Sitting quietly alone in the corner... again
Sitting quietly alone in the corner... again An Anthology: with stories by Allen Metcalfe and others
An Anthology: with stories by Allen Metcalfe and others
For that incredible person who means a lot in your life but doesn’t really know it yet
Š Copyright 2011 Allen Metcalfe, Martin Friel, Giacomo Lee and Patris Gordon The rights of Allen Metcalfe, Martin Friel, Giacomo Lee and Patris Gordon to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted or saved without written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage. Printed in the United Kingdom Published by Blank Screen Publishing blankscreenbooks.co.uk E-mail: info@blankscreenbooks.co.uk
ALSO FROM BLANK SCREEN PUBLISHING Sitting quietly alone in the corner... An Anthology: with stories by Martin Friel and others Life without Mirrors by Patris Gordon Crazy, sexy and cool-er? (An anthology) by various authors
Contents Introduction by Allen Metcalfe
3
The Kid did it by Allen Metcalfe
5
The People’s Politician by Martin Friel
19
Popular Culture by Allen Metcalfe
27
Meeting Strangers by Allen Metcalfe
38
Starts with an A, ends with an A by Patris Gordon
53
Do I really need another pair of shoes by Allen Metcalfe
56
Untitled (a novel intro) by Martin Friel
60
Joanna (a novel intro) by Allen Metcalfe
65
Red Trick (a novel intro) by Giacomo Lee
71
Introduction
by Allen Metcalfe
W
hat would I do if I couldn’t write you a story? Probably go crazy with fidgeting fingers knowing that I had so much to tell you but nowhere to vent all these emotions, feelings and general wildness that happens daily in my brain, and is probably happening right now. No matter where I am or where you’ll find me, I’m thinking of a plot to a mundane situation to break into a major storyline. Equally so, I’m concocting something so dramatic that it can only be fiction. It’s true. I was standing at the bus stop this morning and analysing the decay of an old building and out of nowhere, a man was on the top of the building screaming his suicidal thoughts aloud. The whole queue at the bus stop gasped eagerly as his suspended movement captured their bodies and the frozen activity left them helpless. I raised my eyebrows at this, knowing the building was about to collapse, so there wasn’t really any need for the overdramatic guy to be shouting out his death’s door proclamation just for the sake of it. I felt my body moving gingerly by the crowd developing behind me, aiming to get a better view. It’s right there, I wanted to say, not behind my butt. But I didn’t. Not a chicken – I’ve just learned when to remain silent. The funniest thing, though, followed, of course. When I glanced back to indirectly brush off the multiplication 3
of bodies this situation attracted, I heard the scream.
But it wasn’t a scream, folks. It was the bus pulling up besides me – and if it wasn’t busy enough, well, it was going to be now. Crikey. I hate public transport, especially when they interrupt a potential classic scene from a classic book. But then again, who’ll read a cruddy scene about a suicide on top of an old building while people watched from a bus stop? Oh, snap... Ignore me, this book isn’t full of scenes like that – but they were developed from state of minds that were aroused by equally brilliant moments of boredom. I hope you love this book as I love you for reading it. Some tales here are semi-autobiographical, others clearly fictionised. But all with a dosage of good fun-filled readtertainment – that’s not a word, is it? Crap.
Allen
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The Kid did it
by Allen Metcalfe
B
ryan studied the email again. The words weren’t hard to decipher. It was just that he wanted it to mean more than it actually read. The screen flickered as the
old Apple iMac in front of his eyes was seriously due for an upgrade. He pointed the mouse to the Microsoft Outlook icon, which then allowed the previous QuarkXPress document to appear. It covered the screen and a mist of unchecked grammar and poor spelling cluttered his vision. He remembered that he needed to edit the jumble of a news page in front of him, as one of his commissioned writers was having trouble expressing that Tommy and Angelica from the Rugrats shouldn’t possess any words with I BIT CHESS within their speech balloons. Bryan shook his head. He had been at Wakefield Publishing for over a year, editing children’s comics and magazines, and felt tired just doing so. The screen reverted back to the email as Bryan regrouped the mouse. He didn’t want to work. He wanted to be in love. His girlfriend was miles away in London working. Probably screwing around, he thought, taking it back as soon as he did so. She was getting more money than him though. Fuck. He didn’t care. Maggie looked mental. Her light skin was pale, and her blue nails stretched over her polite fingers. She possessed a slight frame, gentle type, quietly arousing. They way she wore a 5
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woolly polar neck in the winter and then a tight boob tube in the summer were irrelevant. Her position as the company’s advertising executive, comic editor and competition organiser gave her a higher rank of seniority than he had usually accounted for. Until today. Especially since he loved her arse. That was all. It helped that her slim waist, decent breast cup size, nice clothing and regular changing of attire, unlike Bryan, made her booty more appealing to his eye. But he knew that it by itself, it would hold only an attraction of lust. Put it on a mantelpiece, for example, and it would have looked like an award, losing its significance after a while. She was quite pretty, he guessed. Nah, she was okay. But her pert arse was the only thing he could think about. Bending her over and stargazing at it for about an hour… in his dreams. It didn’t help that when he did speak to her and tried to flirt she didn’t respond like the other airheads at work, who accordingly would make him lose interest in their bodies straight away. She was mysterious, deep, educated, smart and a booty queen. Word. It was unjust. Nah, it wasn’t. She just didn’t fancy him. And the email in front of his face confirmed that, although Bryan couldn’t see that, or didn’t want to see it. Or whatever! Sent: 9:30am Friday, 11th June 2004<maggie.wilkinson@ wakefieldpublishing.co.uk> Thanks, Bryan… I appreciated your help getting the competitions sorted out for the Rugrats comic… If you want, though, I’ll do them all in future as to not confuse anyone, and avoid the awkwardness in 6
