Welwitschia and Camel-Thorns

Here we have my submission for the Life Writing element of my OU Creative Writing course. The commentary follows at the end. For those who take an interest in such things, this piece earned me 92%. Please let me know what you think - whether you like it or not. Who knows, if enough people enjoy it perhaps one day I'll produce a full autobiography!

Welwitschia and Camel-Thorns
by David Thorne

The screen door clattered, and Faity called out for me, just as he'd done every day for as long as I could remember. Moments later he sidled into the kitchen and flopped onto the pine chair opposite me.

David Faity was one of my two best friends. He was french, though I can’t recall him ever speaking his native tongue. We always spoke English or Afrikaans, or sometimes a mixture of the two. He always got Faity because I was David too, and I was chief of our gang. For the first couple years at school Neville Gousse had been my 'official' best friend but somehow, without anyone noticing, Faity had gradually supplanted that role. Neville was still our Lieutenant but he seldom came to our house because he lived on the far side of town in the new duplexes. We lived in Klein Tsumeb where most of the bosses of the mine lived. Even on a bike it was a long way.

‘What shall we do today?’

I shrugged. What could we do with so little time left to us? All the usual things occupied too many hours. The swimming pool at the recreation club was out of the question, you needed a whole day for that. Sometimes we would take apples or carrots from the vegetable rack and ride our bikes over to Fritz Gaertner’s riding stables to feed the horses. My mother would complain that half the shopping budget was spent feeding those bloody horses. But the stables were also too far to go today.

On days when the others in our gang showed up we would hang out in our fort, built from leftovers off the log pile. To get in you had to climb onto the top and lower yourself down through a hole in the roof. Inside we had logs for stools and a table made from an upturned tea chest. We called ourselves the Red Skull Gang and we would spend hours carving catapults or bows and arrows with our penknives, for use in the war we were always planning against Kyle-Dean Rutters’ gang.

When temperatures climbed into the mid forties and sharpening sticks became too much effort, we would pick lemons and sit eating them dipped in a bowl of sugar. We had a lot of lemon trees, so there was always a plentiful supply, even after my Mother had made dozens of jars of curd for the endless succession of fetes that dotted the town’s social calendar. It struck me that we would never get to pick those lemons again.

Two months earlier my mother had contracted a mysterious illness and been flown to a hospital in Cape Town. You knew it was serious if someone was sent to the Cape. The local hospital was known colloquially as the butcher’s shop. They were okay at dishing out aspirins or patching up cuts and scrapes; perhaps sorting out an ingrowing toenail. But you wouldn’t want to go under the knife at the hands of the local quacks.

I don’t know to this day what was wrong with her, but she’d now recovered sufficiently to be released into the care of friends to convalesce, and today I was off to join her. For a few weeks, according to my father. But Faity and I both knew that I wasn’t coming back. We sat kicking the legs of the wooden kitchen table, talking about school and our strategy for the battle that would never be. Anything to maintain the appearance of nonchalance, not daring to broach the subject my leaving. Trying to put off the inevitable for as long as possible.

The telephone rang in the living room. A few minutes later my father came into the kitchen.

“It’s about time you were saying your cheerios now,” he said. "Dory and Curtis will be here shortly. Is your bag packed?"

I nodded.

‘I’d better go then,’ said Faity scrambling to his feet.

My father had the decency to leave the room as we said our goodbyes. It would be the last time I saw Faity’s cheeky face, framed by the profusion of purple Bougainvillea surrounding the back door.

'Well...' said Faity.

I gazed down at his blue Adidas plimsols. Takkies we called them.

'Promise you'll keep the gang in order until I get back?’

‘Course I will, no problem,’ he grinned, revealing an incisor chipped by a cricket ball. But his voice sounded thick and hoarse.

'Red skulls forever,’ we chorused, raising our fists in half-hearted salute. Tears were gathering in Faity's eyes.

‘Well. Goodbye then.’

He turned and fled. Then he was pedalling away furiously. I called out as he disappeared amongst the mango trees, but he didn't look back. When he was gone the static-like buzz of the cicadas and chatter of the hornbills seemed deafening; the sickly smell of balloon flowers overpowering. I pulled a koringkriek off the door, the tiny barbs on its legs clinging desperately to the mesh. I sat down on the stoop and let the grey, armoured arthropod crawl over my hands, as I waited for Dory and Curtis.

****

Dory Eistead was a stout, efficient lady with tight lilac trousers and dyed bouffant hair. My mother still insists that Dory was a lovely woman, but to my ten year old eyes she seemed starchy and austere. Captain of the bowls club, PTA chairman, and my chaperone for the impending journey. Her husband Curtis was driving us to the airport. He was a short, craggy fellow resembling a squat Walter Matthau. I liked Curtis.

The journey was less than a mile. Our house adjoined the airfield, but you had to drive around the perimeter to reach the terminal. I sat in the back of the tank-like white Chevrolet clutching some comic books I’d bought for the journey, nervous excitement competing with anguish at leaving my whole world behind. The seats were a blue faux leather. The kind that stuck to your legs in hot weather and left square dimples on the backs of your thighs.

The 'airport' was just a wooden shack that served as an office-cum-waiting-room. Alongside there was a big tin hangar housing a Beechcraft six-seater which the management of the Corporation used for business jaunts. On the one occasion that my parents and I had flown in her, I had actually been allowed to sit beside the pilot and steer her. It was the talk of the playground for weeks.

Todays’ flight however, was with Namib Air, whose fleet comprised two decrepit 1930’s Douglas DC-3s salvaged from the bush war in Rhodesia. Onboard catering consisted of a mint humbug to help your ears pop. I gazed through the blur of the propellers, at the rippling, warping shadow of the aircraft speeding along the ochre coloured earth, soaring over rocks, causing herds of zebra to scatter.

These days tourists and gap-year kids pay big bucks for flights on these so-called 'heritage' aircraft. Namib Air passengers considered themselves lucky to survive the trip without being brought down by trigger happy SWAPO terrorists. But it was a wildlife spotter's dream. The ancient crates rattled and wheezed their way over the hills at barely 400 metres, providing a phantasmagorical view of the sunbaked Mopane savannah dotted with welwitschia and camel-thorns. Dory pointed out a parade of six elephants crashing through the scrub.

