Fallen Angels

Fallen Angels

Picture the 80s, what comes into your mind? Riots, coalminers striking, Thatcher standing up in parliament looking like the heartless bitch she was? Or maybe it was barrow boys from Essex who’d suddenly turned into millionaires snorting cocaine off the arse cheeks of some high class escort. Might even be Live Aid which comes into your mind, the rich and famous finding a conscience, or trying to sell records, depends if you’re a cynic or not. A decade which had a cloud of grey hanging over it, playing out to a background of synthesisers and the shouts of an unemployed, disaffected youth.

The 90s began with that cloud still hanging over it. Thatcher went and people cheered, jobs began to turn up to. The sun was beginning to shine through those clouds, ecstasy was all the rage, kids dancing the nights away in the fields of the home counties while the Old Bill were led on a merry dance. We’d forgotten about Africa as well, that charity thing was all a bit too 80s. Perms were no more, shoulder pads dispensed with. By the middle of the decade the sky was blue, Britain was cool again, Oasis, Blur, even the prime minister was cool, he hadn’t bombed another country yet. It’s amazing how a person can go from a saviour to a lying cunt in the space of a few years.

When you’re a kid a lot passes you by, growing up in the 80s you didn’t give a shit that the Russians might be coming. They were far away behind that imaginary curtain the teacher was telling you about in history. The miners too, you were too far away, you didn’t really give a shit what they thought about. Some would say that about sums up Londoners, lost in their own world, all outside it irrelevant because the closest you’ve been to coal mines and green fields is the time your old man tried to take you away on holiday but the car broke down somewhere just past Watford so you spent the summer kicking a ball about in the concrete jungle you called home.

You tell people where you live and they’ll go ‘ooohhh, bit dodgy around there, ain’t it?’. You don’t really know what they mean. I mean your next door neighbour always seems to bringing a new television home each night, and the woman who lives above you does seem to have a lot of boyfriends, what’s dodgy about that? There’s that geezer who lives on the bottom floor, apparently he likes to flash people, that’s a bit dodgy but he got nicked the other week so it don’t matter. The large grey blocks are good places to play run outs too, you wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

Then you become a teenager and you fucking hate everything. You know the woman upstairs is a crack whore and the geezer that has a new television every night is nicking them out of people’s houses. Your mate at school, the one who lives in a nice house a couple of miles away, he has a garden and his mum takes him out each weekend somewhere nice. Took him to Kew Gardens one weekend to look at the flowers, you ask your mum why she doesn’t take you to Kew and she looks at you funny. You hate flowers and why the fuck would you want to be wandering around a botanical gardens with your mother. You’ve got to find some way to wind her up though.

If you’re like me, you’ll have the piss taken out of you for having a bit about you, wanting to go to university. Not that you know why you’re going to university because you’ll be fucked if you have any idea what you’ll do after, but it sounds like fun. Getting stoned while discussing Sartre in some flat in Brixton, thinking you’re cool with your Che Guevara t-shirt and Bob Marely flag draped across the wall. None of you are any more revolutionaries or capable of finding hidden meanings in music than the average person but you like to think you can change the world. It’s the drugs ain’t it?

People are transient, they drift in and out of your life, forgotten until some event, a piece of music or a glimpse of a stranger triggers your memory. You look back with happiness, anger, longing, sadness, nostalgia. And then some other thing in a world over saturated with stimulation diverts your attention. An advert with a load of ‘lads’ in a pub putting a bet on, a fat geezer shouting at the screen telling you to be responsible while you contemplate putting your weeks wages on United to win at home because that would never lose. See, that memory has gone.

Love, loss, drugs and parties, bizarre encounters and the questioning of your own morals: Fallen Angels, join a group of friends living in London and relive the summer of 1997. Coming soon in paperback and ebook formats.

Fallen Angels will be free on the day of its release at the end of this month. If you’d like to receive a digital copy please enter your email below. I won’t spam you, you’ll only receive one email which will have the book attached. 

 

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What’s It All About?

The dog is sniffing a brown paper bag on the floor, his coat is shiny from the good food he’s been eating, he picks the paper bag up with his mouth and drops it at Pat’s feet. Pat laughs and rubs his head, satisfied with the adulation he’s received for bringing a piece of rubbish to his master he lies down on the floor, resting his head on his paw and closing his eyes. The money in Pat’s pocket is growing ever smaller, it’s not all gone but he’s going to have to be a bit more careful. He twists his lip, a decision needs to be made but misplaced nostalgia is holding him back.

Looking back on life a person prefers to remember the good things. The old flat. He remembers sitting in there with friends, acquaintances, drinking the night away and laughing and joking. Those nights were few and far between, usually it was cold and damp, noises in the night waking him from an already restless sleep. Checking the door before he went inside to make sure it was safe and there wasn’t someone with evil motives lurking in the dark room he called home. He remembered the good nights though and it was those good nights he’s clinging on to, stopping him from leaving in the hope they’ll happen again. Just the once would be good enough.

He stands up, Socrates follows, his lead has now been dispensed with, he won’t leave Pat’s side, not even for the small bird which is chirping and teasing him from the canal side tree. Instead of taking the path towards home they carry on walking straight ahead, under the graffiti covered bridges, past canal boats which have been converted into homes, their owners lovingly tending to the floral arangements adorning the tops of the boats. The sun is still high in the sky, a beautiful evening, one for a good walk.

Tommy’s promise to see him had never come about. He doesn’t know what happened, if he’s still at home with his mother or if he went off again. The day he handed him the money and the lead to the dog Pat had changed his mind about killing himself. He’d also changed his mind about giving up the drink too, but he needed something. He often thought of Tommy and what had become of him, there was a large part of him who didn’t want to see him again because he was scared he’d resent his friend. He didn’t want to resent a kid who’d finally had a break.

Socrates barking breaks his thoughts, the dog is standing in the middle of the path and barking at the bushes, his eyes flicking back and forward between Pat and the unseen threat.

‘It’s just a bird, mate. He’s not going to bother you.’

He walks past the dog, expecting him to follow on but he remains still, a low growl coming from deep in his throat. Pat sighs, turning around to see what has startled him. There’s a gap in the bushes, through the gap he can see a small child sitting down playing with a plastic bag.

‘Where’s your mum, little man?’

‘I’m hiding from her.’

‘Why are you hiding from her?’

‘She didn’t buy me some sweets.’

