Low Tide

The woman wedged her screwdriver into the pier and hammered it down with a rock.

“What are you getting there?” Sarah asked.

The woman turned, looking down at the mother with her young boy on the beach below. “You call them limpets?” She held a round shell above them, a dull orb of grey flesh underneath.

Sarah nodded, turning to her son. “I think they’re finding food.”

“Do they taste good?” The boy’s ice cream dribbled on to his frog wellies and pooled in the wet sand.

The woman examined the shell, then threw it in a Bag For Life. “If you fry it with garlic.”

“They say the same about snails,” smiled Sarah, “so, you just fry them?”

“Boil first, they’ll come loose from the shells, then you make stir fry.”

“And what do they taste like…scallops?”

The woman laughed, “no, more chewy,” she picked a new spot for her screwdriver, “and gritty.”

Sarah gazed at the distant tide, it must be coming in now, she’d never seen it so low. There were dozens of people alongside the stone pier, crunching tools through its uncovered bounty, bulging plastic bags their way markers.

“You don’t have much longer.”

The woman cocked her head at the horizon, eyes narrowing. Down came the rock. “And where are you going?”

Sarah gripped her boy’s hand. “We’re going to go along the pier and see the door at the end.”

“Oh,” the woman paused, “I heard that door is magic.”

Sarah gasped at her son, whose shoulders tightened.

The woman wagged her screwdriver. “If that door is open, promise me, you’ll go through it, OK?”

The boy nodded. She straightened, filthy marigolds by her side.

“Maybe one day, you can find me and tell me what you saw.”

Stand and Deliver

Hands take the flyers but there’s no conviction, no eye contact. They won’t be making the 3pm show. It’s free, I say ironically, dressed as I am as a highwayman. Three reviews so far, 4 stars, total. The venue is a hot room above a close and the jokes I spent my waking hours on aren’t landing. First week I blamed the heat, but now I know. Strong opening, my pal said, smiling. I jump out from the curtain and hold up the audience. Stand and Deliver! No, no, I’ll take your money at the end. Nose laughing, you know that kind of polite laugh that folk do from their nose? Then jokes about drinking in Aberdeen that tourists don’t get then jokes about my recruitment job in Aberdeen that people who aren’t recruiters don’t get. My pal says it’s a good first swing. I spent weeks negotiating this time off, my girlfriend is furious. No, this is the only swing. Cheers mate I say, hoping he’ll get the round. My pal’s been generous sure, but his futon’s like sleeping on a shipwreck and his girlfriend’s not happy either.

A punter takes a flyer. Cheers he smirks, we’re out of toilet paper. So am I, I say, and soap. I rub my hand over the remaining flyers, gurning. The punter bends his head back and really laughs. Like really laughs. He wags his finger at me, as if to say, you my man, you are funny.

He didn’t come to the show.

Jamon

“Now, Pierre Jamon, there was a chef. You know what he taught me? No such thing as too much butter. The pan can be bubbling, swirling with the stuff, even spilling over the sides. But you reduce, keep the foam remember, then add the fish.”

The three Vietminh soldiers crouched and listened, salivating. The French prisoner of war had a captive audience. He liked to gesticulate when talking, but in this instance his hands were bound to a bamboo stake behind him, prone and swollen. He sat, legs out stretched, the left one badly broken and held straight with a makeshift splint. He was held taut by the ropes, the stakes, the coruscating pain, yet spoke freely.

“You know, he could make any fish taste like heaven. From the finest Scottish salmon to a little dirty skate from the Arcachon mudflats. He would par-boil the creature– “

Duc interrupted with a raised hand. Thao explained. “It’s when you boil something in water but not for long. You keep it tender this way.”

“Exactly,” continued the Frenchman, “then he’d baste it in more salt and throw it in that frying butter.”

He watched his captors’ eyes grow. Duc and Thao were near hypnotised. Binh chewed on the cud of a bamboo stick, his mind adrift. They had talked like this for four days now, all in French.  Disappointingly for Bernard, during this same period he had not been able to update his diary. His hands were tied. The last few passages had read –

“May 5^th 1954, Vietminh have us beat. They must have dragged the heavy artillery guns over the jungle mountains to encircle Dien Bien Phu. How to survive such fanaticism?

May 6^th 1954, Enough. Talk of surrender is a death sentence. I took my leave with some South Vietnamese fellows from the Engineers Corp. They know the jungle, done recce in the area before this bloody mess. We used an air raid tunnel to reach the perimeter, dug with picks to clear the fence then slipped between two enemy gun emplacements under cover of dark. I followed the men blindly along a river, not sure which one.

May 7^th 1954, Slept soundly under roots of old Banyan tree. Awoke alone, Engineers bolted in the night? Will source river once more and follow it west, or north, I don’t know. It’s strange but I miss the comfort of the surrounding guns; these trees, this jungle is a hot vice.

May 8^th 1954, They’ve seen me. Think there’s just three of them but armed. Damn war!

“You remind me of my dish pig team.” said Bernard, smiling. “The dishwashers. There were three of them, all young, eager. Didn’t speak much but boy, on a Saturday, two hundred covers, they were a well-oiled machine. You – “ he nodded to Binh, bamboo still in his mouth, “are like Philippe, he would always pester the fish section for shellfish at the end of the shift. You – “ he signalled to Duc, a match in his mouth, “would be young Marco, he had your cheeky face, but yes, a serious side. And finally, you my dear boy” – he took in Thao, “you’re Sebastian Fontaine, now there was a man with his life ahead of him. He cleaned dishes yes, but he was curious. Asking questions about our prep, where we sourced the potatoes, it was clear to me Sebby was one to watch.”

His three captors smiled warmly. “Tell us about the potatoes.” said Thao, briefly inflated by his flattering comparison.

“The potatoes? Sure. Such an overlooked ingredient, but not at the Chez Jamon. We imported Desieree potatoes from a Dutch farm, near Rotterdam. Beautiful red skin, same colour as the earth here, but quite waxy and a little floury at the same time.  I would peel and slice them, so thinly you could look through them like they were a bathroom window, then layer them carefully, like I’m tiling a house. We would add double cream, grated gruyere cheese, more butter and a pinch of thyme from the herb garden.”

“What is that dish called?” asked Duc, swilling the match stick from side to side.

“Potato dauphinoise. Goes beautifully with any meat.” Bernard remembered the thick clarting smell of the cream and the cheese as it seeped between the interlocked potatoes. He was prepping this dish for the theatre crowd when Jamon had his heart attack. He recalled the clang of ladles and spatulas as the great man fell.

“Is this healthy?” asked Bernard.

His captors were all on their knees, oblivious to the massing flies and the crushing wet heat of the jungle, eyes locked on Bernard’s every word.

“We’re hungry chef, we want to talk about food.”

“Sous chef please, now if you’d captured Pierre Jamon you’d have had some real tales to feast on. What a chef he was.” It must be nearly three years since he’d died. Bernard often dreamt of a different life where Jamon’s heart was strong and the restaurant continued its great rise in the fervent Parisian food scene. Bernard would be Chef du Cuisine on weeknights. But no, it had all gone wrong, so wrong. He struggled to recall the moment when joining the army had felt like the right thing to do.

“Do you have any food left at all?”

The Vietminh officers shook their heads. “This place sounds alive,” Binh paused to let the crickets and birdsong prove his point, “but it is our death.”

“Very dramatic dear fellow but there must be some fruit on these trees?” Bernard looked up hopefully. “I’d prep the clafoutis you know, all berries in season from the Auvergne-Rhone-Alpes. The batter was quite light, lots of whisking.”

“No, there’s no fruit.” said Thao, with a sigh. “And if there is,” he looked up. “It’s for the birds.”

The Vietminh began talking in their own dialect. Bernard noticed they’d started doing this more often. They seemed to change personalities completely when they switched tongues. Their bodies opened, they gesticulated more, they actually behaved more French he thought. However, their furrowed brows betrayed their predicament.

“What do you think you will get for me?” Bernard asked. “I’m a Sub-Lieutenant, I suppose you could give me a promotion, make me a Captain.” He chuckled at the thought.

“We don’t know.” said Duc, in French again. He prodded Bernard’s splint that they’d fashioned out of some branches. “You should never have run from us! We would be out the jungle by now, safe with our mothers!”

Bernard nodded. “You are enemy, I had to run!”

“Old men shouldn’t run.”

They all gazed at the edge of the ravine Bernard had fallen down. His splinted leg seemed to point at the slick boulder he’d slipped on. The pain appeared to surge in waves, here was one now, emanating from the fracture in his ankle and ascending through his spine, rigid as it was against the bamboo stake. Bernard recalled the high wails of boiling lobsters, pressure seeping out their shells as they bubbled and died. After it passed, he exhaled peacefully.

  “How long have you been in the jungle for?” The silence was ominous. Men who are lost don’t admit it.

“You know boys, I don’t think I can feel my hands”

There was a distant sensation of swollen flesh, dull and heavy. The captors remained on their haunches. Bernard could read them. He knew what they wanted.

“I think us French are not too dissimilar to the Vietnamese when it comes to food.”

Thao laughed at this.

“You make pho in your restaurant in Paris?” he asked, giggling.  

“We should have! I was lucky to try some in Hanoi, the beansprouts and the shredded fish and the lime paste. That’s something we never thought of believe it or not. No, what I mean is, both countries learned in their own time, to cook from necessity. Us French, you may not know this, two hundred years ago, a lot of us were starving. So we took the hoof, the snout, the skin, the fish head and we got to work on marinades, on sauces, and we salted and we cured. Some of our most popular dishes in Chez Jamon were from the most surprising parts of the anatomy. Pot-au-feu, you heard of this?”

The three soldiers’ heads craned forwards like starving baby chicks.

“It’s boiled tongues, tails, the bones and any root vegetables you can get your hands on. Pierre would add plenty of salt, even some wine, garlic, onion and then, you know, customers would only visit us when it was on the Specials board, such was their devotion to the dish.”

Bernard kept talking and Thao, Duc and Binh kept listening. They took in every dish that Pierre Jamon had ever concocted, from his simple Coq Au Vin and Onion Soup lunches to the intricacies of how best to prepare the calf’s head for Tete De Veau. The light faded and the jungle hummed. Night seeped to day once more and the matted web of trees stood sentry in the dawn light. The four of them had caught snatches of sleep, curled where they were in the minute clearing. The loud call of a warbler startled them awake. Bernard had drooled on his shoulder, he straightened his head with difficultly, his spine a brittle, painful rod.

“Please. Loosen the rope on my hands I beg you.”

“No.” said Thao. “You must be tied like this when they find us.”

“Who finds us?” asked Bernard.

Duc and Binh and Thao were silent.

“Unless,” continued Bernard, “Maybe you’re hoping my side will come looking? For a Sub-Lieutenant? They’d rather find spots on their dicks.”  

Silence.

Someone’s stomach gargled, like bath dregs escaping a plug hole.  “Whatever plan you had –“

“Stop talking.” said Thao, conviction returned. The men spoke in their language again, in hurried, hushed tones.

