What's Your Story? 2015 by Writing on the Wall

What’s Your Story?

Writing on the Wall Kuumba Imani Millennium Centre 4, Princes Road, Liverpool L8 1TH Published by Writing on the Wall 2015 ÂŠ Remains with authors Design and layout by Rosa Murdoch Edited by Sarah Maclennan ISBN: 978-1-910580-04-2 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. 0151 703 0020 info@writingonthewall.org.uk www.writingonthewall.org.uk

What’s Your Story?

Contents Foreword

Anneika Melendez

Cassius James

Christoper Lawrence

Daniel Wilson

Janelle Story

Katie Brown

Michelle Rutter

Nick Peterson

Rachel Jones

Sean Garrett

Steve Bird

Foreword Facilitating a creative writing group is a privileged position. The tutors’ role has been to inspire, support and challenge the participants. And – wow! – did they rise to the challenges. Watching a group of new writers grow in confidence, learn new techniques and approaches, and present their work for constructively critical feedback has been heartening. We covered life-writing, poetry, short stories, script and spoken word. I found myself looking forward to Tuesday afternoons as the highlight of the week. More seriously, the link between creativity and well-being and quality of life has been well-established by research. ‘Imagining and creating gives us a sense of purpose’ notes a CNN report. One participant of What’s Your Story? wrote: ‘Everyone who lives and breathes has a unique story to write that no-one else is capable of telling. Writing on the Wall knows this and they have offered this encouraging platform to give voice and confidence to those who maybe weren’t so sure of themselves’. Another participant wrote: ‘I have indeed got the writing bug, I was just writing all last night after getting the children to bed’. After reading the pieces in this anthology, I hope you, too, get bitten by the writing bug and are inspired to tell your story. Sarah Maclennan Course Tutor and Editor Writing on the Wall would like to thank Mandy Coe, Curtis Watt, Maurice Bessman, Sarah Maclennan and all the What’s Your Story? participants for all their hard work and commitment. i

Kelvin Living at temperature Kelvin Each day starts at Absoloute Zero Freezing, descending below Go with the floe Colder than an iceberg Less bouyant. Flotsam. Jetsam. Crushed to nothingness Crunched to meaningless Air. Water. Survival. Existence. Life? Anneika Melendez

The Raging Breath Across The Land... With all of nature's whirring grip, making our land as vulnerable as that of a new bornâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s screams. The raging breath across the land, keeps us tight in grip in nature's hand And keeps in our lives behind sturdy walls and desolate minds and fearful in busy, selfish digital lives. The raging rush of rampant ruin is nature's nod as if retribution debt for man's gain.... The fallow streets, as clouds weep, only to be telling of our powerlessness, as we thrash about to find some sleep The pending scurry is hurried fury as nature knows, that in its lap I lay, drenched and tired in the grip of day. And my weary ways about the days, that grab a grip as ominous and tortuous as an ancient creaking rack, to which ancient times bore screams that rang and became lost in the dark depths of doom My mind is as the weather, creeping with untold misery and lost in gloom, reminiscent of a heavy Turner sky Defy if would seem, logic got lost in its fact-ridden mercy only to be lead into the irrational That is nature and all her powerful damaging allure. Cassius James

Salmon King of The Riviera Follow a river, choked, blemished by factories upstream, their overspill denying it its name, Bleu, swirling past the rear of the 7- Eleven store and its clattering air-con, snaking beneath a long steel bridge rusting yet connecting, shuddering beneath wheels. Pattersonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Affordable Cars came next. A lot filled with dust-covered bargains. Some had not seen a highway in years, and even that may have been a brief flirtation. They ended up in the junkyard, part of the baled turrets that raised a castle silhouette at sunset, rusting clusters that Serena found as part of her home; a cinder block annex attached to a cluttered workshop. Her father told her tales, his only way of dealing with his wifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s death - illusion and mystery, a way not to let brutal reality encroach. Boundaries like the spaces between continents, broken wire fence. The weight of her sigh did not sink her, those tales her father told of the salmon king, traveling from the mountains swimming upside-down, eyes absorbing the world of the uprights and feeling that he would walk with them one day and find his true love queen. Singing, at times of stress a song her grandfather gave her, a memory of an old river-boatmanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s song, her history within its words. Being caught, scrambled back into the yard, a hand grasped at her hair, fear quickly killed by adrenalin, a glimpse of a gold ring. Could that be the seal of her king? Having left the water, found himself here encased in crushed steel? Grasping his hand to defer any panic Thirsty How long you been in there? 3

I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember Thirsty You miss the water, I get it Hold on She did not have water but a can of soda that could help, returning to the hand holding it, turning it upright, finger tracing those mysterious lines of love and the heart. She poured a pool that fizzed on flesh, hand retreated. More. I have been waiting and wanting for you. I know, did you see me arrive? No, but I sensed you. She stroked the ring, his royal seal, a magical symbol, one she would end up wearing herself. Serena move away from the car. Dad. A murmur inside the steel, her father had his shotgun. Away now. She slipped aside after kissing the hand. Her father fired with both barrels, once, reloaded and then again. Serena screamed a long drawn out noise as she watched blood run over fingertips dripping into pools. He would not return to the river. Christopher Lawrence

An Extracts from ‘Heights of Obsession’ Penthouse Suite, the Merseyview Sky-Tower. A rapid late-night live TV interview is underway. Sakamoto: — Ideas are a powerful thing. Now think of that. Just stop, and consider it. Okay? Now the idea of Journalism was a good one… Interviewer: Was? Sakamoto: Was. Interviewer: How so? Sakamoto: Because in the old days, some hack would take to the streets— graft for tips— make some calls— set a story— type it up— send it off—print it out— have a drink— and bam, big bam! Because it’s done and it’s dusted, the very next day! Interviewer: Amen to the bam! That was good. Sakamoto: That was good! Interviewer: Then what was bad? Sakamoto: More like, what was right? Interviewer: Then what’s wrong? 5

Sakamoto: Well, it was all fine and good. Interviewer: Again with the ‘was…’ Sakamoto: Sure, it was good, it was great, and that in its own right was a true achievement. But think of it this way, it proved so good an idea that information moved faster than ability of the consumer to consume it. Interviewer: Right… Sakamoto: And ever since, anything, anywhere, can now be reported at any time at all. Just like that: Acknowledged! Interviewer: Because technology evolves. You do that. Come on, that’s clever! Sakamoto: Sure, it’s noble to an extent. It’s nice on the shelf to an extent. Looks good till an upgrade, to an extent… Interviewer: But…? Sakamoto: It ultimately invokes a fluffy kind of mediocrity. Interviewer: Now hold on, you called for this interview. You called, and said you wanted this interview tonight— Sakamoto: Yet still, this all pours out of the industry, and into the mind of everyone wanting a degree in Cyber-Media, but that’s where it ends— Interviewer: When what ends? 6

Sakamoto: It ends. Interviewer: What ends?! Sakamoto: The idea. Interviewer: What idea? Sakamoto: The one weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re discussing. Interviewer: Of Journalism? Sakamoto: In part. Interviewer: Off-World? Sakamoto: Indirectly. Interviewer: It ends? Sakamoto: Absolutely. Interviewer: So, in part? Sakamoto: In whole. Interviewer: Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s incredulous! Sakamoto: Yet credible. Interviewer: How so?! 7

Sakamoto: Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s exhausted. Interviewer: Who? Sakamoto: Not who? Interviewer: The Journalist? Sakamoto: No. Interviewer: The student? Sakamoto: No. Interviewer: Theâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the viewer? Sakamoto: Come on now! Interviewer: Not the viewer? Sakamoto: Think it through. Interviewer: Then what?? Sakamoto: Exactly! Interviewer: Then what?!

