A Stranger Leaves Chapter 5 AND 6

  

 

 

5 

 It was a wet and grey that day, when Ash set off on a quest to get his passport renewed.  For the following two weeks of waiting he hoped, prayed and would’ve been willing to sacrifice a lamb if there were one handy for the passport to come.  How vividly he recalls that day, in Cults when he wanted to sort it out, that day April deluged.

Thankfully the Post Office was a giant’s tip-toe away from the bus stop and he was out of the wet straight away. Finally, Ash thought, I have found you after so many struggles and hardships and have once dreamed of only this fabled place, finally my quest is fast found and fruitful. Even so his grumpy face he had not relinquished since the day before.  He’d ventured into the city and decided to go to an exhibition of Monets, Manets, a couple of Vetrianos and a Van Gogh.  However, for some reason he could not imagine the Gallery was closed.  He allowed his grumpy face to linger on into the morning.

The wet grey wet threatened to engulf the world within a deep and vast swimming pool. The wet grey seemed a reflection of his own dark mood.

That day he escaped his house so swiftly, far too swiftly to remember to take his cigarettes with him.  The bus was at the Terminus and he saw a designer clothed driver, rolling a cigarette.  Ash asked for one and as there was nine minutes to take off, the driver decanted himself from his cab and chatted to Ash under the bus shelter.

The driver, Cammy he said his name was, felled Ash into conversation.  Cammy talked endlessly about his holidays since childhood as if telepathically the driver had gleaned that Ash was going to get his passport sorted.

Also, there was a long poster on the side of the bus advertising a holiday to Tunisia.

‘Is the sea really that blue?’ He wondered as if he were a curious small child amazed at the sight asking his Dad.

‘Oh, yes,’ and the bus driver smiled as if he remembered days of that particular bit of sea. When my Dad retired we decide to take him on World Cruise.  We chose the Superior Service Hotel Rate. How we were like Gods, anything we wanted.  We even went to the Taj Mahal; the city around it –Benares – is a right shit hole.’  As the driver went on telling Ash all the places he had been to, it seemed to Ash that he had been everywhere, while all Ash had been those days, he escaped Culter only as far as Toulouse. Ash said:

‘My friend went to Tunisia this year; place was battered with wind and the rain horizontal.  A couple of years back my ex took our daughter there, thankfully the Arab Spring hadn’t kicked off, a year later I would not have let them go.’ Yeah, right Ash thought. Cammy was going on about Canada, but that was where his mother died. He stubbed out his smoke into the bin and got on board, thanking the driver.

There was a long queue at the Post Office, but he had to get his photos first. He’d already filled the form out. The automated photo booth was relatively easily to work and soon he was joining the back of the queue.  He looked at the unpleasant reproduction of his skinny face with smoky bruises under his eyes but the old picture on his out-of-date passport was someone else, a happy head he no longer knew.

Eventually he got to the front to the line, but the woman behind the shotgun sensitive glass told him he should’ve taken glasses off and they were not acceptable.

Bad boy, he reprimanded himself. Go away and do it again. He slumped back to the photo booth. Ash took off his glasses and snapped at the buttons with stressed rigid fingers.  This time.  No! This time he repeated to calm himself as he waited in the queue for the second time, this one seemed even longer. Once more the form was wrong. He hadn’t filled the signature wholly in the wee box and had to fill in the form for a third time.  Has almost begging the post mistress to accept it now.

Apart from the fact that his lips were millimetres open. This time she told him apart from the lips everything was acceptable.

Champagne on everyone. As he was leaving, he called back to the postmistress:

‘If you want go for a holiday in a couple of weeks, call me.’  She didn’t laugh; oh it’s going to be one of those days.  For no other reason than it was next door to the post office, he darted into the Cults Hotel and asked the receptionist if he could get coffee. She gave directions to the dining room. Apart from the staff the place was dead.  He got a coffee with a chocolate biscuit –the first time he’d eaten today. He asked the guy who brought over his drink.

‘When does the bar open?’

‘Eleven,’ he said as if Ash had been off planet since decimalisation.

Ten minutes, he said. Ash thought it was probably unwise having a drink today, if he had a drink today it would just increase his depression levels. So, he took out his notebook he’d bought in the Post Office and started writing about what he’d remembered so far today. He knocked back the coffee and left the dry and warm shelter of the hotel. He had won £10 on a scratch card and he needed cigarettes. He didn’t much care for the shops in Cults which as far as Ash could see were all designed for the rich folks, but along at the end of street near the Library was a Tesco.

The wet was seeping through to his long johns, but he struggled on.  Of course, the Tesco’s weren’t doing the lotto scratches, so instead of leaving without buying anything – he got some smokes and a ½ bottle of vodka. He dashed through the soaked air to the Library, the librarian on duty was a familiar face from Culter Library. He took out a travel book about Berlin and to make up for missing the exhibition took out a tome of Impressionist painting.  Once more he braved the rain and stood at the nearest bus stop. And waited.  At first, he reminisced about Helen, he hoped he would see her again. He had a bag of clothes she’d left behind and she’d told him where she lived. He remembered her hair, coal black, her tattoos, and the cool paleness of her face. After waiting ten minutes all he could think about was sodden by the rain and he took out the vodka and drank a nip.

Another 5 minutes he told himself, then I’ll just walk.

A 201 came out of the rain as if it were defying the rage of an angry god. He got on and found a seat. Thoughts of Helen followed behind and sat down beside him. He went over in his mind how wonderful having had her in his life was; he felt a balm over the pain of his heart as if she had suffered to heal him. Branches of thoughts flitting through in his mind intertwined and twisted about as they were the roots of Yggdrasil. Hardly aware of fleeting trees and houses along the way before he knew it he was home. Food now, he thought, then pills.  He flicked through some of the Impressionist paintings, and then tried to look for some Van Goghs, but the author seemingly had a boner for Monet as one of his pictures was on just about on every page.

 

                                                                                

  6

 

Somehow it was still raining two weeks later when a poor, overworked postal delivery agent rapped on Ash’s door.  Struggling uselessly into his silk dressing gown he managed, again, to reach the front door without tripping over the cat litter tray. Recently the post never came until midday; the other day he saw a punch-drunk postie delivering his post at 2.30 in the afternoon. And there were at least 240 days till Christmas. Fucking Tories, he had thought sadly.

‘Hi,’ he said to the guy.

The postie still managed a smile as Ash half in and out of his dressing gown and door, signed the proffered piece of paper and accepted the slim unassuming blue envelope. He swore at himself for wishing it had come the day before when he was in a good mood and not today when he’d barely slept and an unnerving foreboding sloshed like sewage in the back of his head. Almost as an afterthought the postie gave him his real post. A call for funds for overworked and suicidal recorded PPI voiceover artistes promoting their campaign: Why Don’t You Talk to Us. Ash vaguely wondered if he should give the postie a tip. A hug? That would be a bit out of place especially with the dressing gown about his legs.

‘Thank you,’ Ash said it’ll have to do. He presumed they still got paid.