‘You need to go and find her, mate. She’ll be worried about you!’

‘I don’t know where she is.’

Pat looks both ways along the canal path, hoping to see a distressed woman looking for a child. There is no one except for a couple of kids smoking a cigarette. There’s a bridge a hundred metres in front of him, a path from the canal up to the road to the side of it. Either he goes up to the road and tries to find the mother and risking the child disappearing or he brings the child with him and most likely be suspected of abducting him.

‘Come on, mate. Let’s try and find your mum.’

The boy emerges from the bushes and follows Pat and the dog, Pat tries to keep his distance not wanting to get to close to the child. At the top of the pathway to the bridge a woman is talking frantically on her phone, she sees the child and rushes towards him, first hugging him and then shouting at him.

‘Where did you go!?’

‘I was hiding, you were supposed to find me.’

‘Don’t ever do that again!’

Pat crosses the road, and walks down the path to the canal trying to look nonchalant, not wanting confrontation or praise.

‘Good boy!’ he rubs the dogs head, the dog looks pleased with himself. From his pocket he pulls a can of lager, opens it and takes a long swig. They sit down underneath the bridge, the sky is beginning to darken.

‘Where are we going to go, boy?’ The dog licks his hand. ‘We’re not going to go back to the flat, I’ve had enough of that place. I’m not sure where the canal even goes. It might go all the way up to Scotland. Fancy a trip to Scotland?’

A group of kids appear at the far end of the bridge, laughing and shouting loudly. One of them smashes a bottle against the ground. The dog growls, Pat puts one hand on his neck and shushes him. Socrates can sense his owner’s nervousness however and continues to growl. If Pat gets up now the kids will pay more attention to him, if he just sits here then they might just walk past. He stares straight across the canal, pretending to be lost in some unseen thing on the wall. They slow down as they approach, he can hear them whispering.

He feels a blow in his left side, one of the kids has launched a kick at him, one of his friends is now holding him back while the others laugh. Pat looks up at them, another approaches but the dog begins to bark loudly, he backs off.

‘Calm your dog down or we’ll hurt it.’ Pat pulls Socrates closer to him, holding him tightly by the fur, hoping he doesn’t manage to wiggle free and bite one of them. He’d like him too, but that could be end of the dog and the end of him. The kids edge past them, when they are far enough away one of them throws another bottle towards Pat but it smashes on the edge of the canal, the glass falling into the water. They make fun of the boy for missing, this angers him and he begins to walk back towards Pat. The dog breaks free, the boy turns and runs, the dog following.

‘Come here boy! It’s okay! Come back!’

The dog turns a corner in pursuit of the kids and out of sight. Pat jumps up and runs after them, reaching the main road he looks both ways but can see neither the dog or the kids. Not knowing which way to go he decides left, passing a parade of shops. Still no sign of the dog, he opens the door to one of the shops and asks the man if he’s seen any kids running past but the man waves him away dismissively.

‘I just want to find my dog, mate! Have you seen any kids?’

‘You think I care about your dog? Go on, fuck off, you’re not welcome in here.’

Pat continues to walk the streets, trying not to wander too far from the canal. Eventually he gives up, losing all hope he’d see the dog again. He’s a nice looking dog, someone might have picked him up and taken him in. That’s the best he can hope for, the worst he doesn’t want to think about. He searches in his pocket for the bundle of notes and pulls out a twenty pound note. The only shop open is the one where the owner told him to ‘fuck off’. He won’t serve him. A woman is outside the shop, just out of view of the owner.

‘Excuse me, could you do me a favour and get me a bottle of vodka? I have the money but the owner don’t like me. I’ve lost my dog and I want to get drunk.’

She looks him up and down and then smiles and takes the note. ‘Be two minutes.’ She reappears with the bottle in a bag and hands it to him, handing him the change too he tries to stop her but she shakes her head. ‘I hope you find your dog.’

A few hours ago him and the dog were going to go off on an adventure along the canal and now he’s sitting here despondent, already drunk and contemplating jumping in the canal. No one would know, they’d find him tomorrow and that’d be it. He can’t go back to the flat. He puts his head between his knees and begins to cry, wondering how it’s all ended up like this. How is his life dependent on a dog? He lies on his side, trying to fight his closing eyes, he hears the bottle of vodka tip over but he’s too tired to right it. His eyes close, falling into a sleep haunted by ghosts of the past and the torments of the present.

 

 

 

Journey to the West

I took some time of this week as writing blogs and my books was taking over my life and I needed a break. I did this to take my mind off things and have to admit it was pretty therapeutic. It’s a poem from the Chinese book ‘Journey to the West’. I did it in traditional Chinese characters which I’ve not learned as I learned Mandarin in the mainland where they use simplified characters.

Translation:

Before chaos was broken up, heaven and earth was one,

Everything was shapeless, not a person to be seen,

Once Pangu broke the primeval atmosphere,

The differentiation between the clear and impure began.

Living things have always tended towards humanity,

From their creation all beings improve.

If you want to know about Creation and Time,

Read difficulties resolved on the Journey to the West.

(Half the translation is my own the other half I needed help with, it’d be the equivalent of a foreigner reading Shakespeare.)

Image (5)

Will be back to writing again today.

Liar

“Why don’t you have a dad?”

“I do have a dad, he’s just busy.  He’s going to come back one day and I’ll bring him to school and then you’ll all stop laughing at me.  He’s big and tall, he has a gun too, if you laugh at me he’ll beat you all up.”

I turn and run away to the sounds of laughter and my classmates imitating my voice. It doesn’t happen all the time, only sometimes. When they are bored and want to pick on someone different they choose me. The rest of the time it’s the fat kid whose clothes don’t fit him properly. I’m thankful for the fat kid. If it wasn’t for him it would be me all the time. I hope he never goes on a diet or his mum never wins some money. I sit in the corner of the playground and watch. Watch and wait until they forget that they were picking on me.

They are right, I don’t have a dad. I have never seen him, I don’t even know what his name is. I don’t want to admit that to them though. If admitted then they would tease me more. If I lie it might make them think, maybe some of them will believe me and be scared. Mum says that I shouldn’t listen to what the other kids say. She says they are only jealous of me because I can tell such good stories. None of them want to listen to my stories though. If they only listened for ten minutes they would like them, they would stop teasing me then.