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job roles between us (but you being a smashing editor!)… and in reply to your other email, we can’t do lunch, ever. Sorry. Cheers, Maggie She always put her automated signature under the message. Maggie Wilkinson Wakefield Publishing Unit 7 Southside Business Park Southside Road Manchester M14 5AC
So, there it was in plain English. ‘Fuck the language!’ Bryan’s mind raced loudly, disturbing his gaze. The screen continued to flicker. He inhaled. He brushed down his tie and his white shirt was beginning to stench and he had to act upon his feelings. He just wanted to bang her. Get it out of his system. The last job he worked at, he’d had a quick office romance and nobody cared. He knew that this ‘relationship’ would be significant. Maggie had been in serious relationship for over eight years and Bryan had been with Jackie for five years. It was a mistake to even consider the act of depressing his thoughts upon her. ‘Er, Bryan.’ He shook his head, blinking his eyes. She had come to suggest that they run into the small stockroom among the shelves 7
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stacked with unread comics and the hot server that allowed the computers to connect onto the Internet. Yes, it was time for consummation of his thoughts. Her resistance of his good looks couldn’t be maintained. She was gagging. He looked up. ‘I need for you to speak to the gentleman in Alan’s office. It’s about Alan’s death.’ It was the Jeremy Lang, the company’s managing editor. Bryan studied Jeremy’s face in disgust, angry he had to be dragged away for this misdemeanour. Jeremy shrugged his shoulders, allowing the surface of his baldhead to shimmer against the radiance of the sun that squeezed through the blinds pulled together carelessly at the adjacent window. Bryan knew this inconvenience was obviously based on his skin colour. He was the only ethnic minority within the company and he didn’t get on well with Alan, the manager director, at all. He had asked Alan to see if the company would fund his selfvanity attempt at publishing a book that he’d written. But Alan declined. Fuck. Where’s the arse? Nobody turned to see Jeremy speak to Bryan but they were all listening – the few members of staff that had decided to show up on this Tuesday morning. He spun to the desk behind him a few yards away. There she was and her back to him and her elegant bottom pointing in his direction. He got up and led himself into the dead managing director’s office.
‘Hello, Bryan. My name is Detective Constable Rick Waller,’ said the lean shaped detective. His grin disappeared into the ginger rung of hair that was developing into a beard. His shoulders were extremely narrow, making him seem thinner than he was. He was seated on Alan Law’s seat. ‘As you well 8
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know, I’m here to investigate the tragic death of Mr. Law, your managing director. He was killed last night around ten to six, possibly in a struggle of some sort.’ Bryan sat opposite the detective and listened intently to the man’s words, soaking in the information and wondering if he was going to be taken downtown to the precinct, just like he’d seen on NYPD Blue last night. ‘We believe that the struggle was caused by the raiding of the petty cash box, which if you see here.’ He pointed to the ground near the door, and the small glass cabinet had been smashed, and the petty cash box had been opened.’ No money was in the box. ‘It would seem, Mr. Williams, that your managing director was killed for £200. And it would seem he was stabbed with a number 2 pencil.’ The detective waited for a reaction. Bryan just looked at him, straight-faced and emotionless. ‘We know who killed him,’ stated Waller. ‘We are simply holding out for a confession.’ Boring, the mind of Bryan analysed. Police want to play games. If they know who killed Alan, then why don’t they bloody arrest him then, he speculated. ‘Is there anything you want to tell us, Mr. Williams? We understand that yesterday you had a short meeting with Mr. Law about urging the company to finance your first novel as you’re been rejected by all the major publishers. Is that correct, Mr. Williams?’ Bryan grimaced. He knew the detective was trying to pin him down for something. It was always the way and he just couldn’t escape it. People quietly assuming he was guilty. Yeah, he stood 9
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at six foot five, with a big build, dark skin, and clean teeth, but that was no reason to make assumptions. He had moved from London 18 months earlier to revive himself from the constant badgering of criticism for wrongful assumptions. He always felt like he was under suspicion. He hadn’t done anything wrong. All he had done was write a terrible book, which involved sex and violence, and lots of it. Why wouldn’t a children’s publishing company want to publish it? ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ he finally gave in.
