Tag Archives: suicide

No Other Blue by Craig Charles

This is Craig Charles’ 1998 poetry collection, No Other Blue, transcribed just because I’d like it to be more easily available. I believe it’s out of print, but feel free to stop me.

Please also see this page for more Craig Charles poetry including Scary Fairy and some information.

The line and stanza breaks may not be as intended – some of these are illustrated by Philippa Drakeford (and I’m too lazy to upload scans, sorry) with the lines broken up to fit the illustrations, so in those cases I’m making my best guess.

Some poems have author’s notes from CC, which I’ve included.

I like writing poems

I like writing poems
But it’s getting me down
Because I can’t put my pencil down.

I like writing poems
But it gets in the way.
Addicted to write
A poem every day.

Why do I always reach for the pen?
To tell everyone that I’m unhappy again.
Why do I instinctively write down in verse
The most mundane things, both tiresome and terse?

I wish that my pencil knew all that I think
And would write it down for me, whilst I have a drink.

George McGee

I feel sorry for old George McGee because George was actually one of my decent classmates. I changed the name of the real culprit because he was doubly likely to sue.

I knew this kid at school,
By the name of George McGee
He was always passing wind and
Blaming it on me.

He’d hit me in the classroom
And he’d hit me in P.E.
Like he’d wait for me to get the ball
When we were playing in the gym
He’d either push me over
Or kick me in the skin

He was that sort of kid.
The sort of kid who cheats at conkers.
It wasn’t totally his faul though –
His family were bonkers.
His dad did his homework once,
It made me a jealous sight –
That was until he got his book back
And found out he wasn’t right

He was that sort of kid.
The sort of kid who washes hamsters in vim.
The doctors took him away, and did some tests on him.

I hadn’t seen George from that day to this
Until, despite my pleading,
The little sneak
– On tuesday week –
He pulled me up for speeding.

I want to feel your bum

This was one of my earliest efforts and actually won a poetry competition. It always amused me writing a love poem that started with the opening line…

I want to feel your bum,
But I know you’ll slap my hand.
And every time I see you smile,
It makes my alter ego stand.
I want to kiss your lips,
But I’m scared about my breath.
I want to hold your hand,
But I’m half frightened to death.
I want to drop formalities
And let my fingers roam,
But my mum’s
Banging on the ceiling
Telling me
To take you home.
I want to take you to the pictures
But your study’s in the way.
And leaving can be grieving
When you always want to stay.
I want to marry you this instant
And let my feelings delve.
But my dad said I’ll have to wait,
Because I’m only twelve.

Shipwreck my soul

Ever since Dylan Thomas wanted to shipwreck his soul between someone else’s thighs, I’ve been looking for places to shipwreck mine. The girl in question was a computer programmer, hence the software in my softness.

I want a cold pebble beach,
I want sea in your hair,
I want salt and sand on your skin.
I want to bathe my hands in the waves of your hair,
And bathe your body all tight and trim
And shipwreck my soul in your eyes.

I want to see you dressed real minimalist,
In lycra and in lace
The cool damp cotton towel
Can wipe mascara from your face
And I will shipwreck my soul in your eyes.

‘Cause you’re pretty in lace and satin and silk
You’re mine.
That’s not to say I own you,
Just a time share holding.

She’s pretty, she’s pale, she’s soft, she’s warm, she’s clean,
She’s the computer rash in my machine
Affecting mind and motion, thought and deed,
And wherewithall
My love.
Where, with all my love.

Brewer’s droop

I wrote this on the sea wall at Llandudno after an unsuccessful attempt to consummate the relationship with my (little did I know then) soon-to-be ex -wife.

I can’t feel that feeling any more.
The tingle doesn’t tingle
Underneath my overalls.
Embarrassment and panic
Shame when you think it’s
Getting hard again, it doesn’t
It just limps a bit and falls.

You just don’t know
The place to look
When you find you can’t get it up
And the feelings just don’t feel the same
When the fingers stroke again,

Again,

And
I can’t make
My burner flame
From tip to top to core.

The tension tends to aggravate
When you find that you can’t copulate
And your tingle
Cannot mingle
Any more.

And your ego can’t kick-start and go
If you can’t make those juices flow.
And you know, I know, we all know
A man – is not a man
Without a spanner in his hand.

And you feel, I feel
We all feel
This need to overpower
To turn on
And deflower
But it’s hard
Without the power
In your loins.

Or it isn’t hard
Without the power
In your loins.

And it might just get to irritate
When you find that you can’t fornicate
When your arrow is bowed instead of straight
And you can’t get that friction in your groin.

And it’s easy for you to say:
‘Where there’s a willy
Then there’s usually a way.’
But that statement is easily said
When the thing’s all wrinkly and dead,
And it’s not that firm, upright and bold
And my balls are crinkly and cold.

But I suppose it’s pretty funny
That in this land of milk and money
It’s too much to touch the burning crutch
Of your true intended honeybunch.

And she says she loves me,
She knows I’m competent
Love is a many-splendoured thing,
– It sometimes makes you impotent.

And she holds me close
And she bathes my wounds
And she kisses me, and then –
The lantern lights
Light up her eyes
And I’m sure
It’s getting hard again.

Halt

Written in the late eighties after the post-mortem on the 1981 riots had supplied vast areas of our major cities with ‘community policemen’. Performed in this version on Channel 4’s Black on Black and later reworked for Saturday Night Live.

Halt! who goes there?
Asked the policeman.
Don’t you know it’s getting late?
Have you been running, nigger?
– You do look in a state!
Where’ve you been to, nignog
– Where’re you going –
What’s your name?
Answer me you little animal,
I’m not playing a game!

He hit me on the head and I started to cry
Operation eagle eye.

Empty out your pockets –
Let’s have a look inside.
We can do it at the station,
If you really want the ride.
Have you been in trouble with the police before?
Have you broken any ancient law?
In the riots I was hit by a nignog
I think it’s time to even the score.

Get into the car! he said,
Before I tan your hide,
And he grabbed me by the shoulder
And he pushed me clear inside,
He said –

Show me some identity
To prove you’re you instead of me.
I looked in the wing-mirror,
I said, that’s me.

He said, that’s pretty funny,
Sonny,
Laugh, it’s a bust!
Then he said,
You’ve been sussed.
You’ve been thieving,
Haven’t you?
Come on, where’ve you stashed the cash?
Don’t be a smartarse,
Answer when you’re asked!
A couple of streets away an old lady’s been attacked
Open those rubber lips, my son,
Or you might just take the rap.

All of a sudden, the radio came through.
I don’t know what was said.
Those things are
Hard to understand.
But he pushed me out of the car with the back of his hand, and said:
I’ll see you later.
And zoomed off up the street.

So I shrugged my shoulders
And took to my feet.
Walking along the pavement,
All in one piece –
After another confrontation with community police.

I hate the way…

Written from my remand cell in Wandsworth prison. I was trying to parallel the way a spouse would feel after many years of wedlock… lock being the operative word.

I hate the way you sleep.
The clucking
and the bucking
and the grinding
of your teeth.

And by the way,
I hate the way you breathe.

I hate the way you eat,
The slopping
and the popping
and the sucking
of your teeth.

And can I say,
I hate the way you speak.

I hate the way you wash,
The way you hold the flannel,
The bucket and the mop.

Being with you never –
Ever –
Ever seems to stop,
It just goes on –
And on –
And on –
And on –

I’m driven to despair.

And by the way I hate the way
You’re always –
Bloody –
There.

You’re getting in my way, you’re on my nerves,
I’ve got a notion –

Solitary confinement
Could be seen as a promotion.

