Julian's Hell

I think this is the earliest of my writing - goes back to 2002 or 2003. It's quite dark and I suppose quite strangely written. I realise these little introductions don't really detail much of the text but then, I'm trying not to mess with your own reading of the different pieces. This one is about 5000 words.

Julian’s Hell

21st January:

So, that was my first day here. Wherever here is, I really haven’t been paying attention, all I know is I don’t deserve this. Discipline. Well, I’m no disciple, they won’t have me bowing down, bastards. Think they can tell me what to do. When I don’t listen they make sure I can only do as they say. Trapped behind these walls, the outside calling me with a birdsong or a branch beckoning in the wind. I will get out of here.

Don’t show you much on the first day, the hell really starts tomorrow. Not that it hasn’t already started- Hell is all this place has been, all it will be. Filled with people like me, people that won’t learn, that won’t SHUT UP. Three hours and I already hate it, who is anyone to tell me where I should be. Those who judged me- they think they know what’s best for me. They don’t have a clue, they just want me gone, forgotten. I gave Hell, so they took me to it. Well, I’m not going to say I’m sorry. They can’t make me repent… I’d rather DIE. May as well tell you what I’ve seen. The canteen looked alright. Just where they slop out the same old crap. The food here is meant to be great, I’m lucky. Yeah, I feel lucky. How lucky can you be trapped in here, filled with a bunch of wankers ready to judge you as quickly as you are to judge them. Shit, everyone thinks they’re God, that they know all. Well, I’ll tell you, if they all know so much, why am I so different? And what they doing here, anyway. If they’re God, shouldn’t they be everywhere…Omnipresent? Well God, I hope your present as I’m on m’knees:

Dear Father,
I know you’re busy, you guard all on earth,
‘Till they’re buried, from their birth,
But I ask you, Lord, hear my plea,
Free me from this prison, let me be,
Amen.

Fuck it, he never listens. I always call, but he never hears. I know why I’m here, I know I did wrong. Who knows, maybe I’ll persevere and end up back in the Garden of Eden. Funny how we consider things, our views are always changing. It’s like one day a mirror will tell us how great we look, the next we hate it, smash it and it plagues us for seven years.

The only other place I’ve seen is where I am now. This piece of shit where I sleep. It’s hard this bed, my pillow feels like a rock. No one else seems to care, they’re all asleep. Met the guy beneath my bunk, he’s alright. If a fat bastard who’s Mr. Optimist is alright. He talks about how great it is here, how I’m sure to fit in. Well, I don’t want to fit in…maybe that’s why I will? Haven’t talked to anyone else yet, don’t really want to. Bet they’ve already had a real good bitch. Been here three hours and it’s already- ‘the new one looks like a wanker’ ‘the new guy better not try to get matey with me’- well, don’t worry anyone, you’re all a bunch of idiots, already. Got the picture of my mum and dad up. I loved ‘em. But it goes to show, give anyone anything and they’ll take a whole lot more. ‘Give an inch and they’ll take a mile.’ Well, I gave a yard and I still suffer. Bastards. Nothing else to say about the room except for the walls. They make me feel sick. They’re this horrible, fleshy colour, meant to make us feel calm and tranquil but it just looks like skin plastered over the walls. These bastard walls of flesh, they trap me, keep me away from where I want to be. How I hate this flesh.

22nd January:

Well, now I know why I hate this place so much. All this patronising, this talking down to. Like we need some direction in our lives. How can we have direction when we’re in here. We’re at the bottom and we can only go lower. Why try and sell us hope, offer us salvation, like they’ll turn the clock back. We have our punishment and it will never be changed. Freedom can only come from doing as are told, and they are telling us we can’t be free. How can they think us so blind?