Steven studied the email again. The words weren’t hard to decipher. A design company in town had refused to give him an interview for a recent post that they had advertised for. He frowned. He had been working at Wakefield for over five years and the company bugged him. Or more so, he was bugged, because he couldn’t seem to find anywhere else to work. Maybe he wasn’t as skilled as he thought he was, he thought on several occasions. But this wasn’t the case. A lack of confidence had grown on everyone who worked at Wakefield, particularly as the company’s aura was so laidback and the work was quietly undemanding. You got what you put in. And Steven didn’t put in a lot. He had his favourite T-shirt on today, which read: DISGRUNTLED EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH. He thought it was cute. But Bryan casually shared his point of discontent for his clothes by swaying over little wagging handshakes, which Steven wasn’t sure what they meant. He was going over his work, steeping back into design package Photoshop to correct some points made by some guy at 10
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Universal Consumer Products. He was designing a The Mummy poster bag, which contained posters, of course. But they hadn’t liked his work. He was the senior designer and was impressed by his ease at changing images, redefining editorial ideas, and creating new worlds at the touch of a button. He was the man, but the fact remained that nobody really recognised his efforts. Except Jeremy Lang. Steven’s managing editor had a way with words and would often caress Steven’s ego by asserting passionate praise for the young designer. ‘Splendid’. ‘Fantastic’. ‘Groovy’. These were the types of accolades that Steven quickly received after bringing up the given page on his Mac and having an informal chat about house prices, television shows, and why people shouldn’t have kids. At that moment, Steven reverted back to the email system. More bad news. Laura, his girlfriend, whom he had met at Wakefield a few months ago, had sent him an email. The subject was called ‘Sorry’. Steven curled up his face and worried immediately. He looked at his mouse and hesitated before he clicked it. ‘I’m not sure how long they’re going to take with Bryan but you’re next.’ It was Jeremy Lang. Steven paused, confused as to what Jeremy was talking about and keeping one eye on the screen. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Alan. Oh my God! You haven’t heard, have you?’ Steven panicked internally. He wasn’t sure how to handle the forthcoming news. ‘Alan’s been killed. Somebody robbed the petty cash box and Alan must have caught them, and they stabbed him… with a pencil.’ 11
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‘Shut up,’ laughed Steven. He waited for the serious expression of Jeremy to change and reveal a weird smile like he did every morning. It didn’t happen. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ he asked, only for Jeremy to nod his head. Steven became aware of the room’s sudden silence. He clicked on his mouse and quickly read the email from Laura. Sent: 10:00am, Friday, 11th June 2004<laura.haughton@ yahoo.com> Hi Steven Hope you’re all right. I’m sorry but I’ve just realised that I only fancied you because we worked together but now, I don’t really want to go with you anymore. Sorry. Thought you’d understand. But now I’ve got a new job, I wish you can understand my need to move on. Laura ‘Ah, no!’ Steven couldn’t contain himself. The tears bumbled from his eyes down onto his ‘disgruntled’ T-shirt. Jeremy pulled up a chair. His face showed concern. ‘It’s okay,’ said Jeremy. ‘We’re all hurting from this. You’ll be okay.’ Steven couldn’t hear Jeremy and didn’t want to. He remembered yesterday and he was extremely angry with the managing director because Alan refused him permission to use the company credit card for repairs on his battered Ford Escort. 12
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He had let him use it before! What happened after that still remained a blur. All he could think about now was that Laura, his little wonder of the female species, had decided to dump him. He was always getting dumped. He didn’t love her, but he loved being with her. He could attend various functions with her, rather than without. He wasn’t a sad loser, then. But he should have known better. They only kissed four times and she didn’t give him the chance to sample ‘her goods’. She said she was saving it until they got married. (Bryan had heard that she wasn’t even a virgin!) Steven sighed. He picked the perfect day to wear that T-shirt, he thought. Yep, what a day. He felt the soothing hand of Jeremy rubbing his back in comfort and smiled, partially hoping it didn’t travel any further. ‘It’s all right, Steven. Alan was a good man, and lived a fruitful life,’ said Jeremy. At that moment, Bryan strolled calmly into the room and made eye contact with Steven. Jeremy missed the sneer that Bryan added with his stare, and because Steven was smart enough on this occasion not to vent his feelings back to Bryan in front of his managing editor, he simply shook his head, flagging down the drama, and hoping for more sympathy from Jeremy. As Bryan sat, he scoped the office. He noticed Roger, the studio manager, speaking away loudly to Maggie. He was at least 20 years her senior and she seemed to respond with ease and there was happiness in her tone. Maybe, just maybe, there was something going down. But he immediately run against any logic, aware he was in wrong. He just wanted that arse to himself. Looking around some more, Bryan spotted that there weren’t many people in the office today. Even though the company was 13