Hearing the front door slam, Sarah slipped into the front bedroom and peered through the smoke-tinged net curtains that hung over the grimy window. Her father was already at the front gate, shuffling out into the night. He had a flat cap clamped down tightly upon his head, a ratty old scarf wound around the lower half of his face, leaving only the hawk nose and the dull eyes exposed to the cold. It was a safe assumption that he was out for the night then; He wouldn't wrap up for a simple trip to the corner shop, but The Legion was right across town.
Sarah fought the urge to race straight to her own room and waited until the old man lit a cigarette and drifted to the end of the road, around the corner and out of sight. As soon as he disappeared from view, she ran across the narrow landing and pulled her tiny record player from its hiding place beneath her bed. She was running late already, and she still had to change, but there was always time for music, especially when she had the house to herself and no need to worry about the volume levels. Rubber Soul was on the top of her record pile, as it had been for the last few months, and she once again slid the shiny black disc from its stiff paper sleeve and lowered it reverentially onto the spindle. On her knees, she wiped the stylus with a square of yellow cotton to remove even the faintest trace of grit which might damage the precious LP, then lowered the needle into the groove with practised ease. She still tensed herself against the harsh crackle of a mis-cue, but there was only the slightest hiss as the diamond stylus slid into the silent valley between tracks. Then the driving beat and throbbing baseline of her favourite cut began to reverberate in the plain plaster echo chamber of her room. She turned the volume up as high as it would go without distorting and began to bop her head in time to the music, singing along as best she could.
Have you heard, love?
It was hard to keep up, and if she tried to mimic John's snarling disdain for too long she started to cough, but something about the song caught her up and dragged her along in its wake. This was real music, the purest, strangest sounds around and the exact polar opposite of the maudlin old German love songs her father murmured to himself when he staggered home from The Legion, when he'd had one too many and got to thinking about Sarah's mother. For a moment there, kneeling before the red leatherette altar, Sarah had a momentary glimpse into her father's mind; For the first time, she understood the way the half-remembered melody could lift him out of the world and carry him back to a better time. It shook her, a shock of recognition; In her own way, Sarah knew, she was just like him, spending six days of every week in stasis, holding on for those few hours when they could live, when the music set them both free. The rest of the time they were trapped in the house together, back to back, her father with his gaze fixed firmly on the past, Sarah looking ahead.
That was the difference, she decided. She was facing the future. Her father's hatred of the modern world, with its long-haired singers and coloured actors on the telly, it was all part of his desire to hold the past as tightly as he could, to claw his way back into it. Always back. Back to the war, to the time when he had a job, a purpose and a wife, to the days when he did more than smoke an endless series of cigarettes and wait for Friday nights. Sarah was heading in the other direction, straining for a tomorrow which hung just beyond her grasp, racing towards the future at thirty three revolutions a minute.
Deep in thought, her forehead dipping towards the threadbare carpet, Sarah felt rather than heard the music, a pulsating beacon in the centre of her mind. Lamplight on the bridge of thoughts as the way opened once more. She rolled to one side, sprawling on the floor, gazing up at the cracked ceiling, focussed at some point far beyond it. A blink of her eyes and the point was internalized, deep within. Another blink flipped the perspective and put the point somewhere out beyond the stars, and in an instant she was travelling with it. She felt the familiar weight on her chest, the heavy presence of a Mara pushing her physical form back even as it drew her soul upwards and out. Her muscles locked in place, a hypnagogic paralysis that would restrain and protect her body until she returned to it. Drifting away, she glanced down at herself, appraising and examining her sleeping self from a fresh vantage point, then turned and headed out into the higher realms.
A knocking at the front door brought her back with a bump. Her mind reeled in the backwash of departing dreams; A silver star, a red forest, the zones of alienation and isolation, an earnest young man sitting on a lonely hillside clutching a book of poetry. The moments drifted apart and she pushed up onto her elbows, looking around uncertainly. Had she been asleep? The steady thrrrp... thrrrp... thrrrp... of the stylus at the end of the LP suggested that at least ten minutes had passed, and her back ached as if she had been lying on the floor for a good deal longer. The knocking came again, louder and more insistent, and she struggled to her feet and made her way down to the hall. She should never have allowed herself to be tempted by the music, she thought. She was already running late when her father had left, and then she went and fell asleep! She knew that it would be Bill at the door, ready to give her a dressing down for standing him up, and she almost turned and crept back up the stairs. Then the hammering began again, and she heard an unfamiliar voice calling her name.