“Did I tell you about the barbecues we would do the first Sunday of the month?” Bernard asked. “A whole pig, from our farm on Normandy, on a spit over the wood from the neighbouring orchard. Nice sweet wood, apple trees. The flavours would mix with the pork fat over time, we’d start the process on the Saturday, keeping the temperature very low. The line would be round the corner I can tell you. Customers would follow their noses, even across the stinking Seine would you believe! Chef Jamon would make the first cut, almost like a ceremony. He’d start with the tenderloin and work down, we’d salt the legs for ham. The restaurant would stink of smoked pig for days after.”

“I’m begging you Bernard, stop!” Thao was furious, spittle on his chin.

Bernard tutted at the three of them, his eyes moist. “My dish pigs. There’s nothing for it. You can’t carry me, so do what you must.”

Binh was nibbling his bamboo again, Duc rose slowly and began to pace, his wide face stooped. Thao dropped his gun and walked away, footsteps consumed by the jungle. As the three boy men began to undulate and shimmer, Bernard snatched at birdsong and crickets, any foothold on reality. Time was elastic and when Bernard finally found focus, night had returned. The torment in his back, his legs, his hands surged in fury. He screamed for the first time.

The three soldiers were gone, leaving cleared circles of earth where they’d once been, like vacant nests.

Bernard calmed, then noted a heap of branches and twigs stacked next to him. Thao’s familiar footsteps came into focus, he was holding Duc’s match.

For Coraline

Eyes closed, Rose tries to match her breathing to the lapping waves of her favourite spot in Hastings, just by the net sheds, in the lee of the cliffs. In for three seconds; the white caps of the Channel  merge into a bubbling sweep up the sand, out for six seconds; the sweep recedes with a giant, tickling purr. In and out. In and out. This spot exists as a memory, a recent memory, for when she opens her eyes the sea is nowhere, the outbuildings and oddly arrayed carparks of Edinburgh Royal Infirmary in its place. She was lucky to get a window, the bed to her right is completely enclosed by sky-blue curtains. Padded footsteps then a ruffle at her curtain, and a smiling midwife steps in.

“Let’s talk about your waters,” she says, dispensing with an introduction, “did they break this morning or last night my love?”

“Last night.” smiles Rose. Hers is a broad, relaxed smile, that sits comfortably on her round face.   She’s going to meet her baby soon. She feels like she should be smiling.  

“At what time?” asks the midwife.

Rose breathes out calmly, a minor contraction encroaching, “About three. I got here about three thirty.”

The midwife jots something down on a clipboard. “OK, well you’ve chatted with the doctor, and I think the induction is the right way to go. You’re….” she double checks the paperwork, “two centimetres dilated, so the pessary is a great option at this point, my love.”

Was the midwife old enough to be her mother? thought Rose. Maybe. She adds twenty to her age. Yes, she could be mid-forties, but everyone looks older up here. She watches as the smiling woman removes a tablet from its package, as if it was an asprin, before riding her blanket up. Rose duly lifts her knees and feels the odd sensation of the pessary being inserted.

“OK, now as your water’s broke my love, we are against the clock a wee bit, with your little one. We’ll keep monitoring you as the risk of infection is higher but fingers crossed, the pessary will start to work its magic and your contractions will start to really kick in.” She smiles again, pausing for questions that aren’t forthcoming.

As she turns to leave, Rose asks “How long could this take do you know? I’m not sure what to expect.”

“Oh my love, how long’s a piece of string? No, the pessary should tick things along nicely, we’ll give it a few hours and then assess our options, OK?”

Angie, her name is Angie. Rose spots it on her name tag that sits just above a plastic time piece all the midwives seem to wear, like a strange nod to Victorian sea captains.

Angie seems nice, sincere, patient but efficient. All the midwives appear this way, like they were born for the job. Angie has been doing this a while reckons Rose. She has the air of someone who has born witness to all eventualities in the line of delivering babies.

“Do you have a birth partner or any visitors coming?” asks Angie.

Another mild contraction.

“I don’t….know.” breathes Rose. They sit in a natural silence as the surge ebbs away. “My partner, Kieran, he’s in the Royal Navy. He’d timed his rota to be with me for the birth but I went two weeks over, he had to rejoin his boat. My parents, well they live in Australia. My friends, they’re all down south. Busy I suppose.”

“Oh.” Angie’s smile was a little smaller. “Maybe your partner’s family’s around?”

“I don’t really know them to be honest with you, it’s all been a bit of a muddle.” Rose supposes she looks sheepish right now, which she hates.

“Well, visiting hour’s about to start my love, you never know.”

As if on cue, there are footsteps, the crinkle of plastic bags and nervous laughter from beyond the curtain. Rose’s neighbour, a new mother by the sound of last night’s crying, has visitors. She hears emotional welcomes and the distinctive sniffing of happy tears. The elation is considerate though, muted in deference to the mums with problems and the mums to be on the other side of their curtains. Rose appreciates the effort. Angie leaves Rose, squeezing her right foot on the way out.

Suddenly, the curtain twitches, an old gnarled hand grips it open and a face appears.

“Rosie? Is that you, hen?” The old lady slides on a pair of huge oval glasses. She grins and beckons beyond the curtain. “In here Eric! Och, we’ve been looking for you like a needle in a fuckin’ haystack darlin’.” The lady laughs the laugh of a thousand cigarettes. Rose catches a glimpse of her yellow teeth, which when matched with the faint purple of her coiffed hair, the orange of her foundation and vivid green of her anorak, creates a kind of misjudged Willy Wonka tribute. She holds a Tesco bag in her non-curtain holding hand.

Then Eric swings into view. He is dressed like a lower league football manager, topped by a faded navy cap. “Rosie, heard so much hen. Great to finally meet ye. I’m Eric, Jeanie’s boyfriend.” Rose  ages him anywhere between forty and seventy five.

“Jeanie,” says Rose, “I can’t believe we’re meeting for the first time like this!”

“Well, well, Kieran said you were an English Rose,” interrupts Eric, “but I never knew ye sounded so posh!” He also laughs like a wheezing set of bellows.

“Oh yes, my accent, I stick out like a sore thumb, don’t I?”

“Och nonsense, it’s not like we’re short of posh folk in Edinburgh is it?” Jean is hanging her anorak over the back of the visitor’s chair, clearly making herself at home.

Another contraction, this one mild.

“Is that the wean knocking?” says Eric, “I cannae mind if Kieran said it’s a boy or a lassie?”

“A girl.” says Rose. “I’m calling her Coraline.”

“Coraline? Aye, she’ll suit the accent.” Eric pops his backpack on the deep window sill and leans awkwardly in the absence of another chair.

“Don’t listen to him. That’s a beautiful name honey. Coraline Fowler, it’s got a nice ring to it so it has.”

Rose decides to keep the choice of surname to herself.

“I am confused Jeanie, how did you know I was here?” she asks.

“Kieran sent me a whatsapp thingy. My boy’s sorry he can’t be here for you, hen.”

“I’m sure, I mean he is the father!”

No laughter. Eric interjects, “He’s got to fulfil his duty Rosie, vital job he does protecting our seas.”

“Where’s his boat now?” asks Rose.

“Oh, he’s in the Caribbean, they’re meetin’ the ambassador of Saint Lucia apparently, big shindig at the embassy by the sounds of it –“

Jeanie pauses when she realises Rose already knows this.

“Got to be some perks of the job, hen.”

Time passes and Angie returns, this time with a doctor in green scrubs. “We’re just fitting straps, checking for your baby’s heart rate and the size of your contractions.” says the doctor in a rapid staccato of words. Angie has wheeled in a small machine, with leads attached to a couple of pads. Blue and pink rubber bands are attached round Rose’s tummy; she feels slightly uneasy baring this much skin in front of Jean and Eric but considers it more awkward asking them to turn away. Technically, they’re about to be family. Once the pads are secured under the rubber bands, the steady metronome of the baby’s heart fills their corner of the room. It is laced with static, like it’s being beamed from a different hemisphere. The monitor shows two opposing Richter scales, one red, one yellow.

The doctor pauses and whispers to Angie before leaving. “OK my love,” smiles the midwife, “I’m just going to stay for a few contractions and check how the baby’s doing, don’t mind me.” She takes a position by the machine to Rose’s right, on the opposite side of the bed from the two visitors.

A mild contraction. Rose breathes in and out. The waves, the beach, the sea.

“We’re both far from home, Kieran and I. I miss Hastings would you believe.”

“Hastings? That where ye fae?” Eric looks wistfully out the window like he might see it.

“Born and bred. I’m rather new to Edinburgh. This all happened very fast.”

“Did you move up for Kieran hen?” asks Jean, rummaging in her Tesco bag.

Rose fails to stifle a laugh. “Oh no! A job. Kieran came later.” Angie catches her eye, smirking slightly. Rose checks her poor turn of phrase and fails to stifle another laugh.

Jean removes a Terry’s Chocolate Orange from the bag and starts peeling the wrapper off. “And…whit’s the job that dragged ye away from your beloved Hastings?”

“Did Kieran really not tell you any of this?”

Jean awkwardly fumbles a chocolate segment between her stained teeth, she ruminates on an answer. “Aye, he may well of, he’s only been onshore a few weeks the past year.”

 “I know,” says Rose, quickly. She changes tack. “I’m an account manager for a digital company. It’s a start-up.”

Another contraction. This one feels a little stronger. Rose struggles to keep her shoulders loose and let it flow through her.

“Jesus, I’ll stop you there hen, nae fuckin’ clue whit you’re on about!” Eric takes a segment.

“Dinnae be a melt Eric, it’s not that complex. She’s high up in a computer company, she’s a high flyer our Rose. What’s the company?” They wait for Rose’s breathing to calm.

“It’s called ‘Oops-A-Daisy. We deliver flowers.”

“Oh. Like a florist?”

“Kind of, we’re the first flower company to match the colour of your bouquet to the colour palette of your Instagram posts.”

Jean and Eric start giggling. “OK quine, ye really have lost us the now!”

Rose smiles with just her lips. “It’s nonsense, when I say it out loud, but people, certain types of people, they really go for it.”

“What, flowers?” asks Jean.

Rose can’t believe she’s talking shop. “Say you have lots of beach shots on your feed, blues and yellows. Our algorithm will sort lilies, daffodils, windflowers and have your photo on the wrapping. It’s a great gift.”

Eric and Jean shake their heads and eat another segment.

The contractions are definitely intensifying. Rose feels another one building. Just before it breaks she asks, “Was that chocolate orange meant for me?”

“Och hen, I’m sorry it was. I jist got nervous, jitters like, meeting you, and the heart rate beating round us like that. My daughter, she had it similar. Her kid’s heartbeat started dropping with every contraction –“

Rose breathes out sharply, willing the latest contraction to stop. “Daughter? Wait, Kieran has a sister?”

“Aye. He didn’t tell ye? That’s men eh?”

“I’m realising rapidly I don’t know a bloody thing about him.”

“What did ye talk about?”

“We didn’t, we just – “ They all gaze at her bump.

“Aye,” says Jeanie, “I remember those days.” Eric shrugs his shoulders in feigned ignorance.

Angie the midwife shuffles slightly, she’s drawing lines with her fingers between the two readings on the monitor. Rose reasons she is trying to look focused to avoid all this awkwardness.

