The Arsonists' room

Kubrick’s son - a dream

2009-08-18T14:57:00.000-07:00

He’s not in. What do you want?

I, um, want to talk to Stanley, please.

His name is Mr Kubrick. How did you get this number?

He gave it to me-

Of course he didn’t, are you crazy? Come on.

He did. How else could I have got it...?

… that’s-

I just want to ask Sta- Mr. Kubrick about some of the themes in his movies.

What themes, there are no themes.

The symbols, I mean. You know?

You boffins are all the same.

What-?

There are no meanings, no messages, and there is definitely no subtext.

That’s really not true. The movies are, er…and he’s given interviews about, um...

Are you saying I don’t understand my dad’s movies? He’s my dad.

But he was interested in duality and-

Dad! Dad!-I’ve got some kid on the phone. He says he wants to talk to you about symbols….yeah, and meanings. I know- My dad says you’re barking up the wrong tree. He says if you want symbols Fellini’s your man.

Kubrick’s better than Fellini.

Jesus Christ. Are you insane?! Dad, did you hear that? Dad’s shaking his head right now.

Please, I just-

Of course, if you want to get technical…dad’s a surrealist. He takes images, messes them up. That’s it. It amazes me, nerds like you, obsessing about toilets and plans and numbers. Waste of time.

So you do know some of his ideas then?

No. Why?

Because, because you just said! Oh god, I’ve got to talk to him.

You do know he's dead, right? He died in 1996, remember?

Oh… Yeah… Yeah, that’s true.

Of course it’s true. He’s my dad right?

But you said you were talking to him just now.

Who is this? Who’s speaking?

I’m Tim Frank. I just want to talk to Stanley Kubrick.

Father

2009-08-15T03:14:00.000-07:00

The sole of Dan’s shoe had torn loose. It scraped against the pavement every step of his journey home from school. He limped along the driveway up to his front door, muttering. The door open and closed. In the hall he pulled off his shoes and dumped them to the ground.

Hugo waited for his son in the living room. He was dug into a soft chair with both hands resting along the arms. The TV whispered, as if holding a hand to the side of its mouth. The light from the low clouds shone through the French windows, picking out Hugo's pale skin and dark eyes.

‘Hi, dad,’ Dan mumbled, poking his head around the door, gaining no response.

Dan edged into the room and took a seat on the couch. He tried to think of something to say, but words were snatched from his mind. After a frustrated silence, he stood, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his shirt pocket, and pressed it into his dad’s outreached hand.

In his office, Hugo flattened Dan’s piece of A4 paper onto the desk. The room was filled with pages and pages of notes that lay on the desk and across the floor. Most notes had been carefully filed, but others were discarded and allowed to litter the office. The room was becoming more chaotic with each passing day. A trail of crumpled paper snaked its way towards the door.

Hugo reached for his fountain pen and neatly ticked off every scrawled sentence from his son’s Daily Notes. Hugo was satisfied that Dan had been to all his lessons, had a can of coke and a bacon sandwich for lunch. He believed that his sixteen year old son had spoken to three of his friends; Thomas, Chris, and Ade. Everything was secure. The day had been like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.

Hugo flicked through the folders in the cabinet, where he kept the analyses of his son; notes on body language, friends, holidays, teacher reports, books read, films watched, dates, times and even a dream log. He slid the day’s notes into the blue folder. The crumpled page poked out, looking ugly. As he pushed the cabinet drawer closed, Hugo decided he needed to do something different.

The next day, Hugo swiveled to the left then to the right on his office chair, over and over. He watched his legs lean and his feet twist. The front door slammed shut. Hugo picked up his notepad and pen and slipped them in to his brown corduroy jacket. By the front door his son’s shoes were lying on their sides. One of the shoes had its sole peeled back. The shoes were scuffed and molded awkwardly after months of use. Hugo told himself to get rid of them when he returned.

Hugo walked along St. Gabriel’s road, pacing himself. He turned the corner into Dartmouth road that had a slow downward gradient. In the distance Hugo could see his son, moving fast, bobbing up and down. Dan stared at a girl across the street. She looked back. Hugo flicked his pad open and made a note. He followed on.

That evening Hugo stood before his office window looking out onto his back garden. Lights from the opposite houses, TVs, computer screens, table lamps, some exposed, some hidden by curtains, mingled and cast a blue haze across the mass of unfolding trees. He listened as Dan slouched up the stairs, and shuffled along the hall towards him.

Dan’s quiet breaths filled the room. He placed a crumpled piece of paper on his dad’s desk. Hugo turned to his son and waited for him to leave. He watched Dan’s feet scuff against the carpet and then out of sight, into his bedroom.

Hugo took a seat and unfolded his son’s notes. He raced through each entry; his eyes pouring over the page as if he were skipping to the final sentence of a detective novel. In one of the last entries his worst fear, a fear he had always guarded against, yet dared not contemplate, was confirmed. His son had lied to him.

Hugo ripped the day’s notes, calmly, deliberately. He was still for a second then raised his fists and brought them down ferociously upon the desk. His eyes shifted wildly, his face contorted. Suddenly the anger dissipated, his body became still, and he fell back into his chair. He got up to look at the lights outside his window. Then, with a sudden burst of strength, he grabbed the tall filing cabinet beside him, containing all his thoughts, suspicions, speculations and fears, and dragged it over, sending it crashing to the floor.

Stars looked down on the garden like strings of light threading through peepholes. He made a pyre of broken branches and balled up newspaper and swung the files on top. He poured gasoline on to the pile and then a match. The fire exploded into life, crackling and fizzing. The files were hugged by the flames, sliding along them. It seemed peaceful. Hugo stared into the fire as if trying to decode a message that offered itself for a second, and then pulled away.

Dan looked at his white school shirt. It was crumpled. Sharp lines weaved their way around it. Fully dressed, he looked into the mirror that stood beside the window. The morning light made him squint and he struggled to see his reflection. He moved from side to side, trying to shape his hair and straighten his tie. Satisfied, he slung his rucksack over his shoulder, and pulled one strap across his chest. He walked to school. Every now and then he looked over his shoulder.

But this time he returned immediately. He walked backwards through the front door and into the house. Inside, the walls, the light and the darkness, cracked. He reversed up the stairs, fast, then slow, then fast, and finally retreated to his room where he contemplated his shirt once again.

Hugo had made the surveillance equipment with bits of electronics that were scattered about his work room, accumulated from 30 years as an engineer. The bugs and cameras were three clicks away on a domestic spy website. He watched Dan jerk and shake on his computer monitor.

Dan would wake in the morning and leave the house for school. He would come home in the evening, sit in his room and read a book in front of the TV. Hugo would eat his dinner and watch. In the afternoon, listening to the radio, he would forward and rewind his son’s morning routine. But the more he watched, pushing his son around over and over, the more he saw new things. New connections, new mysteries, new doubts each time he clicked his mouse.