Sakamoto: The idea itself, of Journalism being respectable, ends right there. At this very particular point itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s meant to go on, it ceases to be! Interviewer: But into what? Sakamoto: No more. Interviewer: No more? Sakamoto: And you want to know why? Interviewer: Yes. Sakamoto: You really want to know? Interviewer: I do. Sakamoto: Really care to know? Interviewer: Oh, for heavens-sake!! Sakamoto: Did you see what I done? You see it? Interviewer: See what? Sakamoto: What I done. Interviewer: What did you do? Sakamoto: You didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see? 9

Interviewer: What am I meant to? Sakamoto: Aw, you missed it?! Interviewer: Missed what? Sakamoto: What I done… Interviewer: Again, what was it you done?! Sakamoto: So, you wanna go again? Interviewer: Where? Sakamoto: Wanna go? Interviewer: But, where? Sakamoto: Again. Interviewer: I don’t follow— Sakamoto: You see, you... Interviewer: Right. Sakamoto: Just now, you wanted to know something; an answer you hadn’t arrived at yourself— Interviewer: Because?? 10

Sakamoto: Because my question; or rather, the point I made I moment ago— Interviewer: Which was? Sakamoto: Call it a certain view of things, a mindset you hadn’t arrived at either. Interviewer: Ok, but— Sakamoto: But, what? Interviewer: Well— Sakamoto: Look, I’m making a point to make a much bigger conclusion. Interviewer: That being? Sakamoto: That you, and billions watching this, were carefully, purposely, kindly, methodically, and very much intimately led by me just now, because wanted— you wanted, right— to know— something… Interviewer: Okay… Sakamoto: Hence, as you were hindered, and slowed, and even outright denied the knowing of it, you conjured up the next part from your knowledge base— to arrive at believing— what you most wanted— to hear… A… 11

Interviewer: Oh, good grief!! An excellent beat… Sakamoto: Am I right, or am I right? Interviewer: You’re right. Sakamoto: I’m right? Interviewer: Yeah. Sakamoto: Yeah? Interviewer: Yeah! Sakamoto: And so the sales strengthen, so the margins expand, and so the Off- World nations drift— until tonight… Dan Wilson

I Would Kill He slid his hands into his pockets. I searched his eyes for a glimmer of who I thought he was, but my sobs did nothing to affect his half-lidded stare. A visceral heat simmered until my blood throbbed in my ears. Gnawed nails dug into sweaty palms. I pulled back my shoulders. I punched his lying mouth. I forced my fist down his sluggish throat. Reaching into his chest, I felt a cold, dry air. As my fingers unfurled, I grazed a frosted organ. It laboured sluggishly like a freezing river. The breath from his nostrils tickled my elbow as I plunged further. I clenched his Arctic heart, so cold it burned my skin. A small twist broke off the first frail layer of frost. I squeezed. Another crinkle of ice melted away beneath my hot palm. Again, I squeezed, turning to peer into his dead eyes. With each pump, life flooded him. A light green filtered into his irises, his blinking increasing. He breathed harder. Rose flushed his plumping cheeks and I kept breathing for him, holding myself still. His eyes watered; his breath quivered. I brushed a tear from his cheek with my thumb. His eyes focused on mine and the weight of his head dropped softly against my hand. My stomach fluttered as we found a closeness we had lost so long ago. I let go of his heart, drawing out my arm and with it the warmth I had tried to gift him. His body sagged. His cheek went cold and hard beneath my palm. His eyes dulled back to a grey, lifeless stare. With a final sigh, he cast me from his life. I looked at him one last time. He never looked back. Janelle Story

Change The stench of liquor dissipated as she breathed him in. A deep intake, wet lips pressed, a hand on her neck holding and pulling, a choice embedded the moment suspended until their lungs filled, and their mouths parted to exhale each other. Janelle Story

Reap My ex left me one month after our wedding. ‘Thanks for sharing the duvet last night,’ I said. He shook his head, laughing, preparing an equally sarcastic rebuttal. I giggled. I guess he had decided early on to stop trying. He didn't discuss it with me though. I rolled my eyes at another wet towel on the bed. As I smoothed the damp cotton over the wooden banister, I paused and smiled. ‘Do we really even know each other?’ he asked. There was someone else already. ‘I can always count on you to be productive at the strangest times.’ He'd put the phone down and I started hammering again. He smiled. He stopped touching me; never looked at me; barely spoke to me. All of my advances were ignored. I cried myself to sleep. He ignored that as well. He held me the night I cried. ‘What's wrong with me?’ ‘Nothing. It was never about you.’ He kissed my forehead. We ate my homemade meals in silence and sighs. Did he like it? Was it too spicy? What was I doing wrong?

â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;How have we managed to use every dish in the kitchen?â&#x20AC;&#x2122; Dinner was an improvised success. We had sex on the couch, ignoring the mess. He left me. I would've loved him forever. I was certain I would never love again. I looked at him, sat up in bed watching telly, eating his raspberry Magnum with his hand down his pants. I smiled. But I'm just so good at it. Janelle Story

To The Ground He’d always wanted to go skydiving. He’d been nine when his uncle had told him about his own experience. How the cold air had felt on his face as he hurtled downwards, the ground growing nearer and expanding beneath him. Gravity was dragging him down whilst the air was willing him to fly. Seeing the exhilaration on his uncle’s face as he recalled the memory, even at nine, he knew he wanted to feel it for himself. His body was dropping, falling ever closer, but he felt weightless. The speed was building, the sound rushing, almost deafening, but time was at a standstill. The world was a blur but he saw in detail. He picked out slithers of colour amongst the whirling mass of grey. For a moment, there was peace. His arms floated like a bird’s wings in flight. As the wind whipped his hair around his face, he closed his eyes and could think of nothing. But then he thought of the ground. Closer now. Always getting closer. Below him was the all too familiar morning rush. Businessmen were getting out of their taxis and hurrying into their offices, trying not to spill coffee on their crisp, white shirts. He had been one of those men. His tie flew past his face. He should have taken it off beforehand. Or maybe he should have used it for a method more instantaneous? What a perfect picture of a successful businessman that suit and tie made him look each morning. His mind caught up to his body and remembered what he was doing, allowing the thoughts to come flooding in. Her eyes flashed in his mind. Because of him, those eyes would soon cloud over, tears ever threatening, willing to be allowed to fall. He hoped she’d get angry. It would be easier if she hated him. 17

Would she feel guilty? Would she wonder if there was anything she could have done? How tragic it was that he hadn’t questioned it sooner, that he hadn’t thought about the pain she would feel before he took the final step. Panic coursed through his veins as the pavement below came closer, ready to greet him. She would be left with a lifetime of anger and guilt, and he was too late to change it. He saw lots of eyes in those last moments. His mother’s eyes devastated, crushed, all of the hope stolen within an instant. His father’s eyes filled with disappointment. How had his son come to this? Had he really not been able to find a way to fix things? He realised the answer was yes. He could have helped himself, if he’d really wanted to. He had a family, a wife, and once, they had been all he’d needed. But he was almost there now. For those final seconds, he thought again of his uncle recalling the wind hitting his face. He was finally experiencing it. He would’ve like skydiving, it was just like flying. But instead he was falling. Katie Brown