At Windhoek we transferred to a South African Airways 727 with a bright orange tail fin emblazoned with a winged Springbok. Alongside it the old Dakota appeared miniscule. Like all airliners, in my experience, the cabin smelled faintly of vomit and air freshener as we took our seats. I suppose I must have spoken to Dory during the flight but I don't recall our conversation. Perhaps I read my comic books and pretended she didn't exist?

****

At D.F. Milan airport we were met by another coiffured lady and driven forty odd miles to the house in Constantia where I would spend the weekend, before joining my mother. It was a huge rambling affair with umpteen staircases, grass tennis courts and outdoor swimming pool. Dory mentioned that there were stables too, though I never got to see those.

As we waited at the door for someone to admit us, I felt overwhelmed and tearful. There had been recent rain and there was a smell of damp vegetation and honeysuckle in the air. So different from the arid climate of home. Home, where Faity and the gang would be sitting down to their dinners. Except it wasn't home any more, was it? Dory’s friend noticed me sniffing.

‘The garden boy has been sweeping up leaves to put on the bonfire,’ she smiled.

The door opened and a girl appeared. She must have been fourteen or fifteen, with shortish brown hair and a jagged fringe. She wore a lemon coloured tank top over a pink gingham shirt, blue jeans and grubby white socks.

After a flurry of hugs and greetings Dory introduced us.

‘This is Joanna,’ she said.

‘Hi there,’ said the girl. She had a cheeky, tomboyish grin with a tiny chip in her front tooth.

'Do you like creepy-crawlies? I've got something to show you.'

Joanna put a conspiratorial arm around my shoulders and steered me into the house. Within hours Faity and Tsumeb felt like a dream. A week later and I began to forget what they looked like.

Commentary

Welwitschia and Camel Thorns is an autobiographical account of the day when I, as a child, left my home in Tsumeb, Namibia (then South West Africa), to begin a new life in Cape Town. It attempts to convey the transient nature of childhood attachments. The title comes from two plants which are emblematic of Namibia.

Before writing, I re-read several autobiographies which I admired, to gain insight into the process. These included On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Steven King and two volumes of autobiography by Stephen Fry. I found Fry’s work in particular to be charming, candid and sincere and a model for the sort of piece I wanted to write. I chose to tell the story in the first person, past tense, with my ten year old self as narrator, interspersed with adult observations and humour.

I was impressed by Jamaica Kinkaid's assertion that 'To say exactly what happened was less than what I knew happened' [Kinkaid, 1993, in Anderson, 2006, p. 54]. This was apt when I wrote about the lemon trees, which were a defining feature of my home, but which I never considered on the day in question. Similarly the koringkriek incident didn’t take place that particular day, but the image of the creature clinging to the mesh door was appealing as a metaphor for me clinging to my old life.

My initial draft was written as a stream of consciousness during a train journey, taken down in one session, using my iPhone as an impromptu notebook. I wrote down the rough sequence of events, covering a two day period from the time of being taken from my home to being re-united with my mother. This draft exceeded 3,000 words with the second half focusing on the narrator’s preadolescent yearning for the girl Joanna. However, I found my memories of the second day too vague to construct a truthful narrative. The word count also prohibited the development of this second half of the story.

I also wanted to convey a sense of the political reality of the time and the constant threat posed by the guerrilla war taking place around us. My second draft included considerable detail about the airfield and its role as a base for the South African army. However, this material was not directly relevant and was expunged from subsequent drafts, ultimately being reduced to a single reference to SWAPO terrorists.

Once I had an outline of events I began doing research to fill in the blanks in my memory and/or knowledge. Some of this research consisted of talking to my mother, to confirm some of the details and correct others. My mother’s description of Dory Eistead as ‘a lovely woman’ is taken directly from these conversations. I also did internet research to confirm details about plants and geography.

I made lists of the sights, smells and sounds familiar to me, to convey authentic local colour. The details I describe are accurate to the time and place, although it is impossible to say how much is genuine reportage and how much is a fusion of other memories from that time.

References

Haslam, S. et al (2006) 'Life Writing', in Anderson L. (ed.) Creative Writing: A workbook with readings, Milton Keynes/Abingdon: The Open University in association with Routledge, pp 270-358.

CD3 Life Writing (2005), The Open University/Pier Productions

King, S. (2001), On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, London, New English Library

Fry, S. (1997), Moab is My Washpot: An Autobiography, London, Hutchinson

Fry S. (2010), The Fry Chronicles: An Autobiography, London, Michael Joseph

Endless Summers

This is the second of two poems submitted for my Creative Writing course. The poem was conceived as an elegy to childhood addressed to a youthful playmate, now a lover. I didn't set out to deal with theme in my poems, however, I now realise this piece together with The Cinder Path form the beginning of a sequence about growing up.

Endless Summers

What happened to the endless summers,

of playing hard and running through the wood,

The dappled sun on mossy banks,

and cooling shade of fern.

Where you'd be my Marion, and I...

I'd be Robin in the Hood!

We had no need for merry men,

just played each one in turn.

Those long forgotten days of summer,

of joy and laughter, and galloping through the dust,

to capture the picnic table Alamo,

We'd ride on bronco steeds of air.

We'd fight and die and spoil our clothes,

Oh how our mothers fussed!

They never could quite understand,

That we redskins didn't care.

Such long, hot days of endless summer,

of Barbary pirates on the log pile,

With jacaranda¹ pods for gleaming swords,

we'd brave the Spanish Maine.

You grazed your knee and cried and...

You said I was an imbecile!

That's the trouble playing with girls I said,

The captain always gets the blame.

¹ Jacaranda is a flowering tree native to tropical and subtropical regions. Some species produce a long, flat woody seed pod, reminiscent in size and shape to machete or kukri knife.

The Cinder Path

This is one of two poems which I submitted for my Open University Creative Writing Course. A couple of people who've read it have mentioned that the metre is quite difficult. However, when I read it aloud it makes perfect sense. So I'm going to say that the fault lies with the readers and not the poem! Haha.

The Cinder Path

There is a cinder path that leads to a pebble shore, where

Daddy taught me how to skim flat stones, when I was only four.

