"Megan!"
Her name echoed through the house and she knew by her mothers tone, she was in trouble. She shuffled off the bed but decided to say nothing, if she was quiet enough, her Mom might give up calling her.
"Megan!" her Mother yelled again. Looked like that plan backfired.
"Coming," she called, opened the door and stepped out on the landing. She looked over the banister and saw her mother standing in the hall with her fists planted firmly on her hips.
"You brought more of those pests into the house, didn't you?" demanded her Mother which made Megan look down at her shoes. Now all the yelling made sense.
"They're not pests," she whispered into her chest.
"What?"
"Nothing," she said sadly, twiddling her fingers in front of her dungarees.
"Get down here before I start squishing them!"
"Mom! You can't!" she said rushing down the stairs as quick as her eight-year-old legs would take her. Her Mom wasn't joking, she would squish them, she'd done it before. What Megan didn't understand was how her Mom had found them. She had been very careful to keep the box hidden when she came in from school. She didn't even take them out of her bag. By the time she got to the bottom step everything became clear. Her school bag had fallen from the hook on the wall, her math and English books were lying on the floor along side an empty box with it's lid half popped off. All over the floor were silver snail trails. It was no wonder her Mom was going crazy. Megan scooped up the box and started collecting the snails and popping them back in side.
"They're disgusting!" said her Mom poking one slow moving guy with her foot.
"They can't help the way they look," said Megan, stooping down to gently pick up the snail before her Mom did more than nudge the little guy. Megan didn't understand why people thought snails were icky, she thought they were great. In her opinion they were the best pets ever.
As she gathered the rest, her Mom noticed a particularly wide slime trail vanishing into one of her shoes lying on the floor. She bent down and picked up the bright red stiletto and peered inside.
"That't it!" yelled her Mother as she began whacking the shoe against the banister to dislodge the snail inside.
"Stop, Mom. You're frightening him."
"I'll do more than frighten him when I get him out. Those shoes cost me eighty euro and now they're covered in slime. Look, look! What's that stuff?" Inside the shoe the snail was blowing white foam everywhere, making an already bad situation worse.
"That's Ed Sheeran and he is doing that because you're trying to bash him," said Megan, holding out her hand to take the shoe. Slowly her Mom handed over the footwear, like the guys on TV do with a gun when a cop tells him to. Perhaps that was what she was - Megan, the snail squad. Now she had the shoe she was able to see the mess Ed had made but it was but noting a cloth and some washing up liquid wouldn't fix.
"Come on, Ed, she didn't mean it," said Megan gently picking her hard shelled friend out of the shoe. Ed made a little squeak which was why she'd called him Ed Sheeran. He was a great singer, for a snail that is.
Once she had all the snails gathered she put the lid back on the box and made sure it was secure. She had her foot on the first step of the stairs when her mom said. "And where do you think you're going, young lady?"
"Up stairs," she said, which was silly because anyone could see she was going up the stairs.
"Not with those you're not. They're going back in the garden where they belong. I am not having a repeat of the bat situation."
Oh! The bat situation - again. Grown-ups never let things go. Megan didn't understand what all the fuss was about. A while back, Dad left the attic ladder down and Megan went exploring. She had found the most gorgeous creature. It had dark fur, nearly black, and was about the size of her hamster. Best of all was he had wings! A hamster with wings! She called him, George. Gorgeous George, and she fell in love with him. He was really quiet and slept a lot but that was only to be expected because George was a bat. He only woke up at night when she was asleep. Megan thought George would be hungry when he woke up so she went to get him a snack. She got a block of cheese from the fridge and left it beside him. The next day she pulled a chair onto the landing and managed to get the attic hatch open with the stick Daddy used. The ladder came down and Megan was able to go check on her friend. She was very upset to see that George hadn't eaten any of the cheese, but he was still there, sleeping. This time she left George some ham.
Everyday she brought George something new but he didn't eat anything. One day she was trying him with some carrots when the lights came on and Megan turned to see her Mother's head poking up through the trap door. She got so mad, she said the place was full of rotting food and the rats would come. Megan told her the food was for George, the bat, not rats. When Mom saw George she said he was not sleeping at all. That night Megan cried so hard she thought her eyes would break. Bat situation or no bat situation, Megan thought her mother was being a meenie about the snails.
"That's not fair, its cold outside," she said, crossing her arms and stamping her foot for emphases. Megan was not about to give up on her friends, not without a fight.
"Either you do it or I will," said her Mom, crossing her own arms and putting on the face she thought was scary, but it wasn't.
Megan shook hear head and tightened her arms across her chest.
"Megan," her mom said. This time her name was said in the voice that was serous, not pretend serous, or serous that Megan could wiggle out of, this was serous serous and Megan knew she had lost.
"OK," she said and dragged herself toward the front door as if the worst possible thing waited on the other side of it. Megan could feel little tears at the corner of her eyes but she wasn't going to cry, she didn't like crying even though sometimes she couldn't help herself. Her mom opened the door and stood to one side as Megan walked to the bottom of the garden and sat down at the base of the wall. She opened her box and picked out the snails one by one, resting them under leafs and flowers, where they would be sheltered from the worst of the night. She left Ed for last and whispered to him as she held him against his favorite place, under the lip of concrete at the top.
