Pulp Idol - Firsts - 2011

Firsts 2011

Published by Writing on the Wall Printed by Rayross Print Factory, Liverpool Copyright Š remains with the authors, 2011 Writing on the Wall info@writingonthewall.org.uk Tel: 0151 703 0020 www.writingonthewall.org.uk Price: £3.99

Firsts 2011

Contents i.

Foreword Mike Morris

i

ii. Preface Jenny Newman & Penny Feeny

ii

1. Cover Version Paula Currie

2

2. Caseload Nicki Blundell

8

3. Runners Hakim Cassimally

16

4. XQ-28: The Story of a Gene Adrian Challis

22

5. 17.35 Femke Colbourne

30

6. Changes Cath Cole

36

7. The Land of Midnight Days K.A. Jack

44

8. Stacy the Shift Sebastian Koehorst

50

9. Smoke Christopher Moore

58

10. Hinterland Neil Schiller

64

11. Now That I Have Found the Words Rose Thomas

72

Foreword Pulp Idol Firsts 2011 is Writing on the Wall’s second collection of winning chapters from its annual Pulp Idol novel writing competition. These new voices demand your attention, each first chapter representing a promising new world for you to disappear into, and be left wanting more. And who knows what may come? One of last year’s finalists, Debbie Morgan, has her novel, Disappearing Home, published next year as a direct result of taking part in Pulp Idol. James Rice, the winner in 2010, is working with an agent and publisher to get his novel ready for publication. This is what we are all about, giving new writers the chance to get their work in front of readers, publishers and agents. It seems, just at the point of the digital publishing revolution, that it is harder for new, working-class writers to get their work into print. This and the previous edition of Firsts are also published to Kindle/Amazon, but for new writers in particular there’s still nothing like seeing your work in print. It helps you grow as a writer, and it’s something you can show your mum ☺. These writers are talented, hardworking, and looking for a break. Let them know if you enjoy their work; they may send you more chapters if you like it, and they’ll definitely send you some if you say you’re an agent or publisher. If you are a budding writer and feel inspired by this collection, get in touch with WoW, look out for our next festival and get involved. You could be turning the page to find your chapter here next year.

Mike Morris Editor

Pulp Idol Firsts 2011 i

The Chapters This strong cast of diverse styles and characters from Pulp Idol 2011 represents a real pool of undiscovered talent.

Paula Currie was a worthy winner of this year’s competition with Cover Version. This sparky tale of Reddo, a musician whose star has waned, brims with energy and has a vivid sense of place and character and pitch perfect dialogue. It’s also a subtle study in disappointment with great potential.

Nicki Blundell’s Caseload captures the plight of a woman unable to cope, in a situation which is all too familiar but no less harrowing for that. Its clear, direct prose is all the more effective for its restraint; the sense of impending disaster is never far off. K.A. Jack’s Land of the Midnight Days bristles with tension and menace. The story is fast-paced and atmospheric, describing a dystopian future where the survival of any thing of beauty or dignity is threatened.

Set in the heady 1960s, Cath Cole’s Changes gives us Theresa, Jenny and Chris, three young student nurses on the edge of a new life. Challenges come thick and fast as they struggle to surmount their personal problems and survive their rigorous training. 17.35 by Femke Colborne, opens with a journey out of Paddington which literally flings her narrators, David and Lucy, together and sparks an obsession which will consume them both. At the start of Rose Thomas’s Now That I Have Found the Words, the troubled, rebellious Bess confronts her finicky son and plans her escape from their stifling London home. Adrian Challis’s urban noir XQ-28: The Story of a Gene launches us on a surreal roller coaster ride involving murder, suspense and lots of adventurous gay sex.

Teddy Daniels, in Christopher Moore’s Past is running around Europe and running away from England. The child of new-age parents; will he find himself before his murderous past catches up with him? The Runners in Hakim Cassimally’s chapter are moonlighting from their day job to carry out blood rituals for the sinister Director; this fast-paced urban fantasy will leave you breathless. Sebastian Koehorst’s Stacey the Shift, a story of love and obsession set in Manchester, is also an affecting tale of self-discovery, while Neil Schiller’s Hinterland is a dark tale of violence and redemption, a classic edge of your seat thriller.

Enjoy.

Jenny Newman, Penny Feeny Editors

The Chapters ii

Cover Version

Paula Currie Paula currently teaches creative writing at The Spider Project in Liverpool. The project has published three anthologies – Content which Paula also edited. Before moving into teaching Paula worked as a television script editor. Cover Version is her first novel. paulacurrie10@yahoo.co.uk

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After an early hit single Liverpool musician Reddo is all washed up.

Facing 40 and failure, he refuses to accept the inevitable. He continues writing, rehearsing and gigging as if his life depends on it - because it does.

Career Opportunities Reddo was gutted: his big, dramatic exit had been ruined by his mum’s divvy little garden gate, which as usual, he couldn’t open. He booted it in temper; then climbed over it. His mum appeared at the door - tearful, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

‘Don’t go love, your tea.’ Reddo didn’t even look back.

‘Not hungry,’ he said, and was straight off down the street. ‘Sod them!’ he thought. ‘Sod the lot of them.’

He increased his pace and fell into a tight rhythm. He’d read somewhere, that when angry, the Inuit people walked till their anger subsided, then marked the point in the snow. Reddo wondered how far he’d have to walk till his anger subsided. All the way to his gaff probably - which was miles away. His dad usually gave him a lift home. It was the best bit of the night bar the scran: the car, warm and smoky, with Glen Campbell, a shared love of theirs, playing full wack. Reddo shivered and zipped up his jacket. It was early November. Frost was beginning to sparkle on car windscreens. There was a loud screech and a bang. He glanced up at the gold glitter; watched, as the brightness faded.

The full moon held his attention. He thought immediately of Lou. She once joked that when Reddo looked up at the sky he didn’t see the moon, he saw a spotlight. She had some cracking lines Lou, most of which he’d nicked and hidden away in songs. She had that thing: she could say something in one line that’d stop you cold. Like when she left. Said she was sick of playing second fiddle to a guitar. He’d almost laughed.

The smell of a chippy cut through the cold air. Reddo checked his pocket, bringing out a fifty pence piece - and an old plec. He remembered his inside pocket and slid in, his fingers closing round a pile of heavy coins. He was at the counter before he realised: fucken Punts! He’d been over in Dublin a few weeks earlier playing some shitty little festival. All he’d got to show for it was his ale money and a pocketful of jarg coins that wouldn’t buy him a sausage.

He scanned the menu above the counter. The prices had gone up. There

Paula Currie 3

were little squares of paper with new prices sellotaped over the old ones.

How much was a fish cake? Reddo put his money away. Too much. Back outside, he remembered the overflowing plate of steak and chips he’d left in his mum’s. Gravy, onion rings - the works.

He’d just begun to eat when it had all kicked off. Reddo had noticed that she looked a bit nervy as she was dishing up. He thought maybe she’d had a row with his dad. She kept it quiet till he’d eaten two mouthfuls, then started on about how his dad’s plant was looking for casual workers. She’d picked him up an application form. Thought he could do with the money.

Reddo put his fork down.

‘I’ve got a job,’ he said, staring at her.

She looked away. Picked up her cup of tea and drummed her nails on the side of it. ‘Ste,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re not earning though are you love?

Maybe it’s time you thought about packing it in.’ The clock in the hall chimed. ‘You’ve given it a fair go love.’ She pushed the application form towards him. ‘There’s a chance you’ll be made permanent.’

Reddo stood up, handed the form back to his dad.

‘I’ve got a job.’

‘Course you have lad.’

His dad put the form in the sideboard drawer. Slammed it shut. His mum slid the drawer open, took the form back out and stared hard at her husband.

‘Ged,’ she said. ‘Talk to him.’

Another firework screamed overhead. A bright red orb sank slowly down to earth.

He heard music, quiet, then louder; By The Time I Get To Phoenix, the slow rumble of a car engine. He turned round. His dad winked, leaned over and opened the passenger door.

‘Get in lad, your tea’s getting cold.’

Reddo pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

‘You’re alright Dad, I’ll walk.’

His dad switched the engine off.

‘Don’t be like that.’

Reddo looked at him.

‘Like what?’

His dad dropped his voice. ‘She’s only trying to help.’

4 Pulp Idol

Reddo kicked some chewy on the pavement with his shoe. ‘Well she isn’t.’

His dad got out, reached into his jeans and pulled out a fiver. He shoved it into Reddo’s pocket. ‘Get yourself some chips.’

The sausage dinner gave him heartburn. He rubbed his chest. He needed to sit down, have a cold drink. He wasn’t far from Crash. He upped his pace.

Some people reckoned Crash was a bit of a dive, and it might have been, but he loved it. There was something about the stone walls that felt reassuring - solid. It was only a warren of dark rehearsal rooms, but the place had energy. Reddo sometimes sat on the stairs with a beer, just listening. Songs echoed down the corridors, swirling into each other; one song ending as a new one began.

He turned into Stanley Street, swerving down the back alley. The stink of rubbish from the industrial bins greeted him like an old friend. He banged on the big iron door which always felt like a portal to another world. He waited a good few minutes then booted the door - hard. He kept his eyes pinned to it, ignoring the young drunk, pissing noisily against one of the bins. He kicked the door again, just as Ian, a tall feller in a retro Liverpool shirt, swung it open.

‘Alright mate,’ he smiled. Reddo shouldered past, moodily.

‘Bout time,’ he said, ‘Fucken stinks out there.’ Ian slammed the door, bolted it shut. Then turned to face Reddo, his voice neutral, ‘Boot harder next time.’

Reddo glanced round the corridor, into the tiny office.

‘Mark in?’ he asked casually. Ian shook his head.

Reddo smiled, his luck was in; he owed rehearsal fees and Mark would have deffo made him cough up.

‘Can I book a room for next week?’

Ian checked the board and nodded, chalking Reddo’s name into the available slot.

‘Who else is in?’

Ian looked up at the board again.

‘Quiet one: the Stands, Jessie Lowe, Ian Prowse, couple of new lads.’

‘Sound.’

The phone rang. Ian went into the office to answer it. Reddo headed into the little bar, half dreading whoever he might bump into.

It was empty. He found himself walking over to the big wall that was

Paula Currie 5

covered in old press cuttings, ads and gig flyers; a mosaic of text and images past and present, all jostling for space. Was he still under there somewhere?

It seemed important that he was.

After a quick look over his shoulder, he pulled down an Echo article about the Stands, an ad for a bass player in a Nu-Metal band, numerous reviews, tour dates – long gone - yellowing NME articles, Single of the Week for Gomez.

Then he saw it: the old familiar picture from the glowing Echo article.

Faded and torn but there he was; handsome, cocky, leaning against the bandstand in Sevvy Park, twenty-four, with it all in front of him.

‘Alright Reddo!’

He jumped, turned round to see his old drummer Tim, walking into the bar.

‘Your round again?’ he said, leaning against the old Echo article.

Tim pulled out a twenty. ‘Can I get you one?

Reddo nodded. Tim was never slow to get the ale in; it was one of the reasons he liked him.

‘Ta mate, I’ll have a Becks.’

Ian entered with a box of lager and started re-stocking the fridge. Tim gave him the order and turned back to Reddo.

‘Who are you in with?’

‘On me todd, just picking some gear up.’

‘What you working on?’

Reddo sniffed. ‘New album’, he said. He began fiddling with his lock-up key. ‘Covers.’

A few weeks ago, he decided to record some new songs. Cover versions of songs he didn’t really like. The idea of taking average songs and giving them a radical overhaul, appealed to him. Could he do it? Take a shit song and transform it. He didn’t know, but he was going to try.

Tim handed him a bottle of Becks. He took a quick swig.

‘I’m hoping to get into the studio in a few months, what do you reckon you busy?’

Tim pocketed his change and looked genuinely disappointed. ‘Can’t mate, got gigs lined up, we’re doing all the fezzies.’ Suddenly Tim’s face was all smiles, as an idea sparked. ‘Hey - you could do us a favour. We still need a Mick Jones, Ska Louie blew us out.’

Reddo took a long swig.

6 Pulp Idol

Tim went on: ‘D’you fancy it? It’s good wedge, like. Piece of piss. You know all the songs!’

Reddo scratched at the label on his Becks, and looked up at Tim. ‘What are you on about?’

Tim grinned at him. ‘We’re a Clash tribute band: I’m Topper, Carl from the Farm’s Paul, and John Mac’s Strummer - but we’re desperate for a Mick!

What do you reckon?’ Reddo laughed. He thought Tim was joking.

‘Fuck off!’

‘What’s up, like? It’s good money, regular work.’

Reddo took another swig. Tim meant it! He actually expected him to pull on a beret and pretend to be Mick Jones.

‘A tribute band!’ He couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice. Tim’s expression changed - to anger.

‘And what? You’re only arsing about with cover versions aren’t you?

What’s the difference?’

Reddo looked away. There was a world of difference between what he was doing and being in a tribute band. The songs were going to be his. They were old songs, sure. But Reddo was going to make them new. He was going to unpick the songs, reinvent them. Explore all the differences he could within the song’s common elements. He wasn’t just knocking out Clash songs in fancy dress.

Reddo finished off his Becks and patted Tim on the shoulder.

‘Sorry mate, sounds like a laugh, just not my thing.’

Tim nodded and climbed the steps to the rehearsal rooms, his fingers interlacing three bottles of Becks. Reddo watched him go.

‘Say hiya to Carl for us.’ he shouted. Tim didn’t look back.

Reddo opened the door to his lock-up and started sorting through leads.

They were in a right state. He tried to pick through a tangle of knots. He felt agitated. This wasn’t helping. Beneath the confusion lay his favourite Telecaster. Reddo reached over, picked it up - strapped it on. Felt its familiar weight.

He shook his head and smiled to himself.

Mick Jones!

He would have been Strummer if he was anyone.

Paula Currie 7

Caseload

Nicki Blundell Nicki has been writing poetry and fiction since childhood. This is her first attempt at a novel. She takes her inspiration from writers such as Kate Atkinson and Catherine O’Flynn. Since graduating in Psychology she went on to become a qualified social worker managing mental health projects for 12 years. She currently works with Liverpool Hope University Social Work department in partnership with PSS. blunden@hope.ac.uk

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D

omestic violence, alcohol misuse and frightened asylum seekers: all in a day’s work for Social Worker Jenny and her student. Running parallel are the stories of Sonia, a single mum who appears to be neglecting her child and becoming more abusive; Meryl, a victim of domestic violence and Cathy a local ‘do- gooder’. What links these three people is more than meets the eye. Are they all destined to be on the caseload?

Caseload Sonia can’t stand the noise. The constant sniffling and snuffling is driving her mad. She turns up the television to drown out the annoyance. On screen, Jezza Kyle is verbally abusing a boy who has lied to his girlfriend about kissing another woman at a party. The TV is very large and dominates the small oblong room. Jezza’s shouting is making Sonia’s nerves go.

- Fuck off upstairs, she suddenly yells and glares at the little girl sitting on the floor. - Now Megan! Go to your room and stop fucking sniffing.

Making her way to the door, Megan has to negotiate through a path of cans, bottles and chippy wrappers. Stella, the dog, sits in the hallway next to a pile of chewed-up newspaper. There is no carpet on the stairs. Megan bumps her bottom up each step whilst looking hopefully at the front door.

