his way to an appointment that he was late for. He breathed the spring air and watched a pretty girl pass by. It felt good to be free again. He whistled as he entered the tube station and made his way to the escalator descending to his platform. On the way down he looked idly at the advertisements on the wall until a picture caught his attention. It was of a man with his back to the viewer, wearing a black coat and

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***

hat, walking down a bleak and deserted street and below it a caption read :

“Marita, please find me I am almost thirty...”

(“Marita”, from “Stranger Music” )

***

He stuttered, desperate to find something witty to say as colours

swirled around him and the trees swayed in sympathy. She wanted to tell him not to try so hard but slipped her hand into his instead. They found a sheltered place and sat a shy distance apart but with hands still touching and talked in the silly, jokey way of first dates as his heart thundered beneath his Black Sabbath t-shirt.

He smiled at the memory, made here at this shrine with its blasphemous graffiti and touched the broken old park bench with his fingertips.

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Monday

Here we are, kettle boils, tea brews and the radio is worried about something but I don’t care. All that matters is that this tea bag is immersed for just the right length of time, too long and the day is ruined, too little and it tastes like piss. I don’t care about global warming or the economic crisis, I have more urgent concerns. I don’t sleep well and I can feel my prostate growing as I wait for it to take pity on me so that I can pee without pain and go back to bed. I need another hip, knee and if the Arabs are rising and a new World order dawns, well too bad. I think I’m getting dementia, I can’t remember where I put my teeth but worse, I can’t remember your birthday. I’ll drive to the shops today and squint through the steering wheel, a recent habit, I think I’ve shrunk. I wish my prostate would. The girls in the supermarket will give me a patronising smile and slip into old people mode, talking slowly and loudly as if I can’t understand while I wonder what they look like naked. Then I’ll drive home at twenty miles an hour to annoy the tailgaters, well you’ve got to have some fun. Day time TV is a freak show so I feed the birds. One of them comes very

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near and looks at me with black eyes, perhaps it’s you come back to check me out. Tomorrow I’ll put flowers on your grave and cry all over again.

Wednesday

Same today; tea bag, news, birds, teeth, ritual. I’m feeling better this morning. The gardener had taken the flowers from your stone to trim the grass and didn’t put them back. I was so angry, it was as if he had insulted you. No shopping today and without that adrenalin I fall asleep and dream of, well you know what. My prostate doesn’t dream. Sometimes I think I’ve caught it unawares but just as I stand ready, it springs into malevolent action, like a strangler. Tom will call again today, I know he will. He means well but we will have to make yet more small talk to add to the mountainous heap of a lifetime. When he leaves I’ll try to read but know every plot and twist and phrase as if I had written them myself. It’s the same with the TV or conversations with neighbours. I suppose that’s why we don’t live longer, there’s only so much we can take. I’m off again aren’t I? You used to raise your eyes to Heaven when I started and we would laugh. That bird came back again and I talked to it. Pat was in her garden

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and heard me. She gave me a look but has always thought me crazy so must think that I’m coping well. It’s late afternoon and the day is tired, you whisper and for a moment I am happy.

Eight months later

I think your sister is having a crisis. She’s left Frank saying that forty years is enough with anyone and has bought a pink Mini Cooper and dyed her hair the same colour. I think she’s still grieving. Has a new man who wears beads and shaves his head. It takes them half an hour to get in and out of her car and then they can’t stand straight for another ten minutes, I wish you could see. Pat brought a cake over an tried to be nice to me even though I knew it was a real effort. People are strange. I think I’m over the worst now. I’m going on a coach to the West End next week to see “Les Miserables” with Tom, he thinks it will cheer me up. That bird doesn’t come anymore, I think a Sparrow hawk got it. I’ve given some of your clothes away, I hope you don’t mind, been having a bit of a clear out and may move to something smaller in the summer. The rooms here are so big now and my feet drag on the past. Maybe I’ll buy a Mini Cooper.

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Summer

You would like it here, the windows are big and the rooms airy and there is a smell of fresh paint. Martha has given the place a woman’s touch. Do you remember Martha ? Anyway, she’s widowed now and keeps me company sometimes. The neighbours are okay, they don’t talk about anything interesting but their eyes are kind and I know they would help me if they could. I’m listening to music again and have an iPod now. I’ve darkened my hair and Martha says that it makes me look younger. We went on a trip to Yarmouth for the over sixties, it was horrendous, like “The Night of the Living Dead”; fifty old people in a coach that looked like a hearse run by a firm advertising “affordable burials, group bookings in comfortable surroundings.” I put my iPod on and made obscene gestures at passers by. Martha was embarrassed by me. You wouldn’t have been, you would have understood. Your sister has left the skinhead and gone back to Frank who has always been a soft touch as you know. She’s sold the Mini Cooper and is having traction for misplaced vertebrae.

Listen old girl, I may stop talking to you like this, you’re fading a little and I don’t

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know if you can hear. Martha says it’s like that after a while. I’ll always love you though.

***

His wife had always told him that he was immature. In fact she had said

so the day she left, but of course the reality was that she simply didn’t understand him, didn’t realise that he was special, that he needed space and freedom for his spirit to soar. She had always held him back, complaining about this and that. Was it his fault that business had turned sour ? There was a world wide recession, everyone was in trouble, even the Banks were collapsing. Hadn’t he been good to her in the boom years, spending lavishly on holidays and cars, living in style ? Even then there were complaints that not enough money was being put aside as a buffer against rainy days. Women were never satisfied. They always wanted to be married to Jesus Christ and when they discovered that they were not, felt that somehow they had been cheated.

Well, she wasn’t being cheated now. She had taken the children and most of the remaining cash to the coast somewhere

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to look for another Saviour. He had tried to make contact but even the kids didn’t seem to want to know. Come to think of it, he had not paid much attention to them even when they were younger; all those birthday parties and ice cream, running noses, screaming and “Read me another story daddy.” That wasn’t really him at all.

He looked down and his hand was shaking around the Vodka and tonic he was holding. He brought up the other to steady the glass before taking a sip. It was supposed to be Gin that depressed you. Gina would be here soon and everything would be fine. Gina was beautiful and twenty years younger than him. There had been a spark between them at the Christmas party and they had been meeting ever since. She was wonderful and made him feel so too, but she had expensive habits and assumed that he would indulge them. How could he refuse ? He couldn’t let her go. But now she was all he had and it was time to explain to her that the money had run out. He didn’t think that would go down too well.

Across the room a pole dancer was gyrating and holding a smile that was supposed to be suggestive but looked as

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if she was wondering if she had left the lights on in her Flat. The waiters slid through the tables like snakes looking for the biggest tips and the music threatened deafness and the disco lights flashed on and off and on and off until he put his glass down and covered his eyes.

It hadn’t always been like this. They had been happy in the early days before Gina and a dozen others, before that look left her eyes, before the children fell silent in his presence. He wasn’t given to self pity; he wasn’t given to anything much except self indulgence and it was too late for repentance now. There were too many ashes to wade through. At least that was what he had thought until now.

Gina had walked through the door; Gina , tall and slender with big eyes that opened wide in intimacy; Gina, young enough to be his daughter. The room began to rotate, the pole dancer fell off but still smiling, the waiters tripped over spilling money and the disco lights smashed as the music turned to static. He left quickly through the fire exit.

Perhaps it wasn’t too late, he had that ‘phone number. He could call and make amends, he could change. He could be

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Jesus. He could hold them in his arms, a holy embrace with the celestial light shining above. He could make it happen. Anything was possible.

But outside a cold wind blew and it was a long, long way home.

***

Mary was in love with her doctor. Overweight and hypochondriacal,

she saw him as both future lover and permanent medical adviser. In her restless and frustrated dreams they made passionate love while whispering tiny endearments concerning levels of medication before, passion spent, they lay in each others arms discussing in depth the underlying causes of her various ailments until, finally, they slept as her bosom heaved against his and miracle cures passed before the rapid eye movement of her night. Then the dream of a dream became too much and she awoke, reaching for a soothing tablet. She visited him regularly, tolerating the humiliation of having to share him with others who might be harbouring similar thoughts and through her pretended indifference studied possible rivals for his affection as

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she waited. There was a new patient here today and she was young and beautiful and a definite threat. Her fists clenched, there was so much temptation for the dear man, she must protect him from these vampires for only she truly loved him. She feared he was tiring of her; on her last visit he had suggested a trial separation.

“ Perhaps we should see how things go for a while,” he had said quietly; “ ‘phone reception if the symptoms reoccur.”

‘Phone reception ? They would never understand, especially that dragon with a wig. She always looked at Mary in that knowing way that women have. Did she suspect ? Was she secretly seeing him in the lunch hour when the Surgery was closed ? No, she had to keep his attention, constantly remind him of her presence. He had asked that she lose weight. Oh yes, there was cruelty in the way that the corners of his mouth turned down but this only excited her more. She knew that he didn’t really mean it, men liked ample frames, her sister had told her, nevertheless she made a token effort although her love of cakes and sticky toffee almost matched her love for the doctor. So this time she wore light clothes

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and shoes, remembering the heavy heeled ones she had worn before to make herself look taller. Shivering in anticipation of his touch, she wondered if he would ask her to undress. The tannoy crackled, his voice called.