Lost Property The school had looked the same for almost forty years. The only thing that changed within the hallways were the students. In and out they went, a fresh batch every year, all with exceptionally high expectations that were crushed before lunchtime. Norman’s routine hadn’t changed much. He was still awake at the crack of dawn, ready to begin a long day of avoiding as many people as possible as he did his work. He dragged his trolley of cleaning gear to the boys’ toilets on the ground floor of the main building. This was where kids hid out during the day. Inside, he filled his bucket with water. The edges were starting to crack. He’d need a new one soon. He glanced around at the filthy mirrors above each of the five sinks. How did these kids manage to dirty everything up so much? He ran a hand through his dark grey hair as he stared at his clouded reflection. There were strands of white appearing now. Pretty soon, he was going to look like the crazy scientist in Back to the Future. The school around him might not have changed very much, but he certainly had. His face had been smooth, and his hair had been black when he’d first picked up his mop and bucket. He could remember that first day well. He was carrying his bucket down the hallway when one of the kids had stopped him. ‘Are you the new janitor?’ he’d asked. ‘I am, yes,’ Norman had replied. The boy turned to glance at two other boys standing across the corridor. They were trying to stifle their laughter. The boy in front pointed his finger at one of the others, a blond, scrawny looking thing. 19

‘Billie had a little accident in the toilet, you see. It’s your job to clean it, isn’t it?’ The boys laughed even harder. Norman wanted nothing more than to give them a clip around the ear, but instead he walked calmly past them, heading into the toilets. The kid had pissed all over the floor. He could have jacked it in right there, thrown the mop on the floor and walked away. But he had nowhere else to go. They’d given him the job because of his father. They needed a new janitor after he died, and Norman was the obvious choice. But it was work, and the cabin on the grounds gave him a roof over his head. He couldn’t complain. That’s why he sucked it up that first day. He had to. Norman finally turned away from his reflection and surveyed the rest of the dingy room. He saw something blue, scrunched into a ball next to one of the sinks. One of the kids had left their jacket behind. He shoved in onto his trolley, ready to take back to the lost property box in his cabin. He wondered if that might be the jacket Julia had mentioned that morning. She’d approached him outside the staffroom. ‘Little Daniel has lost his jacket again,’ she said. ‘He wanted to know if it was in lost property.’ Norman frowned, ‘Why didn’t he just ask me himself?’ Julia’s smile turned sheepish. ‘He was too afraid. The older kids told him you hid the bodies of murdered school children in a secret basement under your cabin.’ She was fighting back laughter, and it almost put a smile on Norman’s face. None of the other teachers would have told him that. Then again, none of the other teachers told him anything. Julia was the only one who paid him the slightest bit of attention.

The school became just a tiny bit brighter when she arrived three years ago. Before her, no one threw a second glance in his direction. But she was polite, smiled, and always said hello. She spoke to him whenever she had the chance, or rather spoke at him. She liked talking a lot, and she was always excited about everything. If she were anyone else, Norman would be exhausted by now. But there was something about Julia that made him want to listen. The way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the way her fringe would bounce enthusiastically when she recalled the events of her day. She was so full of life and so full of colour. It made him want to draw again. Something he hadn’t done in a long time. When he picked up his pencil a few weeks ago, he thought he’d forgotten what to do. But after a few hours, he was swiftly sketching the lead across the page, moving it with ease, like he’d never been apart from it. He drew her. He couldn’t help it. She was the only thing worth drawing in this place. Halfway through cleaning the floor, Norman let the mop fall out of his hands. He had given Julia a spare key to his cabin so she could check the lost property box. He’d also completed his drawing of her the night before, and left it on his desk. Right next to the lost property box. He picked up the mop and threw it into the bucket, shoving all the cleaning gear to one side. He hurried out of the toilets, slowing temporarily after a particularly painful click in his knees. Damn old age and all its speed limits. He made his way across the grounds, following the pathway to his cabin. Maybe she hadn’t been there yet? Maybe she was leaving it until lunchtime? He was probably getting worked up over a big pile of nothing. 21

He fished his key out of his pocket, and let himself in. Everything seemed in place. The lost property box hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t shifted. Maybe he was right, and Julia hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been yet? He walked over to his desk. He was going to make sure the drawing was well out of sight before she arrived. Something bright caught his eye. A yellow post-it note, stuck onto the desk, just above his drawing. Written in black marker, there was just one question. Coffee? Katie Brown

Time Out With a click of a button Mr Mason opened the case and a kaleidoscope of rare butterflies flew out, their wings glittering. It was winter, not the season for butterflies. I gasped as a blue and yellow butterfly settled upon my finger. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’ Mr Mason polished the top of the box with a cloth. ‘These butterflies are over a hundred years old. My great-great-grandfather put them in the crib for safe keeping, and now look at them, flying around - it’s as if they have always been here.’ I gasped and looked for my husband. His attention was focused on a young attractive woman at the front desk. He didn’t hide the fact that he was flirting with her. On my finger was a butterfly. On his lay a red ringlet as he toyed with the receptionist’s hair. ‘Are you impressed?’ Mr Mason tapped me on the shoulder, disturbing my thoughts. ‘Oh, yes. The wonders of technology!’ Mr Mason laughed. ‘Mrs Malley -’ I cut him off. ‘Darcy, please.’ Mr Mason, delighted I was on a first name basis, continued. ‘Darcy, this piece of equipment goes beyond technology. It’s magic. It freezes time, you can put any living thing in this box for a month, two months, a year even open it up and it will come out looking the same as when you put it in.’ ‘I’m still not sure,’ I said. ‘As wonderful as it is, the whole process seems a little daunting.’ I looked around for my husband. The reception area was empty. ‘Michael,’ I shouted. A few minutes later Michael emerged looking slightly redfaced, with the girl following close behind. ‘Hey, baby cakes,’ he said as if butter wouldn’t melt. ‘So what do you think?’ 23

I tried to hide my anger. ‘I am not convinced that this is the right option for us. Jack is not an animal he’s our son, a baby.’ ‘I think that the cribs are a must have these days,’ the girl said. Her lipstick was smudged. ‘Do you?’ I smiled coolly. ‘Tell me, do you have children?’ She laughed. ‘Me? Oh no, but if I did I would definitely invest in a crib.’ Her smile didn’t meet her eyes. Michael wanted to buy the crib so I’d be able to give him as much attention as before we had children. I stood up and smoothed down my skirt. ‘I have no use for a crib.’ As I went to walk away Michael grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back to my seat. ‘Don’t be so quick, Darcy. Think about it the peace we could have. I slumped back into my seat. ‘The peace you could have, you mean.’ ‘What was that?’ Michael bent and hissed in my ear. I shook my head - embarrassing him in public would only make trouble for me at home. It was easier to live in my own shadows, always allowing Michael to have his own way, only to speak when spoken to. I was trapped and I had no idea of how to free myself A light switched on in my head. Mr Mason was talking proudly about The Crib, a glass box that would allow you to freeze time. I pretended to listen as I sized up the biggest crib. It would be big enough. I cut across the sales pitch. ‘Sorry, Mr Mason, I will have the box after all.’ Mr Mason beamed with satisfaction and started gathering together paperwork. I turned to Michael. ‘I want the biggest box though, darling.’ Michael looked confused. ‘Do we need the biggest one?’ 24

‘Jasper,’ I spurted out. ‘The dog,’ I explained to Mr Mason. ‘He’s very demanding so it would be good to put him in time out as well.’ I stroked the lapel of Michael’s jacket; let my red nails linger on his shirt. ‘Be nice to have some ‘us’ time, darling…’ Michael pulled out his wallet. ‘The biggest crib you have, Mr Mason,’ he said as he counted out the cash. Michelle Rutter