Of course, when Dan left the house Hugo only had sound. There was no practical way of filming. He listened. Words, breaths, trainers on the pavement, cars, the wind, children screaming. Hugo would lean, and push his earphone deeper into his ear to hear more details, trying to see. But he was stranded with his imagination.

His son’s movements became repetitive, repeating within repeats. Day after day Dan would look at his crumpled shirt spread out on his bed, stare into the mirror, turn his head left then right to see the sides of his short cropped hair. He would slip his trainers on in the hall and slam the front door shut, disappearing from sight.

One day, something changed. Dan found his shoes were different. They weren’t his new shoes, but the old worn ones with the unstuck sole. He stood over them, staring with his hands on hips, as if expecting them to justify themselves. He picked them up turned them round in his hands then hurled them to the ground. He tried to scream but he could only writhe and flail. He smashed a hand against the wall.

Dan picked up his old shoes and tried to put the sole back into place somehow. He gave up and pulled them on. He left the house. He sounded the same as he always did. He gave some muted chants, swallowed by the traffic, spat. Hugo sat upright in his chair, and opened up a new page.

On the side of the road Dan waited for a car to slowly move past. It accelerated away and he strode in to the street. From a side street behind him a Mercedes revved its engine and pulled out, unseen. Dan was two yards in front of the car. He swiveled and tried to push himself over to the pavement, but his shoe’s sole folded back upon itself. His foot gave way and he tumbled onto his knees with his hands flat against the tarmac.

Hugo could hear the growling car that got so loud he had to pull an earphone out. He could hear his son’s body slam against the car’s fender and then thump onto the ground. The car screeched to a halt. Dan’s breaths were short and fast. A woman’s voice shrieked. She was sobbing. Clear and crisp now, she spoke soothing words. Hugo could hear her touch his son’s arm, and stroke his forehead. He could hear her breathing. He thought he could see her dark hair, her hands crumpled by veins and a soft look in her eyes that made Hugo feel everything would be ok.

The stranger

2009-08-14T07:05:00.000-07:00

I’m in the kitchen making a sandwich and my dad is upstairs in bed. I can hear the bed springs groan as he turns. The peanut butter gets stuck in globs and tears the bread. I can hear every black bubble from the glass of coke beside the plate.

It’ll go like this. I’ll approach his bed. I’ll try and be calm and ignore the sweat forming around my neck. I’ll put my hands in my pockets, or stroke the back of my head. Maybe I’ll have watery eyes, but I doubt if I can force tears.

I’ll ease my way in with some soothing words. I’ll say I bumped into Mrs. Kyle, who told me about her fantastic dream. She saw an angel, full of light, who led her into a moonlit garden. The angel had dug a large crater in the grass and they sat in it together. The angel smiled benevolently and said Mr. Kyle was recovering in heaven. And I will say to my dad, ‘That’s nice, right?’

‘Yes, that’s beautiful,’ he’ll say. Then, ‘But why is he recovering? Something terrible must have happened? Did he die in pain? Did he die in pain?’

I’ll hide my anger behind a sympathetic sigh, and try a different tack. I’ll say when I was very young, all my friends turned against me for no reason. In the school playground I found a little stone; a purple piece of flint embedded in the concrete. It became my friend. I spent hours standing around it and talking to it as if it was wise and understanding.

One time it talked back. It said something I vowed I’d never tell anyone. But I will whisper it into my dad’s ear, and then say, ‘See, I understand. I’ve had hard times too.’ But he will see me as crazy, I know it. He will look me up and down and moan, ‘You say the strangest things. Do you really think this is helping? Why do you insist on telling me these stories?’

Then I will look firmly into his eyes, my eyelids flickering. I will tell him how I know he made fun of my looks; my lazy eye and strange bent walk. I overheard him laughing about it in the cellar one morning, talking to the boys in a haze of cigarette smoke. He owes me. Not money. What I need is… and then I will tell him what I want. He'll have to listen.

I stare at myself in the grand hallway mirror. I anxiously flatten my hair at the back and straighten my tie. As I adjust what needn’t be adjusted, I am caught by the beauty of the glass; a perfect pool of silver water. I fall forward and my head breaks the surface. Beyond, I see cold darkness.

I knock on my dad’s bedroom door. There is no answer, so finally, without being beckoned, I inch the door open and creep into the room. Despite being almost completely shrouded in darkness, the room glows blue. My dad is tightly tucked into the double bed, only his balding head and slender arms poking out of the duvet. He is quiet and his eyes are closed.

A man is sitting across the room by my dad’s side, whispering in his ear. He has broad shoulders and a round face, but I can’t make out any other features. I gently close the door and walk a couple of paces into the room. As I near the bed, the darkness enveloping the man diminishes, revealing his scruffy black hair and black woolly jumper, but no more. I think about turning back and returning another time. But I tell myself no.

‘Take a seat,’ the man says quietly. I think about it, and then do as I’m told. I place myself beside the bed, on a little stool opposite the man. I’m still unable to see most of his face but I can discern the movement of his thin lips.

‘Your Don’s son, aren’t you? You should say something,’ the man says, ‘it’s very serious now.’

‘Sorry, who are you?’ I say, leaning towards him. I try to bore a hole into the darkness.

‘I’m John, a friend of your dad’s.’

‘Oh.’

I forget his name immediately.

My dad’s eyes open, then close. His chest heaves steadily up and down. He wheezes, and his breath stings my nostrils. I try to remember my strategy but I hadn’t counted on another person listening in. The words I’ve rehearsed have slipped from my mind, as if swallowed by the shadows.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘I wanted to talk about my mum.’ I decide to discuss something obscure, something meaningless even, something the man could know nothing about. This is the best way to avoid being judged or caught out.

‘Well, ok,’ I say, positioning myself to face my dad. His face is grey and stiff, as if chiseled from stone. ‘Before you became ill, mum told you she didn’t want our dog anymore. He’s menacing. He’s been known to follow children,’ I say to the man. ‘He doesn’t growl or anything, but it’s the way he stares. Anyway,’ I say returning my gaze to my dad, ‘mum’s just had enough. She wants Sammy put down. I thought maybe I could solve the problem and take the dog as my own.’

I take a deep breath, trying to dislodge the knot in my stomach. John mutters into my dad’s ear, then pulls himself up, then slouches.

‘Did you know,’ the man says, ‘your mum has been spending your dad’s money? Draining it away.

‘I don’t know anything about my mum,’ I say, folding my arms.

'She even tried to buy a car, but the credit card was cancelled.’

The man arches his back. He looks straight at me, waiting, encouraging me to respond. He wavers between a smile and a ruffled brow. I know he knows what I’m thinking, as if he were able to pick the thoughts from my mind, like coins from a wallet.

