Mary Rose

I opened the side gate and her voice boomed from the kitchen.

“Tom, have you finished cleaning out the shed?”

“Yes, Mom,” I call back. How does she do that? It's like some superpower that mothers get; knowing when one of their kids is making a break for freedom.

“Did you clean the bait out of the lobster pots?”

“Yes, Mom,” I said, getting as much impatience and frustration into my fifteen-year old voice as I could.

“Where are you going?”

“Jesus, Mom. A guard wouldn't ask me that,” I yelled back over my shoulder, rolling my eyes to heaven while doing so.

“Just as well I'm your mother then,” came the reply, not one bit phased in the face of pubescent truculence.

“I’m just taking Mary Rose out for a while.”

“Bring me back a couple of mackerel, will yea?”

“Right so, see yea later,” I said, hoisting my can of petrol and eventually making it all the way out the gate.  Anyone listening might wonder why a teenage boy would be so casual about taking someone out, and then being asked to bring back fish in response. The conversation makes a lot more sense if you know that Mary Rose is the name of my sixteen-foot skiff, and being the son of a fisherman, I'd spent nearly as much of my life on the water, as I had on land.

I walked down the road toward the pier, the petrol can swinging in my right hand, my fishing bag slung over my shoulder. In the winter, this road would be all but deserted, not today. In summer, the population of our little village tripled or more. City-folk, spending their holidays soaking up the semi-warm Irish sun. Ice-cream vans appeared and set up in the car park, the smell of vinegar laden chips mingled in the air with seaweed and drying fish. Gulls wheeled in the sky, while clouds raced across it, driven onward by the constant Atlantic breeze.

Today was far from warm, but it didn't stop me stripping off my top as I got close to the swimming platform. There were always girls hanging out there, swimming and showing off. You wouldn't find me down there, with the kids, but there was no harm in showing them what they were missing. When I was out of sight of the diving platform, I put my t-shirt back on because the breeze was cutting.

When I reached the harbour, Mary Rose was waiting on her trailer, exactly where I’d left her. I got the keys from my bag and unlocked the padlock. The other key opened a small locker built into the bow of the boat. In there I stored the life jackets, rope, baler and small anchor. The outboard motor and fishing rods were kept in the harbour master’s office.

I looked around and wondered where James was, he should have been here by now. I went to Mr Cooney's office and got the motor and rods. As I was passing the window when there was a knock. Mr Cooney poked his head out and said, "Stay inside the bay, Tom, there’s a swell running."

"I will, Mr Cooney," I said with a smile.

As I lumbered toward the boat James came running down the pier.

"You're late," I said, trying to make the heavy engine look light in my hand.

"Sorry Tom, the mother kept finding one more job for me to do," he said, slowing from a run to a walk when he was a few feet away.

"You're here now, let’s get moving before the tide turns," I said, using the tone my father uses with his crew. James smiled and his freckles danced across his nose. How could you stay mad at someone like him? Soon, we had Mary Rose ready for the water and we walked the trailer down the ramp until the light timber boat floated free. I drew the Mary Rose alongside the jetty, while James hauled the empty trailer back up the ramp leaving it in our parking place. The sun broke through the clouds and it got hot in the shade of the harbour wall. I stripped off my t-shirt for real, a sheen of sweat had formed on my rock hard and hairless body. While Jimmy wasn't looking, I took a moment to admire the ripple of muscle under my skin. I knew I looked ripped; I could see it in the eyes of the girls each time I passed.

James ran down the ramp with the last of the gear and we were finally ready to leave. I pumped petrol into the motor and ripped the starter cord. It fired on the second pull, idling nicely. I flipped the leaver forward and twisted the throttle a half a turn. As we steered a course out of the harbour, Mr Cooney was standing on the pier, his beard blowing in the breeze and he shouted, "Stay in the bay, boys!" We waved as one and continued on our way.

Jimmy jumped up on the bow, letting his feet dangle over the edge of the boat, his bare toes skimming the water. He was shirtless now and had his jeans were rolled up to his knees. We rounded the harbour mouth and came within view of the swimming platform. I saw James lie back a little further and flatten his tummy. I have to admit I sucked in mine as well. We idled passed the girls lying on the platform but never looked in their direction.

Once we were out on the bay the breeze whipped our exposed skin with no respect for our perfect physiques. It wasn’t long before we were bundled up in t-shirts and jumpers. James untangled the mackerel feathers and got the rods ready. I steered the boat into the channel and made for the middle of the bay. In twenty minutes, we had a bag full of mackerel. They were coming up two and three at a time. Pulling the fish off the hooks was soon was more trouble than it was fun. Mr Cooney was right, there was a swell running, but it was a big-old soft one. The rolling waves were well spaced. They were big, but nothing we couldn't handle. When James suggested going to Sullivan's Hole and trying for a few congers, I took a second look at the big soppy waves.