He shut the door as the postie went off into the bleak Wuthering Heightsishday.  He sat on his bed. ‘Her Britannic Majesty...’ That’s nice of her, he thought. God look at the picture I look like a fucking dusty gargoyle.  He put the passport on the table by the bed. Stood up, paced about the table eyes firmly locked on the red imitation leather cover.  He sat down and picked it up again.  He looked at the pictures on the pages - oh that’s cool.  He put it down again and managed to escape its lure by making a well-earned coffee. He put on the radio; a strangely amusing documentary about kissing was on.

She didn’t like kissing much.  He wondered what she was doing and if she was still alive. He’d gone to her student flat with a bag of her clothes, but she wasn’t in. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised, almost relieved. But, if he hadn’t taken his camera with him, afterwards, he might have fallen onto the road and let whatever vehicle nearest to crush him to gore and pulp.  He took some photos and went to Veronica’s flat in Bridge of Don.  Why does that seem such a long time ago now? He wondered, and then with the coffee went back to his vigil with the passport. He smoked and drank coffee while the cats stalked him. They’d been on hunger strike as their cat food wasn’t made with the correct combination of gravy, rabbit and vegetables and several days’ worth of it was rotting in the kitchen.  He assured them that once Lara’s Mum called, he’d get them something more palatable.  He went to the window, the curtains still undrawn, went to open them and saw cops talking to his neighbour.  He sat back down again considering the consequences of this, if any. Luckily, before he had seen the neighbour banged up, his girlfriend thrown out into the street and a new, golden summer of middle-agedness open up the phone went.

‘Hello,’ Rachael said and added ironically. ‘Lovely day.’

‘Yeah, great apparently ducks like this kind of weather. I just think they’re not on enough medication and need their eyes tested.’

‘You’ll never guess what happened to me.’

‘You’re right I don’t know. My usual mindreading devices are off. You got drunk? Got married? I don’t know give me a clue.’

‘Well, my chums took me out for a meal because of my fiftieth and my sister told me to dress up and I got a pair of heels.’

‘Never do anything families tell you to do.’ Ash said with a sinking sense of prescience.

‘Well, we were out and enjoying the meal and I went to go to the toilet, it was a bit slippy on the floor, and I went right over on my back.’

‘Oh my God I’m sorry. What happened?’ Thinking - she’s broken her back. Who the fuck’s going to do my ASDA shop now?

‘Anyway, I’d dislocated two fingers in my hand.  They were all saying to go up to A&E. But it was Saturday and I wasn’t going up there. I said I wasn’t going to let it spoil my night and soldiered on. I went to A&E next day and they gave me some gas and air. Remember like when Lara was born’.

They both laughed.

‘The nurse was good, but I still screamed when she snapped the fingers back in place. So much for being  fifty.’

‘Oh god.’ Ash said. ‘It’s your birthday, when? Saturday? Ahh Sunday. I don’t have anything for you.’

‘No. Remember you gave me that CD.’

‘Oh, yeah, but.’ Then suddenly out of nowhere Ash started crying.  He could hear the portcullis going down in her head.

‘I don’t know. I want to go and see Dad, but the cats want food and I need a shower. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s important.’

‘Have you been taking your medication?’

‘No. I took them all on Friday with some sleeping tablets. I don’t remember what happened.  And I was all paranoid thinking I’d screamed and shouted at you or Veronica or Dad.’

‘Ash calm down.  Go down to the GP’s and ask them for some.’

‘They won’t give me any I’ve tried before.’

‘Well then call your nurse.’

‘They’re no use. They’re always so busy.’

‘Just call her, don’t lose it at her just explain what happened. It’s not like they’re going to section you.’

But Ash wouldn’t stop crying.

‘I’ll call you back in a minute.’ Rachael hung up.

Breathe or something, he told himself and grasped a cigarette, had sucked half of it into him before she called back.

But he was still crying.

‘You’ve got to get some pills Ash. You can’t see Lara when you’re like this.’

‘I’ll be alright,’ Ash was thinking. Fuck him, fuck him next door.  He did this to me. No, he argued, I did this to me.

‘Just call your nurse and text me tomorrow if you’re still up to seeing us.’

‘OK.’

‘Bye.’

‘Yeah.’

For a while Ash wandered about with his passport until the cats had demented him enough to brave the day. As he wandered down to the Spar, he remembered that the London Marathon where a woman had died had been on at the weekend. Twelve years ago, he said to himself, that’s when I did the play in London. He decided not to go into the shop just yet and went past the chippie and the pub down toward the river. At first, he felt a sense of real joy. Old friend, old friend. The water loud and falling fast. Then he saw the outcrop of rock where he had been sitting when some vicious cunt lobbed a boulder at his head. He looked up and was startled by the wood pigeons. He saw the grey flare of the water. Suddenly suicide seemed possible. Not now, but whenever. Here. On a day like this. Probably hurt a bit, but I probably deserve it.  He turned back to go to the shop and the tears almost swamped him again.  OK, other people alert. He did this every week. It’s cool.

There were the vegetables that Helen had insisted he bought, marked down in price. He considered buying them, but didn’t think there was much point as he probably wouldn’t eat them. The familiar face of the antipodean wifie was on the till.

‘Where are you from again Australia or New Zealand? I know I’ve asked before...’

‘New Zealand.’

‘I knew that.  I’ve family in Perth.’

‘That’s £24.90.’

‘£24.90.  Just like that.’ He laughed. ‘I got my passport today. Only £600 to Perth.  At least when I get there, I won’t have to buy any groceries.’

He made her laugh. Maybe it won’t be such a bad day after all.

 

While the cats were wondering what new poison, he had set down for them to sup he went on Facebook to tell the director of Calendar Girls that he wouldn’t be able to turn up for the audition.

Ash could just about figure out e-mails and blogs, but Facebook, seemed, well basically weird and the fact that one day he suddenly had all these friends. Why didn’t they just phone him up?

Somehow though, something caught his eye from his cousin in Australia about her dad, Mickey dying 36 years ago to the day. He hadn’t thought about Mickey for years, had a vague memory of an old photo and he’d sent Ash a gold tie clip and cufflinks with a map of Australia on them. He did a figure in his head.  I was ten then, I remember that day, or I remember Mum being so upset.

Did it mean anything that by accident he had noticed the message on Facebook, which he’d mainly avoided using and getting the passport on the same day. Well, he decided, it had to mean something or at least only to himself.

He remembered that Mickey had been a painter and decorator and he’d suddenly died in his forties on the ladder. It could mean:

(As he looked at the badly painted doors, walls and ceiling) that he should paint the flat.

That he could avoid painting his flat by getting on a bus to the bus stop where the bus to the airport left from, getting on a plane to London and then another plane or three and going to see his family. Right now

He was beginning to see connections in everything as he was probably breaking down.

 

Of course, A was the most sensible of the three, but he’d been putting off painting his house for the last ten years and despite the call from the Great Beyond he didn’t whip open the can of white emulsion and start.  He probably could’ve got to Perth, spent a long summertime there, come back by boat, but when he got back would still be sitting here for years and still not paint this fucking place.