‘I may as well come out with it,’ I say, checking my father as if he might butt in to the conversation, undermining my words. ‘Well, it’s obvious I guess, I want what anyone would want from his...dying...father. See, I’ve had to plan what to do when he goes. When it’s all over, that is. A coffin. Dad is traditional. A funeral. Thousands of pounds. Not to mention, taxes, inheritance I mean, extended family pulling this way and that, you know. Endless complications occur when dealing with a death.’

The man nods, pushing his lips together into a thoughtful expression. I shift forward in my seat, and lean myself over my dad’s midriff.

‘We’ve had problems in the past,’ I say, nodding my head at my dad. ‘It’s the same for everyone though, isn’t it?’

The stranger blinks.

‘I want to make amends,’ my voice wilts. ‘I do. I want to say some things. But you’re here and...I’m not trying to be rude.’

‘No, it’s a fair point,’ he says.

I lean my elbow on the bed, beside my dad’s thigh. ‘You see, as a kid growing up in my dad’s supermarket, it was wonderful,’ I say. ‘Everything was bright and colourful. Lines and lines of tins and packages perfectly stacked, all facing the same way. I thought it was quite beautiful. And you know living there so long makes you think nothing bad can happen. But of course that’s a childhood fantasy. I’ve had many problems with my looks.’

‘Oh, you look fine to me.’

‘Of course I don’t,’ I snap, ‘I look hideous. I’m always bruised and in pain. I bump into things. My dad, he would laugh and… it doesn’t matter now. But I want to say to him, it’s ok. Before it’s too late.’

‘I think you’re probably being a little unfair to your dad. He always loved you like a son.’

‘I am his son,’ I say, firmly. ‘Anyway, you weren’t there. Were you.’

‘But I have talked to your dad a lot recently,’ the man says. ‘And he said, you and I are very similar. Did you notice we both have the same slightly bent legs? Anyway, he has told me a lot about you, not all bad either,’ he smiles. ‘Honestly, I feel like I understand you.’

‘Right,’ I say to myself. I stand and walk to other side of the room. I peel back the curtain. A slither of light shoots into the room then gets trapped by the darkness. My back is to the stranger. He hasn’t turned to me.

‘How could you understand me? I really doubt it,’ I say angrily.

‘Perhaps not.’

‘All I wanted was a few small words from him to make things right. Some memento, something that I could carry with me, like a lucky coin, or a photograph inside a locket. Maybe just a touch of the hand would make up for all the hugs I missed out on.’

I turn to the sickbed, look at my feet and shake my head.

‘That's embarrassing,’ I say.

The stranger twists around slowly to face me, and gives me a friendly smile.

‘Someone screams and shouts’ I say, ‘and then realizes they have to be silent at some point. That’s how it is. My dad is one long scream, nearly silenced, and there’s no time to get a word in… He never screamed at me, though.’

I walk back to my stool, but I stand behind it now and rest my hands flat on the seat.

‘So you think you know me?’

The man waves me over to him. Finally, I do as I’m told. Up close to him, he is harder to see than before. His eye sockets cast shadows around his eyes. The darkness conceals his mouth and most of his nose. Then a bar of dim light is exposed from the bottom of his face. He is smiling.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders. Then we walk together, limping, like conjoined twins. There is an oval mirror by the bedside table, coming into view like a moon being unveiled by a slow moving cloud. There are tiny golden orbs dotting the frame.

We stand together, and stare. For a moment, neither of us appears in the mirror. But within a blink of the eye, the reflections are there, solid and real. Now light is fluttering, and falling.

We look the same. Except he is still smiling and I remain serious.

‘Isn’t it strange? Such a coincidence, no?’

‘ I’m unsure of things. What do you think?’ I say.

I wait for his reply. I know the answer. I can go home now. I can go back to my life and carry on pretending, just getting through, because getting what I want won’t help me. I wait for the stranger to say what he has to say. But he is still gazing into the mirror that almost fits our reflections, wrapped together, and stuck.

‘You want to see his eyes close forever. You want to see his heart stop beating. You want to hear the last breath from his lungs. You want to see him die, right?’

Right.

A San Francisco dream

2009-08-13T05:34:00.000-07:00

My new university in San Francisco was set on top of a steep hill looking down on the choppy waters of the harbor.
I was sent there by my wealthy Dad for sleeping with my Colombian housekeeper. I had got her pregnant. I was 19, she was 38 and the potential scandal was too much for my Dad to accept. He was a politician. I was in a state, feeling guilty about Alexis, the housekeeper, and at the same time desperate to run to the hills.

My Dad gave me a dump truck full of money and apologized profusely. He promised to buy me houses, holidays, cars, whatever I wanted, assuming I didn’t talk. But I wasn’t interested, I had all I needed.

The uni was a giant steel and glass dome that reflected the cloudy afternoon light. A tall mossy wall enclosed the dome and muddy trenches lined the uni’s grounds. Large iron gates led onto a winding path that allowed one through to the dome where my class was held.

I was doing a creative writing BA and for the first day we were told to bring in a short piece that best represented ourselves and our state of mind over the last few months. I had written a story I felt very proud of. However, it was a lie; it didn’t represent me at all. I’d made it up to look good. The story was about an old farmer whose crops were slowly dying from drought, but he’s happy.

Sitting in the chilly semi-circular auditorium beside my new classmates, I soon realized the homework would be more than reading out our little stories. In fact we would have to perform them on the stage under harsh spotlights.

Terror engulfed me as my classmates took to the stage with glee, pompously and pretentiously acting out their tales with large sweeping hand movements. How could I act out a farmer happily watching his crops die, losing his livelihood and perhaps his sanity?

Standing by the side of the stage waiting to go to perform, my choice was fight or flight. I knew running from this challenge would be humiliating, I’d become an outcast. But I didn’t want to be forced into some ridiculous pantomime and show myself to be something I wasn’t.

I dropped my single sheet of A4 and ran out of the auditorium. I waded through muddy trenches towards the huge surrounding wall. My teacher was shouting after me and my classmates stood motionless behind him, gawping in disbelief.

In no time I’d reached the wall and easily enough I leapt up onto its uneven surface despite its height. Before me lay pink and blue brick houses lining the streets, sinking towards the harbor.

With huge strides I was able to glide my way across rooftops making my way down the undulating slopes towards the sea.

We know you're there

2009-08-07T04:14:00.000-07:00

Annie Chang inched her way towards her son’s bedroom, her nightgown swishing across the polished floorboards. She pressed her ear to the door and listened to the oscillating tones of her teenage son snoring. It was nine in the evening and he had been sleeping all day.

Her husband Gilbert, lit by a white light bulb above his head, motioned to his wife from down the hall. She glared back at him and raised her fist to knock. But after a second, she let her hand fall. She walked back towards Gilbert with a shy smile. He squeezed her neck gently as she passed him into their bedroom.

Gilbert switched off the main lights and put the night light on for Annie, casting a white gloom. They were clouded by tiredness and flopped into bed. Yet they were unable to sleep for long. They fidgeted with their pillows and tugged on the duvet. As they turned in bed, they caught each other’s eyes.