"I'm sorry Mom scared you, Ed. She just really likes her shoes, like really really. And you're not disgusting, you're handsome, and talented, and really really wonderful. I guess we might look weird to you too." As she spoke, Ed slowly began to poke out his head and uncurl his eyes on the end of stalks. She kept whispering secrets to Ed until he had a good hold of the wall and she could finally let go of his shell. The very last secret she told Ed was to hold on till tomorrow and she would pick them all up again on her way to school.
Megan turned and walked past her mother sulkily, taking each step up the stairs like the sad girl she was. When her Mom came to her room later with a bowl of ice cream and kissed her head, she was still worried about Ed having to spend the night out in the cold. As her Mom left the room she turned and said, "They like it out side, really." Then she pulled the door closed. Megan put the ice cream on her bedside table and took out six boxes from under her bed and opened the lids. Every box was filled with snails.
"Do you like it outside better?" Megan asked. From deep inside a box came a little squeak and Megan smiled. "I didn't think so," Megan said to her friends and began feeding them tiny bits of ice cream which they seemed to love.
Tuesday 5 June 2018
Thursday 10 May 2018
Bang Bang, Baby.
PJ
and Mike were typical young lads, always on the go and only seemed to pass
through the house. They would fly in the door, wolf down whatever Granny had
dished up for dinner, then scoot off on another great adventure. When they weren’t
taking cars apart, or working, or planning some stunt; the two brothers loved
to go shooting. Both of them had shotguns and brought home the odd pheasant or
rabbit. Nothing went to waste in the Begley home and whatever the boys shot
ended up in the dinner pot.
Ireland
was far from ideal during those years. Our island was still divided by conflict.
We were an occupied nation for over eight hundred years. The six counties in
the north were controlled by England which was the cause of a violent conflict.
On one side lay the nationalists, who wanted Ireland reunited and on the other
side lay the unionists, who wanted to remain part of the United Kingdom. It was
a dark time in our history and I don't believe any right-minded person would
ever willingly return to it. The blood of both camps had stained our nation.
Around
that time, a wild cat started turning up Granny Begley's yard, and he was one
savage feline. He'd clearly had a tough life and was somewhat of a survivor.
Around the cat's neck hung an old rabbit snare and it seemed to have been in
place for a long time. Granny tried to take it off but the cat would let nobody
go near it. The animal would spit, hiss and growl when anyone approached it. He
reminded her of the Reverend Ian Paisley, a particularly confrontational leader
of the Unionist movement and who was famous for his thunderous preaching
against anything nationalist. That was how the cat got the name, Paisley. Uncle
Mike had the bad luck of accidentally cornering Paisley in the turf shed one
night and received a dozen claw marks in a dozen sensitive areas for his
trouble. After that night, Mike and Paisley were sworn enemies.
One
evening, Granny Begley was listening to a news report when Mike came trundling
in from work. During the report there was a clip of the Reverend Ian Paisley
loudly proclaiming that, "Ulster says NO!" to whatever the other side
had just suggested.
"Holy
God, that Paisley is an awful thorny yoke," Granny said, shaking her head.
Now to his credit, Uncle Mike was half listening to her as he struggled to get
out of his concrete stained overalls.
"Thorny
is right," agreed Mike, before lumbering away toward the bathroom to wash
up for dinner.
"Somebody
is going to shoot him one day," she professed aloud.
"What
was that, Mammy?" yelled Mike from the bathroom.
"I
said, someone will shoot Paisley!" she called back, and started dishing up
Mikes dinner.
A
minute or two later a shot boomed through the house, causing Granny to clutch
her chest in fright, but sadly she was holding Mikes dinner at the time, and it
ended up all over the place. Then there was a second deafening explosion from
the direction of the bathroom. Granny raced into the hall to find a half-dressed
Mike coming out, with a smoking shotgun in his hands.
"What
the blazes are you doing!" yelled Granny.
"Shooting
Paisley," said Mike, bewildered.
"Not
that Paisley!" said Granny, swatting Mike with the tea towel.
"Oh
feck!" said Mike realising his mistake. "Tis alright, Mammy, I missed
the slippery yoke. He escaped down the field."
When
PJ got home and was told the story, he laughed so hard he got a pain in his
side. Over the coming weeks, the story of how Mike tried to shoot Paisley made
the rounds of all the pubs in South Tipperary, and by accident, he became a
local legend.
Sunday 15 April 2018
Shuffling Joe
Before,
I thought there were plenty of spots to take shelter in New York: shops,
subways, doorways, malls, libraries, museums. The city seemed littered with
warm welcoming places but by my second night sleeping rough, those doors
started to slam in my face. Day by day I drifted further into invisibility
until the multitudes passed me blindly.
Everyone
has their own route to the street and mine was booze. It was a slow decay.
First, I didn't even notice it myself. It was a beer after work, then a few
more. Then came the liquid lunches and a quick shot in my morning coffee to
stop the shakes in my hand. As things gathered momentum, I kept telling myself
that I could stop, if I wanted to. By the time I admitted the truth, my job was
hanging by a thread and my marriage was on the rocks. The only sensible thing
to do was to take a few more shots to block out the pain.
The
last months of my old life went by in a haze. When I finally woke up in the
shadow of a dumpster, it was too late for anything. The cold of the concrete
soon seeped into my bones and I began to hate the people who dropped quarters
in my cup. Assholes, one and all. I did manage to make one spot my own; a
tiny arch under an overpass. It smelled of trash but it was dry and protected
from the wind. It was here that I first bumped into Shuffling Joe or more
accurately, Shuffling Joe bumped into me.
