DOPPELGANGER

I’ve been waiting for you to come back.  I’ve waited in other houses, for a car to pull up outside, for a man to return for his dinner.  I’m used to it.  I will wait and hope your death is not permanent and that the other who has taken your place leaves soon, because I don’t like him as much.

Who knows where you went.  You were there for a season - a genius, an artist and a mystery.  You made me so happy.  I saw your death beginning and I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t be told.  The blackness swallowed you up little by little and all those things I loved about you disappeared.  I am left with the other now; I tiptoe around his growing irritation at my questioning presence, obsequiously fulfilling his needs, in the hope that I might entice you back.  Occasionally there are glimpses and I have the comfort of hope.

If I could take my love tinted glasses off, I would be clear sighted enough to see that the transformation is complete.  You are dead and gone.  I have made a commitment to an illusion and it has slipped away, leaving me with what is real and forever.  I am left with the memories, last year’s journal and the stories you once wrote.  I read them in these early hours of January.  I deny disappointment.  Life will go on, a new beginning based on what never was.

PEACE ON EARTH

I don’t mind the Slackers getting away with stuff, as long as they are polite and helpful towards the Customers.  The ones causing me anxiety are the Workers.  They’re so grateful to have a job they forget to take breaks, to switch off by walkin’ in a winter wonderland ...

I patrol the aisles, ensuring no-one is feeling the effects of the conditions because even the Slackers know it’s Christmas time at all ... and are getting involved, decking the aisles with bows of holly tra la la la la ... I mean, they’re working hard for once too.

“Mr Fulton,” Jenny rushes to me, “it’s happening again, aisle ten.”
Emma is staring at the shelves swaying side to side; “Ring ding ding ding ding ding-a-ling ...” she moans, surrounded by anxious colleagues.
“Take her outside.  Let her sit in her car,” I order.
They lead Emma away, past bemused Customers.  I smile reassuringly thinking longingly of outside where it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with ...

I continue my rounds.  When I reach the mistletoe and wine aisle, I can take my break.  Several customer queries and the incident with Emma have caused me to run behind.  My name is called over the tannoy, summoning me to aisle eight.  Jenny intercepts me; “There’s loads coming down with it, Mr Fulton.  You’re going to have to change the ...”

“Not now!” We’ve reached aisle eight.
All my life the Customer has come first, not the staff, not the Corporation that pays my wages.  I take pride in looking after their every need, in making sure they have a happy holiday, that their experience shopping with us is ... is oh I wish it could be Christm ... Oh God, I didn’t take my break, I can’t think!  There is a Customer down in aisle eight, standing over him is his wife, a frozen turkey in her hand, she’s weaving slightly and mumbling under her breath; “In the meadow we can build a snow man ... he’ll say are you married, we’ll say no man ...”  She starts to laugh.  I’ve seen staff this bad, but they spend hours in the store.  Could this over-exposure be due to the Corporation’s insistence we change things round regularly so that no matter how they write out their list, Customers will never get the order right and spend ages doubling back?
“What happened?” I ask.
“He told her to cook the turkey upside down so it wasn’t dry like last year, that’s all he said ...” Sandra reported as she moved the Customer into the recovery position.
“Give me the turkey,” I said gently to the woman, “I know how to make things right.  But you have to be quick, I didn’t take my break and ...”
“But baby it’s cold outside,” the woman whispered clutching the turkey.
“The weather outside is frightful ...” I begin to agree, then remember it’s not.
“Mr Fulton,” Jenny sounds edgy.  They can’t take me outside, not in front of the staring Customers.
I do the unthinkable, I snatch the turkey from the woman.  I have to save them, the Slackers, the Workers, my beloved Customers.  I sprint heading for the mistletoe and wine ... the booze aisle where the door leads out back.  Jenny is right, but I’m not going to change the playlist, we’re going to have a complete change from this constant sleigh-bell infested loop, we’re going to have silence!
“Mr Fulton!  What are you doing?” cries Gary in the warehouse, but Jenny has followed me and she holds Gary back.
“Go Mr Fulton!” she urges me as I bash the frozen turkey into the sound system again and again.
Finally we have what we crave, no sleigh-bells, no cheesy singing, no mention of enforced joy, presents or snow.  We have silence, we have ... peace on earth ... Oh God no.

FESTIVE FAYRE

Gabrielle and Katrina arrived at Madeline’s front door simultaneously.

“Hope she’s OK,” Gabrielle murmured.
“She really liked him,” Katrina whispered.
“What was he this time?  A stockbroker?  A venture capitalist?”
“An investment banker.”
The door opened and both women chorused; “Merry Christmas!”
Madeline looked lovely in her dress; “Dinner’s nearly ready!” she grinned, as if forcing herself into the spirit of it all.
“Dinner first, then presents, like last year,” Katrina suggested.
“Champagne first!” they all said together.

The women gathered in the kitchen and champagne was poured.

“Who wants to carve?” asked Madeline.
Katrina and Gabrielle looked at her imploringly.
“I’ve just had my nails done,” Gabrielle said.
“You cut meat so beautifully,” Katrina gushed.