The next night, Gilbert and Annie returned home from a lively dinner party, giggling and drunk from bottle after bottle of white wine. They crept past their son’s closed door, stepping on the balls of their feet. Tripping on an uneven floorboard, Gilbert lost his balance and nearly tumbled into the kitchen. They held in hysterical laughter, their faces contorting wildly.

Gilbert boiled some water while trying to tear off the plastic from a new jar of coffee.

He chuckled, ‘We should drink more often.’

But Annie’s reply was brushed aside by the whispering kettle. Strewn across the kitchen table were crumpled notes of money. As the harsh sound of the kettle ground against their ears, Gilbert put the coffee jar down and took a seat. He drew the money towards him, flattened each note, and then slipped them into his black leather wallet. He pushed out a smile for his wife.

‘I feel so drunk,’ she said.

The next afternoon Gilbert and Annie were passing time in their living room. Light seeped sluggishly through the window and fell. The television hissed and laughed. Gilbert flicked through the channels; always stopping for a few seconds on an advert, then moving on.

‘Please settle on something.’ Annie said. So Gilbert turned the TV off and went back to scouring his newspaper.

Suddenly, as if a shout could be heard in the distance, the couple cocked their heads. Their son’s door had opened and footsteps cracked off the floorboards like skipping pebbles. The front door opened, closed, and silence followed.

They remained static for seconds; Annie clutching her glasses that rested on her lap, Gilbert sitting forward on the edge of the couch. If a storm were to have burst through the windows, spraying shards of glass across the white carpet engulfed by sound, they would still not have moved. Gilbert dropped his paper onto the coffee table, and without looking at his wife, made his way to his son’s bedroom.

‘Gilbert,’ Annie murmured, but he ignored her. She placed her spectacles on the side table and followed him.

Annie stood behind Gilbert and tried to peer over his shoulder as he eased the door open. Shades of black were stacked throughout the room. Light slid through the edges of the closed curtains like frayed cotton. The couple kept an ear out for their son, knowing he could return at any moment. And yet, they felt as if he was still in the room, perhaps hidden in a far corner or crouching in the shadows. As they moved into the centre of the bedroom they sensed the weight of his sleep, as if his dreams and his long drawn out breaths still pressed against the walls.

Gilbert tore the curtains open. The grey sky rushed forward into the room and then retreated. The boy’s duvet was in a bundle on the futon and pillows lay at angles. A cigarette was burning slowly, nestling amongst butts in a ceramic ashtray. The white walls were bare, the ceilings high.

Annie flicked through the notepad that lay on the desk. It was old and worn, and yet there was nothing written inside. Gilbert looked at the only other item in the room that seemed worthy of attention, a bulging rucksack. He stood before it as if it were animated. But he didn’t touch or open it. It wasn’t out of respect for his son’s privacy. It was from fear of its potential to contain objects that could define his son in ways he’d never before considered. And in the same way, the room seemed to Mr and Mrs Chang to contain a message which they preferred to remain ignorant of, because it was easier. They carefully replaced the objects they had moved, and left.

The next day, Annie returned home from lunch with an old friend. In a crowded restaurant, she had rambled on about childhood memories and laughed so hard other diners stared. She’d ordered expensive food, making sure to pay the bill. Before going their separate ways her friend clasped Annie’s hands and said, almost with surprise, how great it was to see her doing so well.

As Annie entered her flat, the relaxed smile still playing on her lips, dropped. She found crumpled notes on the side table in the hall. She bundled them into her handbag, pushing the notes deep inside. Annie leant her head close to the small window above the table. People scurried by in the street below, thoughtlessly barging into each other and exchanging forced apologies. It was then that she decided she must confront her son.

She gave three firm knocks. There was no answer. She waited and looked at the gap beneath the door for light or movement. Finally she opened the door and walked into the room. Stale sweat. Smoke. She felt her way forward through the darkness towards the bed. Annie’s eyes began to adjust and vague outlines of objects were revealed; the curtains, the desk, the bookshelf.

She knelt down by the side of his futon, being able to see quite clearly now as the light from the hallway illuminated the back of her son’s head. But his face was buried into his pillow as if he were in tears. She whispered his name twice, but gained no reaction. Annie reached over to grab his shoulder and pulled him round to face her. He rolled over slowly and smoothly. His features were exposed, like a car’s headlights unveiling a night time country road. Finally she saw his eyes. They were open. The deep stunning black irises shone and his face displayed a mournful grin. Annie withdrew her hand. She pushed herself to her feet.

‘Sorry,’ she whispered, and hurried out of the room.

That evening Annie sat upright in bed, swamped by her yellow negligee, applying face and hand creams, pushing white streaks across her skin. Her husband was brushing his teeth in the en suite bathroom.

‘We can’t just take his money,’ Annie said, ‘and not know where it comes from. God forbid he’s into anything dangerous.’

Gilbert spat and rinsed his mouth. Blood threaded through his saliva and clung to the sink.

‘We’ll confront him tomorrow,’ he said, ‘but don’t worry, he wouldn’t do anything silly. I’m sure of it.’

They didn’t challenge their son, however. They continued going out for dinner with friends. They went to the cinema and shopped in town. In quiet moments, they saw themselves from the outside like strangers in their own minds. They analyzed themselves, as if to say, ‘This is me and this is what I’m doing.’ They had strange, vivid nightmares. They saw fires and empty streets, dark caves and piercing wet eyes.

One morning, they found their son sitting at the kitchen table. He was eating some leftover pizza from the greasy cardboard packaging. He wore a navy blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and black jeans. He had stubby fingers and a rounded almost feminine jaw line. His pale hands and neck and cheeks clashed with the deep black rings surrounding his eyes.

The boy considered each slice of pizza before he ate it and then chewed with his mouth closed. He didn’t acknowledge his parents’ presence as they entered the room. Gilbert remained by the doorway and Annie stood facing her son, leaning against the washing machine.

There was a slight smirk on the boy’s face, which was playful and aggressive in equal measure. He seemed to be challenging his parents to express the grave fears that, despite their attempts to appear casual, were etched upon their faces.

‘How are you?’ Annie finally said. ‘We haven’t seen you in a long time.’

Their son shrugged and continued eating, taking a sip of his drink. The couple remained still, looking at the boy’s clothes, his shoes and short hair. They were entranced by his chewing and the grease gathering at the side of this mouth. His neatness and unflustered confidence was almost horrifying to the couple.

The boy finished eating, stood up and made to go; leaving pizza crusts and a coke can spread across the table. And, as if an afterthought, he pulled out a roll of notes and flicked a few of them onto the kitchen counter. He brushed past his father by the door and went back to his room.

‘Say something,’ Annie said to her husband.

His eyes searched for something to focus on.

‘Say something,’ she repeated.