I hope mum hasn’t gone out tonight. I have a new story that I want to tell her. She hasn’t been home in the evenings for weeks, when she gets back I am already in bed asleep. I know we need the money but she spends it all anyway. If she isn’t home tonight I’ll just go and see the nice old lady that lives in the block next door. I wanted mum to be the first to hear it but I just can’t keep it in anymore, if I don’t tell anyone I’ll forget it. The other kids have started to tease the fat kid. I think it’s safe to go back out onto the playground.

As I walk towards them I kick a stone that’s lying on the floor.  Pretending to be a football player.  Pretending I am at Wembley and about to score a goal in the cup final. One of the other kids comes over and joins me. He’s not my friend but he doesn’t tease me. He talks to me about football and what he does at the weekend. If none of the other kids see him, he sometimes walks back home with me after school. He lives on the floor above me. He said his mum doesn’t want him to walk back with me but he doesn’t care. Just don’t let her see us together.

As we kick the stone back and forth he asks me what I am doing after school tonight. I tell him that I need to go home and see my mum. She’s been busy working recently. I can see a smirk on his face as I say it. One of the other kids calls out to him and he runs off, leaving me to the stone and my imagination. The teacher told the old lady, Mrs Smith, that I have a vivid imagination.  Mum was busy so she couldn’t go to the parent’s evening. Mrs Smith said she would go instead. I don’t really know what a vivid imagination is. I do like to dream though, even when I am awake I still try to dream.

Back in the classroom the teacher gives us some work. It’s boring. I wish she would give us something exciting. If she gave us something exciting she wouldn’t have to tell me off for daydreaming.  I look around the classroom at all the other children. Some of them are sleeping and some of them are doing their work. The teacher isn’t paying any attention. The fat kid is playing with his ruler. I sometimes wonder if one day he’ll go crazy and kill us all. I hope he doesn’t, maybe I should make friends with him. Then he might not kill me, just kill all the others.

The bell rings and the teacher lets us go. I run out the door as fast as I can, the quicker I get out the further away I am from the kids that walk the same way home as me. I look back and can’t see any of them. I walk slower, if I get home too quickly mum might not be there, the later I am, the more chance there is that she’ll be home. I wish she would take a holiday like some of the other kid’s mums. I don’t think she has ever taken a holiday. As I walk across the park our estate comes into view. I can see the windows to our flat. It doesn’t look like anyone is home, I don’t know why but just by looking at the windows I know if someone is inside or not.

Our estate is big. Big tall, long buildings.  We live on the bottom floor so I can play football outside the door if mum is at home and busy with work. There are ten floors above us. I always wanted to live on one of the higher floors, if I lived on one of them I could look out across the city. I can’t see anything from my window, only trees. The boy in my class who lives above me said at night you can see all the lights from the other buildings. I asked him if I could come up and see it one time but he said his mum doesn’t allow anyone inside their house.

There is a park just outside the door too. We don’t use it though. At night some of the older kids hang around there smoking and drinking. There is broken glass all over the floor. One of the little girls that lives next to Mrs Smith went in there one day and her hand got pricked by a needle. They had to take her to hospital. Mrs Smith said the needle could make her very sick. She has to wait for three months before she knows if she is okay. Now none of the other children will play with her. Even my mum said don’t play with her and my mum doesn’t care who I play with.

Next to the park there is a newspaper shop, an off license and a fish and chip shop. Sometimes when mum has come money she lets me go to the fish and chip shop to buy dinner. I buy a battered sausage and a large portion of chips. If I have enough money I buy a coke too. Mum sends me to the newspaper shop to buy her cigarettes, I am supposed to be 16 to buy them but the man doesn’t care, he knows they are for mum. When he gives me the cigarettes he winks at me. I feel bad because sometimes I steal a chocolate bar when he turns round to get the cigarettes.

I’ve only been into the off license once. They only sell beer in there and the man wouldn’t let me buy it for mum. He said if she wants it she’ll have to come and get herself. I know he sells it to the other kids though. I see them at night when I am kicking the ball against the wall. I’m not sure why he doesn’t like me. After that day I went home and wrote a story about the man and he got eaten by a lion. I told it mum and she really liked that one. I hope she likes my new one, it doesn’t have any lions but it has a dinosaur. Mrs Smith will definitely like it.

Our flat is right in the middle. There are nineteen on our floor and ours is number 9. Last year mum stopped working for a few months. She said she needed a rest. She painted the door red and put some flowers on the windowsill. When she went back to work I tried to keep the flowers alive but they died. I gave them water every day but it didn’t seem to work. The door is dirty now too, one of the windows has some cardboard in the corner, someone throw a stone at it. I don’t know why. I remember it frightened me. Mum said not to worry, it was an accident, I am not sure it was though.

I open the door and call out. There is no reply. The house is empty. I look into mum’s room to see if she has been home recently. Her clothes are all over the floor and I can smell her perfume. Her room is different from the rest of the flat. The walls are a dark pink colour. There is carpet on the floor too. It’s clean, the clothes just making it look messy. There are mirrors on the wall and she has a lamp on the table next to her bed. I’m not allowed to go in but when she is out I always open the door to have a look.

The living room doesn’t have much in it. There is one sofa, a wooden chair in the corner and a small table with the television on top. We used to have a coffee table in the middle but it disappeared one day.  Mum said she threw it out because she didn’t like it but I looked in the rubbish tip outside and couldn’t see it. Maybe someone came and took it away. The floor has no carpet, only black tiles that are freezing cold in the winter, especially if she forgets to pay the electricity bill. Last year when she forgot I could see my breath in the air. I took some sheets from my bed and pretended I was on an expedition to the Antarctic to find some penguins.

My room is the smallest. I have my bed and a small wardrobe to keep my clothes in. There is no carpet in my room either. The walls are painted white, I want to paint them blue but mum says I’ll have to wait until next year. Underneath my bed I keep some of the books that I stole from the library. I push them right into the corner so that she can’t find them. Not that she comes in here anyway. Just in case, though. If she found out I was stealing books she would never let me go to the library again.

It’s nearly summer time so the house isn’t very cold. It doesn’t get dark until very late either. When it doesn’t get dark until late I can stay outside playing football for longer. I can stay at Mrs Smith’s for longer too. She doesn’t like me to walk back home in the dark. I am not scared but she says some of the older kids might cause trouble and she is too old to walk back with me because she’d have to walk back on her own then. I think she doesn’t want to see mum, but maybe she is right, it isn’t very safe around here at night.