Where he sat me on his strong knee and said I must be very brave,

then told me he was leaving. That he was going away to war.

There is a cinder path that leads to a village school, where

I first kissed Jacquie on the lips, and thought I was so cool.

Panting hand in hand to her front door, not feeling very brave,

we dashed upstairs to her room. Giggling at her parent’s "no boys" rule.

There is a cinder path that leads to a cancer ward, where

my mother's shrivelled husk lay weeping, clutching my get-well card.

She said I have to go my darling boy, you must be very brave,

then a nurse drew the curtain. Like some tawdry peppermint green shroud.

There is a cinder path that leads to a factory wall, where

I puffed my last cigarette and realised, like latter day Saint Paul.

I must forsake these indolent grey boondocks, I would be very brave,

head for the Bright Lights, Big City. Or stay and achieve sweet sod all.

Rat Alley - Commentary

 My story, Rat Alley is based around the infamous case of 11 year old child killer Mary Bell, who in the summer of 1968 strangled two small boys in the Scotswood area of Tyneside.

I did considerable research into the background of the case, including sourcing period photographs of Newcastle’s west end to get a feel for the time and place. At one point I visited the scene of events, only to discover that Scotswood estate is long demolished and is now a 60 hectare stretch of muddy embankment undergoing “redevelopment” . However I was still able to view much of the former streets using Google Street View. After two weeks I felt that my research had become an unsettling morbid fascination, not just with the case but with a vanished period of Tyneside history. I put the story aside, unable to continue for several weeks.

The original investigation lasted six months from the first murder until Mary Bells’s conviction for involuntary manslaughter in November 1968, and included a cast of characters including victims, families, investigating officers, as well as Bell and her accomplice Norma. My challenge was to condense all these details into a meaningful form within 2,200 words. My first draft focussed on Mary’s interrogation by Inspector James Dobson. The entire story was to have taken place within a police interview room, with events revealed during conversations between Bell and Dobson. However, I found that I was more interested in the location, and the social upheaval going on at that time so I decided to concentrate instead on the day of Brian Howe’s funeral. This provided the opportunity to tell the story of Scotswood itself through the eyes of my central character, and allowed for a climax of sorts as Dobson reaches his troubling conclusion.

From a very early stage in development I felt that the setting was central to the story, almost a character in its own right. I tried to capture the scene as it might appear to an outsider such as Inspector Dobson. To complement the harsh setting I decided to adopt the gritty “hard-boiled” approach of writers such as Dashiell Hammett, by making the narrator speak in terse, staccato sentences. I wanted him to seem detached and jaded, but not unmoved. 

The story is told in the first person, as a form of monologue in the head of Detective Dobson, as events take place. My goal was to make Dobson both protagonist and peripheral narrator. I was influenced to write this way after listening to Hanif Kureishi’s description of his story Intimacy [Hanif Kureishi, speaking in Writing Fiction (2005) ,track 17]. I wanted to create a detached, meandering quality as he reflects on the social background to the case. For the description of the murders, I wanted a more direct, focused approach. To achieve this I decided that the narrator should speak directly to the reader in the middle section, telling us what has gone before, and admitting his failings. To lend authenticity to the story, the dialogue spoken by Bell and Dobson is taken directly from interviews and police reports of the time. [Scott, S.L. (2011)]

References

Anderson, L. (2006) 'Point of View: Trying on Voices”, in Anderson L. (ed.) Creative Writing: A workbook with readings, Milton Keynes/Abingdon: The Open University in association with Routledge, pp 99-112.

CD1 Writing Fiction (2005), The Open University/Pier Productions

Gerrard, N (et al) 'The Mob Will Move On, the Pain Never Can', The Observer, 3 May 1998

Sereny, Gitta. Cries Unheard -- Why Children Kill: The Story of Mary Bell. New York: Metropolitan Books, 1999.

Sereny Gitta. The Case of Mary Bell. London: Arrow Books, 1972. (Out of print)

Scott, S.L. (2011). Mary Bell TruTV Crime Library [online] available from http://www.trutv.com/library/crime/notorious_murders/famous/bell/index_1.html [Accessed 7 November 2011]

vBulletin Solutions, Inc. (2002). Remembering HISTORIC NEWCASTLE - Old Photos, Maps, even Stories . . . [online] available from http://www.skyscrapercity.com/showthread.php?t=982536 [accessed 12 November 2011]

Rat Alley

I've taken this story down, so I can submit it for publication. 

Ripper

One of my favourite exercises when I'm not working on a specific project, is to simply write flat out for half an hour on the first topic that comes into my head. The quality and quantity doesn't matter, so long as I write continuously for 30 minutes, without pausing to make corrections or alterations. Once the time is up I stop writing, even if I'm mid way through a sentence. The exercise is best performed longhand with a pen and paper, unless you are a blisteringly fast typist!! A stopwatch or alarm clock is useful too.

Usually it's complete drivel of course, but it gets the grey cells working and acts as a confidence booster when I'm blocked. I don't even bother to read it back to myself. At the end of the exercise the piece goes into a folder never to be looked at again, unless of it's an idea worth developing of course - which is not very often!

Anyway, here is one such exercise, inspired by the murder in 1888 of Martha Tabram in Whitechapel, London:


He sensed that his opportunity was close at hand. He had followed her from the corner of Goulston Street, keeping a discrete distance, as she weaved her way along the cobbled length of Wentworth Street. Occasionally he caught snatches of a song coming from his prey. "It was only a flower I picked from my Mother's Grave." Quite appropriate. 

From her unsteady gait and the way she slurred her words he could tell that she was pretty well pickled. Good. They were always so much more pliable when they were in that state. Less likely to make a fuss or cry out. His heart rate quickened in anticipation and he took a deep breath to calm the jitters.

The woman ahead paused briefly under the glow of a gas lamp and hitched her voluminous skirts. He ducked quickly into a doorway, just in case she turned around. Satisfied that she was presentable, the woman stumbled across to the opposite side of the street and continued on her way. He quickened his pace slightly to narrow the gap between them. There were numerous doorways to yards along this stretch of the street into which she could disappear. He didn't want to lose her at this stage. Not when there was important work to be done. He did so enjoy his work.

