The wrong side of the tracks

When I was about thirteen I started secondary school. Every lunchtime we'd spill out onto the streets of town like a herd of wild animals, roaming in packs, or lounging on walls to display our coolness to the world. The town happened to sit on a rarely used train-line which mainly carried slow-moving freight cars. Although it was completely off limits, some of us would climb over the fence and walk the tracks to the far side of town as a shortcut. To my teenage mind, I was thumbing my nose at the establishment, walking on the wild side, a fugitive from justice.

Although I'd never let on to my friends, there was one particular part of crossing the tracks that always made me sick to my stomach. The bridge. The ground dropped away until there was nothing between the sleepers but fresh air. A hundred feet below a river churned, fast running, but not particularly deep. Every time I placed a foot on the narrow maintenance walkway the same feeling of dread fell over me. What would happen if the train came?

As casually as I could, I'd listen for the rumble of a thousand horsepower engine bearing down on us. I'd rest my foot on the cold metal of the track and feel for vibrations. All the way across the bridge I'd imagine what I might do should tonnes of crushing locomotive trap us with no place to run. Would I jump into the water below, risking broken legs, back, or even drowning? Would I have enough room to lie on the walkway and let the train pass over my prone body. Every step of the crossing I'd replay the scenarios in my mind, imagining the water rushing up at me and the shuddering impact when I hit that churning surface, or the feeling of the undercarriage screaming inches from my nose, tugging at my jumber until some low-hanging piece of metal sliced me open from head to toe, spilling my steaming guts all over the bridge.

Those images were bad enough to have rattling around in my brain as we crossed, but I also had to contend with Barry. Sometimes your friends can be your biggest nightmare. Barry was a butty lad with a small brain and a big mouth, who was never happy unless he was showing us up, or slagging us off. Every time we crossed the bridge Barry would climb on top of the ten foot high metal balustrade and walk the narrow ledge the whole way across. If that was not exciting enough for him he would hop from sleeper to sleeper, with the yawning drop between each not bothering him at all.

One day, myself, Barry and a few others were starting to cross the bridge when all my fears came true. Around the bend ahead, a wall of fume belching death came thundering toward us. Barry was hopping as normal from sleeper to sleeper when we saw it. We turned and ran away from the train, back toward the end of the bridge.

"Come on Barry!" I shouted over my shoulder but noticed he was actually hopping toward the train, not away.

"BARRY!"

"I can make it!," he said and continued to race the train to the far end of the bridge. The driver must have seen us at that moment because the horn blared, once, twice, three times and then the scream of metal on metal breaks joined the din. By this time we were all off the bridge except Barry who was still a dozen sleepers from safety. The train driver was trying to stop but his efforts were having no affect at all, he was going too fast and the engine was far too heavy. 

Barry had stopped leaping and was now trying to run across the sleepers. His head was swinging wildly from side to side looking for a way to escape, his terror blatant as he relised these moments may be his last. That was the moment his foot skidded from under him on the greasy timber. He fell back ward and one leg vanished into the void. He managed to wrap an arm around the thick timber beam and stop his fall. His eyes were huge as the first train wheel hit the bridge, the howl of breaks, horn, and metal wheels, mingled with Barry's blood curdling scream until it was impossible to say where one started and the others finished. The train divers panicked face loomed huge and white in the glass. 

There was nothing anyone could do. I got one last look at Barry as the train rushed over him. I don't know if I was yelling or not, I cant remember. It seemed to take forever for the spark spitting wheels to pass by us. When the last carriage cleared the bridge: blood, gore, and mangled body parts should have greeted our eyes, but by a miracle two thin arms were still wrapped around the moss covered sleeper with Barry's tear streaked face hovering inches above it.  We all ran over and dragged Barry onto the bridge as quick as we could before escaping the scene of our crime.

Barry didn't say a word for the rest of lunch time and was particularly quite during the afternoon classes, but by home time his natural boastfulness had overcome his fear. He ended the day standing at the bus stop bragging about taking on the train and winning. But between you and me, he never crossed the bridge again.

Pass the Parcel

You know when you arrive home and find that package you ordered from Amazon waiting, did you ever stop to consider the journey it has taken, or the people it encountered on the way. Yes, it might be a dull brown box but when you think about it, that innocent little box has a secret life you know nothing about. You may have been the spark that gave birth to its journey, and you will be the one to rip it asunder in its final moments, but what about the middle?

I got to thinking about this because of a story my mother told me the other day, and I thought it might strike a cord with some of you.

Recently, my Mom has been getting a lot of packages delivered to the house, some ordered by my Dad for one job or another, but most of them she ends up minding for neighbours who are out working.

The man who delivers the parcels is quite elderly, and in a past life was one of the post men for the area, an old school delivery man you might say. The man has become a regular sight standing on our doorstep exchanging a few words with my Mom over assorted packages. Anyway, Dad had been having trouble with condensation building up in their car and sourced some Silica to fix the issue. With one click the order rolled into life in a factory thousands of miles away, and the hidden journey of this brown package began. 