It
was a terrible night; the rain was coming down in sheets while I lay cocooned
like a human taco in my alcove. I’d nearly drifted off, with the help of a bottle
of Tequila Rose, when something crashed down on top of me. I lashed out at my
attackers, fighting for my life, or so I thought. The truth is, when you
live on the street, life is cheap and nobody much cares if yours gets
taken or not.
"God-damn-it!
Get the hell off me!" I screamed as I battled my way out of my sleeping
bag. I expected to feel the bite of a blade, or have my brain rattled, but none
of those things happened. Instead, my attacker scrambled away and huddled in
the far corner with a haunted look in his eyes.
"Get
out of here, this is my place!" I yelled and managed to sit up. The
traffic rumbled overhead, the wind made the weeds outside dance, and water
dripped through the cracks in the roof; but my uninvited houseguest was as still
as the grave. He just crouched there, with a box cradled to his chest, and
gazed out into the night.
"Can't
you hear me? GET OUT!" I yelled, but he didn't budge. I thought about
getting up and evicting him, but this guy’s elevator didn't go all the way up.
He was damaged and damaged people are dangerous. Hell, who wasn't dangerous?
The tequila was wearing off and I was feeling less than brave if the truth
was known, so I decided to stay as far away from him as I could. As long as he
stayed in his corner, I'd stay in mine.
"Crazy
as a bag of frogs," I huffed, and pulled my sleeping bag around me once
more. I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but I did, and when I woke the stranger
was gone. I jumped up and checked my stuff. I was sure the guy would have
robbed me, but he hadn't. Well, I guess we can all be wrong about people from
time to time.
A
few days later I saw my visitor again, this time in the food queue at St Mary's
community centre. It's a good spot for a warm meal but he arrived late.
The kitchen was about to close and only the dregs were left in the soup
pot. I watched as he edged up to the counter and stood there. He didn't take a
tray like the rest of us did, he didn't try to pocket a few extra bread rolls
like I had done. He just stood there as the volunteer apologised for the
condition of the liquid being slopped into a bowl. The man just nodded his
thanks and hurried over to an empty table on the far side of the room. I could
tell he was starving by the way he lapped up the first four or five spoon full
of the grease-covered liquid. But something happened, I saw it in his face, it
was as if he had been caught doing something naughty and he slowly straightened
up, forcing himself back from the steaming meal. With a shaky hand, he laid
aside the spoon, then slowly stood. In a blink of an eye, he was gone.
I
wolfed down my own meal. I had a date with a bottle of Wild Turkey that the
Holy Rollers would confiscate if I broke it out here. As I passed my visitor's
empty seat, I spotted his half-full bowl and an untouched bread roll. I checked
nobody was watching as I slipped the roll into my pocket, then made my escape.
He might be a looney-tune, but I wasn't.
That
night, winter kicked in for real and the raindrops were so cold, they pinged as
they landed. He appeared out of the night like a ghost, I nearly thought it was
my double vision playing tricks on me until he moved into my cave and hunkered
down as far from me as he could. The box I'd seen before was with him but
nothing else. How could he have so little? Even on the street, we all have
possessions, this guy didn't even have a blanket to throw over his shoulders.
"So,
your back," I slurred. The ghost said nothing.
"God
damn cuckoo. That's you? Are you a cuckoo going to shove me out of my
nest?" I asked. It made sense in my head. "Well, I'll cuckoo you if
you try it!" I slurred and rolled into the corner, turning my back so I
didn't have to look at him lurking in the shadows. I felt the bread roll press
against my leg. I’d forgotten I had put it there. I took it out and held it in
front of me. There was nothing in my stomach but gut-rot hooch.
"Cuckoo,"
I said to myself and devoured the bread. It was a dog eat dog world and I would
have two if they were on the menu.
After
that night he started coming more regularly, particularly as the winter closed
in on us. No matter what I asked, he never spoke a word to me. I thought he must
be mute, but he sure as hell could hear. I knew he was clever, an educated man,
you can just tell, even though the dirt. The more I got to know him the more I
was convinced he was different to other street-folk. He was still crazy,
bat-shit-crazy, just different crazy than the rest of us. After a while I
christened him Shuffling Joe, because of the way he walked. It was as if the
weight of the world sat on his shoulders.
Over
the years, I got used to having Shuffling Joe about the place, and as hard as
it is to admit, I missed him when he wasn't there. His silence suited me. I
talked enough for the two of us, particularly when my tongue was loosened up
by cheap whisky. We were like an old married couple in the end, right to
the end.
Joe
left this world as he lived. Silently.
I
woke one morning and found him still rolled up in the corner. I got up and
gathered my belongings but Joe didn't move.
"Up
you get," I said, giving the soul of his boot a gentle nudge. His foot
flopped over and settled at an unnatural angle.
"Joe?"
I said, my voice hushed, my heart heavy. I knew he was gone before I laid my
hand against his cheek and found it cool. I sat back and rested my head against
the concrete.
"Guess
I'll never know your name now," I said to my cooling friend and felt
something hard try to climb its way out of my throat. I forced that feeling
back down, right back down, and hammered it home before it got the better of
me. Joe's troubles were over but I had issues of my own. It was a new day and
it wouldn't block itself out! Time to feed the beast and quench the thirst. I
thought about dragging his body outside, where someone else would find it, but
I didn't have the heart. I decided just to give my cave a swerve for a while,
surely someone would find him, eventually. I was about to leave when I noticed
Joe's box, he still had one hand wrapped around it.
