Baffle 42

If you need a clue as to your own whodunnit, don’t ask the murderer who created you.

RSVP

 

 

Saturday Night, for Hazel and I, was copycat night.  That meant we had to

duplicate the hi-jinks of the night before, because we needed to live up to

its living it up.  You see, TFI Friday Night Was Music Night and, of course,

Friday Night (it bears repeating) marked when the weekend, at the

full-frontal lobe optimum, was still young—with the Sunday Night down-in the

dumps blues not even residing at the back of the mind let alone at the down

lobe of last Sunday’s precursive lo-jinx.  Déjà-vu echoes were meddling

affairs at the best of times.  So, when Hazel and I sported Friday Night’s

glad rags on Saturday Night, we tended to ignore the sick stains.  And many

of those who could only afford putting all their eggs of entertainment in

one basket (at the Saturday Night Bop) ignored us, pretended we weren’t

there, chatted lightly of tomorrow’s Antiques Road Show, Songs of Praise and

100 Best Tunes, before they consented to a right old sing-song around the

Honky-Bonk—followed by the archetypical pub brawl.   Tank-tops and

Tonk-Bops.  Shell-suits and Monday Morning Rhythm & Blues.  OK, OK, Hazel

was a nut.  But she’s the past now, as far as I am concerned.  Or at least

since last weekend.  I never liked the way she’d lately been tending towards

extending Wednesdays outwards until the whole week became a no man’s land. 

I am running a Big Breakfast party, starting at 7 this coming drizzly Monday

morning.  Hazel does the weather.  Bring a flask of tea or a bottle of RSVP.

 

published PURPLE PATCH 1998

The One-Eyed Fly

The One-Eyed Fly. 

 

When Wiles arrived in the town, he knew he was in good time for an equally good reason. His mother had informed him where everything was bound to be in relation to the bus station including the venue arranged for meeting his estranged father. Although she herself did not want to renew acquaintance with her husband, there had always been a feeling that it was inevitable that Wiles would meet the man who had, to put no finer point on it, helped create him. She did nothing to stand in his way. How could she? A man and his son had a right to meet this side of death. How else would they recognise each other later? And she swatted a fly, without thinking. ‘Here, take this packed lunch with you. It’s got all your favourite things - Marmite butties, flaky pastry apple pie and extra strong peppermints. The thermos has got hot tea in it at the moment, sugared to the nines, just as you like it.’ She stared sweetly at him with her one good eye, the bad one having burst in a pub brawl many years ago.

 

‘Thanks ma.”

 

‘Remember me to him, won’t you?’ She flicked a careless sprig of hair from her eye, as Wiles wondered how his father could possibly have forgotten her. ‘Don’t forget, he’ll be in the library reading room at precisely twelve o’clock. You’ll recognise him from the photographs, he says, though I’m not so sure... they were taken donkey years ago.’

 

Wiles put his hand into his duffel-coat pocket to ensure that the Brownie snaps were still there. The sharp edge of a corner pricked his thumb. One of the duffel-pegs on his coat looked decidedly dicey, but he didn’t want to worry his mother about that now. Best to have that fuss and bother later in the day.

 

He gave her a peck on the cheek and walked to the bus stop. He mused over the circumstances of how his father had regained contact with them. It were mere chance, apparently - his current step-father was a friend of his real

father, a fact unknown for some time to all parties concerned. The two men were members of the same Lodge which met every week in the same town towards which Wiles was now heading on the ring road. A random natter had served to reveal all, before either of the two men had the wherewithal to keep mum.

 

Wiles sat back in the top front bus seat (having given up the pretence of driving it with the safety-bar) and consigned his life to the careful driving (or otherwise) of the man propped up at the large vestigial steering-wheel underneath him. Wiles often eschewed public transport for this very reason. He once fired off a letter to the local newspaper recommending that all potential bus passengers should be allowed to audition (or at the very least be introduced to) the one who was to be in sole charge of so many precious lives.  They did not print his idea, but he did receive a nice reply with an attractive embossed letter-head (which was in his duffel-coat pocket along with the photos of his Dad, for an inscrutable reason of Wiles’ own).