Bully for you

Prison is full of psychos, and that’s just the people work there! Says it all really…

I only had a tin of tuna and a bottle of Quosh,
When a peabrain with a keychain
And a little wooden cosh
Comes into my cell,
And goes, bosh

We got couriers in cannabis,
Smuggling in pot,
Someone’s put it on you, man,
It’s coming out on top,
You’ve got yourself into a spot.

He dug through my detritus then,
His wrists were in my slop.
Trying to intimidate,
To make me have a pop
So he could finish me off
Down the block.

A PP9 battery in a plain brown sock.
The doc don’t come when you knock
When they finish you off down the block.

The man was bad, mean; but dead keen
And lived behind a smoke screen
Life a series of doors that he’s gotta keep locked.
Nasty,
Snidey,
Uneasy,
And untidy
A petty little bigot who never gets shocked.

Accustomed to the violence,
The conspiracy of silence,
The poxy little victories, and shoddy little knocks.
They’re gonna finish me off down the block.

He lit a cigarette

This poem started life as a song called ‘Open Up’ on the BMG / RCA label for a singer called Suzanne Rhatigan. The album bombed, but I hope not because of the words!

He lit a cigarette with a lighter from Spain,
Two weeks in Malaga – eight days of rain.
He had a gold-capped tooth and a rolled-gold chain.
She knew things would never be the same.

She wore stiletto heels
All scuffed with dirt,
An ankle bracelet
And a miniskirt.
Although she wore a watch, she asked him the time,
As she secretly undressed him in her mind.
All the time secretly wishing she had no inhibitions.

Nine am on a twosday, tired and grey,
She couldn’t think of anything to say.
The bus was crowded so they had to stand,
When he accidentally
Touched her
With his hand.

She felt a shiver shimmy down her spine,
Took a deep breath, and took her time.
She said, it’s nothing.
He said, you’re far too kind,
As he secretly undressed her in his mind.
All the time secretly wishing
He had no inhibitions.

Around nine thirty-five
They rolled into reception.
There was tension and desire
As they signalled their intention
They were touching on the newness
Of a tentative connection.

They touched the power

In a room so often rented by the hour.

Yuppy

This poem was written in the mid-eighties at the height of the yuppy boom. I hope and pray that the poem lasts longer than the subject matter. It was performed on a variety of TV shows and was an intregal part of my first-ever one-man show which premièred in Edinburgh in 1986 and then toured the world.

He’s got a Rolex watch
And a filofax
So that he can correlate his facts.
He gets anxiety attacks.
He’s doing well, but he can’t relax
‘Cos he’s a yuppy.

He’s got a GTI,
His girlfriend looks like Lady Di,
With a briefcase
That contains the face,
Time out, and bloody ‘Ell
French elle
And English elle
As well,
‘Cos he’s a yuppy.

He likes caviare on French bread,
And likes French cheese and pickles,
He’s got inexhaustible supplies of pink and white shirts
That he bought from Harvey Nichols.
He’s a yuppy,


He’s a guy you’ll like,
He works off excess energy
On an excess energy exercise bike,
The excessive executive,
Exclusive and extreme.
He doesn’t want to be a never-was,
He doesn’t want to be a has-been.
But he has been seen,
Reading Harpers & Queen
In an Italian pizzeria
In the Covent Garden area
‘Cos he’s a yuppy.

He’s Gucci,
Pucci,
Fiorucci,
His girlfriend shops at Nina Ricci.
His favourite food was fettuccini,
But now he’s gone all Japanesey –
He does karate,
He eats sushi,
And drinks sake,
‘Cos he’s a yuppy.

He lives in a world of Porsches,
Fuel-injection turbos and gasoline.
He lives in a world of finance,
Corporate business pressure and amphetamine.
And when he goes home,
He talks a bit of business
He comes before she’s finished,
And he doesn’t understand
Why she always moans when he comes home.
Life to him is an empty glass
And an ashtray overfull.
He’s never been exciting
So he’s never ever dull
When he comes home.

She lives in a world of lotions,
Waging war against her wrinkles with beauty cream
Well-assorted potions rubbed into her body
So she’s soft and clean.
And when she’s not home
She shops in all the boutiques
Never keeps her receipts
And she doesn’t understand
Why he always moans when he comes home.
Life to her is a bubble bath
And private bank accounts
She pays for wealth with happiness
And that’s a serious amount
When they are home.

Hypothermia

Saturday Night Live allowed me to give this poem its first airing around the time that pensioners were dropping like flies and being discovered by postmen delivering heating grants from the government. If ever the Conservative ministers look back, they may consider this one of their darkest hours.

It’s got so cold I’ve caught the flu,
I go out without gloves, and my fingers turn blue,
I go to the shops and I go to the shows,
And snot keeps dripping out of everybody’s nose.
It’s all anoraks and duffle-coats, woolen scarfs and mitts.
It’s been here for far too long and now it’s
Getting on my nerves.

I’ve got an affliction, I’ve got a disease –
The snot won’t stop, the sneeze won’t ease.
And it’s easy for you to say,
That’s how it goes,
But it doesn’t, it stays,
I’ve caught one of those.

But I can handle it –
I’m a big strong strapping lad.
It’s not the flu that’s making me mad –
It’s the press reports we’ve had.
You see, it seems people die
When the weather turns dull.
It’s like an annual seal cull.

And it might be a grandma of yours that’s freezing,
Sitting there shivering in layers of old clothes.
Worrying because the cost of heating’s getting higher,
Wishing she could feel her fingers or her toes.
Now, you must remember granny,
The one who struggled through the war.
Now final reminders she’s alive
Come flooding through the door.
While the ones who send the bills out
Live in a centrally heated flat,
The old are wrapped in blankets
As they watch the thermostat.

When I was a kid – which wasn’t long ago,
Winter meant skates, and snowball fights.
If you got one in the face,
It wasn’t very nice,
But you could handle it.
You built snowmen,
And gave them potato eyes,
A carrot for his nose was the usual trick.
Kids these days use the carrot
For his dick, and the potatoes –
Well, who knows.

My grandparents must have done that too
When they were young and sprightly.
I wonder if they realised
That it would come to this,
That they’d be hanging onto
Life so tightly.

I wonder if they realised
That after all those years of work
Their pensions would just about keep them fed.
And heating allowances applied for long before
Would start arriving
Three days after they were dead

And it makes my blood boil
When these cold-hearted tricks
Get given new identities
And re-labelled: Economics

You see, there must be
Heat for homes in winter –
No matter what the cost
Or is the Conservative Party Chairman
The Right Honourable Jack Frost?

Family way

Written in my first bedsit, aged seventeen. It’s Liverpool early eighties through and through.

Mother sits alone and knits
Bonny boots for auntie’s newborn baby.
Father sits alone and spits
Right into the grate,
And tells my mum
To shift her bum
– The dinner’s getting late.
And our Jimmy’s coming home in Spring
– Did eighteen months for robbing things
Like houses, cars and wedding rings,
And all those things
That are inbetween.
And our Julie’s in the club again,
And when she’s asked
I’m sure she’ll say
She has no luck with men.
And when I’m asked
I’m sure I’ll say
That I’ve been in
The family way.

My dad took me aside and said:
‘Don’t dare go down the pier head –
The ships have gone, the water’s black,
With dirty men, with long black macs
Weaving dirty drunken tracks,
And leaving dirty drunken paths.’
But I guess my dad just can’t relax
Since he got sacked.
For thirty years he broke his back
Till work got slack.
And now he goes
And drinks his dole
In public houses
Battered by the times.
And mum wakes up and cries at home
And grandma calls her on the phone,
And when she’s asked, I’m sure she’ll say
That she’s been in the family way.
And when we’re asked, I’m sure we’ll say
We’ve all been in the family way.