She hopes that Penny will visit, but the mess wouldn’t be there if today was a Penny day. Her bottom feels sore and the old nappy is full of wet; it isn’t very nice. Her nose is dripping onto her knees but she knows she can’t sniff, not until she is in her room and the door is closed. Once you close the door you can’t get out. There isn’t a door handle on the inside; she will have to wait till her mum forgets to be angry before she can get out again.

In the living room Sonia turns the volume down a little and relaxes. The room needs a good tidy but she has the mother of all hangovers after last night’s celebration. At least Penny wasn’t due a visit. Penny came on Wednesday and today was Tuesday. At some point on a Tuesday, Sonia would go to the Co-op and buy some real food. She would get chicken nuggets and potato smiley faces. That’s what the other mums always bought. She would get a big bottle of cola and sometimes a multi bag of crisps. She might bump into Linda Hart and have to chat about old times, the times before Megan. Linda Hart was going to the local college, doing some courses that seemed to make her feel important. Sonia felt like Linda Hart was always showing off about something and she wanted to punch

Nicki Blundell 9

her right in the face. So on a Tuesday Sonia tried to go to the Co-op early to avoid her, and if she didn’t hurry up it would be too late. She forces herself to get up from the sofa and go and get dressed.

-Megan, I’m going to the shops, do not, DO NOT look out that window, do you hear me? Sonia shouts outside Megan’s bedroom door. She then opens it to find that Megan is looking out of the window.

-Right then you, you’re going to have to come with me, get your shoes on and fucking hurry up, if I bump into that fucking Linda Hart it will be your fault. Sonia bustles the girl into a pair of pink velour trousers and a zippy top patterned with a cartoon horse jumping over a rainbow. Megan called the horse ‘Cloudy Lane’ after a horse that made Gary cross. She didn’t know why it had made him cross but he had angry-laughed at the horse jumping over the rainbow and said, ‘That should have been Cloudy Lane!’ Gary didn’t come back after that. Her mum had been a bit sad and stayed in bed for a while, but she seemed mostly alright now. Megan was hurrying with her shoes; she knew her mum would not be alright if they bumped into Linda Hart. Her little fingers were going as fast as they could with the silly buckles until her mum pushed them away and took over, exhaling an impatient ‘fucking hell’.

In the frozen food aisle of the Co-op, Kathy spots her young neighbour Sonia putting a pack of nuggets into the trolley where her little girl sits quietly. Sonia looks away immediately, dipping her eyes to examine the various different types of potato accompaniment in the freezer. Kathy looks at the little bag of bones dressed in pink and gives Megan a wave. She notices a strong smell of urine as they pass and feels sorry for the skinny girl; there are two thick green plugs in the child’s nose, moving slowly in parallel down towards her mouth. The mum, Sonia, is alright, keeps herself to herself most of the time. Kathy wants to pass her a tissue. Megan has dark curls looping across her forehead and strange terracotta eyes that stare hard at Kathy’s scarf. Kathy flaps the end and Megan laughs, then blows a kiss right across the aisle. Kathy thinks the kiss is for her and grabs into the air, pretending to catch it and put it in her pocket for later.

At the checkout Kathy watches from the next till as Sonia bags up her goods. She huffs and puffs as she rummages in her tasselly handbag to find her purse. The assistant wrinkles her nose and doesn’t smile at Sonia as she gives her the change. Kathy walks out behind the pair and hears Sonia whispering - Fucking snooty cow, to Megan as they turn to walk along the

10 Pulp Idol

Parade. Megan can only just keep up and has to run every few paces. A bus slows and stops just up ahead by the old tanning salon. They pass two more tanning salons, one of which also does hair and nails, a bookies’ and a solicitors’ with a huge poster that asks, Had an accident that wasn’t your fault? Sonia reads it aloud and looks at Megan. Up at the bus stop a couple of young students are the only disembarking passengers and, as the bus noisily growls away, Kathy notices that Megan has stopped dead with a look of utter fear on her face.

Sonia leaves Megan’s door ajar. Tonight she feels like a mum. Megan has had a bath and her hair has been de-tangled. Sonia got in the bath after her and feels clean and normal. Earlier Megan had had a massive crying fit in the middle of the Parade. People turned, looking the other way as she tried to shut her up; it cleared a space as everyone scuttled away fast. She doesn’t understand what brought it on, but the relief she felt when it stopped meant that she was justified to pop into the offy.

She is worrying about the police cars she saw in Oldbridge Road and decides a drop of cider now will help stop her thinking. Thinking can be dangerous. Looking at the living room, she decides she will make herself a snakebite and then tidy it. She gets out a black bin bag and starts to clear away the debris from last night’s celebration. The whole time her mind is on the letter box. She has a feeling that tonight she will be alone, that he won’t be knocking for a little while.

After about half an hour she decides an interim snakebite will keep her on track, then she will reward herself with a huge one when it’s all tidy. She puts Eminem on the CD player and thinks about how deep he is. How deep she is and that fucking Linda Hart and her mates are shallow halfwits. She remembers the time at school when they sang that song at her, over and over, ‘Would the real fat Sonia please stand up....’ doing rap hands into her face like guns pointing, ready to shoot.

Four snakebites later and Sonia feels cushioned, the sofa wrapping around her and her thoughts fuzzy. Her mobile lies silent, she knows she has enough credit to send him a couple of texts or one long one. ‘Don’t send a text when you’re pissed,’ says a voice like it’s far off and doesn’t matter. She picks up Heat magazine and browses a bit but she can’t really take anything in. Her budget has stretched to cider and a magazine - It’s like a massive luxury. Heating a bath costs about a pound, so once a week means she gets a bit for herself. They had crisp butties for tea so that probably costs under

Nicki Blundell 11

a pound. She doesn’t really care how long the rest lasts as it’s only two days to pay day. Anyway, having a magazine like that helps make you look normal, like you’re interested in the world and not just yourself. Sonia is looking forward to having a big lunch, feet up and reading the magazine in front of Penny. Shit, Penny in the morning. Better not have any more snakes, ‘but you know what, why not have a last one to help you sleep?’ The voice is like a friendly parent ready to tuck Sonia in and say ‘goodnight’. She puts another Eminem track on and has a little dance, then boogies into the kitchen and empties the second bottle into her glass.

Not much later, Sonia decides that she needs more booze. She is feeling lonely, let down and restless. She knows that she should go to bed, but it’s a one-off. She puts her coat on and grabs her keys. She has a fiver in her purse and can get a four pack. She only needs to walk a bit to the offy that stays open late. Be five minutes, she thinks.

She closes the door quietly; Megan will be asleep by now. She sets off, avoiding Oldbridge Road; this will add another five minutes to her journey, but she is too afraid to pass the house that had police there earlier. Rounding the street and passing some ‘scallies’, she gets onto Western and sees Kathy walking towards her at a fast pace. She crosses the road quickly and runs a bit; can’t have the neighbour smelling snakebite on her breath. This route takes her past one of the greens, the bad places that are supposed to be nice.

A car hoots and some voices start to whistle and shout. Shit, what is she doing? She can’t stop now, she is half way there and it would be pointless to turn back.

Kathy notices Sonia for the second time that day and wonders why she seems to be avoiding her. They are not exactly best friends but they have passed the time of day once or twice. Kathy asks how Megan is doing and Sonia asks after Kathy’s son. Kathy doesn’t really like to talk about Peter.

She normally lets people know that he will be returning home soon. Yes he does miss the estate, yes he does write to her. That’s as much gossip she will provide to anyone. Kathy wonders what Sonia is doing out so late, heading off towards the green. When Kathy was a girl, she and a friend had pretended to be private detectives. She remembers they made up stories about people living in the village nearby. Stories about how they were really famous pop stars or actors; they started the rumour that one of ‘Hot Chocolate’ lived on Baileys Lane. Kathy and Bev would don disguises of wigs, courtesy of Bev’s mum who had cancer, and go to the village to

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‘observe’ the super stars going about their daily business. They claimed to have observed Donny Osmond walking his dog, the woman from Hart to Hart wearing hair curlers and some suspicious movement in a house that might belong to Hughie Green. Kathy is smiling at the memory and in an instant decides to turn around and follow Sonia, keeping a safe distance so she won’t be spotted.

The dog’s tail is pounding the bed. It vibrates through Sonia’s feet, up into her fizzing head.

- Piss off Stella, she hisses, slit eyed and bloated, then remembers something bad about last night. She reaches for her mobile, unsettling clutter on the bedside table, some of which falls onto the crunchy green rug, stiff with Stella’s drool. She remembers the car, the Jack D, the unwanted hand on her leg. ‘Get off!’ She squints at the white screen, scrolling through the menu. ‘Fucking get your hands off me now!’ There was a struggle. She rubs her arm and feels a tender spot where a bruise blooms across the skin. She can’t recall how she ended up back in her bed.

She lets the phone drop as the creeping heat of nausea flames an urge to kick off the duvet. She is wearing her pyjamas.

She hears a rustle, bang and thump from downstairs and thinks of Megan. She sits up fast and the room slowly tilts into place. Someone is coming up the stairs, approaching her door and now tapping lightly.

- Sonia love, I’m coming in. Kathy, the nosey neighbour, clears a space and puts a cup of tea down next to the bed. Sonia feels her cheeks redden with astonishment.

- What, can I ask, are you doing in my house? Sonia finally speaks, spitting the words at Kathy.

- It’s alright love, Megan is watching telly and I’ve tidied up.

Sonia feels as though her eyes are going to burst from her head, she is so enraged by Kathy’s presence. She just can’t work out what has happened to have a situation in which Kathy is bringing her tea in bed.

Megan looks at the TV, but she isn’t really watching it – she is thinking hard.

She makes a thinking face to help. It doesn’t help. She is wearing her nice nightie and her old slippers that used to have tinkles on the end of the big reindeer noses. She un-wrinkles her face as Kathy comes into the living room with Rice Krispies. This is what she is thinking about.

- Now then love, I’ve got something of yours, Kathy whispers. Megan’s

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eyes widen but she doesn’t say anything. Kathy sits down next to her on the sinky-sofa and sees Megan’s nappy. - You’re a big girl now; surely you don’t need a nappy anymore? Megan nods but isn’t sure.

- You don’t say much do you? Kathy continues. - Your mum’s getting up so I’ll go home. Remember I’m at the house with the windmill in the garden, if you want to visit or if you ever need me for anything, ok? She stands up and puts her hand into her pocket, then taps it. - I’ve still got it here and it’s like a magic wish, ok? I’ll keep it till you need it. She waves and disappears into the hall. The door bangs closed.

Megan slips off the sofa and pads over to a bowl of tangerines. They didn’t buy tangerines yesterday. She picks one up and sees it’s only half real, its underside puffs away into white dust.

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Nicki Blundell 15

Runners

Hakim Cassimally I moved to Liverpool from Edinburgh in 2000. Since then the city has become not just my home but a source of inspiration for the Urban Fantasy stories I write, and also for my novel, Runners, the first chapter of which is featured here. I am inspired by writers like China MiÊville and Lauren Beukes, and organise the Speculative Fiction Liverpool writers’ group, which meets monthly to discuss writing in the fantasy, science fiction, and related genres. hakim.cassimally@gmail.com

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avy, a runner for a TV agency, finds himself running other errands for the sinister Director, errands which involve blood rituals on Liverpool’s rooftops. When, one by one, his team starts to disappear, it’s up to Davy to find them. But someone’s after him too. Time to start running.

Davy ‘Where the fuck is Bren?’ Mike chatters. His words echo in my ears, in all our ears. When he’s this angry it’s impossible to turn the volume down. He’s parked the runners’ van up by the Cathedral – the proper Cathedral. Me and Addy are by the other one, the Wigwam. We’ve got the cameras out, pretending to take footage of the farmer’s market. It’s fresh out, but Addy’s proper wrapped up in hat, scarf and gloves. I guess he’s a bit nesh, being French-Nigerian. Shaz is sat by herself in the Hope Street Hotel lobby, trying not to look suspicious. And we have no idea where Bren is…

‘She’s never late. Jesus! None of you twats are ever late. Not even Davy.’

‘Hey!’ But yeah, to be fair, Mike’s right. Bren’s never late. Never unprofessional.

‘What are you filming, lads?’ The woman at the smokehouse stall looks at us, curious.

Addy steps towards her, grinning broadly. ‘Community TV project, love.

Mind if we interview you for it?’

She beams and brushes her hair back self-consciously with one hand.

Addy looks professional with his digital camcorder, checking his positioning and framing the shot properly. It’s just a cover story though: it’ll justify our wages for running these errands for the Director.

‘We smoke everything ourselves, from pork and turkey that we rear on the farm, to salmon... even ostrich...’

I leave them to it. I’m carrying the film camera, and the special stock inside is too precious to waste, but I busy myself pretending to set up a long shot of Paddy’s Wigwam. Usually the Catholic Cathedral makes me laugh, sitting like a great upturned funnel plonked at the top of Mount Pleasant.

But on the morning after a big rooftop run, I’m not really in the mood for laughing.

‘You alright Shaz?’

‘Yeah I’m OK babe.’ She sounds tired. ‘I’ve read this Closer three times now.

Did you know,’ she drops her chatter-voice conspiratorially, ‘that Princess

Hakim Cassimally 17

Kate is so down to earth that she even does her own makeup?’

‘I’m gobsmacked,’ I chuckle.

‘Do you mind, young man?’ Looks like I’ve stopped concentrating on the world around me. I step back to let the old lady past, and straighten up my camera.

‘Sorry marm,’ I say, polite as I can.

Shaz giggles to herself from the nearby hotel, just for me.

Addy heads towards me grinning, proudly holding up some packets of smoked meat.

‘Not fair, you using your genetic advantage to win over the ladies!’ I tease him. ‘Tall, black, handsome. Same reason you run so damn fast!’

He wags a gloved finger at me. ‘Ah but you’re wrong; it’s not because I’m African, but because I’m French!’ He laughs at my skeptical look. ‘Didn’t you know that free-running was invented by a Parisian? It’s in my blood.

That, my friend, is why I run so good.’

He’s just having me on though. It’s because he’s black.

‘Look at this.’ Mike sounds deadly serious. Usually our senior runner shouts and blusters and curses at us. Somehow his quiet command is more terrifying by far. My vision fades. Addy and his swag, the crowds on Hope Street, and the wigwam disappear, and I’m looking at something else. I realise I’m seeing through Mike’s eyes: the Anglican Cathedral, framed in the van’s windscreen. I didn’t know he could do that. My eyes… Mike’s eyes move and the vision shifts, and I nearly lose my balance as my brain frantically tries to work out where I’m standing.

‘Keep still, will you?’ I grumble, and I can feel the others are thinking the same thing.

Mike ignores us. He’s got hold of today’s Echo, spread out across the steering wheel in front of him.

‘Look at this.’ He’s pointing at a headline: Ropewalks Security Guard Falls to Death Shaz murmurs, ‘Shit…’

There’s not a lot of detail in the article, but the building was the one Bren was on last night, and she’d chattered to us to say a guard had got curious.

She’d asked Mike for help, and he’d told her…

‘You bastard,’ I spit out. ‘This is your fault. You told her ‘Just deal with it.’’

‘Oh come off it,’ Mike retorts. ‘What do you think I meant? Why do you think we carry a needle in our packs?’

‘What’s the Director going to say?’ asks Addy.

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Shaz sighs. ‘And what is Bren going through right now?’

‘Good points both.’ Mike pauses, then continues in self disgust. ‘Even Davy’s. It is my fault.’