Jeanie continues, “but when ma boy is off rotation, you need to sit down and talk, you ken? This baby, is a beautiful thing hen, and you made her with Kieran, but you didnae lay the foundations first if you ken fit I’m oan aboot.”

Rose feels her eyes sting. It’s tricky to hearing her fears like this. She doesn’t feel like smiling any more.

“I’m trying to stay relaxed here. I’m so far from home. It was all a happy accident.” The tears are pooling on her puffy cheeks.

 Jean grabs her hand. “Eric, get a tissue.” Eric checks his numerous anorak pockets before delving into Jean’s Tesco bag. He scuffles around like a pig hunting truffles.

“Now look here Rosie.” says Jean. “You’re fuckin’ right it was a happy accident. You’re about to experience the greatest joy on this earth – raising a kid of yer own.”

“On my own.”

“Don’t you say that. Kieran’ll be back in a few months, and we’ll…I’ll be here for ye.”

“But I don’t know you.”

Eric stands proudly, “I found a tissue.”

“That’s a receipt, sit doon.” He still doesn’t have a chair so makes the bold choice to sit on the end of Rose’s bed.

“Rosie,” says Jean, “there’s not much tae us, what you see is what you get.”

Rose tries and fails to look comforted.

“I ken we’re mibbe not fit your used tae. Kieran said yer folks stay in Australia, you’re fae good stock as they say.”

Another contraction. It grips Rose in a knot before she steadies the ship and thinks of the sea. Angie the midwife watches the monitor before leaving and returning with the doctor. The two professionals observe the readings carefully.

Jean continues, “Whit I’m trying to say is, we’re your family the noo, we’re actually here and I’m sorry to say, you cannae choose yer family.”

Rose feels overcrowded. She thinks of the dashing young man who made her laugh at Pizza Express. “I chose Kieran.”

“Aye, on tinder.” Eric interjects, chuckling. The three of them fill the silence with their thoughts, the magnitude of that fateful swipe to the right echoing forth like a building and breaking wave.

Angie scrolls back along the monitor screen and the doctor nods in agreement.

Jean nods authoritatively at the midwife. “I thought this wis the case, like I said, happened to ma Sandra last year, you and her will get on like a house on fire hen.”

The doctor turns to them, then zeroes in on Rose. “Rose, we’ve been tracking your baby’s heart in alignment with your contractions.” She talks with machine-gun velocity. “And she’s not liking the contractions at all I’m afraid, with every surge her heart rate is dropping and taking longer and longer to return to a base rate we’re happy with.” She takes a breath. “At this stage, with your waters broken, we can’t really take any more risks so I’m going to strongly recommend we take you for an emergency section.” She inhales.

“A Caesarean?” asks Eric.

“Told ye hen.” says Jean.

“Did you?”

“It’s nothin’ to worry about.” smiles Jean, popping the remnants of the chocolate orange in her bag. “Ma girl Sandra, Kieran’s sister, she took a few days in the bed after hers and she wis right as rain.”

“But this isn’t how I planned it,” sobs Rose, glancing at the doctor and the midwife.

 “Our options are really limited Rose, we want a healthy baby and a healthy mother and the section is currently our best shot at delivering both those outcomes,” says the doctor.

“So, we go now?” asks Rose.

“Pretty much.” says Angie.

“But I’m not ready.”

“Ready? Who said anything about being ready?” laughs Jean. “Doctor, is there any way I can accompany Rosie here through the surgery, if you’ll have me doll?

Rose stares at her proudly. She nods.

“Are you the registered birth partner.”

“Whit if I say no?”

“I’m afraid only birth partners can be present at the surgery. You can go to the waiting room and we can notify you when Rose and the baby are out.”

Rose looks at the doctor, a looming figure of authority in creased green scrubs. “But I don’t want to go in alone.”

Eric, still at the end of the bed, grips her ankle. “Darlin’ you may go in there alone, but that’ll be the last time, I can promise you that.” Jean looks at Eric with pure pride.

As Rose’s bed is wheeled out the ward, Jean holds her bag aloft. “I’m saving you the rest of the orange!” 

Smug – a short story

The parish minister did not take to the photographer immediately. It went downhill from there.

“You’re too smug, Mr Rivington.” Maggie Palermo said, matter of factly. Her collar gleamed white beneath a tartan shawl, glasses thick rimmed, cropped grey hair set firm in a kind of wave.

“Please, just Todd.” He didn’t lift his eye from his viewfinder, stooped as he was over the apparatus. He sported a shabby beard and a pristine North Face jacket. “And if by smug, you mean sitting on my laurels, offering nothing new to society but vague promises of salvation, then –“

Maggie raised her hand. “Please, spare me the tripe. Take your photo and leave.”

Todd was fiddling with his lighting rig now. “Sounds like a plan.” He had little time for jobsworths, even less for religious ones. This one had spotted him scouting for the perfect angle of the church and decided to interrupt just as the clouds began to ruin the light levels. She’d asked if he had permission. He’d said he didn’t need as churches were public buildings who didn’t pay taxes anyway. She had got annoyed and called him smug.

He whistled the Imperial March from Star Wars as the minister turned back towards the door. She paused. He regretted it immediately.

“You know, I have a right mind to report you. Goodness knows what you want a picture of my church for.”

The Holy Trinity Church of Wester Hailes loomed behind, a dank brick cuboid branching into portacabins of wasting steel and flaked red doors. Cracked gutters gave way to streaks of rust, litter sought refuge in its corners. It was perfect.

“Well, if you’d kindly move to the right, I can take my shot and get moving.”

“But what is it for?” Maggie stayed put. Todd stood and surveyed the bundle of cloud floating into shot. He sighed.

“You know I took up architectural photography because the subjects don’t move. Less variables. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of my work?”

Todd couldn’t help sounding condescending. Sod it, he wanted to patronise her. Piss her off so much she might actually piss off.

“Did you write the Bible?” said Maggie.

“Very good. No, I’ve made two photo journals. Both award winning. I’m working on my third. And you’re standing in my shot. You know, I’ve never met a minister or a priest or whatever you are, as stubborn as you.”

“I’m a Minister of Word and Sacrament. This is the Church of Scotland, we don’t do priests.” Her turn to patronise. “And what were your photo journals about?”

Todd clicked his tongue. This woman was something else. He’d gathered a sense of the community driving in; a fresh coat of council-backed pebble dash couldn’t conceal the deep rot of poverty. Maybe they were all like this here.

“My first was about toilet locks. My second was about fire escapes.”

This was true. ‘Shut The Door: A Study of Lavatory Locks’ and ‘Ladders to the Sky: Fire Escapes in Urbania’ adorned the coffee tables of architects and barristers the world over. The name Todd Rivington was synonymous with capturing intricate detail on huge canvasses. ‘His camera transforms toilet locks into byzantine portals to purgatory’ noted the Times, casually.

Maggie unfolded her arms and held her sides. The laughter seemed to build from her knees. She bent double and let out a hoot of derision, which carried in the wind like a foghorn. “Toilet locks and fire escapes! Are you a health and safety officer?” The laughter only subsided after a minute or so.

“And what’s this book called then?”

Todd straightened. “The Ugliest Churches in Christendom.”

Maggie froze so stiff only her flapping shawl betrayed her. “I suppose this is some kind of joke?” she said eventually.

Todd had never intended to get in a debate. He captured objects, buildings, still life. It was a cliché but he liked to let his pictures do the talking. From his high school in Helensburgh to the Glasgow School of Art to a placement in Chicago to exhibitions in London and New York, his talent was natural and flowed easily. Justification for what he did was left to critics and his agent. He thought about packing up his equipment there and then, call the day a bust, but this church was something else. It was sad, not stone misjudgements of dated architecture or vanishing budgets, but a real testament to the desperation of the area it served. And then there was this woman. He couldn’t let her win.

“It’s not a joke at all. This will cap my trilogy of the mundane –“

“Mundane? Mundane. You don’t know anything about us do you? The hungry, the lonely, the depressed, who come here every Sunday. The struggles they’ve lived. Not mundane. Miraculous. You know, I lost my husband a year ago now.”

“I’m sorry – “

“Save your sorry’s. I lost my husband in a tragic accident. His foot slipped off a ladder and that was him. But this church, my congregation, have kept me afloat on the word of God. We survive in this community because of my church.”

Todd did not recognise what was happening in his stomach. The aggravating warmth that hatched there migrated to his sternum. He felt flushed all of a sudden. Guilt. Pity. He felt sorry.

“I truly am sorry.”

The clouds parted and sun painted the church door. The contrast with the rust was dazzling. This could be the front cover.

“But – but I’ll take this picture if you don’t mind and I’ll make sure my publisher includes a passage about the good this place does.”

Maggie’s eyes were moist. She moved to the side, watched Todd as he dimmed his spot light and hunched over his camera as if he was praying. Click, click, click.  

“Why don’t you come in and get some interior shots before you leave.”

Todd checked his watch. His apology had worked? He’d never really apologised before. He lived alone in his New Town flat, met pals for drinks and sushi, went bouldering at the weekends. Sorry wasn’t needed in his world.

“You sure?”

“I think you’ll better understand the place.”

“I’m not for converting now.” laughed Todd.

“Oh I didn’t think so. But seeing as you’re here with all your equipment, maybe some pictures inside will help you capture the…essence of the place, or whatever you want to call it.”

Todd slipped his camera strap over his neck, lifted the tripod and lighting rig and lumbered his way to the door. Maggie took out the small key and turned it in the lock.

They shuffled in and Todd surveyed the scene as the strip lighting flickered on. His research for this book told him that churches are meant to be transcendental structures, transmitting eternal truths for generations to come. The iconography, flying buttresses, vaulted ceilings and pointed arches. Gospel in stone brought to life. He looked upon what he supposed was the nave of the church. It looked like a primary school gym hall with the wrong furniture. The decorative felt drapes that hung from the walls looked like a child’s failed art project. The altar was a folding table on a temporary stage. The whole place was carpeted pink and dirty. He immediately started setting up his lighting rig.

“You like what you see, I suppose.” Up close, Todd was surprised that Maggie had quite a lot of make up on. It filled the crevices of her wrinkles redundantly, her eye brows fixed in stark painted lines.

“I do. I mean, it feels like a happy place of worship,” he said unconvincingly. “I think a shot down the aisle will compliment the exterior, then I’ll be out your hair.”

“It was a happy place of worship, yes. When I started fifteen years ago, the pews were packed for morning service. But they were old faces then and as they dropped off their mortal coils, young ones didn’t replace them. Now it’s the alcoholics, the bereaved who come for comfort. And it’s hard to provide that, week in week out. It’s a struggle.”

Todd was aware that she had locked the door behind him.

“Have you ever struggled Mr Rivington?”

“I don’t think so, not really.” He’d turned from an unwelcome visitor to a hostage.

“You can’t know yourself without struggle. The strength you find at the bottom of the barrel. Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. Isiah, forty thirty something.”

Todd smiled.

“But,” continued Maggie, “we seem to have less and less who hope in the Lord. Which means less money to fix the roof. We’ll be condemned soon, then what? Maybe your photos will help us?”

“Maybe. I can include an email next to the picture to encourage donations if you’d like?”