"You
don't need this no more, Buddy," I said, pushing his stiffening fingers
from the aged cardboard. The box was secured with string. I pulled one end and
the knot fell loose. I lifted the lid with no idea what I would find. Money, I
hoped. What I did find left me baffled. Inside the box, on a bed of crumpled
newspaper, lay a small pair of pink ballet slippers and nothing else.
"You
really were a screwball, Joe," I said to my recently deceased cave mate. I
was about to toss the box aside but then I remembered how much Joe cared for
it. As stupid as it seemed, I couldn't make my fingers let go. With a roll of
my eyes, I put the lid back on the box and stuffed it in my pack with the rest
of my stuff.
"If
they guys down the mission see you with these," I said to myself,
"you better stay out of the showers for a month, or even a year." I shouldered
my bag and left the cave for the last time. I took a last look at Joe and
wondered who he was. An enigma, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in rags.
That
night, I got more out of my head than ever before. The booze blacked out
everything and it was only when I found the shoes in my pack the following day did
that I thought about Joe again. I sat on a bench in Central Park and took
out one of the slippers. It wasn't new, I could see the way the inside had been
moulded to fit a delicate foot after hours of practice. Although the Satan
still was lush, it held a smudge here and there. Whoever wore them had a tiny
foot. It hadn't been Joe, that's for sure, but it might have been someone Joe
loved. As I sat there, I knew I had no right to keep these things, they meant
nothing to me but someone else might treasure them. I rummaged through the
papers but there was nothing else in the box. That was when I spotted a
yellowed label on the underside of the lid. It had the name of a shop on
it. Suzette's. The address was in the West Village which
wasn't so far away. With nothing else to do and a hangover to walk off, I
headed south into unfamiliar territory.
I
never felt comfortable in Manhattan, I guess I was never a Manhattan kind of
guy. When I eventually found, Suzette’s, it turned out to be a
brownstone building on an idyllic tree-lined street. It was a dream place to
live, a dream from a life I once knew. I tried the door but it was locked. I
pressed the bell, but nobody came. I was tired so I took a seat on the steps to
rest. About an hour later, a lady in her sixties mounted the step and gave me a
wary look as she swerved around me. She smelled expensive and existed in a
cloud of floating scarves. She put a key in the door and I decided to ask if she
was Suzette. The lady stopped with one hand on the key as she turned to look at
me.
"In
a way, I guess I am. Why do you ask?" she said, her accent sounded like
money, but it wasn't hard. Still, she was far from welcoming. I took out the
box and handed it to her.
"I
have these," I said and handed her the box. She opened the lid, as if she
expected to find a turd inside. When she saw the shoes, her face softened and
she lifted one out with great care.
"I
haven't seen any of these in...well... twenty years or more. Where did you get
them?"
"A
friend of mine had them. I was hoping to get them back to his family if I
could." I said.
"And
what was your friends name," asked the lady, still stroking the side of
one pretty slipper.
"That's
the thing. I don't know." The woman looked at me and I could see all the
questions flitting behind her eyes but she chose not to voice any of them.
Instead, she turned over the lid of the box and gazed at the label which had
got me this far.
"You're
lucky that this is the original box. It has a ledger number on it. Wait here
and I will see what I can find out." The lady unlocked the door and once
she was inside, I heard the security chain rattle. I didn't blame her. I
wouldn't have let me in either. When the door opened again, she had the box and
a piece of paper in her hand.
"I'm
sorry to say but I have very little. It's a girl’s name, Annie Leisman, but the
delivery address is an investment house on Wall St. That’s all I have. The bill
was paid in cash so it's a bit of a dead end." She handed over the
box and the piece of paper and regarded me earnestly. "I hope you get
these to Annie. A lot of love went into these. I'm sure she will want to have
them back."
"Thanks,
Lady," I said, hoisting myself off her stoop. I hadn't got to the sidewalk
when I heard the chain rattle again. Wall St? Could Shuffling Joe and Wall St
have ever gone together? Only one way to find out I guessed and headed south
once more.
It
was a long walk, and by the time I reached the address on the paper, the doors
were locked for the night. So, I panhandled a few bucks from passing people,
got myself a bottle, and spent the night in Battery Park. The next day I went
back to Wall St and the address I had for Anne Leisman. It was a typical
building for this neck of the woods; old stone, new glass and miles of brass. I
got as far as the lobby before a suited guerrilla blocked my way.
"Not
today, Buddy," he said, shepherding me back toward the door.
"I'm
looking for someone," I stammered, trying to stand my ground.
"And
who would you be looking for here?" he said with disdain in his voice.
"A
friend," I said, and it was the wrong thing to say.
"Yea,
right." This time the hand was less shepherding and more shoving.
"I'm
looking for Annie Leisman."
The
guy grabbed me by the jacket and half lifted me out of my shoes, "You're
looking for a slug in the kisser. Nobody here knows no drunken bum, now beat it,"
he said, shoving me through the door. I’ve been thrown out of enough places to
know how to keep my balance. From the sidewalk, I give the guard a one finger
salute and hot-footed it before the cops appeared.
That
night, back in Battery Park, I held shuffling Joe's legacy in one hand and a
bottle of cooking brandy in the other. I was on the verge of giving up when I
felt Joe's ghost watching me. A shiver ran down my spine and I knew I had to do
this thing. I owed it to Joe.
The
next morning, the tattered box and a still full brandy bottle were in my pack
when I returned to the investment house on Wall Street. I ducked my head in the
door but didn't enter. The same suited guard recognised me straight away but
instead of going in I beckoned him over to the door.