Madeline sighed and took the meat from the oven.  A scent similar to pork filled the room.  Katrina and Gabrielle made appreciative noises.  While Madeline cut and divided the meat onto plates, they put vegetables into bowls, carried them through to the elaborately laid table and made sure glasses were refilled.

In the dining room, the women toasted the year that had been, then Gabrielle asked; “Do you miss him?”

Katrina shot her a look.
“Course I do,” Madeline replied, “it’s one of those things, isn’t it?  I met him in the New Year, he was new and love was new; but we all know that can’t last.” she sighed, putting a forkful of meat in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
“They go off don’t they?”  Katrina stated.
“Start neglecting their bodies,” Gabrielle said, “nice and fit when you meet them, then the gym visits stop and they sit in front of the TV, drink beer and eat doner kebabs ...”
“They start wearing jogging bottoms.  Then they fart on the upholstery and belch.” Katrina wrinkled her nose.
“They expect us to keep our figures,” Gabrielle continued, cutting meat off bone and skewering it on her fork.
“And they get irritable with you just for being alive.”
"You forget what you saw in them.”  They stopped, realising that Madeline hadn’t said anything.  She was staring nostalgically at her plate.
She looked up; “It’s better this way.  Why not feed them up?  Accelerate the inevitable decline?”
Gabrielle’s face softened, “You did seem to like him ...”
“He’d have turned out like the others,” Madeline’s eyes narrowed, “got mean, taken me for granted, spent all his time at work, forgotten my birthday.  Little by little with these City men the love ebbs away.  No, let it stay new forever and then we three get something out of it, this lovely party, this delicious meat.”
“They don’t all taste the same,” Gabrielle said, “this one is the best so far.”
“Yes, he was,” Madeline said sadly.
“We can’t wait to give you your present,” Gabrielle handed Madeline a parcel, “go on!”
Madeline opened it.
“Careful!” Katrina giggled.
Madeline stared at the sharp, bejewlled dagger in her hand; “Thanks ladies, you shouldn’t have!”
Katrina grinned, raising her glass; “Here’s to January ...”
“And hunting in Canary Wharf!” cried Madeline and Gabrielle.

FEEDING THE THING DOWNSTAIRS

“Any questions?” Mr Lyre asked.
Joseph and Marcia exchanged glances; “We didn’t see behind that door,” Marcia said.
“That’s the basement where the Thing lives,” Mr Lyre replied, “you’ve just got to feed it.”

Later, Joseph and Marcia sipped Chateauneuf Du Pape; “I know lots of houses have them,” Joseph said, “but it’s stretching us to buy the place as it is.”

“It’s our dream house and Mr Lyre said it eats anything.  We’re moving in.”

 “FEED ME!” the scream from below was deafening.  Maria and Joseph sat upright in bed, heads thick with champagne.

“What the f ...?”
“FEED ME!”
“There’s no decent food, the noise’ll wake the neighbours.  This was a bad idea!” Joseph stumbled round the bedroom, pulling on clothes.
“Just throw it some bread,” Marcia sighed.

It wasn’t happy with bread, chips, steak or chocolate.  It had developed a taste for luxury food and wanted five percent more than Mr Lyre had fed it.  Joseph and Marcia spent the week trying to keep up, stopping at the supermarket on the way back from work to buy food.  Anything to stop the neighbours hearing that they couldn’t keep their Thing fed.

The credit card bill arrived.

Marcia gulped on Jacob’s Creek; “We’ll starve it.”
They went to bed wearing ear plugs to block the screams.  They didn’t hear crashing or slithering movements as the Thing crawled up the stairs.  Joseph heard Marcia scream and saw the twin red eyes hovering over the bed; “I want seven percent more.  Feed me, now!”  It tore the duvet off them with its teeth and retreated into the basement.  Marcia went straight to the supermarket.

The demands of the Thing were constant.  Joseph got a second job at the supermarket.  Marcia became ruthless in her sales job, selling carbon credits to older people who didn’t know what they were buying.

“I can’t go on,” Joseph said, pouring the Value Red Wine.
“Stop whining!”  Marcia threw her glass over him and stormed out of the room.
“FEED ME!” screamed the Thing.
Joseph opened the door, down in the basement, the twin sets of red eyes stared at him.
“I want more,” it whispered sibilantly, “eleven percent.”
“It wants eleven percent more!” Joseph yelled at Marcia.
She came downstairs; “I remember you used to call me darling, we used to spend time together,” she muttered and left for the supermarket.

Marcia called in sick, but Joseph went to work as usual.  Driving back he saw a red glow at the top of the hill, when he got closer he saw fire.  Marcia and their neighbours stood in the garden, watching the inferno, listening to the screams of the Thing downstairs.

“I barricaded it in,” Marcia whispered.
Joseph watched all he owned go up in flames; “You’ve destroyed everything.”
“We don’t have to feed the Thing anymore,” Marcia said loudly.  The neighbours stared at her, while sirens wailed.  That night they slept in the car, Marcia’s head on Joseph’s shoulder.  They woke in the early hours to a deeper red glow and the smell of smoke.  All around them were flames and the sound of the monsters screaming.  The British were burning their castles.