That’s it, placate the woman, thought Todd. Take the picture then ask to leave. Click click click.

“Oh you don’t need to humour me Todd. Look at me and my sermon! I told you I wouldn’t try and convert you, I apologise. Now, you mentioned toilet locks as one of your photo books there. Before you leave you must come check ours out.”

Todd rubbed the back of his neck. Despite himself he removed the camera from the tripod and followed her. The interior was worse than his wildest dreams, perhaps there were more pleasant surprises. “OK, but then I really must be off, I’ve another engagement at the other end of town,” he lied.

They walked up a metal staircase to the side of the hall and across a creaking mezzanine. Todd had captured toilet locks all over Europe for his debut book. Steel lever arms in the Paris metro. Loop handle sliding indicator bolts on the Bexhill promenade. The lever handle mortice locks of Tivoli Gardens.

 They pushed past the faded gents logo on the heavy door and he entered the cubicle. He turned and shut the door, Maggie waiting by the sinks. “I think they’re rather unusual, are they not?” she said.

They were just turn and release jobs, the same kind of lock in every leisure centre in Scotland. Todd exhaled. He’d gone this far. Not wanting to end things badly he lied again. “Yes, they’re quite rare these days.” He clicked his camera a few times without looking and swung the door open. Maggie was gone. A tap was running so he turned it off and made a suspicious face at his reflection in the little mirror. He went to leave the toilets but the main door wouldn’t budge. It was locked from the outside. Todd knocked but knew deep down there would be no answer.

“Maggie?”

He immediately went or his phone but realised it was in his camera bag, by the tripod and lighting rig down in the main hall.

“Maggie!” Todd knocked and banged and smacked to a wall of silence.

Suddenly, he heard her, shouting from a distance, perhaps from down the stairs.

“Deuteronomy 32:35! It is mine to avenge! I will repay! In due time their foot will slip! Their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them!”

Todd remembered what Maggie had said about her husband.

“And just as everyone thought my Harry slipped, they’ll all say your camera lights burnt my church down!”

Almost on cue, smoke began to creep under the door. Todd screamed from his stomach and started kicking it to no avail. He remembered his own keys in his pocket and removed the key ring, straightening it out with the palm of his hand then forcing the gnarled metal into the keyhole of the immovable door. He’d photographed locks for two years, the mechanisms, the teeth, the gears. As smoke stung his eyes, he felt the flattened keyring make a connection in the lock cylinder. He turned it slightly and pulled down. With his other hand he tried the door handle and it mercifully swung open. Crawling on to the mezzanine he peered down the stairs through the gauze of smoke. The decorative drapes had been piled on his upturned spotlight, a pyre of felt. Flames were branching out along the deep pile carpet, catching the cheap wooden pews. There was no way down the stairs.

The neon green of the Fire Exit sign beckoned him across the platform, pushing down on the lever he swung out to the intoxicating fresh air of outside. The empty car park lay several metres below, smashed bottles where he’d land if he jumped. Todd knew he’d break his legs at a minimum if he jumped. From the small iron balcony, the escape ladder leant against the wall, it would require a latch to be released then a swift push down to send it earthbound.

Todd had pictured fire escapes as the vertebrae of buildings. The Times had agreed, calling his sophomore photo journal ‘an exquisite examination of Manhattan’s secret backbone.’ The way they zigzagged, drawing his camera along their trajectory to untold heights; there was a functional beauty he adored. He realised now, the orange heat behind him, that he’d never considered their actual function. He needed this fire escape to work. He crouched over the latch that held the ladder in place on the balcony, gripping it tightly before pulling with all his strength. Palms cut by the worn metal, he growled and persevered. Was it painted shut? Suddenly, with a flaking of rust, the latch lifted. Now, he simply needed to force the ladder down. He slid his lacerated hands towards the top rung, fixing his right foot against the balcony railing, he braced himself and leant back, heaving and screaming with the effort. Smoke poured out the open door, why hadn’t he shut it? One more try, this time both feet on the railings and the ladder relented, the hinges bending to his will. He pushed it towards the ground and hurried himself down the rungs, crying with the pain and the effort.

Crunching glass beneath his feet, he bent double to catch his breath. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, how was he alive? Flames licked the windows, the fire growing in fury. Sirens drifted in the wind. Todd realised his camera was still in the bathroom, the hard drive with all his photos in the bag he left by the spot light. He followed the smoke as it melted into the darkening clouds. Four months of work into thin air.

He held his bleeding hands to his chest and wandered towards his car.

“Ashes to ashes, like to like…

….For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. Yet, he will also remain in our memories, our stories, our profiles and our timelines.  Donald MacKenzie has chosen a digital remembrance service. Now, before I begin, has anyone not attended a digital remembrance service before?”

Around half the congregation raises their hands; a forest of limbs between the phones, all trained on the minister clad in black.

“Excellent. Well allow me to explain. A digital remembrance service recognises that, although it is possible for our consciousness to be recreated in a digital heaven, it is important, nay vital, that humans, and only humans, have the final say on whether the deceased is worthy of their selected digital heaven. Therefore, those like Donald, who have opted to have their avatars uploaded to the afterlife are required to be judged before a human jury – sorry, I mean Digital Mediators – on the choices they made online.”

On cue, ten individuals situated on a long bench to the side of the hall, rise and smile meekly. Their dress is standard funeral attire apart from a distinguishing blue badge with a cloud on it.

“Essentially, they are the guardians of heaven, of Donald’s potential heaven.”

“Now, our first speaker is Donald’s sister Julie, who will present Donald’s chosen heaven.  Julie?”

Mid-forties, in a knee length dress with flat shoes, Julie approaches the stand and takes the clicker from the minister. She points it at the screen above Donald’s casket; a modest pine affair, resolutely closed.  She turns to face the audience, incredulity spreading quickly.

“As you can all see, Donald chose the set from Love Island series 12, cos he was a teenage pervert stuck in a grown man’s body.”

The cast from Love Island series 12 prance in slow motion across the screen.

“Oh sorry, that should read he was young at heart.”

An orange girl in a bikini is getting out of the pool.

“He was infatuated with that one, Amber was it?”

Donald’s pals in the third-row nod solemnly.

“Yeah, so he figured his heaven would be eternally trying it on with a make-believe Amber.  Sorry Zoe.”

Donald’s wife Zoe has turned crimson. An elderly Mediator takes notes, solemnly.

Julie turns to the minister and shrugs apologetically. He whisks the clicker off her and goes to blank the screen but pauses slightly as four twenty-somethings with abs perform lap dances on a patio.

“Thanks… Julie. Well, as we can all see; Donald has chosen his particular heaven and it is not for the Mediators to pass judgement on that choice. No, it is their duty to gauge his online behaviour and decide if Donald can be permitted to join that particular heaven of his or remain forever in the online recycling bin in the cloud.”

A slight chuckle from the crowd, yet the minister doesn’t appear to see the funny side.

“After we have viewed his online history they shall vote. But first, let us listen to his most commonly played song on Spotify.  With six hundred and forty three plays since he signed on to the app in 2017, can we all rise for ‘Lose Yourself’ by Eminem. If you’d like to sing along, the words will appear on the screen.”

The guitar riff blasts out from the speakers in the ceiling. Many of the congregation suddenly seem inordinately interested in the plug sockets while a few game pals from Donald’s running club murmur the opening lyrics.

“His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy, there’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti.”

The lack of vocal support for these brave extroverts quickly subsumes them. The remainder of the five minutes and twenty seconds passes in simmering awkwardness. The Mediators remain seated throughout. With a subtle wave of the minister’s hands, the congregation sits down.

“It does appear Donald was a fan of the album version.  Looking at his most common running route, he would often fit in three plays of that song on his lap around Besworth Park.”

A Strava map appears on the screen, his best times, peak heart rate activity and gradual decline of distance as his illness took hold are tracked along the bottom.

“I would now like to invite Donald’s brother Innes to the lectern.”

Innes, a rounder Donald with more smile lines, adjusts the knot on his double Windsor as he takes the clicker and points to the screen with his other hand.

“Not much to add here folks. The format Donald chose ties my hands a bit, I’d love to tell you about my fondest memories of my brother. How we’d pretend to be the Mario Brothers in the back garden as kids, what he said to me the day before I got married, but instead here’s his list.”

Donald’s most visited websites are ranked first to ten, with volume of hours and minutes listed beside each one. BBC Sport is top, with 2223 hours 17 minutes. Next is the Daily Mail, with 1586 hours 30 minutes. Twitter is a close third then YouTube. The majority of the crowd seem distracted by number five though – PornHub.  905 hours 16 minutes. Nine hundred and five hours?  There are mutters peppering through the auditorium.  Coupled with his orange Amber fascination, a picture is beginning to take shape.  “I thought he was happily married?” whispers his niece to her husband.  Zoe, Donald’s wife, is calculating how 905 hours and 16 minutes can be divided into sordid little eight-minute chunks. Her regret at allowing this ceremony to go ahead is overwhelming. The Mediators are a scratching scribble of pencils on paper.

“Of course, Donald did have a charitable side.” Interrupts the man in black. “I’d like to invite one of his running club buddies Sandy to the stand.” Clicker handed over to a lean man in glasses with bad skin.

“We, er, ran for charity a few times, raised money for bowel cancer one time actually.” An empathetic glance at Zoe. “However, we now need to take a look at his Just Giving activity.”  Sandy steps awkwardly to one side – is he distancing himself from proceedings? Screenshots of donations made with comments made by Donald start to appear; Eighteen in all.  £25 to Carol Easterby on the 6th March 2020. ‘Good luck with the half Carol, we know you’ll smash it! Donald and Zoe.’  £10 to Angus Snodgrass on the 17th June 2016. ‘Abseiling is the easy bit! Next time try climbing up first! Good luck, Donald and Zoe.’ And so on.  A total amount of all donations made forms in the bottom right – £380.  People crinkle their chins and nod solemnly to each other – a respectable if not spectacular total.  “However,” the minister bows his head, “Although these donations were made under Donald’s account, if we take a look at the account information…” He wafts his non-clicker hand towards the screen.  Bank details and a card appear; the digits are replaced with X’s but the name of the account remains – Zoe A MacKenzie.  The room inhales. The scribbling stops. Even his sister looks disappointed.  Donald was a skin flint.

***

Donald clicked the top right corner and exited the simulation. The algorithm wasn’t working in his favour. Itsyourfuneral.com was relatively new but impressively thorough.  It took his loved ones, friends, hell even the minister – processed their social media data and recreated them in his funeral scenario. The Digital Mediators were represented by a mean of responses harvested from all previous juries. All his online activity was fed through the site and a very believable and no doubt accurate depiction of how his service would play out was replayed back to him – all for £399 (with 10% off for quoting a code -RUN2WIN – from one of his favourite podcasts). He hadn’t even finished his own ceremony but knew the money had been well spent.

Wind rattled the bins outside. He didn’t have long. The doctor said he wouldn’t see winter again, which meant he had two months, give or take (he was inclined to hope for give) to set his online record straight.  If he wanted to be on Love Island 12, if he wanted Amber’s sultry gaze teasing him for eternity, sun dappled palms and inflatable flamingos in the pool, he had two paltry months to sanitize a life’s worth of low-level online malfeasance.