"I
told you yesterday to beat it," he said, as he got closer.
"I
know. Just hear me out for a second. I really am looking for someone. I have a
box I got to give them."
"Just
leave it with me, I'll take care of it," said the guy. I knew the kind of
taking care of he would do. Joe's box would be in the first trash can he
passed.
"Can't.
Got to do it myself. Look, I just want to ask that lady at the desk if Annie Leisman
works here. And, I'm stone cold sober," I said hoping the guy would see
that letting me ask the lady would be the quickest way to get rid of me. But it
turns out he was not that kind of guy.
"You
might be sober, but you’re still a bum so, OUT!" he said, spinning me out
the door again.
"God
damn corporate Nazi," I shouted and snapped out a straight-armed salute. I
goose-stepped up and down the steps and could see the guy getting ready to come
knock my block off. His huge muscles were straining under his suit. I turned my
back on him and moved to the pavement. I sat outside the building with my cup
on the ground to collect quarters and asked all the women who went up the
steps, "Are you Annie Leisman?"
Three
days I stayed sober, and three days I stayed at the door calling out for Annie
Leisman. It was looking like a lost cause when a man entering the building
heard me ask if a passing woman if she was Annie Leisman. The man stopped and
came back down the steps. He was forty or so, rich as hell, with the
slicked-back hair of a guy who thought he was the bee’s knees.
"I
knew an Annie Leisman," he said, standing before me.
"Does
she work in there?" I asked, throwing my thumb toward the door behind my
back.
"No,
but her Popps did."
"Popps?"
"Yea,
the Annie I know is eight. Was eight. She's dead now," said the guy and he
genuinely looked sad about that.
"Is
her Popps still here? I got something for him." I said, taking out my box
and holding it out to the guy. He didn't take it he just looked at me as if
trying to make up his mind about me.
"What's
in it?" he asked at last.
"Ballet
slippers, Annie Leisman's ballet slippers."
"Christ!
You got to be kidding me?" The man went pale under his year-round tan and
lowered himself on the step beside me. The shock of whatever he knew stopped
him from realising he was sharing his seat with a bum.
"What's
wrong with that?" I asked, the box still in my hand.
"Charlie
Leisman was a senior partner in this company when I was doing my
internship. The big cheese, you know what I mean. He was married, with one
little girl, Annie, she was eight. One morning, they were all rushing around
the house, getting ready for work and school and such. It can be crazy; I got a
little girl of my own, so I know. Well anyway, Charlie's wife was going to drop
Annie to school and Charlie was coming to work. The all left the house together
but Charlie took a call on his cell. He didn't see Annie get out of the mom's
car and go behind his. He backed out... backed out... and well he just didn't
see her. She’d forgotten her ballet shoes. The next day, Charlie vanished and
took nothing with him except those shoes. That was twenty-five years ago. Never
been heard of since." The man looked down and seemed really broken by the
story. Was it possible that my Joe had been this Charlie Leisman?
I
described Joe and the guy sitting beside me nodded his head, "Sure sounds
like him."
So,
Charlie Leisman, my friend Charlie, was a Wall St guy. You live and learn. I
handed the box to the man sitting beside me and said, "Could you get these
to Mrs Leisman and tell her Charlie never forgave himself for what happened.
He's gone now too, I guess that's all she needs to know."
"She's
dead. Five years ago, breast cancer or so I heard."
"Perhaps
they will fit your little girl so," I said, and shook the hand of the man
who put a name to my friend. I put my bag on my back, the still full bottle of
cooking brandy rubbing against my shoulder blade, and walked away from the
steps. I saw the man lift up the box and take out one of the shoes that lay inside.
I
was on the crosswalk when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the guy I had
been talking to.
"Hold
up! Have you seen this?" he asked, holding out the box. I look at the pink
shoes and said sure.
"NO!
These!" he said, picking out one of the crumpled pieces of paper.
"The
newspaper?"
"Jesus
Christ! They're not newspaper," he nearly yelled, but then remembered
people were standing around us. He lowered his voice and put his arm around my
shoulder to draw me away from curious ears. In a quieter voice said,
"They're bearer bonds. Hundred-thousand-dollar treasury bearer bonds.
Dozens of them!"
"I
don't understand," I said, gazing into the box.
"Its
money, lots of money. Could be two million or more!"
"I
swear I didn't steal it," I said, throwing up my hands and backing away
from the box. The guy started to laugh.
"I
know you didn't, but you have them, which makes them yours."
"They
were Charlies, not mine."
"Charlie
has nobody left. If they go back into the system they will be gobbled up by
taxes and fees. I think Charlie wanted you to have them. Look, come up to my
office and I will talk you through it. You can't go walking around New York
with millions stuffed in a shoe box."
"Charlie
did."
"I
guess he did," said the guy, patting me on the back. I carefully put the
lid back on the box and followed the guy up the steps to the investment
brokers. I didn't even register the furious look the security guard gave me as
I passed, I was in too much shock. I was a millionaire.
That
was five years ago and now I have a small apartment of my own. I still go down
to St Mary's, but as a volunteer. I miss my friend all the time and often think
the world would be a nicer place if we all talked a little less. I could never
get the hang of calling him Charlie, he would always be Shuffling Joe to me. It
turned out there was 2.9 Million dollars in his box and although the government
took its share, I have more than enough left to see me off to the next world.
At home, my home, I have two things that I will never part with. One is a pair
of pink ballet slippers, sitting in a tatty cardboard box and beside them
stands a still closed bottle of cooking brandy.