Hope Street fades back into view, Mike’s breaking off the connection and starting the van. ‘I’m going to find her. I’m leaving Shaz in charge, OK guys?

Good luck.’

‘Mike?!’ Shaz calls after him, but he’s gone. ‘Shit.’

Two girls, students maybe, are laughing at us. I guess we both zoned out to chatter. Addy’s lost his cheerful smile. I do my best. ‘Yeah, we were just on with our producer. On the, er, radio.’

They look unconvinced. ‘You don’t have a headset.’

‘Miniaturisation,’ I say firmly and turn away. Addy’s out of sorts, he hasn’t taken the excuse to start filming the pretty girls.

‘They’re on the move!’

My heart pounds. I get the camera rolling but stay hidden on this side of the stalls. Addy moves out slowly to film as they leave the hotel.

‘Target and two heavies in suits, no, wait. Three. Third one’s not so heavy.

Oh! That was odd.’

‘Everything OK Shaz?’

‘The third man. He smiled at me.’

‘Bet it’s nothing.’ When you’re nervous like this you start imagining things. ‘Addy, have you got them yet?’

‘Yeah bro. Got the target and his bodyguards in view. And the other…’

‘What’s up Addy?’ Shaz sounds freaked.

‘They just pointed straight at me.’

I peek at the side of the stalls, and yeah, one of the heavies is pointing in Addy’s direction. Shit. I’m about to chatter back when something brushes against our conversation. My skin crawls.

‘Right, guy…’ Shaz stops short. ‘Addy, listen to me, really carefully. I’m in charge, remember? Something’s messing with our chatter, so I’m going to break off. But it’s OK. You’ve got nothing to hide. Wait there, and we’ll sort it out. OK Addy?’

She tears it down. I wince as she tugs at the tendrils of communication till I feel them snake out of my skull, and finally pop loose. Suddenly I’m alone.

Think Davy. Why was she only speaking to Addy? Must be betting they

Hakim Cassimally 19

haven’t seen me yet. He’s just carrying a boring old camcorder. I’ve got the one with film stock coated in blood and silver. I creep round the other side of the stall and weigh up which direction I’m going to run. I wish Mike was on to set me a route.

One of the stallholders has left a trailer by the wall next to the Masonic building, and it’s too good to resist. I stop the camera and pack it away into its carry-case, forcing myself to do it slow and easy, not botched and fumbled. A group of tall blokes walk past chatting, and I click the case closed just in time to step out nonchalantly behind them and over to the trailer. I slink onto it, almost losing balance with the bulk of the case dangling from my shoulder. A quick peek over the wall then I haul myself over smooth as I can. Because of the bloody camera, I can’t roll to cushion the fall for fear of damaging it. I bend my knees as I land, but the impact still jars my shins and back.

They don’t seem such posh cars for Freemasons. That’s good, because it means this car park isn’t owned by a secret society, but by a bunch of academics and hippies. I cross to the far side and into another larger lot which gives onto the University gardens. You jammy bastard, Davy! But I’ve still got to decide what to do next. I don’t know if the heavies saw me, so I want to put as much distance between us as possible. I walk through the gardens as fast as I can without looking suss, the carry case weighing on my shoulder and banging against my hips. I cut through a Uni block and then down towards town. My mind races through the short-cuts I could take – there’s a back-door out of Puschka’s just opposite. I walk out onto Rodney Street and straight into someone’s clutches.

‘It’s alright Davy, it’s OK,’ says the Director, while my reflexes are still warming up to knee or elbow or bite my way free. I relax a little and pull my head away from his expensively tweed-coated chest. His voice sounded reassuring, but his dark brow suggests otherwise.

‘Well,’ he says wearily, ‘alright is an overstatement. Everything has gone to shit.’ I start, surprised. The Director never swears.

Along the road, where it meets Hardman Street, one of the suited heavies turns round the corner into view.

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Hakim Cassimally 21

XQ-28: The Story of a Gene

Adrian Challis Born in Lincoln, Adrian moved to Liverpool to study English and Communications at the University, where he co-founded The Spark Collective, a multi-media performance company dedicated to producing cross-artform shows with radical content. He runs his own design company and has created designs for numerous publishers, bands and theatre companies. He is a leading member of Visual Stress, and was artist-in-residence at The Bluecoat in 2003.

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T

he year is 2012. Britain is isolated, its only allies the middle- and far-east.

Two men meet in a public toilet, kill a copper and go on a rampage.

Alternative history, disease, gangsterism, sex drugs and rock ‘n’ roll ejaculate across the page in an orgy of poetic transgression...

XQ-28: The Story of a Gene You know that feeling when you need a body, crave an overpowering essence of danger, demand to be violated by the unexpected? When the hunger inside you defines you, places you in a state of being where your only consideration is to leave yourself behind, searching for that fleeting moment’s stolen disappearance at the end of another cock?

Well I had it bad.

I had a prisoner in my pocket that was preparing to escape. It had planned its exit. All it needed was an accomplice. Walking aimlessly, anchored only by a lead weight of desire that kept me stoic in the face of the harsh late winter wind, a ravenous hunger shouted out to all the other lonely horny people there must be in this city. Everywhere, in doorways that the weak moon failed to penetrate, in public toilets I never knew existed, men were doing men’s things and I was having none of it. There is nothing more pathetic than the need-a-man blues. It’s enough to make sores weep.

It was my first foray for thirty days. Of course I had left my flat to buy provisions, but apart from this I had remained a stranger to the city. I had been going through a process of reinvention. Not that I knew this at the time. Call it rationalisation after the (f)act.

It had started innocently, if anything could still be called innocent. It had started with a dream.

I was flying. Flying unfettered by my lack of feathers, grace personified.

High above the heads of those ground-bound spectators; smooth, excellent.

My curves, arcs and play, were accompanied by soundtracks of purest spun thread that wove an invisible web around me, smothered me in its welcoming haze. Below me, through tears, I could see the city, its towers and rooftops a retreating imposition, its shroud of smog no longer a weight around my neck.

Curious as to the news in this dreamtown, I flew silently down to street level, and hovered whilst reading the evening edition over the shoulder of

Adrian Challis 23

a man waiting for a bus, the warm smoke from his pipe keeping me there just long enough to discover that nothing had changed.

I flew on, up above the buildings where the air is thinner. I thought I would explode with joy.

Instead I awoke, the room dark and bare, the damp sheets leaving aches where wings had been. The day passed as all the others, in monochrome on a dirty screen. Except that as it merged into evening and then ugly night, I felt a growing sense of expectation, a slight tightening of the stomach muscles, like the apprehension you feel in the wake of a reefer or a knock on the door at midnight.

No sooner had my head hit the pillow than I was free. Trailing glory, the night slicing open under the blade of my body, eddying thermals grazing skin of whatever colour, texture or age I chose to give it. The horizon moving from the horizontal, my muscles testing the air, I, inadvertent Icarus, turned cartwheels amidst the clouds.

And then it was over just as suddenly as it had begun. For a week I had been trying ever more desperately to recreate those dreams, hoping for one last moment of transcendence. To once more wield my wings and see the ground fall below me, to soar high into a purple sky. But it was not to be. I was alone with my mortality.

So there I was, dragging my hard-on around the dismal streets, a limping libido in Levi’s, out on the town instead of above it, when out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a figure disappearing into the bushes of Spanner Square. The moon’s crescent cut a swathe through the darkness and picked out a face as it turned toward me.

A cherubic mask of pale skin suspended below black hair burnt itself onto my retina, and was gone. I stood transfixed, a shock of loss greater than any wound shearing me in two. For a moment I thought I had imagined his presence, and as I feared I had entered some twilit realm inhabited by spectres, the ground came up closer to meet me. In the distance a fog-horn sounded, and in its baleful echo I came to my senses and realised where he’d gone. The toilets. He’d disappeared into the public toilets in the centre of Spanner Square.

I was suddenly struck by the need to spend a penny.

If churches are monuments to the glory of God, public toilets are shrines to the revelation of the penis; their altar incense the smell of piss. This shrine drew me like a magnet, its scent imbuing my soul with air, possibility gnawing at my entrails, threatening to root me to the spot if for even a

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second I hesitated. There was no fear of hesitation; I fixed my sights on the darkened doorway and bore down on it like a man possessed. A smell like sweet wine hit me, and for a moment it seemed as though a premonition of great danger was dragging me through the door. I remembered all the other times I had smelled that smell. Memories from birth to now mingled, as if in a blender and I was inside.

The moonlight was scattered through the marbled glass above the urinal, so that the obsidian mane that sat above the dark back of the stranger was fringed with iridescence.

-He even has a halo, I thought to myself, my chest momentarily incapable of exhaling. There I stood, in a hinterland of emotion, unable to do anything but watch as slow motion stroboscopic frames played out upon the screen of my eyes the drama of his turning to look at me.

The moon made his face a mirror for its crescent, sliced his features in two; one side black, an absence of light, the other glowing radiant with almost too much presence. And as I watched, his face cracked open into a smile, and a voice of bar-room tenderness echoed around my head.

-Shut your mouth. There’s flies in here.

It was true. The flies seemed to have forgotten there was a winter on, whilst my bottom jaw was somewhere near my knees. I closed my mouth and tried to smile as my tongue glued itself to my palate. And there we stood, staring at each other as if unsure of what to do, transfixed in the light of a late winter moon.

-Are you stopping or did you just pop in to say hello?

I started to say I... but instead looked down as he took a small step backwards, the word lost to my intake of breath as I first clapped eyes on his cock, already half-hard in its porcelain womb. It seemed to be beckoning, softly calling my name, whispering for me to grasp it, demanding that I make it mine. I unbuttoned my fly and stepped forward into the space beside the stranger, bending down slightly to free my inflexible friend from his cage.

What happened next, what always happens next, is at best the calm before the storm, at worst an embarrassing few moments of disappointed contemplation.

-What’s your name?

-Ian, I lied. I didn’t mean to say Ian. It just slipped out.

-I’m Martin. You’ve got a nice one, Ian. -Thank you, I said. I was always too polite. I couldn’t help it. So have you,

Adrian Challis 25

I hurriedly added.

-Would he like me to touch him? he asked, a smile in his voice I was beginning to warm to.

‘He’ made his feelings known without me. ‘He’ bobbed up higher with such vigour that, had there been a coin on his head, it would have spun enough to settle any wager. I closed my eyes and waited for the electric thrill of another’s flesh against mine, and in those short few seconds that lasted years, my passion shouted back through history, to all the lovers whose waiting was nearly over, their dreams of reunion almost forgotten, by them but not by me. Now, forever and always, waiting, waiting, waiting...

-Are you all right?

My eyes fluttered open and failed to focus on his face, so that his features remained cloudy and indistinct. It took all my concentration to moan a ‘yes’ and nod my head slowly at the same time, the effort snapping me back to a kind of consciousness. I barely saw him shrug and smile before my lids closed, and I once more awaited that most delicious touch - the first touch of a stranger’s hand.

I didn’t have long to wait. Serpentine fingers twined around my shaft in a delicate, youthful grip. I tried to picture his hand, but all I saw was silk sheets billowing over sand dunes, like a bad advertisement for chocolate. I opened my eyes and allowed reality to rush in.

He was smiling again.

-You look like a little girl who’s been kissed for the first time.

-I’m sorry, I said. I can’t help it.

-I’m not complaining, he said and pulled me towards him, slipping my ear lobe into his mouth.

I gasped. I gasped a lot. If there’s one constant in this story, it’s that I gasped a lot.

My hand slipped down his coat, feeling the solidity of his chest as it passed down towards its target. The roughness of his shirt gave way to smooth denim and the cold of metal, his belt buckle the last hurdle before the winning post.

And what a winning post it was.

Smooth and heavy in my hand, it seemed to find its own contours, the awkwardness of our position evaporating as we built up a rhythm, my arm around his shoulders, his arm around my waist, our almost identical heights a lucky coincidence. I swallowed hard from the exhilaration, our bodies entwined almost sideways, his thick leg pushed up into my crotch where I

26 Pulp Idol

had it gripped in case he tried to take it away.

Desperate for more, I disengaged from his grip and pushed him against the wall. I just had time to see him raise one eyebrow in a moment of facial perfection as I slid down his body, and came eyes to eye with my object of desire.

It was the first serious solid to pass my lips in over a month.

You can tell a lot from giving someone a blow job. His level of cleanliness being the most obvious observation. Whether or not he dyes his hair is another. But as my mouth passed over the head of his dick, I confess that the only smell I noticed was of rose water, like a clean stickiness above the palate, which made me yearn to gag and propelled me further down the length of him. He was lodged hard in my throat, one of my nostrils inhaling fresh musk from his tightly curled pubic hair, the other the distinct smell of washing powder from the front of his jeans. I looked up past his slight paunch encased in a check shirt, the kind lumberjacks used to wear, and to his face, but his eyes were closed and his lengthening breath was my only encouragement. As I watched, a shadow passed over his face, and I instinctively disengaged him from my throat and swallowed hard the thick mucous that made speech impossible, blurting, -There’s someone coming.

-Not yet, he said, but I’m close.

-No. There’s someone coming. Quick. In there!

I motioned toward the cubicle but he seemed dazed, unsure of my meaning, and so I pushed him bodily at the dark blue door and followed him inside.

-Get on the seat, I whispered. I think it’s the filth.

I bolted the door as silently as I could and held my breath.

Heavy steps then shuffle. Silence falls as three chests fail to expand; six ears straining, four innocent, two I imagined set beside a brow furrowed with suspicion. I looked up anxiously at Martin standing on the toilet seat, and saw him laughing, his eyes glowing black in the darkness.

The sound of creasing trousers. Oh God, he’s looking under the door! I spun round so my feet at least looked like I was sitting down. The glare of a gaze on my ankles. My heart beating so fast I feared a stroke was imminent. Thick arms clutched me close, a hot mouth against my neck.

Teeth scraping along my hairline, coaxing my limping cock back to life, its wilting length jerking as his arms held me tighter.

Hard knuckles rapped on the door.

Adrian Challis 27

DUM DUM DUM I nearly swallowed my tongue. Martin’s lips by my ear.

-Stay calm. Say nothing.

-It’s busy, I shouted.

My bowels were growling. OK, smart arse, how do we get out of this one?

The feet beyond the cubicle door shuffled on the moist concrete but did not move away. Silence. He’s waiting until we come out. He wants to feel our collars! He wants to bundle us into the back of a van and beat us senseless, him and his mates taking turns at bursting our arses until they get us to the cells.

-COME ON LET’S HAVE YOU OUT OF THERE! The words struck me like a blow to the temple. I looked at Martin as if to ask him what to do, but my eyes met with a mischievous grin, as a hand passed over my exposed cock and began wanking me hard. I wanted to tell him that this was not the time, that we were about to be arrested for indecency in a public convenience, but my body would have proved me a liar, for it was true that I had long craved this danger and excitement, this delicate friction that was calling me forward to its inevitable conclusion.

The twin pressures of loneliness and isolation that had built up inside me for the last thirty days were coming to the boil, forcing pillows of white steam along internal tunnels - microscopic entities following their own latent trajectory, vying for prominence, racing to be the first out of the gate.

I turned round as Martin jumped down off the toilet seat and held me tight around the waist as white spots danced up before my eyes and I shot my load over the seat, shaking and moaning involuntarily, legs turning to jelly, muscles contracting, wildly bending me over as if winded by an unexpected punch.