Looking out the window I see some of the other kids playing football. I really want to go out and play with them but they won’t let me. They call me names and say bad things about my mum. Instead I just watch them from the window, hoping that they can’t see me. Every time I watch them playing I hope that they will stop playing and call out to me to come and join them. I can show them how good I am then, I could even tell them about myself, if they knew about me they wouldn’t hate me anymore.

As the light begins to fade their mum’s call out to them from the windows above. None of them wanting to hurry inside. If it was my mum calling me I would come in as quick as I could. They don’t seem to care though, they see their mums all the time. I only see mine when she isn’t busy at work and that’s not often. When they’ve gone back inside I think about sneaking upstairs to one of the balconies and looking out over the city. I hear a loud bang from outside, one of the older kids is playing with a firework. I change my mind.

I think about the presentation that we have to do at school tomorrow. We have to think of a place that we’d really like to go to and describe it to the rest of the class. I still can’t think of somewhere that I’d really like to go to. The teacher says it has to be real, I can’t make it up. One of the books that I stole from the library is the Jungle Book. I’m not sure if it’s real or not. Mrs Smith said it’s in India but I don’t believe that there are animals that talk in India. I think I will choose the jungle in India, I just won’t talk about animals that talk, I can have animals though, especially tigers, I love tigers.

I don’t know what the jungle looks like, I can only think of it as how I imagine. I close my eyes and pretend I am there in India. I can see really tall trees, the top is completely green, the sky is covered with only small bits of light coming through. It’s hot, really hot. I am wearing only a t shirt and some shorts. Above me I can see monkeys swinging through the trees, screaming out loudly, telling all the other monkeys that there is a small nine year old boy walking through their jungle. They hold their babies close to their bodies as they swing through the trees.

In front of me there is a river. I can see a crocodile waiting. Patiently waiting for something to come along that it can eat. A small deer is next to the river drinking water. The top of the crocodile glides along the surface silently, the deer unable to see or hear him. As the crocodile is almost upon the deer one of the monkeys above lets out a loud screech and the deer turns and runs back into the green forest. The crocodile angry that he has to wait longer to have his dinner. The monkeys above laughing to themselves having ruined the crocodile’s plans.

Across the river I spot a tiger. She moves slowly through the forest, frightened of nothing. The monkeys stop laughing and swing back through the trees. The master of the forest has arrived and everyone is making way. From across the river she spots me, only looking briefly before carrying on her way. Not bothered about the strange, small boy walking through her home. Maybe she thinks I am not enough to eat, she wants something bigger. Even the crocodile has swam away. Away from the beautiful cat to find somewhere he can wait in peace, away from the monkeys too.

As the tiger walks off to find her dinner a large bird flies down from the trees and perches on a branch next to my head. A parrot. He looks at me with curiosity, his look asking what am I doing here. Am I lost? I shake my head in reply. He lets out a loud sqwuak and flies away again. It is so peaceful here. Only the sounds of the animals and the water flowing. I’m in a place where nobody can tease me. I wish I could wait here all the time, each evening I spend on my own waiting for mum to come home I wish it was here in this forest.

I jump to another loud bang. This time it’s not a firework but the sound of the door closing. It has gotten dark without me noticing, mum has arrived home. I haven’t turned any of the lights on so she probably thinks I am asleep. Her footsteps sound clumsy, as though she is tripping over. I know she isn’t wearing her high heels because I saw them on the floor when I looked in her room. She goes into the kitchen and I hear the sound of her lighter. The same sound for the next ten minutes. I quietly take off my clothes and slip underneath the covers of my bed. Hoping the door will open just a crack and she’ll look in.

Another twenty minutes pass and there is still no sound from the kitchen. Maybe she is tired, sometimes she falls asleep on the kitchen table. I hear the sound of the chair moving against the floor and my heart jumps. Her footsteps get closer to my door and then stop just outside. The door opens slightly and I can just see her face from the light coming from outside. She is smiling, but her hands are shaky, the door wobbling slightly back and forth. I pretend to be asleep. I’m annoyed that she didn’t come home in time for me to read my story.

Silently she closes the door. I hear her footsteps go into her own room, the sound of her falling onto her bed. Tonight she is back early, I hope she will be awake in the morning. I want to tell her to take some time off, she looks tired lately. She won’t listen to me but I can try. I drift off to sleep, flying back to the jungle that is my new safe place, where even the animals won’t tease me or eat me. Where I don’t have to wait each night for mum to come home. Where I don’t have to pretend that I have a dad.

 

Mum

I’ve let him down, I know that. When I look in at him at night I know he’s still awake, I can’t bring myself to talk to him, what am I supposed say to him? I don’t think he’s as innocent as he makes himself out to be, surely he must know what’s going on. The kids at his school, I knew all their mums when I was at school, they like to talk, but what else can I do? I can’t take him out of school, he can’t be hanging around here all day. Anyway, I want him to be at school, I want him to do well for himself, I can’t have him ending up like me.

I am getting more and more tired of all of this. Standing around on lonely street corners every night, when it’s all finished going to some manky old squat and then coming back home. What kind of life is it? There ain’t anything, if I was on my own I reckon I’d just end it all, but I couldn’t do that to him, I might not give him the best life but it would be better than the life he’d have in some home or with some family that don’t really care about him. I’ve tried to get out of this circle before but I always fail, I don’t know how to live any other way.

The road is dark, next to the old canal, the streetlights aren’t all working, I’m used to it, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be scared. Well scared like most people think, you know? Scared of being murdered or raped, I don’t ever get scared like that no more. What’s the point? If I was I might as well stay at home and then we definitely wouldn’t have nothing to eat. When I say I’m scared, I’m scared of myself, scared of what I am doing to myself, scared of what I am doing to the boy, how is this all going to affect him when he’s older?

At the end of the dark road I turn onto the high street, there ain’t anyone about at this time of the night apart from a couple of homeless old boys. I suppose it could be worse, I could be one of them. I have something I can hold on to. The walk back every night is the worst part, the shame is all over me, my body constantly feels dirty, sometimes I walk back slower, just to make sure that he’s not awake to see me come in the door. I know that’s what he wants, but I can’t face him, it’s too difficult.

If his old man had stayed around I wonder if it had all of turned out like this? I doubt it, I wouldn’t have to do what I do. It was all different when he was around. He looked after me, I’ve never been able to look after myself. He’d of looked after the boy too, the day he walked out, it was the day that led us all to this. I still don’t blame him, I can’t, he didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t handle it all, he was scared and he ran, if I had the choice at the time I think I would have ran too. I didn’t have that choice though, I had to stay.

