A few stories, what I wrote
I will publish my short stories on this blog over the next few months of 2012.
29 April 2014
Whose Reality Is It Anyway
In his book High Fidelity, Nick Hornby writes about the owner of a record shop and his unruly staff. They spend their days endlessly discussing their favourite tunes, dividing them sub-dividing each into increasingly bizarre sub-genres. Turing these endless conversations no decision is ever reached, although every possible scenario is talked through ad nauseam. These conversations glide across a quick sand of quickly moving parameters, constantly rearranging themselves. To anyone not in this select group, these discussions seem to be spoken in an alien language as the normal rules of conversation never apply.
Why should those conversations between music nerds be important during Mental Health Awareness Week? Because each of us think other people’s behaviour is strange, never are own. You've heard of the Yorkshire saying, ‘There’s nowt queerer than folk,’ well, it’s true. I for instance, can and sometimes do, spend many hours rearranging my alarming large MP3 music collection on my home computer. That’s how I know about High Fidelity because I'm one of those nerds too.
But what if the person whether they are a spouse, relation, or close friends behaviour, is not just odd, but bares not relation to reality? Then, it’s not just a case of eccentric behaviour, but something more alarming and serious. How can you help someone whose understanding of the world you know to be faulty or worse dangerous?
Let me tell you about my Father. As a young man with a new family and a job working with a new technology called computers, he was trusted enough to methodically comb through pages of computer printouts searching for mistakes. If he missed any, and these mistakes were programmed into the computer it could cost lives, not just a few but hundreds. My Father was so good, he gained promotion and his new position saw him responsible for not just one computer programme but for several. In the end, for a gentle man who loved books, films and numbers, the pressure of his job and young family became too much.
Fast forward a few years, to rainy Saturday afternoons spend visiting his now school boy son who wants everything he sees in clothes shops and wouldn't stop talking about his friends, and what they do with their Fathers. A growing lad, who had inherited his Fathers' love of words and books, but sadly, not his understanding of numbers, dragged a Father, puffy and tired from psychiatric medication, around the local high street. We connected mostly through a rugby ball which, booted high and caked with mud dropped on a Father trying to keep his only casual cloths clean. A Father, whose behaviour could be called strange most of the time and at others could be frightening. But I never stopped seeing him. Even when, left outside the dark cavern of a local Bookmaker, for what seemed hours, I never told. I couldn't do anything about the unreality of his world, but I could that. I could not tell on him. I loved him enough for that.
A Las Vegas Past
Part 1
Chapter One
Sunlight poured through the doors pinning my silhouetting to the entrance hall floor. Stepping into the hall I found myself standing in sticky fresh blood, which had splattered haphazardly over the grimy wooden floor. The whole scene looked like the set of a cheap horror movie. I closed and locked the doors behind me, using the key Taylor had left for me. This plunged the hallway back into its natural state of half-darkness.
The place was one of those fifty year old office blocks that are forever waiting to be torn down giving it an air of unloved feel. Once inside I could smell the under washed bodies who now inhabited the interior, and the all-pervasive smell of dope. Switching on my flash light I found more blood splattered around the walls of the first staircase. More had sprayed over the ceiling leading that lead to the ground floor stairwell I had to dodge around it to avoid the blood dripping earthwards from the newly formed stalactites. I drew out my Glock from under my left arm and holding the torch well away from my body started slowly up the slimy stairs.
Reaching the first floor I found more blood smeared over the opposite wall and floor. The source of all this blood lay beneath a shattered naked light bulb. Pausing, I wrenched the empty revolver still tight gripped in his dead hand and tossed it back down the stairway. No sense in leaving unattended guns lying about. I edged forward along the dark passage sweeping the beam of my torch over the floor before me. I moved steadily toward the only other source of light apart from my own flash light it was there that I found Taylor. Staring up at me with glassy eyes, he lay on the filthy floor with his long legs out stretching out before him in a small pool of his own blood. Having positioned himself, not altogether wisely in my view, directly under the broken window he seemed about as spent up as an empty gun. One of the window drapes had been torn down so that rays of Las Vegas sunshine streamed over him, giving me the impression of a renaissance religious conversion painting. All that was missing was a halo around Taylor’s bullet head.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he hissed at me through his cracked lips.
“You left a charming message for me to come and bail out your sorry ass,” I replied putting my gun back under my arm and inspecting Taylors wounded leg.