Sullivan's Hole was a famous fishing spot out on the bluff, where the bed of the ocean plunged deep and was surrounded by overhanging cliffs. It was a place where monster fish might still be found.

"Come on so," I said, pulling the anchor aboard.

We chugged up the bay, giving the entrance to the harbour a wide berth in case Mr Cooney was watching and soon were outside the shelter of the headland. Here, the big soft waves were big soft rollers, but still well within the capabilities of myself and the Mary Rose. I knew my boat inside out, I knew what she could do and what she couldn't. Still, I was glad to reach the shelter of the cliffs. Here there was nothing to anchor too, so I had to keep the engine running to keep us off the limestone buttress.

James dropped a line into the depths and was soon rewarded with a mighty battle from a six-foot-long eel. Then we swapped places, me trying my luck with the rod, while James kept us mostly in the same place. When the engine died, we had five eels lying the scuppers of the boat. James pulled and pulled on the ripcord but the engine refused to fire.

"Check the petrol," I said, dropping the rod and moving back along the boat. I pulled the stubby red canister toward me and felt plenty of liquid slosh around inside. I pumped the rubber ball on the hose, forcing petrol along the line. "Try it again," I said and James tugged on the cord five or six times. When nothing happened, he turned to me, his face stiff with worry.

"Let me try," I said, moving to the rear of the boat. I felt panic pierce my brain, and in my rush to pass James we nearly capsized.

"You get on the oars and pull us away from the rocks," I said, as I checked the connections on the motor, trying again and again to start the thing. I felt the boat rear up as a big wave passed beneath us and I looked over my shoulder. The wave wasn't actually any bigger than the others, we were getting closer to the cliff. The crests were being forced up by the rising sheet of rock below the water.

"Jesus Christ!" I said, jumping to James side and taking one of the oars in my hands. James was a lather of sweat and as white as a ghost.

"Come on, pull. PULL!" I screamed, and put every muscle I had to use. Inch by inch we moved away from the looming rocks. After thirty minutes frantic rowing, we were back where we had been when the engine died. Every part of my body screamed for a rest, that was when I noticed the oar James was holding was stained dark. I grabbed his hand and turned it over, the skin was ripped by the friction of the timber oars, blood oozed from his wounds.

"You take a rest," I said, taking both oars. James's shoulders slumped and he gulped in deep breaths of air, resting his ruined hands in his lap, the blood pooling in his cupped palm's. I pulled for all I was worth, but the swell and tide was winning the battle. I felt the power in my arms begin to go, the muscles of my shoulders shuddered, each stroke gaining us less and less ground. That was when James laid his broken hands beside mine and joined the fight once more.

No matter how much we tried, the wall of jagged rock came closer. Soon the waves were pitching the boat at nearly forty-five degrees before they released their grip on my tiny beauty. It was only a matter of time before one of the waves would carry the Mary Rose all the way in, and smashed us violently against the cliff.

"We're not going to make it," I said to James, who didn't need to be told the reality of the situation. "Our only hope is to get the timing right and try and get onto the cliff. We’ll be able to climb up to the top."

James nodded, but he looked frightened beyond words. "Put on the life jacket," I said, nodding to the thin gas operated unit which lay at James's feet. He slipped one over his head, then I got mine on. We kept pulling on the oars as I scanned the horizon for a smaller set of waves. In the end, the decision was taken out of our hands. A large wave rolled through which we just about managed to crest, the boat was sucked after the charging wave as it crashed to its death. The Mary Rose landed side-on against the cliff, timber cracked and water jetted in through the split planks. I reached out and grabbed the slippery stone with both hands, trying to hold the boat still and shouted, "Now, James!"

I felt the boat being sucked out from under our feet. My grip nearly went as the Mary Rose pulled away. James clung to the cliff beside me and we tried to drag ourselves up the barnacle crusted rock. The next wave reared up, exploding against the base of the cliff, engulfing me and James in freezing salt water. I forced my fingers to grip the stone like a vice. As the water ran off me, I felt the life jacket around my neck expand. I coughed out salt water and searched the rock face for James but he was gone. I looked down and saw him in the water at the base of the cliff. He was trying to grip the rock but his water saturated clothes were dragging him back into the ocean. His life jacket had not inflated. The gas canister must have been faulty.  The next wave picked that moment to hit, I managed to hold on, but James took the full impact and was driven hard against the rock. His head fell backwards, blood ran from his nose as he tried to climb clear of the water.

I scurried back down the cliff face, which was much harder than climbing up. I got low enough and grabbed the back of his jumper and hauled him up as best I could. From the corner of my eye I spotted the black wall of water a fraction before it broke over us. I just had enough time to let go of James's jumper and ram my fingers into a fisher. The water sucked my feet from the rock but my hand managed to hold on, the rough edges of the crevice anchoring me to the slippery surface. When the foam flecked water ran out of my eyes, James was gone. I searched the water under my feet, feeling tears mix with the stinging salt water in my eyes.