DUM DUM DUM The door again but still in a kind of reverie, the usual moments of sexual shame at orgasm forestalled precisely because the forces of law and order seemed set on demanding them, and because Martin now needed my reciprocal attention. My left hand dropped to his scrotum, and taking its weight in my palm, my right hand curled around his cock and wanked him hard. He whispered -I’m coming and I stood back so as not to be hit by his issue. It flew forward onto the same receptacle, and there our genes mingled and grew cold together.

My mind was racing and my heart was pounding but my mouth was smiling, and so was Martin’s. I felt like a truant schoolboy returning home after an evening’s fishing in the canal, knowing that I would be punished but

28 Pulp Idol

knowing too that I would transgress again. Looking deep into his eyes, I first uttered the words that would become my mantra in future times of doubt: -Martin, what the fuck do we do now?

A devilish smile took me off guard. Leaning towards me, he whispered in my ear -When I say now, open the door and do exactly the same as me.

There was something in his voice that I didn’t like and I tried to telegraph this with my eyes. He resisted my gaze and instead began to fasten his trousers, his face an impassive mask of resolution. I rebuttoned my fly and awaited his instruction. As I placed my hand on the lock, I could feel him staring at me. I shot him a look of uncertainty. It was met with a wink and all fear dissolved, replaced with a realisation - even, perhaps, a premonition - that I would die for him if only he said the word.

DUM DUM DUM -Now, hissed Martin.

Adrian Challis 29

17:35

Femke Colbourne Femke Colborne is a journalist based in Manchester. Her work has appeared in The Times, Metro, The Big Issue, Time Out Guides and other publications. In 2007 her short story Fingerprints was published in The Flash, an anthology of short fiction dedicated to Manchester.

17:35 is her first novel. femkecolborne@gmail.com

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On 7 November 2004, two strangers board the 17:35 train from London to Plymouth. David Heath, a 35-year-old advertising salesman who is about to become a father, is travelling to a weekend conference in Reading. Lucy Shaw, a shy teenager from a dysfunctional family, is on her way back to her parents’ house in Caversham after a night out in Camden. They don’t know it yet, but they are about to discover how one memory can change everything.

17:35 The minute hand clicked into a vertical position on the Victorian clock in Paddington Station. Half past five. David Heath tore up the Bakerloo line escalator on burning legs, his laptop bag slipping from one shoulder and a rolled up copy of the Financial Times clutched in his hand.

He didn’t have a ticket and was desperate for a coffee but didn’t have time for both, so he set his sights on Costa and made a dash for it, cutting through the slow motion crowds and heavy air. The station was crowded, even for a Saturday afternoon, and his laptop crashed against protruding rucksacks as he ran.

David had come straight from afternoon tea in a Chelsea hotel with his wife and her parents. Jenny had frowned with disapproval when he left before the plates had been cleared, but he’d promised his boss he would get to the conference in time for after-dinner drinks.

The queue was five people long. One person per minute. He tapped his foot and glared at the girl behind the counter, willing her to hurry up. The woman in front of him had ordered a double-super-mocha frappuccino or something ridiculous, and it was taking forever. He heard the muffled cockney voice on the tannoy announcing delays on the Hammersmith and City Line because of a ‘passenger action’. Not again – couldn’t these people find more convenient ways of killing themselves? He sighed loudly and looked towards the ceiling, then at his watch, then to the ceiling again.

‘Double espresso.’

He slammed three pound coins on the counter and sprinted for platform two. The guard was already blowing the whistle but one door was still open.

It slammed shut right behind him and the screeching was muted.

Carrying the coffee in the same hand as the newspaper was making his hand ache, so he took the first available seat. The extended family at the

Femke Colbourne 31

opposite end of the carriage was distributing some sort of picnic and the five children were fighting over who was allowed to have which sandwich.

The eldest was repeatedly hitting one of his sisters, a plump girl in a green sari.

Kids like that should be banned in public, David thought. His mind fell on Jenny as he took off the lid of his coffee and felt the steam settle in his nostrils. He hadn’t ever been sure he wanted a baby, but since she’d become pregnant he had been trying not to think about it. She was planning a trip to Ikea on her way home today to buy furniture for the spare room. He imagined her in her painting overalls with her dark hair twisted and tied behind her head, pacing up and down the spare room and trying to work out where the cot would go; where to hang mobiles, what colour the blinds should be.

The train juddered and rattled against the tracks as it picked up speed.

The children were still screeching and hitting each other and David could feel a headache coming on. He reluctantly picked up his laptop, newspaper and coffee again, and made sure he showed his disapproval with a deliberate sigh and a disdainful glance as he strode past into the next carriage.

The further he went down the train, the quieter it was. The final carriage had a good few spare seats. He continued towards a table at the far end where there were three empty spaces and a teenage girl asleep against the window. He placed his coffee on the table and sat in the seat diagonally opposite her, removed his jacket and loosened his tie.

He reached for his laptop, switched it on and took out a bunch of business cards wrapped with an elastic band. His task for the journey was to send all these people charming emails suggesting he meet them for a coffee, a drink, a chance to introduce a mutual contact; whatever would work best to begin the process of convincing them to spend money with him. The first warm rush of caffeine went to his head and he breathed a sigh of relief as he took his mobile from his bag and lifted it to his ear.

‘Martin, it’s David. I’m on the 5:35 so I should be there by about nine. Oh, and I forgot to mention, I had a good meeting with Beckett on Friday about advertising on the back page. I took him for lunch at that place near Regent’s Park and I think it’s in the bag. Let’s talk later. Give me a call.’

The girl stirred in her sleep and David lifted his eyes from the screen. She was attractive in spite of that jumper, which was far too big for her slender frame and must belong to a boyfriend. Her mousy blonde hair was flopping to form a curtain partly obscuring her face, but he could still make out her

32 Pulp Idol

pretty, delicate features and pale skin. His eyes fell to her chest and the way the sweater fell around her breasts. He loosened his tie some more. She reminded him of a girl he’d slept with in college; that same small, thin nose and the faint freckles dotted high on her cheeks. Vivien, that was her name.

She used to wear jumpers like that. He wondered what she was doing now, and in his mind she still looked the same as fifteen years ago. In his mind, so did he.

The conductor appeared from the front of the carriage and asked to see everyone’s tickets and railcards. David produced his wallet from his back pocket to pay for a standard open return. But the man did not move on, and when David looked up again he realised it was because the girl opposite him was still asleep. He reached over and softly touched her on the arm.

She jumped so hard that he felt sorry for interfering; her cheeks turned a speckled pink as she took in the situation and produced a ticket from the back pocket of her jeans. But the man wanted to see a railcard too, and this caused her further distress. She unzipped her backpack and began removing items from it: a creased A4 notepad; a canvas pencil case; a paper bag with patches of grease from some half-eaten fast food item; a lace-up boot. When she finally found the railcard, the relief David felt was almost his own.

He cursed himself for getting so distracted. But just as he was making a start on Tom Freeman, a jolt lifted his laptop from the table. He raised his eyes from the screen and they met the girl’s for a second, scared and looking to him for reassurance. The lights went out.

Half an hour earlier, as the minute hand on the station clock clicked on to quarter past five, Lucy Shaw had been standing alone and bewildered beneath the towering arches, crowds of weekend travellers spinning around her as she tried to locate the ticket office. Her eyes fell on Burger King, Heathrow Express; her feet led her a few steps in one direction, then in another, making their own unique contribution to the random patterns of sludge on the floor. She inhaled deeply to control a rising panic, breathing in the thick smell of burnt burgers and engine smoke.

She walked towards the departures board to avoid looking lost. As a small child, when she couldn’t find her mother in supermarkets, all she’d wanted to do was wander around alone until the bright red and white stripes of Mrs Shaw’s weekly shopping bag reappeared at the end of an aisle, but some nosy and self-righteous stranger always had to embarrass her by bending down and asking her where mummy was. It had only been then that she felt

Femke Colbourne 33

the need to cry.

Still fifteen minutes to go. She spotted the ticket office at the other end of the hall and wove through the masses of people, dodging a barrage of speeding wheelie bags and briefcases. Three hours sleep on a wooden floor were taking their toll and she felt like the only real person in a station full of ghosts. She had not intended to stay overnight, and yesterday’s make-up had set into a sticky film on her face.

‘Single to Reading with a Young Person’s Railcard, please.’

The man behind the glass partition directed her to platform two, where the train was already waiting. The doors hissed open and she walked along the carriages past a man eating a pasty, a party of fighting children and a sad-looking woman in a raincoat. She moved slowly, aware that every step she took was another step back towards real life.

In the final car she removed her rucksack, rested it in the aisle and rolled her shoulders, sucking in air through the holes in Mitch’s jumper. She checked her watch. She would be back by seven, but the damage was already done. An image of her father’s face flashed into her mind and a shock wave coursed through her body, starting in her stomach and spreading to her eyes and fingertips. He had given her rare permission to stay out, but on the phone an hour ago he had sounded furious. And she knew what could happen when he was furious.

She rested her head against the window and closed her eyes. As she sank in and out of consciousness she was half aware that her head kept dropping and then rising again and that it probably looked silly, but she was enjoying her sleep too much to interrupt it for vanity’s sake.

As the train settled into its top speed, she became aware of movement in the seat opposite her. She opened her eyes a fraction, her cheek still pressed against the window. It was getting dark outside and she could see the reflection of a man in a blue shirt. She watched him, enjoying the fact that he was unaware of her attention. He was about to start working on his laptop: some kind of report she wouldn’t understand. Her father never talked about his work and anything office-related was a different world to her. A pile of business cards lay on the table and the top one was embossed in heavy blue letters with the name JB Archer. She wondered who he was.

The man was talking on his phone now, something about a meeting at Regent’s Park. Lucy closed her eyes again and wondered how many brain cells were being killed by the jolts and bumps of the train as her head bounced against the hard surface of the window. Did she really need them

34 Pulp Idol

anyway? Most of her time was spent trying to conceal what was going on in her mind. She wondered whether it would be better not to have any brain cells at all.

She must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing she knew there was a hand on her arm. She opened her eyes to see the man looking straight at her and snatched it away. To her right loomed the ticket inspector. Her heart fluttered and she could feel her cheeks turning hot as she produced the ticket from her back pocket.

But he wanted her railcard as well. Too embarrassed to even glance at the man opposite, she opened her rucksack and rooted around. The harder she looked the clumsier she felt; but after thirty painful seconds she found the railcard and handed it to the ticket man, who nodded and moved on as though it hadn’t really mattered.

Lucy continued to watch the man’s reflection as he typed. He had big, strong-looking hands that flitted quickly over the keys. He kept running his hands through his hair, making it stick out at all angles, and his tie had been pulled away from his collar and hung loose down the front of his shirt.

There was still a strange tingling in her arm from where he had touched her.

She watched the trees and bushes whizzing past and pondered what odd creations they were, sticking out of the ground like that and reaching off in all directions. She thought how each one could be a map of someone’s life, with all the branches representing the different decisions you could make.

The thick branches would be big decisions, like which university to go to; the thinner ones could be small things, like whether to buy the blue or the red tights. Then at the end of your life you would finish up at the end of a branch, and how long or thick it was would depend on all the decisions you had made so far. She wondered whether the man opposite her ever worried about life, about which branch he would end up on.

A jolt banged Lucy’s head against the window. She sat up straight and looked to the man for reassurance. Their eyes met. The lights went out.

Femke Colbourne 35

Changes

Cath Cole Cath has written creatively for three years - following a career writing tedious formal documents. She writes for a travel publication and has had work published in Carillon magazine. Cath chairs the brilliant Skelmersdale Writers’ Group. She started an MA in Creative Writing at Edge Hill University in September. ron.cole40@btinternet.com

36 Pulp Idol

A

gainst a backdrop of a northern town, five girls are caught between the post-war cultural and social values of parents and the swinging sixties. New Beginnings is a humorous, sometimes sad look at growing up in the 1960s, which follows the fortunes and adventures of Theresa, Wendy, Jenny, Maggie and Chris as they break away from their family ties and embark on new careers as state registered nurses

Friday Night Theresa ‘Good luck, Theresa, luv. We’ll miss you. You’re one of the best cadets we’ve ever ‘ad on 6C. We’ll miss your lip and back chat to say nowt about your singin.’ Mrs Entwistle, the fearless Amazon of a ward auxiliary, reached out, grasped Theresa into her bosom and gave the startled cadet a smacking kiss on the forehead. The force of the grapple knocked Theresa’s cap flying.

‘It’ll be yer last chance to annoy Shitty,’ said Mrs Entwistle as she fastened the top button of her white overall. The embrace had threatened to release her cantilevered chest from its starched cage.

Theresa anchored her cap as best she could with the single hairgrip she’d managed to find from rootling around on the floor.

‘I’m dreading saying goodbye to her. I don’t know what I’ve done to upset her. Do you think I could sneak off while she’s giving Twitchy Thomas the afternoon report?’

‘Not a chance – and Twitchy will want to wish you all the best. The least you can do for the rest of us is let Shitty have another go at you. Go on, get gone and remember them of us what’s bin good to you when you come back on ‘ere as a know-it-all student nurse.’

‘I’ll miss you too, Mrs E. Thanks for looking after me and keeping me out of trouble - well, for most of the time.’

Theresa hovered at the door of the Sisters’ office. ‘Is it all right for me to go off duty now?’ she said.

‘Look after yourself, Cadet. You’ve worked hard for us, hasn’t she, Sister Smith?’ said Sister Thomas as she gave her senior colleague a wary look.

Cath Cole 37

‘Thank you, Sister,’ Theresa said. Anxious to get away, she walked into the door-frame. She felt her cap sliding out of her hair.

Sister Smith turned her head and glared at Theresa. ‘You need to buck your ideas up, young lady. I’ve already had a word with Sister Tutor Bolton about you.’

Shoulders hunched, Theresa faced her tormentor. Too late. The cap tumbled to the floor. She stooped to retrieve it.

‘You need to listen to your elders and betters and keep that muck off your face. Nursing is a vocation, not any old job where you can do as you please.

If you make it beyond the first year of training, Cadet Brown, I promise you I will, I will…Now for the last time, take yourself off my ward.’

‘Yes, Sister,’ said Theresa as she turned to go.

Bugger off, Shitty Smith, you dried-up old frog.

‘Don’t bother about me, Mum,’ said Theresa. ‘I’ll get some toast and jam later.’

In the Brown household money was hard to come by. Win, Mary and Brendan had free school meals; Theresa had had free meals as a cadet. Her Dad and Tommy had subsidised meals at the factory. Tea was usually jam or HP sauce butties. Making her way from the kitchen, Theresa went through the front room into the small entrance hall behind the front door to try and hook her coat on one of the pegs still in place. The front door was rarely used. If a stranger called one of the family banged on the front room window, pointed sideways and shouted to them to ‘go round t’back.’ If the visitor insisted on standing at the front door they would be peered at through the narrow gap left when the door was pushed against the thick pile of cardigans, coats and other clothing that didn’t have a home in the overcrowded council house. The family had been on the waiting list for a larger house for so long they had almost forgotten about it.

‘Here’s my wage packet,’ said Theresa.

‘Your last one as a cadet,’ said her Mum. She reached inside the brown envelope, took out a pound note and a ten-shilling note and handed them to Theresa before stuffing the packet in her apron pocket.

‘From now on I’ll be able to give you a bit more.’

‘That’ll be good, luv, but only while you’re living at home. You’ll need what bit’s left for clothes and other stuff.’