I
often think of my friend and wonder if he found peace at last.
Wednesday 7 March 2018
Friday 2 March 2018
The Day the World Went Black.
"Daisy!
Daisy," he yelled up the stairs and heard something unintelligible being
mumbled from under a duvet, so he shouted again. "Did you put my keys
someplace?"
There
was a heavy sigh followed by the soft padding of naked feet on the landing. "Where
did you leave them?" she asked sleepily as she reached the top of the
stairs.
"If
I knew that, I wouldn't be looking for them, now would I?" he snapped. She
plodded down the stairs, her blond hair a messy cloud. She reached the bottom
step, paused, and lifted his keys out of the bowl with the tip of her finger.
He’d checked there; twice! She gave him a dirty look as he took the dangling
bunch.
"They
weren't there earlier," he said, embarrassed.
"Huff,"
she puffed, and turned her back on him before drifting back upstairs for her
second sleep. He stormed from the house, late for work and he knew the traffic
on the freeway would be terrible. That was a bad start to a day which got
steadily worse. It was a day crowned by actually losing his car. He searched
the multi-story car park for twenty minutes before finding the car five spaces
from the exit. He never parked in that part of the building! How could he
forget where he left his car?
When
he got home, he vented his frustration at Daisy, not that she listened. She'd
given up even pretend these days. It surprised him when she raised her head and
asked, "Why don't you get Dave to check you over?"
"I'm
not sick!" he snapped.
"I
didn't say you were but it's not like you to lose things. Can’t do any harm to
check," she said, then shrugged her shoulders and went back to eating. The
rest of the meal passed in sulky silence but he was sure of one thing, he
wasn't running to Dave about a set of lost keys.
Over
the next few days, there were more...slips. He filled out the home insurance
renewal, stuck it in an envelope for posting but when it arrived, they said it
was blank. After that, his presentation went wrong. He'd spent hours working on
a proposal for a new client but when he presented it, the slides were a mess.
Full of misspellings and errors, it looked like a five-year-old had done them.
There were other things but nothing as bad as the presentation. Normal stuff,
like being sure you put something one place and finding it somewhere else.
Small or big, these slips were starting to worry him and it was making him
cranky. Daisy and himself were constantly at each other's throats. It all came
to a head the day he arrived home to find Daisy and Dave waiting for him.
"What's
she been telling you?" he demanded before they had a chance to say
anything.
"Daisy
is worried, and from what she told me, she has a right to be," said Dave,
sitting forward on the couch, stabling his fingers like some dime-store headshrinker.
God damn Daisy for dragging Dave into this. She had no right, no right at all.
"It's
nothing. Have you never made a mistake?" he asked, his tone grumpy and
defensive.
"Of
course. Now and again, but Daisy told me these incidents are becoming more frequent
and then there's your behaviour to..."
"What
behaviour?"
"Aggressive,
depressive, irrational," he listed coldly, each word like a slap to Ben's
face.
"Jesus!
You're making me out to be a looney!"
"Easy,
Ben," he said, holding up his hands soothingly. Ben realised he had been
shouting and in doing so he confirmed at least two of his friend's accusations.
"Sorry,"
he said, and let out a deeply held breath. He rubbed his hands through his
thinning hair to steady himself. He knew his moods were swinging a bit but was
it any wonder? He put his briefcase on the coffee table and flopped down into an
armchair.
"All
I...we're asking, is that you come in and let me check you over."
"And
what will you be checking for?" Ben asked, sitting back in the chair.
"There
could be hundreds of reasons for your symptoms."
"Such
as?"
"Stress,
depression, exhaustion, hormone imbalance, the list is a long one."
"Alzheimer's?"
"You
would be abnormally young to develop Alzheimer's, but it's not
impossible," said Dave, clearly reluctant to discuss the subject.
"What
about brain tumours, or just going nuts?" said Ben angrily.
"Stop
being ridiculous," he snapped.
"I'm
not being ridiculous; I've been doing my own checking!"
"On
Google, I bet?" Ben said, clearly annoyed at the suggestion a computer
could know as much as he did. "Most often, the simple answer is the right
one. Why don't you take some time off work? Relax, take time to unwind? It's
not like you need the money." Dave was talking about Ben's inheritance. He
wasn't rich but two million dollars from a maiden aunt he had barely known was
better than a kick in the ass. The truth was he liked his work; it gives him a
purpose for his days. Being stuck in the house day in and day out would drive
him round the twist.
"I'll
think about it," he said, sounding less than enthusiastic.
Dave
stood up and gave him a steely look. "Think about it all you like but be
in my office at ten tomorrow morning. I'm charging you for the session whether
you show up or not."
"Alright,
you bully. Are you leaving?" he asked seeing Dave getting out his car
keys.
"You're
not my only patient you know," he said with a wink as he bent down to kiss
Daisy reassuringly on the cheek.
***
The
following day, Dave gave him a full service, bloods and everything, before
sending him back to work. Two days later Dave was on the phone at stupid O’clock
in the morning. Ben wasn't even out of bed when he answered the call. "Your
blood tests have come back. You need to come in to see me before work."
"That
doesn't sound good."
"There’s
nothing definite, but there are a few indicators...look, it would be better if
you came in."
"Don't
nanny me, just tell me what it is."
He
heard Dave exhale loudly. Eventually, he began speaking. "You have
unusually high levels of Adrenocorticotropic Hormone or ACTH."