“Only pussies carry Glock 26,” he countered, adding, “they’re for babies.” Satisfied with this abuse he turned his attention back to the closed door just up the passage way ahead of us.
A while back I had paid Taylor to get in touch with me if he came across any missing females in the age range of the girl I was being paid to find. At the same time, as a sort of favour, Taylor had put me in touch with the Organization. They had also hired me to locate a missing young hoodlum named The Kid. I was to return him as unharmed as possible, so that they could ask him some searching questions about a suitcase of their missing dough. Taylor had taken a cut for finding me work that I didn’t want, so I had ended up paying the bastard twice over. I hated working for dirty cops or gangsters, but as I needed to eat and generally keep the wolf from the door I couldn’t afford to be fussy.
Looking Taylor over again I found him OK apart from a nasty cut on his right cheek that had bled out running down to his shirt collar and the bullet wounded in his right thigh. This oozed Taylor’s blood away on to the passage ways fifthly carpet, and was a cause for concern. I reckoned that he had been lucky not to have taken the bullet higher up into the main artery of his leg. That would have meant curtains for Taylor and probably a wasted journey for me. I couldn’t run around the place shouting ‘Police open up!’ I had to leave that part of the job to Taylor. Despite all his childish bravado Taylor was suffering from shock he lay before me sucking up gulps of oxygen through his mouth, which made him sound like an overweight panting dog. The veins on the sides of his shaved head stood out vivid purple against the paleness of his white clammy skin. It was only now that I now understood his strange positioning under the passage way window he needed all the fresh air he could get. The stink of dope was much stronger up here than downstairs on the ground floor.
“I being paid to get the Kid to the Organisation and give my missing girl back to her kin, not to save you from your screw ups” as I spoke I opened my knife and cut vertically up the right leg of Taylor’s blood soaked pants until I got to the blooded area of the bullet entry. It hadn’t mattered what I said to Taylor at this point, I just wanted to say anything to stop him from thinking to clearly. I cut a strip of cloth out of the silk lining of Taylor’s suit jacket, telling myself that he could afford a replacement. Wrapping this around his leg, I tied it tightly around his upper thigh to staunch the flow of blood. All the while Taylor had kept his eyes on the door just ahead of us.
“Jesus”, he said, “You’re hurting me than that bastard down the hall did.” He flipped a hand out towards the dead man at the top of the stairs. Then he gave me the game changer. “That girl you’re looking for is inside that room up ahead.” This pronounced with a complete sense of detachment.
I took out my hip flask and gave him a nip of brandy then had some myself. Taylor of course was nothing without Butter Boy. When his partner had taken a bullet in the head people said that all the life seemed to have gone from Taylor. All that had been left was an old man who needed to find a new line of work but quick, real quick. It had been Butter Boy who had done all the strong arm stuff and Taylor had sat back to counted their money. If Taylor really had found the girl maybe he wasn’t as past as had been suggested. For a moment or two neither of us said or did anything. Each one had been taken over by his own thoughts.
“How is it,” Taylor said at last, visibly brightening after the brandy. He looked down at his blood stained right leg.
I wondered if he was talking about the wound to his leg or the leg of his pants. “Taylor if you’re lying to me I’ll shoot you myself.” At this stage I really needed to believe him about the girl, because I had put in four months on this case and come up with zip, adding, “You’ll live.” I put my knife back into its sheath that rested snuggly against the small of my back.
“How many are in the room?” I said, getting the Gluck out again and switching the safety to off, adding, “Apart from the girl.”
He smiled and nodded towards the closed door while reaching up for my hip flask, I didn’t offer him anymore. Although still not sure whether my lost girl was in the room or not, I did know that Taylor had made a mess of his ‘rescue’ attempt, if that was the only reason that he should be in this building. I certainly didn’t need him drunk on my brandy because he just might decide to shoot the place up with me in it.
“I got the big one down the hall though, “ he poked a blooded mitt again towards the body of the fat man laying at the top of the stair, “I had to shoot the mother fucker four times before he’d go down,” he added, scowling up at me because I’d replaced the brandy back in my coat.
“That fucker was dragging your girl with him trying to make for the back way into the building on the ground floor,” he said this while trying to stand up so that his words ran into one another.
“When he saw me he changed his mind and started to drag then carried the girl back up the stairs.”