The Phone Call i. Gazing out of the window watching life on the outside the sun lazy in the sky, the breeze rocking the summer trees. Out of the window, time goes by. Inside, the room is dark. Inside, the room is silent. Time stands still. Late into the afternoon I receive the call. She says he has gone, he has slipped away. I freeze, phone in hand, my stomach knotted. I cannot register this information It is a shock, a dream, a hallucination. The rest of the afternoon runs away. ii. I dial his number, hold the phone in a shaking hand, smile as I hear his voice: Leave a message! Then the beep on the phone â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I jump. Silence. Michelle Rutter 26

For Nine Whole Months Dedicated to Keira, Holly and Jack For nine whole months I took care of you. Inside my body you waited. For nine whole months you grew and grew - and me? I contemplated what life would be like when you were here. For nine whole months I thought about your eyes and button nose, ten little fingers and the cutest toes, the tiniest feet. For nine whole months my heart and your heart became a single heartbeat. When you were born, so tender and so small, a precious life lay in my arms. The baby I was cradling was mine. It was a daunting place and time I hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a clue about what to do, but was assured I would be fine. Your skin so soft, your face so fair I wrapped you, rocked you. I became the sun that warmed you. 27

I became the blanket keeping you safe. I became the wind that rocked your cradle and the moonshineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s light that helped you sleep so peacefully all through the night. Michelle Rutter

This is Me I come from police chases and sirens, fast cars, and motorcycles one girl’s stare and gangs in black and white. I come from early sunrise and late moonshine, laughing, arguments and fights. I come from don’t forget your Ps and Qs take off your shoes, get to your room, you’re grounded, don’t you pull that face at me! I come from my imagination, playing for hours, skipping ropes, a game of tag, exploring fields and hosepipe showers. I come from separation two homes, a mum and single dad. Silence and tears, loneliness and being sad. I come from twin bunk beds and always bumping my head. Shared baths and bubbles, soft heated towels, plenty of squabbles. Highway to Heaven, Prisoner Cell Block H, the weekly treat of pink custard and chocolate cake. 29

I come from walking alone in the shadows of the night, followed by a black car with bright head lights. I come from secrets and whispering, being told that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rude. I come from close family, good parties, a sense of being and great food!

Michelle Rutter

I am ... â&#x20AC;Ś a vision of beauty. I transform to suit each season. At my happiest and most radiant through Spring and Summer when I can blossom, and grow, and show off my colour! I am the one who is kind to nature, and have plenty of friends. Not a day goes by when I am ever alone I am a picture of perfection, and an open page, with many stories to be told.

Just for you... He is there for you, when you come home from a hard dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work. He is ready and willing to rub away those aches and pains. His scent relaxes you, and stepping into him you feel safe. The warmth of his breath makes the hairs on your cold skin stand on end. He caresses and you sink deeper into his hold and spell making it harder for you to resist the magic of his waters. Michelle Rutter

Mating Season Sheila drew open the curtains on the first day of spring, already feeling a deep burn in her nether regions. With a heavy sigh, she acknowledged that it was that time of year again. She wished that she could just hide away, but she knew the world would not let her forget. It was all anyone had been talking about for months. At work, in the shops, on the street, wherever Sheila went – there was no escaping it. Radio hosts speculated about who would be sleeping with who, adverts for contraception were plastered on every bus stop, people talked about their plans for saucy getaways or potential conquests. Downstairs, Sheila tried to ignore the urges that stirred deep within her, but she knew that they were just as natural as the blossoming of flowers. The only way to avoid it would be to get herself neutered, but Sheila didn’t really want to do that – she wanted kids one day if she found the right person. While she made breakfast, she flicked through a glossy magazine, which was – as expected - crammed with adverts for family planning and cheap holiday deals. She dared not turn on the television because she knew that it would just echo and magnify the frenzy of what was happening. Outside, the street was empty. Half of her neighbours had gone on holiday, the rest probably copulating somewhere. Sheila saw two entwined figures in the upstairs window of number seven. She had heard that Jill and Keith were trying for a baby this season, but she still didn’t appreciate them leaving the curtains wide open, inviting the whole street to watch. The stairs creaked and Sheila’s father entered the living room. With some difficulty, he shuffled across to his armchair and lowered himself into it. 32

‘Morning, Dad.’ ‘On the lookout already, are you?’ remarked Mr Simmons, frowning at her. ‘Don’t be silly,’ muttered Sheila. ‘I’m locking myself away.’ ‘Probably for the best,’ said Mr Simmons. ‘You completely lost your mind last year. No self-control whatsoever, Sheila.’ Sheila bowed her head. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’ ‘Sheila, you slept with your boss, the milkman, half the neighbours –’ ‘It’s not my fault!’ Sheila’s cheeks were scarlet. ‘Well, you don’t see me sleeping with Mrs Johnson from Number Four.’ ‘Ewww!’ Sheila tried to shake the disturbing image from her head. ‘That’s just wrong!’ ‘Any road, can you get us some shopping in?’ asked Mr Simmons. ‘I know you’re scared of what might happen, but you know what the doctor said – I can’t be putting too much pressure on this hip.’ ‘Get an online delivery then?’ ‘But we need something for tea,’ Mr Simmons insisted. ‘Won’t you help out your old man?’ ‘Fine.’ Sheila stepped away from the window. She would have to go out at some point anyway. Five minutes later, she put on her coat and ventured outside. She made no effort to spruce herself up hoping this would deter the hot-blooded males roaming the streets. Still, there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t end up pouncing on somebody. On the way to the bus stop, a few men tried their luck with her, but she wasn’t attracted to any of them, so she brushed off their advances quite easily. On the bus a man traded furtive

glances with her. Handsome. Sheila found it very difficult to resist. She might need to invest in a chastity belt. ‘What happens in mating season stays in mating season,’ one of her friends had once said. But that sort of thinking led to all sorts of problems: marriage breakdowns, unplanned pregnancies, STDs, and awkward tensions between friends and colleagues. In the supermarket, Sheila could not even bring herself to look at the phallic-shaped vegetables. She scurried around, scooping things into her trolley as quickly as she could, but her efforts to avoid mating season were futile. ‘My daughter’s started feeling things,’ said a frumpy woman in the toiletries aisle. ‘Think she’s hitting puberty.’ ‘Aww, they grow up so fast, don’t they?’ her friend replied. Sheila hastily swung her trolley onto the next aisle, where a young girl chatted on her mobile phone. ‘We’ve been going out for three months now – yeah, yeah – we can’t wait to take things to the next level.’ Sheila pushed her trolley onward, her mind growing foggy as she tried to locate the items that she needed. ‘I’ve had three already,’ boasted a young man in the alcohol aisle. ‘Mate, that’s nothing,’ his friend smirked. ‘I’ve had six.’ Sheila had heard enough. She dashed towards the checkout, feeling flustered and out of breath. Halfway along the aisle, she collided with another shopper and the two of them tumbled to the floor, their shopping trolleys overturning and spewing out their contents. ‘Oh my God – I’m so sorry,’ muttered Sheila, turning to the man with embarrassment. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Think I’ll live,’ muttered the man.