She grabbed up some of the boy’s junk and tried to force it into an already full bin. The rubbish pushed back and tipped over the sides. A Coke can crashed off the floor. Annie left the bin in disarray and rushed into the hall. Gilbert grabbed hold of his wife, trying to pull her back by the arm.

‘Let go.’

She tugged herself free of her husband and started knocking on her son’s door. There was no response, so she kept on, gradually getting faster and harder. She could have entered the bedroom and confronted her son, because there was no lock. But after a couple of sharp, fierce knocks, she pulled back from the door as if realising she had made a terrible mistake.

She returned to the kitchen holding her hands against her face, as if trying to push back the tears. Gilbert trailed behind her, staring earnestly at the floor boards. Annie slumped into a chair sniffling, every now and then wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Gilbert reached out and touched her knee, then pulled his hand away.

Annie lifted herself from her chair, put the kettle on and began to clear up her son’s mess. She opened a new bin bag and turned the hot water on. Gilbert approached Annie and put his arm around her as she was scrubbing a glass. She leaned into him, pushing her head into his neck.

Annie and Gilbert Chang never attempted to confront their son again. They accepted his money, scrubbed his dishes and cleaned his clothes that were dumped in the bathroom wash basket. Once in a while they would catch a glimpse of him, but that was all it was, a glimpse.

(make son lock the door, mum knocks, he then opens the lock but she is scared away)

Speech, speech

2009-07-30T03:22:00.000-07:00

When I gave the same speech at my mum’s wedding as I had at my dad’s funeral, my uncle leapt across the podium and wrestled me to the ground. He was very supportive of mum, and was always looking for unique ways to prove it. However Dad was my hero, and I brimmed with barely concealed rage when I discovered she’d shacked up with our lawyer, who just happened to have executed my dad’s will. My mum married three months after Dad’s death and I wasn’t going to let politeness interfere with the need to make a stand.

Dad died in such a ridiculous way, so tragic and hilarious, it almost seemed fitting to be a comedian’s discarded joke. He was looking for the loo in Piccadilly Circus, stepped into the busy main street and was struck down by a sightseeing bus. His demise seemed so unfair for such a great man. I couldn’t overcome the humiliation.

‘This is a tragic day. We must try and forget it. Burn it from our memories, because it is unjust and horrific. What we need to do is remember what’s important; loyalty, faithfulness and justice.’
At the wedding my mum was in tears, her family tearing their napkins into pieces and mumbling furiously to each other; the same people who were nodding so piously at the wake. As my uncle grabbed hold of me by the neck he muttered, ‘You used to be such a nice boy.’

The Peephole

2009-06-29T07:03:00.001-07:00

Her forehead stretched and arced into a pale rainbow and her hair lengthened into a dark mane. Her eyes and nose shimmered, while her mouth melted towards her sagging chest. Her clothes were random brushstrokes of ruby red and deep green. And then in a warped flash, she was gone.
Ira pulled his eye from the peephole and walked over to his desk by the low futon. The PC lying beneath the desk shuddered like an old washing-machine and he gave it a light kick. Ira’s screensaver vanished as he jiggled his mouse and a daily spreadsheet was revealed in a shock of neon white. Ira noted the time of day the woman had walked by, how many steps it took her to pass his door, the shape of her tousled hairstyle and the colour of her clothes. But as soon as he had written red and green, he changed them to blue and yellow.
He took a sip of water, but just a sip. The water was resting on a circle drawn on a random piece of paper. Inside the circle was written the name of a homeopathic remedy, this time Pulsitilla 10m, a dose that was able to send a sensitive man out of his mind. The idea was that the name and the circle would somehow change the water’s molecules and create a healing fluid. Ira swore by it.
He wasn’t treating himself for any physical or mental malady though; it was more of a philosophical thing. He didn’t think he was seeing things clearly anymore. Day in, day out he was in his musty one bedroom apartment waiting for footsteps along the hall and then rushing to the peephole to make his assessment. The only contact with humans was with his amenable acquaintance Andre, from Tesco, who would load up eggs and sandwiches in Ira’s metal basket. The basket was attached to a rope that dangled out of Ira’s window and he had to yank it up three flights. This would be the only time he would look through the window.
Out the front was a churned up car park. He could always hear cars’ crunching around outside and it was faintly soothing to listen to, but it looked like Bosnia in the bad old days. Beyond, there was a street where the gangs hung out by the dying oak trees and the broken-up walls. And beyond that was a small row of elegant Victorian houses, with lovely middle class families, living in fear of the gangs who stared venomously into their living rooms.
No, Ira didn’t believe in looking out the window. He felt it was wrong. The peephole was where it was at. But now he couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something. He needed to loosen up, just let things hang out.
He closed his spread sheet and went back to his movie, collapsing on his stinky duvet with popcorn trapped in the baggy folds. He clicked play. But before he could plump up his pillows and take a sip of Coke Zero he heard footsteps.
Ira paused the movie, flung the crusty remote across the room, landing it in an empty crisp packet, and raced to the door. He balanced on the balls of his feet and watched Mr Reblais slouch past - short steps, giant light bulb nose, and long thick coat dragging along the carpet with a faint rustle. His eyes were closing in on his nose and his thinning snowy hair undulated like a mythic serpent.