First thing first – sort the charity stuff. Donald scanned Instagram to see if any pals were training for a marathon. Three of them were, posting detailed stories of them looking miserable and red in a field, or miserable and red in a park, or miserable and red in their garden. Two of them had handles for cancer charities that he swiftly clicked on and made very generous but not unfeasible donations to. A couple like this every week and he’d be absolved for any previous skin-flintery.

Pornhub needed bumped. He worked out he had 1464 hours left, if the doctor’s prognosis was to be accurate. There was no point wasting any time on the sites already ahead of Pornhub on his chart so he ensured tabs for the bottom five were kept open and sporadic activity was maintained on all of them. The congregation may be curious to his sudden obsession with making losing bids on eBay, a desire to follow storm cycles on accuweather.com, a fascination with box office takings or an enthusiasm for left-wing news but decisively they’d not know of seedy little Number 11 on his chart.

These measures did well to cover tracks and obtain an even footing, but if a congregation was to be swayed in his favour, he needed to do more. In the simulation, Zoe spent much of the service looking appalled. It wasn’t a good look to have your wife appalled at your funeral, especially when the focus of this was directed at you, the deceased. Donald knew his choice of Love Island 12 as a final resting place would always represent a speed bump of disappointment so it was perhaps useful to get this out of the way early in the service and then build up from there; earn that even footing then surge on past affection, fondness and even a tentative foothold on love. It had been there once and the Mediators needed a taste of this.

He checked Twitter. Zoe had a profile but her only activity on this was through the school page. He checked every avenue just in case. Deviations of her name, tweets of her friends and colleagues that she might have commented on, celebrities he thought she liked and might have at least retweeted. Nothing, not a ripple. Perfect. He googled ‘messages of love for my wife’ and clicked on the top site from which 101 ‘love quotes’ could be procured. He copied and pasted these into a word file and saved it as 101.MOL.DOC in an inconspicuous file labelled ‘Admin.’ No time like the present, he thought, dropping the first quote into a tweet and personalising it carefully: ‘There is no charm equal to the tenderness of your heart. Love Donald, your husband.’ He paused, added the word ‘adoring’ to precede husband and hit the blue button with the quill on it. Then the stroke of genius; he linked his twitter to Tweetdeck (a program that Nigel from the running club used for his marketing job) and scheduled these proclamations to be posted every day at 6pm. Just before tea time.

Feeling more cheerful, Donald was about to address the matter of Eminem being played at his funeral when the quill gave him pause for thought. What about his account? He hadn’t let the funeral simulation run to his social media profiles, there’d been no point. It only took a moment to realise his mistake.

There was a tweet.

A tweet from over four years ago. It was easy to spot because he wrote so little on Twitter. It was a platform for watching others argue and cast venom at each other, then appropriate their barbs for anecdotes with the running club. One of the few times he’d pressed the quill was on the 23^rd March 2020. It said, ‘I can’t run now because Boris says so? Mental. One FLU Over the Cuckoo’s Nest more like.’ It had two likes and a reply from someone he didn’t know calling him an idiot. ‘You are an idiot.’ It said.

Donald smiled. It was a simpler time before the virus. He could still make jokes (quite good jokes he thought) and he wasn’t to know what the leaders of his country weren’t to know either. After the vaccine, fingers were pointed and pitchforks were sharpened. Anyone who’d been slow to react to Covid-19 was castigated, ostracised and hung out to dry. Leaders ousted, governments toppled, news outlets destroyed, whole companies ripped to shreds. By now, four years later, it was a commonly held imperative that all healthcare guidelines were to be followed to the letter in all areas of life. This was so prevalent that to even acknowledge one had maybe doubted medical advice at the outbreak in 2020, was social suicide. The ink of the quill had dried alright. This tweet needed scrubbed.

The bins rattled again. Donald got to work.

***

“Ashes to ashes, like to like…

“Ashes to ashes, like to like. For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.  Yet, he will also remain in our memories, our stories, our profiles and our timelines.  Donald MacKenzie has chosen a digital remembrance service.  Now, before I begin has anyone not attended a digital remembrance service before?”

A few hands towards the back of the room go up hesitantly.

“Then I suggest you read the information pamphlet in the pocket in front of you. Next to the Holy Bible.”

The minister, a thin woman with a long neck, glances at the screen on the lectern. “I see we have a number of speakers today so I won’t take much of your time.” She opens her hands and takes in the large display screen behind her. “This is the window we will look through today. Some of us to remember. Some to celebrate. And some” – she motions to the bench at the side “-To judge.”

The bench does not rise. They look brow-beaten, the badges worn heavy with reluctant duty.

“Our country bestows these ten souls with the burden of judging a man’s life. Not so much as gatekeepers to his chosen heaven but as an incentive to us in the land of the living. To lead fruitful, compassionate lives. To be kind. To be loving. To treat others how we would like to be treated. They will watch and listen today and to paraphrase Matthew 12:37, by their words Donald will be justified and by their words Donald will be condemned.”

In her robes, Zoe thinks, the minister resembles a kindly vulture, picking at the scraps of a religion no-one else in this room believes. Her head bobs slightly as she paces serenely across the stage.

“Online behaviour has become synonymous with who we are, yet it is my view that the comments and videos we post represent just another version of ourselves. Just as others see a distortion of one’s true self, the internet is a broken mirror that reflects, exaggerates, falsifies, vital components of our identity. In this year of our Lord, 2025, I realise I may be turning the wheel in a dry bed, but I think it important to realise that what we are about to see is not a fair or valid reflection of one man’s life.”

Silence.

“I want you all to close your eyes. Don’t worry, we won’t be praying. Just do it. Close your eyes.”

The congregation are slow to react. There is a ripple of compliance emanating through the crowd from Zoe, who is keen to get on with things. They close their eyes.

“You want to see something that Donald saw? You want to see something with his eyes? This is as close as you’ll get ladies and gentlemen. No filters. This is a shared experience.”

She leaves a long theatrical pause. She is sure the Mediators have not joined in, just as before. The congregation don’t let the peace linger. They want to see Donald’s history and eyes start opening as soon as she stops talking.

Donald’s sister Julie shuffles up and introduces Love Island 12 to an assortment of snickers, groans, shrugs from some and tuts from others. Everyone rises to Donald’s favourite song, Dreams by Fleetwood Mac. A couple of the Mediators struggle to think of a more likable choice of song for a funeral. The top ten sites are remarkably staid, with a surprisingly late flurry of activity on eBay for a dying man. A steady trickle of applause accompanies the charitable donations. Zoe smiles uneasily at the daily (and very punctual) messages of love she wasn’t aware of on Twitter. She returns sympathetic smiles with a practised nod.

The vulture returns to the stage.

“And it is up to me to finalise things, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t fret. I’ll be brief. Donald’s own social media platforms were rarely updated, which I think conveys a man more interested in the world of the living than that online. His Facebook profile picture was from 2011 for instance.”

A picture of him holding a koala bear appears on the screen. He looks a bit smug.

“He only posted a handful of running pictures on Instagram, which show a keen member of the local running team. A healthy, sociable man.”

Nods all round. Love Island 12, and Amber, beckons.

“His tweets, apart from his daily declarations of love in his final weeks, were non-existent. A clean profile if you will. Possibly too clean. So clean in fact, that the late membership of the local library appeared strange, especially for someone who lists their favourite book on Facebook as ‘Mr Rush.’”

The purple Mr Man’s triangular profile is on the screen.

“Although no books were taken out according to his library tracker, he did log in the computer there on five occasions.”

The Mediators lean forward. This is what they’ve been waiting for. This is what everyone’s been waiting for.

“From here, we can see he purchased some software that would permanently delete unwanted tweets. It was a very thorough program, ladies and gentlemen. Whatever Donald had to hide, has remained hidden. And that’s where it will remain, for this is not a criminal investigation. Who am I to suggest Donald was running from something?”

Another of her pauses.

“Which now you mention it…”

The hall is haunted with silence. The soft snap of the clicker reverberates like a rifle.

“We will leave Donald’s social media and take a look at his favourite hobby. Running.”

On the screen is Donald’s Strava running route around Besworth Park. Dates flash up along the top. 24^th March 2020, 25^th March 2020. 26^th March 2020 and so on. On each day, two separate running sessions are logged; a clockwise series of laps followed by an anti-clockwise set five to six hours later. The information takes time to sink in. The whispers start at the periphery and gravitate to the centre of the front row, where Zoe sits stunned. He took two runs during the pandemic. Every day. As the dates move into April, other running routes appear, some several miles from Besworth Park. Some of them, clearly a drive away.

Donald’s sister gasps through her fingers, “He drove to the beach? But that was forbidden!”

The Mediators don’t need to deliberate. Amber will be lonely in heaven. Heads start to turn from the minister and the coffin and Zoe starts to feel warm. Eyes and pitchforks are honing in and it isn’t even her funeral.

Didn’t she know about this? Didn’t she wonder where the car was? Where was she when this was all happening?

She nodded sharply and thought to herself that when she got home, she better delete Tinder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Writers’ Group (a short story)

“A writers’ group?” Said the barman, cloth in hand.  “We’ve got two on tonight.  There’s the Harrowman’s Weekly Writers Group  -“ he nodded to his right – “and there’s the Feminist Nationalist Writers Association.”  He nodded to his left.  Was that a joke?  She wasn’t sure.  “I’m not sure.”  She said.  “Well how about you get a drink and I’ll introduce you.”  He poured her a Deuchers and caught her name.  “Come with me.”

There was a huddle round the corner table.  “Malky, this is Sarah, she wants to join your writing group.”  Malky was wearing a fleece, partially unzipped, with nothing else underneath.  “Oh hello there Sarah, welcome, I see you’ve come prepared.” He motioned to her pint.  Was that a joke?  She wasn’t sure. They all chuckled.

They made a space for her and she joined them.  Younger, more colour in her clothes but less in her cheeks, she was a welcome contrast to the table.  “I wasn’t sure which writers group this was?” she asked.  “Well you’re in the Harrowman’s Sarah, so this is it.  You’re in the right place.”  “Good.” She smiled at the table.   The fleece was a giveaway.  They weren’t feminists.

There were four of them, she made it five.  Malky in the fleece, a bespectacled woman in an anorak, a nervous chap who needed a wash and a round man who resembled an aging cherub.  “Hullo.”  They said.  “Hello,” smiled Sarah.  She noticed there wasn’t much in the way of paper or notes for a writers group.  The table was barely big enough for their drinks (the men had pints, the woman had an Irn Bru in a tall glass).  “So Sarah,” continued Malky, “our format is simple.  We each read out 900 words or less from what we have written and then partake in a round table critique.  But don’t worry, it’s very friendly!  We’ve been doing it for years.”  He made eye contact with the cherub as he finished; this was clearly their baby.

The cherub took his cue.  “And have you brought any writing with you today, Sarah?”

“I have actually,” she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out her laptop.  There was a prolonged gasp.

“Wow,” said the cherub, “a magic box!”

“It’s a laptop Morris,” Malky assured him matter-of-factly, “they’re pretty common now.”  The others nodded sagely.  This was 2017 after all.  Sarah noted they all had bits of paper stuffed in their pockets or folded neatly in their non-drinking hands, ready for recital.