It took a couple of weeks for the package to arrive and by the time it did, my Mother had forgotten all about it. Mid-morning one Tuesday the doorbell chimed. My Mom went to open the door, wiping flour from her dough speckled hands with a tea-towel.

"Morning, Missus. Package for you," said the delivery man, getting her to sign for the padded envelope in his hand. As she printed out her name, the man turned the package over and over in his hands, looking at it quizzically. When he handed it over he looked at her earnestly and asked, "What’s in it anyway?"

Now, my Mom is a trusting sort of woman and would read nothing into such a question, where I might be shocked at the man's nosiness. She took the package in her hand, looking at my Dad's name the label and said, "Lord, I've no idea, why?"

"It's just that me and the lads at the depot were all trying to figure out what's inside, and it’s got us stumped. Seems to be squishy but then there are loads of little balls," said the delivery man, holding out his hand to give the package a squeeze in demonstration.

As my Mom, and the delivery man stood kneading and fondling the innocent little package, realization stuck.

"Ah! It’s the stuff for the condensation."

"The what?"

"The condensation in the car, look," said my Mom, pointing at the fogged up windows on the car in the driveway.

"You're joking?"

"Nope, found it on the internet. Apparently it will soak up all the moisture on the air and get it out of the car."

"Jesus, what will they think of next," said the old man scratching his head. He began walking away when he stopped and turned. "Why don't yea bring the car back to the garage and get them to fix it?"

"Ah, its a lot of bother for a little mist. We will give this stuff a go first."

The man waved and walked away down the drive, with his hands stuffed into his pockets, his clipboard wedged under his arm, lazily taking in the fine spring day God had blessed them with. My Mom closed the door and thought nothing more about the whole thing. When she told my Dad, he could not figure out which was stranger, the fact the guys in the transport depo were feeling everyone's parcels to guess what people were ordering, or that the old guy was so perplexed by the package he actually asked what was in it. 

A few weeks after, the same man ended up at our house with a neighbours package.  As my Mom signed for it the man demanded, "Did the balls work?"

Most middle aged Irish women are not in the habit of discussing balls, working or not, with near strangers on the doorstep. The confused look on her face must have betrayed her shock as the man clarified himself saying, "For the car, did the balls work?"

"Oh the condensation? Yes actually, they did," said my more than relieved Mom.

"Well I never, mist drinking balls, what next?" he said with a jaunty salute, and strutted back to his van full of yet to be guessed mysteries. 


So the next time your delivery man gives you a look when getting you to sign for a package, give it a good squeeze, because sure as Billyo, he did.

If you enjoyed this why not try out some more tales from the Irish Countryside.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Misadventures-Father-Squid-McFinnigan-ebook/dp/B01AGW4PU2

Birth

I'm being crushed! It feels like a huge hand trying to squeeze the life out of me, and succeeding. Everything is dark, I can hear the blood racing through my ears as my heart thunders and battles. I knew this day was coming, I've always know, but can't explain how I knew, instinct I guess, but now the moment is here, I'm terrified.

I'm being pushed by an unstoppable force, or is it being pulled. I can't tell, all I know is I want it to stop right now. None of this is good, none of this is right.

JUST STOP FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!

In the darkness I feel sick, the pounding of my heart is a blur, blending with the muffled noise all around. I may be blind, but I can hear just fine. I feel a jolt and something changes, I can feel hands on me everywhere. They are like spiders running over my naked skin, probing, pulling, pushing, prodding.   Another jolt, and the huge squeezing hand slips from me. I can feel the cold on my skin, attacking me like a thousand shards of ice. I feel slick, water running off of me in all directions, slick and cold. Another jolt, and this one stings like a mother-fucker. I let out a shout but it sounds more like a squeal to my tortured ears, and then blessedly the jolts stop.

I'm so tired, bone tired,the kind there is no escaping from. I can feel it washing over me now, there is no fight left in me and I surrender to the darkness, drifting away from it all.

When I open my eyes, the world is blurry and bright. Shapes move in, shapes move out, I am sore all over. I try to move and feel a hand rest on my head. In the distance I hear her voice and inside my addled mind I try and put the words together.

"Mr Riley. Heart attack. Everything is going to be alright."

The light in my eyes grows brighter as the epiphany takes hold. I've been given a second chance, a re-birth, and this time I'm going to make every second count.

Roller-coaster

"You can do it," I think to myself as she took my elbow in her delicate arm and snuggled into me. We cross the crowded fairground, matching each other stride for stride, heartbeat for heartbeat.

I can't believe she's here with me! Feck that, I can't believe she even knew my name. I might have been staring at her, I'm not sure, but when she gave a little wave and dropped down from the bench, I peeked over my shoulder to see who she was really looking at. When she stopped in front of me and said my name, I damn near fainted. She smiled, I blushed, she talked, I stuttered, she wanted to go on the roller-coaster, my brain screamed no, but 'Sure,' come out.