 

The town turned out to be a confusing place. After shaking hands with the surprised driver at the bus station, Wiles had tried to follow the directions his mother had given him. He found the public convenience easily enough. He managed to go twice, in case he couldn’t later find his way back to it. Then he set about reconnoitring the lie of the land for the library. It was supposed to be in Upper King Street... but not the one his mother had said. He started to panic so much he had to sit down and cross his legs. But it was only ten o’clock and he still had two hours left in which to establish the whereabout of the library. He moithered and dithered about asking a passer-by as to the mystery of Upper King Street, but thought better of it. He sat outside the Post Office in order to partake of an early lunch. Despite having had a heavy breakfast of cereal, thick-cut rashers of fatty bacon, grilled mushrooms looking to Wiles a bit like bodily innards and as much toast and marmalade as he could stomach in the time available, he decided to get the Marmite butties over and done with in case he was faced with a tight time schedule later in the morning. Apparently, as he later found by following a blue fingerpost saying public library, his destination was situated in plain King Street (presumably upper in position only). It was an old fashioned building amazingly constructed with the steep slope of the street (rather than against it for perpendicularity). It was closed! Closed for renovation! He could not believe his own angst, but eventually his brain had no option but to place faith in the purely impersonal image on the retina of his eye. Now the time was ripe for panic and he desperately looked around for his mother. But of course, she was nowhere to be seen. He picked out a photo from his duffel-coat pocket to stare at the young man on it. He looked remarkably like Wiles himself, which in a way was not surprising. However, what was more than just a little surprising, the image of his father was standing outside the very same library building - except the street did not seem to slope at all.

 

As the first ever earthquake to hit Hertfordshire began to shudder with increasing violence under his feet, Wiles unaccountably thought it would have been less surprising for the town to be attacked by a giant one-eyed fly flapping its enormous wings like marmite-smeared clipper sails. He then spotted someone familiar on the opposite side of the street to the library taking his photo with an ancient Brownie box camera.

 

Wiles sicked up his breakfast (without somehow budging is lunch) and he cursed aloud that he had not been able to audition God before he was born. But his last thought (other than the loose duffel-peg) was that it had indeed been very wise to go twice when he had the chance.

 

 

Published 'ProtoStellar' 1992

Baffle (16)

If there were a dining club for shy diners - not versed in prandial repartee - would each member take advantage of the secret logistics of dumb waiter or serving hatch when providing a meal for just one other member, i.e. providing a single meal, by turns, in each of their own homes, while not revealing themselves to the diner visually, only culinarily?

A good question is one which you can't get to the end of and thus find yourself unable to answer it.

Baffle (4)
I smell differently when faced with fathoming a crime.  If on the forage for food, then I switch noses.  And eat the discarded one.

DUST TO DUST

 

 

Mrs. Barge peered into the bath. There was an ingrained tide-mark looping about six inches from the rim. Almost gouged into the enamel: the strongest astringent would have no possible purchase upon it.

 

Mrs. Barge’s first-born baby, now grown-up, barged around the house in a lonesome game of blind bluff. Her husband, even at this moment, was grunting in a far-away closet. The other babies were braying in the empty scullery, eager for something to eat. Even the kitten looked old.

 

Returning from a holiday was always like this.

 

Mrs. Barge did not question the ugly bath-mark, despite nobody having been in their house for a whole fortnight. Probably burglars, one of whom had taken a bath, instead of their more usual stigmata.

 

Nothing appeared missing except a large chunk of her memory. The house was far too shiny for a fortnight’s dust-filled emptiness.

 

“Mummy, Mummy!” A baby had run into the bathroom.

 

“Yes, Dear.” Second nature to respond.

 

“Daddy says the house smells of clean things - like wax polish - and air-wick - and pine disinfectant - and suds - and coal-tar – and…

 ...“

“Yes, Dear.” The same reply but said differently.