With growing trepidation, she slipped the chain onto the door, then opened it a crack and peered out into the darkness.
"Yes?"
The policeman standing on the doorstep looked down at her with mute despondency. His colleague held up a warrant card which might have been cut from the back of a cornflake packet for all the attention she paid it.
"May we come in miss? I'm afraid we have some rather bad news about your father..."
Saturday 20 June 2009
Saturday 6 June 2009
Ghost Town
In the morning, after the riot, Mark made his way down to the town centre to see if there was anything he could make use of. He found a shard of bloodied glass from one of the Wimpey's windows and a dented bobby's helmet, but neither of them spoke to him, and he left them to other, less discerning scavengers. Not that there were any about yet - Most of the younger boys would still be in bed, unaware of the booty going unclaimed, while the big lads would be feeling too fragile to face the light and the truth of what they had done.
Even so, it was still dangerous to be out on the streets alone, and Mark wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been driven by necessity. At twelve and a half, he was almost too old to be under anyone else's protection, and the chances of him finding an article of power for himself were fading every day; Soon they would just be random objects, bits of broken plastic and copper wire. He wouldn't feel the raw violence and anger which had formed them, wouldn't sense the stories that kept them alive, and he couldn't be sure that they would hold him safe from the others.
Heading into the high street, where the panda car had been burnt out, he felt the first stirrings of recognition deep inside, like a finger curled through the soft meat of his mind, pulling him forwards. He crossed the roundabout, then squatted at the point where the car had mounted the pavement and gone into Rumbelows TV display window. A burning tyre had left a short strip of melted rubber on the road, like a flattened black snake. He carefully peeled it up and was gratified when it came away in a complete foot long strip. He swung it experimentally, slapped it against the palm of his hand; It would do, if nothing else came along. He tucked it into his knapsack, stuffing it down at the bottom, beneath his Empire Strikes Back tee-shirt. It wasn't the greatest hiding place, but at least if he was picked up by the Spruce Street gang, arguing over the nearly new shirt might distract them enough to make them miss a tatty strip of rubber. Whether he would escape such a confrontation was another thing, but it was best not to think about that; The Spruce Street gang and the St Luke's boys were mortal enemies, and the rumours of what happened if you strayed into the wrong territory were the stuff of nightmares.
But he was convinced there was still something better out there; He could feel it, like an itch behind his eyeballs. He allowed his mind to go slack, unfocussed, and wandered aimlessly down the high street. His innate small boy trouble compass soon brought him to the cinema, the epicentre of the previous night's fighting. Crunching across broken glass and stale popcorn, he found himself drawn to the Forthcoming Attractions boards. The frames were splintered and cracked, the glass shattered like almost every other pane in the town, and the posters had been ripped out and shredded long before, but somehow, a single 10 x 8 still remained caught in one of the frames, and it was this which had called to him. He reached up and pulled it loose, wincing as a thin sliver of glass slid into the meat of his thumb. He transferred the photo to his other hand and inspected it intently as he sucked at the wound.
The photo was black and white, without words, a single shot of a man's face. He was handsome enough, with dark eyes and a scruff of beard and dark, wavy hair, but he was no movie star that Mark had ever seen before. It was hard to judge though, as his face was striped with thin rivulets of blood which trickled down from a wound above his hairline. But he showed no pain; His olive eyes were calm, serene, almost forgiving as they stared back at Mark. There was the trace of a smile on his lips, and as he contemplated it, Mark realised that he was hearing the man's voice inside his mind, a voice which said, "I know you child."
And then the man had him. Mark felt him in his thoughts and memories, rifling through his innermost thoughts and most shameful secrets. He tried to fight it, but as his muscles locked in place, so too did his thoughts. He was unable to move, to look away from the photo or to steer his thoughts in any other direction. His thumb throbbed and swelled as if it was filling his entire mouth and he gagged on the hot rush of blood which ran down his throat. He felt a warmth at his crotch and the backs of his legs and realised absently that both his bladder and bowel had given way. There was no shame left in him, even for such a public humiliation, as the man was leading him through the worst moments of his life, and all of his pain was needed there.
He saw the older boys back at the house, felt their probing fingers, their sharp teeth and rough, stubbled chins. He felt dirty and degraded, used and cast off, to perpetrate the same foul acts on boys smaller than himself. He saw the look on his own face as he tore into them, and he understood that there was no pleasure in it, just a faint hope of clawing back some power, some self respect, some strength from another boy's weakness.