“ Miss Higgins for Doctor Smart please.”

Was there something in his voice ? Did he speak her name too quickly ? Was there a sharp intake of breath ? She smiled as she stood up. She knew that he was really saying:

“ Oh Miss Higgins, Miss Higgins, Miss Higgins.......”

***

You can’t smoke at Kings Cross Railway Station now because it is

supposedly an enclosed area. The fact that it is not really enclosed and that the roof is at least one hundred and fifty feet high so that it would take five thousand people smoking constantly for a week before the level of “harm” would fall sufficiently to assail our delicate nostrils, is apparently neither here nor there. It is simply another unmissable opportunity

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to kick smokers in the head.

Once there was something called individual choice and the waiting rooms of Kings Cross being the bars, cafes, restaurants and even hot dog stalls were smeared with fatty foods and heavy layers of smoke that comforted like a warm embrace, heightening the senses. People did not live in fear then, they understood that life was finite and made the most of it.

During this holy time, Jo and Mary would meet after work at the cafe which is still there, for tea before catching their train home a few stops down the line. Jo, who was seventy, still insisted on working as a messenger for some company a short bus ride away from the station, and Mary, who was a year younger, worked as a cleaner at a nearby hotel. Sometime the work tired them and they felt their years, but more often they were so pleased to see each other that their step would quicken and they hugged like lovers.

“Let’s go home quickly and make love on the kitchen table”, I once heard him tease. They saw my smile and we laughed together. Over tea, we told our stories and a bond was formed. We met often at

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around five in the cafe where rock cakes were exactly that and with a waiter who always had a cigarette dangling from his lips and sometimes the ash would grow so long that you feared for the purity of your cream bun and the tables were still greasy from the fat of spilled lunch. If there was no ash you knew that you were safe and wondered whose tea it had fallen into instead. We joked about it as we did everything and I looked forward to our gatherings. Jo had been in the war time Navy and had escaped into the sea from his torpedoed destroyer. He had almost drowned because of the heavy sea boots that he was wearing. He gave a hilarious account of how he managed to remove them which was typical of his ability to find amusement in even that dire situation. Mary had been in London during the Blitz and had seen things that she was reluctant to speak of.

I learned a lot from those two in the short weeks of our meetings. We didn’t say goodbye, they just stopped coming and I did not want to know the reason; I think of them still, Jo trying to remove his sea boots in the Mediterranean and quiet Mary with eyes that had seen much.

Sometimes you tuck people away in

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your memory and bring them out like comfort blankets when you need them. Jo would no doubt have something to say about Kings Cross Station being an enclosed place and a man whose ship had been torpedoed defending his country, would not take kindly to the erosion of civil liberty. Mary would probably just smile.

***

In nineteen fifty eight the Heathfield Hotel was typical of its type. Stiff and

formal, the atmosphere far from being relaxed warm and welcoming, could be cut with a knife. Eyes followed the unfortunate guests everywhere to ensure that they were properly dressed and

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adopted an appropriate manner. Audible laughter was considered common and frowned upon. Brash Americans were singled out for special attention. The headwaiter would hover at the elbow of one such with a discreet cough and an “Is everything all right Sir? Would Sir like to borrow a more subdued jacket for dinner?” After which both the guest and his family would be placed in a restaurant recess, out of sight and if possible, earshot of others . Maids in white pinnies would try to be invisible while doing their work, looking as small as possible and with heads lowered to avoid the effrontery of eye contact. The oak panelled walls and heavy velvet curtains oppressed the nouveau riche who dared to enter the claustrophobic formality of this upper middle class enclave. The management did not mind taking their money but they had to understand clearly that certain codes of behaviour had to be followed. The echo of lowered, apologetic voices and the memory of morning tea, rolled newspapers and emotional constipation lingers still.

Michael knew the Heathfield. His parents had taken him there to stay more than once during childhood and

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he had felt its oppressive nature keenly. Still, he remembered that it was quiet, comfortable and classy with big four poster beds in some of the rooms; just the sort of hotel that he required. He booked a four poster double room by telephone, trying to make his voice sound older than his twenty years. In those days and in such a place, you were expected to occupy a double room with your wife so that the reputation of all remained intact, unlike some kinds of seedy residences that catered for certain matters. Sex before marriage, like poverty and nudity, was considered unacceptable during the nineteen fifties.

Michael was not rebellious or a libertine but he had a great passion for a shopkeeper’s daughter and would happily have married her had his father not prevented him from doing so, claiming that she was of inferior social status and had little money. Marriage outside your own class was another taboo of the time, strictly upheld by the higher stratas of society. In fact having a sex drive at all was an extreme inconvenience for single but respectable men and women unless they rushed into marriage with a comparative stranger, or the men frequented brothels. Michael had done

35

neither but could bear his frustration no more. He wanted to be naked with Maria in a big four poster bed at the Heathfield Hotel more than he had wanted anything in his whole life. His grandmother, an austere, strongly principled Victorian, had left him a little money and although she would have been horrified to know that he was about to spend some of it on such a venture, Michael silently thanked her for her part in his planned rescue from virginity.

The two would be lovers stood before the grand entrance holding hands like Christopher Robin and a friend; just about still children on the threshold of some great unknown, about to peek into the cupboard where the presents are kept, pulses racing with fear and excitement.

The name of the middle aged man on duty at reception was Charles. He did not like to be called Charlie, even by his friends, although he came from a humble background. He had worked at the Heathfield ever since leaving school and was imbued with its nature, having risen from a kitchen skivvy to head porter over a period of twenty five years. He loved the feeling of importance that his job gave him; to wear a suit and mix with

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gentry in luxurious surroundings, to be indispensable to them, these things gave him pride and self esteem. He had even developed a B.B.C. accent. The boy from the East End was no more, could not be seen or heard in the inverted snobbery of the Judas he had become.

Michael and Maria approached the desk with an air of self confidence that was not convincing and Charles eyed them with a sour expression. He felt irritated that he had been forced to welcome guests because of staff illness, he should never have been put into such a position, he was the head porter not a receptionist. He knew at once that they were a suspicious couple. They were very young, looked nervous and when they were close, it appeared the girl’s wedding ring did not fit properly.

“May I help you Sir?” he said politely.

Michael gulped.

“I have a reservation for a double room under the name of Jones.”

Jones? Well that was a variation at least on Smith, thought Charles. He almost felt pity for them, they looked bewildered.

“Would you mind stepping into the office for a moment Sir?” he asked.

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So, Michael sat as if in his old headmaster’s office awaiting judgement as Charles asked for proof of identity and a marriage licence. As though apart, the head porter heard himself lecture the ashen faced boy on morals and standards and respectability as Maria’s dark, gentle eyes watched through the sliding glass window before lowering them as her shoulders sank and she blushed in the shame of their discovery.

Charles saw and felt all this as he spoke, listening to his own voice and its fake accent as the absurdity of the situation came to him. He stopped and the little room was silent for a while as he remembered the bleakness of his childhood in Docker street and how once, after his father had beaten him for something that he hadn’t done, he had run to neighbours for comfort. They had been young and unmarried, ostracised by the rest of the street for their immorality, yet they were kind to him when others were not. He had suppressed that memory as he had done most from his early years but it was there now. These children, for that’s what they were, had dragged it from its dungeon. He didn’t know what an epiphany was but something strange was definitely

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happening here. He cleared his throat.

“However, er, on this occasion....”

He heard his voice drone on for a while, saw the relief on the boy’s face and the shy thanks in Maria’s look as they signed the register and left for the big four poster and their consummation. He watched them disappear and felt like a man who had just turned water to wine. He smiled; that was quite good, he was getting poetic in his old age. Perhaps he would let his hair down a bit tonight, perhaps he would call some friends from the old days and suggest a drink. He might even let them call him Charlie.

***

The room seemed as usual with tired floor and faded chairs, coughs, sighs

and as Margaret entered the dentist’s waiting room the only difference that she could see was that a leprechaun was sitting on a chair in the corner. It was green, had large nose and ears and wore traditional costume of Shakespearean tights and curled up shoes with a bell on the end of each one. Next to it (or is it him?) sat Mrs. Gentle from the Bakery,

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who appeared to take no notice, seemingly absorbed in the magazine that she was reading, although her hands shook a little as she held it. The other occupants of the room also gave the appearance of not noticing the strange phenomenon, being preoccupied with other interests, such a staring at the ceiling, out of the window, at each other’s knee caps, books, magazines; in fact anything except each other’s eyes and the strange creature in the corner.

Now it became necessary for Margaret to make a decision. She could either continue to stand open-mouthed in the doorway or sit on the only other unoccupied seat next to the leprechaun. Swallowing, she moved heavy-legged to the chair and slowly sat. There was an odd smell coming from the creature and she did not know if this was normal leprechaun odour or whether it (he?) had not bathed for some time. She stared straight ahead, controlling her breathing, trying to appear as casual as possible. Then, very slowly she let her eyes move across to Mrs. Gentle’s face. Obviously the strain was beginning to tell; her eyes were glazed and protruding and a bead of sweat ran down the side of her face. Although she still gripped the

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magazine tightly, she had been staring at the same word for some time. Breathing slowly and steadily now, bracing herself, Margaret let her eyes move further and found herself looking into those of the leprechaun. She felt unafraid of the expression in them, being one of world weariness and fatigue, like a rush hour commuter on the London underground; almost human one might say. He smiled at her, showing damaged and discoloured teeth:

“Hello,” he said. “I am a new man here. I can’t tell you how difficult it is to find a dentist who will take on a leprechaun in Eire. Over here your health service is so available to anyone who wishes to use it, no matter where you come from or who you are.” He beamed at his magnanimity and that of the NHS, showing more discolouration. Margaret gulped and tried to speak but failed.