Then there are the other people. I haven’t said much around them, kept quiet, don’t want them to think of me as some loud-mouth prick. However, I talked when I was spoken to, don’t want to make trouble for myself. This one guy, Jake, asked me where I was from, so I tell him Hatfield. Couldn’t say much else, just it was nice. Then one of his mates, forget his name, asks me if I like it here. I tried not to laugh. I said ‘What’s not to like?’ They smiled. Don’t know if they really got what I was saying, but it felt nice anyway. We talked a little bit, I think I have some people now to talk to. Don’t really like them but I can’t stay an outsider, that’s been made abundantly clear. No acceptance outside, but a bit of acceptance in here; but I’m not stupid. I’m not going to let too much slip. Not yet, for there may be consequences…

Well, the food was alright. A bit typical, but then I’m not here to eat, I’m here to learn. The learning isn’t great either though. Like I said, a load of patronisers- the Patron Saints of Patronising. Talking to me like I’m a retard. I made a mistake, but that doesn’t mean I AM one. They are all just talking shit about stuff I already know. God, there attentiveness is killing me, it’s not so much like I should expect something from them but the other way round. Well, if they want a teacher, why follow he who won’t be taught – the one they think so blind? They really piss me off. Asked me if I wanted any books or anything, but I’ve got the two I need with me. My photo album, filling me with memories, a reason to get out and be free again. The second is this one, my Bible. Telling me what it is like, letting me get what’s off my chest. This is my priest behind a screen. Just as blank, just waiting to be filled, like a jug of confession, only this one doesn’t pour out any judgement. You only have your own thoughts staring back at you, judge yourself by what you wrote. Both my gift and my hex: My Deity. My Diary.

Oh God, I know I act like I can stand this place but I can’t. It’s not home, I don’t feel safe. This is no haven, no respite. Nothing I can do will make me feel free, everything here is torment, memory. I need an escape, if I don’t leave this place soon I will go mad. These past two days. One of travelling and one of introduction. They’ve made me weary, frustrated and lonely. Should I give this a chance? Fine, one chance. It’s all I got, and if they expect more then they are mistaken. So, tomorrow is a new day and I will be a new person. Reincarnated. Down with the people to be happy once more.

23rd January:

A glimmer of hope? On the third day a light at the end of the tunnel is found. Friendship? Not yet, but so much potential…and chance is better than no chance. Talking more to Jake and his friends made me feel something never quite felt before. Not understood, you don’t understand someone from two meetings- the world wasn’t made in a day. Maybe accepted? Is that what I mean? I think so, it is nice. An opportunity, this is what I have and what I was meant to have.

These people are not perfect, far from it. They have a little bit of attitude, you can tell that not everyone likes them, but at the same time, no one is liked by everyone. I don’t mind their forwardness, it’s nice, different. However, this effort to be welcomed is coming at a price. These guardians, those we’re meant to follow, they are not revered by my new found allies, but condemned. Much as I did when I first met them, they are both oppressors and those that insult our minds. We find these preachers, teachers, perverse and twisted. Instead of being sheep happily led by the shepherd, we seem to have a bit of wolf in ourselves. Me included. Where before my disapproval had been muted by isolation, to merely be screamed from this tome, it is now becoming a noise amongst many, encouraging my thoughts, Our thoughts. Our rebellion is almost blasphemy, and we are viewed with caution as all perceived as potential heretics. I wonder if they think I can be saved? Will I be put back, back on to the righteous path? Who knows?

Mr. Optimist was not so much today, it appears some of the mist has cleared and the rosy view has some weeds choking it. He warns me, he swears there will be consequence. Well, we shall wait and see for I have a feeling that my destiny is soon to be found, and my fate sealed. And, while I know that tragedy and eternal torment may be my punishment I am not willing to dismiss this chance to be accepted, to be with people that do not immediately condemn me. I have seen. The path forks and I chose my journey, now I must follow it to the end. To my end…

Before I sleep tonight, I take another look at the walls. Do they calm me now? They certainly no longer frustrate me, make my stomach twist into knots. No, they do give me some peace of mind. For their fleshy tones no longer scream of entrapment, they no longer keep me from running. Instead they protect me, I have returned to the womb, deep inside I feel its warmth and affection, and now… I welcome it.