No, that wasn't quite true; There had been one time when it had been a pleasure. He saw that now, though he struggled against it, screaming through locked jaws, teeth still clenched ever tighter on his shattered thumb. His legs buckled at the pain and he fell heavily against the steps of the cinema, his face pressed against the wet stone and fragments of glass, cloaked in the smell of old Butterkist and fresh shit. He didn't want to see what the man was showing him, but he couldn't look away, and the face which swam up before his inner eyes was as sweet and kind and gentle as he remembered.
Humbug Billy had been sixteen, a brighter spark than all the other boys in the house put together. Single handedly, he had done for the whole Vicky Park mob with poison and sweets, wiping them out in a single afternoon of boiled innards and retching, suffocating on their own offal. He had been the hero of the house that day, until the older boys in the attic had decided he was too much of a threat to them, now that they had armed him and sent him out against their enemies. He had too much power now, and he couldn't be counted on to stay in his place in the cellar; They had to deal with him while they still could, so they sent Mark to keep him occupied, while they rummaged through his scavenged laboratory, mixing sugar, gum and household cleaners in crude imitation of his own masterful design.
All night, Mark and Billy had lain together, talking, loving, sleeping in each other's arms, and there had been no pain, no anger or force, just tender kisses and soft words, warm skin and deep, affectionate eyes. And in the morning, when he was presented with a hero's breakfast, Humbug knew exactly what was happening, and he had looked at Mark with sadness and pity before he pushed the tray away and leapt for the kitchen door. Boys of all ages brought him down and dragged him back, and he was thrown onto the kitchen table and held down by many hands as the foul smelling muck was forced into his mouth. He coughed and choked, spitting poison and insults with burning lips, until the mixture hit his stomach. Then there were no more words, as his back arched and his hands clenched in a death grip, drawing blood from the arms of the boys who still held him. His legs thrashed uncontrollably, catching one boy in the stomach and sending him crashing to the floor. Mark stepped in and helped hold the dying boy down, clinging tightly to him until Billy gave a final push and spewed a thick mass of melted tissue across the table top, milky white and marbled with blood, steaming and bubbling as it dripped onto the old lino and began to eat through it. There was no more fighting, no more movement, and the mob began to move away, drifting back to their own worlds, their own lives, leaving the mess to the younger boys. Mark withdrew with them, stunned into silence, thinking of how he had held the same body in such different ways and how neither of them had been completely unpleasant.
Lying on the steps of the Imperial Theatre, his body convulsing, legs twitching like a dreaming dog, Mark left his body entirely, lead onwards by the man in his mind. He howled silently as he understood where they were going, what he was to see next, but he was powerless to resist as they drifted further and further back, moving in time and space until they were at the edge of town on a cold winter's morning, and he found himself looking up at her once more.
"Mum?"
Every detail was etched in his mind with perfect clarity, but seeing the scene afresh, seven years on, he saw so much more than ever before. He saw the lines carved into her face by worry and fatigue, the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the premature strands of grey in her ratty, unstyled hair. He saw her work clothes, the stained blouse and the skirt with the cigarette burn hidden by a cheap plastic belt, the coat that never really kept her warm, and he noticed the way her hands shook as she lit a fag, the constant shivering which was caused by much more than the cold. He fought against it, but with every moment he looked at her, he saw her less as his mother and more as just another person, with all the weaknesses and frailties he had learnt to exploit since that day all those years ago. He felt the cold touch of her shaking fingers on his cheek, and the only feeling it stirred in him was disgust. What was worse was the sudden understanding that these weren't new feelings; He had felt utter contempt for her even then, and it was only the intervening years, the long separation, which had sainted her and turned her into the one thing he wanted more than anything, a good, caring mother.
Standing at the gate, he curled his tiny fingers through the chicken wire and took his last look at the useless old whore. She barely glanced at him as she signed the papers that turned him over to the State, and when she did, she couldn't hold his accusing gaze. There was no sadness in her eyes, no regret, just a tired, burnt out relief that she was rid of him. She gave him a faint, jittery smile and a half-hearted wave goodbye, and the son she had never wanted turned his back on her for the final time.
