Nanomite Super-Race

          After all the travelling I managed to fall asleep on the youth hostel sofa last night. I woke up in the early hours with a kitten face painted on me. Apparently this is a standard joke around here. I staggered into my real bed and fell asleep.

            Suffice to say I was woken by the sound of Ed’s laughter today. I went to clean the paint off my face. On my return Ed was ready to head out. He wanted to go sight seeing. I protested, suggesting that we needed to find Sharona, that was the point, after all. In the end we agreed to one day’s sight seeing first.

            We spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon wandering around the French Quarter. Again, I was amazed to discover that it seemed relatively unharmed by the hurricane. It was the most remarkable place, so many quaint antique shops hawking random stuff from independence war memorabilia through to voodoo stuff.

 

*

 

            This afternoon we came back to the hostel and relaxed with a guitar Ed found lying around. He was very naturally talented at it; I envied the way he drew small crowds with such ease. A little later we played chess and I decimated him and thus felt a little redeemed. He didn’t take losing too well though, so I couldn’t gloat quite so much as I wanted.

 

*

 

            I’ve just got back from Bourbon Street. We decided to go there for the evening. It turned out to be a very relaxing evening in the end. When we first stepped out there we were swamped with 3 for 1 offers on all kinds of shots and bottles. Cowgirls and apparent whores tempted us with further body shot options.

            At some stage some extremely drunk American girls cornered us and talked our ears off for a while. Even Ed couldn’t handle this, so we diverted our attention to a far more attractive pair of girls in another corner of the bar. Sadly they turned out to be English too, and Ed just wasn’t up for that. He really can’t stand English girls these days.

            At the end of all that we simply ended up alone in a corner, talking about the future of evolution and the certainty of impending destruction by nanomites, which would then themselves evolve over time into a new solar dependant super race.

            In other words: a satisfying evening.

Wedding Rules Rugby

          “So who are you then?” I asked Ed.

            “Gerald Sotherby, second cousin, once removed, of Frederick Evedon, Lord Evedon’s nephew.” This was in fact a real person; we’d been doing our research. We simply had to pick someone so remote that they wouldn’t, surely, actually be in attendance themselves.

            We were in the pub, practising our identities and building up a reliable store of Dutch Courage. It was only six thirty and the wedding reception wasn’t until eight.

            “What do you do?” Ed asked me.

            “Well, you know, this and that,” I answered, “I attend functions and make sure certain events go down properly, that sort of thing.”

            “Perfect,” said Ed, “no one could doubt your socialite status.”

 

*

 

            At eight o’clock we attended the venue and were rather dismayed to discover a queue there. There were bouncers on the door taking names and referencing them against a guest list. We hadn’t anticipated that.

            “Shit,” I said.

            “I was afraid this would happen,” Ed said. “Time for plan B.”

            “Plan B? What’s that?”

            “Just let me do the talking.”

            “Oh Christ!”

            We got to the door and Ed gave a pair of names I’d never heard of. Sure enough the bouncers parted and we were allowed through without question.

            “Who the hell are we?” I asked, in a hoarse whisper.

            “Cousins of the bride.”

            “We’ll never pull that off!”

            “We’re in, aren’t we? Switch back to Plan A now, and they’ll never work it all out. We’re like criminal geniuses. No, scratch that, I’m a criminal genius and you’re just my fat white sinister cat.” He grinned.

            We wondered around in excitement for half an hour or so, thrilled at the prospect of free champagne and mischievous deception. Reality, as so often, did not live up to expectation. The reception was full of stuffy old people. The novelty of acting a pair of fools soon wore off. Eventually we located two women in their late thirties dressed as spring chickens. We made a bee line for them.

            “Good evening ladies,” Ed said.

            “Hello! And who would you two be? I don’t think we’ve met.”

            “Sotherby?” Ed said, turning to me.

            “Yes, Gerald. That’s you.” I flashed my eyes at him. “I’m Sandy Ross, pleased to meet you.”