The woman stopped again, this time in a doorway and vomited loudly and copiously into a doorway. This time he did not bother to hide. Red Lion Yard was just a few yards further along the street. That would be the ideal spot to do the deed. In a few long strides he crossed the street and stood just a few feet behind her. Her stench was overwhelming, a caustic mix of urine, stale sweat and vomit. He scarcely noticed. They were all like that around here, these "unfortunates". This one was certainly unfortunate. Not for her status as an east end prostitute, but because she was about to make the acquaintance of his special friend.

The woman hoisted her numerous skirts and petticoats and squatted down on the pavement and began to urinate on the pavement, oblivious of the tall, black clad figure standing close behind her. He watched in rapt fascination as the hot jet of liquid squirted from beneath her, glinting silver in the moonlight. How like the blade of a knife it looked. A long thin blade, much like his own.

He cast his gaze over her enormous buttocks, white and wrinkled like fresh dough. He thought to reach out and kneed them, but held back. There would be time enough for that later, once the deed was done. Then he could take the time to explore her mysteries, her crevices.

He waited until she was finished and had straightened her clothing. He noticed that she wore a threadbare green velvet jacket embroidered with pink daisies. He wondered how she had come by it. Items like that usually came from fine couturiers up west, not from the local Yiddish sweatshop tailors. Perhaps this trollop had seen better days herself. Perhaps she had fallen from a better class. He wondered how such an event could have occurred. Perhaps her husband had died, leaving debts. Perhaps he had simply become bored with her. Surely not. No man could possibly become bored with a rump like that as his plaything. He smiled to himself. Her background was of no matter. A whore was a whore. The fact that she might once have had a bit of class just added a delicious piquancy.

He stroked his pencil thin moustache and coughed to get her attention. She turned, staggered, steadying herself on the door jamb. 

“Hello dear,” she grinned, revealing three missing teeth in her lower jaw. “What's a fine gentleman like yourself doing creeping up on lady like that?” She cackled like a drain before coughing horsely. Early onset of consumption he thought. At least she would be spared from that ignoble fate.

He grinned coldly, and held out a handful of small coins, wordlessly. Her eyes lit up greedily and she licked her lips, no doubt anticipating a few more hours spent in the gin palaces of Commercial Street.

“Oh I see,” she murmured. She looked about, seeking a place of privacy before lighting on the entrance to Red Lion Yard. “Come on then, we can nip in there.”

He almost laughed aloud as he followed her. Just like a lamb to the slaughter. Quite literally.

Coming Home

This story was written for the first assignment of my Open University creative writing course, for which I earned a distinction. Please feel free to comment.

Coming Home

by David Thorne

The street was much shorter than he remembered. The prim red bricked terraced houses had always seemed to stretch forever as he trudged home from school, hauling his satchel of brown paper wrapped books. There were a lot fewer cars then too. When he'd lived here not many people owned cars. Mr Rutter from number 52 had a Wolseley. Of course he could afford it, he was something important at the tank factory. He'd once taken the two families to Whitley Bay for the day. If he closed his eyes Tim could still recall the smell of the polished leather seats. Feel the overworked springs, as eight of them crammed into that tiny motor car. James hadn't been born yet, of course. They'd had ice creams that day. A rare treat back then, before wartime rationing came to an end.

The bitter October breeze curled around his legs, causing his cotton slacks to ripple and bulge. He pushed his hands deeper into his coat pockets and struck out towards the top of the street where the pit heap had loomed over the entire village. A four lane bypass cut through it now.

He played a game of trying to put the names of families to the numbers of houses as he approached the crossroads. Quite a few of the residents at this end of the street must have bought their homes. Some had put in upvc double glazing and doors, or hung pretentious name plaques. Most had unsightly satellite dishes fastened to the walls. Tim chided himself for thinking how common they looked. He paused at the corner where the shop belonging to Mr Lawson the butcher had stood. It was a combined tattoo and tanning parlour now.

A telephone box marked the spot where he had been knocked down by one of the Kelly boys on his bicycle. A rueful smile creased Tim’s lips at the thought of that wild haired figure whizzing around the pavement corner, scarecrow legs frozen out wide to avoid the flying pedals, bell ringing frantically.

'I've got no brakes!'

Then there was a blank. No recollection of pain, just the doctor putting the finishing touches to the plaster cast on his left ankle before ruffling his hair.

He reached number 67 and stared. The peeling, faded front door might have once been red, perhaps brown, he couldn’t tell. It might be the same one that had been there when he was a child. The lacy net curtains which his mother had washed and pressed religiously every fortnight long gone. He couldn't tell if there were even any curtains at all hanging at the grubby, sightless windows. Inside, the dull jaundiced glow of a naked lightbulb revealed stark magnolia walls. In the gloom he could make out a psychodelic poster of a marijuana leaf hung haphazardly over the chimney breast, one corner ripped away.

A tattered and bulging black refuse sack teetered on the top step, oozing the stench of rotting vegetation and soiled nappies. Tim covered his nose with a sleeve to prevent himself retching. His throat stiffened and ached as he pictured his mother on her knees scrubbing those stone steps. Hair tied up under an ever present headscarf, rheumatic hands raw from the icy water in the galvanised bucket at her side.

The door burst open with a shuddering crash that threatened to shake it from the hinges. For an instant Tim expected his father to step out in his thick woollen trousers and threadbare brown jacket, crisp white shirt, collar all freshly starched and ironed. How had his mother managed to keep those shirts so white? Every evening Dad would arrive home black with the grime of the coal face, and every morning Mam would send him out looking like he'd just stepped out of a Saville Row tailor. Well almost.

A shaven headed mountain of a man dressed in filthy denim jeans and black bomber jacket lurched out, accompanied by the sound a child howling.

'...and ye better shut that bairn up or I'll stot both your heeds off the wall', he roared. Tim caught a brief burst of a woman's harsh voice hurling abuse before the door once again slammed shut.

'What the fuck are ye gaupin at?' The man shouldered past Tim, knocking him into the gutter. His Pierre Cardin shoe avoided a fresh dog turd by a hair.

A smouldering tear percolating down his cheek, Tim crossed the street. Without looking back he walked towards his car. 