As Mr Reblais edged out of view Ira recollected what he knew about him. He was a man who’d fought in the French Foreign Legion in the early fifties. Amongst the legion’s ranks were some war hungry Olympic medallists; long distances runners, stocky shot-putters and some smooth skinned swimmers. Reblais was none of these, but he was brave and felt no pain. In fact this was literally true, for his right arm anyhow, which had underperforming nerve-endings. All his life his friends and enemies would stab him with compasses, pen-knives, army knives and one time a fellow soldier accidentally shot him on the shooting range. He felt nothing. Myths sprung up about him. Some said he was Achilles in reverse. Some said he was invincible and it was not just his arm. They said he could stare at the naked sun for over a minute. But no-one knew. Till this day there are rumours. That man is special, they say, he can see things.
But, of course, his career was cut short by love. He gave up all hopes of conquering Africa and settled down to a docile domestic lifestyle, tending neighbours’ gardens and building giant walls. Years passed, his wife died, money became tight and finally he ended up in Ira’s shitty apartment block.
Of course this was all made up. Ira knew nothing about this strange ungainly old man. He knew nothing about any of his neighbours. Let’s think of something new for him, Ira thought, something that’s going to get me somewhere, somewhere deeper. Maybe wider – or higher. Let’s give it a whirl.
Mr Humboldt, a mild schizophrenic, misdiagnosed as tired and aimless, reads Proust and Plato in secret, tripping him out, making him depressed. He has no idea what they’re talking about. He likes it, but he’s clueless. Nevertheless this doesn’t stop him from going to speaker’s corner in leafy Hyde Park, standing on a crate and lecturing on the ills of humanity and other things he has no idea about.
Ira cut himself off. Mmm, he thought, this feels vaguely autobiographical. I mean, it’s not in many ways, but the tone and direction… scrap it.
Sandwich. Pickles.
Having eaten, cleared up his penknife and plastic plate and delicately washed his hands with some squeezy soap, he analysed his spread-sheets. There were reams of logs about hats, handbags and limps, coughs and sneezes, Roman noses, hunched shoulders, snatched conversations, the odd fight, the odd kiss and on and on.
Is this schizophrenia, what am I doing? He thought. But no, maybe I haven’t gone far enough. Does the peephole reveal too much?
‘Let’s be honest,’ Ira said out loud, chewing on an empty biro, ‘all of these spread sheets are lies in one way or another.’
He wondered what one can glean from a moment, and whether trying to get so specific and distilled could tell him anymore than getting out the door and seeing it all for himself. Or maybe he should just make it all up. No he wasn’t crazy, he was a fucking genius.
Patter, patter, patter.
Ira, deep in thought, slowly made his way to the door and peered out. His wet eye, iris like an exploding brown star, fidgeted left and right. But he saw nothing. The person had gone. He inhaled a short gasp of air and a warm, aching pain unravelled from the centre of his chest. He bent over and rested his palms on his thighs. His mouth hung open in disbelief.
After some time he gathered himself. Alright, he thought, it’s a sign. Let’s give the peephole a break. All I need is in this stinking room. Jesus, all I need is the speck of dust on my little finger. But for now let’s start with the room. Ira perched himself on the edge of his bed and surveyed his surroundings, twisting his head slowly like a midnight owl.
The first thing that stood out for him was his pencil drawings of sleek black panthers proudly striding across icy mountains, blue-tacked to the wall. They really weren’t that bad Ira thought. But something about the nobility of the black predators and the hazy but pure light, almost spiritual in its essence, struck Ira as trying too hard, covering something up.
The obvious answer was to say it masked Ira’s hatred of nature, except of course for panthers and mountains. Panthers were hidden, almost without form or presence. They were ungraspable. It was as if they weren’t nature, just observers, and the mountains were the barren, elevated position they made their home.
Ira’s Dad had died of cancer a number of years ago, roughly the time when Ira began thinking about nature and the nature of things. Before quitting uni, selling all his books, and setting himself up in his council flat to conduct his experiments, Ira sat his mother down in the living room of her Georgian house and tried to explain himself.
‘Please don’t think this is about Dad, ok? I’ve been planning this for a long time.’
‘You’re throwing everything away,’ his mother responded, her weathered almost torn skin tensing into a pained expression, ‘just after your Dad has died, and you expect me to believe that?’
Ira stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets with petulance. He paced around the living room that looked out onto the giant garden where the family dog, an aging border collie, moped on the patio.
‘Can’t you see I’m trying to do something? Even though it’s close to Dad’s death, doesn’t mean it’s because of it. I mean that’s the type of logical thinking I’m trying to escape,’
Ira stopped pacing and turned to his mum, hands on hips.
‘I mean,’ he said, ‘do you believe they know anything at University? For Christ sake, it’s all left brain. And I’m not knocking the left brain; it’s just that it’s rotting from years of neglect.’
Ira’s Mum began to shudder with tears.
‘Oh, Mum,’ he said, ‘Come on, I’ll be fine.’
He placed himself on the little leather bound chair beside her.
‘Trust me,’ Ira said gently.
His mother raised her head, letting her tears fall, and shifted her body to face him.
‘Do you still believe your father was killed by a magic tree?’ she said.
Ira shook his head slowly in despair, and then swept his dangling fringe from his eyes.
‘From a mobile phone mast Mum, hidden in a tree. God, don’t accuse me of insanity just because you know nothing about technology.’
Chastened she bowed her head and gave two tumultuous snorts.
‘I’m worried Ira,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m just worried.’