“Of course I experienced some initial difficulty” he continued, glad to have someone to talk to, “but once they realised that I was a foreign national, all obstacles were removed and I was given the choice of thirteen different surgeries - very generous don’t you think?” His eyebrows (yes they have them) asked the question.

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Margaret stared at him but did not, could not, speak.

“But then” he continued, “you are a generous nation. You will literally do anything for anyone and indeed pass laws to that effect, even though they may have a detrimental effect on the indigenous population of your country. It would be almost churlish of me to take advantage of such naivety if my teeth were not giving me so much trouble”.

Hypnotised by the strange expression and soft voice, Margaret did not hear her name being called by the dentist’s assistant, indeed the rest of the world had ceased to exist for her and only when Mrs. Gentle leaned forward and whispered hoarsely, “You can go now my dear” with much envy did she realise where she was.

As Margaret disappeared through the door, the leprechaun smiled both to himself and the remaining occupants of the room , feeling that he had created a good impression. The British were really quite decent people. Perhaps he would bring the rest of his family over here to live. There were good amenities, all were welcome to use them, there was no

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discrimination. He could learn a trade and undercut the locals; after all a family of leprechauns can live quite cheaply.

***

“Have you got a minute Quentin ? There’s a guy in the waiting room

who says that The Second Coming is about to occur and that a divine being has been sent to prepare the way.”

“Well, we are psychiatrists after all.”

“ Yes but this one is counselling everyone in there and some are leaving; apparently cured. It’s costing us money.”

“Why is he here?”

“He wants to see you. He claims that you were Pontius Pilate in a previous life and that your soul is dark and heavy with guilt and he wants to help you.”

“ Sounds like classic psychotic disorder. Better get him in here quick before we lose any more patients.”

Enter man in brown overalls with sawdust on his shoes.

“Please sit down. I understand that you have something to say to me?”

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“We knew each other once; you were unkind .”

“As far as I’m aware, we’ve never met.”

“It will come to you.”

“What is it that you want?”

“To forgive you.”

“For what?”

But the man in brown overalls looks over Quentin’s shoulder.

“Do you remember the moneylenders in the temple and the hypocrisy of their priests who brought me before you ? They are with us still. Your patients are lonely and lack purpose. You take advantage of them.”

“Surely that’s unfair. We offer a service. There are almost no Psychiatric Hospitals now. Care for the mentally ill has to be done on an outpatient basis, mainly.”

“You benefit from the distress of others and your help is marginal.”

Quentin shifts uncomfortably.

“Look, I have people waiting, would you like to make an appointment and we can discuss this further ? I’ll do you a special

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rate.”

“We are going to pray together. Get down on your knees.”

Quentin presses the alarm button installed for his protection against violent patients. The Police arrive to find him kneeling and asking God’s forgiveness as an apparent carpenter watches approvingly.

“Okay, which one is the perpetrator?”

Quentin’s partner points the finger.

“Come on sunshine; we’ve got two more in the car like you. One of them’s an illegal; calls himself Barabbas. Can you believe that? Must be a full moon.”

Quentin is dusted down and has his dignity restored. A compulsion to wash his hands seizes him and as he does so, has the strangest feeling of deja vu.

***

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The wasp flew in through an open surgery window and circled the

room like a Drone hunting Taliban. A large bald head presented possibilities as did the fat woman oozing out of her summer dress. He settled and rubbed his front legs together. He was feeling mean today and out for revenge. His best friend had died beside him earlier, squashed flat by a swat. An ignominious mess had slid down the window frame and landed on the sill. His soul mate had perished miserably and someone had to pay. Yes, his attack would inflict as much pain as possible before he inevitably ended as he had, his memorial if lucky, a stain on the furniture too difficult to remove-- on the corner of a chair or the inside leg of the

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table perhaps. He waited on the magazine rack and plotted. Already he was being eyed with apprehension; wasps were the hooligans of the small world, dangerous, unpredictable. He knew this and revelled in the notoriety of his kind.

But first he must put them at ease, make them believe that he was harmless today, immobile, lazy. He kept as still as possible while his big eyes took in everything around him. These creatures were so arrogant, so proud in their belief that they were superior to all others. His friend had been killed as though he was nothing; a casual movement, a flick of the wrist, a continued conversation and existence ceased. Together they had foraged, dodged raindrops, warred with rival nests under the great general One Eye, soaring over the majestic Oak in victory rolls. All that had been taken away in an almost imperceptible interruption of the daily routine of the big white flesh. He seethed and in his cold anger chose the first victim.

The fat woman leapt out of her chair like a Saturday night disco dancer displaying her best poses. It was doubtful that she had ever moved as quickly before in her chocolate and pudding stuffed life. With

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gargled cry and back arched in a fruitless attempt to stretch her right hand down the back of her dress, her left hand pointed to the ceiling in John Travolta like stance. The wasp had chosen his spot carefully, the centre of the back, out of reach of clubbing hands, not as juicy as fat arm or full breast but safer; there was still work to be done. He carefully extracted his sting so that it would not be damaged and left her reciting some kind of mantra: “Oh my God, Oh my God,” whatever that meant and turning in circles now. Perhaps this was holy ritual for reducing pain; one could never tell with the big white flesh.

His next intended victim was a teenage boy who proved to be a dangerous opponent, being quick and anticipatory so that the wasp was forced to retreat and find slower opposition, seemingly in the form of the bald man who was trying to pretend that there was no disturbance in the room, determinedly reading. He stung him right in the centre of his head, feeling bone beneath the thin skin there. Without uttering a sound and with remarkable speed, the man slapped his head with the magazine that he was reading and his attacker was almost caught unawares. Just in time he partially avoided the

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descending article on masochism but was clipped by the corner of its cover. He had broken a leg and damaged his left wing. Careless. Stupid. But he was still mobile== and determined.

But now his enemies were mobilising. The cries of the fat woman and the sight of the bald man striking his own head with a copy of “Psychological Analysis” had destroyed the usual calm and reserve there, inducing in the occupants of the room a kind of Dunkirk spirit. They were under threat and united, reaching for “Country Life”, “Dermatological Monthly”, and a “No Smoking” sign they launched their counter attack with vigour; swishing, lashing, describing wild arcs with light sabres of white paper, resembling Ian Dury and The Blockheads in rehearsal.

Desperately the wasp dodged all like a wounded Lancaster avoiding flak over Berlin but there was no doubt that the odds were now stacked against him. Mustering all the strength in his good wing to support the failing other, he sought refuge on the ceiling but to no avail. The teenager leapt with a rolled copy of “Hello”, missing him by a hair’s breadth, but the slipstream seemed like a

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Hurricane striking Barbados so that he was swept back into the cauldron of fire.

They say that extraordinary acts of courage are born out of the certainty of impending doom; that because death is inevitable, fear no longer has a place and that a higher state of mind exists. Whether this applies to wasps is not known but what followed must rank among such great and foolish acts as The Charge of The Light Brigade or the attack on the bridge at Arnhem.

Twisting and turning as well as wounds allowed he avoided destruction, even causing consternation among his foes who in their eagerness to defeat him, misdirected their weapons so that the bald man was once again struck by “Psychological Analysis”, this time wielded by another and the fat woman, attempting to flee the room, tripped and collided with a retired doctor wearing a tweed jacket and with a large and prominent alcoholic’s red nose. They crashed to the ground together; she on top and for a moment looked a grotesque caricature of pornography or a drunken wedding reception somewhere beyond the flashing avenues of light sabres.

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Somehow, the wasp broke clear of danger and turned to face his assassins. He hovered and they paused as both looked into the eye of the storm before its fury broke again and they fell upon each other; the insect champion righting the injustices inflicted on generations of midgets and the big white flesh restoring the order of tyranny.

In the moment before glory he remembered advice that One Eye had given him: “Attack your strongest enemy first.” The teenager was fast and adroit but a new strength flowed through the warrior as though the power of his ancestors had entered him for this one great feat as retribution for the squashed, poisoned, drowned, gassed, humiliated invertebrates and insects of the little planet. He stung him on the side of the neck just below the ear in that sensitive place that lovers kiss. The boy uttered a cry and slapped his neck with lightning speed. Just too late the wasp withdrew his sting and almost escaped but the blow caught him and he fell to the ground stunned. “There he is”, said the bald man, “get him”. But he was not done for yet. With a last supreme effort and on a wing and a wasp’s prayer he escaped

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the stamping shoes and flew a staggered course towards the retired doctor who was still pinned under the fat woman and who gave a great bellow of pain and rage as he was punctured right on the end of the great proboscis. The fat woman shrieked; “I’ve got him, I’ve got him,” and whacked the large red nose with great force using her open palm.