The Offer - Part Six

We rattle across the coastal plain. It could be a scene from Dante. A  Hadean landscape littered with towering stacks belching jets of flame and smoke. Chemical factories glitter in the dark like vast futuristic cities which never sleep. Earth moving machines crawl over towering mountains of coal, feeding the ever hungry foundries which gush rivers of molten steel. The air is heavy and oppressive, the soil blackened by decades of pollution. Nothing grows here except dry scrub grass. The air is filled with the ever present reek of sulphur. It is the land of Mordor made real.

We chug past the Shell oil terminal where tankers from eastern Europe unload round the clock. The floor tilts and creaks as we cross the set of points which leads onto the final run in to the station. We pass untidy allotment gardens and a run down static caravan site.  Just a couple of minutes now. 

Sitting on a rocky outcropping at the mouth of a vast  muddy estuary Sleeburn-on-Sea has been a summer retreat for the working population of the Teasle river basin since Victorian times. A dilapidated, ugly town, it has never developed the charm of Scarborough or Whitby. The pier which attracted summer crowds from Harlesmere and Redbank has long since decayed into the sea. The shabby station is a relic from a heyday long since passed. It’s large platform clock stuck forever at two minutes to twelve.

The blast, when it comes, is muted. I see it frame by frame, in slow motion. I have time to take in every detail as it occurs. The door of the toilet cubicle swells slightly, recedes then drifts across the corridor, hits the wall and floats to the floor to lie quivering. The fireball swells, taking on the appearance of a cumulus cloud. A great rosy glow surrounded by ball of grey smoke. There is very little sound. Just a dull thump, followed by a shudder under my feet.

The firestorm rolls towards me, a deep muffled roar, preceded by sharp hissing sound as the air in the carriage is sucked into the conflagration. The flames fan out over every surface, like a wave lapping over the shore. I feel the draft wash  over me, causing me to sway gently as I am buffeted. I brace myself for the agony to come, my eyes squeezed shut.

There is a judder as the train’s diesel fuel ignites, but the expected pain does not arrive. I open my eyes. The initial ball of fire has swept over me. I am standing amongst the burning debris as though I am made of asbestos. The tongues of flame lick around me, over me, but I do not burn.

I look around and observe the passengers. Those closest to the explosion are already dead. Mangled so badly they are scarcely recognisable as human. Those nearer at hand wear expressions of mingled horror and anger. Eyes wide, each mouth frozen in a terrified rictus as death swoops down upon them.

A man near to me is engulfed in flame, showered by the burning diesel. He beats himself uselessly, succeeding only in spreading the flames from his body to his arms. He collapses slowly to the floor, a sooty human candle. A smell like barbecued pork rises from his ruined corpse.

Everywhere glass is flying, embedding itself into muscle tissue. Safety glass, it doesn’t form shards, but contrives small pellets which scatter like  buckshot. The effect upon impact is similar. The furnace formed by the confined space quickly turns it molten and it sizzles and burns its way down to the bone. 

The debris begins to settle. The rending shriek of over stressed metal subsides, leaving just the occasional crackle of burning electrics. The faint aroma of seared flesh. It is dark now, the fluorescent light having been consumed by flame. Just a few fragments of burning seat fabric light the carnage. The silence is eerie. 

Then the screaming starts. A lone female voice at first, quickly joined by others. Pathetic, futile cries for help.

I turn towards the door. He is standing there, surveying my handiwork. He wears a satisfied expression. He beckons to me and steps out of the wreckage onto the platform. I follow, feeling the crunch of broken glass beneath the soles of my safety boots. 

A blackened hand reaches out, clawing at my trouser leg. I can’t tell whether it is male or female, young or old. The hair and clothes partially burned away. Skin peeling in sheets, exposing pink weeping under layers. The outline of a set of plastic headphones is fused to the cheeks. Blood oozes from shattered eardrums. It stares up at me, lidless eyes pleading. A whimper comes from the maw where the lips have been melted away, leaving a meaty skeletal grin.

If the gruesome creature is expecting pity there will be none forthcoming. I shake my leg free and smash my boot into it’s disfigured face, directly between the eyes. My steel toe cap shatters the skull and the corpse falls back amongst the detritus without another sound. This is becoming almost easy.

I make my way out onto the platform and survey the wreckage. Thick, oily black smoke billows from the shattered train, reconciling itself into a vast  rising stack. Jimmy Clegg is hanging from the window of the drivers cab. He wriggles and squirms as he attempts to force his bloated torso through the narrow aperture. The inferno is still raging at that end of the train causing the metal superstructure to buckle and twist. He screams to me for help. The sound reminds me of pigs in a slaughter house. Quite appropriate really. I give him a mock salute.

A dark haired woman is trying to drag herself from the middle doors, closest to where the explosion took place. She seems untouched by the flames and shrapnel. She slides onto the platform and lies still. There are two bloody stumps where her legs have been severed by jagged metal. The tips of shattered femurs protrude grotesquely.

I shake my head in disgust and head toward the waiting black limousine.

--END--

The Offer - Part Five

The inadequate station public address system crackles into life and a voice  devoid of expression announces the 17:04 from Harlesmere to Sleeburn. I dread this journey. I open the guard’s local door and look out. The rush hour crowd surges forward, pushing and shoving in their haste to get aboard. A seething mass of humanity, desperate to get home to the bosom of their families, another pointless day spent.

Today I am not filled with the usual apprehension. Instead I am calm, cheerful even. You might say I have reason to feel optimistic. Today, when the service terminates, I will leave the train and begin my new life.

The masses flock around me, as they search for seats. They avoid making eye contact, try to avoid sitting next to anyone else. It’s a forlorn hope. 

Six or seven young girls squeeze past me, screeching and giggling. They wedge themselves into the seats at a single table and start taking photographs of each other with their camera phones. They might be university students heading for a night on the town. More likely still  in school. They wear what we used to call follow-me-home-and-fuck-me dresses. Little black numbers that could easily pass as slips. 

The combined scent of their perfume hangs like a cloud in the carriage. I try to discern through the overly applied makeup which ones are pretty. Which ones have covered up acne by applying foundation with a trowel. Which ones are worth screwing.