Our Julie’s only seventeen,
She works in some launderette.
She doesn’t like it very much –
It’s all that she could get.
She’s getting married pretty soon,
All dressed in virgin white.
Mother said that’s what she’d like –
She wants her kids to do it right.
So our Jimmy stole
A wedding ring,
So she could have
The real thing.
And he got caught
And that’s what
Bad luck brings.
And when he’s asked
I’m sure he’ll say
That he’s been in
The family way.

No other blue

I tried to wrap this poem up in colours and flowers, using colours and flowers as names. It’s sugary, syrupy and sentimental, but I’m proud of every saccharine-coated crystal.

I want rosy days, dozy days,
That start in the mist
And the morning haze,
And finish with kisses, and cuddles and you,
With eyes of no other blue.

I want lazy days, daisy days,
Chaffinches, churchbells
And songs of praise,
That finish with kisses, and cuddles, and you,
With skies of no other blue.

I want spring in your step,
And a kiss on your lips,
Bad weather could never ever eclipse
Those rosy days
When I love you to bits,
When I reach out and give you
A great big beautiful kiss.

I want funny days, sunny days,
When colours collide like a birthday bouquet,
I want lily and lilac, violet and jade,
A golden brown sky at the end of those days,
And finish with kisses, and cuddles and you,
Whispering words of no other blue.

In the city

In the city
Dirty brick walls and painted lamp-posts,
As I walk down streets with
Dirty gutters and cracked-up pavements,
And broken, battered chipshop shutters,
Nazi signs and
Bedroom windows,
Rusty garden gates off their hinges, and
Doorsteps where all the moss grows, and
Windworn alleys where
All the wind blows
In the city.
The milkmen drive armoured cars
‘Cos the bricks break the bottles
When the kids go to school,
And graffiti on the wall says:
Anarchy rules
And no-one’s in when the gasman calls,
No housewives in aprons,
No men in overalls.
Some kid
In the street
Screams and bawls
In the city.

Consultants

This was written during the riots of 1981. I was seventeen and, dare I say it, Molotov-friendly.

Consulting his notebook,
He said:
It’s funny how niggers
Don’t show bruises.
And to demonstrate the point
He kicked me in the head
And my body didn’t move.

It was an interesting experiment
They had something to prove.
To determine the difference
Between black skin and white
They spoke at length
About relative thickness
And tensile strength
And how bruises don’t show on the black,
And the thin blue line stood back
To allow the scientist to proceed.

It’s funny how niggers
Don’t show bruises.
But if you kick me enough
I bleed.

Interracial sex

Written for Saturday Night Live on the day they legalised interracial sex in South Africa. I performed it to an electrified audience who each time answered my doubts in the affirmative! Whilst compiling this book I contacted the South African embassy in London asking for the exact date of the legalisation. They were unable to recall it and have not got back to me. Change?

It’s on the news
It’s in the press –
They’ve legalised interracial sex.

I wonder if the Africans were
Really impressed?
Undid their shirts, took off their keks
And went and had a party.
I doubt it. Don’t you?

Did the authorities think
That they’d stop the unrest?
There’d be black civil rights leaders too out of breath
To organise a demo, or choose to mourn a death,
Because they’d been too busy having interracial sex?
I doubt it. Don’t you?

Will there be sex in punishment, sex in pain,
Sex in bondage, sex in chains,
Sex with women, sex with men?
Will they be doing it again and again and again?
I doubt it. Don’t you?

Or is it just another whitewash,
Just another con?
Everybody’s happy,
But the killing still goes on.
I think so. Don’t you?

Blood on a white flag

This Falkland Islands poem was written on the day the Sun pronoucned ‘Victory’ on its cover.

Blood on a white flag,
Gently bleeding in the wind
And tint grains of sand
Are all that you can find
To hide behind.

Medals flash like photographs,
And deep inside the bunker
A teenage soldier asks
For brandy or whisky,
Some spirit to ease the pain.

And the general says, ‘Be still keep quiet,
They’re attacking us again.’

So the spirit left
And deep inside the gloom
Of a decomposing room
They pinned onto his bloody chest a medal.

Then they wrapped his head in paper,
And put him in the rain.

The pain;
Don’t forget the pain.
You’ll never be
Innocent again.

Flesym

In my infrequent bursts of blind religion,
I throw my hands to god
And I let the dreary rhythm of the dead
Excite my fingertips.

But sometimes when the vision slips
I see the opened coffins stood on end
And the devil fires his gun
My god is gone.

On my half-hearted trips back home
I let my mother eat me with her hairy lips
Whilst I return back to the womb
And, safe inside familiar walls
I sleep in peace at last.

In my special moments
Of everloving tenderness
I pull my woman close
And pour my heart into her ear like wine.

But in my pristine moments
Of brass-breasted arrogance
I curl my fists into a ball
And watch the wrinkled knuckles
As they progressively turn white
And stretching, crack the scabs
That seal my dead blood tight.

In my reflective moods of self-indulgence
I intrude upon myself and hear me sleeping
And creeping for the lock
Escape and rest a while.

But in my self-important moods
Of concioence or conceit
I turn my pen to paper, and
Secrete across the page like a rushing slug.

In my self-eluding trips of alcohol abuse
I feel hate, jealousy, greed
And I shove the imagined borders
Of my mind aside
And invite them in to bleed.

Whilst in the stagnant moments of my calm
After exploding into anger like a beaten drum.
I interfere with words
And with some fine mystique
Maybe molest them
Into beauty.

It’s strange

This was written for the BBC drama The Marxman. Instead of a theme tune they wanted to use a poem and I was comissioned to supply it. Lucky me, I also played the part of a murderer.

It’s strange that we go through life
not daring to commit a touch
and settle for so very little
when we’ve longed for so very much.

It’s strange the way we think of god
as someone upstairs in the sky
who doesn’t care that in the basement
the law is an eye for an eye.

It’s strange that in the confusion
the hunter is the prey
and revenge and retribution
are the order of the day.

And it’s strange the way we go through life
not daring to commit a touch
and settle for so very little
when we’ve longed for so very much.

Oh, God
Would that I could concede
And rest in thee.

Inverness

The slip of the moss through
The trickle of water,
The glistening boulders lie
Still in their pools,
Pine cones are open and
Welcoming summer,
We comb the brook,
Brush the mud off our shoes;
Fool’s gold and quartz in the
Crystal-clear stillness,
Time slipping by just like
Water through fingers,
The waterfall’s higher
Up above in the distance,
We climb side by side, and
As god is my witness,
I look in your eyes and
I drown in the blueness.
Inverness.

New life

My mother died of cancer months before the birth of my son in 1988. But it wasn’t until the mid nineties that I finally put pen to paper and wrote this poem.

I didn’t want to hear you calling my name.
I didn’t want to see you cry.
I hope you knew the reason why
I couldn’t look you in the eye
At all.

I saw you try to bite the hand that fed you
Coloured pills to ease the pain.
Pills to wash away the sins of modern scientific brains, I thought.
The medicines redundant lay on the bedside table.
I don’t know if you noticed, but you squeezed my hand
And led me to a new life.

I try my best to think of you when
Happy, but the memories are lame.
I never wished I could feel pain,
Wished I was innocent again
Until now.
I never wished I was a child again.Until I grew up too soon.
Until I saw the hungry tears,
Until I kissed the wetted mouth goodbye.

The doctors and the nurses,
The bedclothes and the linen.
They finally pulled the curtain.
And you squeezed my hand
And led me
To a new life.

Spinner of years

This is my New Year’s Eve poem. I’m always pissed on New Year’s Eve.