The two of them exchanged a glance. Mmm … It was not the mere flourish of sexual arousal that Sheila usually felt at this time of year, but something much deeper – something that transcended the seasons. ‘It’s chaos, isn’t it?’ the man smiled. ‘Thank God it doesn’t happen all year around.’ Sheila laughed. ‘No – don’t think I could handle that.’ As the two of them picked up their shopping, the strange feeling did not disappear. She and the man kept looking at each other, but it was not in a lustful or shallow sort of way. ‘Why don’t we – erm – why don’t we –’ ‘Go for a drink?’ prompted the man. For the first time in her life, Sheila was not ashamed by her feelings. ‘Sounds delightful.’ Nick Peterson

On Time The train had been pulling into platform three at 6.07pm every day for as long as any of the children could remember. The first time it appeared, it was visible to everyone. The commuters looked up, shocked, as a huge, steam-powered locomotive pulled into the station. It was almost fifty years ago since they’d seen a steam train; it was all electric and diesel these days. People gathered around. Surely this was some kind of marketing campaign? A chance for the public to ride on a steam train? Children stared, pulling their reluctant parents closer to the platform to get a better view. A little girl peered into one of the carriages, her eyes widening when she saw the seats already full. The passengers were dressed in odd clothing. The men wore old-fashioned suits and bowler hats, while the women wore long, flowing dresses in reds, greens and yellows. They looked straight ahead, seeming not to notice the little freckled face peering in at them. The child tapped on the window, trying to gain the attention of the lady in the red dress. ‘Maisy! Get away from there now,’ a woman’s voice shouted through the crowd. She pushed her way through towards the child. The girl gazed longingly towards the train, but finally grabbed onto her mother’s hand. The people who remained on the platform waited patiently for the train doors to open, hoping for some sort of explanation, but they were to be disappointed. The train doors remained firmly shut, and although a small group remained, chatting about what it could be for, the majority of the crowd slowly lost interest. This distraction had almost made them late for their own trains.

Every day now, the locomotive arrived at exactly 6.07pm. Most of the adults ignored its arrival. It had unnerved them, looming like a giant mechanical beast, steam billowing from its funnel. One day, the train simply disappeared. It was not uncommon to see children pointing at the air above the tracks on Platform 3. Parents told their children not to be silly and to come away from the tracks. Sooner or later there was going to be an accident if the children continued to play this game! But hadn't they themselves seen the engine just a few months previously? It was unnerving to say the least, but the adults tried to explain it away as a new craze, spread around on one of those social media websites kids were always on today. For the most part, the steam engine was ignored, until fate had it that a certain little girl would pass the engine on the anniversary of its arrival. ‘Look, Mummy.’ The child pointed excitedly at the train, pulling at her mother’s hand in an attempt to move closer to the machine. ‘The train is here again.’ ‘Come on, Maisy,’ her mother said, holding her daughter’s hand and trying to force her in the opposite direction. ‘We're going to miss our train.’ ‘But, Mummy, where does it go to, and who are the strange people in the carriages?’ Maisy asked. ‘Stop it,’ her mother said firmly. ‘Stop playing silly games.’ ‘Don't you see it?’ Maisy pointed in the direction of platform three. ‘It's right there. How do you not see it?’ ‘Maisy! Stop it this instant!’ Her mother shook her. ‘But you must see it, you must. It's right there, I'll prove it.’ Maisy pulled her hand free and ran towards the locomotive. ‘Come back here right now!’ her mother ordered, running after her and attempting to push her way through the crowd. An old lady stepped into her path, making her stop to avoid 37

knocking her over. ‘S-sorry,’ she stuttered, earning herself a disapproving tut from the old lady before she continued to slowly make her way along the platform. Maisy stood in front of the steam engine, looking up at the lady in the red dress. The lady turned towards the window. Maisy waved at her cheerfully, earning a smile and a wave back. The lady stood up, making her way along the carriage. 'Where is she going?' Maisy wondered. The train door opened. The woman smiled, beckoning Maisy onto the train. ‘Maisy!’ her mother screamed, racing towards platform three. ‘Where are you?’ she shouted, frantically searching the crowd. As she was about to run to the guard’s for help, Maisy reappeared, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Maisy!’ Her mother hugged her daughter. ‘How many times have I told you not to run off? Where did you go? Why are you crying?’ ‘She t-told me about the train.’ Maisy was sobbing. ‘It crashed. It came off the rails and- oh Mummy they died. The people on the train and the ones on the platform they died. She said she had to warn me that it was going to happen again, tomorrow. She said I needed to warn everyone.’ ‘No one is going to die,’ her mother soothed. ‘You're being silly. Now come on, we've already missed our train, we don't want to go missing another one.’ ‘NO. YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND,’ Maisy screamed. A middle-aged business woman shook her head at the outburst. ‘WE NEED TO TELL THE GUARDS. WE NEED TO STOP THE TRAIN SO IT DOESN'T HAPPEN AGAIN.’ ‘I will not put up with this game of yours.’ Her mother pulled Maisy closer so that only she could hear. ‘Now come on, and not another word from you.’ 38

The next day, the steam engine did not arrive. Nor would it arrive ever again. At exactly 6.07pm, a train came rushing towards Platform 3. It was going fast, too fast. With a screech, and the sound of metal on metal, the train derailed, crashing into the crowded platform. ‘Mummy look!’ Maisy shouted from the living room, pointing at the news on the television. ‘Not now,’ her mother sighed, continuing the task of making sandwiches for Maisy's packed lunch. ‘But, Mummy,’ Maisy cried. ‘It happened. You didn't believe me but it happened.’ ‘OW!’ Maisy's mother accidentally sliced through her finger. ‘Maisy look what-’ she stopped mid-sentence, staring at the TV as she watched the footage of the wrecked train. Anyone who had been on the platform had been obliterated. No one could survive a crash like that. Rachel Jones

Vigilance ‘Do you not think it suits the ship-owners for us to be squabbling amongst ourselves? These men are as much victims of a rotten system as we are. I urge you - all of you! to vote as outlined by comrades Burgess and Molloy for decisive action. Thank you, brothers.’ The thousand or so men gathered in the shadow of the Seaman’s Home broke into applause and whistles as Joe left the stage. At the side he was greeted warmly by two older men, Harry Burgess and Jack Molloy. ‘Christ, Joe, you talk to the fellas like an old hand. They listen to you.’ ‘Thanks, Harry.’ ’Good work, Joey. I think we might be winning the argument. Come for a bevy, lad. Yer throat must be dry after that turn.’ ‘Gonna get home to the family. When this is over, eh?’ ‘Get home safe, lad. Give my regards to Ginny and the little fella.’ Joe made his way through the dwindling crowd, his hand getting shook, his back patted. He walked down Paradise Street and in minutes was on the Dock Road. The Overhead Railway, Dingle-bound, rattled above him. He looked up and smiled. Reaching the section south of the Pier Head, slipping into his sailor’s roll, conscious of his stoker’s build, he felt good. The smell of exotic stews, rum, strong coffee, dark tobacco came from the tight tenements to his left. Park Lane. Sailor Town, packed to rafters with people from every corner of the globe. He had been brought up here by his mother and father. While they threw crockery at each other over the best way to worship, he lived in the streets, watching and listening.