"James!"

Just beneath my feet, his head broke the surface. He coughed out pink-stained water, and took a few feeble strokes toward me. He reached up his ruined hand and searched my face with terrified eyes.

"Help me, Tom!" he cried. I leaned out and reached for him. Our fingers brushed as I saw another wave approach. It was going to wash us both from the cliff, I was sure of it. I felt the brush of James's fingers once more, then they were gone. This time, after the wave hit and the water ran out of my eyes, I was alone.

"JAMES! JAMES!"

I searched the ocean for him but it was empty. After another wave had died against the coast, and me. James had still not appeared. When I was horse from screaming, I began the climb to safety.

It took two days for the divers to find his body. The waves had pounded him against the rock and left him all but unrecognisable. I told everyone I couldn't remember those moments on the cliff face. But I could. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him looking at me, terrified, blood dripping from the fingers that reached out for my help. I woke every night, sweating, knowing I had done nothing but save my own useless skin.

As I watched his coffin sink into the earth, I knew I would be haunted for the rest of my life.

Tick-Tock

Jimmy looked in the mirror and adjusted his tie; he didn’t recognise the wrinkled man who looked back at him from the silvered surface. How had he gotten so old?

How often had he heard people say, you never know when your time is up? He thought that was a huge pile of bullshit. You can tell when your time is up; he sure could and it was coming fast. It was all a huge cosmic joke, he though, could God be some idiot child in the sky, playing with people’s lives. Were we his wind-up toys, running around until our parts exploded, or our clock shuddered to a halt? Jimmy could feel his spring starting to give up the battle; the tick-tock of his mechanism got a bit weaker every day. He slipped on his coat and placed his hat on top of his balding head, checking his reflection one last time. Tick-tock, tick-tock. “Bloody typical,” he said aloud, and left the house.

He shuffled along the streets, his head hung low, his eyes not registering the people he passed. Tick-tock, tick-tock. He hated London; he always had. He was a northern boy at heart, and before his spring wound down completely, he was going to visit the one place he had been truly happy in the whole course of his life, Indian Hill. 

He sat on the bus. Nobody looked at him. He bought his ticket for the train, return. Not even a thank you from the ticket seller. He sat alone during the journey and was glad of the fact. He’d too much on his mind to listen to some hopeless case wittering on in his ear for hours, not that he would witter back in any case. Silence suited him.

When the train finally pulled into the station it looked just as it had done all those years ago. That day, he’d ridden the train with his parents, a wicker picnic basket in the seat between them, while they tried to coax a word or two out of him. They began the climb together, his parents stopping half way up, Jimmy continuing alone to the top. He was only a few hundred yards from the summit when she jumped out of a bush, thinking he was someone else, and scared the shite out of him. Tess, was her name, and she was effervescent. They sat on the wall and waited for her friends to find her; she giggled at his jokes, and shared the cigarettes Jimmy had been hiding from his dad. She let him kiss her, and a little bit more, before her friends appeared. She waved, and gave him a naughty wink, before vanishing from his life forever.

He never forgot Tess, or that half hour stolen on top of Indian Hill. He classed it as the highlight of his life. Today was cold and damp, and nothing like the day he had last made the climb, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He stopped at a pub for a quick half before starting the climb. In his chest, Jimmy felt the spring of his life slip one more notch, and he sighed deeply.

The climb was not half as bad as the barman had said it would be, but Jimmy had more on his mind than a bit of mist. When he eventually reached the glade, he recognised the wall, even if the bushes had long ago been cut away. He settled himself down and looked out over the country below, and tried to bring back that day he fell in love, so many years ago. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around.

“Boo!” she said, and smiled.

It was impossible, it could not be? It looked just like her. He felt his heart lurch as he struggled to get off the wall. She laughed, and her voice filled the air with rainbows.

“Tess, is it you?” he asked, his turkey gizzard neck quivering.

“Don’t be silly, of course it’s not,” said the girl, who looked just like Tess, as she sat beside him on the wall. “But seeing as you came all this way, I thought I'd help out a little.”

“So, who are you?”

“I think you know the answer to that particular question. I’ve loads of names, none of which I’m particularly fond of, so perhaps we can stick with Tess for now,” said the young girl, laying a comforting hand on the old man’s trembling leg.

“You look exactly like her. Exactly, even down to the clothes you're wearing.”

“I know,” said the girl with a smile that said she was humouring a simpleton. “I know everyone’s stories, everyone’s secrets, and darkest deeds. I know what lies in every man’s heart, and when the time is right, every man is due a visit from me. Jimmy, today's your day.”

He looked terrified and tried to back away from the smiling girl at his side.

“Ah, Jimmy. Don’t be frightened. I just wanted to talk for a while, nothing's going to happen, yet.”

“Why?” asked the old man, the word quivering on his tongue.