Ira saw beyond the Freudian view of his paintings, the obvious interpretations relating to his dad and the ‘Magic Tree’. The paintings weren’t as simple as being about a loss of a parent and some obvious, slightly twisted, hatred of trees and nature altogether. His mind, his soul, his life were not a series of events caused by those well-intentioned unwitting puppet masters, his parents. My God please let it be more complex than that, Ira thought.
But there was something about the paintings. There was a coldness. The panthers looked… fucking miserable - that was it.
Before he could clarify his thoughts he heard soft thuds on the floor outside his door. He told himself not to move, to continue contemplating his paintings, and even give up on the peephole all together. He was onto something, he thought. Maybe he could start a new experiment, object based, that would begin by analyzing his own belongings and then move onto others, of all kinds, to see where that would take him. He wanted to see what an object can mean, and what’s behind it.
But he couldn’t repress the scraping of his feet, his tingling fingertips and the electricity in his heart.
One last time.
It was Danielle Kapol whom he’d strangely never seen before. Her hair was pulled into tight bunches and she walked with elegant bow legs. Her eyes were a fierce molten blue, shielded by almost squinting eyelids. She was beautiful and Ira was hung up on her immediately.
She’s a failed history graduate, Ira thought. Once a grade A student, flying through uni with ease, ignoring the boys, the drink, the drugs, focusing entirely on becoming a recognised scholar. And being somewhat naïve she believed all this would come together; a sky rocket future sealed by her solid genes, pale silky skin and an unwavering determination to sit at a desk and read books.
But when she was called into her tutor’s office, eager to discuss her options for an MA, he let slip there was no future in Academia. There was no goddamn money! Nobody gave a shit about research no matter what they told her. Money and respect was in IT and sales and to some extent football. Well, she cracked, the poor girl. Her crisp Caucasian heritage meant for nothing and her dreams were destroyed; something beyond her ego and her righteousness, beyond her conviction that her place in the world was cemented. No, underneath all that she was an innocent girl with genuine hopes; a very sweet, wonderful girl.
And now she’s here, Ira thought, outside my door. Of course she’d gone by that point, while Ira, back turned to the peephole, was daydreaming. But for once he wasn’t just weaving a magical tale about some stranger’s past; he was beginning to imagine the future. And he was in it.
Ira began to contemplate leaving his flat and tracking down this unsuspecting girl. The next few days Ira stood for hours at a time glued to his peephole as if it were a hallucinogenic TV set. His only breaks were rushing to the loo or making a bowl of cereal, neck arched over his shoulder trying to peer out of the door from all distances and angles.
Many of the regulars passed his door but Ira was unmoved. He couldn’t even remember their names, and his PC remained idle.
Finally Danielle appeared again. She looked so different with her straight hair hanging free, her tight green t-shirt with puffy shoulders, and a short flowery skirt that hung loosely over sheer black leggings. Everything was so dazzling and confusing for such a determined and single-minded young man as Ira. He saw a girl who carried herself with heaviness, sadness, and a powerful pride. Ira was a virgin, and this was not something he hid from in his own mind. It was abundantly clear to him that his sudden infatuation might be due to his hollering genitals. But he had confidence in his acute judgement and ruthless detachment honed by months in front of the peephole. He really felt something for this girl, he was sure.
With a burst of passion he flung his front door open and strode out into the hallway. He dug his fists into his eyes due to the sharp light cutting through the hall. The walls curved down from the low ceiling lined with peeling orange paint. Colours were alive and dancing. He felt he could see molecules bouncing along the corridor and pouring out the window at the far end. Everything was moving and expanding. Ira couldn’t think; his mind was blasted by light, his senses overloaded.
He squinted and staggered his way down two flights of stairs. He could smell the flowery scent of Danielle’s perfume and he followed. He was led through dark hallways with sticky floors and tight bends. Eventually he escaped the darkness and moved into communal garden at the back of the apartment block.
A cloudless sky held a high sun that blazed gloriously with intense dry heat. Ira felt a mixture of pain and joy, fear and freedom. As the white and yellow blotches in his eyesight died down he could make out a small but vibrantly green garden. Trees were overgrown and arched over the long grass. The flowers were in full bloom with exploding colours and berry vines crawling over the wooden fences. From the gloom of his darkened flat Ira felt this place was a utopia. Who’d of thought it would be in his back garden.
In a quiet corner of the garden under the shade of a drooping apple tree Danielle lay amongst the soft grass and fallen apples. Holding his hand above his eyes he was astonished by Danielle’s delicate skin, the shape of her long legs and small waist. But it was her eyes that knocked him out. They shone, reflecting all the light of the white sun and the watery blue sky.
As Ira approached tentatively, she analysed him briefly and then gave a warm smile.
‘I haven’t seen you before. Have you just moved in?’ she said.
Ira opened his mouth to speak but he couldn’t make a sound. Danielle didn’t seem to notice.
‘I moved in recently myself. Shit here isn’t it. I mean, out here’s nice but inside… Hey, take a seat.’
Ira did as he was told. Danielle looked at him seriously.
‘You look really pale, and why are you squinting like that?’
All Ira could muster was a shrug.
‘So what do you do?’ she said.
Ira almost gave a little chuckle. The situation was ridiculous, he was ridiculous. He thought, fuck it.
‘I’m conducting an experiment. I stare out of my peephole at passers-by and make notes.’
‘Oh,’ she said, frowning, almost in disgust. She remained silent for a short while, considering carefully how to judge him, scrutinizing him with a dry eye. ‘Why?’
Ira raised his eyebrows and gave a wry smile.
‘I don’t know.’
She thought seriously. ‘Are you insane?’
Ira looked over his shoulder into the sun, then turned back to her and gave an awkward grimace.
‘Hmm,’ Danielle said, still trying to make her mind up about Ira.
They remained quiet for a long minute. However, neither of them seemed in any discomfort. Ira peeked at Danielle out of the corner of his eye. She swirled and shook, colours merging with one another in the sunlight.
‘Look,’ Danielle finally said, turning to Ira with a warm, though analytic expression, ‘I’ve got to head off, but a couple of friends and I are going sight-seeing this weekend. You can live all your life in London and know less about it than a tourist. Anyway, the offer’s there if you want to come.’
She gave his arm a gentle squeeze then lifted herself from the ground, brushed dried grass from her clothes and straightened her crumpled skirt.
‘See you,’ she said.
Ira gave an awkward wave. That went strangely well Ira thought. And then called after her,
‘I forgot to ask your name.’
But she kept walking, seeming not to hear.
Ira was in love. There was no two ways about it. He loved Danielle, or whatever her name was. Ira believed in love at first sight. If the peephole taught him anything it was the depth of feeling one could muster from a single glance.
Ira felt as if the grass was caressing his body and the hanging trees were whispering soothing words into his ear. He was in love.
A new world opened up for Ira, a new vision. The potential for a life in the real world. Happiness.
But something nagged away at him. He had no reasons, no explanations, no stats, but he felt there was something deeply wrong. Ira reached out and grabbed an apple by his side. As he was about to take a bite his thumb sunk into soft flesh. He turned the apple around and saw black and purple rot squirming with yellow maggots. He dropped the apple in disgust.
Well he couldn’t turn back now, could he? He was in love, and when you’re in love you don’t question it, you don’t question anything. But when you’re depressed you have nothing but questions and that was its appeal for Ira. Goddamn it, Ira thought, if it’s not one thing it’s another. It looked like the end of the peephole and the passing of an era, well, time at the very least.
So Ira created his own story, to calm his nerves, ease his doubts, make him feel in control of his destiny, affirm his place in the world or something. Maybe he was just a great big bullshit artist.
As a child Ira flew across the world following his inventor father, who’d scored some success in China, Haiti and Peru with his reversible plant pots. His dutiful mother was in tow, heart broken each time a new house had to be emptied and the keys turned over.
Ira learnt about cultures, climates, customs and airports, but felt no richer for the experience. He’d spend his days in the garden, wherever he was on the globe, absorbing the sunlight reflecting off his opened book. His parents became worried when the sun became too hot and he refused to come in. Then it would rain and he wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t even sit under a tree for cover. His Dad would have to drag him by the underarms, feet scraping along the mushy grass.
His Dad sat Ira down on his Grandfather’s ancient rocking chair for a chat.
‘You will die, are you crazy!’ his father bellowed.
Eventually Ira was banned from the garden and his little phase, that his parents told no one about, and he tried to forget as it reminded him of so much pleasure and pain, was over. He began to read comic books and stood in the shade, smiled at friends, tried to take an interest in their problems and gradually became accustomed to becoming. accustomed, settling down and upping sticks. He was normal.
But he missed the sun and the rain and all the confusion.