That explained the blood splattered by the main door. The fatty must have been just about made for Taylor. Anyone fitter would have taken the old bastard out of this game. I tried to help him to his feet and he winced when trying to put any weight on his injured leg.
“You’re going to help me,” he groaned suddenly looking his age again as the effects of my brandy had worn off. But apart from the smell of blood and alcohol on Taylor there was something else too, fear.
“Taylor, I’ll do what I can.” I said, adding, “We’ll manage as best we can.”
That said, he visible pull himself together again, checked his own gun, and after sucking in some more oxygen, he hobbled over to that closed door bringing his fist down hard on its grimy surface.
“Police,” he bawled, “open this fucking door.”
We both stood either side of the door and waited for their response to such a polite invitation.
20 June 2012
The Twin Deaths
The Killer started to shake
uncontrollable, his mind became awash with the newspaper images of two call
girls who had got themselves involved with senior government ministers, and
possible Soviet agents, eventually bring down a British Government.
‘Someone
should have killed those little tarts then and there, quickly and quietly with
the minimum of fuss. Afterwards, chopped up into small pieces and flown far out
over the North Sea their remains could have been dumped, where they belonged,
into the cold waves below, nobody would have been any the wiser. After all who’d
miss a couple of little tarts like that? But, instead we got a humiliating
scandal smeared all over the newspapers, followed by a court case, only when
that had been nearing its end had Ward chosen ‘suicide.’ That bastard had at
least got what had been coming to him for trying to smarm his way out of
pimping his two little sluts and then getting that fucking Ruskie involved.’
The Killer had
slowed his pace eventually stopping altogether and had taken his handkerchief
out with a theatrical flourish as if to blow his nose, so as not to attract attention.
Forcing himself to breath in deeply, he gulped down lungful’s of fresh sea air,
he then pretended to blow his noise and wipe his eyes against the stinging
spray of a fresh coastal breeze. Finally feeling calmer, he resumed the habitual
evening stroll along those same streets and houses that had greeted him morning
and evening for the past year. Walking quite calmly again now and in a measured
pace, his mind returned to the death of Dr Stephen Ward.
‘At least Ward
had paid the correct fare for being the architect of the whole bloody charade.
What a fucking little mess that bastard had got his country into. If it hadn’t
been bad enough losing our empire to the bloody Yanks, now we have to kiss arse
to the fucking Arabs because of their bloody oil.’
The Killer
forced himself again to calm down again, remembering with pleasure, how he’d
made the death of Ward look like a nice little ‘suicide.’
‘That smarmy
rat hadn’t known what had hit him.’
A wonderful feeling of power surged through
the Killer’s body as his mind skimmed over his work that night. For a man of
his experience it had not been difficult to make Wards death look less like murder
and more like suicide.
‘Leaving no
mess, no fuss, and no witnesses which, is just the way I like things. One thing
I’ve learned in the army was you don’t rock the fucking boat, because if you
do, that’s the end of you.’
Joining up at
nineteen to escape his father this was what the Killer had always believed to
have been the making of that shy youth into the Killer he was now.
‘Christ what a
fucker my old man had been to his us all. The old bastard killing himself with
drink was one thing, but then beating the living shit out of my dear old ma’
every fucking night of the week was quite another.’
The Killer had
stopped walking again and was looking down the path that he’d now arrived at.
Another evening circuit of after dinner strolling was now completed. It now
looked like his evenings strolls would be his last in this sleepy seaside town.
That morning he’d received a telegram giving only his cover name and a
telephone number. The rest of the words on that piece of paper had just been
rubbish, used against nosy parkers. The Killer didn’t like nosy parkers, as
his neighbour’s in that quite street, part of a small sea-side town in England,
had come to understand. The Killer stood completely still, staring at the black
painted front door that seemed to also be standing as if at attention, staring
back at him.
‘What secrets
that old front door could tell the world.’
The Killer now
had an important telephone call to make that evening. He had rehearsed the call
in his mind all day, going over it for umpteenth time again during his evening
meal. He’d been called back they needed him once more to help save his beloved country.
However, as the Killer stood staring at his own front door, he changing his
mind again, finally he told himself, ‘No, fuck em’ let the bastards sweat on me
just this once.’
Walking up the
path towards that wonderful door, the Killer suddenly, whilst putting his key
into the lock, for what seemed like no reason at all, started to remember his
first real leave from the army and how he thought he’d go back home to see how
his mother and little sister were getting on without him around the house.