The tiny corpse was sucked into the Hoover bag later that day, along with its dreams and the dust. There was no memorial, no stain, no posthumous award, just a painful throb in the short term memory of a few and the descending lid of the grey dustbin but that’s just the way it is in the insect world.

***

There was a thunderstorm that day; not a rare event above Valletta but

this one swore and sizzled through its journey and the rain fell like blood from the past, pouring from invading Phoenicians, Turks and defending Knights Templar and Englishmen vying for the soul of Malta. A day when nothing was quite as it seemed; ghosts walked in lightning and ships in the Grand Harbour flashed

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through time and in the streets its history rose from pavements like the rebounding rain. The town, shaped appropriately like a vessel sinking at the bow, aided the water’s escape to the sea as its natives and tourists ran for shelter so that the ancient place became even more eerie.

The soldier did not run. The rain did not bother him. His healing wounds and the things he had seen were soothed by it and the storm’s surreal mood calmed him. Looking to the harbour, he watched the white liners with cruise logos and green boot topping change to battleship grey, sprouting weaponry and Ensigns as small launches brought battle weary sailors from blackened and damaged warships to get drunk and forget. He saw them crowd ashore, laughing and with arms around each other, wearing the present like a charm. He watched as they entered Straight Street where the sailors always go, starting at the top of the hill bright and sober only to end up staggering and incoherent four hours later at the bottom of it, past the bars with Union Jacks painted on them and upstairs brothels. He heard the sounds there, bellows, foul language, shuffling feet and the whores calling from windows; desperate sounds.

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He found the bar he was looking for with its doorway between a painted pair of spread thighs and in the dark interior there was more desperation and an eagerness to anaesthetize past and future alike with old jokes, cigarettes and beer. He saw him at the edge of the horseshoe shaped serving hatch where the real drinkers stand. He was with a group of shipmates who were talking excitedly between puffs and gulps and spluttered laughter but looked far away as though alone. Slight of frame, ageless and smart in his uniform, with round face and big eyes staring into the distance somewhere beyond a sweating sailor’s head, he looked exactly like the photograph in the soldier’s pocket. The conversation stopped as he approached and the mocking banter that was usual between seamen and soldiers died in their throats as they saw that he had lost an arm. He pulled the picture from his unbuttoned breast pocket and showed it to the big eyes.

“Can we talk?” He almost had to shout above the noise.

Percy Webb, Leading Stoker, married and traumatised, woke every night to the image of his best friend’s head being sliced from his shoulders by a jagged

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metal splinter from an explosion in the boiler room. He had been thinking about it before this interruption, before this sallow faced man with sad eyes and empty sleeve, dressed in strange uniform, spoke to him. He sensed a bond between them.

“Outside,” he pointed

The rain had paused but the smell of sulphur lingered and electricity still raced across the sky. The storm’s anger made it hard to breathe.

“Who are you and what do you want?” said the little man but the veteran looked away.

“Before I tell, there are things you must know. This war will end in victory and for sixty years there will be peace of a kind.”

The big eyes twinkled, “Oh yeah?”

“No listen, look around, feel, have you ever known a day like it? This will be our only chance to talk.”

Percy looked the taller man over. There was something there, a strange sincerity that made him want to hear more.

“I’m listening.”

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“You and your friends will be honoured. Books will be written and memorials built. Your stories will always be told. I will fight in a war too, fifty years from now, in which there will be courage but little honour. Your cause is just but mine will be a politicians war and the Britain I fight for will not be the one that you know. The benefit of your sacrifice will last almost one lifetime before gangs roam the streets like animals, children scream abuse and the rich steal everything. There will be no God.”

The sailor shifted his weight.”You’ve been out in the sun too long boy,” he said uneasily, fearing he had misjudged the man. “And where did you get that picture?”

Nearby, a fight had broken out between a Marine and a Submariner over which was the better service. Friends tried to separate them as passing sailors cheered.

“It belongs to my wife, your granddaughter. It sits on the shelf in our room. She’s very proud of you.”

For a moment Leading Stoker Percy Webb almost believed ; almost believed that his granddaughter’s husband had travelled through time for them to meet

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and that it was not some crazy shell shocked veteran that stood before him. Where had the photograph come from?. He didn’t remember it.

“What’s her name?” He was almost ashamed to ask the question.

The soldier began to speak, but his words were drowned by an air raid warning; the siren’s scream filling the street as men began running and beckoning and the whores closed their windows as if the gesture would offer them protection. Then the bombs began falling from the strange sky and the anti aircraft batteries pumped their revenge.

Through the chaos they ran, soldier and sailor, up the stone paved hill to the caves outside the wall in which the Maltese had sought refuge from their oppressors for a thousand years, along this very path with families carrying old men on their beds , a timeless flight from an ancient curse. So it was now as the multitude jostled and stumbled and wailed it’s way to sanctuary like some biblical exodus, pursued not by chariot, arrow and sword but high explosive. The ships bore the brunt of the attack but the buildings did not escape entirely; exploding masonry

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and machine gun bullets followed them, sometimes causing a citizen to fall before he or she was gathered up by another for none were left behind, even those without life. Inside the caves they nursed the injured and mourned the dead, waiting as they have always done, for everything passes.

Percy had been wounded; shrapnel from a stray bomb had pierced his thigh as they had almost reached the safety of the first cave. The soldier removed his shirt and offered it as a tourniquet. In a corner, they tended the damage and stopped the bleeding.

“How did that happen?” asked the sailor, staring at the stump of his new friend’s arm.

“The Yanks dropped a bomb on me in Iraq;” grinned the soldier.

“They never could shoot straight;” laughed the stoker through his pain.

There was a comradeship between them now, born of shared experience.

“ On which ship do you serve?”

“The Kelly.”

The veteran paratrooper looked down at

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his feet to hide his emotion. He knew that H.M.S. Kelly would sink with the loss of almost the entire crew and that it would happen within three days. He felt like a god or a puppeteer, manipulating time and life and he knew that the bleeding gash on Percy’s leg would certainly save his life and that in a way, he was responsible for it.

“Well, you won’t sail with her this time,” he said quietly. “ It’s hospital for you.”

Some of the sailor’s shipmates had found him now and the bombing had stopped and they were joking and calling him lazy and carrying him, they who would be dead in less than a hundred hours. He tried to turn in their arms, to his strange cousin, lifting his hand with a finger pointing like a question, but pain and loss of blood overwhelmed him. But the soldier knew what the question was and that it would never be answered.

Outside, the sky cleared as he walked back to the city and the streets filled with tourists once more and the cruise ships in the harbour pouted like gentry at a royal ball; each trying to outsmart the other as the little tour boats ferried sightseers to the wartime hospital to which Percy had

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been taken . And the old town glistened in its make up, still listing like a doomed ship as the soldier made his way to the museum at the bottom of the hill where there was a photograph of the “Kelly’s” crew and the sun shone on a modern world.

***

Satan strode through the waiting room to his office looking almost the city

banker, a breed he much admired and which was a rich source of revenue for his department. With matching bright tie pin and cuff links contrasting the striped dark suit, only his cloven hooves and yellow eyes gave him away. He felt weary today, the job was not going well. For the second consecutive month he had failed to meet his targets and the graph on his wall chart was falling alarmingly. Already he had received a letter from the man upstairs; a polite note it’s true, but with an implied threat. What was the incentive to work hard for the company, it had said, if Health and Safety was not maintaining discipline? A letter rarely came from above, but when it did it was important to read its contents most

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carefully. Once he had been on good terms with the M.D. but had been too ambitious and made it known that he coveted the top job. As punishment he had been confined to Quality, Environment and Health and Safety, where he had done a steady and at times even spectacular job for the last ten thousand years or so, but had felt unfulfilled and resigned to his fate; still secretly harbouring his ambition and hoping that with patience, all that he wanted would come to pass.

Gutteridge was a second class demon whose chief claim to notoriety had been to possess a nun and persuade her to seduce her mother superior. Other than that he had achieved little except to cause incontinence in the elderly and an urge to scratch certain unmentionable parts of the anatomy while speaking publicly. This last applied mainly to politicians. However he had always felt that he was capable of more and when the post of Assistant Torturer was advertised in the company magazine, he applied by internal post, stating his case in a carefully constructed and exact manner. Invited for interview, he presented himself to the receptionist, a cute multi headed hydra by the name of Misanthrope, a tasty morsel

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that he had always yearned for but felt was above his station and anyway, it was rumoured that she was a fringe benefit of the head of department himself and unimaginable horror awaited any who trespassed. Still, he allowed himself a sly wink before moving to the waiting area which contained three other fallen angels, each hoping to be the chosen one.

He recognised Pazuzus immediately and was surprised that such a famous demon should have applied for what was essentially a minor task in the great scheme of things. Then he remembered that all had not been going well for him since being cast out of the priest following an exorcism. Satan had not taken the failure well. He did not like to be let down by his staff, especially on important matters such as possession and had confined Pazuzus to the lavatories as an attendant for the last fifty years as punishment. The very fact that he was here meant that some form of rehabilitation was taking place and that the Devil might well be about to soften his stance. This of course put the other three applicants at a possible disadvantage and Gutteridge could see that the remaining two were thinking along the same lines by the way

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that they were looking sideways at the great beast.