THE CONVENTIONALS

You lead such a colourful life and have an open, trusting nature which causes you to share it with everyone.  That’s why you’re an easy target.  It’s blatantly obvious you’re having personal problems, so we’ve made sure the rumours have been spread and that you have been portrayed in the most unflattering light.

We’d been nice to you previously, so it must come as a shock that there’s no more small talk or lunch invitations.  We are letting you feel our unspoken disapproval for the choices you have made outside work, but it’s nothing you can put your finger on.  You’d be able to stand up for yourself if it was in the open, but this is a subtle push towards your complete isolation.

Your personal problems are bound to affect your work.  We noticed the report typed in the wrong font and the empty water bottle you left on your desk, making the office look untidy.  We took you aside and admonished you for those things.  You looked confused for a moment; then behaved as though you thought we were joking.  We were quickly able to assure you we weren’t and then you couldn’t apologise fast enough.

You’re losing confidence rapidly, the more we focus on your work and pick up those errors in style and wording, the more mistakes you make.  Now you’re too nervous to write a basic report.  We’ve noticed your hands shake as you send work to us; we think it’s because of the bottle of wine we’ve told everyone you’re drinking every night.  We keep telling you to see your GP, that we care, that we want to help ...

Heaven forbid our work came under such scrutiny, with my sickness record and Donna’s blatant incompetence, my God, we’d never bear up under the strain.  That’s why it’s so lovely to have a scapegoat like you – your misdemeanour outside the office makes us look whiter than white.  It’s open season now.  We will pick up your every mistake and amplify it and the noise we create will make it look like we’re doing our jobs.  We are the Conventionals and you have upset us.  Give it time and we can make things far worse for you.  We’ve done this before.  Once our target is destroyed we move on.

SMOKE SCREEN

In the winter we hid in the safety of our smoke screen.  We used to stand in the cold of your porch, watching the fag smoke curl upwards into the starlit dark.  We avoided the subject.

We talked about everything else instead – put the world to rights, laughed at my stupid jokes and your acerbic wit and criticised the digital obsessed world.  During pauses in our conversation, when it might have been right and proper to raise the subject, we played music and critiqued that.  To distract ourselves further one night, we went dancing and our antics made you believe that people thought we were crazy.  I just didn’t care, but then I never did care enough, did I?  We were safe in our bubble, we avoided the subject.

It turns out that all through last winter, you were waiting for your moment to raise it, to end things between us, to recede and disappear like our fag smoke disintegrating into night air.  Me, toking on my cig, laughing at your humour, all happy and secure, I had no idea.  I thought we could avoid the subject forever.

 Well, the Spring came, didn’t it?  The light revealed a fraudulent friendship and there was no hiding anymore ... You picked your moment then and I?  Finding myself unable to watch smoke curling upwards, I gave up cigarettes and got myself through the summer.  Now that the nights are drawing in again, I find myself wanting to stand on your porch and share a cigarette with you.

 

THE ACTOR AND I

Take a bow.  The show is over.  I retreat in triumphant, but exhausted reflection.  I am safe, they can’t see past the actor.

The performance means more these days, as the reward is greater.  It’s not the same old tired audience as before, but a new larger one.  Fresh eyes are upon me and I am weighing them up, finding out what they need and adapting to suit, pulling more and more out of the bag.  I once thought that being myself would make me happy, but I’ve realised I thrive on living through an act, remaining ever a stranger and letting no-one in.

The audience is everywhere, at work, at play and at home.  I am driven ever further into my shell, forcing me to make my isolation a more comfortable place, a welcome respite at the end of the play.  Doing this has been worthwhile, I used to despise the actor, but now she retreats and rests with me.  I give her instructions for her next part and she does her best.  Sometimes the mask slips, but that’s fine.  The audience appreciates a bit of vulnerability, a mistake or two, it’s OK to fuck up.  This is a more accepting crowd.

THAT DRESS

We come into the bedroom and find it has escaped from its box.  We shut it in the room with us, but it still wreaks havoc, racing around and trashing the furniture.  It tears through your suits with its claws and rips apart my favourite dress with its bony hands.  We are well drilled with what to do.  We sit on our bed with our fingers stuffed in our ears and our eyes firmly shut, waiting for it to exhaust itself.

Eventually, you nudge me; “I think it’s tiring.  Are you ready?”

“Yes,” I whisper, “we mustn’t look at it.”  I recall the last time I glimpsed its green flesh and emerald eyes.  It took us days to recover.
“It’s behind us,” you murmur.
I feel its rank breath on the back of my neck and cry; “Now!” We turn; eyes shut and grab its slippery body, holding on tight.  It puts up one hell of a struggle.  We stagger, holding it between us to the box.  We are well versed in the techniques of putting it back in, but it seems to take forever.  It’s so hard to work with your eyes shut, but we stick to the routine.  You hold it, I force down the lid and you remove yourself at the last possible second ... Finally after four failed attempts, we trap it and can open our eyes again.  We sit on the box while it howls obscenities from within and reminds us of the past - of every argument that we ever had.  It feeds on attention, being listened to, looked at and fought with.  We’re aware that even our tussle with it has given it strength.  It can never die; being put in a box and ignored is the only thing that can weaken it.  We hold each other, kiss, reaffirm our love and it finally shuts up.