He tried not to think about it too much and had a shower. He realised he’d been sitting in the house for a week. That was the point – he’d been trying to get out more when he met Helen. Now he was back to the same old same old, sitting, doing nothing. He remembers Helen’s bag of clothes in the hall cupboard.  I suppose I don’t need a passport to try and find her. Try and find her? But, could he put himself through all that? That was what he was hiding from, sitting here, thinking, thinking, and thinking. Oh fuck, he thought. Then he went to bed.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t sleep.

He considered what Rachael said about calling his nurse.  He knew there was no point, but he did it anyway. Got the fucking Ansa phone. Right, I’ve got to do something and he realised he was just walking about from room to room while the cats circled, followed him, were there at his feet, at his hand as he parted the curtains briefly. There was a medical term for pacing about without being aware of it. Fucking annoyingism.

He sat on the toilet and started reading The Storyteller by Alan Sillitoe.  This guy knew, Ash said to himself. How stories are everywhere, but just as you get a handle on them, they fly off and you can’t reach them, you can’t grab them and hold them and let them fall out of your mouth like God was speaking for you.

Then one of the cats came to the door of the toilet and looked at him.

‘What?!

A Stranger Leaves Chapters 3 and 4 by Adam Parry

3

 

At the back of 3 o’clock he had a date with his Community Psychiatric Nurse.  Her name was Simone. She had got married round about the time he started having appointments with her. Damnit he’d thought wryly, another one bites the dust. She didn’t let him wait too long, at least not as long as The Eagles, but even so he twitched and fidgeted and felt the desperate need to urinate. Then Kerry appeared and took him through to the latest Doctor’s office she had borrowed for the day. It was painted bright red with a large framed poster of Barcelona, which caught his eye immediately. Kerry enthused about the designer fish tank with a few little, tiddly fast swimming fish. He thought it was quite an amazing room; it was homely as if the doctor slept on the examination table.

Ash took his coat off and asked for a tissue to blow his nose.

‘How’re you doing?’ She asked.

‘On a scale from one to ten. Ten!’ He said excitedly.

He told her a little about Helen and that he had actually gone to see his Father. Of course he had been slightly drunk, he told her, but to his relief Kerry didn’t hit him with a stick and throw him out the office.

‘And I finally went to the Books and Beans poetry night on Thursday.’

‘Well done.’

‘I read one of my poems, fumbled a bit, but I enjoyed myself,’ he laughed. ‘On Belmont Street saw a couple of wimmin; I thought they were mother and daughter, I didn’t stay too long after the poetry group, it was about Rilke a Czech guy before the first world war. Anyway, I found myself on the street going into the Wild Boar. I sort of like it in there and went in for a pint. Then I went down to the Moorings, but didn’t stay long and ascended to The Castlegate and saw a pal – Rob the Artist and I dragged him back down to The Moorings. In O’Neil’s they wouldn’t serve me anything but iced water so I left, without Rob, and met this homeless guy, Garth, all hair and beard. I thrust a fiver at him. “Have it,” I said.  We couldn’t get served in one pub, because he had been pilfering drinks from tables, so with him in tow we went to the morgue also known as The Prince of Wales. I ended up in Drummonds getting thrown out for dancing without a license.’

Simone probably thinks I’m still drunk, he considered to himself.

However, he’d avoided telling the whole truth about Helen.

‘What does she do?’ She asked.

‘She’s a psychology student.’ Lie. She had been a psychology student. Nor did he mention that between them they had consumed about twenty bottles of wine. If he told Simone she was about the worst alkie he’d met she might get out a slingshot and take out one of his eyes. Or spank him severely. Mmm, he thought Homer Simpson-like on seeing a doughnut.

Ash had missed his last appointment with his newest Psychiatrist so he sorted out a new appointment with the doc.

How he hated coming to this fucking Health Centre. Feels like I’ve been sitting in that waiting room for the last twelve years.  The only thing the waiting room magazines were useful for was having a swift wank in the toilet while waiting for The Eagles to get his finger out and shrink him. Anyway, he’d fired The Eagles a couple of years back and got on with life without a net, until he was given a new doc, a Helen Straven. He thought she was a very kind woman and despite himself he cried about something or other during their last date. He tried to remember what it was that had set him off.  When I get home. I will write a long list, he told himself disdainfully.

Almost an hour had gone by just chatting at Simone.  He had her categorised in his mind as a kind platonic pal. If you could call someone who is paid to listen to him once a month, a pal then he supposed she was.

Of course, he reconsidered this as he glanced at the swell of her bosom. Were they getting bigger? God, maybe she’s pregnant.  He didn’t know too much about her apart from the fact she was married, used to read Stephen King a lot and had seen a UFO. In his head he had used the UFO encounter as an excuse for missing his last appointment with her. I wish I’d seen a UFO; he had pouted at the time. Life is so unfair.

Simone asked:

‘Does she smoke?’

‘Not pot, a fag or two, she might have had a few puffs but she didn’t inhale.’

Kerry laughed.

‘She even asked me to go into another room when I’d skinned up.’

‘I like her already.’

‘Not as much as me.’

She wrote a card for a new appointment in May.

‘See you then.’

‘Take care, Ash.’

He wanted to hug her –friendly-like – but then she would know he was still drunk so pushed himself out the door.

 

 

 4

Alison was late.  He thought his sister Veronica’s worst aspect of her personality was always being late, but Alison in his estimation had stolen the Olympic Gold for lateness.  When he’d been in college doing acting he was bawled out extensively by the director, Lynne Bains, until lateness was beaten out of him and he was always early usually by an hour, which was a bit annoying as the pubs weren’t open til eleven. Now Alison was two hours late, and he was on Union Bridge overlooking the Gardens waiting like a clipper on a street corner. She, however, texted him six or seven times saying she was further down the route on her way, but he didn’t get the texts until she finally arrived. At one point after about an hour he almost gave up. Ash went to the Wild Boar once a relatively dingy bar which had suited his tastes. These days it had been extensively refurbished. Down in the basement where he used to sit most Wednesdays’ when he got his giro was now plastered with TV screens in every booth where smartly dressed folk ate from the refurbished menu. He had a pint there, but didn’t enjoy it much then with no idea what else to do he went back to Union Bridge where a statue of an old King stood watch, clean stone in the sun, the dwindling crowds of shoppers, folk over the road smoking outside a bar and the buses passing within the ballet of their assigned routes.

Recently Alison’s latest austerity programme was buying legal highs in the Market, especially Black Mamba – a grass-like suspect – she told Ash she would bring a spliff of it down with her and they’d sit the Gardens while it was still there, before the builders arrived for the glassing of the good, green place that had been there for over a century.

When she at last arrived, smiling, waving from the other side of the street it was almost twilight. Suddenly as if he had not been irritated by the wait, he had to endure their gloaming tryst seemed a special moment, just the two of them left in the Gardens bubbling over with chat in blue dark.

‘Some gay guy tried to hit on me while I was waiting.’

‘God, this isn’t even Hadden Street.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s the new Golden Square. Dogging point for Aberdeen Central.’

‘OH.’

‘A lassie asked me directions to the railway station. She was slender and sweet, in white rushing and flowing clothes as if she were going to a wedding, but she did have bad acne, in another era I would’ve called her pizza face. If I’d known you were going to be so effing late I would have personally escorted her.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s too late to be sorry, you’ve already done it,’ he laughed. ‘So did Rowan get evicted?’

