There Was a Bear Pt 2

The bear was stood on a pallet on a wet concrete patch. Another man called him. He got down off the pallet and walked towards the open end of an articulated lorry trailer. It was so cold. His jacket was bunched around his throat. He looked at the man inside the lorry and the man looked back. The bear gripped the bottom of the refrigerator and began to take the strain of it, hard and coarse against his palms. The man steadied the top. The bear lowered one side of the leaning fridge to the ground and let the top tilt into him, taking its weight until it was righted. The other man turned away and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. The bear looked around. He couldn’t see the forklift. There were eight more fridges in the van. It was getting dark. The yellow forklift came out of the warehouse and the man driving it was laughing.

***

The bear was in the pub with his girlfriend’s father. It had been intended for just the two of them, but when they got to the pub, they had run into two of the father’s friends. The father was a dentist. He was a man and he had a big pink face. His friends, likewise. The dentist was called Clive. The dentist put his drink down and, looking at the bear, he began to speak. It’s a fucking gamble being a dentist. Here. Distracted, the dentist pointed at the folded paper in the bear’s bag. You on the crossword? Here you go… Two down, Flaubert, easy. The dentist started filling in the clue with angled capitals. Flaubert was incorrect. The bear, drinking his drink, looked at the dentist. Fucking gamble, as I was saying. I had this girl in here a few days ago, I seen her a few times before, she was just in for a checkup. Beautiful teeth she had, not a thing wrong with them. Anyway I’m poking around and uh. The dentist picks up his pint and swigs from it, he cocks the pen which he still holds in the direction of the bear. His friends follow the pen with their eyes. They have pork scratching skin and bad breath. She’s lying on the chair there where you are now and I’m having a go in her mouth, y’know, when I notice that her skirt – it was a short skirt, floaty sort of material – has ridden up. This is the gamble, because, she’s lying there with her mouth open, eyes closed, but the position of her hands, it almost looks like she’d done it on purpose. You know, pulled the skirt up? The dentist sat back and drank. The bear drank. Shit man. What did you do? Goes one of the two friends. It was very loud in the pub. The dentist leaned in, he was still looking at the bear. He had an incredulous look on his face. He turned to the guy, then he turned back to the bear, still with the incredulous look. What the fuck do you think I did Andy? Andy shrugged. Fuck all, is what I did. That’s the gamble. sometimes you do, sometimes you don’t. What I generally do, if it happens more than once – that’s the clue – I rest a hand gently on their thigh as I’m working, gauge the response and go from there. But like i say, it’s a fucking lottery. Pick the wrong numbers and you could land up in court, in jail, lose your job, lose your wife and kids. You got to play the system. You got to have rules. He grinned at them one by one. Fuck, goes Andy. Fucking hell. The dentist drained his pint and looked down the glass, surprised that there was nothing left in it. He turned the paper onto the back page and ran his eyes over it. The bear felt itchy under his clothes. It was so loud in there. Another drink? The dentist asked and they all nodded. He went to the bar.

***

The bear was sent to a war zone. His unit camped in a flat yellow desert. For the first few weeks there was nothing for them to do. They just sat around, chatting, drinking. What they liked to do most though, was diss each other. Their favourite game was just sitting there dissing. They would kill time by dissing each other. There bear was good at this game. There would come a point in the night where someone dissed the bear. He would get up, amble over to that person, stand looming there above them, looking down from his black eyes, steady his massive bulk and, in his surprisingly nasal, high voice, declaim: I kicked you. I kicked your dog. I kicked your house. I kicked your mug. I kicked your dinner. I kicked your dog into your dinner. Your dog died when I kicked it. I kicked your mother. I kicked your horse. I kicked your stereo. Your mom fell down when I kicked her. Your horse went lame when I kicked it. I gave your car a flat tyre because I kicked it. I kicked your grandmother. I kicked your boyfriend. I kicked your family bush. Your boyfriend died when I kicked him. At the funeral I kicked his coffin. I kicked your telephone. I kicked your chin. I kicked your head. I kicked your shoes. I kicked your back. I kicked your ears. I kicked your pizza. I kicked your kettle. I kicked your tissue. I kicked your window. I kicked your car. Your grandmother went deaf because I kicked her in the ears. The glass from your window went into your pizza when I kicked it. I kicked your vegetable garden. I kicked your drug habit. I kicked your hamster over a wall. I kicked your wall. I kicked your mirror. The glass from your mirror fell into your dog when I kicked it. I kicked your head in. I kicked your table. I kicked your dad’s boyfriend. When I kicked your table your dinner went onto your mother… This bear could go on all night.

***

The bear and his unit attacked a rebel stronghold. The rebels were entrenched in several buildings along a street. They had ammunition. Striding ahead of the others, the bear smashed through a door, he smashed his way up a staircase. Behind him, men fell. When the bear reached the rebels, he swung his vast arms, tearing the head from one. The others retreated. The bear gave a roar. He followed them. The soldiers followed him. They fired their guns. The street was clear in a few hours.

***

The bear’s bravery did not go unnoticed. He was called back home to be decorated. There was a big ceremony with speeches, TV cameras, high ranking officers. The bear was waiting in the wings. He looked so smart. The major was giving a speech. Other soldiers were waiting to be decorated along with the bear. There was tension in the air. When the bear’s name was called, he strode across the stage to where the major was waiting. The major was a tiny man with a bald head under his hat. The major was holding the medal out to the bear, as the bear approached he withdrew it sharply. He looked all around him. The bear looked at the major. The major pushed his glasses down his nose. He turned to the man standing next to him on the stage. He said out loud, This is not a man. This is a bear. For a few seconds there was just silence. Then there was action. Several men seized the bear, they dragged him down off the stage, they hit him, they jabbed him with their guns. They took his hat. They pushed him out on the street. The bear, disgraced, began to walk out of the city.

There Was a Bear Pt 1

There was a bear. Life in the woods where he lived with the other bears had begun to sicken him.

The bear would go to the edge of the forest and watch the people who lived in the small town below. The stature of the buildings, the play of light on glass, the swish of fabric on pink, hairless flesh, they all moved the bear and he began to yearn. This was a bear that yearned.

***

On a cool night, this bear left the woods and entered the town. He broke into a barbers and used an electric shaver to remove all his fur, barring a small clump on the top of his head. The bear then broke into a hardware store and with a file, pared his claws until they were flat and dull. Finally, the bear stole the biggest shirt and pair of jeans he could find and strained them over his massive frame. On this night, looking at his reflection in the flat black glass of a store window that he began to feel better. It was in this way that this bear became a man.