            “Gerald and Sandy! Wonderful. I’m Jemima and this is Ellen.” She flashed a grin.

            “Drink then ladies?” said Ed.

            “Well thank you Gerald.”

            “Off you go Sotherby,” he said to me.

            I rolled my eyes and turned to the ladies, “he thinks it’s funny to call me by his name, some silly dominance complex…” but surely enough I went to get the drinks.

            On my return I was amazed to see Jemima’s hand resting lightly on Ed’s waist. He was gesticulating confidently and grinning from ear to ear. I stood next to Ellen and she smiled at me nervously.

            “So how do you know the happy couple?” she asked.

            “Well, we’re first cousins once removed of Lord Evedon’s nephew.”

            “Oh really?” she said. “How exciting!”

            “Isn’t it just.”

            “Well, that’s terrific. Let me see… if I’m the bride’s sister’s husband’s uncle’s daughter, does that make us related?”

            “I don’t know,” I said, a rush of blood and alcohol going to my head, “it rather depends on what you have in mind.”

            “I say!”

            I raised a cockily suggestive eyebrow.

            “We’ve got a couple of real young bucks here Jemima.”

            “Oh darling, don’t think I hadn’t noticed.”

            “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Ed said, slipping into a vulgar accent for the hell of it.

            “No, quite,” said Jemima, “not enough by half.”

            The evening progressed in this ludicrous fashion until the four of us were completely wasted. We’d retreated into a darker corner where Ed had contrived to get his hand most of the way up Jemima’s thigh.

Suddenly the DJ started playing ‘My Sharona’ by The Knack. Ed leapt to his feet and grabbed me by the arm. He dragged me onto the dance floor, which just happened to be empty. He played air guitar and head banged insanely. For a moment I stood there watching him in a state of stupefaction but then the two women came crashing after us and mimicked Ed’s dancing thereby destroying his attempted irony and making him look as though he were making a serious effort. Ed himself either failed to note the aura-shift or simply didn’t care. Something about the situation made me laugh. I let go and followed suit.

At once our scene was disturbed by a loud shout from across the room.

“That’s them!”

We turned instinctively toward the shout and saw two bouncers approaching towards us rapidly. Ed turned to look at me and grinned.

            “Time to cut and run Sotherby. It’s been a delight ladies, look me up sometime – Sandy Ross, at your service.”

            “Don’t go!” they chimed. But it was too late, we were scarpering.

            The next few moments seemed to go in slow motion. Ed turned to the approaching bouncers and set himself, legs and arms spread, like a New Zealand rugby player half way through that intimidation ritual. He extended one arm slowly, then stretched out his fingers, palm up, towards them. They paused out of confused admiration and disgust. Ed suddenly beckoned them in a Matrix-style move. They looked at one another and then started toward him again. I watched on in amazement and noticed that Ellen was clutching my arm. Everyone in the entire room, bride, groom, lordships and all had stopped to watch. There were muffled gasps of horror. Mothers clasped hands over their son’s eyes and scolded them for daring to laugh.

            Ed abruptly broke forward toward the bouncers. He faked to the left and the bouncer on that side went flying past him. The second bouncer made a comic dramatic dive for him. He caught Ed’s ankle at full stretch and Ed went crashing to the ground. The sight brought me back to life. I shook Ellen free and dashed for Ed. The second bouncer was on his feet but I threw champagne in his eyes. The unexpected happened; the two women started beating him with their handbags.

            “Jemima!” shouted an appalled old woman from the sidelines.

            “You can’t stop me now Mother, I’m not a little girl anymore!”

            I could barely take my eyes from this car crash. I span back and saw Ed grappling to free his ankle from the bouncer. I ran past him, sweeping him up by the arm and thereby freeing him. We sprinted out of the place and away down the road.

Whose Blood is that Sir?

          I’ve been so stupid.

            Last night I was a mess. Before leaving the internet café I logged onto an online poker site to try to take my mind off everything. Before I knew it I’d lost several hundred pounds and finished the first bottle of ginger wine. I staggered out into the night.