I smile, trying hide the terror lurking in the depths of my gut, and then she caught a glimpse of the curving serpentine spine, arching high into the sky, and let loose a strangled sound of near-sexual joy.

"I love roller-coasters," she purrs into my ear, her warm breath kissing my skin.

"Me too," I lie, and force my smile a little wider.

Her grip on my arm tightens,  pulling it against the soft swell of her breast. I felt like making my own strangled sounds of bridled passion, but the band of fear around my chest keeps them at bay. With each step we take, the spiders web of timber struts grow in depth, breath, and height, until we stand in the shadow of my nightmarish nemesis, which looms above me like the sword of Damocles.  

From a covered section, a small train of carriages appears, clanking inch by inch up the near vertical incline, eventually reaching the highest point of the ride. Precariously balanced on the back of the serpent, the flimsy wagons stand proud, their excited passengers silent while the whole contraption pauses before plummeting headlong down the far side. A chorus of happy shrieks rents the air, steel wheels scream tortuously against the metal track, the rise and fall of the sound underlying each swoop loop and dive the captive merrymakers take. I followed their twisting progress as they rocketed around the flimsy construction, as the timbers take the weight of the passing conveyance, they groan, adding to the hellish noise. Once, twice, three times they go round, before the carriages eventually slow and stop. I look down and see the death grip I have on the barrier, my knuckles locked closed and white.

"Come on! It's our go now," she giggles, dragging me toward the ticket booth. She looks at me expectantly as I searched through my pockets for the double fair, and shove it across the silver ticket dispenser. Click, clack, click, clack, sings the machine before vomiting out two harmless pink stubs. I take them in shaking fingers, and passes them to a bored looking guy lounging on the gate. He made no effort to hide the leer in his eyes as he raked every crevice of my darlings body. I try not to notice the flick she gives her hair, or the extra bounce of her boobs as we walk toward the head of the line.

"I'm so excited," she squeals, while the same sleazebag ratchets the safety rail into position, his fist happening to fall squarely in her lap, her eyes falling squarely into his. After three good thrusts, he finally takes his filthy hand from the depths of her crotch and moves on to the next car. For a few moments, my rage makes me forget where I'm sitting, and the ordeal which lays ahead. When the car jolts forward, I'm soon reminded.

Soon, the nose of the car is pointing directly into the sky, like a rocket taking off in super slow motion, but I'm one hundred percent preoccupied with the five dainty digits clamped on the top of my thigh, a mere fraction from where I wished they were clamped. It wasn't until the sky vanished, and the ground rushed straight at me did my mind stray from that spot on my body. My hands shot forward and grabbed the rail on the front of the car and tried to become one with the steel. My eyes rattled in my head, my guts slid around inside my body, my feet went rigid with fear. Soon the wind drew a tear from my eye, mingling with the tears of terror that were flowing freely across my cheeks. That was when I saw it.

From the corner of my rattling streaming eye, I saw something fall away from under the railing on the far side of the roller-coaster. I whipped my head to the side but I lost sight of that point on the track, all I knew is that we were going in that direction. Frantically I searched the track ahead, trying to find what I had seen. When the car gave a little bounce I knew the shit had hit the fan. Something was wrong, something had broken, nothing was right. I heard a crack, and a splinter of timber just beneath the delighted screams of all those around me. I turned and tried to look back but all I could see was a field of waving arms and the voice inside my head bellowed "You're going to die!" 

That was when the real screaming started, my screaming. As we flashed through the loading tunnel, I waved frantically at the operator, who was leaning against the wall, leering at some new teenage girl that had caught his eye. I could feel the tissue of my voice box tear as I screamed "WERE ALL GOING TO DIE!" over and over again. I tried to jump out of the car, and felt her hands drag on mine with all her strength. As we came out of the second last loop, I saw it. Up ahead on the track was a dark stretch of nothing where shining steel should be.

"WE'RE FUCKED!" I managed to bellow as the darkness vanished under the front carriage. I ducked my head as low as I could, as if trying to kiss my own arse goodbye.

A fraction of a second passed, then another, then a full one, while the roller-coaster continued to roll and coast. The people around me were wide eyed and all looking in my direction. The train jolted, and began to slow. I glanced to my side and the most beautiful face in the world looked at me slack jawed.

As soon as the ride came to a stop, the safety bar sprang forward and I jumped from the car. I turned to help her out but she held her hands up in a way that yelled  'Don't touch me'.

I stood back as she got out of the car, and was shocked by the mask of revulsion she wore. Sure I had been a bit hysterical, but I had good reason after all. That was when I noticed her eyes were not looking at my face. As I looked down, I felt the moist denim shift on the skin of my leg, and knew what I was about to see. As she flounced away in a flurry of blond hair and embarrassment, the gathered crowd howled with laughter and pointed at my piss socked jeans.

I wish there was a better moral to this story than always speak your mind, never drink three cans of soda before taking your life in your hands and stay away from roller-coasters, they are the work of the devil.

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.