***

The bear was in the office. He was sat in front of his computer. He clicked one window open and looked at the number in it. He clicked open another window, moved his mouse into one of the blank fields and typed in the number. He moved the mouse and clicked a button and the screen refreshed to reveal the field blank again. The bear switched windows again and looked at the number. He clicked open another window. He moved his mouse. He ran his claw through the coarse scruff on top of his head. He got up. He went to the toilets and entered a stall. He put his head against the cold formica side panel. He felt his sinew stir. He shut his eyes. There was so much of the day left.

***

The bear was stood in the corner of their room. He loomed over it, he was hunched underneath the ceiling. He and his girlfriend were arguing. This would be where the relationship ended. You don’t have any ambition, she said to him. She was stood in front of him, head down, hands on her hips. She looked up, her eyes were damp. The bear was still there in the corner. He winced.
***

A friend of the bear’s had been going on for ages about visiting the zoo, so one weekend he agreed to accompany her. The bear hulked along among the cages. It’s cruel, don’t you think, to see them cooped up like this. They look so sad, said Lisa. They were looking at a cage with a leopard in it. The leopard was asleep in one corner. She turned and looked at him and the bear looked back at her. Something passed between them. She turned away and began to walk towards the giraffe enclosure. The giraffe was standing and looking pensively at the trees on the hill above the zoo. The bear, too, stood and looked at the trees. He began to follow her. She had stopped in front of the giraffe. This is fun, she said, turning to the bear. The bear looked at the giraffe, which continued to look at the trees. It was cold. The giraffe looked like it had patches of rust on it. It was dirty, it was fat, its teeth were horrible. Its legs looked spindly, it did not seem to understand its captivity, it continued to strain its neck while it looked over at some trees. Being winter, the trees on the ridge were just bare branches. The enclosure was four brown walls, a brown floor and brown hay in a corner. There were pools of brown water on the concrete and piles of black giraffe pellets in the pools. This giraffe is called Terry, he was born in the zoo and is now fully grown, Lisa read from a sign on the wall.

Inside the reptile house, with the bright staring eyes of frogs and the lethargy of the snakes, the bear got too hot, had to leave and sit down outside. His breath, big in the air, came in grey plumes. Are you alright? Lisa put the back of her hand on the bear’s forehead, on skin that felt scrubbed hard and was pink. The bear looked up at her. He put his hands on his knees and pulled himself up with effort. He looked down at her.

When they saw the spiders, especially the tiny brilliant black widow, which was moving, the bear grew jumpy and agitated. He began to scratch his skin all the time, feeling constant itches and the presence of insects. Out of the corners of his eyes he was sure he kept spying movements.

They went to the penguin enclosure. It was noisy there, there were quite a few families. I’ve never liked penguins, said Lisa, I’ve always found them bizarre. There’s something weird about them. I don’t know, I think I associate them with death. Isn’t that weird? Animals in general I’ve always associated with death. Penguins in particular but animals in general I guess. I suppose it’s the way they approach death, you know. They don’t think about it. They spend their whole lives avoiding it, but just by instinct. It’s only because that’s all they know that they don’t just die straight away. But then in some ways, we’re the same. I mean people. We know just enough to think about it, but we still act the same, we don’t know enough to rise above that. I’ve always been sad that people aren’t smarter, you know. Like when you see films on the TV or read a book about an alien civilisation and they’re always so civilised and advanced and intelligent. It seems like we have the worst luck really, we’re too clever not to be aware but not clever enough to live together properly. She looked up at the bear. Just then, a kid dropped a toy, a die-cast metal car, into the enclosure. The penguins clucked and shrieked and jumped back towards the corner. Lisa made a face. I don’t like penguins, can we go? she said.

***

The bear walked from the city, through the suburbs and out into the country. He was disgraced. Finally he came to a yard full of chickens and he stopped among those chickens. The chickens milled around. There is no moral dimension to the actions of chickens. As one, the chickens set upon the bear. The chickens pecked at the bear’s legs until he fell. The chickens pecked at the bear’s arms until he could not raise them. The chickens pecked until the bear was dead. They pecked out his eyes, they pecked at his innards. This bear that had once yearned now lay dead among chickens. The chickens consumed the uniform the bear wore. The chickens consumed his prickly flesh. They consumed his bones. There was nothing left of the bear. The chickens became poison. Anyone who ate those chickens would perish.

***

The bear had been drifting. He was directionless. He had been without a job for some time. He was accosted on the street by a man in uniform recruiting for the army. The bear just fell into it. He was so strong, the basic training didn’t seem difficult to him. The other recruits seemed afraid of him sometimes. He was bullied by the officers, they left him out.

***

I went looking for my dog.

I went looking for my dog.

The streets forged sounds all around me. Pure and unabashed. Before I reached the lip of the hill I could feel the music, hear the music. Dogs and men lined the streets. They looked at me, the dogs, the men, they looked at me. The drugs were becoming a decadent pleasure. I came back over the hill. The city was in front of me. The lights in the shops, in the houses, in the factories, the streetlights, even the moon, they were all out.

The physical presence of the trumpet in my ears. Everything looked or became… tribal. In some ways this was a good thing. I pulled my hood over my head, which fuzzed up my field of vision into a blunt oblong. There were no lights in the park and I had no torch. I felt like I had pins and needles in my arms, which were heavy and my hands were cold even in my pockets. Drums. The park was not so big. Over the road I could see a row of dark glass fronts and one open takeaway. The dog was nowhere. I crossed the road and ordered chips. A black kebab spun in front of an orange grid of heat. In the corner a small black TV flicked constantly four different camera angles in black and white: the pavement outside with nobody on it, myself looking away, if I looked at the TV, which I was, the door with my left leg and shoe visible, the counter with nobody there. Under glass were meats on skewers, bowls full of meat and grated cheese. I had my chips in a bag and then I ate them. I put the polystyrene box in a bin full of other polystyrene boxes and grey paper.

I began to walk, I was heading further out of the city. The rain showed no sign of abating and the roads around me were full of car headlights. Behind me, if I looked, which I did not, I would be able to see the city below. The high office blocks and flats furthest away, houses, the park, all smudged into a skein of rainwater and wind. A time passed. The same trumpet, I think the same, played on. My feet felt like woodblocks, hard and clunky to move. The chips had gone down badly. I felt nauseous and walking took up all my concentration.