‘I can still give you something, Mum.’

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‘Just get your dad a packet of his smokes every now and then.’

Theresa took hold of her mother’s bony shoulders and steered her away from the kitchen sink.

‘Leave the pots. I’ll do them. Go and sit down while you can.’

The bump of feet hitting the bedroom floor, followed by running, shouting and laughing soon gave way to loud wails. Bernadette looked upwards, shook her head, took a deep breath and dragged herself toward the stairs.

‘You wicked boy, look what you’ve done - you little bugger. I’ve a good mind to give your bum a good smack. The place smells enough as it is. Go on, out of my way,’ said Bernadette, dragging her youngest son out of the bathroom and pushing him onto the landing.

‘He’s kicked the night bucket over,’ Bernadette said. ‘Look at the mess.’

Theresa had followed her mother upstairs. ‘You take the girls and give them a wash down in the kitchen sink. I’ll clean this lot up.’

‘Our Win said she’d see to the bucket before she went to school,’ Bernadette said, ushering Ann and Mary down stairs.

‘Bloody typical. Where is she now?’

‘She was calling at the church, something to do with …’

‘Oh Mum, it’s always something to do with the bleedin’ church.’

On her hands and knees soaking up the stale urine with newspaper she’d retrieved from the lavvy, Theresa felt a light kick on her bum. Turning round she saw her brother Tommy at the top of the stairs.

‘Do that again, Thomas Brown, and I’ll rub your face in these papers,’ she said as she lunged to catch his foot.

‘Catch me if you can, our kid,’ he said, then turned and jumped down the stairs.

Jenny The four Hayes children were sitting at the kitchen table finishing the shepherd’s pie left by the daily help. A key turned. The front door clicked open and shut. A briefcase thudded onto the floor and footsteps came down the hall.

‘Good evening, my boys. How are we all this glorious Friday?’

The three boys mumbled responses through bulging cheeks. Jenny stayed silent, her eyes cast down, concentrating on her plate.

Cath Cole 39

‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘I’m here, my darling.’ The children’s mother appeared in the kitchen doorway smelling of Chanel No 5, her tiny frame drowned in a white towelling bathrobe.

‘You look stunning as you are, my darling,’ her husband said, stretching his thin lips into a smile.

‘I’m all ready. I just need to step into my dress. I’ll clear away the children’s sup – ‘ ‘You’ll do no such thing. Old mop head here can earn her keep, sort out the kitchen and see the boys into bed. What do you say to that, chaps? Can you stand the sight of Ugly Mug for the evening? We must make use of her whilst she remains with us, although she’ll soon be back, bound to be – the thick lump has yet to succeed at anything. What do you say, boys?’

Jenny caught her mother’s eye, willing to say something in her defence.

Her mother turned and walked out of the kitchen.

Jenny, naked, forced herself to look in the mirror of the utility issue dressing table that dwarfed her box room bedroom. She stood straight, her shoulders back, her arms by her side. Her eyes travelled the length of her body.

How ugly am I? She ran her hands over her breasts, down her abdomen, over her hips and gripped her thighs. I’m not fat or thin. Do I look like an upturned mop? My friends like my hair – I don’t need to put rollers in every night. Surely I can’t grow any taller. I’ve never been snogged, on tennis trips or at parties. She breathed, hard, onto her hand and sniffed. I’m not thick – I got six O levels.

Jenny pulled on her worn pyjamas. Bugger, bloody, shit, piss, fart – Theresa would be proud of me. Jenny marched on the spot lifting her legs higher with each step. Bugger, bloody, shit, piss, fart. I could start swearing at him or smoking cigarettes or drinking cider. Then Theresa would be even more proud of me. Eight weeks and then I’ll be away from here, even if it is only down the road. Just wait, I’ll show him - them.

Tucked in bed, Jenny set about writing her thank you letter. As always, her grandmother had been generous and sent her a five pound note for her birthday. Jenny had saved hard from her weekly ten shilling pocket money, and altogether had eighteen pounds, thirteen shillings and sixpence. She’d never been so rich – and could now afford to treat herself to bra and knickers – her school knickers had had it, the hand me downs from her mother were too small and she needed pyjamas. She had half expected to

40 Pulp Idol

have to find the money to buy her brown uniform shoes and the text books and nurse’s watch she needed for the start of her training. Jenny had been astounded at her mother’s response when Miss Bennet, one of the sister tutors, had handed the equipment list to her mother at the cadets’ parents’ evening.

‘Thank you, Miss Bennet,’ she said. ‘Jenny and I will enjoy our shopping trip. Perhaps we will have tea at the Crown and Mitre.’ The shopping trip didn’t happen, but Jenny was given nine pounds to go into Farnton.

‘It is probably better if Daddy is not aware of the expense,’ her mother had said.

Chris ‘…In conclusion, I am sure you will all join me in wishing Christine good luck as she leaves us to start her new career as a nurse.’ Mr Reid, the senior partner, finished his short speech. The two other partners and their secretaries clapped politely. Chris stepped forward and was given a small package that she knew contained a nurse’s watch. The presentation had been timed to take ten minutes and therefore finish precisely at the end of business at five o’ clock.

She sat at her desk making an effort to look busy. She removed her few belongings from the top drawer: the Parker fountain pen her Nana had given her for her twenty-first, a pencil case, a single stocking, half a tube of Polo mints, a sanitary towel wrapped in a handkerchief and a sixpence.

Heaving shopping bags over their arms, Chris’s colleagues prepared to bustle out of the office.

‘Don’t forget to come and see us.’

‘Be sure to come back and tell us when you meet a handsome doctor.’

‘I will, I will – come back I mean,’ Chris said to their departing backs.

She dallied in the ladies’ lavatory, combing her hair, applying lipstick, straightening her stockings and fastening, unfastening and then refastening her cardigan. It was only when she heard Madge opening the mop cupboard that Chris reached for her coat and gloves.

‘Thank you for signing my leaving card, Madge.’

‘Nice of you to say so, Miss Warrington. You never know, I might get to see you when I comes t’Infirmary to see that eye doctor. Our Gary skens like I don’t know what.’

‘I expect you’ll be looking forward to getting home for Coronation

Cath Cole 41

Street?’ Chris stepped aside so that Madge could mop the floor under the sink.

‘I am that. I’m worried about Ken Barlow’s wife. That poor woman’ll be worn out, what wi’ fetching up them twins. All as he can think about is havin’ his way wi’ her – durin’ t’week as well. I ask you! It’s Saturday night, after t’pub, or not at all, at our ‘ouse.’

Chris walked slowly up the deliberately quaint cobbled street, past solicitors’ and accountants’ offices. She made her way through the main shopping centre, gazing at window displays. A shop assistant was arranging orange cellophane over the three mannequins in Miss Gloria’s Gowns. Why was she doing that on a sunless April afternoon? They were hardly likely to be bleached by the sun for a while yet. Arriving at the Hippodrome, Chris wasn’t surprised to find herself at the front of the queue for the first house.

She had no idea which film was showing. Inside she stared at the screen, vaguely aware that the film was about a group of schoolgirls and a train robbery. The side of her head, above her right eye, throbbed. She hadn’t finished her lunchtime sandwich. Her mouth was dry, her eyes heavy. The loud shrieks and coarse laughter of the schoolgirls intensified her gloom.

What the hell have I done? How am I going to cope, cooped up with young girls of eighteen? I don’t have any other choice. Do I? A nurse? Me? I can’t stand sick or snot or sh... Don’t think about it. It gives me a job as well as a home. I have to get out of that house, get away. I wish I were dead. Oh God. I have to get out of here before I’m sick.

The smell of burnt popcorn overwhelmed her as she pushed past knees, fighting her way into the aisle and out into the dazzling lights of the foyer.

She stumbled into the ladies’ lavatory and rifled through her handbag to find her aspirins.

‘Chris, we’re in here.’

‘I’m tired Mum,’ said Chris as she hung up her coat. She made straight for the stairs and, once in her room, pushed her chair against the door, lodging the cross bar under the handle.

42 Pulp Idol

Cath Cole 43

The Land of Midnight Days

K.A. Jack I have been writing for most of my adult life. Initially I wrote short stories for women’s magazines, before venturing on my first novel, Two Faced. About three years ago, I took an MA in creative writing at Liverpool John Moore’s university, which gave me the tools to improve my writing technique and the opportunity to meet like-minded people.

I am currently engaged in finishing The Land of Midnight Days. katejack9@btinternet.com

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J

eremiah is fighting to stay alive and prevent the city he lives in being overtaken by the Night-Gangers. He is aided in this quest by his half brother, Zeb Tully, and Tully’s friend, Joe Ambrose. They need the help of Helen Greycheck, daughter of the leader of the Night-Gangers. But Helen is also Jeremiah’s former lover. Can she be won over once again, to save Jeremiah, his brothers and friends, and free the city of the Night-Gangers?

The Land of Midnight Days Don’t look back; it’ll slow you down - just run.

In the past Jeremiah had always managed to evade them, but tonight it could all be over.

A full moon hung in the sky above the city, its pock-marked face occasionally obscured by tattered rain clouds. On the flat rooftop of an abandoned warehouse he paused, his tall slender figure hunched over as he panted for breath. Damp hair hung in tangles over his face and his heart hammered against his ribs.

‘There he is.’

His pursuers were still after him. With a sob he fled.

Ever since leaving The Crack o’ Dawn pub, they’d chased him through the dark, narrow streets. In desperation he’d climbed up the rickety fire escape to the roof of the warehouse. Its flat, waterlogged surface was littered with coils of wire, broken packing cases, and old pipes. He wove his way between the rubbish at a staggering run, until forced to halt at the parapet on the opposite side. A pair of rusting metal bars clung to the brickwork; the rest of the ladder had fallen away. The ground, some fifty metres below, seemed to rush upwards. He lurched back, fighting a sudden onslaught of vertigo. No use calling for help. Even if he’d been able to, no one would answer.

‘Come on, we’ve got him.’

Jeremiah looked over at the neighbouring building and tried to gauge the distance - maybe ten metres. They were closing in. He snatched up a piece of piping, hurling it at the nearest thug. It caught him across the midriff and he went down, taking two others along for the ride and forcing the rest to pull up.

‘Stupid bastard.’

Glancing at the neighbouring warehouse again, Jeremiah backed up a

K.A. Jack 45

little and then raced forward. When his feet hit the edge of the roof, he pushed off into space and overshot the ledge of the next building, landing hard. Winded, he curled into a foetal position. A string of curses drifted from across the way and he looked up. The yobs were gathered at the periphery of the warehouse roof. They continued to rant and threaten, but didn’t dare follow. For the moment he was safe.

Shrugging off the leather backpack he wore slung across his shoulders, Jeremiah took out a bulky pouch, opened it and stared at the gleaming silver contents.

Thank God it wasn’t damaged.

Ignoring the stream of abuse, he replaced the pouch in the bag and, gripping it in one hand, ran off into the darkness.

Dawn was breaking by the time he reached home. Tall, narrow and shabby, the dwelling stood at the end of a row of mid-Victorian houses. Rusty, black painted railings lined either side of the worn stone steps. Yet, despite its condition, the house still retained an air of faded elegance.

Next to it stood the remains of a church, its once fine structure full of overgrown bushes and stinging nettles. Its steeple reared towards the heavens, as if pointing the way home. The graceful arches of the windows, even devoid of glass, clung on to remnants of their original beauty. A dismal wind whistled through the ruined interior, as though mourning the building’s demise.

Jeremiah ran past the church and then up the steps of the end house, where he paused to glance over to the other side of the road. As expected, a pale oval appeared at a hole in the downstairs window of the opposite house. Chin on hand, and wispy fair hair tied in bunches, the child lifted her face to the rolling clouds.

‘Rain, rain go away, come again another day,’ she intoned, making the little rhyme sound more like a funeral dirge. Her reedy voice drifted out of the gap in the window, across the street to where Jeremiah watched and listened.

She lowered her head again, gaze seemingly fixed on him. One side of her thin face was a puckered and angry red, the result of a raid by a gang of Street Warriors. They’d set the fire that had not only scarred her, but also taken her sight.

Jeremiah sighed and turned away. He knew the reason why the little girl

46 Pulp Idol

spent so much time sitting there when she should be in bed. She was waiting for it to come out of its den.

Forcing the warped front door open, he stepped into the hallway.

When he reached his room at the furthest end of the top landing, he took out the pouch and dropped the backpack on the floor. He glanced round and shivered. Despite the freezing atmosphere he wore only a threadbare sweater, shabby jeans, and trainers that had seen better days. He sat down on the bed, the single piece of furniture the room contained, and emptied out the pouch’s contents. The silver pieces glittered with breath-taking beauty.

When he’d finished assembling it, Jeremiah held the flute to his lips, but stopped short of playing it. All too aware of the consequences if he did, he nevertheless struggled to resist the temptation. It was hard – very hard.

There was so little to be glad about, so little to look forward to. He glanced down at the instrument... there was only this.

He started to disassemble it, but his fingers were numb from the cold.

Afraid of damaging the flute, he put it down on the bed and then drew the worn out blanket over it – out of sight, out of mind. But it didn’t work like that, he needed the music the instrument contained to sustain him. Without it he had less than nothing.

Don’t be a fool. You know what’ll happen and this time it could be more than just a slap across the face. He threatened to break your arm last time, and if he does what’ll you do then?

Temptation battled common sense, until Jeremiah could stand it no longer.

Temptation won.

He rubbed his hands together until the circulation to his fingers was restored, then snatched the flute from its hiding place.

Eyes closed, he began to play, lost in the melody. Exquisite beyond description, the music filled his drab surroundings with magic. It took the form of glittering specks of silver shaped like musical notes. Jeremiah had always kept this particular aptitude to himself. If such a talent became public knowledge it would only make his situation worse.

The notes sparkled in the morning light, weaving in and out and around each other. Moments like this were rare and precious, helping to transcend the misery that was his lot.

K.A. Jack 47

Downstairs, to the left of the main entrance, was a door that led into a small room. The occupant of the iron-framed bed issued a series of snorts and grunts before sitting up. From beady eyes, still puffy with sleep, he looked around the bare, damp-patterned walls and took a deep breath. The stench in the room was thick enough to slice, but he didn’t mind. He never understood why people objected to smells. His personal scent of stale whisky, mingled with sweat and tobacco, formed part of who he was.

Ezra laid back, a cavernous yawn stretching his jaws. He stared at the ceiling, trying to gather energy enough to rise. Another bloody day living amongst the damned and stupid; on the other hand, living amongst the damned and stupid presented certain opportunities.

Owner of the dwelling, he charged his tenants exorbitant rents to occupy the rats’ nest, laughingly labelled a boarding house. If anyone fell behind they were out; it was as simple as that. Due to the national housing shortage accommodation was hard to come by. If some people couldn’t pay, others could – depending on how desperate they were.

No one knew Ezra’s age; he didn’t himself. Ever since he’d arrived in this city, some years ago, there’d been gaps in his memory. He found it hard to recall his life before he came here. Not that it bothered him – the past was the past – all that mattered was today and what could be squeezed out of it.

An observer would have gauged him to be around sixty. Thinning greasy hair, slicked back from a low slung forehead, was supposed to be white but was yellow from lack of washing. Tiny eyes, set above a bulbous nose, were almost buried amidst layers of fat. The double chins blended into the thick neck and remained permanently unshaved.