Please raise your glasses
To love, life and laughter,
Smile for a moment,
Be sad ever after;
I’m raising my spirirts
By drowning my sorrows,
Continuing living
In all my tomorrows;
The future is rosy
And so effervescent,
But surprisingly quickly
Can become the present.
For one singular moment
Forgetting your fears
Will never allay
The spinner of years.

Because time keeps on ticking,
So drink to forget,
But you can’t remember
A person you’ve met,
Who’s made you be comfortable,
Made you be you,
Your soul bared and naked,
Afresh and anew.
So please raise your glasses
To love, life and laughter,
Smile for a moment,
Be sad ever after;
Because time keeps on ticking,
And all of your tears
Will never betray
The spinner of years.

So I’ll pour you a tumbler~
Of good sound advice,
As bitter as lemon,
Translucent as ice;
The spinner of years
Is the weaver of life;
So let’s have another one,
Let’s have three cheers,
And let’s drink a toast to
The spinner of years.

Porthcurno

Written in Cornwall whilst squatting in a cave on the beach below the Minack Open-air Theatre. I slept soundly. However, my girlfriend at the time arose every fifteen minutes to check on the tide.

The smell of the heather,
The lavender carpet,
The bite of the bracken,
The roll of the hills,
The seagull can hang in
the winds of
Porthcurno,
Fresh honey can cure a variety of ills,
The smell of the ocean,
The spray of the water,
The beat of a cricket,
The song of a bird,
The couch grass can bend to
the tune of
the windstorm.
Alone in the darkness,
Strange voices are heard.
And all the stars
Are going to come and visit me tonight.
I never knew the moon was so bright.
I never knew it flew so low,
And never knew it was so round.
And I never knew
that silence
was a sound.

Jump

I get claustrophobic, OK?

She’s got a baby of a hubby and a baby by him
She just got out, but scarred some skin
She was feeling shut in
It made her want to jump,
Plump for another option.
It made her want to
Jump.

I was riding in a subway
Underneath Manhattan
It was bringing on a lingering allergic reaction
To feeling shut in
It made me want to
Jump,
Plump for another option.
It made me want to
Jump.

When you’re lost in the dark, mindlessly groping
Kicking yourself ‘cos you didn’t leave a backdoor open
A window in your schedule, a means of cutting out
A parachute, survival sit,
A parting in the clouds.
When you’re close to the edge
It makes you want to jump,
Plumop for another option.
Start mixing up your chemicals,
Moving your genes
And cooking up
Another concoction
It makes you want
To
Jump.

In high places,
Close to the edge
Why does it always
Cross our minds?
I wonder why we wonder
What it would be like
To
Jump.

Near-perfect minutes

In those near-perfect minutes,
When I think my senses will forever swim
In those near-perfect minutes,
When my heart will beat forever on
In those near-perfect minutes,
When I think my beath will not return to me
In those near-perfect minutes,
Each second feels like an eternity.
In those near-perfect minutes,
After making love I haven’t the strength to smoke
In those near-perfect minutes,
When I pull you to my chest and crack a joke.
In those near-perfect minutes,
When imprisoned in your arms I feel set free
In those near-perfect minutes,
Each second feels like an eternity.
In those near-perfect minutes,
With my nerves as raw and naked as myself
In those near-perfect minutes,
When your kisses beat the rhythm of my pulse
In those near-perfect minutes,
When I think my breath will not return to me
In those near-perfect minutes,
Everything happens perfectly.
Perfectly.


Dirt

by Chris Buchanan
Poetry, 2014

—

The man tying the bag over his head,
the small of his back sore against a stair,
his lips gone numb and white, waiting to spread,
his legs tight like a mystic’s crossed in prayer,
his words like pulses wrapped in too much wool,
his neck that sometimes nicks him when he swallows,
his past like something catching on his skull,
his train of thought too stop-and-start to follow –
this wet-nosed ass who can’t quite tie the strings
is going to do a really selfish thing.
Before he goes he’ll guess at what you’ll say.
He’ll try to count your grief in weeks and days.
He’ll scare you half to death. This one will hurt.
You’ll drop and look for answers in his dirt.

Fresh Water Sea part 2: Beverley’s Diary, March 1971

by Chris Buchanan
Short story, 2014
One story in three times. A survivor of the Great Flood talks to herself as she starves, a girl lives through the Cold War in a hospital bed, and in the present day a man tries to make conversation with his depressed daughter.

Part 1 HERE and Part 3 HERE

—

1

Every night I dream silly little adventure films about earthquakes, comets, plagues, bombs of course, & a lot of floods. There are always lonely heroines, sometimes with my face, sometimes not. Sometimes I can look through their eyes & sometimes I’m like an American director, just trying to control what I see happening to them. I wake up feeling weak. Disappointed.

The nurses suggested I should keep a diary. They make me move around the room every day, try to get me to speak. This feels different though. Look at all this. They wouldn’t recognise the voice I’m writing with!! Already more words on this paper than I get through aloud in a week. This is actually quite nice. Plenty of paper – – maybe I could write down some of the dreams if my arm is up to it. Later.

The Doctor Carnegie book is not helping. I hope they don’t want to read this rubbish.

You would think I’d get sick of this ceiling, but no. 2 months.

Can hear someone putting his ear to the door. Scratch scratch scratch. Yes, still breathing. Please don’t come in.

2

I should never have read that bloody Bible! Started to go through it the other day when I felt a bit more active and went through drawers. Don’t know what else to do when I start looking for answers. I miss my records – – I could usually find something in them. Always go to sleep feeling like a failure. Bible – – got about halfway into Genesis. Looking again now. Surprisingly miserable stuff.

Lots of end-of-the-world. I remember when my Dad suddenly wanted to go to church during the Cuban crisis. I had no idea what was going on but I remember how frightened I was by the service. Him sat there on the pew, clenching it with his legs, looking at the ceiling like one of the struts was about to snap.

Could still happen, any day now. Could happen right now.

Right now. I know it’s not a good idea to think that.

I actually slept with the lights on last night, & worse, it helped.

3

I thought I was getting better. I was moving around and writing. I was talking to the nurses a bit, even thinking about talking to parents. Now it’s all sleep & tears. God I hate this. Don’t know what to write that won’t make me sound like a lovesick bloody thirteen-year-old. I wake up & cry.

I, I, I.

I will now humour the latest chapter of the self-help book.

Exercise – what would you like to see changed in your life?

Yes, everything. I want something to happen. Fall in love before the dust sticks me to the shelf. Get out of this bloody place before I end up here forever. My parents survived a world war but I’m the one hospitalised – – and by nerves. Like shell shock but no shell. Just fear. Bedsores. I know it’s not laziness, I know that, but I don’t get up. I just lie here & I don’t get up. I could do but then what? How do you start again after this kind of disgrace?

Honestly I wish somebody would read these!

I had a thought about sneaking out at night & doing it in the river. The old stones-sewn-into-the-dress routine. For a minute it seemed like a wonderful idea, but window is locked. It still comes & it fades away like that. Felt my mouth twitching at first – – a rush of air through my neck. Very easy breath. The sort of feeling I used to get when I was little & I had something nice to anticipate. Christmas morning.

Hey mum & dad, do me a favour and have the nurses sneak in and take these papers away – – and then read them.

I see a red door and I want to paint it black. No colours anymore I want
I don’t think this is helping at all.

4

I’ll tell you what I think (been in the Bible again). I think Heaven is under the sea. They said on the TV that most of the ocean has never been explored – – we don’t know what’s down there.