“Right,” said Malky, leaning forward and exposing the ample forest of his bosom, “who’s first?”

What followed was the most surreal, wonderful and eclectic hour that Sarah had enjoyed in a long while.  Anorak (Wendy) read out a chapter of her burgeoning detective novel; a gritty Leith based pot-boiler where clues were sign posted to the reader like advertising hoardings.  Things like, “the victim’s wife wrote her details down in her left-handed scrawl.  Detective Hansen looked inquisitively back at the hall way, where bloody hand prints covered the right side of the door.”   Malky read out a chapter from his new Lord of the Rings style opus, where a busty wench of a barmaid whimpered at the sight of great war hero and goblin slayer, Terolofor, or was it Forolotef?  Or Yegot the Hammer?  Or Yegot the Hammer’s son? There was so much backstory, the actual story was somewhat side-lined.  Nervous, dirty man (Alan) wrote a genuinely impressive poem about a reclusive millionaire being mugged by his gardener.  The cherub (Morris) recited a radio play he’d apparently been working on since 1964, because that’s when all the jokes would have been funny.  It followed two removal men based in Gorgie who got up to japes.  The latest episode had them stealing gutters from Morningside and selling them for scrap in Dalry.  It was called ‘Moving On Up.’

“I still don’t like the title, Morris.”  Malky interrupted before he’d finished.

“Let him finish!” Hushed Wendy, clearly a stickler for procedure.

Morris bumbled the last passage, clearly knocked off his timing, and exhaled dramatically, tapping the paper on the table like a newsreader during the credits.  The silence was sudden and uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry Morris,” said Malky.

Morris nodded and turned to Sarah.  “Without further ado, can we hear what Sarah has for us on her magic box.”

Sarah straightened.  “Thank you, er, I’m not sure what I have is up to your level – “

“And no interruptions please,” said Morris, “from anyone.” He peered round the table.  Admonished, they bowed their heads.

“So,” said Sarah, “I started a story that you might like actually.  It’s called ‘The Writer’s Group.’”

There was a murmur round the table. “That was fast!” Said Malkly.

“Of course it’s not about you, I made it up.” She said, before repeating the title to indicate she’d started.  “The Writer’s Group.”  Procedural silence.  “They met in a small café in the shadow of a church, just off a busy enough road for ambient noise but quiet enough to avoid prying eyes through the windows.  Six aspiring writers with folders and caffeine, dreams of grandeur and prose of mediocrity.”  Chuckles round the table.  “One wrote romance, one wrote horror, two wrote fantasy which was a bad idea as they’d become rivals, one wrote folk tales in muddled Scots slang and another just wrote what she knew, sometimes on napkins, sometimes on the back of receipts but always striving for the truth, whatever that was.”

“Good opening.” Said Malky.

He was shushed aggressively.

“They had convened in the same humble café for years now, safe in their New Town surroundings but apparently fearful of the outside.  They had not accepted a new member for 18 months.  Their format was simple and unwavering.  They would take it in turns to read out their latest works and when one had finished, the others would take two minutes to write criticism, praise and pointers before passing them to the writer.  This part was almost ceremonial, as the writer would pore over the scrawled notes for validation or dereliction.  Depending on the feedback, discussion would follow of varying degrees of passivity or aggression.  Hence the name of this troupe of try-hards – The Passive Aggressive Writers Club.”

Wendy and Morris guffawed.    Malky actually clapped briefly, before returning to fiddling his errant zip.  Alan smiled and scratched his hair.  Sarah realised they were leaning forward, towards her; she had an audience.

“This particular week there was to be a disturbance to their format, not by an exterior force but a far more disruptive, lingering source for discontent.  An internal feud was brewing.  The fantasy writers had reached an impasse, a friendly rivalry now escalating to bitter resentment faster than a stampede of ferocious goblins – “

“Goblins don’t stampede, they maraud.”  Interrupted Malky.

“Do they?” Asked Sarah.

“Well mine do.”

“How about that format?” Asked Morris, peering over Sarah’s shoulder.

“It’s just Word.” She said.

“No, giving notes after each recital.  I’ve never thought of that.”

“Please get back to the story, I’m hooked!” Wendy begged, her Irn Bru flat.

Sarah continued her yarn of the Passive Aggressive Writers Club.  How the fantasy writers began to grow suspicious of one another and hide details of their stories, reciting alternative versions to throw each other off.  This suspicion of plagiarism was to evolve into an unhinged obsession with what the other was writing.

“Before long, Derek was tracking Philip to the Stockbridge library and waiting for his moment to pounce.  Philip had a writing routine, honed down the years and reliant on having his favourite chair in the local library available to him.  He would take his time to spread his notes around him like a nesting sparrow.  Then and only then would he make his way to the library staff room, where he was given special dispensation to use the kettle, although he did have to supply his own mug and instant coffee.”

“Cheap arse library,” said Morris, taking a miniscule sip of his beer.

“It was during this segment of the routine that Derek could pounce, secluded in a blind spot between the Cooking and Crime sections.  He had by his reckoning, three minutes to photocopy his rival’s work before Philip’s caffeinated return.”

Dramatic pause.  Gasps abound.

“And that’s where I’ve got to.” Sarah closed her laptop deliberately.

“Oh, you can’t end it there!” Said Malky, “leaving us like that ‘til next week!”

“It’s called a cliff hanger,” said Wendy, rolling her eyes and tapping her pot boiler, before winking conspicuously at Sarah.

“In truth, I haven’t quite figured out how to end it.” Said Sarah, “any suggestions welcome.”

“No.” Said Morris, “this writer’s group is for critique only.  And besides how can we add to such… perfection?”

The remaining post-recital discussion ebbed by but Sarah didn’t partake, she was beaming.  They suddenly began to fold away their notes.  “So now all that’s left to say,” said Malky, “is we have nothing but praise for you.  That was breath taking.” He looked around the table triumphantly.  “Welcome to the group!”

***

The week flew by, Sarah arriving before the others for her second meeting.   Pints drawn, Irn Bru served, she was the hottest ticket at the table.

It was clear the majority of the group wanted to hear more on the passive aggressive impasse, but Malky insisted on going first, reading a particularly misogynist chapter from his fantasy epic, even for him.  “That’s really sexist,” said Wendy.  “Even for you.”

“Well I had to describe the barmaid in detail so you get the idea – “

“Heaving bosoms dripping in ale?”  Said Morris.

“Like I said – “

“Oh, it wasn’t the bosoms Malky, it’s just not believable.” Said Wendy.

“Well goblins and dragons aren’t real -”

“No, the barmaid!  She serves goblins and monsters for a living and now she’s whimpering at this army general, so scared she’ll even do that.”

“If you look at history Wendy, women have had to endure countless horrors to maintain their survival – “

“And this isn’t history Malky,” Wendy was galvanised, “This is…what’s it called again?”

”The Realm of Perdoffal.” Malky paused sheepishly.  “Volume two.”

Sarah snorted but the others held the line.  Keen to divert the spot light off her, Wendy rushed into her own recital, which now focused on the murder weapon that Detective Hansen had discovered in a skip down Coatfield Lane.  Two paragraphs were devoted to setting this grimy, rain-soaked scene before the big reveal – they were left-handed scissors.  Morris, his ego clearly contracted after last week’s response, had attempted to make ‘Moving On Up’ more relevant.  His two chancers had set up an Escape Room in their rented Slateford office, penning clues on post-it notes and charging punters £60 per hour to solve them to unlock the door.  Despite the decent premise, there were few chuckles.  The group seemed distracted, almost rudely so.  As Morris petered out, Malky swivelled to Sarah and invoked the Singing Kettle. “What’s inside the magiiiiiic box!”  Chuckles abounded.

“What about Alan?” Asked Sarah.

Alan waved her on politely.  “Oh, Alan can wait,” said Wendy, “we have to know what happened in the library!”

Were they really this excited for Sarah’s story?  She felt invigorated.  Feigning reluctance, she opened her laptop and clicked on the file.

“Without further ado, chapter two.”

“It was the photocopier’s fault, nay, the librarian’s, who’d neglected the reminder to re-stock tray 2 with A4.  Derek’s delay was fatal.  Philip returned with his coffee to witness an incriminating tableau.  Derek, his hand on his notes, the light of the copier convicting him with each illuminating slide.  The evidence was irrefutable.  There was literally a paper trail.”

Sarah had them on tenterhooks.  She breezed past her 900-word limit as the group forgot their own conventions.  “Throw Derek to the dogs!” Exclaimed Malky before the hushing simmered him down.  Derek’s looming disciplinary panel was articulated in great detail.

“The PAWG manifesto dictated the terms of Derek’s punishment – “

“PAWG?” Asked Morris.

“Passive Aggressive Writer’s Group!” Squealed Wendy.

“-a document revered with constitutional reverence by the writers, despite it being a laminated napkin at the rear of the secretary’s folder.  “Article 3,” it was announced above the disquiet, “no PAWG member shall take ideas from another’s work, at pain of exclusion, the length to be decreed by the residing PAWG judiciary panel.”

“Fair enough” said Malky, “remember Claude?”

Morris and Alan nodded solemnly.  Claude had clearly transgressed, thought Sarah.

“The issue was this.  Derek, a founding member of PAWG, was the current judiciary panel.  How could the jury sentence the accused when they were the same man?  This was a test on the very apparatus of PAWG government.  A fervent atmosphere descended on the small table in the corner of the café.  Appointments needed to be made.  Crimes needed punishment.”

Sarah closed her laptop.  “You’re not finished?” Morris asked. “I could see you had lots more.”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s quite right.  I guess I need to re-draft.”

Alan smiled.  “That’s all writing is.” There was something slightly off-putting about Alan’s smile but Sarah put that down to his general off-putting nature.  As if to emphasise the point, Alan re-read his poem on the gardener’s revenge, this time with a slightly less ambiguous, and more satisfying finale.  The group didn’t notice though; all eyes were on Sarah.

“You know, we don’t have a written manifesto.” Said Morris.

“Didn’t feel the need.” Agreed Malky.  “Maybe we’re leaving ourselves vulnerable?”

“Oh no-one’s going to cheat here, are they?” Said Wendy, finishing her Irn Bru.  The silence was about a second too long.

“Now that Claude’s gone.” Said Alan.

The evening ended with the usual barman routine, as they were hailed as the slowest drinking table in Edinburgh, which was undoubtedly true.  Sarah was given a hero’s send-off; she had a conclusion to deliver and a fanbase to satisfy.

***

Despite arriving early, Sarah was the last to the table in the Harrowman’s, a neat space set for her between the bulbous frames of Malky and Morris.  She noticed the pint waiting for her.  “How long have you been here?” She asked, unpacking her laptop and sliding between the two founders.

“Oh only a wee while.” Said Morris, shuffling through his notes. “Alan was keen we were here on time.”   Sarah noticed the head on her pint had dwindled to specks of foam clinging to the rim of the glass.

“Thank you for the drink.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Malky.

As Alan had been last to go previously, manners dictated he went first this time, which he was keen to do.  It was his tale of the gardener again, with minute alterations from the previous effort.  The group had been so distracted last week that his more obvious finale had more of an effect.