You glance at me wearily, get up and leave the room.  I remain sitting, racking my brains as to how it could have got out.  You went out last night and I heard it moving in the box, whispering maliciously to me, but I let the words wash over me as trained and you came back, didn’t you?  Albeit two hours after you said you would, a little drunk, but nothing out of the ordinary.  Maybe it was something I did.  There are verbal and non verbal signals that allow it to escape and it seems to me that these days the slightest little thing can release it.  I didn’t mean what I said this morning though, before I put my little dress on and went to the office ... Well, that dress is torn up in pieces in the corner now and I can never wear it again.

NO HEAVEN

Joan Stowne died on the 3^rd November 2013.  She lay in darkness for two nights; then on the third day she woke to find herself at the entrance of a beautiful garden.  An angel opened the gate and Joan walked through.
“Congratulations!” the angel cried, “you’ve won a stay in Heaven for all of eternity!”
“No thank you,” Joan answered.
The angel looked horrified; “What do you mean?  No thank you?”  Then his face softened, “look, God knows and I know that you were under some pressure in your life and perhaps all of it didn’t go as well as you’d hoped.  I want to reassure you, everything is done for you here.  There is nothing to worry about, nothing challenging, no more stress.”
“I didn’t mind the challenges,” Joan was looking over the angel’s shoulder at a cherry blossom tree, “they made me feel alive.”
“OK, your relationships with people then, you really struggled with those, didn’t you?  Here you’ll have an entourage of perfect friends, you’ll never be alone.  They will compliment you constantly, raise your self esteem, they won’t betray you or bitch about you.  Everyone is terribly lovely here.”
“I didn’t mind the flawed people,” Joan replied, “they were the most interesting.”
The angel was struggling now; “Is it that you’ll miss your friends and relatives on earth?  Don’t worry, you can look down from above and witness their achievements.”
“If I’d wanted to watch my friends and relatives being happy I wouldn’t have closed down my Facebook account while I was still alive.”
The angel stared at Joan in complete confusion; “Look at the surroundings, the accommodation you’ll live in will be excellent, you’re in Heaven for goodness’ sake!  I can’t understand why you’re not happy.  I think you’re being ungrateful to be honest.”
“Am I still Joan Stowne?”
“Well of course you are.”
“Therein lies the problem.  When I killed myself, I wanted there to be a big, black nothing.  I don’t like being Joan Stowne, I wanted her dead and now you’re sentencing me to be Joan Stowne for all eternity.  You think I’m ungrateful, well you’re cruel.”

NOBODY IN WINCHESTER

I had to write to the Council to get them stopped.  That riff raff from Southampton and other places always visiting.  They lowered the tone of the city, that’s what I said in my letter.  Staggering round the city half drunk; wearing hoodies and leggings or little boob tubes that left nothing to the imagination.  Let’s be rid of them, I said.  Thank goodness our wonderful City Council listened.

Unfortunately, I had to write again.  Students, everywhere, thousands of ‘em!  Faces buried in their smart phones as they stumbled through the city doing research on their dissertations.  Be gone!  I said and take your creative ideas and youthful exuberance with you.

The unemployed had to go as well, we can’t have scroungers here, they don’t pay their way and they do nothing for the economy.  Also, those people who work for a living, who do they think they are? - getting up at 6.30am, walking in clacky heels past my house or slamming their car doors to wake me up.  The insolence!  I suggested they go live elsewhere.

Who wants old people?  They deliberately go out during lunch times or rush hour when there’s lots of traffic on the road and hold everything up with their slow driving.  They’re not doing it because they are infirm let me tell you, they’re doing it to annoy.  Many a time I’ve been trying to walk quickly down the street into town and there’s some old blighter dawdling along in front of me, blocking the pavement.  I screamed at one old biddy to get out of the way, only for her to pretend to be deaf.  Then, when I gave her a good old shove, she dived like a Chelsea player in the penalty area and pretended to have hurt her hip.  Away with them!

Children, don’t get me started, luckily the Council was quick on the uptake there.  I told them exactly what I’d done with mine and they did the same - promptly packing them off to boarding schools in Kent.  Good riddance!

You may wonder what I’m writing to complain about now.  The thing is, there’s nobody in Winchester, except horse-faced, 4x4 driving, Aga mums like me and I can’t stand them...

FOR A SEASON

The office was doing his head in.  James took a walk in the park, choosing the path leading into the woods.  After a while, he stopped and stared into a clearing.  The wind was playing games with the leaves, picking them up, spiralling them and letting them fall.  Somehow the dancing woman seemed part of woods, wind and leaves; they whirled all around her as she spun and pirouetted.  He cleared his throat and she turned.  There was power in her steady gaze.  Her colours were autumn, auburn hair, green eyes, warm complexion.  She wore muted reds and browns.  She smiled.  James looked her up and down, nodded approvingly and said; “What’s your name, love?”

James’ world was one of profits, pensions and portfolios - the people occupying it were image conscious and shallow.  Katy’s conversation was of nature and change.  He did his best to follow it and asked if he could date her.