I decide that I would nail any one of them if the opportunity arose. Of course it won’t. Not on this leg of the journey. They are all still sober. None of them would condescend to fuck a lowly train conductor. As far as they are concerned I am little more than a servant, paid to ferry them to their night on the town. They still have hope. The future still stretches out in front of them, with the promise of glittering careers and happy marriages.

It might be different story later on though. Once the pubs have kicked them out. When they stagger in a drink fuelled haze onto the train, makeup ruined and speech slurred. It is a certainty that one or two will have lost their purses, or their tickets, maybe even their knickers. When they discover that haven’t got the money to pay the fare, or their credit card is declined. Then the conductor isn’t quite so invisible. Then he becomes an authority figure, someone to be feared and appeased. They are so stupid at that age.

If you can keep your face straight. Threaten to put them off at the next station in the middle of nowhere. They become altogether more civil. More willing to “work something out”. Many are the conductors who have received a nice sloppy blowjob from a drunken tart in exchange for a free journey home. As I’ve said, they are stupid.

I get the train underway and return to the back cab. My place of solitude. I will not be collecting any tickets today.

As I open the door I see him sitting there. Immaculate bespoke pinstripe suit from Saville Row. I know because I used to have  an identical one. Curious. A well cut trouser leg rides up from the highly polished black leather slip on, to reveal a gaudy red sock. I smile at his macabre sense of humour. My heart rate quickens as I take my place in the second man's seat. He is looking out of the window, his steel grey hair swept back with a touch of oil, goatee immaculately groomed. He is smoking his customary Cuban cigar. The smoke fails to smother the scent of his caustic cologne.

I sit there feeling the harsh rocking motion of the train. Thirty years ago these 142 units were designed as buses. When the bus company went bust in the early eighties they slapped the chassis on railway bogeys and called them trains. There is no suspension, no frills of any kind. Every kink and irregularity in the track is transmitted straight to the passengers spine.

My chest feels tight, and I have to suck in every breath to keep from fainting. I try not to look at him, though I don’t seem able to prevent my eyes stealing an occasional glance. I say nothing, knowing that it is not expected. 

Eventually he blows a thick plume of smoke and swivels in his seat to look at me.  I feel like a rabbit in the headlights of a truck as he stares at  me appraisingly. I can see the instrument panel reflected in his golden eyes. Then he grins, the corners of his mouth curling up malevolently under his moustache. I’m reminded of a pantomime villain.

“You have made the right decision you know,” he says. I nod silently. 

“At Sleeburn then?”  It is an instruction not a question.

His eyes leave me and I follow his gaze down to my pilot case sitting in the well beneath the dashboard. It contains all the usual tools of the conductors trade: weekly operating notices, high visibility vest, bardic lamp, biohazard gloves, spit kit. Today though there is something extra. Something which is definitely not standard issue.

I turn my attention to the view outside the grimy side window.

******

The Offer - Part Four

Is this the train to Harlesmere mate? Does this train go Hylton Grange mate? What time’s the next train to Mandlebrough mate? They stand in line like automatons each waiting for their opportunity to phrase the same cretinous questions. Never a please or a thank you. Just mate, as if that were somehow a substitute. Can you fucking read? What does it say on the screen? I’m not your mate. I would sooner rip your head off and spit down your neck as call you mate.

They stand there like sheep, jabbing at the door buttons before you have the chance  to energise the damned things. Then as soon as the lights come on they wander off to try another door. I stand there shaking my head. “That door’s not working mate,” they tell you. “Your fucking brain’s not working.” The words hover on the tip of my tongue. They wonder why the trains are always running late.

We’ve been meeting regularly. Sometimes for a couple of drinks, sometime just for a coffee. Each time is the same, I do most of the talking, he sits and listens. Nodding occasionally. It’s a bit like talking to a psychiatrist. Except that he never offers an opinion. Never gives me any advice.

It is probably on our fourth or fifth meeting that he makes his offer. I am just the man he has been looking for. It is way for me to redress the balance. To regain control. 

By now I know who he is. I’ve guessed what business would take him to Whorlton station and it’s not drugs or pederasty. Nevertheless I am still shocked by the boldness of his suggestion. The idea is intriguing. The promised rewards tantalising. Yet I hesitate. What have I got to lose? Nothing. I have been craving an escape from this hellish torment, lacking the courage to take the obvious one. Still, it is a major decision. Not something I should rush into. I am afraid of taking a leap into the unknown. I tell him that I’ll think about it.

“Take as long as you like. I have all the time in the world.” He gives me a beguiling smile.

I don’t see him for several days. Plenty of time to mull things over. Now he turns up on the train. I return to the back cab to find him sitting there smoking a cigar. Smoking is of course strictly forbidden on the train, but I say nothing. He politely enquires if I've given any thought to his proposal. I can’t stall indefinitely. I need to give him my answer soon.

At Mandlebrough we disgorge our last handful of passengers. There is only person waiting to board. A tall kid in a white Adidas tracksuit who shoulders past me. I can’t see his face for the peaked cap pulled down low over his eyes, but instinctively I don’t like him. He wanders right down the length of the train, passing dozens of empty seats, before throwing himself into a seat at an empty table. This immediately raises my hackles. It’s always the idiots who are only travelling one stop who do this. They try their luck, hoping you wont get to them  before they reach their destination. Fat chance today when the train is empty. I march straight down the carriage to check his ticket. He’s slouched in a rear facing seat, feet up on the seat opposite. He has an open can of Fosters lager in one hand. There is a crumpled packet of Old Holborn and a cheap disposable lighter on the table, alongside a new mobile telephone. I notice a tattoo of a web on his wrist, partially obscured by the cuff of his chav uniform. This tells me everything I need to know about the sort of person I’m dealing with.

“May I see your ticket please?” I ask, forcing a politeness I do not feel.

He looks up at me with a smirk. “Haven’t got one”, he says.

“That’s okay, you can buy one from me. Where are you going?”

“Haven’t got any money. I’ve just got out the nick.” He gives me a grin, revealing several missing teeth.

“If you don’t have a ticket or the money to pay for one, why did you board the train?” These kind of people make me sick. He shrugs and looks out the window.

I persist. “You must buy a ticket to travel on this train?”