"And
what's that in English?"
"It’s
a hormone produced in the Pituitary Gland, part of the brain."
"Jesus,"
said Ben, sitting up in the bed. Daisy rolled over to watch him talk.
"I
don't know what it is. It could be nothing but I’d feel better if you had a CT
scan."
"I
guess. If you think I should."
"I
do and I've pulled a few strings to get you in early next week."
"Is
it cancer?"
"It
most likely nothing. I'll email you the time for the scan. And Ben..."
"Yea."
"Don't
worry," he said, and was gone off the phone. Ben threw back the covers and
sat on the side of the bed. How could he not worry after a call like that? The
rest of the day was a blur. He couldn't help typing in, Pituitary Gland
Problems, into Google and it made for terrifying reading.
***
Between
that, and the day of the scan, he had a few more senior moments. People started
to comment on it at work. His moods got worse, and he made Daisy cry a few
times by being overly sharp.
When
he arrived at the hospital for the scan, he found Dave waiting for him.
"What
are you doing here?"
"What
kind of a friend would I be if I wasn't," he said, giving him a hug. Ben
felt a thousand times better having Dave by his side. The day was punctuated by
periods of waiting, in between efficient bursts of testing. At the end of it
all, Dave discussed the results with the consultant before coming to see
Ben.
"Good
news; there's no tumour, or cancer, but the area is inflamed. You’ll need to
take a course of medication to bring your hormones into balance and improve
your mental state."
"Mental
state?"
"You've
been exhibiting signs of depression, which is likely down to your hormone
imbalance. Antidepressants will help."
"I'm
not depressed."
"Your
brain is a complex system and it’s not running properly at the moment. You need
to take the medication if you want to get better."
Ben
didn't like the idea of being medicated, but he trusted Dave. "If you say it’s
for the best, it’s for the best." Dave wrote a prescription before he went
back to his practice. Ben left the hospital and filled the script on the way
home.
Over
the following weeks, Ben's condition got worse, not better. He felt strung out,
more confused than ever, and his temper was all but uncontrollable. He went
into melt-down-mode at the drop of a hat. In the end, he had no choice but to
go see Dave again.
"These
pills are doing nothing but making things worse," explained Ben after
telling Dave he was going to stop taking the medication.
"You
can't do that. You'll be taking a huge step back if you stop at this stage. It
could be just a bad reaction to this drug. I'm going to move you onto something
else. You should see a huge improvement."
Ben
filled out the new prescription and like Dave had predicted, things improved,
well they did up until the blackouts started. The first one was just a few lost
hours on a Saturday afternoon. Daisy had gone out shopping when he started
feeling funny. The next thing he remembered, he woke up on the couch and
the house looked like a tornado had hit it. He tried to straighten up before
Daisy got home but she knew something was wrong the minute she got back.
That
night the dreams started, the most horrific and vivid dreams he'd ever had. He
woke up crouched in the corner, beating himself around the head and screaming.
Daisy was right in front of him, in floods of tears, as she tried to calm him
down. There was a bruise on her cheek which was growing darker by the second.
He was still panicking when the paramedics arrived. They treated him for a
panic attack but made more than a few comments about Daisy’s injuries. They
wanted her to come in and have an x-ray but she refused. In the end they left,
but made them both promise to see a doctor in the morning.
***
Ben
got to Dave's practice first thing but had to cool his heels in the waiting
room until Dave's first patients had gone through. When a nurse finally showed
him into the examination room, Ben was shaking and as pale as a ghost. His head
was spinning and he could feel reality starting to slip.
"Crikey,
you look like hell," said Dave, easing Ben into a chair. He took a tumbler
from his desk and passed it to Ben. "Here, drink this."
"I
don't feel well. There is something really wrong with me,” he said, once he
finished glugging the water, not that water would help him. If anything, his
panic was getting worse. His chest raced, gulping air into his lungs. Dave just
looked at him, and Ben didn’t think he was taking him seriously. "You’ve
got to help me, you've just got to!" yelled Ben, dropping the glass as he
grabbed at Dave. He felt his feet go rubbery as his brain was hit by a vision
so harsh, it was like being kicked in the head. He staggered and felt Dave's
hands go under his armpits. That was when he blacked out.
As
he came around, he felt someone tugging at him. It took a second or two before
he recognised the tightness on his wrists as handcuffs.
“What
are you doing?” he mumbled but whoever was at him persisted. “I said, get off
me!” he snapped and tried to kick himself free, an act that earned him ten-thousand
volts from a cops tazer. As he shuddered on the ground, he saw Dave come in.
His face was bloody and he seemed dazed.
"Take
it easy with him," he said through a split lip. "It's not his fault,
he's a sick man, a very sick man." His friend's pleas fell on deaf ears as
Ben was hauled roughly to his feet, and frog-marched to a waiting state
cruiser.
What
happened next was all so muddled, it felt like it was happening to someone
else. The court appearance; being remanded to custody, then being sent to the
state-lockup. Some court-appointed lawyer had represented him, but he was so out
of it, he couldn't even remember the man’s name. When that same lawyer came to
see him in prison, he broke the news they were charging him with, assault with
intent.
"What
intent?" demanded Ben, "I can't even remember doing anything!"
That
started his, hand-me-down idiot, talking about a diminished
responsibility defence. Ben's next court date was set, but Daisy still
hadn’t been to see him. Perhaps the cops wouldn't let her come? A week after
he’d been locked up, Daisy finally arrived.