“For a season,” she said.
Over the following days, he persuaded her into the pub and then into his flat.  She looked beautiful, naked in his bed, but she asked such irritating questions; “Why are you never outside?  Why do you waste your time doing a job you hate?”  He hadn’t thought of these things before.  He’d gone to office, pub and home, existing without living, moving without aim.  Sometimes he wished she’d shut up.  She made him restless.

The nights drew in and the air became bitter.  In the park, he noticed how in tune with her surroundings she was, hair almost white blonde now, like the frost that was still heavy on the ground.  She wore a combination of blues and blacks, her eyes were icy and her pale skin cold.

“You’ve got thinner,” he remarked.
Katy seemed distracted; “Time is running out.”
James agreed; “I’ve only got half hour’s break today.  The wheels of industry keep turnin’.”
“Things shouldn’t stay the same,” she said.
“I don’t know.  I think you and me, we’ve been seein’ each other for a little while, we could keep on seein’ each other; there might be a future.  What do you say?”
She laughed, the sound was brittle, like branches snapping in a storm; “The season’s ending, James.  We will end with it.”
“Enough of this shit!” he snapped, “what’s happened to you anyway?  You look different, not half so pretty.  I don’t like you like this.”
She kissed him with dry lips, her cold, hard hands circled his face and she stared deeply into his eyes; “Remember, time runs away.  It disappears.”
He watched her walk away and shouted after her; “I’m sorry!  Tomorrow, yeah?”
She made no sign that she’d heard.

The next day he called her mobile only to hear a weird crackling over the line.  He walked into the woods, the trees were stripped bare, the clearing empty.  There was no Katy, no dancing leaves, just the cold and lingering frost.  He realised what had happened, sank to his knees on the petrified ground and wept.  Then slowly, he wiped his eyes, got to his feet and returned to the office.

BODIESSSZZZ

That day at the office, Marianne was dreading the encounter with her employee.  Derek had said he was going to tell his girlfriend about them last night. 
She braced herself as the cleaner approached and said; “Marianne, I don’t feel so good today, may I go home?  Derek has left me.”
Marianne couldn’t look her in the eye; “I know.”
There was a pause as the cleaner put things together, black brows furrowing, eyes darkening.
“I’m sorry,” Marianne added, “we worked together and fell in love.  It’s like we’re one.”

Indeed they were.  As days passed, Derek abandoned his bohemian wardrobe for designer clothes and Marianne hummed the tune he always whistled.  Neither were discreet, they walked down the corridor arm in arm and discussed plans in front of the cleaner.  It was when Marianne mentioned taking Derek away at the weekend that the cleaner, after hesitating, said; “Have you thought of etatuM Hotel?  Derek always wanted to go there.  It’s for couples who want to become truly one.”

The traffic was horrendous, but the sat-nav eventually guided Marianne and Derek off the motorway and into the heart of the countryside.  The lanes became narrow, there were no streetlights and it was pitch black.  Marianne was going to suggest giving up, when they turned onto a track and saw lights.

“Here we are,” Derek said, “etatuM Hotel.”
“Trust you to want to come somewhere like this,” Marianne sighed.
“I didn’t want to come here.”
“But she said you did.”
Derek shook his head.
Marianne was tired.  “I’m going straight to bed,” she stated, as Derek parked the car.

There was a security guard at the desk instead of a receptionist.  He gave them keys to their room, picked up their cases and led them to a lift.  They were on the top floor; “You have the penthouse,” he stated in a melodious voice, “no extra cost.  It’s low season.”

Any doubts were dispelled by the opulence of the accommodation.  There was a sitting room with wide screen television and surround music system.  The bathroom had a Jacuzzi and the bedroom a king size bed with rose petals scattered on it.
“Room service only at this time,” the security guard added.

Later Derek and Marianne lay in bed, having consumed delicious Italian pizza and red wine.

“I’m glad you had the courage to leave,” Marianne said, “she’s never going to do better than cleaning.  What were you thinking?  Were you slumming it?”
“I guess I was,” Derek answered.
After they had made love among the rose petals, they held each other.
“I feel such a connection,” Marianne murmured.
“Me too,” mumbled Derek, “can you move over a bit, I need to reach for my drink.”
She tried; “Derek, I can’t move, I seem to be ... stuck to you.”  She felt a strange pulling sensation in her body.
Derek tore the covers off and they stared in horror, unable to see where Derek’s flesh ended and Marianne’s began.  It was as if their bodies were being pushed closer by an invisible force, the skin liquefying.  Marianne tried to scream, but her voice took a strange tone, not like a woman or man.  Her eyes closed, her face was pressed right up against Derek’s, her chest suffocated against his, knee joints smashing into his bones.  The bodies on the bed struggled, limbs thrashing, backs heaving and then finally all was still.  What was left stood and staggered to the mirror to look on itself.  Two had become one. 

In the hotel bar, a woman sitting alone raised her glass.