I came to a yellow supermarket, still open in the night. It was not the kind of place you buy food. There were lots of different aisles: Supermarket Meat, Multipack Crisps, Lager, Knives. It was hard to concentrate on what they sold. I picked up a can of something which seemed suddenly incredibly far away at the end of a telescopic limb but very easy to move and I sloshed it around. Faces around me bunched up and I thought of saying something, but my syllables clipped like the speech of a deaf person. I could sing along to the music OK though. I was in an aisle called Tins. I put tins in my basket. I had the notion that my purpose was to buy these tins. The roof of the supermarket was very low down and the lights were unbelievably yellow. I needed to get out, but I had no idea of the way to get there. I felt like I was walking on stairs, but somewhere I knew that supermarkets are always flat. And yet I was able to question this truth with the physical experience of my body. I wanted things for doing a painting but there were none in the aisle marked Dirt. I put something for the garden in my basket, a glass bottle filled with whisky. I was looking for the fruit and vegetables. I tried to ask a man in a shirt who I supposed worked there but he turned around with a bottlegreen face and angry acne scars and showed me teeth like cheap paperbacks. I didn’t catch his response and my smile came out as a grimace. Does everyone feel like this when they come to a supermarket? I got more crisps, all different flavours in one big bag. They went to mush when I put them in my mouth. A million miles away I found the tills, round a corner that would not stop turning. The conveyor belt was amazing. All the stuff came to about thirty pence, something like that. Outside I thought it had stopped raining, but there was another door to get through and then it was raining again. I thought to myself that I should go home, but I couldn’t remember what direction I had arrived in. I tried to sit and wait and remember, but there was a block because before thinking that, I had taken more and when I came back I was walking again.

I wondered if Charles Saatchi has a myspace. I would like to see what movies he lists, and what music. I bet he would list a cowboy and a gangster. I guess I was still thinking about doing a painting. There were no more shops on the road I was on, just one long house with no windows that lasted for miles. I fooled myself for a time into thinking that I just couldn’t walk anymore, that I had physically forgotten how to. But I remembered. I occupied myself with thinking about the dog and soon it became my mission again to find him, and I was certain he was at the end of this road, perhaps in the garden of this very long house. I thought about his bark, which did not sound anything like the trumpet that I listened to on my headphones. His eyes, which were nothing like the decrepit oval of the hood that I looked out from. And the wag of his tail, which was nothing like the blocky, two dimensional movement of my legs, a bizarre simulacrum of actual walking which nonetheless propelled me out of the city, away from home.

As I thought about the dog, the image of him became monstrous to me, and I was contained in a black ambivalence of intense desire to find that dog but also a deep fear of what would happen if I were to encounter him. I was no longer walking uphill which, contrary to my usual experience, actually made movement more taxing. Cars had by now thinned out, but there were more vans. I opened my carrier bag and began to sip from the bottle I had bought in the yellow supermarket. I don’t know if it tasted good. I wanted a plate of ox. Shit man, this all started when I had those chips.

I did not, so far, encounter the dog. I began to become more aware of the spatial dimensions of the road. The horizon receded and the moon, a shiny white plastic disc, came closer to me. I would say that it warmed me, that it dried me from the rain which still continued, though finer. But it did not. I merely felt that it did. The one long house began to chop up. There was a man on the other side of the road. A zombi, I decided. I had to stay away from that. O man, a zombi. About a man and a dog. I did not want the feeling to wear off. Even though my nose was clogged, the tang of metal from the key still got up it. Yet again my general expectation did not match my physical experience which was both exciting and a disappointment. What happened was that I fell down.

When I got up I was in a properly different part of the city. The pavement had given way to a narrow grass verge at the side of the road, which was now deserted. I looked to my left, that is in the opposite direction to the road, and there were big houses there, entirely in darkness. Ahead of me, in the neat gardens, a few security lights shone and up ahead one upstairs window was illuminated. I felt groggy, like there wasn’t too much keeping me awake now. The idea of the dog had completely left my head by this time. The earphones had fallen out, so I replaced them and the trumpet yet again blared, a mutant trumpet blare. I looked up at a lamppost and the spats of light there were actually rain, though at the time I did not realise this. A car that swished past now seemed remarkable.

But still no dog.

The Recruitment Consultant Pt 2

I think so.
It started in the kitchen.
I know.
Probably a cigarette.
Yes.
She’s so slovenly, look, she’s smoking now. If it was a cigarette I wouldn’t be doing that now.
Are you sure?
I think so.
I would. I would smoke.
What would you do?
Huh?
If the house burned down, I mean.
Sorry?
If the house burned down, what would you do?
If everything was destroyed?
I guess.
I’d have nowhere to stay.
What about your parents?
Ha.
You could stay with my parents.
Maybe
What about all your stuff? Would you miss it?
Of course I would.
But how would it make you feel?
I think… it’s hard to know. I have a lot of things that would be hard to buy again. I would miss my music, I guess.
Maybe in a way you could be happy with it?
Like you could make a new start?
It sounds like a cliché.
It is, but it could be liberating. You would have to think about your relationship with what you own.
It’s getting impressive now, it’s not going to be out for hours.
No.
I hope they’re insured.
They will be, I’m sure.
Yeah.
I wonder what they will lose.
What would you drag to safety, if you had the time?
That’s a stupid question.
She’s lucky, I think. They’re lucky.
In some ways maybe. They won’t see it like that.
They don’t have to.
What if she has nowhere to go tonight?
I thought she had children.
Does she?
I thought her daughter visited them last year. I saw her with a girl in the park. None of the others.
I don’t remember that.
She can stay with her probably.
There might not be room for all of them. Where is the guy with the beard? Does he still live there?
Yes. I don’t know.
It looks like it’s going down.
Do you think?
The house looks molten.
I hope their dog is OK.
Which dog is theirs?
A black and white one, a collie maybe.
What does it look like.
It’s black and white. Big.
I think I know the one you mean.
They never walk it. They’re in the park all the time but they never bring the dog.
How do you know about it then?
She lets it out. I see it in the park on its own.
Is it raining heavier or is it just me?
I think it is. There will be a storm.
Mm
Shall we go inside and watch from upstairs?
OK

***

The recruitment consultant got home after work. She went into the kitchen. Above the pile of washing up there was a note which said: You need to do your washing up because otherwise I won’t be able to eat. Thanks, – Simon. She went into the living room. Simon was sitting on the sofa watching TV. She looked at him. She knew that he knew she had seen the note. He didn’t say anything to her. She went to her room for paper. Silently, she wrote notes about everything that Simon did not do. This is your jumper that you did not pick up. You left this book open and broke the spine. You did not hoover properly here. She stuck the notes in the relevant places. Simon looked at her. She went to do the washing up.