Ezra’s decrepit façade was misleading, for he was an ogre of a man and more than capable of using his fists. Indeed, he welcomed any excuse to pound in a face or break a limb or two. His reputation of being a tough bastard brought him constant delight. Fear was meat and drink.

Swinging sturdy legs out of bed, Ezra belched and scratched. After pulling crumpled clothing over a grubby vest and long underpants, he picked up a bottle of whisky, flipped off its cap, and chugged down several mouthfuls.

Wiping the back of a hand across his mouth, he peered into the flyblown mirror and bared yellowed teeth in a smile. He raised the bottle in a mock toast and was about to take another swig when the voice of the flute drifted down from the upper regions of the house. An expression of fury etched itself onto Ezra’s face.

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‘Shut that damn row up!’ he yelled, yanking the door open.

The music continued, unabated. Cursing beneath his breath, Ezra dragged his carcass up flight after flight of stairs.

He’d kill the little bastard this time.

K.A. Jack 49

Stacy the Shift

Sebastian Koehorst After gaining a degree in Creative Writing and English Literature, I tried online freelance writing, while attempting to get something published. Two years since, I have two published poems, both in Quantum Leap Magazine. This is the second novel I have spent any length of time on, and my current pride. chairface_pail@hotmail.com

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U

pon moving to the suburbs of Manchester and starting college, the selfconfessed killjoy and mama’s boy, Jon, uncharacteristically makes friends with a dangerous drug dealer, girl charmer and repressed artistic genius: Stacey. Jon’s fascination with his new best friend draws him into a dingy world of parties and criminality he’d previously avoided. But Stacey’s sudden obsession with, and stalking of a girl who wants nothing to do with him, forces Jon to try and bring Stacey back from the brink.

We Meet His name’s Stacey the Shift. Names should come first, and the rest follows when it feels like it. As you can probably guess, that’s not his real name, but Stacey Roberts doesn’t necessarily have the right ring to it, when you want to make it as a small-time resin dealer. Stacey does all the things I’d never do, and it seems like he wants to turn into things I’d never be, but let’s keep an open mind; maybe there’s deeper water.

He loiters in the slushy street off the McDonalds, with a sudden, warm rain thawing December’s chill, and dripping off the cigarette in his large hand. He waits for her like the leopard in the long grass, stalking the gazelle.

The withdrawal is itching at him, so he drags again. The cigarette must be as sodden as he is, because it doesn’t oblige. Unperturbed, he pulls another from somewhere within his many coat folds, covers it and lights up, then gets one of the two fixes he’s craving.

The ‘Mackie Dees’ door opens stiffly and she walks into the downpour with her entourage. He wasn’t really focused before, but his daydream snaps and his vision zooms in to watch her. Fascinated. There’s flurry and bright, and she’s the centre; the only clear image to Stacey amongst the other fuzzy entities. Obsession is the key to this mess. The girl is important too. She’s the reason we’re in this moonlight madness.

The dripping wall moves into the way, so he absently drops the can of coke and that seventh or eighth ciggie and sidles out of the shadow. When he hits the cobbles of the main street, the girls are already halfway to the bus station. He shuffles in pursuit, although that word indicates the desire to catch up, whereas he’s happier just observing right now, thinking they’re oblivious to him. The world’s worst stalker.

One thing you’ll learn as I have, is that Stacey’s perceptions are just like a child’s. Which is a good reason why he and she should be meant for each

Sebastian Koehorst 51

other. She’s the only girl in the gaggle who either hasn’t noticed the boy, or doesn’t care enough to acknowledge his presence. I think they’re both so childlike that they would cover their own eyes and swear they were invisible.

The difference is, Clare wants to be seen right now, and Stacey doesn’t. They should be perfect for each other; she wants to be worshipped and he wants to worship. Never since has one person been so adored. Are you guessing I don’t like her much at this point? Soon there’ll be more reasons not to.

The girls sit together in the sudden shelter of the station, waiting for 1998 to end. The millennium looms even from here, as millenniums often do.

How do I know that they sit there kicking the air, and that Stacey drips with longing and water only metres behind them? Because I drip with just water, a little way behind him, having followed from my bench in McDonalds.

Now I’m a better stalker than he is, but I hate what I’m doing. Nevertheless, here I am, because there he is.

There he is. I couldn’t leave him alone now, even though he doesn’t see me. He needs my help, though he doesn’t know it and would never ask for it. He needs my help because he’d never ask for it. Circumstances have led me to this place tonight. It wasn’t by chance that I found myself peering out the stickered window at Stacey peering in, patient, always patient.

I’d never even heard of the Robertses until I moved from a detached house in my own well-to-do corner of Liverpool, to the strange new world called Greater Manchester in the late summer. It would be months until I realised just what the name ‘Roberts’ meant to the locals. It was September, 1998, the first day of term, when Stacey and I met. I found myself at sixteen years old (and two thirds), being dropped off by my mum for my first day of sixthform college, in a new county, with a brand new set of books, clothes and nerves.

Meeking my way through the door into my first lesson, I was overcome with that familiar affliction, tunnel vision. I didn’t dare to look about me, in case I saw nothing but hostility from the students who were already assembled in the classroom. So I kept my eyes trained on an empty seat near the blackboard, and headed straight for it while trying to avoid knocking into anything. Unfortunately, there was no comforting sight of a teacher in the room yet. I imagined the solid presence of an authority figure to be my sanctuary if things went tits-up, so I prayed one would turn up soon.

This was the first time I had ever been the new kid, having only ever

52 Pulp Idol

attended one school. Both my primary and secondary education had been spent in the same set of classrooms and with the same classmates, so I was afraid of the new. Do you sympathise? You’ve probably been in the same boat. As I walked, I thought, this must be what it feels like in prison, walking the long strip down to your cell.

Sixth-form isn’t like regular college, other than the lack of uniform.

College is where people from anywhere are placed together, with nothing to unite them except the subject they’ve chosen to take. Whereas my new sixthform was an extension of a specific secondary school; a new wing of the older school building. This meant most of the students I was about to fail making friends with had already been classmates with each other for years.

Their own gangs were already in place. There was no kidding myself; I was the outsider. The one they would all judge when this lesson was over.

But how would they judge me? Would they see my independence as arrogance, and tease me for it, or would they see me as the shy boy I was, so kindly leave me alone? I wanted a happy medium. I didn’t want to be ignored entirely. I wanted to make new friends. I was desperate to make some kind of connection, especially because I’d always been lonely. I had happily left my secondary school ‘friends’ behind when I left Liverpool, without a glance in the rear-view. We hadn’t been very close at all. I wanted someone to fill the hole I’d always had, but not knowing what shape the hole was, I couldn’t imagine who on earth would fit there. I think I wanted a brother.

Now having chosen a seat I hoped wasn’t bagsied, I sat down and pulled out the necessary books and pens. It was exactly ten am. Where’s the teacher?

With nothing left to do, I finally looked about me, tentatively. I feared the worst as I scanned the room. Were there any scallies in huddles, flashing their flick-knives and murderous glances at me? No. Was there a big guy called ‘tiny’ with tattoos and a tan, winking at me from across the room and mouthing ‘I want you’? Not that I could see. But there were no friendly waves either, or smiles to lure me into conversation. A couple of students looked over at me, but without much interest, as they brought out their own pens and dealt with their own insecurities. What had I expected? To be both mercifully left alone and welcomed with balloons and hugs? I suddenly stopped feeling embarrassed, and instead became deeply, deeply sad, as I realised my shyness would once again be the cause of my isolation for two more years.

The teacher came in, to exclamations of ‘Alright, Mr Cobb’ and ‘How was

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your summer, Sir?’ He greeted them all in return, most of them individually, so they must have been in his class in secondary school too. That personal touch seemed nice and everything, but it wasn’t aimed at me, and it showed me Mr Cobb was just one more member of the tightly knit gang that I would find very hard to infiltrate. Just give me a shovel, I thought, I’ll bury myself. So I put my head down and decided to yet again do what I do best; academia.

The lesson began. When I put my hand up to answer Mr Cobb’s questions, I hoped they wouldn’t hate me for being a know-it-all. My mum always said it was my greatest virtue that I didn’t pretend to be someone I wasn’t. I agree that not bowing to peer-pressure is a virtue, but it never made me any friends. I was so anxious on that day; so worried that the other kids would label me a ‘ponce’ and write me off, that I was determined, no matter what my mum said, to not show my true colours.

And then something wonderful materialized, disguised as a slightly smelly pile of clothes with two arms and two legs.

The boy breezed in ten minutes late, said ‘Wot’s up’ to Mr Cobb and everyone else, and began walking towards the half a dozen empty places at the front of the class.

His hairstyle was a harshly cut fringe, greasy, but the rest of his head was closely shaved. He wore one earring (I can never remember which ear is the gay one and which is merely bi-curious). He was ugly, spotty, skinny, dark under the eyes, but with a charming smile. Swathed in layers of black shirts, black jackets and a flasher’s black coat, he grinned at us with yellow teeth and an amateur’s soft moustache.

Seeming to know him, Mr Cobb was disgruntled that the boy was tardy, but more that the whole class had stopped listening to the lecture and was instead giving the newcomer a welcome that Alice Cooper would be proud to receive at his fan-club headquarters. The teacher waited with his arms folded for the class to quiet down.

When a very pretty girl said, ‘Hiya Stacey!’ the boy waved modestly back, still surveying his kingdom majestically.

I thought, Stacey? That is so cool. I’d never pull off a name like that.

‘Would you kindly park it, Roberts?’ said Mr Cobb.

‘Yeah, Shifty,’ someone called from the back. ‘We can’t wait all day!’

To my amazement, Stacey now stopped at my table, chose the chair beside mine, and draped himself over it. Several thoughts were swashbuckling with each other for my attention, fighting their way up the

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spiral staircase to the tallest tower of my head. Amongst the contenders were, Oh my god he’s going to beat me up and steal my lunch money, and I should edge my chair away or I might catch something, and probably the most powerful thought: if he’s a troublemaker, I don’t want to be associated with him. I had plans of wealth and success, so I wanted to make a good impression with the teachers.

But I can’t hide it, there was one more thought fighting to be heard, even though it was currently at the very bottom of the spiral staircase. It was saying, ‘This guy is popular. If I could get him to accept me, I would be in.’

Like I say, this was a weak thought, quickly slain by the other more muscled thoughts, but it had made its point before it died.

So for this lesson I found myself sharing the table and my books with this swaggering (yes, he could swagger sitting down), back-talking, Manc scally. And I suppose he found himself sitting by his opposite in lots of ways.

I was soft in all the wrong places, and Stacey the Shift was clearly ‘well-ard’.

He had no fat on him whatsoever, and by contrast it would be mean (but more importantly accurate) to call me bottom-heavy. Never properly fat, exactly, it was just that my gravity centred around the arse region, as opposed to the core. I was refined, middle-class, with a baby face, neat hair and small hands. He had a blacksmith’s hands, and came from a big family of working men and wild women. But like I say, I didn’t find out about the famous Roberts reputation until months later.

What I did know, was what my instinct was telling me. Somehow, even though every news report I had ever seen about gang violence in Manchester had shown people who looked exactly like this, I wasn’t afraid of him. I was intrigued by him. Maybe slightly wary still, because my prejudices about certain elements of the working class were rooted deep, but that soon dissipated when we spoke.

We’d just been told to read through a page of the textbook, when Stacey turned to me. ‘What you into mate?’ was his first question to me. He sounded genuinely interested, not mocking, as if what I was ‘into’ could become what he was ‘into’. He was always up for a new experience, our Stace.

I hesitated, as you do. What do you say to that? What would you say to that? ‘Not much. I like music, like indy and rock.’ I was still trying to process the idea that he would find a nobody like myself worthy of conversing with.

‘Ah,’ he winked. ‘I like that shit too,’ as if our shared hobby of ‘shit’ had sealed his approval of me already.

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I liked him immediately. For the first time in my life I found that I was really enjoying not listening to the teacher, and by the end of the lesson we had swapped phone numbers. I couldn’t figure him out. He thought I was suitable, so we were friends automatically. No discussion required. How refreshing.

He could tell, when I knew all the answers to the teacher’s questions and when he found out my second name, that we were very different creatures.

I wrote down the week’s homework, and he was fascinated by that alone.

He peered at my notepad and said, ‘Where’d you learn to write all posh?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, joined up.’

He wasn’t entirely stupid. He knew the answers to some of the teacher’s questions, even though when he answered, it at first seemed like backtalk to me, until I realised he wasn’t being disrespectful. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how not to backtalk, but more like he didn’t see why he should speak any different to the teacher as to anybody else. And about the short-hand, some people never switch their handwriting style after primary school. But I was middle-class; something I think he’d never sat so close to. I was also a Scouser, and partly French; one of which he could tell (even though my Scouse accent was mild, it was definitely there), and one of which I chose to explain.

‘My mum was born in France,’ I admitted, automatically braced for the usual snide remark.

‘Oh, right. Say no more,’ he grinned at me again, and I knew I was sitting by the most liberal-minded human in the entire county.

When the bell signalled lesson’s end, he introduced me to all his friends in the class. I couldn’t tell whether their friendliness was just because it was the Shift making the introduction, or whether they actually liked me. But he accepted me just the way I was. It would have been unfair for me to do anything less.

So there we were, placed together by chance. The local and the foreigner.

Clever versus Intelligent. It’s a good thing we weren’t actually versus, because I know which of those holds more weight. Just as chemistry can attract, opposites can do the same. Sometimes the hero needs his bespectacled sidekick (I never wore glasses, but you know what I mean), and as much as I hate to admit that I was his Robin, Stacey was definitely my Batman.

I never once got the sense he had a compulsive side. He never once

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warned me of what we would soon be going through together. Stacey the Stalker is a completely different kettle, and at first all I knew was Stacey the Shift.

Sebastian Koehorst 57

Past

Christopher Moore Christopher J. Moore is a twenty year-old Creative Writing student, originally from Telford in Shropshire, now studying in Liverpool. Part of The Reeking Gentlemen writing movement, Moore uses an interest in a wide range of subjects to create diverse, kitchen-sink realist yet romantic poetry and prose.

C.Moore2@2009.ljmu.ac.uk

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T

eddy Daniels is travelling around Europe. When asked about his past life in England, he doesn’t let much slip. The only orphan child of new age, libertarian parents, his sheltered ideals were shattered by the inhumanity of his extended family, becoming lost in drug subculture, theft and alcohol abuse. Will his murderous past catch up with him on the continent?

Smoke As a child I lived with my mum and dad in a two-up-two-down terraced house on a long road of identical, two-up-two-down terraced houses. I must have been a very high maintenance child for my parents. I suffered from anxiety, panic attacks, night terrors and insomnia right up until I was eleven. I always looked ill, like meat a week past its sell by date.

One night I woke up covered in sweat, with my hair plastered to my forehead and my clothes clinging to my arms, legs, and back. My throat had closed up. I was choking on words. I tried to shout, but I couldn’t stop taking short, shallow breaths. I got up and walked through to my parents room.

The smell of their ‘special’ cigarettes filled the hall. I knocked, and heard my mothers desperate tone.

‘Don’t come in, just a minute.’

The lump in my throat was shrinking. I found it easier to breathe, but my heart was still thumping like it was trying to get out.

‘Okay, come in.’

The light was on, and underneath the smell of the plant smoke I could smell something else, a sweaty, human smell.

Their room looked smaller than mine, with a short double bed pushed into one corner. Most of the room was taken up by enormous book shelves with hundreds of paperbacks covering every bit of wall space. There were clothes all over the floor, clean clothes that I used to crawl under and pretend to swim through in my early years.