Precise and The Gasp were two of the department’s failures and constantly passed from section to section in the hope that something useful might be found for them to do. Precise was named because he was the opposite and The Gasp for exhaling each time he made a mistake, which was often. They were both aware of their perceived shortcomings and a resentment had built up in them, each feeling that here at last was a chance to prove themselves adequate. But if they were to be mere ornaments in a charade designed to allow their famous competitor to go through on the nod then once more they were being treated with contempt. There was a smouldering rage in that little room and a sense of danger. An angry demon is to be feared.

Misanthrope slithered through the door and up to Gutteridge: “The Master will see you now,” hissed one of her heads before sliding out again. Standing, he nervously brushed himself down, trying to ignore the hostility emanating from the others and knocked carefully on the plain black door.

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“Enter”, came the response in that familiar deep and strangely melodic voice; followed by, “Sit.”

So Gutteridge sat on the plain wooden chair provided and stared down at the patterned carpet imported from “Harrods’” of London, (one of Hell’s gateways to Earth) and was careful not to raise his eyes to meet those of Satan, for only his most powerful servants could bear their intensity.

“Your letter intrigued me,” continued the Devil. “It was almost too well written for an inferior demon like you. Were you helped?”

“No Master.”

“Mmm, perhaps I’ve underestimated you. Are you fully aware of the nature of the job for which you have applied?”

“Yes Master.”

“I wonder. It’s not just a matter of beating the crap out of sinners you know; a certain subtlety is required. We are not animals here. We take pride in our work and standards are high. Normally someone of your status would not be considered, but your letter impressed me.”

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There was a pause as the Great Evil carefully wiped a polished hoof with his handkerchief before continuing.

“If successful, you will undertake a month of intensive training at our academy before a provisional trial with the Head Torturer and I warn you, he is not tolerant. If you do well you will be given a contract, with annual pay revue and excellent pension; but there are drawbacks. The job is highly stressful and physically demanding. You will receive psychiatric assessment quarterly in case you begin to enjoy it too much. We are not sadists here. We have a job to do and are obligated to do it efficiently and with a certain amount of detachment.”

Again there was a pause as Satan looked his first applicant over. There was nothing special about him; he hadn’t expected there to be. He was just an unimaginative functionary, useful but dull and although he would probably do a passable job and was marginally better than the two imbeciles outside, he had no intention of giving any of them the post. That was going to Pazuzus who had always been a favourite of his since the destruction of Sodom and Gomorra by flood. It had been a brilliant conception. The earth

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surrounding the two cities had become saturated and turned to sand causing the buildings to slide quietly into the sea as their inhabitants slept and drowning everyone, mostly sinners. That was the first of many clever ideas that the young demon had come up with including entry to the World through an Ouija board. He frowned as he remembered that this had indirectly led to that humiliating incident with the priest; still that was over now and Pazuzus had served time in the lavatories for it. Rehabilitation was due and becoming assistant to the Torturer was a first step back to his side; and how he needed that keen mind more than ever.

Suddenly he tired of this lie, this fake protocol that he had felt obliged to play out. He didn’t want to waste his time with this dullard or the two clowns outside; he wanted the sharp mind of Pazuzus to show him how to emerge from this slump that his kingdom had fallen into. He wanted him here now, by his side. Oh, he could help with the burnings and the beatings, the ripping and tearing, hear the agonised cries of the politically incorrect as they were flayed for blatantly fracturing the rules of Health

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and Safety and the Environment and for failing to think in a confused and illogical manner, thus not adding to the law of chaos that ruled Earth. He could do this for a while to regain his appetite before finally chastened and repentant, taking his rightful place once more as Personal Assistant to The Head of Department.

“This interview has been most informative. You will be hearing from us. Leave now but send in Pazuzus on your way out and inform the other two applicants that they may leave also.”

“Yes Master.”

Yes Master, No Master; what kind of interview was that? He had been asked no questions on the subjects that he had studied so carefully, like pain thresholds or temperature control, revival techniques and suffocation; all essential to a would be torturer. No, the great one had been uninterested and dismissive from the beginning. What had been the point? Anger began to build in him as he opened the black door and stepped into the waiting area.

After that everything happened very quickly. Chained to a rock in the Siberian wastelands for all eternity in minus forty

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degree temperatures and a permanently howling gale, he reflected on the series of events that followed. He had repeated the instructions that he had been given without bothering to disguise his dismay, even allowing a sarcastic edge to his tone. The effect was explosive. The hideous and hairy Pazuzus stood with a smug and contemptuous glance at Precise and The Gasp who had suspected a stitch up from the beginning and both Gutteridge’s sarcasm and that look of contempt were to be the final straws. Without uttering a sound, they rose as one and fell upon the arch demon with a fury that surprised even Gutteridge; seizing the startled monster and dragging him into the washroom, from where for what seemed like minutes but must have been seconds, a great but muffled conflagration could be heard, before silence fell save for a slight rustling. The washroom door then opened and the hitherto least respected pair of Hell’s officials emerged carrying four plastic bags dripping blood, which they hurriedly placed in a nearby broom cupboard.

“What’s going on out there?” shouted the Devil; “Where is Pazuzus?”

But the waiting room was now empty

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and three of the applicants for the post of Assistant Torturer were fleeing through reception without even a glance at the delightful and startled Misanthrope; and without any further thought of bettering themselves.

Meanwhile in the canteen of another executive department on the top floor of the building, the Archangel Gabriel was dipping a tea bag into a cup of boiling water and pontificating on the tragedy of human existence to his friend Michael.

“You see originally life on earth was created as a punishment for errant souls, but once there they began to believe that it was a gift to be treasured even though we gave them pestilence, war and a fractured nature so that they could not easily relate, one to another. We introduced hatred, greed and envy which they called Capitalism and made a virtue of. It seemed that everything we provided for them to endure they rose above, inventing music, poetry, a sense of humour, science and a human form of affection which they called love. So we increased cancer levels and moved the sun closer to the Earth causing famine

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and drought; millions died but they named it “Global Warming” and blamed themselves. Their piety is sickening. They breed so quickly that we cannot always find enough souls to fill the bodies created and an underclass has formed that speaks incoherently, steals from and vandalises anything it can find for it has no moral compass. These are called “leaders” and have a special place in established order although they are of no value to us of course. We are interested in the average man and woman who has some goodness but little spiritual knowledge. He or she is hardworking, has family, sometimes even a hobby but no real understanding of what is happening and furthermore does not really care as long as familiar routine remains uninterrupted.”

The Archangel sipped his tea and then smiled.

“It is only when death approaches and the enormity of what is about to happen and the frailty of existence and possession occurs for the first time that a glimmer of light penetrates their dark and vacuous interior. They understand finally that failure is inevitable in all things and that only the small kindnesses remain for them to be judged by. Desperate, they

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search the past, not for their empires and trophies but for the little things that only now they realise the importance of. But it’s too late and they die wondering if they might have just done enough.”

Gabriel tilted his head back and laughed.

“Those that make it here arrive expecting Paradise but find another set of rules, another trial, another mountain to climb. For the true Heaven is oblivion and we are but a staging post. Still, that’s another story.”

He reached over and squeezed Michael’s hand, looking into his eyes.

“Don’t worry, none of this affects us, we are permanent staff with special dispensation, we’re safe. Besides, I simply couldn’t bear it if anything awful happened to you.”

***

Tom wrote, not all that well but he understood the poetry of words when

used in a certain way so that his agent, a patient friend, was always able to find a publisher for his intermittent work. When

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he was not writing he lived off its meagre profit, controlling his expenditure as well as his lack of self discipline allowed and drinking a little too much.

Of late the little had become more, disrupting his habit of rising early to work, the time when he was at his most creative and as a result ideas came to him less frequently and the strength of his prose diminished. He knew that even good writers dried up occasionally but it frightened his timid soul which consequently sought the refuge of a stronger spirit more often and the downward spiral began. One day as he sat in his room thinking of failure and knowing despair, he wondered what would become of him and entered that state of grace that animals know when they are about to be devoured by a predator, a numbness, a distancing of the soul from the body, a momentary safety. He felt at peace there and it came as no surprise that a woman in Victorian costume, sitting on the chair opposite, addressed him.

“You’re a weak fool,” she said, “I don’t know why I waste my time on you.”

He recognised the intense gaze and the

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energy that surrounded her. He knew it well. In fact he knew everything about her so thorough had been his research into the life of Emmeline Pankhurst for his first book that it seemed natural to answer.

“What am I to you?”

The figure leaned forward with one hand on her hip and the other pointing a finger at him.

“Do you think that you write alone and unaided ? Where do you think some of your better ideas come from ?”

“But why should you help me?” He asked.

She relaxed in her chair now, making a shrugging gesture with one hand.

“We have to ,we are assigned to the creative as advisers; you can’t do it on your own, you’re just mortal. I was hoping for someone more interesting but ended up with you and so have to make the best of it.”

She saw his puzzlement.