***

Something reminded the recruitment consultant of a joke, she told it to the girls in the office. A mouse goes to an elephant, Man, you’re so big. The elephant goes back to the mouse, Man, you’re so small. Yeah, goes the mouse, but I’ve been sick for six weeks.

***

The recruitment consultant and her colleague, a man called Alan, were walking on the outskirts of a city, towards a hotel where a conference was being held. Their taxi driver had assured them this was the road. It was drizzling. They were walking in the scurf at the side of a busy road. Behind a hedgerow and a fence and some trees they could see what they were sure were the grounds of the hotel and even, where the hedge broke up a little, one brown wall of it, a glimpse of a window frame. They trudged on. They were walking side by side, having a conversation about the TV show Columbo. It was the recruitment consultant’s turn to speak. No, I disagree that the murders are just a formal trick. They are an excuse – Columbo is an apparition of the murderer’s guilt, but not for the crime they’ve committed, for what they are. The show attacks America as it was at the time. The rich and powerful in America and the system that made things that way.
Attacks it by having some of the most highly paid actors of the time as guest stars?
You’re missing the point. The point is that… well, look at what Columbo is, look at how he’s presented.
OK.
How is he presented?
I’m not sure what you’re getting at.
He’s presented as what? He’s scruffy, he’s inarticulate…
…OK yes, his car is crap, he can’t do up a tie, he keeps losing things, he forgets stuff. Or at least he seems to do all these things.
Right. Because there’s really another layer, which the viewer understands and enjoys in which he is outwardly those things, or wants to appear dopey or whatever, but really he’s machinic, he latches on to the killer right away, he knows almost immediately what they’ve done, their motives – the show is a dismantling of those powerful egos.
What I always wondered, when you’re watching the show. You know like how he often pre-empts what the killer suggests to him. It often goes that he’ll pose a question to the killer, you know, and the killer will suggest something, try to explain away this detail, and Columbo will already have checked out the phone records, or whatever, you know what I mean. But we almost never see him doing this checking.
But it’s not that there’s real work being done. It’s not a show about the work a real detective does – what Columbo knows, it doesn’t matter how he got that knowledge, just that he has it and he uses it.
But we quite often see him thinking, or just walking around looking pensive. Sometimes we see him gathering information. Sometimes there are funny scenes…
…There is some concession to the viewer, that’s what those scenes are for I think. And they often show Columbo involved with some kind of technology – think about how often he uses the murderer’s technology or their expertise against them. If the murderer is a wine connoisseur, he’ll use some arcane bit of knowledge about wine to expose him. You have to see that as an attack on their power. He’s undercutting their expertise. Look at how the murderers are always presented. They are always well dressed, articulate, secure in their power…
..,And they’re always dismissive of Columbo, they’re fooled by him.
Exactly! Those skills that have made them secure, suddenly they don’t work, suddenly the tactics they use to maintain their power – intimidation, bullying, a certain type of charm – they don’t work anymore.
But… OK, I can accept all that up to a point. But where it falls down for me as a protest is in the way that Columbo functions in the show. Like you say, he’s not a real detective and no real detective could ever act as he does. In the first place he’s in a privileged position in terms of his access to these powerful people and in the second he has this supernatural power to bring them down, whether just by foiling their complex murder or, like you say, by using their own tools against them. I see how it works as satire or protest against that kind of capitalist power in that way, but beyond that, where does it leave us? It doesn’t give us any tools to fight that power ourselves, it says that if we had this kind of superhero who could stand for all the values of the little man, who is unpretentious, whatever… you know… but clearly Columbo doesn’t exist, can’t exist. So where does that leave us?
Alan and the recruitment consultant walked on, talking. They were searching for the turn off that would lead to the hotel, but both were afraid they had gone too far and would have to turn back and find the road where they were dropped off. They had seen no-one else walking that they could ask directions of. The rain had abated, but clouds the colour of fish in a shop hung above them. The hedgerow showed no signs of thinning out and the hotel was no longer visible through any of the gaps. Cars swished past. Ahead of them were road signs for the city they had driven from. I’m going to try to flag someone down, goes the recruitment consultant, see if they can tell us where we are. Alan watched as she stepped a little into the road, her arm waving. Nobody slowed down. Then there was a moment. Alan saw her slip, reached out to grab her but missed and saw her stumble into the road, get hit by a car, fall and die with other cars skidding around her. The recruitment consultant died in the wet road. They never made the conference.

***

On top of her now, again, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed down with his weight, uncomfortably. She wriggled underneath him, trying to shift the weight and he moved his hands down, holding her at the elbows, stretching her out flat. The song began to skip, This state of independence shall be, this state of independence shall be-be-be-be-be. Shit, he goes, Shit. He gets off her and goes to the player and skips the song back the start. She turns over and lies on her side, her forearm over her face. Shuts her eyes. He comes back, hooks his elbow into hers and turns her onto her back again. He pushes into her again. The skin of his stomach pulls her pubic hair, his hipbones beat into her. He licks her neck and she can taste the drink on his breath.

***

The recruitment consultant’s full name was Sarah Rebecca Trevelyan, but she had many other names. Her maternal grandparents always called her Sarah, just that. She had never liked her first name and had insisted on being called Rebecca at school, which her friends shortened to Becky, Becca or Bec. Her parents both called her Rebecca, always the full name. At work a man called Steve, after finding out her surname, found it funny to call her Trev or Trevor, and that was sometimes adopted by some her other colleagues, but mostly at work she was Becca or, to clients, Miss Trevelyan. Her boyfriend Richard called her, for obscure reasons, Gary, Gaz or Gazza. Sometimes in moments of seriousness he would look at her and call her Sarah and that made her feel OK.