‘Are you al’right honey? You have a bad dream?’ My mum was sitting up, half her body covered with a thin wool sheet. ‘Sit down.’

I stayed there for a couple of hours talking at them, sat at the foot of their bed like I did most nights. My heart slowed, and I was calming down, but I was still wide awake. I felt like I would have to run around the block fifteen times before I could even think about sleeping. At around two o’clock they

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looked at each other, and then my dad got out of bed and came and sat next to me.

‘Breathe just a little bit of this in and see if you feel any better.’

He placed a special cigarette between his lips, struck a match and lit it.

With one smooth slight of hand movement he took it out of his mouth, turned it around and placed it in mine. I took just a little bit of smoke into my mouth, then swallowed hard. I tried to cough it back out but it didn’t work. I carried on coughing until my mum handed me a glass of water.

‘You did it wrong, try again, but this time breathe it into your mouth, then take it away, and breathe in again.’

I did what he said, and only took a little bit of smoke, and then blew it back out again. It tasted like dirty chalk. I was told to go to bed, and by the time I was in the hallway I felt very different. I felt calmer, my eyes were heavy, and for the first time in my life I felt like I would be able to sleep. I did sleep, an event-less, heavy sleep.

I didn’t really know what my dad used to do as a job. I knew he was some sort of writer or journalist. He was always talking about stuff I didn’t understand, staring into a typewriter before taking off his glasses and pushing at his eyes. He was a small man, smaller than my mother, with a nervous tic that made him raise his eyebrows at odd times. My mum was beautiful, and you wouldn’t have put them together. There were always beads in her long brown hair, and she curled them around her finger when she read. She worked late some nights and some days she didn’t get out of bed at all. They were strange, closed off people, but it didn’t seem like it to me at the time.

‘The reason that marijuana is illegal is that some people smoke too much of it and it makes them sick,’ my dad told me one morning over cornflakes with sugar.

I asked him what he meant.

‘It can make you go crazy like Uncle Andy.’

I understood that. Uncle Andy was my dad’s brother. We would visit him at hospital occasionally. He acted very strangely. I liked him, he was more interesting than most other people.

I never really had trouble sleeping after that. Most nights I would go into my parents room and sit at the foot of their bed. My mum would pick a book out for me and we would all read in silence. Then, at around eleven o’clock, my dad would roll up a joint and I would have one toke and go to

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bed. It was like having a paracetamol when you had a headache. We smoked weed when we couldn’t sleep.

On my first day at secondary school I got punched in the nose. I managed to get into a very good school on the back of my SATs, so it took me by surprise. At lunch time, a boy with gelled black hair walked up to me in the corridor.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Teddy.’

‘Teddy what?’

‘Daniels.’

‘I’ve never heard that name before, Daniels, what does your father do?’

‘He writes.’

‘What does he write?’

‘I dunno, books I guess.’

‘You look like a gypo.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Look at his shoes,’ he said to his friends.

There wasn’t anything wrong with my shoes. His were way too shiny, I preferred mine.

‘At least I don’t look like someone pissed in my hair.’ It was a bit rubbish, but people laughed and made that oooo noise. He swung his whole arm around and I turned to look at it. I’d never been punched in the nose before.

There was a dull pain, and then the blood started falling. It didn’t stop until I got home.

Without saying a word, my dad took me to the kitchen sink. I remember the blood dripping down on the wet stainless steel. I moved my head around making red polka-dot patterns on the metal, before watching them burst out like balloons in the thin layer of water.

‘Lean your head back.’ He handed me some toilet roll and lifted my other hand to the bridge of my nose. ‘Squeeze there, it will stop eventually.’

And it did, but he never asked me what happened.

The Patrick Edgerton Grammar School was held in high regard in the local community, but I didn’t see why. All of the other students had rich parents who had paid for their place, so most of them didn’t care about learning.

The school was made up of four buildings and above the main doors each had the year it was built engraved in stone, like it was something that

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mattered. Everything inside seemed to be made of varnished oak, from the tall boarded walls, the floors, the stairs to the handrails. Even the frames on the portraits that lined the halls seemed to be made from the same stuff. It probably came from the huge grounds that surrounded the buildings and the vast forest that was perfect for students to hide in. At lunch time and break I would sit under a thick oak tree at the far end of the grounds, reading and smoking. People never called me Teddy to start out with, I was The Gypsy, Freak or Shit-Eater to the older kids. I didn’t mind. To me words were just sounds that were used to get across someone’s point of view and I didn’t care about theirs.

There was one person I liked, a girl in my year called Elliot-Rose Smith.

I liked her name, it was like the singer Elliot Smith that my mum listened to. She hated it, and insisted everyone called her Ellie-Rose. Her friends called her El, but I didn’t have that privilege. She was smart, on a scholarship like me, but people liked her because she was attractive. She was sporty as well, and every Thursday at ten o’clock I could see her doing P.E out of the Religious Studies window. She was fast, but her wavy blond hair was never disturbed when she ran, it just bounced up and down on her shoulders. I hated it when it rained on Thursdays.

Her first boyfriend was when we were in year nine. He was in the year above, I forget his name, Jonathan or something beginning with a J. One day in R.S. a girl, Jen, caught me watching Ellie play hockey.

‘Did you hear she gave her boyfriend a blow job? What a slag...’

It was surprising, but I didn’t care. She was a good runner, so she must have good lungs. She must have been good at blowing. If anything I liked her more. Everything she did made me change my world view in keeping with her. She couldn’t do anything wrong.

I soon learnt to keep myself to myself, and the other students seemed more interested in picking on people they could get a response out of. I just sat around reading all the time. In year seven I worked through the British authors and poets. Then I moved on to the great American authors like Fitzgerald and Hemingway in year eight and nine. I read Catcher in the Rye over and over again, it seemed to make perfect sense. But that was all before the fire.

I separate my life so far into two halves: before the fire and after the fire. My memory of that day is only sensory detail mixed in with a few still images

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of my old house, and that’s how I prefer to remember it. I had been out; I forget where, probably to the park or the shop because I approached the house from the left. Vivian, the woman from next door, ran up to me and pulled me into her large bust. I can remember the sound of her crying in her chest cavity like a motorbike starting up. I could hear the mucus in her throat and lungs simmer with every deep breath. She held my head there, without telling me what had happened, and somehow I knew that she was crying for me and not for herself. Her strong perfume smelt like flowers and spices from a far off place. There was a fire engine parked on our street.

I wasn’t allowed into my house. Vivian tried to look after me while my parents were in the hospital. I left her house when she went to make me a cup of tea. I went to the park and sat on the swings, lost in my head with possibilities. I would rather sit there and worry than make small talk with someone I didn’t really know. I waited an hour in that empty playground.

A group of teenagers showed up and that’s when I left.

I remember I walked straight upstairs. There was a still, musky smell of all different kinds of smoke. Burnt wood, paper, melted plastic and scorched fabrics. The carpet was hard and black. It crunched under my feet. I remember their room, it was the only place I went. Their door was open. It was never normally open, and there was a cool breeze that cut through the dry stillness of everything else. What I saw there would dominate my memory of that day for the rest of my life.

Everything in the room was charred. There were bed springs, scorched pages and strands of fabric on the floor covered in soot. The ceiling had spilt open in the middle and pieces of plaster were hanging down. There were no more bookshelves covering the walls, there was no bed. It looked like a different room, much bigger. I could see the outline of the fire in black waves on the walls like a high water mark. It was much taller than my parents.

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Hinterland

Neil Schiller I am an IT consultant and PhD student, currently editing a thesis on American author Richard Brautigan. I have primarily been writing short fiction for about ten years and self-published an ebook collection called Oblivious in 2010. It has sold literally tens of copies and was recently shortlisted for obscurity. Hinterland is my first novel. neil_schiller@hotmail.com

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A

live beneath an expanse of sky and chained to the past like a circling dog, Nick is trying to forge a life for himself and his family, but he can’t escape the violence of his brothers and the violence he has locked away inside himself.

Hinterland Tonight, it seems, is a good night to die. The moon is high and clear. There’s an early frost upon the fields. The sodium lights of the service station are ringed with a spectral halo that tells us winter is here.

People file past me to the coffee shops. I stand off to one side with a cigarette and crane my neck to take in the ravaged sky. Somewhere above, the lonely light of a commercial airliner is blinking its way South. There are no clouds, but the pollution thrown up by the street lamps and twenty four hour shopping, swamps the stars. Another thing lost to the viral progress of Western culture.

In the car park a businessman is struggling to change a tyre. I watch him silently as he works the wrench and his shirt stretches and tautens in new and unexpected ways. I watch him swear at his bad luck and each expletive is accompanied with a brilliant white puff of breath that rapidly disperses in the cold air. In two seconds his words are formed, are spoken, and are gone forever.

I look away from him and run a pale hand over my face. I crush the ember of my cigarette beneath one foot and immediately light another.

The steady stream of strangers comes and goes and I wonder why they’re here. Some have a lot in common with me, I suppose: commuters lost in transit, drawn in from an endless network of slip roads and motorway, dazed and confused with some lack of purpose. The sun goes down and it takes everything with it. They are travelling restlessly between the lives they lead and the lives they wish they had. None of us want to go home. There’s nothing there for us. We cluster together in these forgotten places and the traffic howls by and the wind blows empty plastic cups around in a circle.

I stop here every night. It’s part of my ritual. The crowds remind me of who I was before. Who I was when I could still stand the daylight hours, and flirt with women, and eat fast food. I don’t speak to anyone, I don’t make eye contact with anyone, but by watching I allow my despair to build, to find focus, to ferment into the anger and hatred that I’ll need later, if I can

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finally push through the last barrier.

For the past two years I have lived in a perpetual darkness – a vacuum of natural light. It’s an extension of my vague and tortuous half-life. Holed up at dawn, dreaming fitfully through noon, and barely aware of the onslaught of twilight behind my curtained windows. Tomorrow, I’ll be thirty eight, and tomorrow will be no different from today, from this night, from all the nights that have led me here and the endless expanse that will follow. I’m not in control anymore. It’s pointless. Every decision is arbitrary. There’s no purpose and no end in sight.

A woman clicks across the pavement towards me, her stiletto boots echoing – a Nazi typewriter, an enigma machine. She wants a light and I give her my clipper. An involuntary shiver passes across her shoulders as my fingers brush against hers. She thinks she’s touched a ghost, and she might be right. But it passes quickly away and she cups her hands against an imaginary breeze and lights up. She hands the lighter back and walks away. It’s the most complex human interaction I’ve had in a long time.

Suddenly, my phone rings and it startles me out of my thoughts. The night is growing colder. I have trouble flexing my fingers as I take the handset out of my pocket. It’s Karen. It’s always Karen. I watch the crystal display until the call flicks to voicemail. Immediately, it starts to ring again.

This time I stop it, even though she’ll know I rejected the call. It hardly matters now. Two seconds pass. My eyelids flutter twice, slowly it seems to me. The shitty ring tone I never bothered to change starts up for a third time.

Enough. I grip the thing loosely at the edges and throw it at the wall. I won’t be needing it. It flies apart upon impact, the battery and SIM and fragments of circuit board breaking open into a cloudburst of shrapnel. A couple of kids gawp at me for a moment before their mother herds them together and quickly leads them on with a cautious glance back over her shoulder.

It’s time.

I walk back to my car. It doesn’t start on the first attempt – it rarely does – but on the third twist of the ignition key the engine finally turns over and I rev it until a fog of sickening grey smoke has accumulated behind the exhaust. I’m out of the car park in a few seconds, accelerating past the garage and out onto the slip road. At this time of night, the motorway is almost empty and the car coasts effortlessly across all three lanes, picking up speed as it goes. The moon is high and clear. There’s an early frost upon

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the fields. I experience the faint thrill of forward motion. This section of carriageway has recently been re-laid and the wheels glide over it with a minimum of friction. For once, it responds to what I want it to do. I move and it moves, synchronously. I fly past a signpost that name checks my hometown. Twenty seven miles I’ll never travel again. As the junction lights appear, I angle the car diagonally across the empty motorway. The stanchion of a bridge is directly in my sights. The car hurtles towards it at ninety miles an hour, a firm foot pressed down on the accelerator. Ninety six, ninety eight. I hit the bridge with what sounds like a sonic boom and momentarily feel the lift of the rear axle before a crimson darkness rushes forward from the back of my skull, is whipped forward, and I’m conscious of nothing else.

I don’t know whether I’m alive or dead. It’s dark. I can’t see a damn thing.

And it’s quiet. I can’t even make out the sound of my heartbeat or my ragged breath. There’s no pain. There’s nothing.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve felt this way before. Isolated, disconnected, adrift in a grey swell of nausea and self-loathing. I’ve spent the last eighteen months crouched down in the far corner of my own skull, it seems, watching my life unfurl through the bloodshot eyes of somebody else. None of it is real. None of it has any consequence, because it isn’t happening to me, it’s happening somewhere else, out there, beyond this locked room where what’s left of me is huddled up, given up.

Detached. That’s the word. I’ve heard it a lot and it’s always meant as a criticism. I haven’t gotten over her death because I’m too detached. I haven’t moved on, there are people here who want me to come back to them, but I remain…detached. They’re all wrong. I’m not detached. I’m severed. The link has gone forever. There’s no way back. I wouldn’t want to try even if I could.

I felt this way when I got the phone call. I felt this way when I crept carefully amongst the shadows of the gathering gloom and saw the derelict house on Druid’s Lane slip slowly into the twilight. I knew they’d brought her here. They brought everyone here. It stood on its crumbling foundations, the pale blue paint peeling from its panelled walls. Lifeless stalks of ivy twisted over its boarded up windows, and I stood in a cold metallic dream of myself watching, and waiting, as the daylight faded and the house became a pale phantom beneath the rising moon.

They thought I didn’t know anything about them, but I did. I knew

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enough. We were brothers, after all. I may not have spoken to them in twenty years, I may have convinced the world that I was leading a different life, but when our cousin missed a payment on the money he owed them, it was me he came to for help.

‘Fucking hell John, what happened to your face?’

Karen was in bed already and she hadn’t heard the doorbell ring. I brought my voice down to a whisper and ushered him inside the front door of our terraced house, closing it quietly behind him.

‘Come into the kitchen.’

Under the fluorescent lights the dried blood from his nose looked almost black. His lip was split in two places and swollen out to one side making it difficult for him to talk. I didn’t notice right away that he couldn’t walk straight, but when I pulled out a chair for him it took him several attempts to get into position and drop down into it.

‘They kept smacking my kneecaps with belt buckles.’

I just nodded at him grimly. That’s what we did, John and me, whenever my brothers were discussed. Act as though nothing surprised us; it was grim but we were comfortable with it; we weren’t phased, we weren’t intimidated.

‘I fucked up, Nick.’

His pretence, at least, was slipping now. There were tears in his eyes and I tried not to look at them.

‘What if Tracy finds out…? Oh god, I fucked up.’

He needed two thousand to pay them off. Eighteen hundred on what he owed them, two hundred for their ‘admin fee’. Admin consisted of chasing him down and giving him a reminder.

‘John, I just don’t have that kind of money.’ He couldn’t look at me directly. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

I really didn’t have the money. I couldn’t borrow it from Karen, she didn’t know about my family.

‘Please Nick, you need to help me out here.’