“We reach the human psyche through you and those like you who have access to it. It needs that which is beyond itself,

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a need that we must satisfy. Shakespeare was assigned to T.S.Eliot, Rimbaud to Bob Dylan but I have you. I suppose it’s because I’m a woman and you are the literary equivalent of making the tea.”

She chuckled at her little joke but watched his depression visibly deepen and so adopted a more conciliatory tone.

“Listen, you have a gift, not a great one but it’s more than most have. The majority are unable to express themselves in any meaningful way other than through the heroism of day to day living. They cry out to those who can speak for them. In a way you have a responsibility, we have a responsibility and to use modern parlance, you are blowing it.”

She obviously enjoyed using the expression and it rolled slowly off her tongue, seeming almost inappropriate.

“I’m going through a bad patch,” said Tom, “I can’t seem to pull out of it.”

“You need to clear your head,” the suffragette replied. “Exercise daily; go for long walks and breathe deeply. Stop drinking, feeling sorry for yourself and we will be off again.” She sounded like a headmistress..

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He loved her strength and certainty, knowing that she was an illusion yet desperate to hold the moment.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve started something that has possibilities but can’t seem to develop it. What do you think?”

He turned , reaching for some scrawled notes, rummaging through paper before clutching a handful and turning back in triumph; but the chair opposite was now empty. He felt foolish, he must gather himself before madness came. He would go for a walk, he would breathe deeply, get an early night and set the alarm for six. No, make that five thirty.

***

He stood before the gates and rang the old fashioned bell with a jerk

down handle, hearing distant clanging. Presently an old man in a white nightshirt

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and holding a lit candle approached arthritically.

“Have you made an appointment?” He said irritably.

“I wasn’t aware that one was needed;” came the reply.

The old man scowled and cleared his throat.

“Name?”

“Trevor Coward.”

St. Peter carefully balanced a pair of reading glasses on the end of his nose and leafed through a folder hanging from a hook by the right hand gate.

“Ah yes, the actor. You killed yourself.”

“More of an accident, actually.”

“You are down here as a suicide;” sternly. The veteran saint did not like surprise visits. “You were a Catholic. You know perfectly well that a suicide can’t just walk in here; you have to do penance first. Five hundred years in Purgatory for the act, followed by another one hundred because your family buried you in consecrated ground.”

“Six hundred years? You must be joking.

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I’ve been in a week and already I would be climbing the walls if there were any. It is a dangerous place with some seriously bad tenants who don’t seem to like me being around.”

The frail shoulders lifted in a bored movement.

“I don’t make the rules;” he said.

Trevor seized the ancient rails with both hands and shook them.

“You’ve got to let me in. I can’t take another day here, let alone all those years. I’ll go mad.”

“People usually do. The infirmary is full of them. They never recover.”

“Well then, what is the point?”

“Rules are rules.”

At that moment, a small child appeared beside Trevor. The light of purity shone in him and his hands were raised in supplication. St. Peter made the sign of the cross and began to pull open the gates. It was hard for him. The hinges were rusted with great age and the wood into which they were screwed was rotting so that the gates tilted and scraped the ground, making it even harder to

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move them. As he strained and puffed, sometimes stopping to mop his brow with a filthy rag, the child grew restless, picking his nose and shuffling his feet. He gave Trevor a sideways look.

“You can’t get in,” he smirked. “You’ve been naughty, haven’t you?”

Trevor ignored him and became impatient with the distraction, moving forward to assist the gatekeeper who by now had sunk to his knees and was wheezing asthmatically.

“I’m a bit out of practice,” he whispered hoarsely. “We don’t get too many visitors now, what with the permissive society and all.” He look wistful. “Never used to be anything like that before. Now even the Pope has to get special permission.”

Trevor dragged the gates open with relative ease and the boy skipped past without a glance at St. Peter, who was still down on all fours and gasping like a steam train taking on water.

“I’ve only got another thousand years to retirement and I can’t wait.” His countenance brightened. “But to get my full pension I have to put in the time. I need the money; the cost of living is high

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up here.” He had regained his breath now and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Please don’t tell anyone what you have seen.”

Trevor shook his head but was thinking fast. He saw an opportunity.

“Well of course, I won’t but others might. You could lose your job and then where would you be? I have an idea. I could dress as you, wearing a hood to open and shut the gates. Who would know? Your pension would be safe and I make good my escape from Purgatory. What do you say?”

St. Peter rose to the full height of a man shrunken by over two thousand years of age. He tried to look dignified in his nightshirt.

“That would be most irregular.”

“Of course’” said Trevor soothingly, “but think of the alternative. Abject poverty in your old age after all you have done? You deserve better.”

The old man stroked his beard. This man spoke a truth. He had served his master well and to be side lined to this menial task had been an insult he had endured. He had also been promised new gates a while back; a promise unfulfilled.

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Cut backs, he had been told. New gates would be forthcoming when the economy improved but somehow it never did and they became harder and harder to work. No one ever came to visit him or pay him the respect he deserved; he was an outcast in all but name. A bitterness welled up in him.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “But you have to remain well hidden. If we are discovered, we will both end up where you came from.”

Trevor hugged the ancient body. “Don’t worry,” he said. “what could possibly go wrong?”

So, if you are ever fortunate enough to enter Heaven, take a close look at the gatekeeper, did the subterfuge work? Is he a frail old man, wheezing with the effort, or a younger, stronger man, his face covered by a hood? If you find deceit, will you tell, or look straight ahead and pretend not to notice as you so often did in life and think to yourself that things may not be all that different up here after all?

***

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She died in the late afternoon, squeezing his hand softly as if to say goodbye

and the nurses drew the curtains around her. He sat for a while, remembering and listening to the sounds of the ward before he gently kissed her and left.

The staff had been kindly and offered him tea and help with the arrangements while he had been amazed at his inner strength and fortitude. His mind was surprisingly clear as he telephoned his wife and left the building at dusk. The air was chill now and the car park respectfully quiet. He found his car and it had a parking ticket

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like a guest at some grim reworking of the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. Rabbits and fools in top hats at the head of the table wanted to host the Olympic Games and the World Cup but they couldn’t let an old lady die in peace without turning a profit.

Wiping away the tears, he looked up as the sunset dropped below the tree line and the starlings settled, their quarrelling muffled now like a dull echo of his pain. Taking a deep breath, he removed the ticket and opened the car door. There was still much to do, no time for all this now. He must remember to pay the fine in the given period or it would be doubled.

***

The third gate to Hell lies through a revolving door at your local Hospital

and to an introductory torture chamber called the “Procedure Room”. Here, a

tucked under the wiper. He stared at it for a while before he began to cry, tears rolling down his cheeks as he raged and grieved and regretted almost everything. His mother had taken too long to die and they were going to fine him forty pounds for her inconsiderate behaviour. He felt

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taste of what is to come later is given. Do not allow your doctor to send you to this place, for he is but an agent of the Devil.

It is somewhat as a Spanish Inquisition court must have been with charges read out but consisting of Consultant and nursing staff, before pain to extract the confession that you have lived a miserably self indulgent and blasphemous life.

“Ah yes, enlarged prostate, bladder infection, corroded liver, lung congestion and a stone overweight.”

Followed by the sinister smile of a sadist and the dreaded:

“Well, let’s see what else we can find out shall we ?”

The nurses, pretty and young, strip and prepare the ageing carcass that you once called your body but which you now disown completely in their presence, remembering that the last time it was exposed to a young woman’s gaze, it was entirely another. All that you have left to impress them with is your courage. You are determined to bravely endure while they marvel at your resistance to pain. That is until the first intrusion. No one has prepared you for this; no one has said

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that this will be the second worst thing that will ever befall you both physically and psychologically, you have simply gone to your destiny like a steer to the slaughterhouse.

“ARRGGHH ! “

You cry as your last shred of self respect disappears. Not only has that hedonistic and ravaged body been laid bare before these nymphs, but it’s cowardice as well. You are now beyond shame, beyond disgrace, beyond decency. Your soul wishes to crawl into the corner and hide under a cobweb. You retreat into fantasy; or try to, but the smiling thug keeps forcing you back to reality with his probe, ensuring that there is no escape.

“Ah, this is most interesting and quite unusual...”

What? Is he serious? You are not an archaeological discovery, a shrivelled Mummy from a peat bog; even though there may be a vague resemblance you are at least entitled to different, more sympathetic language. The nurses bend forward to focus on that point of interest. Oh no, not there please, don’t look there.

But now you are no longer in the

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room. Your spirit guide has come down to comfort you, holding your hand and leading you to a green field filled with the scent of flowers and the murmur of bees. It is your wife’s mother. Has she come to gloat? Is this the final excruciating twist of fate’s knife?

Then it is over; there are smiles everywhere and the mummified remains are being covered up. There is a woman’s sympathy in their eyes and the hit man is speaking in his most serious voice:

“There, that wasn’t too bad was it? If you would just wait outside for a few minutes, you will be given antibiotics in case of infection due to the procedure, and of course pain killers. A letter will be sent to your doctor with my recommendations.”

You mumble something and stagger to the door. Everything hurts but still survives, except for your pride which lies dead on the floor.