The Recruitment Consultant Pt 1

The character was a farmer. You could tell by his clothes, dark green wax jacket, hat, wellingtons, his sideburns, his stick. You could tell this but, still, he lived in the town and didn’t live alone. He lived with the philosopher and he lived with the invalid. He lived with the DJ and with the clown. It happened that the town they lived in together was quite small. Quite small and quite plain. Even so, when they all put their clothes on and walked down the steep hill to the pub and ordered coloured drinks and sat at the big table together, it felt like they could be in LA, or Vegas. maybe even Paris, or Egypt. The farmer liked, on certain days, to walk through the town, into the centre and further on, down to the train station which was at the bottom of a hill. Behind the station were big grey blocks of flats. Funnily enough, it was the clown that the farmer had known the longest. On those days the farmer would go into the station, fold his big coat over his arm, lean his stick up against the wall and think to himself, I could get a train back out to the fields, get it going again.

The DJ was another type all together. though, in a different way, he was a similar type. The DJ didn’t mind being in the small town which had so few clubs for him to DJ at. He thought, with the new technology, why should I be limited to playing raves in just one place. I can sit in my bedroom and play out to raves in Stockholm and Tokyo, London, Africa, New Zealand. Thoughts like these contented the DJ.

Unsurprisingly, the philosopher and the clown got on well. Sometimes it was hard to tell the two of them apart. They wore each other’s clothes, they made the same jokes, but they were different people. The clown was tall and spindly while the philosopher had a beard. No. The other way round.

The attraction of the small town to these characters, and the attraction of each to the others, was not the difficulty of being an individual. They all have names. Nor was the small town so small that smaller towns could not easily be thought of. The attraction of the small town was that you could tread that line, the line they all trod, between an identity and freedom, between the anonymity of the city and the open secret of the village. The small town was, for them, ideal. Does this make them average?

The invalid was another member of the group and, by virtue of being the only woman, was something of a focus point for the group. It was often the invalid who cast the deciding vote over whether to go to the pub that night or stay in with the telly. Or whatever else it was that they may have been unable to decide. It was a position of power, it was a position of some loneliness, some despair. But they invalid neither enjoyed nor disliked it. The invalid had a lot of problems. For one, she couldn’t work. None of the others worked either, but the subtle difference, as the philosopher once pointed out, to the clown’s delight, was that the invalid couldn’t work, whereas the rest of them just didn’t. Hence her name, hence her status. Was the philosopher right?

Their house was always banging. The closer you got to the DJ’s room, the louder the beats got, but you could always hear them, wherever you were. The light wood was stained darker with ear wax. The group liked nothing better than to take a picnic to the park. The DJ would bring his boombox and blast out the tunes. The invalid would sit in the middle, scoffing the foul smelling sandwiches and uttering words like rot, slump, slop. The philosopher would laugh at something in the paper, pass it to the clown, who would laugh too. While the farmer would plant his stick in the soft earth under the rug, look past the nests of houses that made up the small town and over into the always visible hills, think about getting it going again.

***

The noise of the dogs in the waterlogged park behind her room woke the recruitment consultant. She went to her window, feeling the fur on her teeth, her tongue, the crust in the corners of her eyes. With the heel of her hand she worked her eyeballs around. The park was shrouded in a weird light and the dogs were like little tufts of hair scattered across a big dark leg. The grass was no colour she’d seen before and there were traffic noises, sirens and shouting from the other side of the house. The dog noises were louder. It was as if the whole night had loomed closer to the window. In the air was rain, thin and sharp and miserly and the dogs made splashes that she could hear faintly when the traffic sounds died away. Then there was shouting and a crash and Simon ran into the room and told her to come look. His room was lit up all orange by the house across the road, which was on fire. In front of the burning house, standing in the waterlogged grass were three men and a huge, squat woman whose hair looked moulded on. This was the group that lived there and they stood with their backs to Simon and the recruitment consultant, watching their house burn down. The fire had begun in the kitchen, started by the other that lived there. He was already dead and charred, lying and burning on the lino along with saucepans and cutlery, food, condiments, plates.

Simon and the recruitment consultant stood on the wet path in front of their house, narrow enough that they each had one foot in the waterlogged grass. The firemen had pushed the group back onto the pavement. People were coming out of their houses to stand and watch the fire. It was so hot. But the wind, which fanned the flames that now broke through the roof and surged through the windows, spilling breaking glass, and the rain, which was growing heavier, reminded them of the cold. The house brayed and popped. Heat hummed from behind the door frame. Further down the street there was shouting and more sirens. Under the recruitment consultant’s feet and shoes the path was hot. Brittle ash fell around them and turned gooey in the rain. Everyone stood for a long time watching. The wind was picking up, there was a booming in the distance. Dogs howled. The firemen could not get near the house.

The recruitment consultant’s clothes were sticky underneath with sweat, clammy on the top from the rain. She was flushed. The police were talking to one of the men from the house, he carried a stick, he had sideburns, he was wearing a wax jacket. He turned and looked back at the recruitment consultant, his face an orange globe of pain. But she couldn’t look away. She turned to Simon: Look at her clothes, she looks terrible.
I wonder where you go to buy clothes like that.
Well, she’ll have to buy some more now.
She’s horrendous, look at that hair.
Listen to the noise… could you record that somehow?
I feel sorry for her, look what she’s brought out with her, what is that stuff?
Is it a toy?
I think you’d need specialist equipment.
Probably.
There’s a good house burning down scene in a film we saw recently, what was it?
I don’t know. Do you mean ‘The Sacrifice’?
I don’t think so.
They’re moving her back again, I hope she doesn’t come over here.
Everyone’s out watching. Look.
How do you go about tackling a fire? What are the logistics?
I think you have to make lots of exits for the smoke and heat available, attack the fire at its source.
Is that right?

Untitled

I was walking by a field. It was raining. There was a fence. I climbed the fence. There was a spade. I started digging into the cold, wet, brown, black, green. The rain continued crashing over my hair, down my face. I carried on digging the hole.

There was a woman down the hole. She was wearing long, dirty grey robes. She had mud on her face and in her hair.

I asked how she’d got there. She said she’d always been there. She invited me to climb inside her mouth for shelter.

I did so, resting the handle of the spade against her chin.

I took a seat on her ancient tonsils and examined her teeth. Her mouth was a graveyard. Each tooth was a tombstone, engraved with tiny messages. I asked her what the messages meant.

She couldn’t reply while I was sitting on her tonsils, so I replied on her behalf. I said, “Here lie all my dead ideas. You ask what the messages mean, but I don’t know because I’ve forgotten. That’s why they are here. One day the ideas may rise again from my gums, just as I may rise from the ground.”