He knew I would too. If anything, that was the worst thing about it. I’d always got on ok with John, but he was hardly a friend. We only ever had one topic of conversation when we met and I knew he liked telling me about the latest things my brothers were up to. He was in the know, and I wasn’t.

He was always looking for a response from me, a micro expression or tic that reassured him I was shit scared of this world he flirted with manfully.

I never gave him the satisfaction. And now, when it had all come tumbling down on him, he wanted me to bail him out. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

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It wasn’t lost on him either, but he knew I’d put all that aside and help him anyway. The urge to let him hobble out of here and just deal with it himself was strong, but I already knew I wasn’t going to do that. That’s the problem with trying to be the better person: you have to close your eyes, take a breath, and push through the revulsion of compromising your principles.

‘Alright, give me a minute to try and work something out.’

I left him in the kitchen and went into my makeshift office to check a few bank statements. I was really only acting out my part. I knew what my options were before I left the room, but I had to make it look like more of a challenge than it was. I poked around for ten minutes and then went back into him.

‘I can get you the money, but it’ll be a day or two.’

I agreed I’d get an overdraft on my bank account and he’d have to pay it back over the next few months. I didn’t care how; I assumed he’d skim from his job on the taxis. I probably wouldn’t even get it back, not all of it, but at least that meant I wouldn’t be put in the same position again. I’d have a reason for saying no next time, and a reason I could quite happily live with.

‘Come on, I’ll take you home before anyone wakes up and sees you like this.’

It was a twenty minute drive to his house and John was quiet at first. I figured he was thinking up a story for his broken face, an unconvincing one to tell his ex-wife when he went to pick the kids up for the weekend.

Eventually though, he roused himself and started talking.

‘They caught me on the hop you know? I didn’t even see them until they were on me.’

The old bravado was returning then.

‘They took me to this house they use.’

For some reason, that bit interested me.

‘What house? Where is it?’

I made him tell me about it. He hadn’t recognised where he was on the way in – it was a bit of a blur to him. Because he was frightened no doubt, although he would never admit that to me. But he worked it out afterwards.

When they were done with him they untied him from the metal chair he was in and just left. It took some time before his legs could take his weight again, but when they could he stumbled out into the blinding light of a crisp spring day and tried to orientate himself. A few kids playing on the street stared at the purple and yellow bruises already forming around his eye sockets, but he ignored them and shuffled towards the sound of traffic until

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he hit a main road and managed to figure out where he was.

‘Show me where it is.’

‘What?’

‘Give me the directions. We’ll go past there on the way back.’

‘Now? Why? It’s fucking miles away.’

I shot him a look that reminded him I was about to give up two grand.

‘Fine. Head towards town and I’ll show you.’

I don’t know why I wanted to see it right then. I had some vague and morbid curiosity churning away. Maybe I saw what was coming, sensed it somehow deep in my unconscious. Who knows? John lapsed into a sullen silence again, occasionally telling me to turn right, to go straight over a roundabout, to slow down while he worked his taxi driver memory.

When we got there, we drove past slowly. He wouldn’t let me park up and he kept his head down as I scrutinised the place. The house itself was on its own plot, about an acre of dead, cracked earth. There were newer houses further up and down the road but this had somehow escaped the developers. It looked like the whole area had once been some great estate – there were gateposts and stone boundary markers still standing amongst the twisting lanes we’d come down to get here. It was an old coach house, or a gate lodge maybe, nestled back amongst a twisting copse of black trees.

It was boarded up and derelict. At some point in its history, the foundations had sunk on the right hand side and a huge crack had opened up which ran from ground level up past two lintels to the eaves. It was a pretty sorry looking place.

‘Can we go now?’

I let him sweat for another couple of seconds, but then I sped up and took him home.

I went back there the next night. Of course I did. I told Karen I had a late lecture and smuggled out a flashlight and a claw hammer from the shed. I wanted to go in there, I wanted to poke around a bit. Why was I fixated on the place? I don’t know. I was a bit old for adventure, for fighting the good fight like some post-pubescent Tin Tin. Perhaps it was the same bravado that afflicted John. Perhaps a part of me was just drawn there, the shared part, the rogue gene that connected me and the other two men that my mother had carried in the same womb. No matter what I thought of them, no matter what I thought of myself, I knew I was only a different branch from the same tree. If I reached back far enough there was a stubborn core of commonality there, small and sharp and indelible. I’d seen its effects before.

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I prised one of the boards loose at the side that faced away from the road and, holding a hand over my nose to minimise the smell of piss, climbed clumsily inside. I probably spent no more than half an hour in there, but it felt like longer. I doused the flashlight and panicked every time there was a noise from outside, or when the broken building settled itself slightly on its haunches. From what I could make out, there were only four rooms. In one was a metal chair, the same one John had been tied to. Behind that was a short corridor and the remains of an Edwardian kitchen. Rags and bottles and used condoms were scattered in one corner, and a broken, porcelain sink in another filled with leaves and spiders. There was also a cellar though, a gaping black hole by what used to be the back door. It was half covered by a wet and stained sheet of hardboard. I kicked the cover out of the way and forced myself down the corroded steps to see where it led.

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Now That I Have Found the Words

Rose Thomas I was born in Liverpool and started writing in 1984 after a course in home management at the Mable Fletcher College. At first I wrote poetry and one of the poems was published. I then went on to write a play that was performed by pupils from local schools. In continuing Education at The Liverpool University, I gained 160 credits in Creative Writing.

Throughout the years I had my family and have two surviving children.

I love to write, and I have written many short stories that I hope to perfect when my novel is published. dllavia@hotmail.co.uk

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B

ess experienced the consequences of being the odd one out from an early age, but when she marries the deceitful Liam Marshall she is dramatically uprooted from a life of security to the back streets of Liverpool, where poverty and prostitution was rife. This powerful drama will hold you in its grip as Bess recounts a life through the eyes of a Black woman coming of age after the Second World War.

Now That I Have Found the Words Bess inched her duster round her son’s prized possession: a herd of miniature glass horses ranged along a shelf in the sitting-room cabinet. In the centre stood Brian’s favourite, Flying Jack, his barley-twist body modelled on one of Spain’s magnificent stallions. He reared, head bent, his mane as fine as a silkworm’s thread and his forelegs kicking like a dancer’s.

A slip of Bess’s duster sent an ornament crashing. Her arm shot out, ready for the catch. Froze. Missed. An eye glared up from the floor: green, with a deep purple ring around the iris. Only Flying Jack had eyes like that.

‘Shit,’ said Bess beneath her breath.

His mane and legs scattered like a million diamonds. The little glass stallion lay smashed around her feet. In desperation she swept the evidence under a chair with her duster and picked up the larger pieces by hand.

The sitting-room door opened. Though Brian had just got up he looked like a male model, his dressing-gown hanging perfectly round his muscled frame and his skin resembling an advert for an expensive cream. He stood in the doorway filing his nails then blew imaginary debris from his cuticles.

‘Mother, I heard a crash.’

Bess moved forward and squashed a telltale remnant under the soft fibres of her slipper. She needed breathing space.

‘Oh, morning son,’ she babbled, fidgeting with her wedding-ring.

Brian’s eyes narrowed. That fidgeting was a movement he knew well.

‘What have you dropped?’ he asked as he walked towards her.

Bess stared at the floor and folded the duster edge to edge. ‘I’ve broken Flying Jack.’

Brian’s head jerked forward.

‘You’ve what?’ he shouted. The nail file slipped from his grasp.

‘You heard me,’ she said. ‘I’ve dropped your precious horse.’

‘Mother, tell me you’re joking,’ he said in a choked voice.

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‘I can’t. It was an accident. It’s gone.’

Head down and shoulders stooped, Brian ran his hand frantically over his forehead.

‘Look at me,’ said Bess. ‘My hands are crippled with pain. I’m clumsy and you know it, so you buy the most fragile objects and wait for me to reduce them to glass shavings.’

A blue tinge had appeared round Brian’s mouth, and though he was moving his lips, Bess heard no sound.

No, she thought, I won’t feel sorry for him. He gave me no sympathy when I lost the man I loved and, broken-hearted, felt I had to move to London. Besides, he gets on people’s nerves with his fusspot ways. No one but me would put up with his fanatical outbursts. Like her and Flying Jack, their relationship had long been on a collision course.

Not wanting him to catch any stray gleam in her eyes, she searched her pocket for a tissue to wipe pretend tears. Found none. No, she wouldn’t use the bloody duster. And yet, though she knew how to act upset, her dry mouth and the lump in her throat told her that, for all her sense of triumph, she was deeply touched by Brian’s hurt.

With one leg forward and the other stiffened at the hip joint, she planned her escape route to the kitchen. In her mind, her body had stayed as young as her brain. Practically, the aches and pains were a reminder that her bones were old. Wear and tear of the joints fused muscle and tissue together, creeping around her body like ivy roots.

Brian spoke in a cracked voice. ‘Where have you hidden the pieces?’

Bess nodded towards the chair. ‘They’re under there.’

‘Is he repairable?’ Brian whispered.

Bess stared at him in disbelief. ‘Repairable?’ she said sarcastically. ‘No, Brian. Humpty-Dumpty is a nursery rhyme.’

He stooped and cradled the horse’s head in his hand. Splinters of glass pierced his palm, making him squirm at the bubbling specks of blood. He turned and walked towards the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder to give Bess a look of contempt. He opened the door with his foot, lifted the lid of the bin and disposed of the remains of his beloved Flying Jack. A few seconds later he banged back into the room.

Here we go, thought Bess. He was still on the warpath – and she knew an apology would be useless because he thought the accident had been caused by her wilful neglect.

He fetched a little brush from inside the cabinet and, pushing out his lips

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to form the words, flicked the brush’s bristles under Bess’s nose.

‘Mother, use this the next time you decide to dust. Shall I label it so that you won’t be tempted to use any old rag?’

Though Bess still had the fierceness of spirit that brought others to heel, it wasn’t so easy when Brian always moved the boundaries, jangling her nerves to the point of explosion.

‘There won’t be a next time,’ she mumbled. ‘From now on you can look after your own bloody trinkets and remove the dust with that stupid pony tail.’

Brian’s knuckles turned white and the dried blood on his hands cracked beneath the strain.

Am I now excused, Sir? Bess wanted to say. No point. Brian would be furious and exhume the Flying Jack saga from its mushy pea and boiled potato place of rest. Not that she was scared of him. It was guilt that kept her quiet. Unlike him, she knew the quarrel’s underlying cause; she was homesick. Longed to be in Liverpool, somewhere cosy. A home to feel relaxed in, not this show house full of name tags. She wanted to be sat in her tiny back yard with its whitewashed walls and plastic chairs. There she’d be surrounded by pots of rainwater ready to be sprinkled on her flowers. The moss-covered concrete with clumps of grass and weeds that sprouted in dark corners weren’t a problem. She didn’t have green fingers so there would be no need for pruning tools or gardener’s gloves.

Brian slammed out of the room. In the silence that followed, she gazed at his choice of mushroom-colored carpets which hadn’t enriched, enhanced or livened up the apartment. Bricks everywhere. With what seemed like its medieval structure, the flat to her was a place of capture, thick and incarcerating, with walls that soaked up her breath. When closed, the expensive full-length, dark green drapes only hid the pretty curtains made of cream, see-through muslin she’d insisted on purchasing, much to Brian’s disapproval. Whenever she swished them back the view gave her a headache: London with its regenerated docklands where snobs used suitcases to carry their dirty washing to the launderette. Sometimes, in the window of the flat, she’d stand and watch the dark brown water swelling on the horizon. Would almost vomit when the waves with their caramelcoloured froth gained momentum in the breeze.

It’s time to confront Brian, she thought. Tell him that I feel broken like his horse. Ask him to visit Liverpool with me for a couple of weeks. So I can see Joe again, and Brian can come to terms with the past, seeing his

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home town through the eyes of a man and leaving behind the distorted images of a child.

Clutching the folded cloth she felt a growing urge to dust everything in sight. Should she continue what she’d started, or incinerate what Brian called an old rag and watch it curl like it was possessed with a will of its own? Neither, she decided, and shuffled towards the kitchen. Inside it she paused and leant against the door, thankful for its airy space. No colour coordination, just a mish-mash of country life, high-tech equipment and a splash of orange and lemon paint. Always a little untidy, the way she liked it. Brian dodged the kitchen as much as possible. He said it gave him a migraine.

A flick of a switch sent the percolator into a frenzy, grinding rich, dark, caffeine-fuelled coffee. She poured herself a cup and after she’d had her hit she decided she needed some fuel - and that she’d cook Brian some breakfast as well.

She opened the fridge and sucked her teeth at the shrivelled sausages and unappetizing bacon. We’ll have scrambled eggs, she thought, and toasted brown bread. I’ll smother it in best churn. Washed down with Finest Reserve strawberry jam.

After throwing away the out-of-date food, she whisked the eggs and put a generous slab of butter into a heavy pan. Switched on the cooker. Put the pan to the flame and let the butter melt. Poured in the eggs. The mixture spread like a wave. She seasoned it with fresh herbs and black pepper and poured.

‘He’ll like this,’ she thought, as Brian entered the room.

He was dressed in faded black jeans, a moth-eaten cardigan and comfort shoes. But he still wore his scowled look. Arms dangling at his sides, he stood and stared into space.

She turned the golden brown toast and smiled. ‘I’ve cooked your breakfast, son.’

‘Put it this way, Mother. I don’t want anything from you.’

‘Stop it, for God’s sake. It was an accident. You can buy another glass horse.’

‘It’s not that simple,’ Brian said. ‘You know damn well that I love my collection.’

‘Don’t swear at me.’

‘You would make Jesus Christ swear, you’re so irresponsible.’

‘Once again, Brian, I am sorry. Now are you going to have something to

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eat before I give next door’s dog a treat?’

‘I’ll forgive you this time,’ he muttered, ‘but you won’t get a second chance.’

Cramming a piece of toast into his mouth, he walked into the sittingroom and sat. She followed him, carrying her peace offering of calorie-laden food and placed it on the table in front of him. She conjured up the cutlery and gave him something on which to wipe his oily lips.

Bess wasn’t usually up with the birds. This morning, though, she hadn’t been able to sleep. Must get dressed, she droned in her mind. She wrapped her taffeta nightdress round her legs then straightened the scarf she’d tied girlishly round her neck. The silk glided through her fingers. It felt like her neck used to feel when there were no ridges or bumps to restrict the flow of blood. That part of her body, she remembered, had been heavenly to touch. Now the worn inner tube of an old bike felt smoother.

Brian looked at her over his glasses. ‘What’s up now?’ he asked. ‘You’re quiet. It’s not like you.’

‘Nothing.’

But there was something. She could still smell a functioning hell-hole along with the smell of whatever used to be dropped from ceiling to floor.

Grain, flour, sugar or even old rags. All being hurled through the air. How many poor souls had lain crushed and dismembered, having fallen to their deaths? Landing right here. She shuddered and pushed away her food.

Trouble had seemed to follow her since the day she was born. Beneath her white skin lay a hidden culture. It had taken the death of her black father to open her up to another life, one she could relate to. Brian, on the other hand, found her search for fulfillment hard to deal with, including the way she wanted to live in a house far away from the shapely dome he loved.

She looked across the table. Already, he was working on his calculator with his usual precise movements and unnatural concentration. How his fingers co-ordinated the keys. How his hand glided like a ballerina.

He doesn’t share my visions, she thought. All he cares about is money, money, money.

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