‘Not yet. He had a court case and he’s got an extension until April. Of course, he put Eva back in hospital.’

‘When did he get like that? He never hit you, did he?’

‘No. I would’ve hit him back.’

‘How’s your Mum?’

‘Still in the old house. She’s OK.’

They’d smoked two Black Mambas. Ash was feeling hungry and he presumed Alison did too.  So, they started along to Belmont Street. Just over the bridge Alison stopped to pull a bottle of Tequila from the pocket of a homeless guy/ junkie/ person and took a long swig. Ash wondered.

What the fuck is she doing?

Yet the guy laughed and said she could have all the Tequila if she wanted it. They obviously kent each other. Ash relaxed against the black railings of the edge of the Bridge. He glanced down as a train off to Inverness started to gain speed on the way to Rosemount Viaduct. He looked back at Alison and the boy chatting to each other Ash felt like he was in Hermann Hesse’s Magic Theatre wondering if this was real or a performance for his benefit. Alison said goodbye to the boy and moved off. The boy looked at him as if he knew Ash but he was pretty sure they had never met. They smiled at each other as if they shared something.

God, I’m on paranoia Heights he thought and went after Alison.

‘Who was that?’

‘Gog’s. He was going out with Eva before Rowan.’

‘Him,’ he shivered with fear. They’re coming to get me. ‘He’s that guy. I hope he realizes there was no penetration involved in our short romance. Are they all going to come out of the cracks and get me?’

She laughed.

Just then they went into Slain’s.  Since the millennium it didn’t seem to have changed a bit. He bought two cocktails – Sloth and Greed. He took her to his usual table, which he hadn’t sat at since the fateful Y2K.

‘We were sitting here once, my pal Stuart and I getting on with a couple of queans.  One of them was on her way to the toilet when she fell down those steps and hit her head and her nose started bleeding so her pal took her to the loo and they were in there for ages. So, I reckoned we might as well just go and I tried to get Stu to leave. He kept on waiting for them to come out but, “give up,” I told him. “There’s no point hanging about.” I almost had to drag him out of here. It was so embarrassing’.

‘Let’s sit over there,’ they went to an oak tabled booth. ‘When I take out the boys we always sit here.’

Ash agreed that her choice was better.  They drank their two deadly sins and looked over the menu.  She had pasta and chicken he had ham and eggs and real chips, he hadn’t chips for years. Ash didn’t realize how hungry he was until he actually started eating – then the food was gone, and he was still hungry, as if it hadn’t existed. He promised himself that he would try to eat more regularly even though it was just a hassle, another bestial human need that took too much thought and effort.

Once he’d finished, he dashed out to the relatively expansive smoking area, the powers that be had even supplied tables for the poor, persecuted smoking community.  He leant against the granite wall of Slain’s. Some lassie came up to him.

‘Hello we’re doing a documentary on people’s opinions about the re-development of Union Terrace Gardens.’ She looked like a student, another with a movie camera hung back behind her. ‘We’re looking for people to interview.’

‘Yeah? I’d love to.’ He had not voted at the referendum on the contentious proposal to redevelop the Gardens. Only about 8000 people were for it out of population of half a million.  He wondered how many votes the people who wanted to keep it the way it was got. 23? He had half-expected there to be some street violence. Those brave 23 old men, anarchists and radicals (alcoholics and drug addicts) battling it out with hordes of neo-yuppies.

‘Well.’ Ash said. ‘I’m with a friend I’m sure she’s got a lot of things to say about it. I’ll go and get her.’

He threw down his cigarette even though he knew he could be liable for a fine and that it wasn’t very eco-friendly, but this was important he had thought hastily and forgave himself. As he walked to the booth he wondered if his views were valid if he hadn’t voted.  He told Alison about the cameras, expecting her to rush out and express herself, but she didn’t budge. He felt sorry for the student who was probably waiting for them both to hold forth.

The bar Slain’s was named after Slain’s Castle up the coast from Aberdeen where Bram Stoker supposedly thought up Dracula.  He probably stayed for the afternoon and thought this place is fucking freezing. Ash’s sister, Veronica and one of her mates had taken his daughter there one Summer Holiday. He told Alison about it. ‘There’s a bit heading to the Castle, were there’s a sheer drop at one side when she walked along past it my heart was in my mouth.

‘I know the bit you mean; the boys just rush over it as if it’s not there.’

‘Oh God I hate heights.’

‘Let’s get out of here we’ll sit outside for a J I’ve a bit of that Black Mamba left.’  She skinned up with a sense of deftness and surety, yet looked somewhat edgy as they emerged from the pub to the smoking zone. The students were interviewing and filming someone, Ash heard her hiss out a sigh of relief.  She noticed small packs of the students prowling along Belmont Street. Alison and he sat in a corner.

‘Let’s go to The Moorings after this,’ Ash said feeling cold and a bit disappointed he hadn’t been interviewed. What the hell was wrong with her?

‘OK.’ Did she sound unsure? That was why he had met her so they could see the haunted pub. What was bugging her?

They walked the rest of the joint down Union Street, and then turned down past the market toward the pub.  A couple of smokers lingered at the doorway, he was about to go in but Alison skirted past them and he had no choice but to sit beside her on some railings and stare at the massive supply boats docked in the harbour and the stars above.

‘I wonder if that’s Mars,’ he pointed up. ‘Oh, come on let’s go inside. I’m cold.’

‘No, I don’t want anyone to think I’m a prostitute.’

‘Don’t be silly.  I look more like a prostitute than you.’ He turned to try and get her to follow him.  Her text alert sounded. She had to delete some messages to get the new one and once she’d retrieved it, she wanted to take photos with her camera. Coldly Ash supposed it was a good idea. Then Alison pulled out some Charley Sheen, a brand name for legal cocaine. They snorted a couple of lines from his blue covered journal.

‘Can we go in now?’

‘I suppose so.’

Thank Christ.  Ash wondered if Helen would be here.  Suddenly he didn’t want to go into The Moorings in case she wasn’t there and he’d be disappointed. Even so both of them reluctantly went in.

It was Karaoke Night.  The place was half-dead, except for a few old men in the corners and some Goths with purple hair.  The DJ was singing a Johnny Cash song which at first seemed a bit out of place in here until he realised how good the DJ was at singing.  He could probably listen to the guy singing all night.  Once he’d sung, some thrash punk issued from the speakers and the place almost seemed normal.

Ash said. ‘If I go up and do one, will you come and do a song too?’

She didn’t answer, he read between the lines.

Oh great, what fun, we’ll just sit here and not speak, as speaking was pointless in the noise. Where was the fucking fun in this?  He went back to the bar while she nursed her ½ pint.

When he had lost his wallet the last place, he recalled being in was here, one night when he had been looking for Helen. He asked the bartender if it had been handed in.  Fat chance, he thought, and he was right.  I want to go home; I want a pill, his head wailed above the onslaught of guitars being slowly murdered. He got a pint and split it with Alison.

‘I’ll walk you to your bus-stop. Then I’m going home after this.’  He drank the lager quickly, spilling some down his unshaven chin. ‘Get a bus instead the usual taxi. Treat myself.’