‘I decided not
to call from the local pub first to let her know that I was on my way. I’d had a
sort of bad feeling in the very pit of my stomach on that cold clear day. For
the last eight months there had been no letters from my little sister and then none
from my old ma’ in the last four months either. I’d decided to quietly slip
into their end of terrace house. What I found out that evening had made me sick
to the very pit of my soul. My little sister had had to take over running the entire
household because of his mother being hospitalised into some grimy ward bed.
Now, it seemed the old girl was never to leave it. If that hadn’t been bad
enough, my darling little girl, my only sister, had also been expected to take
over his mother’s role in the matrimonial bed too. I’d startled my sister, and
due to her fear at seeing him back in the house again, the whole sorry tale had
come out.’
The Killer had
kissed away her sweet salty tears, she who was always to be stuck at six years
old in his memory. Then the Killer had sent her out to a double feature at the
local flicks, telling her to take that old school chum she’d been too ashamed
to see anymore. The Killer had given his surprised sibling enough money, not
just for the movies, but also for two Fish n’ Chips dinners to bring home afterwards.
‘Once alone in
the darken kitchen he’d sat listening to the still house, waiting for my father’s
return from his Working Man’s Club. It had been in the darkness of his mother’s
kitchen that I’d pushed my army bayonet through my father’s throat and on into
the spinal column, silently dropping the dead weight onto flagstone floor. No
fuss, very little mess, except for his dying father pissing himself during
death throws, then evacuated his bowls involuntarily after death. I’d cleaned
up all that mess well before my sister had gotten home.’
While they’d
both been eating their Fish n’ Chips, she had kept looking anxiously at their
mother’s little china kitchen clock. The Killer had pouring a small amount of
whiskey into his sister’s glass, her second drink of that evening, and casually
announced, just before necking back a treble himself, that their dear old Dad
wouldn’t be coming home anymore. She had looked up at him, her whiskey glass
almost level to her lovely lips, in that moment the Killer knew he’d have
killed a hundred men maybe even a thousand for just that special look his
little sister wore on her face in that instant. Months afterwards the Killer
thought just what that expression had meant, eventually he’d plumed for a
disbelieving relief, sheer bloody relief that her daily and much worse nightly
terror, was now at an end.
‘After we’d
finish our food, with my sister holding an old torch left over from the war, I
dug silently, half-way through the night at the back of own garden. We’d had
been shielded, on that night of a full moon, by overgrown shrubs and bushes as
their father hadn’t bothered to keep his own garden in trim, despite doing
odd-jobs around his neighbours’ own tidy gardens for extra beer money. A nice
deep hole I’d dug using the sweat of my own brow, during that long night, with my
brave little girl shivering with the chill under a clear sky. I’d told to go on
in and leave it all to me, but she wouldn’t budge, rooted to the spot, she had
been, holding that dull beam of a wartime torch down into the grave of our
abusive father. Neither she nor I have spoken of that glorious night since, but,
we both knew, that they were all well rid of that bastard.’
The following
week the Killer had reported his father missing at the local police station. The
father being well known, not just the local police, but also the Metropolitan
Police force, hadn’t warranted a major investigation at first. Eventually a few
inquiries were made about what, if anything had happen on that last night the
Killers father had been seen alive, but they soon lost any headway. A couple of
Detectives had shown up on his sisters’ doorstep a week or so after the Killers
army leave had been over. The Killers sister had played her part to perfection.
Choosing the younger of the two policemen, she had ‘taken’ him into her
confidence as the older one had been investigating around the house. Hinting at
her father darker side, illegal gambling, wife-beating and a like, she’d gotten
the young copper quite hot under his collar, finishing that sad tale with the
recent death of her mother in hospital from cancer. When the older copper had
come back from the garden wanting to ask some possibly difficult questions,
about their nice tidy trim garden, with its freshly tilled earth, the young
copper being posh and well educated, had quietly asked for a word with his
older colleague outside. Coming back ten minutes later with the all clear, the
young lad had even come back the next evening with a bouquet of flowers and
amazingly, in those now far off days of rationing, an enormous box of Swiss
Chocolates. The Killers’ sister eventually started to step out that young lad, who
now is a Detective Chief Inspector. She eventually gave him a fine couple of
boys, and a dear little girl who, the Killer always thought, had her mother’s
eyes.’