“Look around, Jimmy. It’s beautiful up here. Do you know, I spend most of my times hanging around in hospitals, nursing homes, war zones and traffic accidents. I nearly never get to come to places as lovely as this. I just wanted to chat, and sit for a bit. Is that okay?” she said, looking deep into his eyes.

“Do I have a choice?” he said, the fear still there but he starting to gain control.

“I guess not,” she said, turning away from him to look over the vista. 

Jimmy let his gaze follow hers and a wave of peace flowed over him. “It was sunny, not like this,” he said, his voice dreamy.

“What was?”

“The day I met her…you.” The girl at his side frowned, and looked away from the view, giving the old man her full attention.

“You’re a fool, Jimmy, do you know that?”

“I’m not,” the old man said, his dignity hurt, anger quickly replacing the fear at his core.

“You are, but you don’t know it,” she said, her tone growing hard. “Look at me.”

The old man did as he was told, it was not a chore to gaze upon her face. “This is what you compared every woman in your life to, an ideal, a memory, shined by years of lust and little fact. You sacrificed everyone that could love you, for nothing, for a figment of your imagination, for one perfect moment remembered with rose-tinted glasses.”

“That’s complete rubbish,” he blustered.

“Is it? Where's your wife, Ann, and your boys, Josh and Kevin?”

“I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” said the old man, turning away angrily.

“I know you don’t, and the fact of the matter is, they don’t give a damn where you are either. You are a greedy man, Jimmy Gaskill, always looking for more than the world is willing to give, always griping about the bounty that is laid at your door, while envying the man beside you. You despised Ann, and still she loved you. She forgave your surliness, she forgave your cold looks and unfeeling ways, she endured your selfish lovemaking, if you could call it that. She hoped that one day you would become the man she believed you were, and when it became clear that would never happen, she did the only sane thing, she left you to rot in your misery.”

“Bitch,” snarled the old man.

“What about the others?”

“What others?”

“All of them, remember, I know all your secrets. The ones you pursued, lied to and tricked into bed. You plundered their bodies, hating them for letting you, always comparing them to this,” she said, indicating her own perfect body with outstretched hands. The girl moved away from the wall and stood in front of the old man.

“Do you want to see what your dream was really made out of?” 

Jimmy didn’t have a chance to answer because the girl in front of him melted like wax, moving, shifting, and reforming before his eyes. When the transformation was complete, the old man looked on the vision with disgust.

“This was how she looked the day I came for her. Heroin is not an easy master to please,” said the hollow cheeked crone who now stood before him. Rotten stumps of teeth sticking out of bleeding gums, scab-covered hands, and filthy hair matted into her skull. “The real tragedy of the story is; you wasted the gift that was given to you.”

“What gift?” the old man asked, trying not to look at the woman who stood before him.

“Time…time to live your life. Seventy-two years, wasted on you. Do you know that some of the greatest people who ever lived, never got to speak one word? Remember, I know all their stories, what they were, and what they could have been. They were passed over by time, while you got so much, and wasted it all.”

“I could do better, if I had one more chance,” said the old man, his eyes moist with knowledge that his spring had just slipped its last notch.

“Sorry my friend, no do-overs. You must be tired after that long walk.” The old man staggered and put a hand on the wall to steady himself. “Why not lie down for a bit, you'll feel better.”

“Alright, if you think so,” said Jimmy, his voice heavy. He lay out on the grass, his head pointing up the hill, so he could look at the valley below. The crone shimmered once more, and young Tess reappeared. She sat on the grass beside him and rested a cool hand on his forehead.

“Will it hurt?” he crooked.

“Not even a little,” she said. 

Tick-tock, tick-, and with that, he was gone. 

Love Letters

I was home with my parents about ten days ago. Unfortunately due to work, I hadn't been able to spend Christmas with them, so I was eager to get back as soon after as I could. They were very happy to see me but I missed out on all the festive cheer, as the decorations had been boxed up, ready to be put away for another year. I was giving my Dad a hand to get them up into the attic, when I saw it, peeking out from behind a pile of old school books, a tattered wee shoe box.

To any other set of eyes, it was nothing more than an aging pile of folded cardboard, long abandoned to the darkness, to me, it was priceless.

When Dad wasn't looking, I snuck back up into the attic, and freed my old friend from its confinement. I counted up the years we had been apart and was shocked to find they numbered twenty and more. I lifted the lid and peered inside. Yellowed pages of writing paper, sheets of ruled copy book, ripped from long forgotten school jotters, fancy sheets of coloured velum with roses on the edge, piled one on top of the other. Each of them unique, each irreplaceable, each a memory so sweet, they were like sugar plums melting on my tongue.

I picked one out at random and eased it open. The paper was dry and crisp, not having been touched by human hands for over two decades, but the lettering was as familiar as my own. I knew each line by heart, because I had read every letter a thousand times. The words flooded over me like a wave of memory, stirring long forgotten emotions for a girl that hasn't been a girl for many years.  I remember them all, the letters, and the sweethearts.