24th January:

My progression here is strange. How sure I was that I would detest this place. This cage, treating me like some kind of beast, placing me amongst others condemned as unfit to live outside. Yet, it appears more to be an escape from where I am different. We are not monsters, merely misunderstood. And as our purpose in here is unclear, so much so that our guides struggle to guide us, we have found unity in something other than goals…in our lack of them. And so, I find myself lost but at the same time very much found. Lost, as in no direction, aimlessly travelling. Lost as in no hope, I am a lost cause…they are ready to wash their hands of me and I am being swept away…To where? Who knows, but I do not fear this current, I place my faith in it. Today, as they continued to mock us and our intelligence we retaliated. Due to my new found (dis)position and my already apparent frustration I was willing to lash out at those that are meant to control me here. As they lectured to us all, and as they listed their demands, I ignored them and when they declared their dissatisfaction, I returned by shouting at them. I unleashed my frustrations, and I mocked their intelligence in a far less sneaky, snake-like manner. My tongue is not forked, it is sharp, and I cut deep. I was punished. Made to pay my sins. In isolation I found myself. Nothing to confide in but four walls and a watcher. It was Hell, it was what I expected all along. This was judgement, this was spite, this is what I hated. However, this time it did not fill me with dread because I had demanded it. And I sat on that chair, the one reserved for those that have gone too far, I sat there as if it was a throne. I was a leader and my acquaintances revered me. One even followed my lead. Found himself, too, trapped – placed into solitary confinement. They are strict on disobedience here, well so shall I be. I shall demand it as much as they demand it to be punished. They drove me to where I am, they can be punished for that. These actions have given me a heightened level of respect. I am now welcomed fully, the price has been paid. To receive your thirty pieces of silver for a betrayal you should do doesn’t result in regret and self-loathing.

Another gift was given to me today. I, as was everyone, was allowed outside today. I could not leave the grounds, obviously, but I could leave the walls. The sun caressed my skin, welcoming me back, and the wind stroked my hair as lovingly as any mother to her son. I ran freely, and inhaled the sweet air. It felt good to be back with nature, but it wasn’t depressing. Knowing that I had been allowed some freedom was better than not having any, and I was not going to feel like this was a tease. It was more a reminder of what shall be mine to experience, without ANY constraint, when I am finally free. This place may still be Hell. It may still be a cage but it is not the horror I had anticipated. Those that have been dragged here, those that resent it, they unite as kindred spirits. We may be isolated from all the others, persecuted for being slightly off-the-beaten-path, but we have each other and we thank ourselves for such small blessings. So as long as I have like-minded souls and this occasional freedom, I have all I need. And when freedom does come, it will be all the sweeter for having survived.

And now, as I rest on this hardened mattress, no more comfortable than toughened earth, I reflect on my parents. As I stare at their photo, separate from my more sacred memories, held in the scrap book, I look at them confused. Do I hate them? Do I resent them for making me be here? I don’t know, I look at their picture and, more than anything, I am saddened. I am saddened because I think I still resent them and this feeling is reciprocated. Bastards. I do still hate them. I hate their actions, though they have had unexpected, beneficial repercussions. The fortune wasn’t planned, least of all by them. Now I am truly crying, my tears make this earth sodden. The mattress is flooded, with my tears of regret. Each drop holds a piece of my emotion and I am slowly being drained. Swept off into a river of sleep. I leave you with a trembling hand that rights this piece and a scalding tear hot with regret and anger…

25th January:

Today my actions are received with even greater animosity by those they frustrate. Both our preachers and the converted react with hostility to our arrogance and ignorance to their teachings. Our resilience to their indoctrination is far from appreciated and so our indifference was met with not isolation this time. No dismissal, apart from to go to an office, to a confrontation. Sent to the Leader of this order- the high priest himself. Few words were shared before I got sent there. I merely gave some justified, though provocative, criticism. I sent this place to Damnation! Well, if it wasn’t already there. I think it really rubbed the ‘Patron(ising) Saint’ the wrong way. It freaked out some of the class too. I am slightly concerned that maybe I’ve become too relaxed, possibly this new blessing that can be described as friendship has made me throw caution to the wind. Perhaps I will suffer. Anyway, so after my ‘shocking’ (because that is what honesty is) condemnation I was met by this ‘great’ man, this Master. We discussed ‘my attitude,’ which I consider to be comparable to my group but I am being made the scapegoat- the martyr. This ‘alternative way of thinking’ is not productive. Apparently, things could get harder for me. Really? Well being treated harshly is a step up from being treated like an idiot, a simpleton. I explained that I wasn’t going to divert from my opinions, as I was entitled to them and to express them. I think this world, behind these walls, is mocking us, its captors, and I resent it. I ask if that is unjustified? It appears not, according to the gentleman I was talking to. He understood that I was ‘hurt’ and ‘bitter’ and he accepted that my opinion should be allowed, but he preferred it if I expressed my difficulties in a more ‘traditional fashion’. Apparently, my ‘irate attacks’ at those ‘just doing their jobs’ and ‘just trying to help’ made them suffer unjustifiably. I did not argue then, but don’t we judge those that do the devil’s work. Someone’s got to do it? It makes me fucking sick how people can be so easily forgiven, little repentance is needed- we ALREADY UNDERSTAND? Understand everybody but me. I may have some form of unity here, but right then I was very much alone, and I could feel myself nearly bowing down to them. But they can’t break my faith! I rested upon it, propped myself upright with it and held my head up high. I agreed to some sort of compromise. As in my concerns would be considered if I didn’t act in that ‘confrontational manner.’ With these concessions I was free to leave.

I met Jake and the others in the canteen. They asked me what happen and I gave them the story near enough as I told it above. They were impressed, no one said anything but I fed off their pride, I felt glad that I had pleased them. One or two were concerned about what I said. One, Harry, asked if I was some kind of ‘Jesus freak’. It was thought strange that when I get angry I turn to religion, even in how I express myself. Like I mentioned before, I am concerned that I might be letting too much go too soon. I am nervous about the consequences, but I shall see if this proves disastrous later.

And so too bed, and tonight I feel totally comfortable with myself as everything has proven itself to be okay. Faith has been my support, my crutch, my oaken staff. As long as I have support from those I have met here I will not falter. I will not fail.

26th January:

As it turns out, today I have time to write before lunch. Again, we have been allowed to venture outside. It is beautiful here. I went on a walk alone. I went through the dense wood, thick with wild plants and animals. As I walked through the wilderness, even on such a cold day, with its chilling breeze, I felt warmed deep inside. It was a strange feeling, one I am sure is to be described as contentment. While I hate this place for not letting me be free, I love it for its isolation and purity. Untainted by the sick, sick world that lies just beyond its borders. There are hints of it here- drugs, lust and other horrors, but at the same time the amount is so small, it is free from the Hell outside it. It is innocent.

So, onwards through the walk, taking in the incredible beauty of nature at its most pure, completely alone, and I felt the most amount of joy I have ever felt. It seems that I have all I need here. Enough beauty to satisfy my soul and enough Hell as to keep me occupied in my mission to cleanse. I think I will buy a camera. I will begin a new scrap book, collect new memories and, in time, destroy those other ones. They were great but these, they will be more natural, more favoured. More. Anyway, as it is lunch I will write back after. It seems that I need to pour my soul into this book to collect these memories. This will not be bitter it seems, but the sweetest treasure I will ever cherish. To be the most precious of things until my dying day.