Suddenly Alison started to start getting into the Mooring’s décor. On one wall a frieze of constellation of stars with Neil Armstrong on a moonlike surface. On the dance floor itself a white paint around a figure removed, sprawled like in the proverbial murder scene, beyond the black painted wall by the toilet and the final wall about the dance floor was covered in a mirror. Ash did not know why, but he loved this place.  If it was still a coaching Inn, he would move in.

He waited at the bus stop with Alison, and then reluctantly got the 19 home.  Alison, he decided, was on too much medication or she was so chilled out she slept each night in a chest freezer.

In the house he accidently stepped on one of his cat’s tails.  She sped off squealing. For no apparent reason he screamed at the cat as if it had been her fault, then clumsily knocked over a coffee.  After that he couldn’t stop himself from shouting, pointlessly swearing, he fell to his arse on the carpet and thought about his Dad and wept until the anger dissipated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Stranger Leaves Chapter 2 by Adam Parry

 

two

 

Ash’s Dad was asleep on his end of the sofa, but not for long as Max 2 barked her usual terrified greeting at the sight of Ash.  Now that Dad’s moustache had grown thicker since the last time he saw him, he somehow suited it. He grabbed a mug of tea and asked Ash why he was here.

‘I haven’t seen you for a bit.’

‘You saw me two weeks ago,’

‘I just brought Lara up to see you before they went to LA and Vegas. I was out of my body at the time.’

‘No. Why are you here now?’

‘I’ve come to see you.  Don’t worry I have no ulterior motives.  I just missed you.’

They sat in silence. Then William said:

‘Get yourself something to eat and make me a cup of tea, no milk.’

Ash remembered when Helen got so very hot and she was drenched in sweat. She started to panic as she didn’t know what was wrong. Ash with a sense of familiarity gently blew on her face, which seemed to help and she began to cool down and lay in peace for a while.

Ash stupidly put a few drops of milk in the tea, making the liquid look deep brown and murky.  He had stopped himself before he put too much in, but it still looked pretty bogging.  He took it through.  Max 2 darting up the stairs and barking like a terrified fox.  Back in the kitchen he got some Corn Flakes and came through to the sitting room after perusing his Father’s boxes and bottles of pills.  There were no Jellies.  Anyway, it was not his intention to snaffle any today, no, not today.

Without setting off the feral beast into a head-ripping bout of barking he made it to the toilet and back.  William unsteadily got to his feet. ‘You must have put a milky spoon in my cup.’ He went to make another for himself without another comment, but he slowly swept his feet along the hallway and said like a pale shadow of his rage.

‘You’ve left the drawer open and the toilet door shut.  How many times do I have to tell you...oh, I’m sorry it just keeps the heat in that way?’

They both lit up.

‘How’re you feeling?’

‘How the fuck do you think I’m feeling? I’ve had the shits since I woke up at six. But, thanks for asking.’

Ash put out his fag then went to get his bag from the steps which set Max 2 off. Ash swore.

William told his son. ‘I have to take a pill at ten. Put the telly on if you want.’

‘Do you want me to walk Max?’

‘Alexa said she would do it, she’s a bit later than usual. I’m going upstairs to get washed and changed. Save you from Max for a bit.’  He stuck the telly on for Ash as he knew he was unfamiliar with the remote. Ash channel flicked and found a found documentary channel, Eden, about a guy rowing across the Tasmanian Strait.

William called. ‘Can you get me the towels from the dining room? They’re on the swivel chair.’

Ash found them and took them up to him while the dog flew to the nearest corner.  Ash quickly retreated before he throttled the bark permanently from the mutt.  He smoked a couple of fags and had another cup of tea before William came down again with a t-shirt and jumper on, his jeans folded over an arm.

There was a knock on the door.  Alexa let herself into the kitchen. Ash said hi to her.  She lived two doors down.  Her family had lived in Dyce before they moved in. He cut her off at the pass.

‘Dad’s putting his breeks on.’ At least Max 2 was consistent and was once again barking insanely.

They both went through and William was fully dressed back in his seat on the couch. Ash told Alexa:

‘Max doesn’t like me.’

‘No. He bloody hates him.’

Alexa took a concerned look at William. ‘You’re holding your arm funny.  Have you had another of your mini-strokes?’

He looked defeated.

‘Yes. I think so.’

She managed to wrangle Max2 into a lead.  Ash didn’t move lest the dog was too scared to go out.

‘I’ll take her just now,’ she said. ‘You’ll take her later, Ash, eh?’

‘Yes.’ Ash started watching TV again. Helen had a little heart tattooed on her shoulder, he said he liked it. She had another tattoo on her thigh star shaped edged with grey. I don’t like that one, she’d said. Neither did he, but kept it to himself and he had kissed her heart.

Now that he’d woken up and got dressed, taken his pill and had five fags William seemed to have cheered up a bit.  Ash breathed a sigh of relief – at least a ten-minute break from dog.

Somehow, they got into a conversation about Singapore.

‘Your hair was so blonde back then in the sun it turned white. Your Mum lost you in the market and was shitting bricks until you appeared on someone’s shoulder.’

‘I always used to get lost. Especially in Edinburgh.’

William scowled.

‘I have to take another pill at eleven, then we can go to ASDA – my second home. I’m waiting for a router, but if it doesn’t come soon, we can just go over.’

‘Did you get caught out by the petrol panic?’

‘I didn’t know it was going on until after the fact.’

Before Alexa came back William told him how he nearly drowned off the coast of Malaysia.

‘We were all pissed, big party of us, even some officers. So bright spark that I am I went for a swim.  The next thing I knew I was a mile off shore cos of the currents.’

‘I nearly drowned for ten fags.’ Ash launched into a lengthy spiel, but was caught short by the return of Alexa and the anxious canine. She bounded upstairs as if breathing the same air as him was intolerable. Alexa left also.

Ash got up and stubbed out his latest fag in the ashtray beside William.  On the table beside it he saw a bonny gold pocket watch.

‘That’s nice. Did you just get it?’

‘No Mum gave it to me.’

‘Your Mum or my Mum?’

‘Yours. Helen. I’m going to get a sandwich. Do you want anything?’

‘No,’ but Ash followed him through to the kitchen. Straight away through the dining room door he saw the new Sunflower watercolour painting William had recently done. ‘It’d look good in a yellow frame.’

‘You can have it if you want.’

‘Thanks,’ but he did not take it that day.

‘Do you want these?’ His Dad proffered him a hundred John Player Blues.

‘Yes, thanks.’ Ash put them in his bag.  He took out his camera.

‘I’ve some photies to show you.’ Before William stopped him, he said. ‘That’s her.’

‘Who?’

‘The girl, Helen. And then there’s this other one.’ He showed his Dad a picture of her sister’s wooden garden chair with an ephemeral hominid shape, vaporous like a ghost about it.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a ghost,’ he laughed. ‘No. I think I was sitting in the chair smoking and when I took the picture the flash must’ve highlighted the smoke.’

‘Can I eat now?’

Ash put away his camera and wandered back through to the sitting room.

‘You up for a trip to ASDA?’ William said coming through unsteadily. ‘I need some milk.’