“Well I haven’t got one, so why don’t you just fuck off!” He stands and pats his pockets. Then realisation dawns. He picks up the mobile and begins to dial. Something stirs deep inside me but I push it down, internally soothing the beast.

“If you can’t pay for a ticket you will have to provide your name and address and I’ll write out an unpaid fares notice. Do you have any ID on you?”

“You’re not listening mate, I said fuck off.” There is no sneer now, just raw aggression. 

He leans forward, bloodshot eyes wide, and I step back instinctively, expecting him to headbutt me. I take in every detail of his face. The fair eyebrows, dirty green eyes, framed by a ring of mottled yellow that speaks of a fading bruise. A line of dry blood where his lip has recently been split open. There is an ugly scar stretching from his cheekbone to his jaw. The recent fight is obviously not an isolated incident.

I’m am still backing away when he spits into my face. I feel the warm, wet impact like a punch. I’m momentarily stunned as the thick trail of slime begins to slide down my nose and cheek. Time slows to a crawl. My attacker is laughing, but the sound is oddly stretched and distorted like a tape playing at half speed. The light in the carriage around me seems to take on a sepia tone. Raising my hand to wipe the away the stinking spittle seems to take an eternity. As I wipe the offending matter onto my sleeve, I make my decision. I will accept the offer. Time clicks back into it’s normal mode. The kid is still ready to strike, but now he is looking at me strangely, his eyes are wide, swollen lips slightly parted as if he’s about to speak.

My Advantix ticket machine smashes down into his face with a degree of force I wouldn’t have thought possible. The impact is jarring, yet satisfying. The crack explosive, a mixture of splintering plastic combined with shattering bone and cartilage. Droplets of blood splash across the window, the table and down the front of his white nylon tracksuit. He sits down, mute, his nose partially torn away. One decayed tooth slides from his mouth in a trail of blood and saliva. A sliver of plastic casing from the ticket machine protrudes obscenely from a mangled eye socket. For a moment his remaining good eye flickers in terror. He slumps forward onto the table and a pool of dark blood quickly begins to form around his head. The can of lager tips over and adds a rush of foam to the feast of gore.

I spit into the mess and turn away. “You must have a ticket to travel on this train, mate”, I mutter to myself. Adrenaline courses through me as I make my way back to the cab and lock myself in. I suck in an enormous breath of the stale air.

“Good job”, he says from behind me. “Wait until we reach Watchester Tunnel. You can dump the body overboard.” I vomit into the corner.

*******

The Offer - Part Three

A few days later he finds me again. It is in an upmarket bar close to the station. A place I  go to occasionally to unwind. To waste a couple of hours, when I can’t face going back to the empty flat. When I want to remember. The lounge is all subdued lighting and designer furniture. Comfortable and reassuringly expensive. No chance of running into any of my colleagues from work here. A good place for contemplation. For feeding the pain. 

The place is deserted and I am sitting in a huge comfortable sofa in a dark corner.  There is an old soft rock track playing on the superior sound system. Oddly out of character for this place. My eyes are closed as I hum along. I don’t want anyone to notice the film of moisture threatening to overflow into tears. This song always makes me cry.

He has approached without me hearing. Surprising, considering the polished wood floor amplifies every sound.

“May I buy you a drink? You look like you need a friend.”

I blink furiously, startled from my reverie. He is looking down at me with that same gentle half smile. I wonder for a moment if I have fallen asleep and I am dreaming. I look around. My surroundings are unchanged. The barman is wiping down tables at the other side of the room. He seems oblivious to us.

“Actually I was just leaving”, I lie. I really do not want company tonight. I certainly don’t want to be fending off the advances of an ageing homophile.

A sceptical frown flashes across his face as he holds out a whisky bottle and two cut glass tumblers.  He eases himself into the wing back chair opposite me.

“Surely you can stay for just the one?

I eye the bottle of scotch with interest. Glendronach. Twenty five years old and close to perfection. Not a drink to be taken squandered frivolously. The old boy has taste at least. 

I nod my agreement. He looks positively beatific as he pours out two generous measures. Oblivion beckons.

At first the conversation is stilted. He asks questions and I reply. How long have I been a train conductor? What did I do before that? Am I married? I keep my answers short and to the point. Almost monosyllabic. Rude. I have never been one for polite chit-chat. I take a long time to warm to strangers. I throw back a mouthful of whisky with each answer, savouring the warm sting.

He doesn’t seem offended by my surliness. His expression doesn’t change as he refills my glass again and again. A thought occurs to me.

“You're not drinking?” It’s a statement rather than a question.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to poison you.” He raises his glass. The ambient light refracted through the whisky gives his face a warm reddish glow. He downs the entire measure in one gulp and places the glass back down on the smoked glass table. I notice that he doesn’t refill his own glass. I begin to wonder if he expects me to drink the entire bottle. It is still two thirds full.

As the alcohol starts to take effect I find myself becoming more willing to talk. This stranger is surprisingly easy company. He hasn’t tried to hit on me. If his tastes run to intercourse per anum, he clearly doesn’t want it from me. He listens to me earnestly, nodding his understanding, occasionally offering an encouraging smile. He reminds me of an old fashioned vicar.

A few more drinks and my reticence evaporates. I really want to talk to this guy. I need to talk. I feel that I can tell him anything without being judged or criticised. He really wants to listen to me.

It all comes out. All my anger and despair that will no longer be contained. Mina’s affair, the divorce, losing the kids.  Why did she do it? The sheer bloody injustice of it all. I devoted ten years of my life to that woman. Poured every ounce of myself into our relationship. Built my world around her. But it wasn’t enough. She had to go fucking my best friend. My business partner.

To rub salt in the wound the court took her side. Her solicitor said I had driven her to it. That I was unstable, domineering, dangerous. My reputation trampled in the mud. She got the lot, the house, money. Sole  custody of the kids. Forced to sell my share of the business. Years of  graft to build up. A real labour of love. I couldn’t very well go on working with him could I? Pretending nothing had happened.

I hope they are happy together. Cozying up in the house that I built. Playing happy families with my kids. They are already calling him Daddy. 

I can contain the pain no longer and the tears come. My new friend says nothing. He moves to the seat beside me and puts a comforting arm around my shoulder. I sob uncontrollably onto his shoulder. My chest feels as if it will burst. The smell of his jacket is soothing. It reminds me of damp earth.