Outside in the waiting room heads turn as one; your face and posture are examined in detail to determine the intensity of their coming fate. But you give nothing away; why should you? Why should they be warned and so prepared, let them find out for themselves. A cruel smile flickers

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at the edge of your disguise as you carefully sit and a feeling of smugness descends. You have endured. Your body really isn’t as bad as all that; there’s a little muscle tone left here and there and you only let out a small cry that might have been mistaken for surprise. Yes, you had been stoic, brave even. You really can’t understand why people make so much fuss about these things.

***

“Man, it’s really cold;” said the T-shirt to the overcoat.

“That’s ‘cos you’re not wearing much;” said the overcoat.”Did you know that someone once died here of hypothermia? And that was in July.”

The T-shirt shivered again

“You old guys always got to have a story don’t you? If it was a hundred in the shade you’d be telling me how the juice boiled in the shop here. You old guys are full of shit.”

The pair fell silent and stared up the line, willing their train to come as the wind gusted and a crisp packet skipped across

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the platform before falling to its death on the track. A badly parked bicycle collapsed and the first sleet spat in their direction.

“The ten oh five for Kings Cross, calling at St Neots, Stevenage and Hatfield North is now approaching platform one;” a disembodied voice announced.

The T-shirt rubbed his arms and stamped his trainers, urging the dot on the horizon to move toward them more quickly. The ears below his spiky hair were now bright red. The overcoat offered a scarf and there was a mutter that could have been thanks.

“So, did the juice boil?”

The overcoat turned up his collar and raised his voice above the sound of the approaching train.

“No; it was the kettle, they didn’t have to plug it in.”

***

“My dog heroes were cartoon characters called Wotamess and

The Archbishop of Canterbury;” said the Scottie. “I used to watch them with

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my mistress when she came home from school. She would curl up on the sofa with pink biscuits and a coke as I lay at her feet. Sometimes she would make me eat one and I pretended to be grateful but I never really liked them. I’ve always been amazed at the stuff humans shove down their throats. I mean, we eat vomit and lick our balls but somehow you expect more from a human. Anyway, she didn’t believe dogs could watch television, people don’t you know. They think we’re stupid. We wag our tails and lie on our backs to be tickled because it’s expected of us. I mean, that’s not too bad, you can put up with that; it’s when they throw sticks and expect you to fetch them and when you do, they throw them again and again and again. Sometimes it’s hard to remain patient. Like when they pucker up their lips two inches from your nose and say in that stupid voice;”Who IS a good boy then? That’s the one that really does my head in.”

The Great Dane nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Sometimes I have to accidently barge into them to vent my frustration. They put it down to clumsiness and pat me on the head but it keeps them quiet for a bit. They want to

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take me for walkies and talk about me as if I wasn’t there, saying that I’m soft and wouldn’t hurt a fly. What do they think I am, a Poodle?”

“Hey, watch it;” said a voice from across the room. “ You think we can’t have attitude? I could run over right now and snap your testicles clean off and you wouldn’t even know it until you tried it on with that sausage dog you hang around with.”

“You won’t need to;” said the cat from the darkness of his basket. “Haven’t you all wondered what you’re doing here when there is nothing wrong with you? It’s Tuesday, stupidos; ball cutting day, castration, humiliation, eternal shame- the end of life as we know it. You hear that sound from out back like a soul entering Hell? They’re the ones that have just been done.”

There was a stunned silence in the little room as the awful truth hit home. The Scottie’s owner patted him on the head and puckered up his lips: “Who IS a good boy then? It will soon be over.”

With a growl of rage and hate, the Scottie leapt forward and bit his owner so hard on the nose that his teeth met in

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the middle. The Great Dane dragged his minder like a surfer through the exit and onto the street while the Poodle couldn’t really understand what all the excitement was about.

***

Justin was old school. Top Hill Preparatory and Bradley College had

prepared him for leadership in the fading days of the British Empire. Brought up on Rudyard Kipling, Jim Corbett and his father’s trophy room filled with the heads of animals, he imagined no future for himself other than that of being a District Officer in East Africa.

From the accounts he had read and the stories that his father had told him, it seemed an ideal life for a man of his calibre. A few instructions would be issued to the natives in the morning, followed by hunting in the Serengeti and sundowners at the officers’ club. If any tribesmen became restless, the Kings African Rifles (black soldiers) would be dispatched to practice a bit of genocide after which he would fill in a report and then it would be back to gin and tonics at the Ocean Breeze. This is how Justin

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imagined his future; the reality would be different.

His first surprise came with the discovery that not all his subordinates in the district town of Orambu spoke English. He had taken a course in Swahili naturally but somehow their language being spoken in the sensorial tones of a mid Twentieth Century upper middle class Englishman, was not easily understood by the Kikuyu and Masai tribesmen. Then there was his complete failure to comprehend the African mentality which he had assumed to be similar to the English peasantry of the Middle Ages. As a result he was ridiculed somewhat; being almost a caricature of the occupying British, who by and large, failed to understand the African psyche which is old, seriously old, with a depth and subtlety that takes years to understand.

Poor Justin never really stood a chance. Given a posting that no-one else wanted because of its isolation and with little white support, struggling to understand and be understood, he fell into a depression and sought solace in the arms of a servant girl at the Government Issue bungalow in which he lived.

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“Chilli” was fifteen and pretty in that almost European way that Masai children have. Provocative and old beyond her years, she sensed his vulnerability and took full advantage. A white “Bwana” was a great trophy, especially one as gullible and foolish as this.

The affair was conducted in secrecy of course and although the older women of the town wondered at her smug expression and at the variety of trinket jewelry that she now wore, no-one really believed that even Justin could be quite that stupid.

But children cannot keep secrets forever and as stories began to circulate, Justin’s authority, already undermined, sank to a new low. He realised that his career was now in jeopardy and that “Chilli” would have to sacrificed. She had become lazy and over familiar with him in front of others who in turn showed less respect. She had to go. He gave her twenty shillings and sent her home to her parents.

A woman scorned and a girl who had lost her white teddy bear, she was both petulant child and rejected lover. Justin would have to pay. She cried rape and torture to anyone who would listen and although most knew her well enough

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to know that she was at least half to blame, her family and in particular her grandfather were supportive.

Ngogo Balambo lived in a small hamlet just outside Orambu and was a much respected and feared Witch Doctor. He held weekly court in his circular hut made of dung and sticks where the unwell and troubled would come to him for help and advice. With that split personality characteristic of many African Witch Doctors, he could be both benign and vindictive and there was little doubt that he possessed real powers for he had cured the seemingly incurable and driven his enemies to the edge of madness. He was not a man to be trifled with and there were two loves of his life; his job and his granddaughter “ Chilli”.

Justin first met him late one evening after a day in which dark clouds had gathered for the impending rains and the atmosphere was heavy and still. He had felt a sense of foreboding and unease but had put it down to the oppressive weather and an odd feeling that he was being avoided. There had been a tap on the door of his bungalow and after checking through a spyhole that only one unarmed man stood there beneath the

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insect orbited light bulb, he opened it. The figure that stood before him was slight of build and barefoot, wearing shorts, torn check shirt and a bowler hat that had once belonged to a white Missionary who had attempted to convert him to Christianity. No one knew quite what had happened to the priest but he had left in a hurry and Ngogo was bowler hatted from then on.

The besieged District Officer knew that this was not a social call. Ngogo did not look happy. He stared at Justin with great malevolence and spoke in a rapid dialect that was strange to the white man, after which he spat on the dust at his feet and stooped to make a sign there with his forefinger. Then he had gone, disappearing into the darkness as lightning flashed.

After a sleepless night, the first drops of rain bounced off Justin’s Land rover on his way to visit a distant Police outpost. He knew that he had been cursed; he had heard the stories and scoffed as Europeans do although the memory of that stare made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. Then he looked into his rear view mirror and saw two Black Mambas chasing him. The Black Mamba is not only Africa’s fastest snake - it can easily out run a

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man - but also her most agressive.So evil is its disposition that unprovoked attacks on humans are almost commonplace but this particular situation was distinctly unusual. Justin was afraid; a bite from a Mamba is a painful death. Two thirteen foot streaks of sheer unpleasantness were chasing his vehicle as it battled through the dirt tracks that were slowly turning to mud as the Rains began.

Although Justin asked the engine for all it could give, the uneven road, difficult in the dry season to cover quickly, turned to mud and slowed him further. The snakes were gaining ground. With a final lurch the wheels spun on a rain greased rock and the Land rover skidded to a halt. In desperate haste he wound the windows up tight before the snakes were upon him. They flung themselves at the metal with a crazed frenzy, slithering, hissing, rearing up at him from the bonnet and runner board, biting the glass in their attempt to kill him, venom running down the windscreen like slime.

Then they were gone and as sweat poured from him through fear and the stifling humidity of the closed cabin he carefully and slowly wiped the condensation from the inside of the window and peered out.

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He was safe.

But that night and in the following days they came again, Cobras this time, sliding across the floor of his bedroom, on top of his mosquito net, in the hall, bathroom, kitchen and underneath the sofa, terrorising him until he could neither eat nor sleep and teetered on the edge of breakdown. These snakes did not attack him but were an ever present threat. His servants had disappeared; he was alone with his despair.

His interpreter eventually took pity on him, risking the anger of Ngogo, calling him from the safety of his jeep with the engine running and Justin flung himself there as if it were a life raft in a hurricane.