They may have been more innocent times, or they may not have been, but they were definitely times where passion burned long and fierce, because nothing in those days happened instantly. As I flipped through my accumulated letters of love, I imagined each being penned on beds never visited, with words plucked from a mind driven mad with longing, re-read with care, folded with fingers I ached to hold, and sealed with a kiss. I held the paper close to my nose and imagined I could still detect the faintest trace of her scent.

Letter after letter opened a treasure chest of memories in my mind. They were not all so tender, now and again came the cutting one, slicing open my young heart with callous efficiency, and the pain ran fresh in my soul. There were a few, hurt and dismayed, at the damage my own heartlessness had caused, and I was ashamed.

When I finished, I tucked my treasures away in the safety of my shoe box. I felt happy and sad at the same time, a feeling only a love letter can cause, and realised this is something the teenagers of today will never have. I'm sure their hearts run as hot as any in my time, but they miss out on so much. They miss rushing home from school, just to see if the postman has been. They miss that juddering excitement of holding a letter in their hands and not knowing what wonders lie inside. They haven't the luxury of reading a heated reply endlessly in the dark small hours of the night, only to rip it up, before any true damage can be done.

Love E-mails, love texts, love skypes, love snapchats, will never fill the boots of the love letter. Some how "I miss U so much. I luv U 4 ever. x x x", just does not seem to cut the mustered. I flicked off the light in the attic and left my memories behind, promising myself that I would not wait so long, before visiting again.

Landing Lights

To walk a lover’s beach, but leave single footprints in the sand.

I gaze upon the starry sky, and reach up a searching hand.

and try to catch that blinking light, ten thousand feet above.

I whisper my eternal prayer, be the one to bring back my love.

Going Under

“As I count backwards from ten, you'll become completely relaxed. Ten, nine, eight, your body feels incredibly heavy. Seven, six, five, four, your mind is drifting into sleep, always listening to my words, my voice. Three, two, relax and concentrate on my voice, as you pass into a state of complete hypnosis. One.”

His voice is rich, warm, and compelling. Going under hypnosis is like anything else, you get better at it the more you practice. By now, I'm a world champ at this.

“Can you hear me Sam?”   His voice is all around me in the darkness, it’s assured, and comforting.

“Yes, Doc,” I say, my words heavy with sleep. I can hear them, but it’s as if they are coming from someone else's lips.

“Are you ready to go into the room?”

“I guess,” comes my sleepy reply. As if by magic, my world is no longer a vast expanse of black velvet. I find myself standing in a dirty grey corridor which stretches out into infinity. I know this place well, I have been here a thousand times, this is the inside of my mind.

“Are you there yet?” the Doctor asks.

“Yes, it’s cold,” I say, feeling my body shiver. I look around at the derelict hospital I have conjured up. The colours are always the same, grey, green, off white.  I take a step forward and feel dead leaves crunch under my bare feet. I think they represent every broken dream and heartache I have endured. I look down and there are thousands of them.  In front of me is the door that I fear the most, the door which guards my deepest secret.

“It’s time to go in, Sam. Nothing can hurt you in there, remember that.”

The door sequels dryly as I enter the inner sanctum of my soul. Ripped privacy screens beckon me in with fingers made of tattered materiel, rusting medical instruments lay scattered carelessly on discarded gurneys, more dead leaves fill the room. Then the smell assaults me, the stench of stagnant water.

“Is the bath there, Sam?”

“It is.”

“Is the water in it?”

“I don’t want to look,” I hear myself say, and feel warm tears on my cheeks.

“You can do it, Sam. Just pull the plug and let the water out. I know you can make it this time.”

I move toward the ancient bathtub, which is filled to the brim with black, stinking, liquid. I can see nothing beneath the surface but a ripple runs across it as something shifts in the depths. I can see the rusted chain entering the water and my shaking fingers close around it. With a yank, the stopper flies out of the bath and dangles over the side, dripping black mucus on the leaf littered floor of my mind.

The water rushes out so much faster than it should, impossibly fast, and my deepest secret is revealed. I look down at myself, lying in the bottom of the tub, a manic snarl on my lips, maggots crawling around my eyes and nose, my teeth filed to razor sharp points. It’s me, the other me, the one inside.

When it's hand grabs the edge of the bath, I hear my scream, inside and out. I grab a rusty scalpel from the nearby gurney and stab myself over and over again. Black blood gushes from every wound, pouring out unstoppably until the tub is full once more and my secret is back in its tomb.

I hear him calling my name, and snapping his fingers, over and over again.

“Wake up, Sam. Wake up.” Click, click.

My eyes open, and he is leaning over me as he has done every Tuesday for four years. “Did you manage to let out the water?”