I didn’t say anything else. I sat, resting my feet on the furry carpet of her tongue, while the wind whipped over the mouth of the hole, causing it to moan every now and again like an injured kitten.

Bad Moon (pt 2).

It was as though he just vanished. Alice now, definitely very much the wrong side of amused calls out once more “Joseph? This is not funny anymore, where on earth are you?” Her voice tails off into the darkness once more and slowly she becomes aware of a dense but distant noise. Not a voice, not many voices, but definitely a noise she has heard before.

Suddenly, a huge trapdoor opens further down the corridor and bathes Alice in light. Up pops Joseph and he screams over the steadily increasing noise “Alice, over here!” Alice tries to respond but fixates on the walls of the corridor. They are covered with giant woodlice, albeit woodlice with bulbous eyes and Koala bear hands. She is frozen in a mixture of fascination and fear. “Don’t worry!” shouts Joseph now only covered to his waist by the trapdoor “they’re only Electrolice!” Alice answers him “Electrolice?” Joseph points at a bunch of loose wires hanging from the wall “Yes! We developed them to attack enemy fuse boxes but it backfired, the building is infested with them now. Hurry, we haven’t much time!”

“Haven’t much time for what?” screams Alice but Joseph is gone. Spinning around she sees gallons of foamy water stripping all the strange little creatures from the walls as it rushes towards her. Desperately, she tries to make for the trapdoor but it is too late. The waves overpower her easily and carrying her onward. Her last clear memory of this is of one lone ‘Electrolouse’ clutching her bottom lip for dear life with his tiny hands as the turbulent, soapy surf had its way with both of them.

Awakening in a huge room with a splutter Alice finds herself on some kind of table. Looking up, through blurry eyes, she can make out several faces wearing surgical masks and one not. Joseph. Quickly leaping up to attack him she is restrained by a couple of the doctors. After a few minutes struggle the exhaustion gets the better of her (but not without a couple of choice hand gestures for Joseph). The doctors prop her up with pillows and she looks around. Her mouth drops open involuntarily with shock. There are hundreds of them just like her, hooked up to all kinds of equipment and machinery. A regal-looking crest on the wall looms over her, an aeroplane body with huge ears instead of wings. It reads simply ‘United Earways’.

A grin slowly spreads across Joseph’s handsome face as he reaches for Alice’s hand. “Now do you see,” Joseph whispers, his voice barely audible over the machines “this is why we sent for you. This is the payback for all those years of cruelty your ears must’ve caused you as a child. Those ears are a blessing! Those ears are a thing of such great functionality that we will offer you £125,000 right now to sign up for the mission”

Before Alice can answer a deafening siren fills her ears and Joseph takes her by the hand. They push past a pinstripe-suited man drooling in huge green globs onto the floor, his ears attached by cord to a hamster wheel on each side. The hamsters are running at lighting speed and in the process exercising his ears. Suddenly the man vomits and Alice only just steps out of the way.

Joseph turns back and speaks “that one was always a no-hoper. I told them on sight alone he was energy wasted…I was right” As they come to the corner of the room a panel raises to reveal a lift. Joseph pulls Alice in with him and they go up.

The lift doors open and Joseph bowls out first, leaving Alice standing. She recognises the room instantly; they are back in Joseph’s office. As she steps out of the lift on unsteady legs, Joseph begins to pull down his pants. “Jesus” yells Alice and covers her eyes. Joseph turns to her, whilst stepping out of his trousers “I’m so sorry Alice but time is of the essence. They expect Bad Moon, they need him.”

“Who do?” replies Alice “What is going on Joseph?” Joseph continues to undress in front of Alice who is still squinting at him through the gaps in her fingers. No answer is forthcoming. Alice tries again “Joseph, who or what is Bad Moon? Tell me or I’m leaving”. Alice removes her hand from her face and looks at Joseph. He is topless and up to the waist in what appears to be a fancy dress costume.

“Alice, I am Bad Moon. Or at least I am now” Joseph says “Well not that I actually am him, but those people you saw believe that he still lives” Alice turns to leave and gets as far as the door to the office. Joseph calls after her “No wait! I can explain everything. Do you remember the drawing of the great ape that you were looking at? Out on the factory landing?”

Alice turns around and fixes Joseph with a stare, half-angered, half-puzzled. She breathes in deeply and nods. Joseph pulls up the costume over his shoulders as he walks towards her, and places both hands on her shoulders. She looks down at the arms of the costume, which are covered in thick brown fur.

Joseph looks her straight in the eye and speaks, “Bad Moon was the descendant of the ape in that picture. His troop was said to have had mystical qualities and great strength. The ape in the painting was believed to have been brought to Egypt to help build the pyramids but ran off into the desert instead. They found him a week later…he’d built the first Sphinx”

Alice splutters, but manages to force out a word “What!?” Joseph removes his hands from her shoulders and zips his costume up to the neck, “Its true Alice. Where do you think the Egyptians even got the idea?”

Alice sighs and shakes her head. Joseph looks down and in a quieter voice says “The real Bad Moon was a baboon like the one in the hieroglyph. Once a day he would dance for the pilots at British Earways. They’d watch on him on the big screen. The only song he would dance to was Bad Moon Rising by Creedence Clearwater Revival (hence his name). We found he had an inspirational affect, especially on the trainees.”

Alice looks at Joseph with a look of disbelief. Joseph continues “The thing was, Bad Moon was getting a little long in the tooth and had to be kept in what was essentially a giant Tupperware container. One night, somebody left the lid open and Bad Moon died without ever leaving us his offspring. I’ve been dressing up as him ever since and dancing on the big screen”.

Alice regains some of her composure and speaks again “But if this is true and I am the same as the people in that room downstairs, why are you telling me this? Isn’t it supposed to be a secret?”

Joseph smiles “Well, strictly speaking, yes it is. But you have a certain trait that separates you from the others. Do you remember when we sent you the IQ test?”

Alice nods. Joseph continues “Well you got an incredibly high mark, 140 if I remember correctly. This is extremely unusual. We have found a definite correlation between sufferers of Eros Extremis (really big ears to you and me) and very low IQ”

Alice frowns, “Well what about that man we walked past earlier, the one who was almost sick on me? He looked like a businessman; you’re surely not telling me that he wasn’t intelligent”
Joseph snaps “He may have looked many things Alice, but if I may speak bluntly his intelligence quotient was only slightly above that of the common prawn”

The siren sounds again and a crowd roar can be heard from downstairs. Joseph runs around his desk and opens a drawer, from it he retrieves a contract and a pen which he places on the desk.