‘I’ll go over for you.’

‘No, it’s alright, I want a coffee in the cafe.’

‘OK then.’

William got Max 2 leaded and handed his son the lead.  Twice Max slipped out of the collar.

Ash said. ‘Shit!’

‘Let her get in front of you,’ William said and slipped the collar back over her head. ‘Third time’s a doozy.’ This time they all got together to the car and William coaxed the dog into the car eventually. At ASDA car park they got a convenient space. Anywhere nearer the shopping centre they would’ve been blocking the automatic doors. First stop. The Fag counter. Ash got some gas and skins; his Dad checked a stack of Lotto tickets.

Ash remembered he needed a new wallet. ‘Why don’t you sit in the cafe and I’ll get you what you need. I remembered I need a wallet.’

‘What happened to your old one?’

‘Long story,’ Ash mumbled.

‘I need to go in and get some fish.’

Luckily for Ash the last wallet for sale in the vast shopping centre was hanging on a rack waiting for him.  Then he wandered about ASDA not really knowing what he wanted and if he did where to find it. A bonny black lassie served him and he went to William at the automatic checkout.

‘You’re a coward,’ he laughed. ‘Even I can use these fucking things.’

Finally, they got to the cafe. William got his usual coffee. Ash had a roll and sausage and a hot chocolate.

‘Is that all you want?’

‘No, but it’s what I got.’ He almost devoured the roll in two gulps. O that was good. Not as good as when she had kissed his ear.  He’d got the gas because the orange clipper she had left behind had gone out the day before. Even though he had about a hundred and fifty others he regarded this one as special like the Olympic flame that should never be allowed to go out.

When his Dad was ready they went back to the car and he asked him to take the dog over the field to the house.  Max 2 was as surprised as Ash as they skirted the football pitch and over toward the primary school.  She kept looking back at him as if someone less despicable had morphed from being Ash the monster. To try and make it up to her for whatever crimes he had obviously committed on the dog he ran with her over the field back to the house.

‘I’d better get a bus soon. I’ve the mini-shrink to see at 3.30.’

‘Who?’

‘Simone, the CPN.’

‘Oh. OK.’

Yet they had another couple of cups of tea before he left.

‘Chilly,’ he said to the woman at the bus stop. ‘Have you waited long?’

‘5 minutes.’

Just then the 21 turned round the bend about the old folk’s home.

He had to stop himself from crying the two--hour journey back to his bit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter one

 

It was precisely 9 o’clock and after his bath the music on the computer came to an end. He wondered if he should clean his teeth again, but decided not to. Cleaning them earlier had been a Herculean task that had woken the child next door and set her off wailing maniacally.

He dressed in his finery: clean jeans with no trendy holes, a blank black T-shirt tucked in tight, finally his blue buttoned shirt which highlighted the attempt at a potbelly that he had garnered of late. He took his anti-psychotics and anti-epileptics.

I’m ready, he said as he booted up, his new coat half on as he stepped out and locked the door behind him.

He chased after his shadow down the hill hoping he would reach the bus stop in time.  He groaned when he saw that no-one else was waiting, and stoically resigned himself to a long sojourn.  He tried to distract himself with stars and the pine trees at the amber lit turn in the road. I wish I’d brought my camera. Stop wishing! He reprimanded himself.  Yet he had sneezed earlier so he allowed himself this one. He forced himself to wait. After a cigarette the bus came with a weary slowness toward the stop.

The bright lights in the bus made him feel covered in stains, made him remember a dream then he forgot it as he took a seat.  Apart from a couple of women in the seat in front of him and the driver the bus was empty.  The air smelt stale and he anxiously fidgeted his feet on the carpet of discarded tickets.

Surprisingly the eight miles into Town seemed to pass in no time.  He bought a Burger and ate walking along the pavement – eyes fastened on the many bare legs going this way and that. He considered that it was rude to stare but decided seeing as he hadn’t been further than the chemist in  about a year he was sure the good Lord didn’t mind that much.

Near the Castlegate he went down to a bar called Characters and was lured in by a builder’s bottom. A builder’s bottom though both slim and shapely, the builder’s bottom owner with her cascade of hair like a black waterfall topping her off.

She was putting on an Adele Adkins song on the jukebox when he went in.

‘Oh, no, not that it always makes me cry.’  He said to her, she sort of smiled. After a while he sat near the corner table where she sat with an empty bottle of wine and a licked clean glass in front of her. After a brief, cack-handed attempt at a conversation with her dejectedly he sunk his pint and left.

Outside The Moorings the crowd of smokers halted his way forward.  He looked through the window of the pub at the teeming mob within. As he went in a bouncer told him it was three quid entry – he forked out thankfully. Only just in the door he saw an acquaintance. Dave. Dave Somebody. Poet-guy. Cyber punk was playing along with a tad of neo-Goth. There were people everywhere. It took a while to get a drink and when he got to his seat, turned for no reason, and saw the girl from Characters.

‘You follow me?’

She laughed. ‘Could you get me a double vodka and lemonade?’ She thrust a fiver at him. He went back to the bar, reluctantly gave the girl her change – she stared off into the distance as if he had suddenly disappeared.

For a while she seemed to disappear and he got talking to a black lipped lesbian wearing a tie and her freckled partner sitting on her knee. A guy called Two showed them the studs pierced into his back, two lines of them parallel with his spine like someone had hammered carpet tacks into him. The girl from Characters had left her vodka and lemonade untended so he purloined it and necked it in a oner.

The lesbians left and Dave Somebody- had long gone. Two had fallen asleep.  He needed a smoke.  Outside the dark-haired girl stood. She asked:

‘Can you take me to your place?’

Before she changed her mind he frogmarched her up to the taxi rank. Inside, on the way home, she lay with her head on his lap, while he gently fingered her and told the dark glints of her eyes:

‘I want to fuck your eyes.’

Back home they fumbled in drunks’ embraces.  He kissed as if he had forgotten the taste of kisses.  His kisses and small nips of teeth bites lingered lowering by increments down her abdomen. He licked and lured moans from her mouth.  She came so gently, so gently her nails bit into his hands. Not too soon after that she fell asleep.

He paced, he pondered. He wanted to sketch her pale form half-hidden beneath the duvet cast about her.

He paced, went back to see if she was still asleep. She was.

He took some extra anti-psychotics, an anti-epileptic or two and two and a half anti-depressants. Still he couldn’t sleep- and went back to pacing just staring at her and listening to her gentle snores.  At some point before dawn he must’ve fallen asleep.

 

 The next two days he spent going down to the newsagents for Helen’s wine and going down on her. To his surprise she told him she was 21 going on 22.  He’d surmised that she could be no older the seventeen. She was a drop out from Psychology School, but was now studying alcohol in all its forms. Despite dropping out of University she was soon psychoanalysing Ash.  He caught her reading his diary and she quickly interrogated out of him that he had a schizophrenic disorder and was one of the best book thieves in that particular part of Scotland.

‘How many people have you slept with?’ Helen asked.

‘I don’t know. I don’t keep count.  You are the first person I have had sex with since the middle of the last decade.’

She didn’t seem to be impressed with this.

‘What about you?’