The killer was
standing at the foot of the path with his key still in his hand ready to enter
its lock, time had seemed to stand still. Before her marriage the Killer had
provided for his sister the cash to start at Night School, and the little girl
had done him proud, even those elocution lessons had eventually paid off. At
her own wedding to that posh copper, she’d not look out of place next to his
haughty-tautly family. Thinking of his sister now, he realised she was the
bravest person he had ever known. That was the country he fought for, a country
of brave little sisters. Turning away from his front door and putting its key
back in his pocket, the Killer quietly got into the car he’d bought only a few
weeks earlier. As he pulled away from the curb and settled into the gentle flow
of traffic, the Killer headed for a phone box over on the other side of his
little seaside town, well away from nosy parkers with their prying eyes.
11 June 2012
A Meeting of Minds
How Pauline Boty met & painted Christine Keeler
The blonde woman replaced her telephone receiver into the cradle. She stands alone in the sitting room of a rundown studio flat situated in London’s west end. The flat had been recently purchased by her theatrical agent husband for her to use as an artist’s studio. The blonde stood smoking a cigarette reflectively, slowly turning over in her mind the syntax of a recent telephone conversation. It had been an unexpected conversation, and she was left with a tingle of excitement at a meeting now due to take place. The feeling had started to grow during this conversation with her husband and had caused a knot to grow in the pit of her stomach. Now that the conversation was over she was left with the notion of proceeding down a road for which there had no route map.
‘Darling,’ her
husband had said, his smooth educated voice rising slightly with his own sense
of pleasure, ‘I’ve got her to sit for you,’ theatricality adding, ‘I didn’t
really have to work for it, apparently she already knows about you.’
‘Oh really?’
she had found herself asking, ‘I wonder where on earth she could possibly know
me from?’
‘Well,
darling,’ said Clive his voice warming to his favorite subject of the media, ‘apparently
she had heard you on the Public Ear,
who would ever have thought of that?’
The blonde could
not tell whether her husband’s surprise was that this particular woman would
listen to an über BBC Home Service arts programme, with a rather small and very
exclusive audience, or that anybody should have listened at all.
She had found
herself taking the defense about Public
Ear knowing that Clive views regarding what her called the ‘great unwashed’
in modern British society always made her feel uneasy.
‘It does have
a very loyal audience Clive darling,’ her voice had been strained with a flash
of annoyance.’
Despite these comical
comments, Clive had at first been keen on the idea when he had heard they were
looking for a new face for the opening programme. He had persuaded his wife to
take part in that first programme because unusually for the male dominated
television world in the early 1960’s, a female face was being considered to
front the project. She had proved to be so successful that the BBC had asked her
back more than once, although this had later cooled after the more extreme of
her paintings had been exhibited.
The programme had
at first been described as ‘iconoclastic’ by the weightier of the Sunday
papers. Clive, of course, had hooted with laughter at the review, saying it
meant that no bugger actually had listened to it. Now it apparently appeared
that Clive had managed to find at least one person, not in their immediate
circle of friends, who had tuned in, maybe not to the first programme, but at
least at some point. How strange though the Blonde women that it should have
been Christine Keeler of all the women in London. Although she never considered
that this particular women, whom she had wanted to sit for her, would be a fan
of such an arty programme. Pauline wondered if this was due to her own snobbery,
or because she listened to Clive’s family and over educated friends.
The blonde reflecting
that her own family were not exactly doyens of the arts scene, they had even objected
to her attending St. Martins Arts School. Even now, after finding some fame, if
not fortune as Britain’s only female Pop Artist, they were still completely in
the dark as to the importance of her work to the world of Pop Art, still finding
the success of this new genre of art impossible to understand.
‘Yes Pauline
darling, I know all about the audience figures,’ Clive had then said, breaking
into her thought, tetchily adding, ‘The point is darling, that she knows about
your political views and about the art you produce.’
Pauline
wondered what this woman did really think about her art, or even the art scene
as a whole. Perhaps she would want to talk about the arts in general way, not
just making polite conversation, but showing a real knowledge and interest.
Strangely perhaps, this had never crossed her mind earlier, even when the idea
had come to her about using Keeler as a sitter, for the painting she had been
planning about the Profumo Scandal.