The dispute with the ship owners was complicated by the resentment felt towards the foreign born sailors by some of native born ones. Joe, Harry, Jack and others had worked to bring together a divided workforce - and it seemed to be working. No time for complacency though. He crossed the busy junction at Parliament Street - not far from home now. It had been a long day, he needed a pee. You were never far from a pisser on the Dock Road – thanks to Victorian philanthropy. He turned into the next one. High ceiling, cool, gloomy, the stench of bleach made his eyes water. Relieving himself at the high porcelain stalls, he shook, buttoned-up and turned around. There were four of them. One he knew - a Swede with a scar on his forehead. He lived off women. To his right, a thick necked, bald man – a wrestler? Behind them, two gone-toseed boxers. They produced weapons unhurriedly: the boxers had a chair-leg and a cosh; the Swede a knife. The wrestler cracked his knuckles. They edged forward as the Swede spoke. ‘We have a message for you, from some important people.’ Joe laughed. Cheap hoods, bad dialogue. ‘If you hurt you me, my friends will come after you.’ One of the boxers sniggered. ‘We are being well paid and sail within a few hours. We will not be deflected,’ said the Swede. Chin in, elbows tucked, guard up just like the old man had taught him. Joe smiled then laughed. The thugs stopped, puzzled. ‘If you’re going to take him you’ll have to take me.’ The voice was Welsh and came from behind them. John Henry Thomas, ex-prize fighter, holy terror, as ever dressed like an undertaker. 41

‘Who’s first, buckos?’ John Henry drew cut-throat razors from his waistcoat pockets, flicked them open, moved left leaving a gap between him and the door. One of the boxers ran for it. John Henry kicked him to the floor, slashed his shoulder and booted his arse out the door. Joe was on his toes dodging the wrestler, landing a couple of meaty jabs. John Henry stalked the Swede and the boxer like a fencer. The boxer swung his cosh at the Welshman’s head, recoiled, his hand cut to the bone – cosh gone. The wrestler grabbed Joe in a bear-hug. Joe rained punches to his head and neck. Joe became weaker, the breath squeezed out of him, punches less telling. A blade appeared below the wrestler’s left ear, touching his neck. ‘Let him go.’ The wrestler released Joe and wheeled around. The Swede was in a corner, hands to his face, the boxer had gone leaving a trail of blood. Joe was on the Swede pounding his ribs and solar plexus. He hit the wall, slid down with legs stretched in front. A dark stain spread across the front of his trousers. John Henry was opposite the wrestler, arms wide, smiling. ‘Frightened, big man?’ The wrestler grabbed at John Henry’s lapels, then bellowed like a bull as the razor blades sewn into the jacket sliced through his fingers. He sank to the floor staring at his ruined hands. ‘Finished, John Henry? ‘ ‘Not quite, Joseph.’ John Henry winked. He moved to the Swede, bent over him, wiped one of his razors on his suit and pocketed it. He took hold of the Swede’s chin, tilted his face upwards. The blade glinted against his cheek. Joe looked away. ‘Live off women, is it? Whoremonger!’ 42

The scream bounced off the walls and the ceiling, ringing in Joe’s ears. ‘Come on, Joseph.’ Joe glanced at the Swede and wished he hadn’t. They walked out of the urinal. ‘Walk slowly, don’t look back. Don’t worry they won’t die, someone’ll be along to pick them up.’ ‘How did you know?’ ‘They were at the meeting. Followed you. I followed them.’ Park Street, Joe’s house a couple of hundred yards up to the right. They stopped at the corner. He offered his hand to the Welshman. ‘Thank you, John Henry, I owe you.’ ‘My pleasure, Joseph, my pleasure. They won’t be back, but others might. Be vigilant.’ Joe joined Ginny and the boy for supper. Peawack, soda bread and strong, sweet tea. As he reached for some bread, Ginny took his hand and looked at his injuries. Joe waited for the question but it didn’t come. She held his eyes for a few seconds, then looked away. After supper he played with his son, bouncing him on his knee singing sea shanties. The boy cried for his mother, who gathered him up and put him to bed. Joe and Ginny spent the evening in the back room, the atmosphere awkward, conversation stifled. She kissed him goodnight at near midnight. ‘Don’t be too late, love?’ He nodded. The rum in the sideboard had been there best part of a year, seventy percent proof from Trinidad. He poured a large one into his mug and rolled a smoke. Sean Garrett

Dancing with Catherine The grey haired woman knocked on the door, and entered without receiving a response. ‘Hello Stan, are you decent?’ Stan, a balding, frail-looking man, was crouched on a tattered faded brown armchair. ‘I’m always decent, unfortunately, and I don’t need any help from you today, so you might as well go now’. The women, taking food from a plastic Tesco carrier bag, ignored. ‘Oh you’re not in one of those moods are you, Stan?’ She picked up a glass, sniffed it and recoiled. ‘It’s a bit early for scotch isn’t it, Stan? You know it makes you go all funny, all melancholy.’ Stan stared vacantly at the television. The woman waved her hand in front of his face. ‘Hello, is there anyone at home, anyone in there?’ Stan grunted. ‘Hey, I’m trying to watch this programme.’ She looked at the TV, and then again at Stan. ‘The telly’s not on.’ She sat on the arm of Stan’s chair. ‘I don’t suppose you need it on, do you? All your pictures are up here.’ She caressed his head. ‘All your memories, eh Stan? Wrapped up safely in here. You just can’t get them in any order, can you? Good old memories though, eh?’ She went to the cooker and started to prepare his meal. ‘I’m doing you steak pie, chips and peas, is that ok Stan?’ Stan mumbled. ‘Bloody memories, I’ve got shed loads of them, all securely stored up here’. The woman continued. ‘Steak pie, chips and peas, Stan, is that alright?’ Stan patted his hair. ‘Getting dressed up on a Saturday night, the powder blue draped jacket, drainpipes, the old 44

brothel creepers, combed back mullet, the Tony Curtis. You can’t beat the old days’. The woman sighed. ‘Oh dear, here we go again, the good old days. You never wore brothel creepers - you wore winkle pickers.’ Stan scowled, and tried to turn his head towards the woman. ‘What do you know anyway? You weren’t there, I wore both types! The winkles came later! You know nothing. You weren’t even there’. He paused. ‘What’s for tea anyway?’ She shook her head. ‘Steak pie, chips and peas, ok?’ He ignored her question. ‘When I first saw Catherine – wow! - she blew me away. I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was already dancing with a honey at the time, a tall blonde girl with a fine bosom, if I remember correctly.’ The woman smiled. ‘I remember the woman you are talking about. She was almost sixty with a tight dress that needed ironing - the woman, I mean, not the dress. She spent most of the night rubbing half your mates against her thigh that’s why you remember her.’ Stan groaned. ‘There were others, too - the little wellproportioned brunette. She was always hanging around me and the boys.’ The woman laughed. ‘Well- proportioned, you mean the little dumpy one who entered the fancy dress contest as a hula- hula girl? Stan interrupted. ‘And she won first prize if I recall’. ‘Yes, as a thatched cottage, I believe.’ She smiled briefly. Stan took another sip of scotch and growled. ‘Anyway you’re no stranger to the biscuit tin yourself. Pie and chips, eh?’ ‘That’s right’. ‘Are we having peas as well?’ 45

‘Yes, you’re having peas as well.’ ‘What type?’ ‘Garden there was a mischievous glint in Stan’s eye. ‘What kind of pie, I mean.’ ‘Steak pie, with chips, and garden peas.’ ‘What type of chips?’ Stan was on a roll. ‘Straight, the chips are straight, the peas are from the garden and they are green, and the pie is of steak variety, from a cow, all clear?’ He rattled her. Stan sat back in his chair, content. ‘I was only asking. Steak pie, chips and garden - sounds good.’ He stretched out his legs. ‘Then I saw her across the crowded room. Catherine. Gliding as if on air. Her strawberry blonde hair flowed behind her as she sashayed across the floor. Her very presence commanded attention. She was a real head turner; her smile was so warm, so kind.’ He raised his glass to his mouth but didn’t drink. He was staring into space. Sadness flickered across the woman’s face. ‘Well, she wasn’t a bad one. One of your best, I suppose?’ Stan banged his hand down on the chair arm. ‘One of my best! She was the best!’ The women shrugged and smiled. ‘If you say so!’ Stan spoke quickly. ‘As I walked up to her, I didn’t believe for one minute, that she would dance with me, never mind go out with me. What a dancer, probably the best jiver I’d ever been with, better than me, and I was no slouch on the dance floor. She could jive, twist, jitterbug, anything, what a mover. And then when she pulled me closer for a slowey. Wow, it was like all my birthdays had come at once. Dancing with Catherine! What an experience, an experience beyond my wildest dreams.’ He paused and sipped his whiskey. ‘I’m a bit hungry now. What are we having for our tea?’ 46