            I walked. And walked.

            I think I almost made it as far as High Wycombe, all the way from Oxford. I remember flashes of walking along the side of the motorway. So cold, so lonely. Everything was a blur. I remember nearly slipping onto the road. I remember nearly letting it happen.

            The next thing I knew I had a light shining in my eyes. I came to, dazed. I had a broken bottle in one hand. I was still wearing my suit from court the day before but it was all muddy.  I was stubbled, drunk and stinking. My shoes were completely fucked. It must’ve been about 4am.

            The light was coming from a police woman’s torch. At the combination of sights I leapt to my feet in confused alarm.

            “It’s okay,” said the officer, “I’m a police officer.”

            “Okay,” I said, “okay.” I was breathing hard.

            “Please put the bottle down sir.”

            I stared vacantly at the bottle in my hand for several moments, trying to understand my circumstances.

            “Am I in trouble?”

            “That depends, sir. What have you done?”

            Consciousness was beginning to assert itself in my head. I thought of telling the officer that her question was in breach of Code C.10.1 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act Codes of Practice for officers. I decided this would not assist.

            “I… I don’t think I’ve done anything. I was drunk… in Oxford. Where am I?”

            “Whose blood is that sir?”

            I looked down at myself. I was covered in blood. I gasped. “Shit!” I said.

            “Sir, please answer the question. Whose blood is it?”

            I gazed slowly at myself and then, for the first time, began to feel pain. The pain came from my palm, currently clenched into a fist. I unclenched it and saw a gouge straight across the middle. My skin was stained and sticky with old and new blood. I looked up and saw that the officer was watching me. I looked at my other hand and saw the bottle again. This time I noticed it was broken at the neck and stained with blood.

            “I see,” said the officer.

            She took me back to the station and bandaged my hand for me. I was interviewed about my activities the night before ‘just for the record’. I had to give my name. I was tempted to lie but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was so ashamed of my state. The officer typed my name into a computer and checked the Police National Computer for my record. I held my breath. Of course, I don’t have a criminal record, but the whole situation made me nervous. I was released back to the train station in High Wycombe, relieved but rotten to the depths of my soul. If I have one.

 

*

 

            “Where the hell have you been sir?”

            My clerks were calling, precisely two minutes after I’d plugged my phone in for re-charging, safely back at home. I hadn’t even cleaned up.

            “Ughh,” I said, not having to try hard at all to sound sick. “I’m sorry, I’m so ill.”

            “Good night was it sir?”

            “God damn it, no!” I put the phone down and dashed to bathroom to throw up.

           

It’s a fucking Wednesday. What’s happening to me?

           

*

 

            I slept for twenty minutes before Ed came into my room loudly and woke me up again. I groaned sorely.

            “Good to have you back, Evans. Been out Chick-Slaying have you?”

            I groaned again. “Shouldn’t you be teaching?”

            “Free period mate.”

            He looked at me with mocking amusement. I couldn’t decide whether to tell him about my night or not. I rubbed my index finger into my palm lightly and winced. Ed shook his head and left me to go back to sleep.

Darker and Colder

          The door slammed on her way out and woke me. No good morning, no good bye.

            I got out of bed to make myself some toast and get ready for my day. It happened that I was in Oxford County Court anyway today so I wasn’t in any hurry.

As I entered the kitchen I saw something I’d missed in my investigations of yesterday: a sticky note attached to the fridge. It read:

 

“Alex – 07765883122”

 

*

 

In court I represented a guy who wanted to repossess his flat from his ex girlfriend who still lived there while he paid the mortgage. She was the mother of his child and had nowhere else to go.

“Should’ve thought of that before you turned into a whorish cunt then eh?” suggested my client from the back of court. The judge was catatonic with rage and gibbered trying to find the appropriate response. I narrowly intervened to apologise and promise it wouldn’t happen again.