Blood Line

2009-03-23T06:29:00.000-07:00

Snow gathers on my head, tipping onto my face and shoulders. I slip through the back living room window that reveals a high ceiling with darkness shrouding the corners. Warm hazy light emanates from the neon-blue Christmas tree. The tree dangles apples, rubies, and crystal stars. I punch one, smashing it onto the thick rug.
The Sorensons have gone for two days. No mistakes this time, just reds and blacks, howling and twisting like fireworks.
The glass coffee-table reflects fairy lights in a blurry rainbow. I take a seat on the cloth couch, sinking deeply into its embrace. The TV explodes into life, shapes moulding and flickering, Coke, L’Oreal, Calvin Klein. Smooth voices, sexy girls.
The painting on the wall by the grand piano reminds me of my father, with his sloping boxer’s chin, long neck, and sad overhanging brow. He would say to me, menacingly, ‘You’re just like your Nan.’
Look at me old man; fag stained fingers, two day old beard, and whiskey breath like chewing fire. Am I you? Did you make me?
I pull the painting down from the wall leaving square sun lines, a window revealing a yellow horizon. I grab a ball of light from the tree, and smash it with my Foot of Revenge onto his face. I want to light things up. Glorious flames like words in a madman’s mind, flickering and flashing all over the place.
I inch over to the ornate mantelpiece, eyes closed, heart thumping, hands waving in front of me like treading water. With a long sweeping movement of my arms I launch the cloudy photos of the happy family, onto the soft floor. Carefully I peek out of my wrinkled lids and check the ledge for the portraits. I only see myself in the mirror, two-dimensional. Handsome devil though, behind the foul façade, ravaged face, bruised smile.
The sad tree now leans to one side, coloured stars ready to fly, needles splashed across protective plastic (she was found dead, wrapped in plastic), and the presents flickering in his cigarette flame attract my eye and I tell myself no, not yours, some things are sacred like when Big Bad Bro ripped Cally from my hands one afternoon and dashed into the park across the street and set him alight for everyone to see, dead, dead, dead. He had it coming, bro said. I cried for weeks as if my parents had died. I hid in the closet, face wrapped in dangling coats like a tiny rainforest.
I walk into the kitchen, thinking food, but really thinking, try to forget. The kitchen springs into life with sheer lights illuminating every shadow. No place to hide. I swipe a cling-film wrapped leg of lamb from the fridge and dump it on the bread board.
Knives are arranged by length on the countertop by the windows, looking out onto the back garden. Years ago I took a knife and sliced my sister’s arm, letting her blood run. Then I cut my own arm and tried to pour my blood into her. Because I knew; somehow, mine was tainted and wrong. I needed rid of it, as if it was mercury. She was silent and scared for a while, as if adjusting and trying to understand. Then she staggered and moaned like a burnt child. The house exploded with rage and punishment. All forces against me.
They sat me down in the black kitchen, rubbish bin leaking, stinking the room. Mum quietly sobbing, Big Bro, Little Sis and mad Dad in a circle around me. Looming.
Things had calmed down, but Dad’s eyes were still raging. ‘Boy,’ he said, ‘what you have done has shown us, confirmed, what we always expected. It’s that you are bad. No, not just bad… evil. There is darkness in you that we can’t control. It was the same with your Gran when she was young. She spoke with babbling words and screamed all night, every night. It is in you and you can’t escape it.’

No keys for the garden so I smash the glass. It explodes like cold breath. Birds pitter-patter along branches and roofs. The grass is soft. Try and lay back awhile, I tell myself. Yellow tipped leaves, black earth, spongy, like flesh.
I lift myself quickly from the damp grass, trying to shake off my thoughts, and wipe my jeans with a slightly bloodied hand. My brown leather shoes have gathered strands of grass and beads of water. I go inside and jog up the stretched staircase that turns back on itself onto the first floor landing. I’ve soiled the cream carpet with smeared black mud.
I open the Master bedroom door. Darkness slowly creeps back and unveils a silk double bed and tall lamps shooting yellow light. The finely engraved cross above the bed tilts forwards as if ready to fall onto the spread and He holds a light smile, knowing, unconcerned by His pain.
‘You tell my why, why the bad blood. Can I cut my way out, kill the curse. Can I burn it?’
He sits on edge of the bed; robe tight, sandals clean, hair matted. He breathes softly. ‘Yes,’ He says, ‘use fire to trample and burn chaos into the blood of the city.’ He looks at me profound and serious.
The closet across from the king-size bed, slides open like electric doors, and lights flicker on one by one, revealing furs and sequins. The carpet is forgiving and wraps around my feet. Like my little closet, where I played with a small spider, carelessly weaving its fine threads. Gradually the patterns emerge, the shape revealed, it was always there.
Breathing, in a corner behind a rotten apple-green dress two bodies writhe and wriggle. Sweat stains their clothes and falls in sticky droplets onto the white carpet. ‘Go find your Gran, boy.’
I slam the closet doors shut. I take a seat in the corner of the bedroom on an old mahogany rocking chair, neatly bound except for a few tufts of weave poking out like a worn toothbrush. I sit awkwardly with my head in my hands trying not to rock. The sharp yellow room looks immaculate, but on the window ledge is fine black dust in a snaking line.
‘Come sit with your mother on the bed. Come on. Why are you so sad? I know things make little sense but you must get used to it. I’m sorry to say that this is life. Don’t take what your father says too much to heart. He means well. It’s not that bad, is it? You were always a melancholy child though. Your grandma was like that. Come here.’
She lies under the duvet, rippling like water rapids, one knee propped up and her head resting calmly on the head board. Auburn hair is fanned out across the pale blue pillows. She pats the bed.
Blink. A twisted mess, smoke, teeth and tongues. Slurping and sniggering, pointing fingers.
Time to act.
I leave the bedroom, rocking chair swinging as if beckoning me back. Remember the good times, inject a bit of joy into proceedings.
James. He was a friend of mine and a partner. We took down three houses across North London. James had skills, I had the Need and we pillaged the city streets. He had eyes like burning forests. For a time the curse was hidden and I felt invincible. Always laughing, drinking all night on the curb outside his house. I only felt sad when looking in the mirror.
Then we went too far; everything crumbled and broke. Someone got caught amongst the wreckage. I couldn’t take the pain I caused. I thought of the families and friends and the waves of trauma. I had no more words, no more understanding. James left too, abroad to America, I think. He had money and a decent family and was cushioned back into a comfortable life. But I was different. It was then I realised why, why my curse.
In the next door bedroom there is a red and yellow Simpson’s poster in a picture frame. The lights reflect off the glass. I see me. I sit on the solid bed, surrounded by a million black eyes staring at me like points of light. There’s a relaxing blue theme seeping into my green veins. Time to face what was always coming.
The Lighter sparks into life heating a bow-tied teddy on the window seat amongst pillows, dinosaurs and cartoon books. With a violent woosh toys erupt (miss you Cally).
I take a seat back on the bed and wait to be engulfed. I look at the fire which reflects back me. The fire struggles but draws breath and grows, sounding like wailing trains. Sweaty nails slice and scrape my skin. I hold back groans.
‘1982, when it happened. It will happen to you too. That is her lot and yours,’ Dad said, leaning forward at me, glaring. ‘One day back from school, scoffing sweets, laughing and squealing we find silence in the house and smell of rotting animals. We tread carefully up the stairs, knowing something terrible has happened. We just knew. In the bathroom we see your Gran. Razors. Blood easing out from raw skin. Plastic lined floor to prevent a mess. Leaving nothing to chance. When your Grandpa found out he said, ‘She had it coming.’
Flames reach higher crawling across ceiling like a hand. Through smoke and pain I see the past biting at my heels, as it always has. I must give in to the wheel of fire that tramples everything and everyone. Isn’t all this; flames raging, burning face, sweat crawling, what I lived for, what was always mine? The blood in my hard thick veins, now showing like never before, tells me there is no choice.
A final stand; I project my mind of Terror. I see neighbourhoods fall like toddlers toppling; towns and cities collapse in an explosion of tears. I tried to fight. The fire as my weapon. Now it cloaks me like a murderous old friend.