 

Something was in the air, amid the warmth rising from the radiators. It was in the churning pipes that fed the benighted house and emptied its deepest slurries. It was in the shadow-beams of dust. It was in the bath.

 

Mrs. Barge vowed never to go on holiday again, because it always made coming back worse than ever. Holidays were hell.

 

She ignored the wave of dirty darkness as it swept from room to room, seeking the sluice trough of its own spent dreams. Each dust particle a baby one.

 

 

 (Whispers From The Dark 1995)

A NEEDLESS PALLIATIVE

 

 

 

 

Far too many ghosts believe that they actually exist, whereas, self-evidently, they are fallacious forgeries, iniquitous imitators, malicious mimics, cheap cheeky charlatans and other choice names that I can easily find to describe them, if the need ever arises. Simply because they are dead and have assumed a wispy watery whitish garb, they should not take it upon themselves to act like phenomena which, needless to say, cannot bear sane, sensible nor scientific scrutiny without shrivelling up into a yet more untenable gossamer of mumbo-jumbo, more akin to spiritual panaceas than delicious frissons of terror. You can be sure of believing me, because it goes without saying that I am the only genuine ghost in existence and, thus, very much in the know about such matters. So, rest easy and don’t ever, ever invest belief in ghosts, because, of course, I’ve retired. I gave up haunting even before so-called Mankind emerged from the primeval slime.

(The Third Half 1994)

ANGLING

 

 

By the weed pool, the fat man sat.

 

The heat of the day had made it seem natural to be bare...but, of course, with the beer belly between, he could never seem nude to himself...except, on reflection, by other means.

 

He stared into the pool, watching colourful fish amid his own mountainous geography. By some quirk of light and meniscus, he suddenly envisioned a winsome woman draped in fine greenery and darting jewelery, fantail eyebrows above sparkling nipplestones.

 

He shook free of the daydream, before the flattering image could take purchase.

 

He was not fishing for compliments.

 

His flyrod cranked like a crane, in full view from each and every angle.

 

 

(published ‘Small Press Scrappings’ 1991)

ZONE FEVER

 

(It goes without saying      that this tale is about some folk who live in a different universe...)

 

The demonster hopped from zone to zone, casting the more unsavoury parts of its body into the sidelines but as soon as one part went the way of its predecessor, another grew for ungrafting.

 

The citizens by this time had become accustomed to these busy, busy, busy critters riddling their streets with lumps of their skin cancer as well as the more dick-dory appendages. . .and almost welcomed this offure for their gardens. For once planted. these discards grew.quite quickly.into trees of interlocking tumours bearing. within days, great big dollops of putrid fruit.

 

“Nuff to keep us goin’ in these hardening times...” would say Ol’ Ma Manning.as she harvested the over-rich ruptures and melonheads from the meshed vines of her own particular zone

 

Only the demonsters could straddle the zones. For one zone was as distant from any other by time rather than space - and it was time of wnich the citizens had very little.

 

“Gif me jus’ one hour extra before I do die, and I will use it to do good for others.But fings being like they are, I’ve got no time but for meself,” Ol’ Ma Manning repeated to her neighbour as they leant across the zone fence.

 

“Times is ‘ard ‘ere too,” came back the usual response.

 

The demonsters took such conversations between the two zones, toting message pads like there were no tomorrows.

 

But,one day,the demonster of which we speak.entered burn-up on a particularly energetic gambol between two tight interfaces.

 

In transit, it jettisoned its beer belly, that had been particularly scorched, into a field that was near unto where O1’ Ma Manning was pegging up her late husband’s trews on the washing-line.

 

“Gor blimey, enuffer bleedin’ oo-fo,” she told the ghost of her husband who was evidently just the wind ballooning out the trews.

 

The zones nudge each other in the night, like an audience at a saucy film.

 

And from the tightening ancient furrow between two eroding historie, .there bloomed a swollen bagging of blood atop a mighty tree-stalk of mottled, knotted flesh that threatened to encroach on another universe.