Ben
was shown into a visitor cubicle; Daisy was already seated on the other side of
the glass. He smiled at her but she just glared back at him. He picked up the
handset hanging to his left. Daisy paused for longer than he liked before doing
the same.
"It's
good to see you sweetie," he said.
"I
never thought I'd see you in a place like this," she said coldly.
"Me
either. I have no idea what happened, you got to believe me," he said,
desperately needing to hear some comforting words. Instead, she asked a
question.
"Are
you still having the blackouts?"
"Not
since that day. A few terrible dreams, or hallucinations, or whatever they are,
but even they are going now. I’m actually feeling a lot better."
"Are
you still taking your medication?"
"Yes.
I must be getting used to it."
"That's
good," she said, and looked down sadly.
"When
are you getting me out of here?" he asked, leaning forward and placing his
hand against the glass, as if he were trying to touch her face.
"That's
why I've come," she said, but her voice held no joy. "I don't want
you to come back to the house."
"I
told you, I'm getting better. I'd never hurt you, you know that, right?"
he said, trying to put every ounce of sincerity he possessed into his words.
"You
don't get it. I don't want you coming home...ever. You're not the man I married;
I don't know who you are."
"What
are you saying?" he demanded, his voice rising enough to make the guard at
the end of the room rise out of his chair.
"I
want a divorce; I've already started the application. The papers will be
served, any day," she said, and wiped away a tear.
"You
bitch!"
She
took the phone from her ear when he screamed it again, "Bitch!".
She
dropped the handset and rushed away as Ben attacked the glass, screaming and
hammering it with the heavy plastic handset. The truncheon blow caught him
below the ear and sent him sprawling sideways. Back to black again.
***
The
prison gate rattled back so slowly; Daisy felt they were doing it deliberately
to extend her torture. She just wanted it all to be over and get as far away
from this place as she could. She promised herself she wouldn't cry when she
told Ben, but she’d failed. He’d been her partner for so long, it felt like
he’d always been there; now that was over.
Outside
the gate, Dave was waiting to collect her in his sleek new Cadillac. He reached
over and popped the passenger door for her. Once she was in, he pulled away.
"How
did it go?"
"He
went crazy, started screaming and smashing the glass," she said sadly.
"To
be expected, I guess," Dave said matter-of-factly, as he maneuverer the
car out of the prison car park.
"I
still feel guilty about it all."
"You
shouldn't, it was the only way."
"To
get the money?"
"And
me!" said Dave, with a cheeky smile. "We won't have to sneak around anymore;
I can have you as much as I want now."
She
leaned across and kissed him deeply while he tried to keep one eye on the road.
Having him all the time was the only reason she had done any of it. Even on the
day of her wedding she knew she was marrying the wrong man. It always should
have been Dave.
It
had started by accident. A look, a touch, an unspoken desire, until the inevitable
happened. An intertwining of two, paired by destiny. Ben was all that stood in
their way. It was Dave that insisted she should have half the inheritance Ben
refused to touch; it was he who masterminded the plot but it was she who had
made it happen.
She
was the one who’d hidden Ben's keys and then moved his car with the spare set.
It was she who had replaced the insurance forms with blank ones, then sent them
in. It was she who messed up his presentation in the middle of the night. She
had done all that, but Dave had a hand in things as well.
He’d
given her pills to exchange for Ben's prescription. He’d given her the liquid
LSD to slip into his drinks, and told her how much to give. The time she gave Ben
too much and he started fitting in their bedroom, she nearly called it all off.
Instead, she rang Dave and he rushed over. He was terrified that Ben would OD,
and the drugs in his system might be traced back to them. She pleaded with him
to call an ambulance, demanded he come clean. He lashed out at her, catching
her on the cheek with the back of his hand. He said it was an accident; the pressure
just got to him. He gave Ben an injection of something, and soon, he stopped
shaking. Only when it was clear that Ben would be ok would he allow her to ring
for help. When she thought back on that night, she couldn’t help remembering
the look in his eye after he’d hit her. There was cruelty there.
She
could have stopped it then, she should have stopped it, but she didn’t. She’d
given Ben a half dose of LSD before he went to see Dave at his office, just
enough to make him off balance for the final act. She was right there, hiding
in the closet when Ben came in. She overheard them talking and knew Dave had
given Ben another dose of LSD, a big one. When Ben was out, Dave called her out
and said she had to hit him. She didn’t want to, but he said it had to look
real. Before she swung, he stopped her and said, "Not the nose." She
balled her fist and let one fly, barely touching him at all. Then she
remembered the look in his eye when he’d slapped her and put a measure of
intention behind her fist.
"Enough!"
he said, after taking a couple of hits, and he pushed her away. He pinched his
burst lip, drawing blood, which he smeared over Ben's hands and shirt. Daisy
slipped out the back door as Dave got Ben to his feet, then he stumbled into
the waiting area where a shocked receptionist called the police. After that, it
was plain-sailing.
The
divorce would go through and she stood to gain one point six million. Dave had
his eye on a love-nest on the coast. He said he would put the deal in his name,
it was much easier than joint ownership. Now that they had the money, they
could live like they always wanted to.
Dave
flashed her one of his devilish smiles. "Only we matter now," he said,
and went back to watching the traffic. Daisy noticed the way one corner of his
mouth curled up. Light danced in his eyes and she knew she’d seen that look before.
It was the moment his hand connected with her face.
She
felt a shiver run down her back, but she shook it off. Nothing was going to
wreck this for her. Nothing.
The End
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