I finished early enough and went to a local sandwich shop in the centre of the town. I wondered what to do. I wanted to ask about Alex. I wanted to know who, or what, he was. I texted Annabell to ask.

I waited.

I sat in the café for a full hour watching my phone. Nothing.

I wondered what to do.

I felt compelled to see her again.

I went back to the flat, but I didn’t go in. I concealed myself around a corner and waited. It was nearly time for her to return. Eventually she parked alongside the flat and went inside. I crept nearer the windows and looked inside. I saw her take her phone from her handbag and look at it. She pressed a few buttons and then tossed it idly aside. Didn’t she think she owed me more than that? I couldn’t take it. What was she doing with this Alex? Was she sleeping with him? The thoughts made me physically sick.

I walked away from the flat to the end of the road. There’s a church there. It was getting dark and I decided to sit in the graveyard for a while. It got darker and colder. My head was clear but stuck, like a record. I could only think, over and over again, of what I’d like to say to her, and how she might respond. I covered all possible scenarios and then replayed them all, over and over. Ed sent me a text:

“You still alive? Maybe dead? It’s all good, thought you might want some pasta? Or maybe an apple?” Ed was always trying to make clever references. Apples are the food of the dead in many cultures. It seemed appropriate, given my surroundings. I didn’t answer. I wondered if I shouldn’t go back to London. I thought perhaps I could stay with Annabell, but how could I explain to her why I was still there? I resolved to try anyway, it was getting too late and I was too miserable to get on a train all on my own.

I knocked on her door softly, and then harder a moment later. After some time she opened the door.

“What are doing here?” she asked icily.

“I… er… I was working here today, I wondered if I could stay again.”

“Go away Tom. Leave me alone.” She slammed the door in my face.

“This is my flat too you know!” I shouted after her. But I didn’t use my key.

I walked to the nearest off licence, spinning esprit de l’escalier, and bought two bottles of Stones Green Ginger Wine.

I’ve drunk half of one of them and now I’m sitting in an internet café writing this.

At least it’s warm in here.

Ultra Dense Metal Ball on Endless Still Ocean

“We must believe in free will – we have no choice.” – Isaac Bashevis Singer

 

          “Take it away! Oh fucking hell mate, quick… oh… I’m gonna be sick.”

            “And here I was thinking you’d appreciate a bit o’ bacon… dripping with lardy fat…”

            “Oh God…”

            Five minutes later Ed returned from the bathroom and sat down looking thoroughly rotten.

            “You’re not in Australia,” I observed.

            “That’s true,” he allowed.

            “How did you get home?”

            “I’m not sure. But I do know it involved a bus in Westbourne Park at one point.” He looked to the heavens, reflectively, for a moment. “Where the hell is Westbourne Park?”

 

*

 

            In the mid afternoon I got a text from Annabell: ‘Hi! How are you doing?’

            What the hell does that mean?

            Is she just being polite or does it mean something more? What if it means more? What if she wants me back? Perhaps she’s just being proud, holding back a little but seeking something. But then… there’s isn’t a ‘kiss’ at the end. What does that mean?

            By the time Ed had returned to normality, in late afternoon, I still hadn’t made up my mind how to reply.

            “At least I don’t look keen,” I said.

            “Oh yeah, you look really serene. You’re a fucking solid steel ultra dense ball of impassive metal on an everlasting and perfectly still ocean, you.”

            I shook my head patiently. “She doesn’t know that.”

            “But you do.”

            “So?”

            “So why do you care mate? She’s long gone, a nice mess in a worker - the man’s conservative.”*

            A pause followed while I caught up. It became silently known, by the briefest of nods between us, that I had understood. That is: I understood his cryptic meaning though I may not have taken his plain meaning.

 

* nice mess = anagram of nice = cien; in a worker = in ‘ant’; man’s = his; conservative = tory; Altogether = ‘Ancient History’.

A Donkey Brayed

          A hammer was beating down on a judicial bench.

            Over and over.

            Bang bang bang bang.

            I was being sentenced for crimes committed against fidelity.