“So, the gardener’s not been paid his dues by the millionaire.” Said Wendy.

“Thus, he reaps what he sows.” Said Alan deliberately.

“Save the critique to the end please,” Malky said, before producing air quotation marks with his fingers “this isn’t the PAWGs.” Sarah thought this was without doubt the most modern thing Malky had ever done.  His fingers went back to playing with the errant zip while the others laughed.

Wendy went next, clearly realising her thriller was becoming a bit obvious, she made a raft of new character introductions, all of whom happened to be left-handed:  The joiner who’s tape measure read upside down when he used his “dominant hand.”  The caterer, who’s measuring jugs only showed metric readings when she used her “dominant hand.”  Of course, these new additions had motives for murder, namely the victim owed them money, or they owed the victim money or they stood to make money with the victim out the picture.  Sarah began to wonder where this left-handed diatribe originated.  “You should call it ‘Dominant Hand’” Said Sarah.

Wendy nodded politely.  “I think that might be a bit too obvious hen.”

“Now, normally I like to go third,” said Morris, “but how can I, when Sarah’s yet to put us out of our misery!  Assuming you’ve concluded the thing?”

Sarah pursed her lips and nodded.  Here we go, she thought.  My first three-act story, completed and ready to show the world.  She took one final panorama of the table.  They weren’t leaning in so much, more expectant than excited.  An audience used to hits were harder to please.  She was sure she’d delivered.  A double click and she began.

“Who was to decide the fate of Derek?  Fiona was secretary and a former lover, so unsuited to the task.  Philip was leading the prosecution and rumour had it, also a former lover, so unsuited to the task.  This left three candidates for the solemn obligation, none of whom took well to responsibility.  They were unemployed short-story writers after all.”  She paused for chuckles.

“I’m not unemployed.”

Sarah raised her eyes, unable to place the voice, she addressed the group.  “Oh, I’m not saying all writers are unemployed – ”

“You’re just saying I’m unemployed.”

The voice was behind her.

“Claude?”  Malky’s hands were flat on the table, the zip abandoned.  Morris’s round cheeks drained.  Sarah’s shock was frozen in the light of her screen.

Claude continued.  “It’s one of the few things you’ve fabricated in your little tale innit Sarah?  Made for an easy gag I s’pose.  Never let the truth get in the way of a good story huh?”

Claude bent towards the laptop slightly, before slipping his reading glasses out of his breast pocket.  Sarah smelt cigarettes over sweat.

“Indulge me.  Let me finish the story you’ve spun these few weeks at our expense.  You can close the laptop, I won’t need it.”  Sarah didn’t move.  Claude popped his glasses back in his pocket as he spoke.

“I was appointed as the jury on our disciplinary panel and I can tell you it brought me no satisfaction to eject our plagiarist from the club.  Just ask Malky or Morris.  Two years ago you banned me, was it not fellas?”

The cherub and the fleece nodded.

“Seemed so fickle at the time, being thrown out for stealing ideas.  Banning someone for it, I mean we’re just writing for fun, aren’t we?  All he did was photocopy some pages in the local library. But I’ve come to realise that a writer’s words are sacrosanct.  You put a piece of you on paper, it’s yours, simple as that.”

“Hear, hear” said Malky nodding.

“Same goes for taking other people’s stories and writing about them for laughs.”  Claude patted Sarah on the shoulder.

The group were leaning now, but outwards, away from Sarah, their bodies rejecting her.

“So, after the eviction, we were down to one fantasy writer and you know what?  Last week, he didn’t show up either.  Writer’s block apparently.  He needed the competition to keep him going.  Terrific irony really – I’m sure Sarah would’ve had fun with that for the ending.  It’s a great twist.”

Sarah nodded timidly, tracking the final lines of her story which did exactly that.  An ending which now lay strewn in tatters across the pub.

“After all, America needed Russia to get to the moon.”  Claude was enjoying this now.  Wendy seemed shell-shocked.

“But how did you know, Claude?” she asked.

“It was the fleece that gave the game away!”  Claude pointed as Malky self-consciously closed the zip over his cleavage.

“Two weeks ago, Sarah turns up with a story ‘bout a writer’s group no less.  In the Old Town. And there’s a fleece wearing misogynist pushing sexist guff about elvish barmaids and what not.  Total tripe. We were in hysterics.  She wasn’t to know of course, that I knew someone by that description, even if they had a different name.”

“What did she call me?” Asked Malky.

“Maxwell.”

“Maxwell!” Malky exclaimed.  “That really takes the biscuit!”

“I wasn’t sure if it was a coincidence,” continued Claude, his fingers interlocked now, “so I gave Alan a ring and sure enough, the Harrowman’s hooked on the writer’s group story.   What did you call us Sarah?

Wendy answered for Sarah, “the Passive Aggressive Writers Group.  PAWG.”

Claude chuckled. “That is a great name to be fair.  Beats the Creative Café Collective that’s for sure.”

“All this time you were writing each group off against each other.” Said Alan, serene in his accusation.  “It’s not plagiarism, it’s something else.”

Malky raised his head.  They swivelled for his denouement. “It’s betrayal.”

Claude began clearing chairs and scraping the adjacent table towards them.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Asked Morris.

“Need to make some room, we’ve got some newcomers.”

Three slightly anxious looking patrons shuffled from the bar, a tea, a dram and a bottle of IPA in hand.  It seemed they’d be waiting patiently for their cue.

“This is all that’s left of the Creative Café Collective.” Claude announced, popping three chairs down before standing expectantly by Sarah.  It was time for her to take her cue.  Biting her lip, she slipped the magic box into her backpack for a final time, and slid out from the table, whereby Claude replaced her in an instant.

“I thought, let bygones be bygones.  There’s only four of us.  There’s only four of you.  New Town and Old Town together at last! This pub beats the café any day, eh?” Sarah was by the door when she took one final turn.

“Oh, and I think there’s one more joining.” Said one of the newcomers, an older woman with a bob in bangles.  “We were talking to them at the bar.”  She motioned to an elderly gent in tweed who’d been by the fire exit on a stool.

The old man was surprisingly lithe as he paced towards the tables.  “I heard there was a merger,” he said, producing a small, creased business card from his inside pocket.  Wendy took it in her left hand and displayed it to the table.  They leaned in curiously, making out the bold initials FNWA.  “I’m the Feminist Nationalist Writer’s Association.” Said the man.  “And I’d like to join your group.”

“Welcome,” said Malky, gauging faces for approval.  He caught Sarah’s eye as she reached for the door handle, “to the Passive Aggressive Writer’s Group.”    A cheer rung out from the corner of the Harrowman’s pub and drinks were imbibed, much to the pleasure of the long-suffering bar man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bull Dust (a short story)

There were accidents.

There’s five of us in a grey industrial yard on the very edge of Alice Springs.  The final footprint of humanity before the red desert, which shimmers all around.  The flies fizz off my face like they’re popping in the heat.

Shane’s face is bleeding.  He jammed the brake on too late and reversed the CAT into a telegraph pole.  How do you miss a telegraph pole?  How do you hit a telegraph pole? To be fair to him, how do you drive a CAT?  Shane’s been learning the past week.  Now he’s embedded in the control deck.

“Mark!  Do not phone the ambulance!  We’ll take ‘im ourself!”  Snarls Bob, the fat embodiment of Yorkshire, and for now, our boss.

“But his head’s bleeding.”  I say.  There’s a crimson stream exiting his temple.

“Yeah I can see that!”  Bob’s rummaging through the trailer for a clean rag to stem the flow.  They’re all filthy but needs must so he starts smearing Shane’s face with degreaser and oil.  The two Aboriginal guys are leaning on their rakes and shovels, taking it all in.  Poor Shane looks at them through a sheet of black and red, which is now dribbling on to his overalls.

The real boss turns up, his Audi braking too sharply on the new gravel.  He looks a lot like Bob, but older.

“Aw, we’ll have to make that level again.”  Moans Monti, leaning on the rake.

The real boss is trying not to lose his temper.  Another accident.  More wasted time. “Well boys, don’t just bloody stand there, Shane needs bloody ‘elp!”

“He needs an ambulance,” says Dural, leaning on the shovel.

“Do not phone a ruddy ambulance!”  Yells the real boss, getting out his car.

“I know that dad, I already told ‘em!”  Yells Bob back, helping the bulk of Shane out the CAT.  Never has such a large man looked so unsteady on his feet, I’m sure he’s concussed.

“Right, dad – “ Bob’s motioning at the key’s in his father’s hand –  “start the Audi, we need to get him moving!”

“You must be jokin’ me son!”  The keys are popped back in his pocket authoritatively.  “Just got it valeted at the garage at a great expense!  Bloody rip off!  Get the Scottish lad to drive the Toyota.”

I dramatically pat the numerous pockets on my own work shirt.  “Who’s got the keys?”  I ask.

Dural and Monti shrug passively.  Bob checks his shorts with his free hand.  He’s got Shane’s blood on him now.

“Where are they?  Aren’t they in the ignition?”

We all turn and realise the Toyota’s at the other end of the yard, a good hundred metres away.  Behind it, the yawning desert.

“Just get me… To a fuckin’ hospital!” Screams Shane maniacally, spraying the gravel with blood.  Dural and Monti move aside and Bob chaperones Shane into the back of the sparkling Audi.  The boss fixes the Aborigines with a pitch-black scowl and gets behind the wheel.  They turn sharply, kicking up more stones and fire off through the industrial estate towards A & E.

Monti saunters over to the CAT and turns off the engine.  Without speaking the two of them start smoothing over the indented tyre tracks, concealing the chaos in a few strokes.  The truth is, we didn’t put enough tar down in the first place so the gravel won’t stick anyway.  All 1200 square metres of it will be lumpy and exposed at the first sign of a large truck, God forbid a road train.

“Hey Mark, how much you getting paid for this shit?”  Asks Dural, looking up from the raking.

I go for half.  “A hundred and twenty a day I think.”

“We knew it.”  They both stop immediately.

“Those old white men ripping us off G.” Dural says.  “We been here a week longer than you and we only on a hundred.”  Guilt rises in me like steam.

“Yeah, but they’re putting you up.”  I reason.

“In the campsite?  Yeah, it’s better than the bush, but it’s not the Hilton.”

My mind casts back to our first job together, a whole two weeks before, laying a new drive for the Alice Springs Hilton Hotel.  We didn’t charge them so Bob and his dad Robert could get free bed and board for a month.  Who names their son Bob when they’re called Robert?  We laid enough tar that time.

“Were you in the bush before?”  I ask.  I’ve been desperate to know, just didn’t know how to ask.

“Nah G, in Tennant Creek.”

I knew this much already.  Bob had shown me the article in the Tennant & District Times commemorating the day these two Aboriginal teenagers had been given an opportunity to work ‘for the notable Yorkshire construction firm, B&R Construction.’

“But we have to share the campsite with Shane, and he’s always pissed off his face.”  I’m sure Shane was pissed when he crashed the CAT into his face.

“Maybe not anymore.” I say, raking over the last of his blood.  The poor drunk had come all the way from Brisbane for this.