“No, sorry Doc. I tried, I really tried.” I feel guilty lying to him. The truth is that I let the water out every time, and every time, it’s just like today. How could I tell him that my biggest secret is me, and the evil I keep locked inside? He’d think that I'm mad, like all the rest of them.

“Don’t worry, you'll get there the next time.”

The Man Who Would Be King

Some men are born with a destiny, and I was born to be king.  It’s a position dreamed of my some and envied by most. If only they knew how lonely it is to sit on that gilded chair, dispensing justice with a twitch of a finger.

It’s the only life I have ever known, revered by a nation, constantly under threat, by friend and foe alike. Not a moment of my day is free. Every second is pre-allocated by fawning navies, hearing petitions, signing decrees, meeting important people. There are men locked in the tower, which are freer than me. For years, I dreamed of leaving this life behind, to live quietly, in a manner directed by myself alone.

All night, I have lain in my chamber, my mind busily toying with the day that lies ahead of me, the day a weight of a kingdom will be lifted from my shoulders. When the darkness of night turns pink with the coming of dawn, I rise and dress in my finest robe, feeling the silk slide over my body like a lovers touch, keeping the chill morning air from making me shiver. A serf delivers my morning fare, and backs out of the room, bowing deeply. Despite my internal agitation, I eat heartily. This is a day I wish to savour in full, for no other will ever be the same as this.

At the allotted hour, there is a knock at my chamber door. 

“Come,” I call, and my chief adviser enters.

"Sire," he says, and bows deeply. In the antechamber, I can see rank upon rank of courtiers, ambassadors, and noblemen drawn from across the kingdom. I nod my understanding and rise to my feet. As I pass my advisor, his bow becomes even deeper. I enter the outer chamber and all those gathered bow low and avert their eyes. They are forbidden to look upon the face of the king, for that is who I am.

My robe swishes over stone, polished to a high gloss by centuries of bended knees, and fawning underlings. I can hear the throng following in my wake, but they are silent. The air smells of candle wax and smoke, light filtered through coloured glass, lies across my path in solid beams, dust motes fall and rise on invisible currents of air. In the distance, I can hear a rumble.

With each step, the noise grows until it is like a long continuous roll of thunder. It shakes the ground beneath my feet. I pause at the door for one last moment before stepping out on the balcony to be greeted with an enormous roar from my subjects gathered in their thousands. As the noise ebbs, a voice rises above all and the words “Off with his head!” rings out clear and true. The roar rises to a bloodthirsty crescendo. The hooded executioner shoulders his axe and beckons me forward.

No Small Talk, Just Big Talk.

I don't know if any of you follow the Postsecret blog, I have to say, I love it. Random people, sharing their secrets with the world, anonymously of course. In my mind, this is a really healthy thing to do.

I began reading a new book tonight, called The Girl On The Train by Paula Hawkins. In the first forty pages she introduces two characters, both women, and both seemingly trapped in a ring of silence, with nobody they can really talk to.

As I read, I thought back on all the conversations I've had in the past few days. In nearly all of them, I didn't mention what was really on my mind. Instead, we batted over and back small talk about, well, about nothing really.

To me, the idea of being able to blurt out my deepest feelings, without worrying what the person listening would think, is delicious.

Yes, there are lots of organisations out there to help, but in my mind they are for people with real problems, not just the odd deep thought you would like to get off your chest. This got me thinking about the women in the story again, and how many real people go through life, day in and day out, just wishing they could talk to anyone.

Imagine if there were a cafe somewhere, with a table signposted, 'The person sitting here will talk to anyone,' would you sit there? Or better still, would you walk up and sit opposite the one who did? I have a feeling it might be a very rewarding social experiment, or perhaps someone has already done it?

Well, that is what has been keeping me awake tonight. I'd love to hear what you think, or even your deepest thoughts. if you were of a mind to share them. Perhaps you will take a look at postsecret and see what is lurking deep in the hearts of your fellow man. What ever you do, have fun doing it.

Happy 2016 everyone,

Squid.

Crash, Bang, Wallop.

It was a miserable night, in all aspects of the word. Peter staggered across the road and felt the rise of the bridge under his feet. The streets were empty; only the odd taxi cruised past, with tyres hissing like vexed serpents on the damp surface. A cold mist rose off the river to mix with the drizzle. The combination soaked him to the skin. He didn't care, in fact, he cared about nothing.

The city seemed as desolate as his heart; the only sign of life was the black dog that had been following him since the incident in the park. He lifted the bottle of vodka to his lips, letting the last of it cascade down his gullet, to mingle with the ball of hatred in his gut. He looked at the empty bottle and snarled, then launched it overhand across the churning chocolate water of the Themes. It splashed down and vanished.

"Bitch," he slurred, as he looked down at the water. The bitch in question was, of course, Missy. A stupid name, for a stupid girl he thought, rummaging in his soaked jeans for his phone.

Still no messages.