I don’t know how long this outburst of emotion goes on. The next thing I know I’m waking up in my own bed with the hangover from hell. I have a vague recollection of plush leather car seats. The rest of the evening is a blank.

******

The Offer - Part Two

It is about six weeks ago since he first came into my life. He was a passenger on my train from Corham. One of those annoying characters that insist on talking to you whilst you are trying to do your job. They ask you questions whilst you are operating the doors, or they try to pass the time of day with you when you are collecting fares during the rush hour. I don’t do small talk, so I just glare until they pay me and get back to their newspapers. The worst ones are the ones who think the know something about the railway. Trainspotters mostly. They ask the most banal questions, or try to impress you with their knowledge of technical terms. Usually their knowledge is hopelessly out of date, or just plain wrong.

Who the hell cares? What kind of sad bastard would find trains remotely interesting anyway?

I can tell at once that there is something different about this man. He is elderly, with a goatee. Average height and build. He wears a Harris tweed suit, that smells faintly of damp dog. Carries a walking cane, although he doesn’t seem to have any problems walking. A smart country gent of the sort that you don’t see very often these days. There is something familiar about him, but I can’t pin it down.

His mouth smiles, but his eyes seem to be looking straight into my soul.

“Have you had a hard day? You look stressed.”

“No worse than any other day” I mutter. “It’s always hectic at this time of day.”

“It must be difficult for you, doing a job like this.”

It’s not rocket science” I reply. Annoyed.

“That was my point. An educated man like yourself, doing such a menial task. Most train conductors are rather common chaps.”

I turn to look at him, prepared to tell him not to be so bloody patronising. What does he know about me? He is looking at me quizzically. There  is a slight twinkle in his eyes. The retort dies in my throat. I am not sure if he is taking the piss. 

“No it’s not ideal” I say. Before I can continue, the brakes begin to squeal as we pull into Whorlton station. I turn my attention back to operating the doors. He steps past me onto the platform, his polished brogues barely making a sound.

“Nil desperandum,” he says, touching his temple in a mock salute.

I am taken aback. No one ever gets on or off the train at Whorlton. It is possibly the most dismal place on the entire network. A stark inner city ghetto for the dispossessed. A station with zero facilities, the walls daubed with so-called street art. Hypodermic syringes and blackened spoons litter the brick shelter where gangs of youths congregate late at night. 

Only two trains a day stop here, and only because the company is obliged to provide a service by law. No one travels to Whorlton if they can avoid it.

Before I can stop myself I am asking, “Are you sure this is your stop?”

“Oh yes,” he says with a wave. I do a lot of business around here.”

I can’t imagine what business he could have in this hellish place. He doesn’t fit the profile of a drug dealer. He approaches the shelter, where two kids in black hooded sweatshirts stand smoking. They gaze toward the train with vacant narcotic stares. The old guy engages them in conversation and as we prepare to move away from the station I see all three moving away towards the station exit. A black limousine is waiting outside. Now it makes sense. Rent boys. He will probably turn up dead in a day or two.

I glance up to check that the semaphore signal is at proceed. The driver has his head out of the window looking at me. I wave nonchalantly and he ducks back inside. He is nervous. You do not hang around here longer than necessary. Besides he is itching to get his feet up in the mess room with his Daily Mirror and mug of coffee. I close the doors and glance at the signal again before stepping back onto the train. It wouldn’t do to buzz the train away against a red signal. A signal passed at danger is probably the worst offence a driver can commit. Two SPADs and a drivers’ career is over. Of course the driver is supposed to check the signal himself. Every conductor has made the mistake at some point. Most of the drivers are understanding and will just have a quiet word with you. 

Not this one. Jimmy Clegg. Surly, ignorant, obese porcine features. Generally regarded as a complete twat. He would report you to the management without ever telling you why. Jimmy’s worked on the railway for 27 years and has never known anything else. He joined fresh from school aged sixteen, because his father worked for British Rail. He worked his way up from fitters mate, to shunter and finally to train driver. He’s typical of the railway industry. Whinges about the job to anyone who will listen. He hates the company, hates the management even more. “Never trust a gaffer” was Jimmy’s sage advice to me when I join the company three months ago. I should have told him then that I was a “gaffer” until fortune dictated that I be forced to take this steaming dog turd of a job.

Jimmy’s sort are what are commonly known as “the salt of the earth”. Or as my late grandmother would have said, “common as muck”. People like Jimmy define their existence by their jobs. A job is for life, and they wage a constant “us against them” war with anyone who dares to progress. Ambition is not something that ever enters their minds. They put all their faith in the unions because they can’t fight their own battles. If you disagree you are a scab or a class traitor. 

I’m not a member of the union. I would sooner cut off my own left testicle than become part of Jimmy’s world, with it’s working men's clubs, page three girls and holidays to Turkey.

The train clears the platform and I switch off the door key switch, severing power to the door leaves. Wouldn’t do to have some idiot opening a door and falling out at 70 mph. God knows there are plenty who would try.

I begin another ticket checking patrol of the train. It is not taxing work. I have plenty of time to scrutinise my passengers. I know at a glance what to expect from each of them.

The people in the suits look down on you as a working class lout. I want to scream “I was just like you once, you fucking snobs! I’ve been to university, managed my own businesses. I’m better than any of you.”

Kids think you are a joke, someone to fuck about with. Old ladies pity you. The single mothers and assorted ill-bred trash think you exist purely for their convenience. To lift their pushchairs onto the train. To answer their crudely phrased questions. To Listen to their endless complaints. None of them knows the meaning of please or thank you.

The common slappers who hold up their tickets without even bothering to lift their snouts out of the latest issue of Heat magazine. The spotty teenagers who sit listening to their IPods, pretending they haven’t seen you.

The ones who walk to the farthest end of the carriage, in the hope that you won’t reach them before they reach their destination.

Women who decide to answer their mobiles phones whilst you wait for them to produce their tickets. The ones who look sheepish as they search every pocket, every crevice of their bags for their tickets, and then remember that they don’t have one after all.

The late night pissheads, the stinking tramps, the filthy labourers, the snotty kids. I hate them all with an equal and vehement passion.

******