‘Mind you,’ Clive had continued, his voice now
trampling over her thoughts again, with a sigh the blonde tuned her husband
back in to her head. At this point the conversation he was adopting his
business tone, ‘she still asked for twenty bloody quid, I call that downright
brassy.’
‘Brassy,’ was
Clive’s favorite word for anything he thought of as common, uneducated, or even
working class, part of the great world of the unwashed, as he liked to say. This
word, Pauline was sure had its deep dark roots in Clive’s public school
education.
‘All sitters
get paid Clive,’ now it had been her turn to get tetchy tone in her voice,
adding, ‘There is no need to negotiate my sitting rates, I can manage my own
rates quite nicely, thank you Clive.’
Pauline had felt
her voice beginning to rise and stretch in her annoyance, why had she felt the
need to defend this woman? Maybe it was a reaction to how she had felt when her
husband, like all the men in her, life felt that they should be able to have
women under their personal control. Like the puppets on that new television
series from America ‘Stingray’ that had been all over the newspapers recently,
all had want to be the one to pull her strings. Even at St Martins, her fellow
students, mainly being an all-male crowd, had liked to act towards her as big
brothers would do to their little sisters. Well, thought the Blonde, she was
her own boss, that she’d made clear from the beginning of her second term.
Pauline Boty, she thought, was a match for any man, painter or otherwise and
that included her own husband.
‘Yes darling,
I do know all about models,’ Clive had answered primly. Pauline wondered how
exactly, he had got to know about them.
‘Anyway she
will be with you around three o’clock today, sorry for the short notice,
darling’, his voice relaxed now again, happy to be in control again, adding,
‘but that was the best I could do,’ adding, ‘Oh, don’t forget to watch out for
the Special Branch,’ finishing the call with a brief ‘Cheery ‘O’ the receiver
gone dead.
Now sitting
alone and smoking another cigarette, this parting remark started to play on her
mind. There had been a piece in the papers about the poor cow still being
followed whenever she went out. There I go again, thought Pauline, why is
Keeler now ‘a poor cow,’ I’m starting to sound like Clive.
***
In a different part of the same London
skyline, another woman, this time with striking red hair, was also considering a
recent telephone conversation. She sat quietly smoking a cigarette watching as
the smoke curled idly towards the living room ceiling. Finishing her smoke, the
women got up and peered out of the front windows of a small mews flat. Outside
was quiet and still, hardly a soul moved. The only sign of life like came from
the two regular plain clothed detectives who were still keeping a not too
inconspicuous eye on the flat.
The ‘Profumo Scandal’
had been over now for some months, and the redhead had spent some of that time
in prison for perjury. Upon her release she had described the experience to her
parents as it being much like school which, she had also hated. Now however the
world had moved on and the busy new Labour government of Harold Wilson had far
more important issues before it, but still the policemen had remained.
Any idea of the
government was quite abstract for the red head, it belonging to a new jumble of
faces and names most of which she could never match up. However brief her
passing fifteen minutes of fame she had still enjoyed for a brief time ‘being
somebody.’ In her life, as far back as this redhead could recall, she always
had wanted to be ‘somebody.’
Turing her
thoughts back to the telephone conversation, she realised that she hadn’t liked
the man who had introduced himself to her as Clive very much. All Home Counties
accent and brought up in a cosy atmosphere of old money and good education.
There hadn’t been much money or education in her background. She had been brought
up in a caravan with a single parent of a hard working mother and a lay-a-bout
of a stepfather. Escaping their misery while was still in her late teens, she
only found another, in the arms of pimps, losing a baby before turning twenty. Consolation
from that experience had come only with her belief that any half cast bastard born
into class conscious Britain would never have had much in life.
Escaping
again, she had found herself in a London still recovering from the Second War.
Working in a series life destroying topless clubs, the redhead soon grew tired
of being pawed at by their drunken clientele. By the time she met Ward her mind
was already resolved to chuck it all in. When Ward had offered her a way out, she
hadn’t thought twice about it, grabbing at this escape ladder with both hands.
Of course, it hadn’t turned out to be the different life she had been searching
for. Ward had turned out to be no more than an upmarket pimp, who was soon busy
introduced her to his upper class wealthy clients. Being embarrassed by her
accent, forced Ward to pay for the redhead to have elocution lesions and
gradually over time she had become a different person. The new Christine had
risen one day, out from the ashes of her former self, even as she had lain dead
beneath her own feet.