I remember looking into his big blue eyes as he lay in my lap. I knew I couldn’t leave him, I couldn’t give him to no one else. I promised myself that day they I would do the best I could for him, try to give him the best life I possibly can, it ain’t really worked out like that, I’m still trying but I’m starting to give up hope that things will ever work out the way I wanted them to. People will probably say it’s my own fault, it’s because I am selfish, but I don’t know any other way to handle life. I was too young, they don’t think about that though do they? They just want to put you down all the time.

There’s a couple of kids in the park, not sure what they are doing but it’s probably not something good at this time of night. I know some of them going in there to do gear. When I see them in there I want to shake them, I want to ask them what the fuck do they think they are doing, why are they wasting their lives going down the same fucking road that I went down. They probably think it’s one of them roads where you can just turn around and walk back, but it ain’t, it’s nothing like that, it’s a long straight road where a brick wall follows right behind you.

The house is quiet, he must have gone to bed because none of the lights are on. I wonder what he does in the evenings? I don’t ask because it makes me feel even more guilty. It’s always so fucking cold in here, I really must buy us a heater so he can keep warmer at night, I meant to buy one last week but I forgot. I sit down at the kitchen table and smoke a cigarette, and another one. I’m starting to feel sick, the goose pimples rising on my skin. I’ll wait until I’m in my room though, it feels better when you tease yourself, it’s the one rule I have as well, only in my room.

I stand up and look at the small mirror that’s on the kitchen wall. My eyes are dark, my face skinny and pale even with make up on I look ill. How must he feel to have this come home to him every single night? I light another cigarette and sit down, I’ll take that mirror down in the morning, I don’t want to have to keep looking at myself when I get in. One last cigarette before I go and check on him, I have to smoke at least three, I’m nervous, I keep waiting for the day where he isn’t there when I get home, that he’s had enough and ran away.

I look through the crack in the door, he looks asleep but I’m sure he is awake. There’s a small smile on his face, he knows that I’m here. I’m feeling a bit shaky so I hold on to the door handle, I don’t want to walk away just yet. I can’t believe that such a complete waste of a fucking life like me could have created something as beautiful as him. I don’t know where he got his intelligence from either, I doubt it was from me, well it can’t of been. I kiss my finger tips and blow it towards him, smile and walk to my room, the sickness is coming fast and I need to stop it.

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Philosophical Dogs (Free eBook)

Below are the links to a free eBook written by myself. If you follow my blog regularly you’ll probably have read it but if you haven’t help yourself and download it. It’s the story of a homeless person who ran away when he was a teenager in London and his mother’s attempt to find him. It’s a short novel but worth a read. Feel free to share it with friends. Hope you enjoy!

Epub files can be viewed on most devices including phones, Apple devices, laptops etc.

Kindle is obviously for Kindle devices only.

ePub

Kindle

Goodbye (Story Final Part)

Frank is getting restless, they’ve been in the flat for an hour and no one has come. It’s dark outside, the condemned building has an air of menace. He’s worried the occupant or occupants of the first place they went into might start looking for the people who disturbed their hideaway. Jennifer is sat on the sofa, she’s flicked through the magazine several times even though she can now barely see the words in the dark. He takes one of the candles from the dining table and lights it, it gives the place even more of a threatening air. She’s not spoken a word for over an hour.

‘What if he doesn’t want to go home Jennifer?’ It’s not the most appropriate of questions but it’s one he feels needs to be asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You know there’s a chance he might not want to. He didn’t want us to find him.’

‘I know that, but I’m so close. If he doesn’t, then I’ll just have to try and deal with it.’

 

Pat’s pleased with himself. Today he’s only drank a small amount, he doesn’t feel great but he’s decided he’s going to knock the booze on the head. Slowly reduce his intake, become a new man. He looks at a clock inside a shop, another hour to go and he’ll allow himself another drink. The tower block is just across the road, Tommy had told him to meet him there at nine and it’s still only eight thirty. A man of the world, seen it all but he doesn’t like that building, there’s something not nice about it, he’s not going in there until he knows Tommy will be up there waiting.

His vision is slightly blurred, when he moves his head the lights trail across his vision. He sits down on a bench in the street, dizzy and disorientated. He rubs his forehead, it’s covered in sweat but he feels cold. Just a chill, he thinks to himself. He stands up again trying to compose himself but he doesn’t feel quite right. He looks in the window of the shop again, only a couple of minutes have passed. He remembers the scratch card he bought earlier, he takes it off and scratches it off furiously, trying to take his mind of not feeling well. Nothing.

He holds the card in his hand and stares at it. How many people’s hopes and dreams have died with the movement of a coin across the card? He tosses it to the ground. As he stands up he reprimands himself for being so bitter, bending down to pick up the card then walking over to the dustbin and throwing it in. We’re all fucking idiots living on a big scratch card. Some people scratch off a million the day they’re born while some come up blank and keep coming up blank for the rest of their lives. This sudden resentment towards the world takes even himself by surprise, it must be because he’s not had a drink for a while.

 

Tony sings to himself as he walks along the road, the dog keeps looking up at him, probably in wonder at what has overcome his master. They’ll soon be away from this place, a grand won’t get them far but he can get himself a tent and a nice jacket and they’ll go and live in the wild for a bit. He’s always fancied the Lake District. A few years ago he had lived in the doorway of a travel agents, none of the posters of beaches, sun and sea appealed to him. It was those green rolling hills and the lakes, it looked tranquil. Once they were done saying goodbye to Pat, they would head to the train station and wait outside for the night, getting the first train they could in the morning.

He sees Pat sitting in the small square below the flats, in his hand is a bottle of wine. He looks unusually sad, even from a distance. He’s spotted Tony but that usual warm smile hasn’t spread across his face. He was going to miss the silly old bastard. He’d always just seen him as someone who was there but he’s come to the realisation he was more than that. In his own way, Pat had been looking out for him. He didn’t have to let him stay in the old flat, the both of them pretended to be loners but they enjoyed each other’s company.

‘You look pleased with yourself, Tommy. What you been up to?’

‘Had a bit of a result.’

‘That’s good. I bought a scratch card earlier, won fuck all. Do you know what I did, Tommy?’

‘What did you do, mate?’