He and Missy had been going out since he'd started studying sculpture at The Heatherley School of Fine Art, well a month after he'd started really. That was nearly a whole year of going out! Except the summer; he hadn't seen her during the summer, but they had been texting all the time, and skyping! Nearly a whole year! Tonight, he’d turned up at her flat, like he did most Tuesdays, and she dumped him, right there on the doorstep, didn't even ask him in.

He stalked away from her as she slammed the door. What the hell had just happened? He couldn’t really remember the next few minutes, he must have been in shock but by happy chance he found himself on the steps of a pub. A drink was exactly what he needed. Right the way through his first pint of Heineken, he was convinced she would charge in and fall into his arms. By the time his second pint of Heineken was empty, rage filled texts were flying. He called her every name under the sun, and a few more besides. His third pint of Heineken did something to dampen the flames of anger, which triggered the begging. He called her a couple of times, pleading to be taken back. Alright, he called her eleven times, before she stopped picking up. Since then, he’d sunk into a bottomless pit of despair, fuelled by several more pints of Heineken, and a natural bent for the over dramatic.

After leaving the pub with a half bottle of vodka in his pocket, he decided a Kebab might make him feel better. After all, he didn’t have to look after his figure any more, did he? He ordered at the first grease-soaked chipper he could find, then plonked himself on a bench in the World's End Estate. He took half-hearted bites, crying in between bouts of uncontrolled rage. He eventually flung the half-eaten Kebab away and a little black terrier raced out of nowhere to devour the stick mess.

He stood unsteadily and shuffled off but the little dog trailed behind him, clearly hoping for some more treats. Since then, he and his furry shadow had wandered the streets, drinking the vodka and mumbling gems of drunken wisdom. That was how he ended up on Battersea Bridge in the middle of the night with nobody but a stray dog for company.

He grabbed hold of a lamp-post and hauled himself onto the balustrade. He stared down into the swirling water and wondered what Missy would do if she happened to come along right now. Have a heart attack, probably. Her stupidity could have killed the love of her life; now that was something she deserved to know. Holding on to the lamp with his left hand, he speed-dialled her with his right. He held it to his ear and listened to it ring twice before he was rejected and a cold female voice that said.

The person you are trying to call may be out of coverage, or have their mobile powered off.

"BITCH!" he roared at the phone. In the same instant, a crash of metal and a symphony of little dog yelps made him jump. He nearly slipped off the edge and threw both arms around the lamp post. In the process, he dropped his phone into the boiling mass of water. Laid out on the foot path was a mangled bicycle, its wheel still spinning, and an old man. Peter could hear the little dog crying as it vanished into the distance.

"Ah you flaming hooligan! You tried to kill me!" cried the old geezer, as he tried to push the bike off himself.

"Not bloody likely, if anything, you nearly killed me," slurred Peter, still hanging on to the lamp.

“If screaming at the top of your lungs, at innocent cyclist, is not thuggery; I don't know what is. And, you're pissed!"

"I’m not!" said Peter, trying to sound sober.

"Yes, you are. Why else would you be up there?"

"None of your business."

"Hooligan!"

"I’m not a Hooligan."

"If you're not, get the hell down from there and help me up."

"Oh…right…yes," he said, realising that he was still holding on to the lamp. He dropped onto the bridge and took the old man’s arm. He pulled but the old guy screamed and stiffened in agony.

"STOP!"

"What now?" he said, dropping the arm. After a bit of facial yoga, the man gasped. "It's my back. It's gone out."

"How do you know?" he asked.

"God, you’re an idiot," snarled the old man.

"What should I do?" he asked, reaching toward the man.

"DON'T BLEEDEN TOUCH ME!"

"Alright, alright," said Peter, backing away. "Should I call an ambulance?" he asked, then realised his phone was somewhere near the Channel Islands by now.

"NO! No. It's happened before. I just need to lie here for a bit. Move the bike, will you?"

He took the bike in his hands but in his drunken state he nearly fell on top of the old man.

"Careful, yea piss head!"

"I'm not a piss head! I wish you'd stop calling me names," he said, eventually untangling the bike from the old man's legs.

"Look, whatever your name is, get my phone from my pocket. I need to tell my misses what's happened."

Peter patted the man's pockets and found the phone. He searched the contacts until he found one labelled, 'Home'. He pressed the green button and held it out.

"I can't move my arms, dumbass"

"Peter."

"What?"

"My name is Peter, not dumb ass, piss head or hooligan."

"Peter!" the man said, with barely controlled rage, "hold the phone so I can talk to her."

Peter sat on the ground and held the phone to the old man's ear, while it rang in some far-off place. Eventually, Peter heard a tiny woman's voice say, "Hello?"

"Dotty, it’s me," which was followed by silence from the man, and a lot of angry squeaking. Peter watched the guy’s face go red; he was clearly being given an ear bashing by his missus.

"No, I am not still in the Legion. I was on the way home when an idiot knocked me off my bike."

"Peter," he slurred, causing the old man to scowl at him.

