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.