He stares at Alice who walks over and sits down opposite. Joseph gives her a solemn glare and slides the contract towards her and places the pen in her hand “Okay Alice” he says “The decision is yours; you have seen what we have to offer. Make the right choice and join the mission”

Joseph smiles warmly and places the baboon mask over his head. A panel in the wall behind him slides up and a metal ramp glides down towards him. He gives Alice a final ‘thumbs up’ and jogs up the ramp, his snakelike tail bobbling above his bright red hindquarters.

Within seconds a screen to the left of this panel flickers into life and the familiar intro to the Creedence Clearwater Revival song kicks in. The cheering from downstairs is deafening and there within seconds on the big screen is Joseph, wearing a baboon suit, doing the rumba.

Alice watches the screen transfixed by the power of Bad Moon, his primal assault awakening something deep inside of her. Her mouth goes dry, her eyes water and her huge unsightly ears twitch to the rhythm.

The pulse rockets through her head, stirring her thoughts like soup. She loosens her collar and her feet dance instinctively, her right hand edging pen towards paper.

Problems with posting.

Just a quick note: Deafrattle had a problem posting his story, when you have been added to the blog and are ready to post remember to post on this blog not your own. You do this by clicking ‘New Post’ at the top then selecting my blog Weirdfiction. There was a bit of confusion i think about whether he should click Deafrattle instead but all that did was post on his own blog.

Also, when leaving a post remember to click the tab marked HTML instead of leaving it Visual. Otherwise it will only let you leave images and not text (which is pretty integral to a site like this!).

Cheers

Weirdfiction

Around five hours ago. (Part One)

Around five hours ago, my wife opened the door to our first guests. A Mr and Mrs Roger Ingram that she knew from the annual fundraising event at our local church, to make money for new pews, or something of the sort I suppose. I had never met the Ingram’s before and was pleasantly surprised by what nice, gentle people they seemed. Mr Ingram, a bald-headed man of about sixty wore a chequered jacket and waistcoat. His wife, a short, stocky woman, around ten years her husbands junior, wore an unfussy dress and had a kind, wide face.

My own wife, Faye, had organised this party for each of the previous five years. It gave her something to concentrate on around the anniversary of our son’s death and the previous hostess was only too happy to allow my wife to take over in light of what had happened. Ever since the first party I have watched my wife measure and re-measure tablecloths, devise more and more inventive party games and strive to produce mulled wine of such a quality that it would be the talk of the entire city. Her enjoyment of the party is neither here nor there, she faces it each year with a grim-faced determination that melts into a welcoming smile the moment the first guests cross the threshold into our home.

So, the Ingrams had walked into our lounge and were seated on the couch whereby I belatedly asked for their coats and took them upstairs to the guest room where they would be they first of many to be piled on the bed. Rose Ingram was the first to congratulate us on such a delightful home and commented particularly on the candles we had on the mantelpiece. My wife engaged her in a brief discussion about the nature of those candles and how, on a taxi ride around Turin, she saw them through the doorway of a shop. If she had looked a moment later, my wife added, she would never have known that they were there, as the owner closed the door seconds later.

Mrs Ingram nodded and smiled. She too was a collector, she said, stamps, mugs, bed linen, anything with cats on it she had to have. Roger Ingram, hitherto quite quiet, nodded sagely and said that even his slippers had cats on them such was his wife’s obsession with all things feline. We spoke of my work as a psychologist over at the Institute and Mr Ingram told us of his plans following his retirement from the local library. He hoped that he would perhaps be able to get work at the animal sanctuary a few miles away for he had often wished he had been given the opportunity to train as a vet when he was a younger man. Faye agreed that working with animals would be a charming way to spend old age and asked if anyone would like some wine.

We were toasting to new friends and good health when the doorbell rang.

I opened it to find that it was the Robertson’s and the Carr’s huddled together on the doorstep for warmth. David Robertson claimed that they had been waiting ten minutes and had rung the bell at least twenty times. I was about to apologise until I saw the wicked glint in his eye and laughed at my own gullibility. No sooner had I closed the door than the bell rang again. The Boardmans, a younger couple from across the road, each carrying a bottle of wine and giggling like there had been a few more emptied at their house prior to their arrival.

(to be continued…)

Bad Moon (pt 1)

The pub they agreed to meet in was filled with smoke, people oozing like multicoloured pus out of the many booths that lined the walls. In a city like this, this is the closest thing a lot of them have to family so they pack in tight, breast-to-breast and chest-to-chest. Sometimes even breast-to-chest if you’re lucky. Bar left is an old man trying desperately to count his fingers, he swears he left the house with the standard 11. Bar right an unfortunate young woman they call Molly the Ox. Once beautiful now plentiful this bright young specimen’s face is still the right side of divine, alas, her body is destined to be forever bovine.

The special offers are being read out from behind the bar with all the gusto of a funeral service. A single droplet of sweat is forming on the Ox’s brow. Her eyes are fixated on the man who has just entered; he is tall, tanned and tantalisingly taut. He surveys the scene and makes straight for the bar, the unavoidable Guinness monkey digging its claws into his back. Molly’s sweat droplet hits the floor seemingly in slow motion. The resulting splash drenches a family of roaches making their way along the foot of the bar.

He enters, still dressed in his suit as he did not have the time to change after his gruelling day at the office. Damn interviews, stretching out forever. He feels like the kind of man he never wanted to be. He can see their eyes trying to work out how he got his and they never got theirs. He checks his watch, the meeting should already have commenced.

Graffiti-signed and wino-lined, these are not the streets Alice wishes to be walking down on a Friday night. In fact, she thinks, the fantasy run-through of this process definitely did not feature alleys that hum of dog shit. It is only curiosity now that is carrying her through. Through streets that even the local rats find a little ‘coarse’. Wonderland this is not.

Finally she arrives at her destination, straightens herself out one last time and opens the door. She slinks through many sets of bodies to get to the bar, coughing with every step. The air in the place is so bad that cigarette smoke smells like incense by comparison. The barmaid looks at her expressionless, not venturing a “hello”, a “can I help you?” or even a “what do you want?” Alice leans forward and orders a glass of white wine and the barmaid buzzes into life as though the previous customer had left her switched to ‘standby’.