 

The demonsters clamber it like an infant school of spiders, apparently zoned out and looking for Earth itself.

 

(Divine Rights 1988)

WHEN DUSK MET DAWN
  

 

 

The blue blanket, in its role of makeshift curtain, clung to the surface condensation of the window. It bore an archipelago of stains, imaginary worlds where the non-sleeper was able to cruise ... during those endless hours at dawn and dusk, when his thoughts would otherwise have slipped back into the viler self-made geography of his mind.

 

Only yesterday, he had met the one person who would ever mean anything to him, if indeed people CAN have a meaning. He still heard her voice in this very room:

 

“It’s time to say bye bye, Tom.”

 

There was no reply he could summon.

 

He had found her in the small supermarket down the road, where the few cans left over from the last rush looked lost amid the empty spaces among the shelves. He was after tomatoes which, in cans, were so different from those of a fresh variety ... in their blood soup looking for all the world like bodily innards. He told her that he was making lunch for himself and that he already had more than enough to go round two mouths.

 

As they left, the checkout man said, “It’s a rum old world innit? Nobody can eat nothing, these days, with all the scares.”

 

Tom smiled knowingly. “People’d rather starve than risk an unknown disease that can eat away at their bodies...” he suggested, after an embarrassing silence.

 

“Yes, I’ve had to put Government stickers on everything ... It cuts into the profits so.”

 

They left together, hand in hand ... for what had people in common but companionship in such times? They carried on a fitful conversation until they reached his flat. Realising that the key had been left unintentionally inside, he forced entry, at the same time trying to conceal the ease with which he did this. He did not want her to know that his occupation was tantamount to squatting. These days, nobody did anything to earn a living, for even money could not buy what one really needed in life.

 

Lunch was to be from a casserole he’d had simmering for months. She turned up her nose as he revealed the churning brown gruel with nrecognisable lumps floating. He took the ladle from the wall, stirred it noisily and then returned it to the oven.

 

Even sex was out of the question, because she’d watched the news, the same as everybody. Nothing was safe, he agreed. They did take a few nibbles at each other in the kitchen, which was almost erotic.

 

“Dad’s told me that Mum died from him you know?” she said, as she walked over to inspect the blanket. Towards the bottom, it was fraying, each teased-out fibre ending in a slowly forming bubble of damp.

 

“Have a go, if you want. I don’t need any till tonight,” he suggested gratuitously. The water authorities had long since been privatised and it was said in some quarters that they had pumped undiluted acid rain to the taps, in the hope that nobody would end up noticing.

 

Tom then understood that falling in love was not a lost art. How could he have offered her a suck of the blanket, otherwise?

 

“Come in ...” He lifted aside the grubby lip of sheet, demonstrating how dark and warm it must be within. “We don’t need to do anything dangerous, just cuddle and comfort ...”

 

“No, it’s too late. How do I know I can trust myself?” Her voice shook with emotion. She recalled the exploratory nibbles in the kitchen, still sucking on the bit of spare ear-lobe which she pressed against her bare cheek-lining with the tongue.

 

As Tom picked his teeth with a fingernail he’d only cleaned out fully that very morning, he could hear the distant wail of sirens. Ambulances steered clear of starvation cases, because the drivers wanted to avoid both the temptation and danger inherent in near-dead bodies. Thus, irrhythmically, they could be heard on their endless course on the ring-road ... their fuel caps open to the streaming air ... for when the pandemic chemical stews filtered back through the ragged rainless clouds of black smoke, everything but everything buzzed and honked.

 

The terrible tragedy was that she kissed Tom goodbye, tongue to tongue. Tragic in more ways than one, since he then couldn’t say how much he loved her before they separated.

 

 

 

He slept soundly for once and dreamt of man-made disasters, himself on the point of becoming unmade man ... only to be woken by the blanket flopping to the floor, too heavy for its hooks.

 

And the light flooded back.

 

 

 

(Peeping Tom 1995)