The sighed. ‘It’s still steak pie, straight chips and garden peas’. Stan stared back at the television, talking to himself. ‘I looked forward to dancing with Catherine. We became the best of friends. I remember the day I asked her to marry me. The old fashioned way, down on one knee. We laughed; then the laughter turned to tears, the tears back to smiles’. Stan took another sip of his whiskey, and grinned. ‘She said yes of course’. The woman stopped stirring the pan and looked over at Stan. ‘Of course she did. Who could resist such a charmer, eh Stan?’ ‘We got wed in the spring, the sun was beating down on us, I joked that I had a word with the big fella upstairs to give us such a fine day. Catherine said that I could do anything. I would have done anything for her; I’d give her the moon on a stick if I could’. He paused. ‘Why did she leave me, what did I do wrong?’ His eyes filled with tears. The woman sat on the arm of the battered chair and put her arm around him. ‘I warned you about drinking this fire water, didn’t I? Catherine never ever left you, she is still in your dreams and memories, and that’s important. She smiles when you smile, cries when you cry, she’s always with you’. Stan nodded. ‘What are we having for dinner?’ The woman patted his head and walked back to the kitchen. She set out the dinner dray and she put it onto Stan’s lap. ‘Here we go Stan, be careful it’s hot.’ She switched on the television. ‘You like this programme, don’t you?’

Stan had started eating and didn’t notice when she walked to the intercom on the wall, and dialled. ‘Hello, this is Catherine. I’ve given Stan his dinner. I’ll call the same time tomorrow, bye.’ She kissed Stan on his head. ‘You’re a soft old sod, but I still love you, we’ll go dancing again tomorrow’. She crept out and closed the door softly behind her. Steve Bird

In Liverpool Two cathedrals, and a bombed out church. Two stone birds on a liver perch. A naked statue where lovers cheat, a metal umbrella where dockers meet. Cotton for dark satanic mills, canals and railways through Lancashire hills. Human cargo trading bower, opulent times in our darkest hour. St George’s Hall, Lime Street Station, the grandest steeplechase in the nation, Saint Domingo’s, Dixie’s sixty, a tunnel through to the one-eyed city. Bloody wars apocalypse, standing strong in a German blitz, Empty memories, empty tears, empty days, empty years. Labour party first time win, Bessie Braddock, Harold Wilson. Mersey Beat rocked and swirled, four local lads who shook the world. Diddyman, shy on tax, the new Lord Mayor of Knotty Ash Standing tall with football’s big, the golden vision, the flying pig. Hardships sailing into an empty port, cruise ships liners a distant thought. Dockers solid to a man, everything shipped in a metal can. Sugar factory not so sweet, ship building lost its fleet.

Broken times, broken pride, changed our county to Merseyside. Employment low, times were dire, Toxteth streets a ball of fire, as two extremes shoot the breeze a once great city is on its knees. The loss of innocents in the Sheffield spring, sweet baby James in angelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wings. Then we became a garden city, if you never look deep it was all so pretty. Laughed in the face of the London vulture, the world woke up to the city of culture. Promenade along the cast iron shore, tourists queue at The Cavern door. Theatres, museums set the pace, coastal iron men in Another Place. Maritime city, Superlambanana, halcyon dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s instant karma. Steve Bird

Rag Arse Rovers Like most kids I liked to kick a ball, but I wasn’t very hard and I wasn’t very tall. I could run quite fast, I was fairly fit, the problem was I was a little bit shit. Standing in a line-up like you did those days, whilst the captains picked their favourite players, through blurry eyes and gritted teeth, I was so bad, I went pudding or beef. Growing up still wanting the same – there must be others out there who can’t get a game? So I advertised in a footy magazine, for interested partakers to join my team. Eventually I stood with my brand new group, all testosterone, muscles and brewer’s droop. Happy Jack the gaffer would lift the gloom, but he put me Left Back in the dressing room. Some of the boys straight from the dole, our midfield general just made parole. Knuckles the goalie a former lag, couldn’t get his socks over his Asbo tag. Bad boy Bazzer was in attack, Killer Jenkins was the Centre Back, Ice-pick Alex was up for the cup, whilst the Johnson brothers came tooled up. Fingers Smith was in for his passing, fat boy Harold the smiling assassin, we pulled in fanatics from Darvel to Dover; we became known as the Rag Arse Rovers.

The big kick off, the whistle blew – we were an urban pariahs of a motley crew. Kicking, biting, and flying fists – twenty minutes later someone threw a ball on the pitch. The wind was wild, the rain torrential, the ball was almost inconsequential. Slugger made a tackle with all his weight. The referee said, ‘That was way too late. You cut him in two, he’s full of blood.’ Slugger said he got there as soon as he could. Every tackle we committed was a foul, the Ref made more bookings than Simon Cowell. He blew his whistle, he’d seen enough. ‘You boys are playing way too rough, the other team has battle fatigue, and I’m reporting you to the football league.’ I stood ashamed of the team I sired. My football dream had all backfired. Steve Bird

No Frills Life I haven’t got much, that I can readily share, a battered pale face and some clean underwear. I can always call you on my pay-as-you-go phone, it’s not that hi-tech, but you won’t feel alone. I owe fifty quid from an old pay-day loan. I have a flat above the Co-op, that I call my home. I have a lot of free time for a man of my age, because I work zero hours on the minimum wage. I have a five o’clock shadow that hides a skin rash. I’ve got left-sided politics and working class ‘tache. I’m not materialistic - that’s how I belong, love should be simple, you don’t need the mod cons. I don’t want to come across pushy, and all in a hurry I’ve got enough for a lager and a take away curry. You don’t need to be a stunner, or want much as a wife, just a warm heart to share in my no frills life. Steve Bird

Coffee CHARACTERS WOMAN: An attractive lady in her mid-thirties. MAN: A handsome man in his thirties. CAFÉ OWNER: A large rugged, unshaven man, in his early forties. SCENERY LIVING ROOM CAFÉ

LIVING ROOM A MAN LOUNGER’S ON HIS BACK ON HIS SOFA WITH A LAP TOP. MAN Let’s see if this bitch is on line yet. HE BEGINS TO TYPE AND READS OUT LOUD AS HE DOES SO. Hey what’s happening? HE GETS A RESPONSE ALMOST INSTANTLY, HE READS IT OUT ALOUD. Hi Karl, Just been thinking about you. HE SHAKES HIS HEAD, SMIRKS AND CONTINUES TO TYPE.

Thinkin’ what? RESPONSE. Why can’t we be friends again? HE SHAKES HIS HEAD, MUTTERS UNDER HIS BREATH. HE CONTINUES TO TYPE. Who said anything about being friends? RESPONSE What have I done to deserve this? HE FROWNS, AND CONTINUES TO TYPE It’s what you haven’t done. RESPONSE What do you mean? HE CONTINUES Ka-ching! BEFORE HE GETS A RESPONSE, HE FRUSTRATINGLY CONTINUES TO TYPE. The readies! Cash; remember the money I asked you for. RESPONSE 55

Yeah I remember. Karl you said we were special, why are you asking me for money? HE SMIRKS TO HIMSELF AND CONTINUES. If you love me you wouldn’t even ask me that, true friends give money to each other. RESPONSE I do love you, but it’s still a lot of money, and it’s the way you asked, the threats. HE GETS IRRITATED, AND CONTINUES. Either I get the money, or you know what will happen. RESPONSE I don’t want that to happen, my mum and dad will go mad. HE CONTINUES Get the money then. Get the money and we can still be friends, everything will be sweet again I promise. RESPONSE That’s what I want, everything the way it was. HE CONTINUES TO TYPE.