Back on the steps, returned to his own body, Mark screamed in agony as his grinding teeth finally severed his thumb, sending a spurt of blood across the crumpled photo, releasing him from its spell. He lay there, silent and unmoving, feeling his life ebb away with every breath, while the rats and pigeons moved in to fight over the sticky red popcorn. The man was gone from his mind, and all he saw and heard was a high white noise, a blinding, deafening roar of silence that battered his ears and scorched his eyes. He could move once more, but he made no effort to try. Really, where would he go? What was the point? Better to die on the Imperial steps, like all the others, like Humbug Billy, just one more ghost in Boys Town.
Notes
Even so, it was still dangerous to be out on the streets alone, and Mark wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been driven by necessity. At twelve and a half, he was almost too old to be under anyone else's protection, and the chances of him finding an article of power for himself were fading every day; Soon they would just be random objects, bits of broken plastic and copper wire. He wouldn't feel the raw violence and anger which had formed them, wouldn't sense the stories that kept them alive, and he couldn't be sure that they would hold him safe from the others.
Heading into the high street, where the panda car had been burnt out, he felt the first stirrings of recognition deep inside, like a finger curled through the soft meat of his mind, pulling him forwards. He crossed the roundabout, then squatted at the point where the car had mounted the pavement and gone into Rumbelows TV display window. A burning tyre had left a short strip of melted rubber on the road, like a flattened black snake. He carefully peeled it up and was gratified when it came away in a complete foot long strip. He swung it experimentally, slapped it against the palm of his hand; It would do, if nothing else came along. He tucked it into his knapsack, stuffing it down at the bottom, beneath his Empire Strikes Back tee-shirt. It wasn't the greatest hiding place, but at least if he was picked up by the Spruce Street gang, arguing over the nearly new shirt might distract them enough to make them miss a tatty strip of rubber. Whether he would escape such a confrontation was another thing, but it was best not to think about that; The Spruce Street gang and the St Luke's boys were mortal enemies, and the rumours of what happened if you strayed into the wrong territory were the stuff of nightmares.
But he was convinced there was still something better out there; He could feel it, like an itch behind his eyeballs. He allowed his mind to go slack, unfocussed, and wandered aimlessly down the high street. His innate small boy trouble compass soon brought him to the cinema, the epicentre of the previous night's fighting. Crunching across broken glass and stale popcorn, he found himself drawn to the Forthcoming Attractions boards. The frames were splintered and cracked, the glass shattered like almost every other pane in the town, and the posters had been ripped out and shredded long before, but somehow, a single 10 x 8 still remained caught in one of the frames, and it was this which had called to him. He reached up and pulled it loose, wincing as a thin sliver of glass slid into the meat of his thumb. He transferred the photo to his other hand and inspected it intently as he sucked at the wound.
The photo was black and white, without words, a single shot of a man's face. He was handsome enough, with dark eyes and a scruff of beard and dark, wavy hair, but he was no movie star that Mark had ever seen before. It was hard to judge though, as his face was striped with thin rivulets of blood which trickled down from a wound above his hairline. But he showed no pain; His olive eyes were calm, serene, almost forgiving as they stared back at Mark. There was the trace of a smile on his lips, and as he contemplated it, Mark realised that he was hearing the man's voice inside his mind, a voice which said, "I know you child."
And then the man had him. Mark felt him in his thoughts and memories, rifling through his innermost thoughts and most shameful secrets. He tried to fight it, but as his muscles locked in place, so too did his thoughts. He was unable to move, to look away from the photo or to steer his thoughts in any other direction. His thumb throbbed and swelled as if it was filling his entire mouth and he gagged on the hot rush of blood which ran down his throat. He felt a warmth at his crotch and the backs of his legs and realised absently that both his bladder and bowel had given way. There was no shame left in him, even for such a public humiliation, as the man was leading him through the worst moments of his life, and all of his pain was needed there.
He saw the older boys back at the house, felt their probing fingers, their sharp teeth and rough, stubbled chins. He felt dirty and degraded, used and cast off, to perpetrate the same foul acts on boys smaller than himself. He saw the look on his own face as he tore into them, and he understood that there was no pleasure in it, just a faint hope of clawing back some power, some self respect, some strength from another boy's weakness.
No, that wasn't quite true; There had been one time when it had been a pleasure. He saw that now, though he struggled against it, screaming through locked jaws, teeth still clenched ever tighter on his shattered thumb. His legs buckled at the pain and he fell heavily against the steps of the cinema, his face pressed against the wet stone and fragments of glass, cloaked in the smell of old Butterkist and fresh shit. He didn't want to see what the man was showing him, but he couldn't look away, and the face which swam up before his inner eyes was as sweet and kind and gentle as he remembered.