Now we know there’s no paradise above the clouds. We’ve been up there + there was only the moon so unless it’s on Mars or Jupiter or something then it must be underwater. I haven’t found the part of the Bible where it says Heaven is up in the sky and all the angels wear white dresses and play harps!

I think it’s undersea. When you’re dead you sink beneath the waves + everyone is there.

That’s why sailors in olden times used to come back to port with tales of mermaids. They had seen people’s immortal souls under the surface of the water. They’d seen ghosts that had made their way back to the water. Maybe when we die we drip away into the rivers + into the clouds + end up back where we belong.

Angels with fluffy pillow white wings in space!! We know that isn’t possible. But they could swim? Once the lungs are empty they could be graceful swimmers. Weightless + lithe. Rivers are the hands that carry us out there + til then we sit at the banks waiting for the water around us to grow. Wait to slip through the cracks / into the blue.

I hope that’s the way it is. I wonder if the City of Atlantis is at the bottom! You have to sink like a stone before you start swimming!!

Nurses / next of kin – – sorry for making you pore over all this lunatic shit.

5

I know it’s been a while. I’m not sure what to say. I feel very different. & too suddenly. Scared to put it on paper in case it turns out to be imagination.

Dad came in. Said he had been outside the door lots of times. Talked. Not sure what he said that was so important, but something apparently was. Got out of bed, walked to door.

I remember going to Starkey Pond when I was a child. I have a very fond memory of me & the parents making lots of little paper boats, dropping them in the brook and then running with them, watching them race down all as one, prodding them a bit if need be.

Seeing the pond with all of them on it, the slab of rock in the middle like an island & the bullrushes all round. Just a lovely memory. Dad must have brought all that paper with him specially. Always made me think it was my idea and I was talking him into it! Just noticed. When I’m home, would like to go back there.

Will talk to mum next time. Maybe call Sue after, talk to her. Not yet. Maybe a week. Don’t know. Never thought about this.

Been writing.

—

Continue to part 3

Fresh Water Sea part 3: Roy at King’s Cottage

by Chris Buchanan
Short story, 2014
One story in three times. A survivor of the Great Flood talks to herself as she starves, a girl lives through the Cold War in a hospital bed, and in the present day a man tries to make conversation with his depressed daughter.

Part 1 HERE and Part 2 HERE

—

1

Driving our Katie up to Edinburgh is a lot less of a treat than it used to be. When we took her up on holidays, it was special. Her eyes lighting up and that. I bet mine did too. I think secretly we both felt guilty for never taking her abroad, but money was tight and she loved the bagpipes and the castle. This time, the first time this century, the trip could hardly seem more different. Her in the back seat like always, but her mum’s not there. The dog’s not there. And our holiday home is mine now. Less special.
Of course there was no sun on the drive up, but the rain seemed to be actively following us up the motorway, usually a mile or so in front, sometimes dropping back for ten minutes when it really wanted to take the Michael.
I’d hoped it would stay in England and Wales. Some half-decent weather would do wonders for Katie. Evidently it’s not to be.

When we arrive at King’s there’s been no change, but at least we’re forced to animate ourselves for a sec. Seeing Katie shuffle about under the rain and meet my eyes, urging me to find the keys in my pocket, almost makes me not want to find them. She’s depending on me, eh. Sort of. Nice to see her irritated, not just vacant.

But the stuff’s seeping in at the back of my shirt. I open the door, let her in.

I think to tell her where to hang her coat, offer her a hot drink, but I’m distracted. I have to ask the question.
And I know from experience that there’s nothing worse a person can say to Katie now than, Have you had your pill today? I’ve never said it, but I’ve seen her face when her mother does. Christ alone knows what that face is supposed to convey, or to hide maybes. But whatever it is, it’s a bit fierce. The sort of thing you’re not supposed to see in your daughter’s eyes, I’m sure.

Sometimes when I drive South to visit them, I sneak a peek at her pills box to see if she’s had her dose. If there’s one more empty blister in the strip then I mutter it to her mum and the whole business doesn’t have to be brought up. I always think – am I doing her a favour, or just making her even more tense? Does she just spend her day wondering when the hammer’s going to drop?

But there’s none of that from today on. I’ve been told. And I’ve re-phrased the question twenty-odd times in the rear-view mirror. Katie love, you’ve had your pill now, aye? Easy going, you know. Good cop. Or, Don’t miss your pill now, girl. Voice of authority. Bit of trust.

Katie catches me by the kettle while I’m going on to myself, so I made a little gesture with my hands: the old shaky cup. She nods, so I make a letter C with the fingers of one hand, and then a capital T with them both. She almost laughs, I bet I smile too. Don’t say owt.

“Coffee,” she says. Softly. Helplessly. Like a kid again. Like Hamlet at the bloody wedding reception. I hate to think it, but that voice she’s learned doesn’t half annoy me. Maybe while she’s living with me I can knock that little habit out of her.

I find her in the living room, curled into a corner of the couch like the rest of the furniture’s giving her a funny look. She used to love this little house. We all did, back in the day. I never stopped. I give her the coffee, sit mine down by my armchair and sigh. She has her face on her still.

Her mam has kept me updated on Katie’s illness on the phone, and I’ve seen it get worse on my visits. It’s been going on for a good long while, since before she lost her job, and her flat and that bloke she liked so much. Slipping away. I’ve been watching, giving her a meaningful look every now and again while I try to think of something to say to her. Might never happen isn’t really going to cut it, as they say. Her face looks, sort of, baggy. She sleeps funny hours, doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t want to do anything except stare at a wall and sigh. And sometimes mutter things that go well and truly over my head. It was a case of, spend some time with me or back to hospital.

Poor Beverley’s looking at this as a break for herself, and that’s not hard for me to understand. I feel lousy for thinking it, but this is hard work.

She says Katie just needs her dad. I trust her, anyway.

“I hope the rain isn’t getting worse for mum,” the lass mutters to a cushion.

That’s the longest sentence I’ve heard from her in a long while. I’m proud. I nod.

“She’ll be all right, yeah.”

Then after a moment I put in, “It’ll be fine”. She just closes her eyes.

2

The evening trundles, like they do, and we watch the news. They’re running vox-pops to fill the time between updates. Every channel seems to have been allotted extra news breaks to stay up to date with the weather, even though to my mind there’s never really anything to say except it’s getting worse. Today it’s Birmingham, because the water is still only ankle-deep and presumably the BBC’s budget for hiring ‘amphibious vehicles’ is running out. They won’t stay there long: city’ll be flooded in a day or so. They don’t show us much of Europe but apparently they’re having the worst of it. Amsterdam’s basically just gone now.

Our Katie’s staring dead ahead at the screen as the reporter asks some bloke on the high street, “What do you think the future holds for the city?” Bloody stupid question to ask. The weather men don’t know, so why should this fella?

He says something sensible about the sandbag shortage, so they move to a frightened lass with a baby.

The last one is an old lady – probably just a bit older than me, but dressed like a proper old lady. “It’s the beginning of the end, isn’t it?” she says, not joking, bless her, glancing at the sky with a stern look on her face like Terry Jones in his old woman get-up. “God’s punishing us, isn’t He?” Tone of voice makes it sound matter of fact.

Katie’s nodding. I see her from my armchair but I don’t know what to say to this. She’s never been a religious type. We didn’t even made her go to Sunday school.

I snort a bit. Katie moves her head towards me, but her eyes stay where they are.

“Daft,” I say. And the newsman is asking other people about the end times, most of whom laugh.

Katie looks at me properly, a bit hurt. As though I’ve just insulted her.

“…ridiculous,” I say. I thought I said Don’t be first, but I think I only mouthed it.