"No, I'm not alright! My back is flaming out again!" roared the old man into the phone, which was followed by a long silence, and lots more tiny angry lady sounds from the phone.

"Sorry Dear," said the old man quietly, followed by another long pause.

"Yes, sorry Dear," he said again, even sorrier, if that was possible.

"Battersea Bridge. Yes, yes, I will," another pause, followed by a final "Sorry. Bye."

Peter ended the call and smiled smugly at the old man before saying, "It seems I'm not the only piss head on this bridge tonight."

"Rubbish, I only had the one."

Peter pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch, "Till half past four in the morning?"

"I'm a slow drinker."

"Tell it to your missus," said Peter with a knowing smile, pushing the man's phone back into his pocket. The old man tried to sit up but his back spasmed and he eased himself back onto the pavement.

"Is she coming to get you?" asked Peter.

"Yea, in a bit," growled the man, his mood not improving in the slightest. "Don't let me keep you, I think you were about to jump into the river."

"No, I was not," said Peter, but he still went a little pink in the cheeks.

"Listen, chum. I know a jumper when I see one, and you were a jumper."

"Look, I told you I wasn't going to jump into the bloody river."

"Lost your bottle? Knew you were a wuss," sneered the man.

Now it was Peter's turn to get angry, "I'll have you know, if I had been going to jump, I most certainly would have!"

"Keep your wig on, dingbat," said the old man, smiling for the first time. "Well if weren't jumping, what were you doing up there?"

"I was calling my girlfriend, actually."

"Rubbish."

"Why would I lie?"

"Why would you be screaming 'Bitch' at your girlfriend?"

"That's personal," replied Peter, sulkily.

The old man gave a stern look and said, "If she had any sense, she'd send you packing, talking to a woman like that?"

"She dumped me, if you must know. How long will your missus be?" said Peter, not liking that the man had seen the core of his misery.

"Ah! Good girl herself, I like her already."

"You're not very nice, do you know that?" said Peter, taken aback at how caustic this crumpled little man was being.

"At my age, I'm allowed to be a bit grumpy, and that's before some teenage headbanger knocks me off my bike," said the old man, very satisfied with himself.

"If you keep calling me names, I'm going home. My arse is getting cold sitting in the wet."

"It would be a lot colder if you had ended up down there," said the old man, flicking his eyes toward the edge of the bridge.

"I really wasn't going to jump," said Peter, sounding sad.

"One thing I've learned, Peter, is that things nearly never seem as bad in the morning as they do at night."

"You called me Peter," said Peter.

"I must be losing my touch," said the old man. "I think my back is a bit better now, let’s try getting up again, but easy this time."

Peter stood and took as much of the old man's weight as he could. Inch by inch, the old man sat up, then, just as a car approached, he managed to get to his feet. The car slowed and pulled up on the road beside them. The driver’s door sprang open, and a beautiful girl wearing just pyjamas and runners dashed to the old man.

"Are you hurt, Grandad?" she asked, taking his free arm across her shoulder. Her long blond hair fluttered in the breeze and Peter got the faintest smell of shampoo and warm bed, floating across his nostrils.

"It looks worse than it is, Simona," the old man said, taking a hobbling step.

"What on earth happened?" she asked.

The old man paused, he glanced at Peter out of the corner of his eye before saying, "A dog knocked me off my bike."

"Come on, let’s get you into the car. Thanks for helping him," said Simona to Peter. Her eyes were light blue with a sprinkling of diamond dust through them. Even though the light was dim, they twinkled like stars on a clear winter’s night.

"It's no problem, I was just hanging around," said Peter, which caused the old man to stifle a guff remark. Once they had eased the old man into the back seat of the car, Simona asked her Grandad what she should do with his bike.

"Tell Peter to take it home, it’s a dirty night to be walking. He can bring it back in the morning. Give him the address," said the old man, trying to make himself comfortable in the back of the car. Peter stood the bike up, it looked in working order. After a few moments, Simona came around the back of the car and handed him the address, written on the back of an old receipt.

"Do I know you? You look familiar?" she asked, tilting her head to one side.

"I don't think so. I'd remember meeting you," said Peter with a cheesy grin.

"Charmer," she said, taking the complement with a smile. "Seriously, were do you work?"

"I don't. I'm a student in Fulham," he said.

"That art college place," she said, “I do know you. You come into Costa Coffee, it's just down the road. I work there."

"Really?" said Peter, rubbing a lock of sopping hair out of his eyes.

"I look different in my hairnet," she giggled. "Next time you're in, the coffees are on me." She was about to get behind the wheel of the car when she paused," My number is on there, in case you have trouble finding the house."

With that, she was gone. Peter tucked the receipt safely into his inside pocket before throwing his leg over the bar of the bike. Just then, the first rays of morning started to lighten the sky in the east. Peter paused and smiled, "Things do look better in the morning," he thought and rode for home.