            A room came swirling into view and my dream faded. The banging continued. I was lying on a sofa, arm trailed over the edge onto the floor. I was in some kind of hotel room. My tongue was thick from dehydration and my brain muddled and confused.

            Ed came rushing into the room through an open door. “Quick! Get the hell up Evans, we’ve got to get out of here!”

            “Stephanie! Bethany! If I find out you’re in there… and God forgive me if I find either of you Englishmen…” the shouting came from outside the main door. Ed looked at the door nervously. It was shaking under the pummelling from the American’s fist.

            “What’s going on?” I asked.

            “Don’t you remember?”

            I looked about me. Steph and Beth suddenly poked their heads around the corner from next door. “Get out!” they whispered, hoarsely, across the room.

            Ed opened the window and looked outside. “Come on!” he said, jumping out. He disappeared down below the window, making no sound. I paused. I still couldn’t get it all straight. What was this room? How did we get here? Didn’t someone need to pay for it? Did Ed just jump to his death?

            I walked over to the window, the girls waving me away frantically out of the corner of my eye. I looked outside and saw Ed on a lower roof about ten feet below the window. He was beckoning me down.

            “Sod it.” I said, and jumped after him before giving myself a chance to think through the consequences. I landed fine and we ran off across the roof and around the corner of the building.

           

*

 

            “Good night eh?” Ed said, once we were safely back at ground level a distance from the hotel.

            “Not bad,” I allowed.

            He turned and smiled at me, slapping me on the back. “I tell you,” he said, “it was worth it! She’s a wild one that Beth!”

            “Really?” I said, raising an eyebrow. I can’t quite place it, but something about the way he said it to me gave the lie to it. I’ve known him a long time and it’s just not something he’d say. He’d be more lurid, explicitly descriptive. “Maybe we should go find them again tonight then? Sneak them out from under their dad’s nose!”

            Ed stopped in the street and looked at me. A boy cycled past with a dusty carpet draped over his shoulder. A donkey brayed. “I’m surprised at you, Tom. We’re in enough trouble already and you want to re-enter the fray. You’ve been pretty bold the last few days I must admit. You’re almost a man.”

            “So? Shall we do it?”

            “No. Not this time. I’ve made my conquest; it’s time to move on.”

            “I see,” I said, understanding quite fully enough.

A Breakfast Scene

          When I got to Ed’s last night he was out! He’d left a note in an envelope addressed to me, with a key. The note read: Had an offer I couldn’t refuse. I let myself in and went to bed. In the darkness all the colour had drained from the world. Everything was a shade of grey.

 

*

 

            Upon walking into Ed’s kitchen this morning I got quite the shock. Alice was sitting there, looking cheerful and drinking coffee at the table. Her hair was ruffled and her clothes only loosely thrown on. She has thick waved chestnut hair, large dark eyes and a wide open mouth exhibiting perfect white teeth. For just a moment I was caught in admiration of her.

            “Morning Tom.”

            “Er… Morning. Is… er… everything okay?”

            “It’s fine now, Ed was just messing about the other day but he apologised last night.”

            I paused for thought. I was glad for Alice that Ed had turned it around, but something about it all sat very uncomfortably.

            “Doesn’t it bother you, though, what he did?”

            “Of course. But it’s Ed, right? This is the sort of thing he does.”

            “That doesn’t make it okay Alice.”

            She looked at me with appreciation. “You’re sweet Tom.”

            “I just felt for you, with everything that’s happened to me lately.”

            At this moment Ed walked in looking terrible, hungover. By contrast to Alice he looked haggard. He cares little for his appearance at the best of times, despite having admittedly rugged good looks and Norse looking blonde hair. He glanced at Alice with painful disgust and yet she smiled back at him with patient love. He shook his head slightly, looked at me and then turned back to Alice.

            “Get the hell out of my house, Alice.”

            “What?” I said. Alice looked horrified.

            “She heard me, I told her to get out. Go on, get out of my sight!”