‘I threw it on the floor. I never do that. I think I’m getting bitter, Tommy. I don’t want to get bitter.’

‘What happened to that hope you had the other day?’

‘I’m lonely, Tommy. You know what I want more than anything in the world? Just to lie down in bed with someone and for them to hold me. It ain’t ever going to happen but that’s what I’d like.’

The dog licks Pat’s hand and sits in front of him allowing him to stroke his head.

‘I’m going Pat.’ Pat looks at him and then down to the floor. Tommy sees a tear come from his eye, Pat wipes it away and then smiles that big smile of his.

‘Where you going, son?’

‘Last time I told you where I was going you followed me.’

‘Don’t want me to go with you then?’ He’s joking, they both know Pat doesn’t want to get up and leave.

‘Pat, I’ve never said this to anyone, but thank you. You’ve been there for me when I’ve had no one.’

‘Thank you, too. You’re a good kid, Tommy. If you ever sort yourself and come into a load of money, make sure you remember me, if I’m still around.’

‘You’ll be the first person I think of.’

Pat rubs the dogs head. ‘See you, later little man.’

‘I’ve got to go and collect a couple of things from the flat. Come up if you want. You might as well stay there Pat, it’s safer than the other place.’

‘I don’t like this building, Tommy. Something not quite right about it. Don’t worry about me, son.’

As they climb the stairs, Pat feels the hope drift away. The kid is going, he’ll have no one. The way that woman treated him has made him feel worthless, he might have put up a front to her but the truth is, what does he have to live for now? This is the crash after years of eternal optimism and trying to hold out. He’ll go and buy himself a packet of pills and a bottle of vodka once Tommy is off, it’s the best way. He fumbles in his pocket, there should be enough money there.

 

The sound of footsteps startles them both. A dog runs into the room and barks at them, Jennifer holds out her hand to the dog but he growls. Frank jumps up onto the sofa. Tony runs into the room, ready to confront whoever has invaded his makeshift home. He stops still as soon as he enters the room. The candle is still burning, his mother’s face glowing in front of him. He wants to turn and run but he can’t move. She smiles weakly at him, he can’t help smiling back at her, as if he were that child again.

‘Hello, Tony.’ He backs off towards the door, opening his mouth but nothing coming out. He turns to Pat.

‘Did you know she would be here?’

‘I didn’t know, son, I promise. I don’t know how she found it.’

‘I’ve been looking for you for ten years, Tony. I never gave up, I was going to find you at some point.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want you to come home.’

‘I don’t want to go home.’

‘Tony, I don’t know what I did wrong. I tried to do the best for you but I must have failed somehow, for that I’m sorry.’

‘Where’s dad?’

‘I don’t know where he is. He left, years ago, I’ve not seen him since.’

‘You’re on your own.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Who’s this geezer?’ Tony nods his head at Frank.

‘Frank helped me find you. Tony, come home for one night, even two, if you don’t like it you can leave again. I won’t ever rest easy without knowing I tried.’

‘Do you like dogs?’

‘I don’t mind dogs.’

Tony steps forward and puts his arms around his mother, tears flowing from them both. He squeezes her tight, now he doesn’t want to let go. Frank stands awkwardly to the side, Pat looks away, he feels envious, knowing he should be happy for the kid. They let go of each other.

‘Shall we go?’

‘Yeah, let me just say bye to Pat.’

Frank and Jennifer leave them, waiting outside the front door.

‘You sure you didn’t know about this?’

‘No, but I’m glad you’ve seen sense and decided to go home.’

‘I’m sorry, Pat. That must have made you feel a bit uncomfortable.’

‘Don’t be silly, son. I’ve always thought of myself as a bit of an angel, bringing people together, even if I didn’t mean it.’ Tony laughs. He reaches into his pocket and takes out the money he stole from the drug dealer and puts it in Frank’s hand. ‘Don’t drink yourself to death. I’ll come and find you one day soon.’

‘Thanks, boy.’ It’s not enough to change his mind. Perhaps his work has been done now, it’s time to let himself rest at ease, at least with the money he can go out with a bang. The dog licks his hand again.

Tony sighs heavily, bends down and kisses the dog on his head. ‘Socrates, you’ve been my companion for the last few years, you’ve listened to me when no one else would. Thank you.’ He rests his head against the dogs and then looks up at Pat and hands him the dog’s lead. ‘It’s not a woman, but it’s the best I can do. He wouldn’t like living inside anyway.’ The dog jumps up and licks Tony’s face and then turns and sits down next to Pat. Tony rubs his head one more time and then hugs Pat. ‘Thank you, son. You’ve just saved my life.’

Thank you for reading this over the course of the last 10 days. I’ve put the whole story into Kindle format for free download. You can also use your mobile devices, laptop, iPads etc. to view it by clicking on ePub below. Please do me a favour by sharing this and helping me get it to as many people as possible. I can write but marketing isn’t my strong point so, whatever help is given is greatly appreciated! 

I’m taking a couple of days off now but I am toying with the idea of continuing this on from Tuesday or Wednesday. I’m going to throw it open to my readers as to whose story I carry on with, so let me know and I’ll start it soon. 

Thanks all, support has been awesome since I started writing regularly on here. 

ePub File

Kindle File

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Have I Done?

Follow the Fox Part 6

Having had her fill of potatoes and carrots, finished off with a small watermelon, Anna’s eyes are closing as she lies on her bed. She wants to sleep well, the feeling of a full stomach has left her with a warm glow. She really wants to go to the fence too, she shuts her eyes and then fights to open them again. Her grandparents are asleep, her grandfather softly snoring. As her eyelids close she can see her father, he’s standing in front of her, in his hand is a teddy bear, he has a big smile on his face. She reaches out for the bear and holds it tight, her father pulling her close. She sleeps, the fence can wait for another day.

A line in the ground, a river, sometimes just a small marker, but in this case a fence mark ground between two different worlds. Such a simple thing symbolises the enormous differences between two countries. From behind the fence he came through, Albert can see light, brightness, tall buildings in the distance. In front of him all he can see is darkness, vague outlines of trees which look sad, some with their branches growing towards the fence, reaching out, lamenting being stuck in the ground unable to move, reaching but never quite making it. Even the air is heavy, there’s a sadness unlike anything he’s felt.