IN YOUR SHADOW

My life suddenly lost direction.  I was left uncertain and over-whelmed by a hundred possibilities.  I could not choose.  You offered me shelter and took the pain of decision away.  I've always sought to hide and you are a big tall man, there was room for me in your shadow.  It became my refuge and you made it so easy, happily making my choices for me after courteously asking for my opinion and kindly accepting that I had none.

Obviously I needed camouflage, so I wore charcoal greys by day and midnight blue or black at night.  I was happy when people stopped noticing me.  Waitresses deferred to you for food orders and bills; barmen who used to give me the briefest of smiles were now dead eyed and disinterested as they took your money and provided drinks.  The world carried on without noticing that I was gradually slipping away.

I couldn't have chosen a more charismatic protector.  Even my friends, who had previously been eager for my views, now cared only for yours.  At the dinner party, they spoke to you, while I played with my food and watched myself disappear inside your big grey shadow, in my grey dress, free to pass the time thinking my own thoughts.

These deliberations were suddenly interrupted by the sound of my name.  It was my long time friend Sarah speaking; “So, where’s Jane tonight?” she asked you.

Right here, I thought, but I didn't speak because that would mean stepping out and standing out.
You stared at her; “I – I thought she was here.”
You looked over my head, then in the opposite direction and became confused; “She was here!”
“I didn't see her,” Sarah's husband John stated.
“She didn't come in with you,” Sarah added.
You stood, distress evident on your face; “I'm sure I … look, I should go home!”
I smiled, happy in the knowledge that what I had always wanted had happened.  I had disappeared, I no longer existed.

EFFIGIES

The foreign city overwhelmed me with its speeding cars, sounds of construction and shouting.  There was chaos when someone lost their grip on the lead of their dog and horror when the fleeing animal was hit by a vehicle.  Its careless owner collapsed on the dusty ground in tears.  It was all too much.  I dodged through the great door and was engulfed in silence.

The images within were awe inspiring, high stone arches, paintings and a man dying on a cross hoisted way up high surrounded by more gold than I'd ever seen.  These were unreachable, unimaginable riches, my jaw dropped.  Was God here in this place of silence and prayer?

I followed a left hand corridor.  Along it, in a transparent box lay Jesus, a wound in his side, pictures of saints surrounding where he lay, his long hair flowing over his shoulders.  I shuddered and walked on.  To the left was a room; inside it was an effigy of Mary, her heart pierced by seven silver daggers, a gold crown on her humble head, her face a world of pain.  Was this how it was to lose your son?  I proceeded inside.  A sign re-iterated the need to be quiet, that this was a room for prayer.  There was a box in which I could put my wishes and candles I could light.

At the end of the room was Jesus, clothed in purple, a golden halo over his head, he was carrying a wooden cross.  The expression on his terrible face was one of anger, there were tiny black marks all over the skin, I couldn't tell if they were tiny cuts or grimy tears.  I didn't want to look any more, because his gaping mouth seemed to snarl at me.  Just a doll they made, I told myself, but was I really supposed to be able to pray here?  I thought of Mother and hastily wrote my hopes on a piece of paper, dedicating the prayer to her.  I stuffed the paper in the box and lit a candle.  As I did so, there was a movement, the doll of Jesus had been looking ahead, but now his staring eyes met mine.

My legs went weak and I couldn't take a single step.  I heard something behind me; the statue of Mary had reached up to one of the daggers in her chest, her face full of sorrow.  Did she just shake her head at me?  Surely I had been exposed to too much sun.  I looked back at Jesus and told myself that he couldn't have walked out of his alcove; it was not possible that he was merely a footstep away from me, the cross on his shoulder, his face pock marked with black staring into mine.  It could not be that his benign mother was now blocking the door, her arms folded, head shaking back and forth mechanically.  I somehow managed to look up again and Jesus stared deeply into my eyes.  His voice was rich and deep when he spoke; “You have forgotten to pay, my son.”

I reached inside my pocket for the few coins I had.  I hoped they would go to a good cause.

DISCARDED

They walk aimlessly, lost in twilight streets, their faces seasick with loneliness.  The street lamps create shadows for their miserable zombie bodies and the mist clings to their clothes.  It's worse than death, this feeling of complete emptiness, darkness and hopelessness.  It is surely too painful to be contained inside a body and yet it is.

Footsteps plod, eyes are downcast, but they don't see each other as they walk by.  These individuals are perfectly wrapped up in their misery.  As they wander the streets around the old cathedral, thoughts echo in their minds and become whispers on the night air.

I can't go home to her yet
He doesn't want me anymore
I am not young.  It is too late to start again
I have not spoken to a single human being all day, not a single human being.  I blame those automated machines they've put in the supermarket ...

And so, they pass each other without looking up, lost in reflection, trapped in bubbles and unable to see past the dragging pain inside.  The rejected.  The discarded.