The white wine worms its way down Alice’s throat with a similar consistency to syrup. It is safe to say that whatever year this plonk was produced was not a good year. Alice goes for her second gulp, the ‘optimists’ gulp, and swills it around her mouth, nope-still awful. As Alice sets the wine down on the bar, the handsome suited man approaches her.

“Alice, I presume?” he says hand extended. “Joseph” she says excitedly “sorry, Mr Serena”. “Josephs fine” he replies “now tell me Alice why are you drinking that? The wine here is atrocious”. “I know, I know I can barely keep it down” Alice replies laughing. Joseph leans in conspiratorially “it might taste disgusting but it cleans up paintbrushes a treat”. Alice sees the barmaid eavesdropping and stifles a giggle. “Come on, lets get out of here Alice,” Joseph says grabbing her arm “we must make with haste if we are to show you all we have to offer”. They leave the pub with Joseph leading her by the hand.

As they approach a seedy-looking alleyway, Alice stops causing Joseph’s arm to jolt. “Why are you stopping Alice?” enquires Joseph. She motions towards the alleyway. Joseph smiles “I know it doesn’t look very appealing but for the kind of space we needed it was at the right price”. They set off walking again, Joseph slowing his pace as though walking with a child. “When we spoke on the phone it was dangerous to explain the kind of work we do here” he ups the pace again “hopefully this evening will answer all of your questions” They come to a door and Joseph knocks a complex rhythm on it. The door slides open and they walk into a holding area, a huge metallic door on one side.

On the right of the door is an intercom and on the left some headphones. “If you could just put on the headphones for a second please Alice?” Joseph says “security precaution”. Alice picks up the headphones and puts them on, the instantly recognisable strains of Abba blaring into her ears. She resists the urge to dance but only just. Meanwhile Joseph, with his back to her, leans into the intercom and says “Special Operative Joseph Serena, pass code 0042004829” There is a pause and a voice answers back “password for week 310 please”. Joseph thinks for a second and says clearly “Turnip Archer Plaza”. There is another pause and the door slides noiselessly open.

Alice removes the headphones and follows Joseph through the door into a long corridor. The sides of the corridor are actually the sides of two gigantic aquariums filled with exotic fish. Alice is transfixed. Some of the fish actually appear to have human faces. Joseph notices Alice looking at the fish tanks and calls back at her “those are a recent experiment, we like to call them Man-ckerel. When fully developed, they should be invaluable to the mission. Anyway, come along. We haven’t much time”

Alice follows him into another holding area filled with several doors. He opens one marked with a ‘B’ and enters holding her firmly by the hand again. Inside there is a desk covered in paperwork, Joseph slumps behind the desk and begins clearing space. “Now Alice we have been monitoring you for some time and have long been aware of your, lets say, unusual, talents” Joseph says sitting up straight. “You mean these?” Alice says pulling back her hair to reveal a pair of the largest ears ever seen on a human specimen.

Joseph jolts into life and claps his hands together “Yes! Fantastic. Beautiful. More than that….breathtaking. Those will be perfect.” Alice looks away embarrassed “I hate them” she says quietly. “Hate them? Don’t be ridiculous! Ears like that are gold-dust. They are the very reason we made a formal approach.” Alice re-covers her ears with her hair. Joseph stands, “follow me and I’ll show you just how valuable they are”.

They leave the office and go to another door in the hall marked with a ‘D’, Joseph takes a laden key-ring from his pocket and opens this door with a single huge pink key. The door creaks open. Beyond this door is a landing, the kind found often in factories, the walls and floor unwelcoming corrugated steel. Alice pauses and Joseph again takes her hand, coaxing her into the room. Upon closer inspection Alice finds that dotted all over the walls are what look like hieroglyphics or at least modern copies of hieroglyphics. Joseph allows Alice to study the walls at her own leisure and she leans in to examine the pictures more closely.

“Each set of pictures depicts a different ‘forgotten skill’ that the Egyptians and their ilk took for granted but that mankind in its laziness and quest for uniformity has since discarded” explains Joseph peering over Alice’s shoulder. “Look here” he points to a roughly drawn sketch of a man swallowing a bear “that is a drawing of a man they called ‘arthro megalos trogo’ or ‘The Big Eat’. Legend has it that he once swallowed all of the daylight in Cairo for two consecutive weeks!”

“Oh. Really?” Alice says moving deeper into the room “well then who is that?” She points at a picture of a great ape beating its chest and howling at what looks like a full moon. Joseph smiles, “All in good time Alice. Now come, we must get down to business”. He walks over to close the door they came in. “Everything that you about to see is being shown to you out of trust. Out of a sense that once you realise what an asset you would be to the mission turning us down won’t be an option. You notice we haven’t asked you to sign any confidentiality agreements?”

Alice nods her head slowly as Joseph turns back to her, he holds her firmly by the shoulders. “Are you ready?” he says “ready for your destiny?” Alice mutters a weak “Yes…I suppose so” and Joseph swiftly takes her by the wrist leading her into a graceful foxtrot once around the room “Alice, a little more faith if you please” he says “I don’t dance with just anyone you know” After a perfect ‘feather finish’ Joseph walks slowly over to the wall farthest from the door they entered through and knocks three times on it, once with his knuckle, then with his toe and finally (after a deft spin) with the heel of the same foot. With a loud rumble the wall slides away.

Joseph disappears into the blackness where was once a wall. Alice, realising she has no option but to move forwards, follows suit. As she steps tentatively into this new room the wall slides violently back into place behind her, making her jump. She is immediately enveloped in treacly darkness. Moving now, not by sight, but by touch she estimates this new room to be more like a long thin hall.

Whilst she can easily touch both sides by standing roughly in the middle, she feels like it goes on a long way both ahead of and behind her. She whispers “Joseph? Joseph where are you?” No answer, not even an echo of her own voice. Just a dull, dead, void. She raises her voice ever so slightly “Joseph? Joseph if you want me stay you’ll have to answer me or I’m going and I won’t be back” The futility of that statement strikes her immediately and she slumps against the side of the corridor.

Which way to go? Forwards or backwards? Alice tries to remember if Joseph made any noise when he came into this corridor. Anything at all that would indicate whether or not he turned left or right into the room. Nothing.