‘I’ve had four or five boyfriends.  I lived with a couple of them, but there’s an old guy on the top floor of our tenement who gives me a £100 to pose for him, but that’s not exactly sex. Can I use your telephone?’

She did for about an hour or two.  Then it was about 5 o’clock.  She’d been on the phone to her Dad, Ash thought she was going to cry – but he realised she wasn’t the kind of person who breaks down in tears, as if she knew by experience that it never brought what she needed.

Tentatively he asked:

‘Did he hit you?’

‘No. He had an affair and left me and mum – she started drinking too much, she wasn’t an alkie like me, but she got really depressed.’

‘I don’t know him, but you know,’ Ash said, ‘he’s probably regretting everything he said to you. When my Dad was in hospital last year he said he wished he’d never spent his whole life being angry,’ he laughed. ‘I’m old enough to be your father and I’m sure if your Dad was anything like him it would break his heart seeing you like this.’

‘You think so,’ she said and for the first time since she’d spoken to him these last three days there seemed to be hope in her voice.

 The taxi she’d asked him to call for her arrived. He watched her from the hallway, fragile framed by the door.  She did not look back or see him wave.

A few days later Alison’s cocaine calm voice answered when Ash rang needing someone to talk to.

‘The Moorings,’ she purred. ‘That’s one of the most haunted pubs up here.’

‘Yeah?’

‘It used to be a coaching house way back.’

‘Where did you hear about that?’

‘In one of my Mum’s books about local history. Barrels and tables would slide across the dance floor back in the nineties.  Some bar staff said they heard voices coming up from the cellar through the trapdoor behind the bar. Oh yeah, the beer taps would stop working, or the lights, and the jukebox and when the engineers came in there was nothing wrong with them, then a few days later they’d all go off again one by one until the engineers got sick of them calling.’

Ash laughed. ‘Maybe we should do ghost tours of all the haunted pubs in Town and charge the tourists a packet. I’m sure they do stuff like that in Edinburgh.’

They chatted awhile longer but after hanging up he could not stop thinking about the Haunted Moorings.

At times over the next two weeks Ash found himself haunting the Moorings looking for Helen. It wasn’t until the third Saturday after they first met and in a somewhat less rowdy bar that Helen walked in. She looked smart.  He was getting a Budvar and she came over to the bar and he told her she was looking good.

‘I had an interview for a job at Snafu.’

‘Did you get it?’

‘They said they’d phone.’

They went and sat at an empty table. He asked a lot of questions out of nervousness but he seemed to be talking to a brick wall. Within ten minutes she had fallen asleep on his chest.

The bar manager and the bouncer were taking a particular interest in them. Ash squirmed.  He tried to wake her up. Eventually the bouncer helped Ash struggle her out of the bar into the crisp, cold night of the smoker’s pavement. How he got her to the taxi rank amazed himself. Helen remained in a vaguely conscious state as the line ahead of them dwindled.  Ash’s anxiety levels grew as only a few couples ahead of them remained, because Helen was snoring on her feet. At last theirs arrived and with the help of one of the taxi marshals in an iridescent yellow jacket he got her in the taxi. She almost lay down on the back seat. It seemed pointless trying to put a seatbelt on her. She swayed and shifted with each turn and twist round bends the taxi driver made so he held her tight to him so she wouldn’t hurt herself.

‘There’s just one more corner,’ he reassured her. ‘Then it’s all a long straight stretch home.’

He sat her at the kitchen table and made her some noodles.  She helped herself to a container of cherry tomatoes and they shared a bar of chocolate. Ash took her through to the sofa and she remained there alone until the next afternoon.

She came through to Ash’s bedroom.

‘Will you go down on me?’

He laughed. ‘My nose is still recovering from the abrasions of our last sessions.’ But, he didn’t want to nay say her- he enjoyed imaging tendrils of flame emanating from the tip of his tongue, raging the flames into her, opening all the pores of her body as if he were some sexual magician. Yes he enjoyed it- it seemed to Ash that he wore a clear plastic space helmet that domed up from his head encasing her belly and buttocks, flowing back round to his agitated tongue and lips.

That night and the next day the snow came. Ash presumed she would want to go home, but she’d ripped the skirt she’d been wearing, only had opened toed silver shoes and a T-shirt that wouldn’t keep the chill out even in Ibiza in July. Yet she insisted they go to the RBS so she could pay her share of the taxi fare and the wine he’d bought before.

He dressed her in his favourite black jeans. They wouldn’t button up for him anymore but fitted her like a condom on a penis. He threw on her a baggy black and white sweater and gave her a pair of oversized sneakers. He looked out at the snow teeming down put over his pyjama bottoms a pair of trousers, fitted a second set of socks, two thick fleeces and his Christmas coat.

When they finally got to the bank the fucking thing was closed. Oh well, he thought another trip to the offie with my debit card.

But, the snow was beautiful, made more so by the fairness of his village and Helen beside him.  He said hello, as he usually did to people passing,

‘Do you know them?’ Helen wondered.

‘Not all of them, it’s just the way it is here.’ He remembered how seemingly friendless the city had been back before he came to the village up the valley from the River Dee.

He loaded up with cash in his own thankfully open bank and despite knowing they would have to walk all the way up the hill they encumbered themselves with three bags of groceries and a rather bogging hotdog. Being 21 going on 22 ascending the hill wasn’t so bad for her, but Ash puffed, panted, groaned, took more than the occasional rest until they were back thrusting themselves through the door and dumping the bags at their feet, until they caught their breaths, like they were exhibitions in a surrealist art show.

By the time Ash got round to putting all the messages away Helen had drunk the bottle of rose and was making good speed on the paltry white. She asked him if she could use the phone again. Of course, he said, but then got in a bit of a mood when she asked him to give her some privacy while she talked. He went and lay on the bed, not really eavesdropping but most of what she said he could clearly hear through the wall.

First she called the STD clinic and found out that she had Chlamydia. Next and for about an hour she spoke to her Dad, a dentist.  He seemed to have disowned her, or she him, when she dropped out of Uni. Each strain and sound of her voice seemed to yearn for some forgiveness from him until she finally gave up as if knowing she would never hear the words:

‘I love you, I’m sorry.’

Then Ash heard a thud. He rushed through.

‘Helen! Helen!’ He called.  She’d fallen from the computer chair and lay curled up the floor in a vast soaking stain of wine. Or urine? He should try and lift her up, shouldn’t he?  He thought about it.  She wasn’t that big, but he was middle-aged, smoked too much and hadn’t picked up anything heavier that a book for a long time.

He escaped back in the bedroom worrying about it. For an hour or so. I’m being selfish, he derided himself and finally went back through to her.  Psyching himself up like an Olympic weight lifter he got his arms under her as if he were not just carrying Helen, but all the heavy weight of her 21 going on 22 years of life.  He raised her and carried her to the sofa. Ash switched off the light leaving the room pitch black and presumed she would sleep and he could too.  Of course he couldn’t.  He called up Alison.

‘High’, he said nervously.

‘Certainly am. Sorry I didn’t call you back.  My daughter came up just as you called.’

‘She’s here.’ he blurted. ‘Not your daughter. Helen. Helen’s here.  She just passed out.  I don’t know what to do.’