Ka-ching! RESPONSE Ok I will. HE SITS UP, SMILES AND PUNCHES THE AIR, HE CONTINUES TO TYPE Yeah! Deffo! RESPONSE Yeah ok. HE EAGERLY CONTINUES TO TYPE. Cool. When? RESPONSE Monday morning. I will meet you in the coffee house café, behind the post office. Eight o’clock. Do you know where I mean? HE PONDERS AND THEN TYPES Yeah I know it. I didn’t know that place was open that early? RESPONSE It will be open, just knock on the door, they’re in there prepping, but they will let you in. 57

HE CONTINUES Ok, I’ll be there. Don’t forget the money. HE ABRUPTLY SHUTS HIS LAPTOP, AND RUBS HIS HANDS. Stupid bitch! Thought we were friends! It’s like taking candy from a baby, literally. HE LAUGHS TO HIMSELF. IN THE CAFE A WOMAN SITS AT A TABLE DRINKING A COFFEE. THE OWNER OF THE CAFE IS BUSYING HIMSELF BEHIND THE COUNTER. SOMEONE ATTEMPTS TO OPEN THE CAFÉ DOOR. THE OWNER GOES TO THE DOOR AND OPENS IT. MAN I’m sorry, is the café open? OWNER Sure, come in. I’m only serving drinks right now, I don’t open until nine, but I won’t turn business away, can’t afford to. I’ve only one table set, next to the lady over there. THE MAN, TURNS AND NODS AND SMILES AT THE WOMAN. OWNER Tea or coffee

MAN Coffee, black with two sugars please. THE MAN SITS AT THE AVAILABLE TABLE, AND AGAIN NODS TO THE WOMAN WOMAN Builder or plumber! MEN Sorry! WOMAN All builders and the likes take two sugars, it’s not very healthy, you know that don’t you? MAN So I believe. WOMAN You don’t look too bad on it though, if you don’t mind me saying. MAN Thank you, you’ll have me blushing. WOMAN Why, you’re a handsome young man, that’s nothing to blush about. MAN Cheers.

THEY STIR THEIR CUPS, AND SMILE TO EACH OTHER. You’re very attractive yourself, if you don’t mind me saying. WOMAN I don’t mind you saying at all. Thank you. Do you live around here? MAN Not far, a ten minute walk or so. WOMAN Married? MAN No. THE MAN LOOKS AT HIS WATCH, AND THEN THE CLOCK ON THE WALL. WOMAN You seem a bit edgy, I don’t make you nervous do I? MAN No, not at all, I’m just waiting for someone; she’s late. WOMAN She! Oh I’m terribly sorry. I’ll leave you to drink you’re coffee. MAN It’s alright; it’s my teenage daughter, she dropping off a package for me. She’s late, that’s why I’m a bit edgy, as you put it. 60

WOMAN Teenager daughters are always late. THE MANS NODS IN AGREEMENT. WOMAN How old is she? MAN Fifteen! WOMAN Oh dear, fifteen going on fifty I bet. MAN You’re not wrong there. WOMAN So innocent at that age, but they think they know everything. What’s her name? MAN Molly. THE MAN LOOK’S TOWARDS THE DOOR, AND THEN AT HIS WATCH AGAIN. THE WOMAN STANDS UP TO LEAVE WOMAN Look, I can see you’re preoccupied, I’ll leave you alone, don’t let your coffee get cold.

MAN Sorry about this, you just worry about them don’t you? WOMAN You never stop worrying about them. Never stop thinking about them. THE MAN PUTS HIS HEAD DOWN AND RUBS HIS EYES AND THROAT. WOMAN Do you feel alright, you look a little pale? MAN Yeah I feel very tired; I think I could do with an early night. WOMAN Maybe! MAN I really am sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. THE WOMAN SMILES AT HIM REASSURINGLY. WOMAN You need to rest, stop worrying about young Molly. MAN Yeah maybe you’re right, I’m sorry. WOMAN And stop apologising so much.

MAN Yeah…I’m sorry. Just joking! HE TRIES TO SMILE. WOMAN Nice smile. MAN You’ll have me blushing again. You’re a really nice person. It’s been nice meeting you. HE HOLDS HIS THROAT, AND COUGHS. WOMAN Thank you. You need to take care of that cough. You don’t look too good I must admit. MAN I do feel a bit rough to be honest; I must be coming down with something. WOMAN Are you sure you will be ok? MAN I’ll be fine, probably a cold or something. WOMAN Well finish drinking your coffee; that will help. THE MAN DRINKS HIS COFFEE.

WOMAN I’ll get going before your daughter gets here. It’s been nice talking to you. MAN I feel such a wimp acting like a sick child. Look, can I have your number? Maybe we can have a drink sometime. THE WOMAN THINK’S ABOUT IT. WOMAN That would be nice. SHE WRITES ON A NAPKIN AND PASSES IT TO HIM, SHE TURNS TO LEAVE. MAN Great! Wait, you haven’t put your name down here. SHE GETS THE NAPKIN FROM HIM AND WRITES HER NAME. SHE PASSES IT BACK TO HIM. HE READS IT OUT LOUD. Molly! WOMAN Molly! MAN That’s a coincidence. WOMAN No coincidence.

THE WOMAN LEANS AND PRESSES HER HEAD TO HIS HEAD. Molly was named after me, Molly is my daughter, she’s my daughter you bastard, not yours. HE ATTEMPTS TO STAND UP, BUT IS FEELING TOO WEAK. MOLLY KEEPS HIM SAT DOWN. You just sit, you need to just sit and relax and listen. Karl isn’t it? I must say you don’t look like the fifteen year old Karl in the photographs you’ve been sending to Molly. The fresh faced Karl in the photo, the one who persuaded my lovely fifteen year old daughter to send naked pictures to him. She was so infatuated with him. This Karl was her first love, if you can fall in love with a photograph of someone you’ve never even met that is, I don’t understand it myself, but that’s young naïve teenagers I suppose. But there you go, she foolishly sent him photographs, and in return, he threatened to send them around to her friends and family, put them all over the internet unless she gave him five hundred pound. How did he put it to her, I’m gonna fuck your life up, big time. How romantic! So she decided to take some tablets with a bottle of vodka, and end her nightmare, put an end to her shame.

So you see Karl, or whatever your fucking name is, my Molly isn’t coming here with a little package for you. My Molly is lying alone on a cold slab in a morgue. My Molly eventually summoned up the courage to confide in me; my daughter’s final words were to tell me all about your sleazy little plan, she didn’t even have time to tell me she loved me. I was going to call the police, but I thought, would the system get me the justice you deserved, what Molly deserved. Let some politically correct, yellow bellied do-gooder find a reason to blame her, cast her as a silly little school girl, her memory ridiculed forever by her peers and in some cheap daily rag. So it had to be this way. No one else knows about this, it ends today. MAN You bitch, what have you done to me, bitch. WOMAN Shush now, no time for all that. I’m in control now, you have no choice, you can hear me, but your throat is tightening up, you can understand me, but you can’t move. It will be all over soon, all too quick really, it’s not what you deserve, it should have been slower, but I can’t have everything I suppose. THE WOMAN STARTS CRYING. THE OWNER WALKS OVER TO THE TABLE, AND PUTS HIS ARM AROUND HER.

OWNER You ok love? I think he enjoyed our special coffee. I’ll get the van doors open, he’ll be ok in there until it gets dark. We had to do this for our Molly, it’s over now. END Steve Bird