The soldiers have passed several times but he is stuck, he can’t move from fear. He now regrets his decision, he thinks of his parents, unsure if he will ever see them again. Fear is amplified a million times when you’re a child, small situations become mortally dangerous, huge situations become the end of the world. The hole in the ground is but twenty metres in front of him, but to Albert it looks a mile away, a mile fraught with danger. He bangs the ground with his fist in frustration, how could he have been so stupid?

In desperate situations one looks for hope, Albert’s hope is that his friend will come along and rescue him, appearing from behind and taking him away to some safe place. He listens for the sounds of feet or crunching leaves, but there is only silence. Tonight the crickets are silent, he  shivers, the only way he can escape is to run for the hole. If they catch him maybe they’ll take mercy on him, let him go away under the fence. He’ll say he got lost, they’ll understand. Then the stories his father and teachers have told him come to the front of his mind. They’ll take him away, he once even heard they eat people.

A torch light appears, the beam shining just above his head and then sweeping off in the opposite direction, backwards and forwards, he watches and waits for the light to lower and shine on his face. The light goes out, a silhouette stops near to the hole, he hears the sound of a striking match and then sees an orange glow by the shadowy head. He can’t run now. He waits, the orange glow goes out but the shadow remains, he hears the rattle of the fence, the soldier is sitting back against it.

Two hours pass and still the soldier has not moved. Light is slowly coming into the sky, black turning to a dark blue, pink and orange in the east. Tiredness is overcoming Albert, he tries to keep his eyes open but he can’t fight it, he shifts himself underneath a bush, his face falling against the ground, he falls asleep, hoping to awake in his own bed, far away from this place.

Anna awakes, she smiles to herself. She feels refreshed and light. She springs from her bed, not realising it is still early in the morning. Her grandfather stirs, muttering something and then turning his body to face the wall. She places one foot forwards on the wooden floor, it creaks, she looks up, neither of them move. She creeps over to the table, her grandmother has left a pile of fruit out, unusually neglecting to put it away. Like Anna she too could not resist sleep the previous night, overcome with the emotion of having so much food and a full belly.

She takes a banana and stuffs it under her dress, tiptoeing out of the door. She sits down on the wooden steps and peels the banana, eating it slowly as she looks up at the morning sky. The birds are chirping, a slight breeze cooling her. Perhaps there is no need to go back to the fence, she thinks to herself. She may just bring trouble to her grandparents and now they have food, bringing trouble could take it all away. Childish curiosity is hard to overcome, especially that of a child who has seen what the forbidden fruits have to offer. She grasps the pencil which she has been keeping hidden under her dress. Just one more time.

Passing footsteps wake Albert from his sleep, he’s not in his bed, he looks around not sure where he is before it dawns on him he hadn’t been dreaming, he really is stuck on the other side of the fence. The footsteps quieten, he looks up at the fence and prepares himself to make a run for it.

‘What are you doing here?!’, Anna’s voice is both excited and surprised.

‘I found a new hole, a fox. But I have to go home, I have been here all night!’

‘Stay! Just for a little bit more, please? I want to hear a story about your home.’

‘I can’t, my mother and father will be worried! They will be angry!’ She looks upset.

The sound of laughing and shouting. They both lie down flat on the floor. A group of men, not soldiers but they are carrying shovels and pickaxes, they stop not far from where they lie and put their tools down. Their accents are thick, Albert can’t really understand them.

‘What are they saying?’

‘They want somewhere to rest. They will go later.’

‘But, I have to go home!’

‘You can’t, they will call for the soldiers.’ Albert begins to cry. Anna hugs him. He stops crying and sits down on the floor, he’s stuck and there is no way out.

‘Do you want to see my house?’

‘No! I want to go home!’

‘You can’t go home, you will be safer closer to the house. We will wait until the afternoon, they will be gone then.’

She takes him by the hand and leads him through the thick bushes and into the woods before stopping at a clearing. She looks around to make sure no one is around and still holding him by the hand runs towards a wooden house. She keeps pulling him until they are safely underneath the house. The house is held up by four wooden stilts, Anna puts her finger on her lips signalling for him to stay quiet. Above them he can hear the sound of footsteps and two people talking quietly.

‘My grandparents.’ She whispers.

‘Where are your parents?’

‘My father went to the city to work.’

‘Your mother?’ She shakes her head and doesn’t reply. Albert says nothing, not wanting to upset her more. His stomach rumbles, Anna giggles. She runs from underneath the house, leaving him there on his own. He can only see back from where they came, the front part is covered up with wooden planks. He moves himself into a corner, worried a passer by will see him. He looks through a small hole in the wood, he can see a dusty road, at the end of the road he can see the tops of another two houses. They are much the same as Anna’s, old, as if they would fall down in a strong wind.

Anna comes running back, in her hand is an apple, she hands it to him. He takes a bite, she watches him making him feel uncomfortable. She laughs again. He finishes the apple quickly.

‘What are you laughing at, Anna?’ Her grandmother, who knows she sometimes plays underneath the house.

‘Nothing, I am just playing!’ They hear a door open, footsteps moving down the steps at the front of the house and then around it. She appears in front of them, her stern looking face giving Albert little hope his situation will get better.

‘Who is this child, Anna?’ Anna says nothing, looking down at the floor.

‘Who are you, child?’

‘I’m Albert.’ She looks at Anna who is still staring at the floor guiltily, Albert wants her to say something which will make it all better.

‘Where are you from Albert?’ She can see from the way he is dressed, his slightly chubby cheeks and the way he speaks where he is from, but she can’t believe it. Albert says nothing. She grabs them both by the hands, looking around as they come into the open, checking to see if anyone can see. There’s no one around, she rushes them up the stairs and into the house. Cyril stares open mouthed as he sees the boy come through the door.

‘Anna, what have you done?’

‘He climbed under the fence, I was just trying to help him!’

‘Why did you climb under the fence? Anna have you been crossing the border?’

‘No! I found him asleep this morning when I went for a walk.’

‘It’s true, I was chasing a fox and I was silly and I went under the fence. Then there were soldiers and I couldn’t get back and now there are men. I don’t know what to do, please help me get back!’

Cyril looks at his wife whose face has turned white. People are executed for things such as this. He rubs his white hair, trying to think of a solution but none are coming to him. He can’t turn the boy in, they’d keep him, he’d be a trophy to parade, they would say he came over voluntarily because he was told of the greatness of this country. He has to try and get him back. A shout goes up outside. Anna runs to the window.