“We must see Ngogo and beg for the curse to be lifted,” said the interpreter as he sped away; “I will take you there; he is treating his people now.”

There was a queue outside the Witch Doctor’s hut; men, women, babies, goats - even a calf, shuffled in orderly file through the entrance and into the semi darkness of the interior where the bowler hatted figure sat cross legged in the centre of the bare earth floor. He did not look pleased

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to see Justin and the interpreter had to speak quickly and fearfully for him to nod acceptance.

“I have told him that you are sorry for what you have done and will make amends,” he said. “Agree to whatever he says - you have no choice.”

As the District Officer waited his turn, he watched as a mother was given potion for her emaciated child, the goat urinated on his shoes and three men held down the calf as the Doctor forced a medicine down its throat. It was the strangest waiting room he had ever been in. Then as he squatted before Ngogo, humbled, he saw the fierce eyes soften as the white man’s suffering became obvious to him. He was satisfied with his revenge and spoke quickly to the interpreter who whispered in turn;

“You will pay for “Chilli’s” education at the Nun’s College in Dar es Salaam. If you do not the snakes will return.”

Strange herbs burned smoke into the hut stinging Justin’s eyes. Beads, bones and tiny animal skulls littered the floor at Ngogo’s feet on the flattened earth. It was as far removed from his old Headmaster’s office as it could be, yet he felt he was there

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again, Ngogo the figure of authority, he the errant schoolboy. He realised at last that he was a child in the arms of this continent; all his preconceptions had been wrong, had now been stripped away; he could begin again. He would educate “Chilli” and he would re-educate himself. He would understand the new Africa opening before his eyes.

“’Ndeo,” he said and the curse was lifted.

***

The only hair left to Roland grew at the back of his head and just

above his ears in a semi circle. It was white, fine and slow growing. Yet every Saturday morning he would walk the half mile to “Antonio’s” which lay in the town centre for a trim. There Anthony would pretend to cut his hair in a most attentive manner and charge him a special rate for pensioners. Anthony was a kind man, half Italian and with that nation’s respect for age, although he found it difficult at times to banter with the sixty year old, who had lied about his age to get pensioner’s rates , because of his tendency to be pompous and assertive.

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Roland had sold the family business to Tescos and had the self important air of second, third or fourth generation local family businessmen, who almost always consider themselves to be a cut above the rest of the population for reasons known only to themselves. This aura of conceit irritated most who came into contact with him except for those of similar ilk who would gather at certain select bars every month or so to boast of past or present monetary glories.

So, it was fair to say that Roland was not one of Anthony’s favourite customers although he welcomed him as usual this particular Saturday with a smile.

“Be with you as soon as I can Mr. Peterson.”

The initial pleasantry over, Roland settled into a chair by the stack of morning papers and began leafing through the top one.Halfway through an article about high street crime a loud voice interrupted him.

“Morning Raymond.”

He looked up with a sour expression. It was Anthony’s brother, Alex. He didn’t like Alex because he was swarthy,

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unshaven and too familiar. Roland decided that he would not have considered employing him, even on the meagre wages that he had paid. The man was too disrespectful to someone of his position in the community. Once, while Anthony was away, he had allowed him to cut his hair which had been a mistake. Alex had made a series of offensive suggestions ranging from a possible change of style to the necessity for a shampoo. Nevertheless he was Anthony’s brother and business partner and so Roland mumbled a reply before returning to his paper.

Still irritated by that memory of insolence, he found himself reading without concentrating and it was only when he came across an article of unusual interest that he became focused again. There had been a series of attempted rapes in the area, sadly not unusual in our society. However what intrigued Roland about these attacks was the fact that the perpetrator, who had been clearly seen by his intended victims as well as passers by, was a man of advanced years. Contemptuously nicknamed “The Viagra Rapist” by the Press, he was apparently slight of build and too weak to be of serious threat to those he assaulted who

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easily beat him off and in many cases chased him down the dimly lit side roads that he favoured. On one occasion, a woman of athletic build almost caught him and would have had she not been wearing high heels and decided to stop and use one shoe as a missile. It had struck the fugitive full square on the back of his head, causing him to stagger for a moment before making his escape. On another he had been chased by a posse of women returning from a hen night who had chanced upon him exposing himself in a park to a statue of Diana which he had taken for a real person.It seemed that all faculties were beginning to desert the Viagra Rapist except for a remarkable turn of speed because no one had yet managed to capture him.A reward had been posted, along with an artist’s impression, widely circulated, which vaguely reminded Roland of someone. He casually tossed the paper back on to the pile and was about to pick up another when he realised that all conversation had died in the Salon and that everyone was looking at him. On the TV screen in the corner which was always switched on, the artist’s drawing of the would be rapist had been updated due to later descriptions and was portrayed. Now the

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face was definitely familiar and gradually realisation dawned as to why he was the focus of attention in that small room. With horror he slowly stood up and looked at his reflection in the barber’s mirror; he was the portrait’s double. The sense of shock that followed was not something that he had experienced before in his well ordered life. This sort of thing did not happen to people like him. He looked to Anthony for understanding but there was none. Alex grinned broadly and someone reached for a cell ‘phone. In slow motion he watched Policemen walk through the door and place hands on his arms, protestations ignored. Outside a small group of people had gathered, some he knew. It was as though all he had worked for, achieved, his very reputation, had dissolved in a moment. All that mattered to Roland in the back of the Police car as it pulled away was what they would think at the Rotary Club.

***

Barney had been feeling unwell all day. At first he had put it down

to indigestion, but after the pain had travelled down his arm he realised that

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it might be more and telephoned for a doctor’s appointment.

“I’m afraid we’ve got nothing ‘till Thursday,” said the voice. “Can you manage with pain killers in the meantime?”

This seemed odd advice; perhaps he was expendable, past sixty and getting free prescriptions, a busy and oversubscribed surgery might have a policy of weeding out the chafe. He went to the chemist and reported the conversation, asking for appropriate medication. The man had turned pale.

“I think you’d better get down to A&E sir;” he had said.

As he drove to the hospital, Barney pondered the problems that lay ahead. For instance, it was impossible to know how long he had to wait to be seen and so how much should he pay in parking fees without risking a hefty fine? Would he be asked if he was white, West Indian, Afro Caribbean, African, Asian and if he had resided in the country for the past two years? He wondered if there were just Britons anymore or whether they had all sunk into the melting pot of humanity like lost children at an airport terminal.

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“What’s the problem?” said the nurse behind the filthy glass panel. He explained, hoping that he might get preferential treatment.

“’Could be any number of things,” issued the smeared glass. “We’ll fill in the form and then you can take a seat.”

He looked around him. There were always so many people in an Accident and Emergency waiting room no matter what time of day or night it was. They tripped on pavements, fell off ladders, cut hands, got concussion, poked their eyes out, appendix burst and they became delirious with fever. Like children, they could not make it through the day without a percentage becoming damaged, even though they lived in a safer, more protected environment than man has ever known.

Barney sat on one of the few remaining chairs and opposite a middle-aged man of Eastern origin who groaned and swayed before him on his, like one in a Buddhist trance reciting a mantra. To his left a child, deathly pale and leaning on his mother’s breast, her arms encircling him, stared vacantly at the Buddhist who stopped chanting but continued to sway

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with half closed eyes and compressed lips. Around him similar scenes were enacted but seemed not to be the norm. Most sat stoic and silent, staring straight ahead with the glazed expressions of stuffed fishes in glass cabinets. It was as though by entering a state of suspended animation, they believed that time and pain would pass quickly.

His chest hurt more now and for a brief moment he convinced himself that it was indeed indigestion and that if he could only consume a bottle of Gaviscon, the pain would disappear and he could dance away from this ugly hall to play five a side football with his son and friends as he had done only two years ago. This couldn’t be happening; other people got sick, old people. He was still the good looking kid women loved and men envied; sportsman, lover, party goer. It might have been a while since he had done any of these things but he was still that man. He leapt to his feet, tried to walk and then collapsed.

Barney had never known an out of body experience before. As he hovered near the ceiling looking down at himself he felt embarrassed by the way he had fallen, sprawling backwards with one leg cocked

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over the chair he had been sitting on and arms flung wide. He wanted to go down and arrange himself more respectably, he wanted to ask for help in doing so but no one had seemed to notice his fall, no one was looking. The swayer still swayed, the child stared, the fish in their glass cases still adopted the same blank look. He could have been naked and nothing would have changed. He was as invisible in death as he had sometimes felt in life. There was a moment’s despair before he heard his wife call him from the mystic light; he had missed her so much. Then he remembered his son who still needed him; he hesitated, uncertain which way to turn.

A nurse had discovered his body now and was feeling his pulse. The swaying man paused before continuing and the child flicked a sweet paper in the direction of his head.

***

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He waited all day

For them to call his name

but something went wrong,

his turn never came.

So patient was he,

as the pain burned,

that now its too late,

he’s in an urn

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If you have enjoyed any of these moments,

please donate to The Salvation Army

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If you have enjoyed any of these moments,

please donate to The Salvation Army

108109

If you have enjoyed any of these moments,

please donate to The Salvation Army

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