The girl – the woman, she is now, despite the way she’s acting – wraps her arms around her legs and pushes her knees into the tops of her cheeks. Looks like a little Basset hound alone in its owner’s house, up against a window.

Probably too late now, but perhaps she shouldn’t be watching this. The news about the rain is a little bit disturbing, it has to be said. It can’t be good for her behaviour. Illness. For her illness. I’m still coming round to that – but there is medication for it, and I believe she is trying. It’s depression, and it’s an illness.

She’s sat right next to a big wet bloody window so I can’t exactly get her to forget about the news altogether, but I suppose I can switch off this hysteria.

“Some more people drowned in Cornwall,” she says, the moment it goes quiet. And her voice is a bit less helpless, a bit like she used to be. Just a bit. “Dad?”

I’m saying something like, “Shall we see if there’s a film on, eh? Or put on a DVD or something if you, you know. You brought some with you.”

“There were photos of missing children. Ten-to-twelve year-olds, their school photos. It’s not right.”

Well of course it isn’t.

“Honestly, I–” she starts to say it, then lets her voice drift off, curls up a bit more into the chair. “Wish I could–” she’s starting again. I can see where it’s going but I won’t think about it. She says it: “Wish it could be me instead of them.”

Right.

Why would she even think of that? What a stupid thing to say. It’s not like there’s some sort of bloody choice! Who is she trying to bargain with? And does she honestly not know how that makes me feel, to hear my daughter saying that? It’s disrespectful to the people who are dead, even.

Cheeks are getting hot. I’m just angry. I could have slapped some sense into her, in another time. My dad would have. Certainly you can’t do that sort of thing to your kids now. I don’t really want to. But what’s making her say that?

It’s just some bleedin’ rain! How are you supposed to make someone like this understand that everything’s going to be fine?

She’s looking at me. Looks upset.

I’m not going to listen to this. So I’m out the room. The door to my art studio actually slams, but I don’t think I meant it to.

3

That night I’m asleep and then, bit by bit, a funny sound gets me up. Takes a good ten minutes to make my eyes open, and another five or so before my brain is actually getting in gear and I can pay attention to this noise. Shrill, it is.

My old arms and legs aren’t for moving just yet. They’re like lines of bricks. I like ‘em that way. It’s muggy under the covers but there’s enough cold air on my face. The noise is coming through the wall to the spare room.

Crying. Whimpering, more like.

Blink. Someone’s crying. Katie’s crying. Spare room.

I feel my knees lock up.

And this isn’t the sort of crying you’d expect from a twenty-six year-old woman. I haven’t ever heard someone cry like that on television, even. She’s just making noises. Throaty, long, wet noises, weird groans. And no evidence of her trying to stop herself. Louder every time.

I know I’m supposed to get up, but, well. I’m not ready. I haven’t moved my tongue yet.

Louder, until it’s ridiculous. She must know this is going to wake me up. Silence.

A minute goes by. I’m swishing my tongue about, blinking more. Breathing very deeply. Twitching my toes. Think I might rub my eyes.

It starts again. Quiet but rising every time. Horrible noise.

She’s doing it deliberately, I think. She wants me to go to her.

And this is how she asks for it? By lying there and making noises like a sea lion?

Some words get thrown in. Why, No and Can’t. She’s shrieking them, distorting her voice like she’s trying to sound like the bloody Exorcist.

Why can’t she just get up and knock on the door? Ask me, like a civilised – like a person if she wants me for something?

My face is itching. I pull off my bedclothes and lay there in my scrunched-up boxer shorts for a moment and let her build to another crescendo.

So how long was doing this before she got me up? In the middle of the night. Honestly. It’s pathetic, I think.

And that word makes me feel a little bit better. She’s being pathetic. It’s beneath her. A year ago, Katie was a teacher. Is this how she called for attention at work? What do I do, indulge her? I don’t want her to make a habit of this. She was supposed to be improving.

“Just can’t do it!” As loud as she dares.

This is not the way I raised her.

Obviously I have to go to her. I know that. What if she tries to do something terrible again and I ignore it? Is there anything sharp in that room? Nothing suspicious in her luggage, anyway. No stockpiles of medicine in the cottage, just half a packet of ibuprofen.

I have to go, I know.

But I wait through another round of her braying. I have to get dressed, for one thing. I imagine myself stomping about and her hearing it, waiting for me. Am I supposed to pretend she hasn’t woke me, or that I was just passing when I suddenly noticed her, or what? Surely she’d be embarrassed.

She’s off again.

She’s getting louder, giving out more pathetic, ugly noises. I’m tiptoeing. Wondering what to say first when I get to her door.

She just wants attention, I think. If I were properly awake I could scream at myself.

A new noise and then the sound of blowing snot. A bit of a whimper while she, presumably, wipes her nose.

She doesn’t start again. Goes quiet. I unclench my hands, lie back down, facing the door, all my weight on my arm, and I wait there until I hear her snore. My eyes don’t close all night.

4

The morning comes and we get the day going. She sort of staggers out to the kitchen at one point and then comes back, water dripping off her chin and two lumps of her hair wetted together. Her eyes are red and her skin is shining. I’m thinking there’s days of wax and muck on her and she’s agitated the surface of it.

For the sake of something to say I try, “Been washing your face?” Sounds stupid. She just says yes and wipes herself with a sleeve. Then she slowly, slowly gets back in the chair, back into position.

She seems to have taken to staring at her laptop instead of the telly. It makes a welcome break and it’s nice to see her moving more than once every three hours, even if it’s just the fingers. But the look on her face – she’s staring right into that screen. Little furrow above her nose, just sat there all unattended to. Staring. Christ alone knows what she’s looking for.

I make us both a hot drink, give her a coffee, and she looks daggers at it. Then it happens: she just puts the cup down hard and starts yelling, or rather croaking, loud as she can manage. I don’t know what to do. I’m so fucked up and I don’t know what to do.

She’s never swore at me before. It shocks me, honestly. I sometimes swear privately or with mates, and I’ve always assumed she must do the same, a young woman in this day and age. But I never thought to hear her swearing atme.

She keeps saying it. That she’s ‘fucked up’.

I get up, don’t go over to her but I give her a look. “No you aren’t!” I say. “Why would you say that?”

“I don’t feel safe here. Let’s go out.”

I’m gazing at her, trying to work out what that means. She isn’t meeting my eyes.

Well, there’s just nothing I have to say. She’s hardly fit for it and she’d catch her death out there before we reached the car.

I ask what she’s on about, but whatever spark was in her is all gone. Now I do potter over. As soon as I’m close enough, her fist flops out from the lump of her and lands on my chest. This is the meekest punch I’ve ever seen, let alone taken. I don’t know how to describe her face.

She mewls, and she punches me, again and again. Every one of them pushes her backwards an inch, and she’s whimpering at me. I don’t say anything. I don’t move. And then she says something very quiet, along the lines of, You only care about me when I’m fucked up.

Eventually, she goes quiet. I take the phone to my studio and call Beverley. I’m shaking here.

There’s the pick-up-muffling; she hasn’t replaced our old phone. “Hello?”

“Hiya,” I say, not thinking. And there’s that awkward pause that we’ve had to deal with for nigh on a decade now. “It’s Roy.”

There’s something very sad about ringing what used to be my home number, my marital home, and having to do that.

We get talking. Bev sounds pretty upbeat, which is nice to hear. “How are things there?” That’s a big question.

I look through the window of my studio, suspiciously, as though Katie might be outside with a glass against the door. “A lot like you said,” I tell Beverley. “It’s not easy, you know, seeing her like this.”

“No, it’s not,” she says. Voice of God. “I know.” I don’t get that, but she does seem to understand the girl’s behaviour as well as anyone can. Her illness.