            I was silenced. Alice started crying.

            “For god’s sake, just go. You’re embarrassing yourself. You can come collect your stuff later.”

            Alice got to her feet and staggered out, sobbing uncontrollably.

            “You’re an absolute monster Ed!”

            “I’m sorry, Tom, I shouldn’t have gone back to her, after my promise to you, but I was sorely in need of a fuck.”

            “Ed! That’s not what I mean! How can you treat her that way? I don’t care about myself.”

            “Look, Tom, not that it’s any of your business but I can do what I like. We were only together a short time and it was obvious to me that it wasn’t going to work out in the long term. So much the better, then, to end it earlier than later.”

            “But did you have to do it like that?”

            “Yes. This way she can hate me and there’s no chance of her blaming herself.”

            “Is that what you think?”

            “Yes.”

            He began to break eggs into a mug. I watched him, trying to make up my mind.

            “Fine.” I said, and went back to my room.

 

*

 

            In the late afternoon Ed came in to invite me to the pub. My anger at the morning’s scene had subsided and I felt I needed to get out. We went to the Fitzroy Tavern near Goodge Street and drank a copious amount of green ginger wine. I could swear that stuff is hallucinogenic. We had a delirious conversation that I can only half remember where a thousand incredible plans for the future were devised.

            At some point we suddenly found ourselves on top of a tall building near the BT tower, throwing coins at the windows of the opposite building to freak out the security guards there. I heard sirens and we made a break for it, sprinting recklessly down the fire escape stairs and onto the street. The police came around the corner and flashlights bathed us in white light. We ran for it and lost them.

            I’m back in bed now and scared to hell. I could lose my job over a thing like that. I need to sort myself out and calm down. Concentrate on what matters.

The Decent Thing to Say

            Flashbacks. That’s all I’ve got.

            I was sitting in a bar with Ed. We were talking about speed dating. I was looking for some positive. I started crying. Ed bought me another drink.

            Fields and hedges. We were climbing up a hill, to a church and a graveyard. I remember it… there was a grave up there belonging to Allegra Byron, the poet’s illegitimate daughter. I remember reading the epitaph. Byron used to sit up there as boy, inspired by the church, hidden amongst the trees on top of the hill. We sat there, Ed and I, drinking a bottle of wine. I don’t remember where we got it. Suddenly Ed spoke, calm and reflective:

 

And thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth;

And form so soft, and charms so rare,

Too soon return’d to Earth!

 

            Running down a street without reason. Wild, running for the sake of the wind. Ed shouting something. Suddenly I’m tackled to the ground. Two Asian men with thick beards are lying on the pavement with me. Everyone’s laughing, I’m not concerned.

            Noise. Shouting. I’m in Ed’s bathroom, lying on the floor. Someone’s banging on the door. I get up, open the door and stagger into bed.

 

*

 

            Ed woke me rudely this morning, without compassion.

            “Time to get up Evans!” He often calls me by my surname.

            I stirred with pain, groaned, and pulled the duvet up over my head. Ed ripped it away from me and opened the curtain. Light cut straight into the core of my brain and seared whatever fibres remained.

            “Come on, it’s midday already. And I’ve cooked you bacon.”

            We went down and had breakfast. I ate slowly, allowing the pain of the night before to fade into the pain of the present, and my memory of Annabell. I’d rather have stayed in ignorant agony.

            “What now then?” Asked Ed.

            “I should go home.”

            “She doesn’t want you.”

            Occasionally I really wish Ed would say the decent thing and not simply speak his mind. This is a vain hope. He cannot stand that kind of dissimulation.

            “I must go home anyway. I never told her where I was going. She’ll worry.”

            Ed said nothing.

            “I wish she’d ask me to come home though.”

            “Exactly. Don’t just go running back. Let her worry. Let her wonder where you’ve gone.”

            “Right.” I said, unsure.

            “Stay here, with me, until she calls you.”

            And so I am. It’s late now. She still hasn’t called.