‘Grandma, grandpa, it’s the cadre! They are checking the houses for bad things! He has his clipboard, there are two soldiers with him.’

Albert looks at the boy who has started to cry, he doesn’t know what is happening. He empties one of the large sacks which the fruit and vegetables came in, he directs the boy into a corner and then commands him to get in the sack, it barely covers him. Albert tries to kneel down, pushing himself into the corner. They pick up the fruit and vegetables and push it into the top of the sack so his head is covered. Cyril looks at the sack, it is impossible he won’t be found. This could be the end of them all. The cadre knocks on the door, not waiting for an answer he opens it.

‘You know why we’re here, just a routine check.’

Continued tomorrow…

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

I’ll post the last part of the other short story tonight, I’m going to convert the whole thing into a Kindle and an ePub file which can be read on most mobile devices and touch pads so feel free to share it when it goes up.

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Writers from Beautiful Countries

Growing up literature was my escape, I loved to read books which would transport me off to a different country, somewhere I was unfamiliar with. I’d have pictures in my mind of what these places were like, walking through the streets of some far away city or climbing mountains with wild animals in distant lands. I used to pretend to be sick in school so I could go to the nurses room where they would give me a jigsaw puzzle to do, the puzzle was a map of the world and as I was putting each piece in place, different countries were coming to life through my imagination, an imagination ignited by the books I had read.

One of my best friends as a teenager was from Sudan. Sudan often conjures images of famine and poverty, there is no doubt it is a country with problems. My friend would often promise to take me there. He wanted me to meet his family and he wanted show me a country he was proud of, I’d ask him questions about Sudan and his eyes would light up, for a person who said little, the topic of his home was one which could keep him talking for hours. I’d sit there and listen to him, imagining what this place was like, here was a someone who was born and lived there, not some account from someone who had seen it on the news and could only see the negative aspects.

I was lucky to grow up in one of the most multicultural cities in the world. I also had a thirst for learning about unfamiliar cultures and different ways of life. When someone told me where their parents were from, I wanted to know more about that place, more about their culture and language. I’d find out what I could be reading, slowly building a picture of a place which was previously unknown to me. Sometimes I would be surprised by how lovingly they spoke of home, because the news and things we were taught in school told me that the place they came from was one in which abject poverty was rife and people only wanted to escape.

By reading books and blogs from those who live in different countries it allows a window into worlds we don’t otherwise have access to. Social media has become ubiquitous, it has the power to decide narratives and it can form pictures and opinions which have little basis in reality. These writers have the places they write about in their hearts, they live or have lived there, they’re aware of both the good and the bad. Yet, we don’t celebrate them because often they do not confirm the bias we have, they contradict what we have been taught. We don’t like to hear what tells us we’re wrong.

Today I read about a bookstore which is using the words ‘writers from shithole countries’ above a display of books. The man who uttered those words originally deserves no attention, it is what he thrives on. For the bookstore to use the words left me feeling uncomfortable. Why do those words have to be use to display the books? The cynic in me says it’s just a marketing ploy. Perhaps it is well intentioned, but instead of using those words why not celebrate the work of the authors, celebrate where they have come from, celebrate what they bring to our own culture.

One of the more disturbing things I have found are people saying, ‘it’s not what he said, it’s the way he said it.’ Effectively, they are saying they don’t really disagree but because of who said it and how it was phrased they have a problem with it. ‘Shithole countries’ can’t be eloquently phrased and it doesn’t matter who said it, it’s derogatory and racist. Rare is it you will find a person who doesn’t long for their home at some point in their lives. Their countries hold memories or places and people who they hold dear.

The authors who wrote the books underneath that display deserve much better than to have those words above their books. Not only that, their books should be celebrated anyway. Anything which educates us about what is not known to us helps in creating a society which is more tolerant.

People We Meet: The Big Man

He was tall, stocky, looked like he’d be able knock a person out with one punch. He had knocked more than one person out with one punch, something he’d delight in telling you. He was soft as well, if he liked you he’d look after you, not wanting any harm to come to those he had time for. He’d endlessly tell stories of the mischief he’d got up to, revelling in tales of madness and often stupidity, usually ending with him in a police cell somewhere. He couldn’t let go of that, it was his downfall, he thrived on the madness and without it he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You look at people and make a judgement. Big, tall, strong, you tend to stay away unless they approach you themselves. We like to think we’re good judges of characters but often we’re wrong. You don’t know what pain lies behind those eyes. You can see the sadness but you don’t want to ask for fear of offense or even violence, the person looking like they’re ready to blow at the slightest provocation. It’s none of your business anyway or ‘he probably deserved it’. How do you know he deserved it? You don’t even know what ‘it’ is?

One evening he sits down with you to tell more tales, this time he casually drops in details you’ve not heard before. Opening up to you but not wanting to make it too obvious. Another story of foolishness, stealing from shops, running away from police, and then being tied up by a family member and left outside his house until he had withdrawn from heroin. What? Say that again? How long were you out there. ‘I can’t remember,’ he says, ‘it wasn’t the first time either, sometimes he’d kick the shit out of me too.’

That’s where the sadness comes from. His eyes have softened, you don’t just see a big angry person, you see someone who is vulnerable and scared and uses their anger to hideaway from the world, not letting anybody in. He tells you about his kids and he softens more, now you see a loving father who is lost. He doesn’t want his children to see him like this but he doesn’t know how to let go, allow people in so that he can be free. The children are always there in his mind, his guilt adding to the anger.

One day he runs away, you thought he would but you hoped he wouldn’t. You’d spend the days telling him it’s the best place for him to be, that if he goes back out there it’s just going to be the same shit all over again but this time he not make it. He shrugs his shoulders, he’s submitted to his fate, he can’t see a better world for himself. It’s all taken it’s toll, letting go of the small things isn’t enough, he has to let it all out but he can’t, it’s too much. The temptations of the outside world are a slow suicide, he knows that but, another shrug of the shoulders, it doesn’t matter.

Months later, he’s back again, back through the door looking angrier than before. He says he’s back this time to make it work but you know it’s not his choice, he’s been forced to come back. He lasts a couple of weeks and he’s gone again, this time there were no stories, just anger. Another week later and you hear the news. He’s gone, he won’t be coming back through the doors this time, maybe he’s happier. Now it’s your turn to be angry, angry he couldn’t let go of that burden, he could have been a friend for life.

 

In memory of a friend, someone who had more impact than they ever knew.