A WAR OF TWO CITIES

The committee gathered at Kia's flat in the 'Eath, a salt of the earth council estate in Salisbury.  They opened with ‘their’ song which they’d nicked off a band called Ayreon:-
'The magic words are spoken
As we leave the Plain in silence
Now the Circle stands alone
And the Druids turn to stone.'
Chardonnay wondered what a druid was anyway, as she twiddled with her hair extensions.  Chrissie smudged mascara as she wiped away a tear.
“Why did you two get dressed up for?” demanded Kia, “those extensions is gonna get torn out, Char.”
“I'm not turnin' up looking like no pikey, am I?” Chardonnay protested.
“Are those fake eyelashes, Chrissie?”
“Sorry, but Mum always says that ...”
“All right!” Kia didn't want Chrissie to start talking about her Mum.
“Where’s Aimee?” demanded Shel pouting, “it's nearly time to go and she missed the song.”
“Who chose that stupid song anyway?” snarled a voice.  Aimee stood at the door of Kia's kitchen, she wore a PVC boob tube and combat trousers.  Her biceps bulged and her abs rippled.  She swung her Versace handbag menacingly.
Kia gulped, some girls took it serious, but then, it was serious!  Those Winchester bitches claimed it was for some poncy historical reason that the cities hated each other, but everyone knew it was 'cos Roberta Edmonds-Holt had stolen the boyfriend of Sue Fletcher, Chrissie's Mum in 1993.  Sue hadn’t recovered and Chrissie hadn’t met her Dad…
“Did you put bricks in your 'andbag, Shel?” Aimee asked.
“I'm not taking a handbag,” Shel put her Burberry bag on the counter and took a bicycle chain from it, “I'm using this.”
The sight of Aimee’s muscles and Shel’s armoury made them brave.
“Let's get them!” Chardonnay grinned.
“To the plain!” Kia cried.  If Roberta Edmonds-Holt’s daughter was there, there’d a right war!

The committee gathered on a hill, watching the sun rise.  Chrissie remembered a line from their song, about Salisbury Plain filling with a golden light.  She swallowed, clutching her stone filled Mulberry satchel.  Would Harriet be there?  Her privileged half sister?  The one who'd had a Dad and a Mum who wasn't an alcoholic? Aimee was doing warm up exercises, Shel was whirling her bicycle chain round her body and Chardonnay was fretting about her hair extensions.  Should she have put them into dreadlocks?  At the bottom of the hill, were their girls from the 'Eath and the Friary in their uniforms of tight leggings and Hollister hoodies, their West country voices piercing; “Where they too?”  “They is late!”  “Winchester bitches!”  “We're so doin' this for Sue an' Chrissie!”  “Sssh!  Chrissie's 'ere, in't she?”

The dawn light finally revealed the high class women of Winchester, led by Harriet Edmonds-Holt, riding a white horse.
Kia was furious, Daddy buy Harriet a horse did he?  While Chrissie got sod all!  Kia risked a glance at Chrissie, her eyes were bright with tears, her mouth set in a firm straight line.  Wordlessly, Kia gave the signal and the throng charged forwards.  The contingent from Winchester responded, with Harriet leading the way, white jodpurs spotless, her blonde hair streaming out behind her as she spurred her horse on.

Thirty minutes later, fifty girls from Winchester and Salisbury clutched at each other, sobbing as if their hearts would break.

“I'm sorry my Daddy left your mummy for Mummy!” Harriet wept, as her horse grazed quietly nearby.
“S'OK, s'ok,” Chrissie gasped, hugging her half sister tightly.
“I'm sorry I 'it you with my bicycle chain, it was really stupid,” Shel told Emma Bartlett-Smythe, while Amelia York-Dwight handed Chardonnay a handful of hair extensions in silent apology.
“What we gonna do?” sobbed Kia, “this should've stopped ages ago and now – now it’s gone too far!”  She was gesturing at the muddy ground, where Aimee lay motionless.

THE 'RESCUER'

I met her at the hotel bar, she was sitting with her boyfriend and looking in every direction but his.  Her eyes met mine and held them long enough to feel significant.  Her boyfriend waved his hand in front of her face, clicking his fingers until he won her attention.
“That's better,” he said edgily, “what do you want to eat?”
“Whatever you say,” she replied.
He sighed; “Have the salad, meat’s wasted on you.”
I thought a beautiful woman like that could do better.  When she went outside, I did too and we stood in the warm night air.  She was Chloe, a primary school teacher and his name was Will.  We talked about my work as a college lecturer in physical education and the differences between the age groups we taught.  Eventually her cigarette burned down to her fingers and she had to go back.

I noticed that evening and at breakfast that he was never far from her, hovering, one hand usually on the small of her back.  It felt claustrophobic.  Her clumsy hand movements, soft voice and downcast eyes made me think she may as well be his prisoner.  The staff told me they had arrived at the weekend, that he was a venture capitalist, he talked to her disrespectfully in front of the waiters and the woman who cleaned their room had found blood on sheets and towels.  Jigsaw pieces incongruous on their own, built a nasty picture when put together.

At dinner the next night, it was clear that she was driving him crazy trying to appease him.  He’d ask her opinion and she’d say 'I don't mind', 'whatever you think', 'shall I have salad again?'  In the end he stood in the middle of the restaurant and shouted at her.  There was no point in him paying for this holiday if she wasn't enjoying it, if she couldn't even decide what she liked.  She wasn’t a pleasure to be with, she was fucking dull.  Then he marched outside and she followed.  I waited a moment and hurried out too.  She was lying in the courtyard and he was standing over her.  I'd seen enough.  He was muttering some excuse about pushing her in anger and her falling, I wasn't having it.  It wasn't long before he was on the ground, nose bleeding.  The waiters had to drag me away.  I looked at Chloe, she couldn’t be in any doubt of my ability to take care of her now, she'd seen the mess I'd made of Will.  I could tell by her face I'd won her.