Gradually, and
with Ward’s help, Christine had caught brief glimpses of that new person which,
not just he, but the redhead had wanted to become. This experience had left her
wondering why men, no matter what background they came from, had to mould their
woman into an image. The angel, or the a tart, beloved mother figure for their
children, or their slut in bed, men always had to be in control of the lives of
their women. Well now, she had been no angel in her life, but over time Christine
had grown to hate those rich men as much as the low-life’s she had met in the
strip clubs. That’s why Christine hadn’t liked that man who had called himself Clive
she wasn’t going play the tart for anyone not anymore. Sighing, the redhead
stubbed out her cigarette, moving away from the window.
***
The watchers below saw her shape
disappear into the gloom of the flat, turning back to their murmured
conversation, each one inclining his head slightly towards the others, as if in
prayer. Their years spent huddling in back alleys and doorways had left each
with his particular remedy for extreme cold or heat. Almost silently the voices
audible only to each other, they returned to their conversation.
‘I telling you Frank’, the smaller man said
while lighting a cigarette automatically cupping his heavy hands around the
naked flame, ‘She is a right goer, the Sund’y papers said she’s up for
anything’, he was grinning at his taller thinner companion.
***
The sun was getting low in a
washed out wintery sky over her flat in London’s fashionable West End. Pauline
looked around the studio lighting yet another cigarette, two plumbs of smoke
exiting her nose moving up towards the cloud of smoke that hung over her head.
Looking out of her studio window on to the bustling street below, she caught
sight of a man cleaning a car outside one of the Georgian town houses opposite.
Like the building she was look out from it too had been converted into flats
by, what had seem like press-gangs, of Irish labourers. Frowning at the sight
of a car outside a house were see was sure none were owned, Pauline thought of
her husband’s words about policeman and spies. Standing on tip-toe right in
front of the window and turn her head as far as it would go around to the right,
Pauline could get a look down the other end of the street. As she did so her
blonde hair fell over her face covering up one eye. Pushing the hair back she
could see two GPO men setting up a sort of a tent on the pavement.
Just in that
moment, as she was trying to connect these images to the thought of something
sinister that had buried itself in her memory earlier, her telephone rang. In
the still silence of her studio the shrill noise made her jump, and the
cigarette fell from her hand that had been supporting her weight against the
wall. Ordinarily this would not be an issue except on occasion the cigarette
fell onto her new cream rug, ‘Shit’, she exclaimed grabbing the telephone
receiver and the cigarette end at the same time managing to both speak into the
ear piece and burn her thumb on the still lit cigarette.
Turning the
receiver around the correct way, and stubbing out the offending cigarette
Pauline heard the ‘pips’ of a call box then as the money was excepted came the
words, ‘Hello, Hello!, can you hear me?’ It was a female voice which, she
failed to recognise.
‘Yes,
hello’, bellowed Pauline down the line, anxious now to know who this strange
voice belonged too.
‘Alright
you don’t need to shout for god’s sake, I’m down the road from your flat, not in
Outer…,’ was the rather grumpy reply. ‘Hello is that Pauline?’ said the voice
adding, ‘it’s Christine’.
Instinct now took
over in Pauline and years of a good middle class upbringing and education took
hold, even without her realising this at the time.
‘Oh, hello
Christine’, she answered without a clue who this women was, but not wishing to
give offence.
‘Look, can you
tell me your address again please, when I took it down from your husband the
other morning he said it so quickly, that I afraid I just sort of scribbled it
down without really bothering looking at it’, the middle class accent was
fighting with an underlying Northern burr, but as yet had not quite gained the
upper hand
For Pauline
recognition had final dawned, ‘Yes of course Christine, I’m so very sorry, he
really is the limit isn’t he?’ Not waiting for an answer she rushed on with her
address.
‘OK, pet…um, I
mean, yes…thank you Pauline, very much I’ll be with you presently,’ Christine
said quickly replacing the receiver, hoping to gloss over her nearly calling a
famous artist ‘pet.’
Something
about the telephone conversation hid away in Pauline’s brain, waiting to raise
its head, the funny little clicking after Christine had hung up.
Pauline absently
wondered were Christine had picked up a phrase like presently, the word came
from her Father’s generation, not their own. Then looking again at the burn hole in the new
rug she quickly discontinued from that train of thought. Imagining Clive’s
reaction was not hard, Pauline knew he would not be at all happy about her
burning a hole in one of his High Street Ken’ boutique purchases. Bugger she
thought, you are a clumsy cow, wondering if she could just paint it white to
blend the hole in?