“Right. I’m only ringing because, well, she’s throwing a bit of a wobbler.” Suddenly it seems like a silly word to use, but neither of us is laughing. “This morning, she’s been acting a bit strange. She hit me. Not hard, you know, but.” I cringe at my drawing table while I try to describe the fucked-up bit to her mother.

“Is she still agitated like that?”

I tell her no. “She lost all her energy. I stuck it out.” Immediately I think about last night. I should have gone to her and let her cry all she wanted, shouldn’t I? Seems very obvious all of a sudden. But the girl couldn’t have heard me fidgeting, so she couldn’t have known I was awake. I didn’t make a sound.

“Yesterday she said she wished she had drowned, or something like that.”

“Try not to be angry at her,” Bev says. She’s not at all shocked. “Honestly, I think the thing with Katie is that she’s angry enough at herself. She doesn’t likebeing like this, you understand?” I think about it. “Drowned, ah. It’s all quite normal.”

“What is?”

She says, “What you’re describing.”

I say, “Oh.”

“Has she had bad dreams?”

“I don’t bloody know.”

We make small talk for a couple of minutes but neither of us tries to keep it going too long. I should go back and have a look at Katie. Beverley tells me not to worry too much. Our girl needs some time with her dad at the moment, she says, she’s sure. She needs to be close to me. It will come in time. And make sure she has her pills every day.

As the receiver comes down it strikes me again. My belly feels light, sickly.

You only care when I’m fucked up.

Where did that one even come from?

I’ve never thought she resented me for the divorce. Not for a minute.

I have a little memory of taking little Katie down to Starkey’s to tell her. She was sixteen. The place had always been special to the three of us, but that day I noticed how overgrown is had gotten. Probably still is. And all of a sudden it just seemed like a bad place to bring it up. So I took her home and Bev broke the news in the kitchen.

Anyway. Getting a bit wet on the few steps from the studio to the kitchen. I shake my grey old hair like a dog as I come in and get straight back to the living room. There’s the patient: same jumper as yesterday, maybe the same trousers, it’s hard to say. Hair still a mess. Just staring at that laptop. I take a few steps, put a hand on her chair.

Ask if she’s all right.

“Yes,” she says, glancing at me, but she doesn’t sound it. She has that pathetic little girl voice on. The dying swan act. After a second, “Sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

My hand goes to her shoulder. It’s bigger than I remember.

And she stinks. She isn’t bathing, then? Is that normal now too? Hm.

“No problem,” I say. And since I already feel like I’m lying to her, I might as well throw in, “I understand.”

“They’re evacuating Birmingham,” she tells me. “Lots of missing people.”

I rub her shoulder, turn away.

Then I hear the chair creak.

5

She stands up, or tries to, in a heartbeat. I can see her skinny, skewed little legs – they’re weak from her months sat on chairs – giving way before she even puts her weight down. I’m moving as quick as I can but it’s not quite fast enough. I have to watch her fall, knowing exactly how it’s going to happen. There. Face first, her feet slamming up into the table, her right arm squashed under her and the left knocking her laptop over on top of her. It all plays out while my arms are stretching out. When I get my hand to her head, she’s crying again. Loud.

She wails something high-pitched that might be I can’t even get up in between her odd, sort-of-angry mewls. I think, there’s going to be a nasty lump on that forehead.

And I pull her up with as much gentle encouragement as I can, doing all the work, back onto her chair. The laptop’s still resting on its side, where it landed with a bang. Crying, slumped into herself. I have to hold her chin up just to see her bruising.

When I’m ready I try holding her hand. And yes, she meets my eyes and squeezes back, barely enough power to press into the folds of my skin. You can imagine how I feel.

The tears are still coming, and she says daft things about the floods, at first with my hand holding onto hers, and then with an arm all the way around and her head on my chest. I actually lose track of time.

I’m stroking her straw-coloured hair and thinking about kissing it, then I ask her, “Have you been having your pills?” There.

Said it. I’m actually shaking now. I could laugh.

I’d like to say that the words just came to me or that now I’m surprised to hear them aloud in my voice, but it’d be bull. I had to try to say it, and I said it. I saidit. She nods, slowly, in her way, and I believe her. I say, “It looks like they aren’t helping very much, love,” and she holds me a bit tighter.

I barely remember what it felt like to enjoy Katie’s company. This isn’t that, but it’s close. I lift her head so I can see the green in the middle of her mum’s chocolatey eyes.

“Birmingham’s gone for good,” she says, distant all of a sudden, and she lets go, shrinks right back into a ball. I was prepared for that; Bev told me that sometimes there are moments when she seems better, but then she’ll be ‘gone’ again. But those moments all count, she says. They’ll come.

I shouldn’t have let her watch the news.

Ey. As usual, there’s a gap in the conversation here that I have to fill. “Don’t be daft,” I tell her, in the kindest possible way. It’s all I could think to say, really, but Christ I meant it. More crying. I say, “I don’t really know what to do.” She goes very still. I try a bit more: “Sometimes when you’re talking to me now,” I say, “I haven’t got a clue what you mean.” Seems to like that.

And she says, “We’ll all be underwater– ”

“Ssh.”

Katie lifts her head like it’s an anvil and looks at the wall instead of my shirt. I don’t try to meet her eyes. She says, “I need a bath,” and her leg twitches. Slowly slowly. Catchy monkey.

She’s not wrong, bless her. She probably needs a lot more than a bath, but it’s a decent start.

For a second I wonder if I ought to actually help her into the tub. I mean it’d be awkward for us both, but manageable, surely. Maybe I should even stay inside and watch her, just in case she slips under– or eh, maybe I’m just panicking.

I help her up, piece by piece, slow as she goes. I even fancy that the more I help, the harder she pushes herself. First the one leg on the floor, pressing the toes down to stop her socks slipping, then an elbow bent, and a hand, levering her. The other leg, there, a bit shaky. Her expression looks as empty as ever, but there’s a sort of determination here. I want to smile but the moment hardly seems right.

The corridor then. “Short steps,” I say, hoping that’s good advice, the right thing to say. And I stand behind her with my hands ready. There’s actually something weirdly satisfying about watching over a grown woman to make sure she puts one mucky foot in front of the other – and seeing that she does, every time.

Next step. Not too quick. Good.

Aye, aye. Breathe for a second.

And I follow my daughter to the bathroom, hold her shoulder while she drags the handle with all her might, looking at it with her mouth half-open. If there’s a way to communicate I’m proud of you by holding someone’s shoulder in a particular way, or to let go in a way that says Everything’s all right then believe me, no-one has put more effort into finding it.

She’s in. The door bats at the frame and then the handle squeezes even more softly from the other side. I push it down with a finger, just a bit of pressure, so as to not make her feel weak, until it’s closed. After a little while I hear the tap turn and start pouring. There’s some sniffling, some low sound from her throat, a moment of sobbing.

For a second I’m even looking forward to the future. Once spring finally gets going, well, maybe that’ll cheer her up. The weather does things to you, they always say. And eventually one of her doctors is going to find the right kind of therapy for her and she’ll start really working hard, and I’ll see her get back to her old self.

I hear her splashing a finger to test the temperature, then sinking in. Then nothing at all.

Out of nowhere, my eyes are stinging and my neck is tight, smasming, as though I’m stifling a yawn. Come to think of it, I’ve not slept. I almost forgot I was retired for a minute! And I haven’t painted or sketched a dot since she arrived.

And now I’m thinking, would she want me waiting outside like this? Perhaps I should give her a bit of time alone. Maybe make some of those raisin buns she used to like. It’ll be nice for her to smell something sweet when she’s finished.