Humbug Billy had been sixteen, a brighter spark than all the other boys in the house put together. Single handedly, he had done for the whole Vicky Park mob with poison and sweets, wiping them out in a single afternoon of boiled innards and retching, suffocating on their own offal. He had been the hero of the house that day, until the older boys in the attic had decided he was too much of a threat to them, now that they had armed him and sent him out against their enemies. He had too much power now, and he couldn't be counted on to stay in his place in the cellar; They had to deal with him while they still could, so they sent Mark to keep him occupied, while they rummaged through his scavenged laboratory, mixing sugar, gum and household cleaners in crude imitation of his own masterful design.
All night, Mark and Billy had lain together, talking, loving, sleeping in each other's arms, and there had been no pain, no anger or force, just tender kisses and soft words, warm skin and deep, affectionate eyes. And in the morning, when he was presented with a hero's breakfast, Humbug knew exactly what was happening, and he had looked at Mark with sadness and pity before he pushed the tray away and leapt for the kitchen door. Boys of all ages brought him down and dragged him back, and he was thrown onto the kitchen table and held down by many hands as the foul smelling muck was forced into his mouth. He coughed and choked, spitting poison and insults with burning lips, until the mixture hit his stomach. Then there were no more words, as his back arched and his hands clenched in a death grip, drawing blood from the arms of the boys who still held him. His legs thrashed uncontrollably, catching one boy in the stomach and sending him crashing to the floor. Mark stepped in and helped hold the dying boy down, clinging tightly to him until Billy gave a final push and spewed a thick mass of melted tissue across the table top, milky white and marbled with blood, steaming and bubbling as it dripped onto the old lino and began to eat through it. There was no more fighting, no more movement, and the mob began to move away, drifting back to their own worlds, their own lives, leaving the mess to the younger boys. Mark withdrew with them, stunned into silence, thinking of how he had held the same body in such different ways and how neither of them had been completely unpleasant.
Lying on the steps of the Imperial Theatre, his body convulsing, legs twitching like a dreaming dog, Mark left his body entirely, lead onwards by the man in his mind. He howled silently as he understood where they were going, what he was to see next, but he was powerless to resist as they drifted further and further back, moving in time and space until they were at the edge of town on a cold winter's morning, and he found himself looking up at her once more.
"Mum?"
Every detail was etched in his mind with perfect clarity, but seeing the scene afresh, seven years on, he saw so much more than ever before. He saw the lines carved into her face by worry and fatigue, the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the premature strands of grey in her ratty, unstyled hair. He saw her work clothes, the stained blouse and the skirt with the cigarette burn hidden by a cheap plastic belt, the coat that never really kept her warm, and he noticed the way her hands shook as she lit a fag, the constant shivering which was caused by much more than the cold. He fought against it, but with every moment he looked at her, he saw her less as his mother and more as just another person, with all the weaknesses and frailties he had learnt to exploit since that day all those years ago. He felt the cold touch of her shaking fingers on his cheek, and the only feeling it stirred in him was disgust. What was worse was the sudden understanding that these weren't new feelings; He had felt utter contempt for her even then, and it was only the intervening years, the long separation, which had sainted her and turned her into the one thing he wanted more than anything, a good, caring mother.
Standing at the gate, he curled his tiny fingers through the chicken wire and took his last look at the useless old whore. She barely glanced at him as she signed the papers that turned him over to the State, and when she did, she couldn't hold his accusing gaze. There was no sadness in her eyes, no regret, just a tired, burnt out relief that she was rid of him. She gave him a faint, jittery smile and a half-hearted wave goodbye, and the son she had never wanted turned his back on her for the final time.
Back on the steps, returned to his own body, Mark screamed in agony as his grinding teeth finally severed his thumb, sending a spurt of blood across the crumpled photo, releasing him from its spell. He lay there, silent and unmoving, feeling his life ebb away with every breath, while the rats and pigeons moved in to fight over the sticky red popcorn. The man was gone from his mind, and all he saw and heard was a high white noise, a blinding, deafening roar of silence that battered his ears and scorched his eyes. He could move once more, but he made no effort to try. Really, where would he go? What was the point? Better to die on the Imperial steps, like all the others, like Humbug Billy, just one more ghost in Boys Town.
Notes
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