There is a hint that maybe I didn’t take my own warnings too seriously.
They are pursuing my belief in religion. It is not my faith that infatuates them but the extreme. They ask of my parents, grandparents, schools. None of these answer their questions. They became puzzled, and intrigued. They demanded to know, to understand. Who am I to deny those that welcomed me so, that have stood by me, been so attentive for no reason other than they accept me? So I explained. About finding a Bible when I was young, about those hard days at the age of four where I discovered the old tatty book that called out to me. I had been so stressed and I escaped. This book began to shape my life, it helped me to understand. Of course, I don’t need to get anymore precise. It is obvious what I told them. That day will never need photos or words to keep fresh. The reason I am still nervous, uncomfortable even, is because I am uncertain of the repercussions, if any. While they all took interest, and I am sure it was not out of politeness, their reaction to it was quite blank. I don’t think they were indifferent, but they were quiet about their thoughts. Only Harry and Samuel gave me any opinion. Sam was amused, considered me strange, but it did not feel condescending, merely as if he thought it alien, understandable, I’m sure. Harry, on the other hand, seemed touched, he thought it was cool that I had found faith in something. And it is. It is very good to have found faith in something.

I think, on reflection, I am being too cautious. I’m sure everything is okay.

Now the day has come to an end. It was quite slow moving but I really did have nothing to do. Never mind, it’s over now and it wasn’t exactly painful. Just a bit dull after lunch. Still, I am now suited here. Everyone was quiet about what we’d discussed earlier so fair to assume it has passed. Didn’t really see them much. Saw Luke though, that’s Mr. Optimist, and he started asking all sorts of stupid questions about what was going on. Doesn’t like trouble it seems. Well, I explained that we don’t have to be silent, what we have to say matters. It is what we tell people that affects the world. Our world. What we say and what we do are vital, they decided our fate. He said he doesn’t like the look of mine, some sort gospel that is. Pessimistic son of a bitch. I have taken down the photo of my parents and put it in my old scrap book. They can be a precious memory of the past too. I forgive and I forget. I move on.

BASTARDS. They betrayed me! They are the fucking snake leading me to false freedom, false wisdom. These bastards they worked to launch an arrow at the heavens and I aided the folly’s fucking construction. These foul heretics of cruel design. These fucking perverts of truth. They made me so blind, placed a holy mirage in front of me and I fell under its spell like many a blind man. Oh God, why couldn’t I have seen earlier? WHY! Their deceitful whispers lulled me into emotions unknown, and I became hesitant, ignorant (even to my own subconscious warnings!) My sin was complacency. COMPLA-SIN-SY! And now I will suffer as these sick bastards have dragged me to Hell. Crawling, screaming I descend. Bastards! BASTARDS! They are Lucifer leading rebellion tempting from the virtuous path. They are Lucifer tempting Jesus in the Wilderness. They are Lucifer. THEY ARE LUCIFER.

A pox on your family, to crawl on their bellies forever more,
A pox on your mothers each is a bitch, a diseased-ridden whore,
A pox on your fathers full of each sin, fattened on wrong,
A pox on your lies, an evil, tempting caress from every forked-tongue,
A pox on your children, the vermin to infest this sick place,
A pox on your partners who mate with a devilish disgrace,
A pox on you all, you are forever blighted and damned,
And a pox is on I, just as you always had planned.

BASTARDS! They shall suffer. Suffer deep consequences- GUILT SHALL ENVELOP THEM ALL! I attack my skin, my corrupt, horrid flesh. My wrists now cut open, let the impurities run out. Never mind the stains, this is your last day- my last day. Every sin I indulged in pours out like a red stream of repentance. I AM sorry, I bow down to you! I was wrong. But I am suffering. I can feel my strength fade, but it’s already gone, went mere hours before this. When they destroyed my friendship. My faith. How could I have been so ignorant? Well Father, forgive me. I am coming to your judgement now, the only one that matters, ever mattered. My watch! It bleeps! It is a new day. The SEVENTH DAY. THE DAY OF REST. Well, they will never rest easy. I CONDEMN YOU ALL. BASTARDS!