‘Is she breathing?’

Ash looked over.

‘Yes, I think so.  I don’t want to call an ambulance. What do you think?’

‘Get a grip, she’s probably just pissed.’

‘Wish I was.’ He heard Helen snore, not as gently as before as if she had reached a place in her dreams way up high where the air was thin.

He apologized for bothering Alison as it was 3 o’clock and they dragged the conversation out a bit then he hung up.

Helen still slept.

Ash called his oldest, dearest friend Martha who lived in a wee village outside The Capital. He had first met her in 1990. Christ! 22 years ago.  She had the same birthday as his Mum.  They’d met in a playwriting workshop.  Then a year or so later he incurred his schizophrenia.  She wrote to him in the asylum.

He’d seen a news item about a gardener reproducing an immense field into a copy of Vincent van Gogh’s Sunflowers.  Before he’d even mentioned it to her, like synchronicity, or a coincidence, or perhaps just life she sent him a postcard with an aerial photograph on it.

When he got out of the asylum she took him to the Sunflower field and Ash wondered if he hadn’t been on so much medication could he have made something as beautiful as this.

‘Hi Martha.’

‘Ash,’ she said croakily.

‘So you’ve still got your flu.’

‘Afraid so.’

‘I met her again!’

‘Who?’

‘Helen.’ Duh. ‘She’s here and snoring.’

‘So you’ve got a woman in your bed so you’ve decided to call me.’

‘I made her sleep on the couch.’

Martha laughed, lightly and coughed.

‘Anyway I was wondering if I can come down and see you.’

A pause. ‘Why not?  I’m free until the ninth then some friends from Chester are staying.’

‘Hey.  I was on your blog and I saw you’ve a new book out.’

‘Haven’t I sent you a copy?’

‘No, but I’d love to read it.’

‘It’d be good to see you if you actually do come down this time. Don’t phone unless you’re actually in Edinburgh.’

‘Sure I don’t want to leave you in the lurch again.’

‘Don’t mention that.’ She snapped.

‘I’ll let you know when I am there, if I am there. Please take care, you sound awful. If you haven’t got over your flu by the end of the week I’ll send you a recyclable carton of Orange Juice. See you?’

Suddenly Ash felt like taking a pill.  Then he considered renewing a library book, except it was only 4 o’clock and wouldn’t be open yet.  Instead he did some phone banking.  When he loudly said ‘yes’ to the lady’s recorded question whether he wanted to know his balance or not Helen woke up.

This time without being asked he went down on her again. Afterwards she kissed his ear causing such a vastness of pleasure that spread through all his nerves surging like a nuclear kiss detonating on every part of him.  He sat transfixed at her feet as if she had just performed a miracle. Unwilling to move;  to never move from her long slender toes, stay here every day.  She touched his ear once more with her tongue like she was speaking to him in her body’s esoteric cipher.

Eventually she went through to the kitchen and made pork chops and vegetables while he was sent off to buy more wine. During the meal they watched Withnail and I.  Helen told him of a drinking game where everybody had to imbibe drink for drink all that the characters in the film drank. After that they watched The Children of Men starring Clive Owen.  

Once more once the film was over his fingers and tongue were in her.  If he lay here between her thighs giving her kisses and nibbling on her maybe she would never leave him alone.  But, morning came again and most of the snow had melted.

He said. ‘I have to go and see my Dad.’

‘Now?’

‘Takes me two hours to get there. Then two hours back. Come with me on the bus into Town and I’ll get a bus out to my Dad’s from Broad Street.’

Helen thought about it for a moment, then leapt up and got dressed.

‘There’s a bus in nine minutes,’ Ash intoned.

‘Well get your clothes on.’

He did.  He needed to see his Dad more than he needed wine, more nasal abrasions, but mainly to rid him of the fear that he might never see him again.

There was a double decker at the terminus.  He started to go up the stairs.

‘Not up there,’ she said. ‘I feel sick.’  She plonked herself down on the first seat in front of which was brown reflective glass.  For most of the journey they stared at each other in their reflections, unspeaking. Yet once she started to recognise the buildings and streets a sense of palpable relief came over her.

She put her forehead to the cold glass of the bus window. ‘I feel awful.’ She moaned.

‘If you like I can get the driver to make a detour to your doorstep.’

She laughed and the sound seemed to dispel the despondency of the air at the bottom of the bus.

‘God, it’s so early.’ she said and sighed. ‘My back is killing me and I’ve got to go to GUM for a check-up, but that’s not until 14 o’clock and my back is sore.’

‘Man, I thought I moaned a lot, but that must be just in my head. If you like I’ll get the bus driver to take you straight to the undertakers.’

A woman across the aisle reading a Danielle Steel novel tittered, and then Helen and Ash laughed together as if for the first and final time.

They said goodbye to each other on King Street. She hugged him, did not kiss him. He looked back a couple of times, saw her sleek in his old black jeans and her silver shoes, the black and white t-shirt about her like wings.

Then Ash went to see his Dad.

 

EVA

 

Extra Vehicular Activity (for Eva 2010-25)

By Adam Parry.

 

I came home

to the curves

of the cat,

I came home

and can’t find me

in the mirrors

anywhere.

I` came home

no slippers for my feet

so stroke the contours of the cat

soft haired and purring.

I came home

My fingers and toes

In her hair fingertips

conducting

the

air above Eva-

Eva, weaver cantilever-

Extra Vehicular Activity.

My fingers, fingertips

circumnavigate the cat

as she purrs and purrs

and I come home

knowing now

I’d always been home

and still the cat purrs on.

 

Somewhere by Adam Parry

 

There is place known only to a few,

not because they covet it for themselves

but, because they want to keep it

from being lost and stolen and destroyed.

 

They have always nurtured this place

as best they could – and they were sad

that it had to be hidden away- they

helped the folk that lived there

‘though there were so many dangers

and it was not easy,

as many forgot as they toiled

there was nowhere more beautiful.

 

Many of the bad folk

tried to take it away

from those who struggled

to keep this place fine,

but, for every one of the bad folk

there were a hundred good.

 

And say that someday soon

this secret lovely place

will be revealed to all,

stretched through the wedge of night

partway between the sun and the moon.

 

This land.

This Earth.

That we call home

 

Jealousy wears a wrist watch

by Adam Parry

 

One

 

Jealousy wears a wrist-watch

Always sheltering from the rain

Watching all the trains roll by

But never getting on.

 

Two

Beauty carries a switch blade

And doesn’t care at all, all

disguises perfect and

she slips away unseen.

 

Three

Joy wears a fresh new smile,

playing in the rain, has only time for

Simple things, and greets the day as friends

she drives and takes them in her car dry out of the rain.

 

Four

Time carries a tuning-fork

To tinker with pianos he loves,

he’ll meet

along the way.

 

 

Five

Love has a head full of song.

Love gizz it laldy and all her

audiences cheer, but sings on when she’s

not onstage as she walks alone in her dreams.

 

Six

Hate doesn’t need a smile,

or switch-blades, doesn’t need to deceive,

only Love sang songs to hate and hate ran away

 hides now in his hate-filled cave.