Alfred and the Flies

by Chris Buchanan
Short story, 2012
A young volunteer at a suicide hotline listens to an old hand.

—

There are always two Samaritans working, on four hour shifts. Depending on the time of day and circumstance, the two might spend this time hunched over in the two booths, occasionally looking through glass to nod and smile at each other but otherwise listening intently, or they might be on two comfortable armchairs, eating free biscuits and trying to make conversation.

Today is Wednesday afternoon. There aren’t many calls and neither of us feels like taking them. Stewart took the last one, but it only lasted a few minutes. Every time the phones ring, I wonder if this is a real call. A call where a person is about to violently commit suicide and needs somebody caring and brave to talk it out with them and save their life. But most of the calls are short and not very important.

I hear Stewart replace the old, white plastic receiver now, and waddle back to the armchairs. I finish chewing. “That,” he says, “was a gentleman asking me to tell him my height, as a masturbatory aid.” This is normal. Even I am no longer surprised or even amused by these calls. I just nod.

Stewart has been a Samaritan for a long time, long enough that there is little excitement or drama in it for him any more. His face is always slack, at peace, either satisfied with or indifferent to everything he witnesses, like a man at the end of a good meal. He has a permanent smile on one side of his mouth and slightly harsh blue eyes, as though he has no difficulty with anything he does, leaving at least half of his mental capacity free to reminisce. I hope I’m that way when I’m his age.

The sound of my swallowing the biscuit is loud in this deliberately silent, cozy room. Stewart doesn’t look at me or anything but I feel a little self-conscious, so I get a glass of water.

“Are you making tea?” he says.

“Just water.”

Stewart has gotten into his chair now, and he lets his back fall into it. “Very good,” he says, smiling to himself as if something very amusing has happened but he doesn’t want to share it. “Very good.” After a short silence he picks up one of the celebrity gossip magazines, opens it and gives a slight, almost cartoonish sneer. He gets bored of this and puts it back down.

After a moment he starts laughing and murmuring. He wants me to ask him why.

“What are you thinking about?” I’m friendly. Everyone here is.

He cleans his glasses against his cardigan, straightens the tie beneath and tilts himself towards me.

“Well,” he says, and I sense he’s preparing something. Choosing his words.

“Well. I knew a great man, once. A compassionate and thoughtful man. One who did his best, when it came to people. Alfred, his name.”

I’m drinking my water, but I put it down for a minute. “Oh?” I murmur. It’s always a bit awkward getting to know someone, especially in this room for some reason. We call it The Office. I fold my hands.

Stewart continues. “Alfred’s life brought him to a state where he was capable of viewing every living organism just the same as any other: as an individual. And one worth knowing. If he saw a dog turn its neck, he shared its wonder. When he saw a bird suddenly flapping into the air, he turned to see what was wrong, as if he were afraid. He was kind. I called it a higher plane of thought, but he didn’t like that. Great people always lie about their greatness, don’t they? I just sort-of trusted that he had a good reason for that. Because he didn’t like liars.”

This story sounds rehearsed, I think, but I narrow my eyes, showing that I’m paying attention. He nods once more and carries on.

“One day he was at home and he saw a fly on his window. Its tiny legs, each one as thin as a human hair (you know how small they are) flicking back and forth as its body just stood there on the glass. Like an anchor with… snakes tied to it. It’s perfectly alert, this fly, but it has nowhere to go. The fly has come into Alfred’s house, seen the window and thought ‘Ah! This is the way out!’ Because he can’t see the glass, you see.”

I laugh a little. “Yeah,” I say. “I get it.” And Stewart laughs back, approvingly.

“Alfred saw the fly there. And in his wisdom and intelligence he understood why it couldn’t escape. And of course he could not allow the creature to suffer this way. So he scooped it up with a little tumbler and a paperback and he let it out of the door. Problem solved. The only trouble is that later (this was summer, by the way) there was another fly on the window. Again, he moved it away with his tumbler, which he had to sterilise again, and released it to his garden. But later on, when he got back from his dinner he saw three more flies.

“He chastised himself, of course. How could he have relaxed and eaten when three souls were struggling for their lives, confused out of their tiny minds, in his home? You see, to him, the flies were no less valuable than people. The only difference between them and us, as he saw it, was intelligence. And you don’t let somebody suffer for an hour, trapped and confused in what they perceive as an impossible maze, just because they’re too stupid not to know what glass is. Do you?”

I don’t know if Stewart wants me to agree with him or question him, so I just tilt my head and let him finish his story.

“So Alfred stood around the window for a bit, helping the flies get back to their lives. When he was finished he locked the door, obviously, and he went to my house next door, to see if there were any flies there. And there were, so he asked if he could come in to get rid of them. And this went on, every day, until he disappeared. And he probably spent the rest of his life staring at glass, concentrating with his eyes all screwed up like yours are now, quickly tapping his little cup against the windows, over and over again, and walking over to the door.”

I don’t know what to say. I can’t help feeling like I’m being patronised, but I have no idea how. I begin to hope the phone will ring again. It doesn’t. Stewart keeps looking at me, waiting for my reaction.

“What happened to him?” I ask.

“I don’t know. He disappeared. He’s probably died by now.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know him very well. I just thought he was fascinating.”

There is so little to do in this little room, I think. I could nod, which wouldn’t satisfy him. I could look at the phone booths, which would be rude. I could get another glass of water, perhaps? Something occurs to me and he seems to see the recognition on my face. He smiles widely this time.

“Is there a hidden meaning in that story for me?” I ask. “Did Alfred volunteer at the Samaritans?”

Stewart raises his eyebrows for a second and looks for the magazine. After a second he answers. “No. Not at all.”

“Oh. I thought you meant… because of what we do here. Helping people.”

“Did you?” He sounds a little bit annoyed now. “If you go around thinking the people we talk to on the phone are comparable to flies, then you’re in the wrong job, believe you me.”

“I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“Very good. One sugar, no milk.”

I get up and make it. As I return to The Office, I see that Stewart has answered another phone call. From the sound of his replies and his tone, I guess that the conversation might go on for a while. He’s asking serious questions, you know. I leave his tea by his side, to which he mouths a ‘thank you’, and take my seat again.

And immediately there is a familiar sound, one that makes my head dart upwards. A fly’s buzz.

It zig-zags through the open door to our empty little hallway, makes a couple of circles around the room, and then hits the window hard. There is that sudden THOCK sound that I always think is somehow too loud. An animal so small and delicate as a fly can’t make a noise like that. The whole animal is the size of a crumb, made in miniature out of thin, barely-glued-together black wire that crunches if you touch it, like sugar-glass, and those wings look like a good wind could rip them in half. But when this tiny crisp of a creature collides with a window, you get this dull, heavy note.

Something that size, I think, can’t make a THOCK. It sounds like a cricket ball hitting clay.

Our window is thick, wavy and heavy, so that it lets in natural light but keeps our little office secretive. The fly just sits there for a moment, dead still, then crawls about, looking for a way through. I look around for a glass or a dry tea cup, but I don’t get up. The room strikes me again, and I notice how artificial it is, in an odd way. The chairs are very nice, very soft. The place is spotless, not that I’ve ever seen anyone cleaning, and that biscuit tin is always full somehow. But the top half of the room is just old white walls, almost completely covered by notices and letters and lists of rules and important information, and warnings and requests and timetables. They’re messy.

Stewart must have heard the fly’s buzzing and he must have noticed the coincidence. He probably smiled, but he doesn’t turn away from his phone call to smile at you or anything like that. He seems to be engrossed, which is odd for him. Maybe this is a serious call. A real call.

I haven’t had any of those yet.