Will couldn’t prosecute, he didn’t have a leg to stand on; he took an early flight home.  Chloe went back to my room and the next morning had breakfast with me.

“Now,” I said, trying to catch her eye, “what do you want?  There are eggs, pancakes, french toast …”
“Whatever you say,” she said softly, staring at the wall behind me, hands shaking slightly, “whatever you say.”

FAST CARS

The motorway is empty.  We drive down the slip road and cruise alongside each other, you in your shiny new motor and me in the old car you kindly gave me.  We look across, I stick two fingers up and you poke your tongue out.  I floor it before the agreed starting point.  You have the advantages of more power and bigger engine; I won’t win by obeying rules.  I’m up to 100mph in a heartbeat.  The adrenaline kicks in.

You’re alongside me in moments and sailing passed.  I could’ve weaved all over the place, made it hard, but then I would have risked smashing into you.  I get a smug wink from your hazard lights as you disappear into the distance and I slow down to sulk.  I didn’t even get up to speed and I so wanted a race ...  Then I see blue lights far in front, there must have been a cop on a slip road.  I should drive innocently by, but if you’re going to be in trouble, I want to be in more.  I hit the accelerator and don’t change up.  The roar of the engine is deafening.  I think I manage to scream by your hard shoulder meeting with Mr Traffic Officer at 130mph.  I imagine the cop diving into his car, taking off and radioing, but he’s not going to catch me.  His colleagues will have to.

When I see the blue lights in my mirror, I don’t pull over.  I can see you and I, walking to court together like Bonnie and Clyde.  I’ll be the biggest media whore ever.  I can tell them how I saw the politicians on the news talking about austerity and cuts, cocooned in their Saville Row suits.  How I wanted to smash their faces in, tear their guts out and piss on them.  Instead, I tore down the motorway and got chased by Police.  A woman with a reliable job, who had never been in trouble, who should be at home knitting or baking or doing whatever we middle aged women are supposed to do.  A lot will be made of my age, that I’m child-free, selfish and immature.  Why didn’t I pull over and stand by my man?  Why did we, a couple with ‘it all’, do this crazy thing?  The establishment will take everything away – licence, job, home.  

They are closing in on me now, two cop cars behind, a helicopter above, blue lights ahead.  They have blocked the motorway, I’ll be forced onto the exit.  They will chuck a stinger across my path and bust my tyres.  Then they will take me into custody and be the first to ask why.  What can I tell them?  About the travelling, the house moves, the relationship changes and a career break spent at university?  All so I could end up back in a fucking office, earning exactly the same wage as when I began; just more in debt and desperate to escape.

BREATHE

At first I didn’t feel anything and I didn’t guard my heart because I didn’t consider you a threat.  It happened during that stroll, when the sun was in your hair and you were kicking autumn leaves, laughing at my jokes.  Suddenly I loved you, just like that.  You paused, gasping for breath and looked up.

“You OK?” I asked.
“A bit breathless.”
“Me too,” I smiled tenderly.

I cried when I went home.  You have to understand, I hadn’t loved for years and the intensity of it tortured me.  I had to be near you.  So I knocked on your door, fell into your arms and told you everything.

“I must move in,” I insisted, “we can’t be apart.”
“I’m sorry,” you replied, “you see, I can’t breathe when I’m with you.”
This was a ridiculous claim, made in order to dodge commitment.  I lost my temper, it was your fault I was in love; you’d have to accept the consequences.

You did your best to make your home mine, but you became listless and complained of headaches.  You were drowsy by day and restless at night.  It worried me and I told you to rest.  Despite my constant attention, your skin darkened and I was aware that you were always struggling to breathe.

One night I woke to an empty bed and found you asleep in the living room.  I hoped you were better because you were breathing more easily, but as soon as I came in, you woke and began that horrible rasping again.  I told you that your condition required comfort, not a cold couch.  “I can’t breathe when I lie beside you,” you complained.

“You want to be in any other room except the one I’m in!  You don’t love me!” I snapped.
“It’s not that!  I just ... can’t ... breathe!”

I had to carry you into the bedroom; then I lay next to you, telling you I’d never go from your side and all would be well.

“Please ...” you whispered, your breath coming in labored gasps, “please ...”
I couldn’t leave you like you wanted, you needed care and I loved you too much.  I put everything required in the one room and remained beside you.  As time passed, I cried and begged and pleaded you to fight.
“If you could just ... go ...” you said faintly.
I shook my head.
You shut your eyes in defeat.  My heart beat quickened and a lump rose in my throat.  “No!” I cried in anguish.

I hugged your unconscious body, told you I loved you and begged you to wake.  As my feelings reached their peak, you drew your last breath.  My hand was on your heart when it ceased to beat and my arms were around you when your flesh turned cold.  I held on and on.