Lighting yet another
cigarette she blow a smoke ring which gave her such a childish pleasure she
thought of Peter Blake and how had taught her how to blow smoke rings when they
were student’s together at St Martins. Pauline was still close to Blake,
looking upon him as the founder of the Pop Art movement in Britain which, she
herself now belonged.
Laughing to
herself, out loud she said, ‘Oh bugger you Clive and your ridiculously
expensive rug, what’s it doing in my studio anyway?’
She
supposed it was Clive’s idea that an artist should be surrounded by beautiful
and expensive things in their studio, providing inspiration no doubt. Well,
bugger him, and bugger all the bossy men in her life for that matter too, she
would do just as she pleased. Blowing another satisfactory big smoke ring, she then
padded off to find some white paint.
***
Sometime later, Pauline was
uncertain exactly about the time as she had lost herself in a fight with the
expensive rug, the bell went down stairs. Collecting her winkle-picker shoes
she slipped each one in turn on as hopping toward the mirror to check her
make-up. Here Pauline found that somehow, during the fight with the rug some white
paint had got itself attached in her hair. Still picking the paint of stains of
her blonde hair she opened the front door to be confronted by a slightly built
woman wearing a head-scarf and dark glasses. The women stood quite still taking
in the sight of Pauline, with her hands still raised to strands of hair. The
idly wondered if the blonde facing her had nits. After both taking each other
in, without a word Pauline stood to one side and the other women still wearing
her scarf and dark glasses moved slowly past her into the rather ramshackle old
hall. They walked back up the creaking stairs into the studio together without breaking
their mutual silence. Once inside the flat Christine took off the head scarf, glasses
and removed the cigarette from her mouth. Shaking the flaming red hair she was
rightly infamous for with one hand, she offered the other out for a formal
handshake saying, ‘Pauline Boty I presume?’
‘Christine
Keeler I suppose’, said Pauline they awkwardly shook hands each not used to
such displays of formality. Both women stepped towards each other the ice
having been broken and exchanging kisses on each cheek just like the French. Laughing
at their shared joke the women immediately became friends with each other.
Pauline grabbing two wine glasses pouring into each a generous splash of last night’s
house plonk from Oddbins, and started the story about an expensive rug, a
cigarette burn and a tin of white paint.
27 May 2012
A Night in the Life of... (a poem)
Epigraph
: Out of every one hundred aircrew,
twenty
seven survived their tour of operations.
The
afternoon heat now gone, darkness
descends
heavy like a blanket. Shaking,
I
climb into flight boots, their roughness
soothes
taught nerves. Smiles fixed, faking
gayer
moods. A taste of bile in throats,
eyes
staring, minds a'racing, our silence
drown
out by engine noise. I watch spokes
going
a'round, as we are drive out. Violence
in
the air, the lighting that binds together.
Our
aircraft rises out of darkening gloom
like
the ancient colossus battling doom.
The
air inside feels heavy on my chest, lungs
bursting,
pulse a'racing, heavily breathing
I
clamber into position. All now come together
within
the skin of our machine, none can
have
a selfish thought. Here we make our
stand,
300 Spartans holding the pass, we
soar
over a sea glinting as made from glass.
On
nights like these minds drift like clouds
caught
swirling in the sharp searchlights,
to
those who dwell in darkened shelters
a'waiting
our bombs. Our aircraft weightless
now
as death falls from her belly, descending
on
our foe, now trapped in Dante's hell below.
At
these moments my thoughts are speared,
he who pays the piper calls the tune.*
Fear
strikes
at my heart, that I too one day will,
be
made pay the piper, for sins I commit still.
Job
done, we turn for home, our thoughts
begin
to roam, to those who a'wait alone.
In
rooms brightened by dawn's rosy fingers,
a
whispered prayer said each night, touching
our
beloved pictures by candle light. Sleeping
but
alert for sounds that precede our drone,
telling
them we are safely home. Throughout
the ghostly ball, bombers moon** shined on all.
Glossary
*The Unknown Warrior
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
**This term refers to a
full bright moon which illuminates
the earth like
daylight, making it easier to find the target.
On such nights mass
raids would take place, taking
advantage of the
conditions. However this brightness
worked by ways.
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