“Yeah, about that.”  Monti, the darker of the two sidles closer, Dural on his shoulder.  “That was us.”

I stop too.  “What do you mean?”  Images of severed brake cables or nefarious engine tampering come to mind.  The two teenagers are close now, I can smell their sweat.

“We dreamt it.  And then we made it happen.”

I look them both over.  Neither of them blink. “What about me?”  I say.

They both laugh.

***********

The next morning is just like the previous twelve.  It’s dark and below freezing and I’m cycling from the hostel through Alice Springs suburbia towards the campsite.  High fences and walls crowned with glass stop the frenzied dogs behind them from tearing me to strips.  Trucks scream down the 87 so I stick to the pavement, work my way to Todd Mall and rattle by the smiling Dutch waitress opening up the cafe for breakfast.  Alternating my hands from warm pocket to handlebar, I eventually pass through The Gap, an ancient split in the MacDonnell Range and a natural entrance to the town that has become Alice.  Monti told me the plateaued mountains either side were giant caterpillars.  Indigenous tribes used to battle over The Gap.  Now, The Stuart Highway makes a beeline through it, an unrelenting 1700 mile stripe of tarmac from Darwin to Port Augusta.  I cycle along it until I swing left and down towards the campsite.

Monti and Dural are up for a change.  They’re reversing the Toyota towards the trailer with the steam roller on it.  Bob is sitting in the cabin of the Tar Truck, checking his phone.  The headlights are on but the sun is rising to meet them.  The bull dust is never redder than at dawn.  The gum trees pepper the green and orange tents with shocks of white bark, even whiter than the gallery of campervans by the toilet block.  I’m definitely in Australia.

“How’s Shane?” I ask.

“He’ll live.” Bob swings his phone round to show me a photo of Shane giving a goofy thumbs up, his head swaddled in bandages.

I wonder who will drive the CAT now, and Bob seems to read me.

“And so we’ve got a new start today me lad.”  He lowers his voice.  “Another bloody Abo.  It’s Monti’s old man would you believe, got in touch last night.  Been working the mines but he’s out now, prob’ly drunk on the job!”  He pops Shane back in his pocket.

After the usual half hour of jostling trailers into place we form a convoy of sorts.  A circus train of dented trucks, welded tanks and lazily secured machinery.  Mad Max made by Yorkshiremen.  We are a merry band of cowboys.   Who are we going to rip off today?

****

“I’ve heard of you boys.”  The creased farmer has his hands on his waist.

“Oh.  Really?”  Bob hops down out the truck and reaches out his hand.

“You boys laid the tarmac on the KFC last week no?”

“Er, yeah, a night job that was.  Pissed Abo’s everywhere, it was a tough one.” Bob looks round to make sure Monti and Dural are out of earshot.

The famer spits in the dust.  It sits, like a blob of wax.  He kicks more dust over it and turns.  “Well do a better job on this will ya?”

Robert is out now, holding a clipboard.  “What he say son?”

“Nothin’ dad.  Mark, get the water tank round ‘ere, we got to soak this dust.  Boys!  Dural!  Monti!  Where are you?”

The two teens slouch round the back of the trailer.  There’s a heavy set guy in a baseball cap with them.  His frown seems carved into his face.

“You met Roy yet Mark?”  I shake his hand.  The frown inverts slowly to reveal a vast grin.  I immediately see the resemblance.  “Hiya fella.  I’m their dad.”

“Right boys,” Bob seems tetchy, “let’s do a good job today.”

We spend the morning watering dust.

The cold snap of dawn becomes a fierce bake by 10 am.  Blue sky.  Red ground.  White trees.  A green hose splurging a precious, finite, underground water source into the unquenchable dust.  Roy rolls the CAT slowly over the wet dirt, leveling dips with excess muck and clumsily leveling humps with the bucket on front.  We hose and rake, brush and scoop.  Bob tells Roy where to drive and Robert holds a clipboard.

“Guess what we were dreaming last night?”  Monti says.  His face is so dark it’s tricky to make out his expression from afar.

“You gonna tell him G?” Says Dural.

“Yeah.  Mark is black, aren’t ya G?”

I don’t really know what to say to that.  I’m not.  If anything I’m pink.

“Well you’re black to us, ‘cos you listen G.”  I feel accepted.  Privy to a world these other white men will never enter.

“We dreamt Bob and Robert were gonna be gone too.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah.  Gone.  Like Shane.  But worse.”

“Worse than Shane?”  Poor swaddled Shane.

“Yeah.  We dream a lot.  One time we were sleeping and a bad spirit came through the window and paralysed us G.  We were both awake but couldn’t move.  It stuck us good, we were stiff.  Dad says its ‘cos we left the family.”

Monti and Duval share a sideways glance.  Who’s going to speak next?

Duval takes his cue.  “And now we working for white dicks who don’t treat with us with any respect.  They don’t give a shit about us.  So we gonna pass on the bad spirit to them, just like we did to Shane.”

I suddenly have the urge to tell them what I’m earning.  I must look worried.

“Oh, don’t worry G, like we said – you’re one of us.  We won’t harm ya.  Even Roy knows you’re good, he got no beef with you.”

I look over at Roy, who is methodically ploughing the bull dust different shades of wet.

Once the drive way is flat and dark the tar truck is edged in from the road.  But there’s a problem.  Bob and Robert can’t get the tar to flow through the pipes and into the dispenser which hangs precariously out the back.

“How bloody cold was it last night?” Asks Bob. Robert’s looking at his clip board for answers.

“It’s midday and the tar’s still solid.  Scottie get the blow torch.”

He has me fix up a gas canister to some rubber tubing and a blow torch.  As he turns the gas on I notice all three Aboriginals hiding behind the CAT.

“Look at them bloody Abos!”  Laughs Bob.  “First sign of gas and they think there’s gonna be an explosion!”  This really tickles Bob.  Robert doesn’t seem to find as hilarious.  He’s just checking his watch.  The blow torch is attached precariously to a nozzle on the tar tank, blasting an arrow of blue flame inside.  “Right, someone go and check if it’s bubbling yet,” directs Robert, looking round at the cowering Aboriginals.  “Scottie, you’re up it seems.”

I clamber up on the roof and struggle to twist the lid off the top of the tank.  After a few knocks with a wrench the handle budges slightly and I start turning it anti-clockwise.  Two rotations in, there’s a sharp whoosh and the lid rockets off and into the sky, under a vast projection of warm tar. I stumble into the gravel-filled tipper behind the tank and take cover as the black geyser erupts spectacularly on to the cab roof, windscreen, windows and most grievously, the inside of the driver-side door.  Someone had left if open.

“Jesus bloody Nora!”  Screams Robert.  “Fuckin’ hell!” Screams Bob.

“You alright chief?”  Asks Roy.  My hands and legs are clotted black but I’m fine.  Oddly, it really isn’t that hot.  Just viscous and unnatural.  I get up and shuffle back to the ground, speckles of gravel from the tipper clinging to me.

“Yeah, someone get me some degreaser and I’ll scrub this off.”  I say.

“Never mind ‘bout your legs Scottie!”  Yells Robert.  “Get scrubbing the truck now before it sets!”  It’s so hot that by the time Monti and Dural are at the stained door with rags, they’re too late.  It is truly set.  Neither of them seems too fussed.  “We’ll need a lot more degreaser to get this off G,” Dural points out succinctly.

Robert looks at Bob.  Bob looks at Robert.  They appear disproportionately angry.  We’ve been hosing dirt in the desert for 4 hours and they’re furious about some tar on their truck.  “Alright!”  Yells Bob, clearly aimed at his father, “I’ll go and get some more degreaser!”

And with that he clambers aboard the dirtied truck, jams it into reverse and hurls it back up the driveway towards the open road.  The blow torch, which had thankfully been turned off, falls loose out of the socket with the motion.  It bounces into a drainage ditch.  The black and white truck is a cloud of bull dust as it hammers back towards the Gap.

“Gee,” Monti rubs his head, “these white boys really need degreaser.”

Robert swivels.  “Yes we do Monti.  These white boys like to have things done proper!  These white boys like a clean engine and a job done proper!”  He jams his finger into Monti’s chest.  “You lot wouldn’t understand!”  He realises he’s outnumbered.  As the tar hardens, I find myself standing in solidarity with Monti, Dural and Roy.

“Now get to work!”  Robert shouts a little less convincingly.

Roy steps forward.  His shoulders loom ominously.  “We’re done.”  He says simply.

“What do you mean?”  Robert asks, his voice unusually high.

“We’ve hosed the dirt down, I’ve pushed the stone round.  We need the tar and gravel to work.  We’re done for now.”

“Well.”  Robert exhales and looks around for something to do.  “Clean then.  Young Bob’ll be back shortly like and we can finish the job.”

On cue, his phone rings.  Robert glances at the screen and he takes one solitary, long blink.  It rings again.  The Aborigines are in a row, one on a rake, one on a shovel, one on a brush.  I can feel the tar tighten on my legs, the hair matted and stretched.

“What’s up son?” Asks Robert.  Pause.  “What do you mean police!”  Pause.  “A weigh station!  Why’d you stop you pillock?”  A shorter pause. “OK, OK calm down son.  They wave you down you have to stop.  What’d they say?”  Long pause.  A clearly significant pause for all concerned.  Robert hangs up, poking his phone slightly less gently than he poked Monti’s chest.

He knows he has to give an explanation.  He owes us that much.  And it’s too hot to lie.  “Turns out the truck was overweight.  By quite a lot actually.  And the tar tank was open.  And it wasn’t welded correctly to the frame.  We’re in a bit of trouble.”  He lists off and focuses on the horizon where the cloud of bull dust once was.  We follow his gaze.  The Gap is barely visible through the shimmering heat.

“And Shane blabbed in the hospital the silly drunk.  Good God it’s like Dubai all over again.”

He turns back to us.  “You boys.  Get in the Toyota and head back to the campsite.  We’ll call it a day for now.  I’ll go speak to the farmer.”

Monti and Dural look to Roy.  He shrugs those ancient shoulders of his and they jump in.  I’ve not seen them move this quickly.  I hop in the rear and we set off back to Alice and back to the Gap.  I spot Robert in the rear view mirror bending slowly to pick up the shovels, rakes and brushes.  On our way we pass Bob at the weigh station.  There’s a police car and a couple of men in needless luminous outfits taking notes, the neon redundant against the red MacDonnell Range.  Bob swivels meekly to watch us fly by.  No looking back.  We get to the campsite, I wave good bye and set off on my bike, back home to wash the tar off.

The next morning is even colder.  My breath hangs like bull dust as I puff my way back to the campsite.

Nothing.

No Robert and Bob.  No trucks.  No Dural, no Monti, no Roy.  I imagine even Shane has been seconded out of hospital.  None of the tourists in the campervans are up yet.  It’s too cold to rise.  It’s just me.  Not even a goodbye. All that’s left is the KFC carpark and a few lumpy industrial yards.

I ride back to town, back through The Gap for the last time and pull up next to the Dutch waitress heaving out tables in front of the café.

“Any jobs going?”  I ask in my most exotic Scottish brogue.

She laughs.  “It’s Alice Springs.  There’s always jobs for backpackers.”