The Aftermath:

He slapped the book, crumpled from dried blood, in front of Mr and Mrs Joabe. As it hit the great oak table, it felt just as if they’d been slapped round the face. Another book followed, its cover bloodied but its insides untouched. This was far from subtle but there was no easy way to handle this situation.

“These were found with his body, on his bunk,” he began. Then he hesitated. Which book should they discuss first. He tapped the blood-stained diary, “This gives quite a clear account of how your son was feeling here. Can you tell me, why did you decide on a boarding school for Julian?”

“Well, you see,” began Mark Joabe, “We had had a big argument with Julian at the start of the Christmas holidays and we decided that he needed supervision we couldn’t give him. He hurt us, Mr. Prior, and we needed a break. Both of us did. I guess we just needed some time apart.” A solitary tear crawled down his cheek. He bowed his head in regret. He never meant for this to happen.

“I’m very sorry to tell you this, but, we believe that Julian was a truly disturbed teenager. We only have the details of these two books but they suggest a complete fanatic, a crazed-zealot.” The stares that Prior received made him sharply realise that he had just been extremely insensitive, all the more so for not letting the parents finish reading the diary. He asked them to read it in full and check out the ‘scrapbook’ as well.

Upon conclusion the parents became sickly pale. Their child clearly had been very distraught but had never turned to them. Maybe his heated accusations were true. Maybe they were disgraceful sinners and, what Julian didn’t mention but remained a painfully apparent indictment- awful parents. Their faces reddened with the heat of embarrassment upon his mention of ‘hard days at the age of four,’ when Mark’s Dad had passed away, around the same time he and Charlotte had been going through a rocky patch. Julian had kept so quiet, confiding and escaping into his bible and not his parents. They had been so clueless this whole time. Sending him away merely highlighted the point: They couldn’t deal with their son. The next book was harder to take. This is what truly horrified them. Pictures of murder. Hangings, knifings, asphyxiations and other, more horrid methods of torture were collected. Worse was that these were not newspaper clippings, no collection from the Internet or books or anything else. These were photos, a collection of murders, each dated. The ragged victims, seemed to suggest drug users and prostitutes. Julian appeared to have been God’s righteous hand of justice before being sent away. And here he had killed himself. Possibly hating what he had become, what he had found himself associated with. The parents hesitated. Scared, blaming themselves for what had happened, certain that the accusations were directed to them just as much as those who’d been more directly attacked. “Have you talked to this gang he’d been associated with?” came Charlotte’s trembling voice, breaking the guilty air of silence.

“We have,” Said Prior, “apparently a couple of them pulled a childish prank aimed at Julian’s religious fervour. We are still discussing punishment. I assure we will be harsh but nothing to the amount they are punishing themselves.”

“And…How is Luke?”

“He is coping but not well. It was a terrible fright to him, such a thing to find must be hellish.” Silence again.

Funeral arrangements were discussed and it was agreed that the school would pay some sort of tribute. A memory to Julian Joabe, aged 15. But no one needed anything to remember him. His presence would encircle the despised boarding school forevermore. Wherever he rests it will be a Heaven, for his whole life was Julian’s Hell.

The Machine

Previously untitled. One of the last things I wrote - about a year ago. Very brief. Quotes in the speech are nearly word-for-word from some people I would consider unsavoury types that consider themselves very upstanding citizens in their own country.

The Machine

The American scientists had finally created the ultimate war machine. It was heralded as the perfect guarantee for peace.

The irony was lost on the Americans.

The machine was made of a metallic-hybrid compound that was near impenetrable, making it almost impossible to shoot down. Furthermore, its central computer system, its nucleus, was so small that the possibility of an accurate shot was near impossible. Therefore, it was practically unstoppable.

It ran on a powerful uranium-based battery that cost a great deal to construct in a safely usable manner. This battery allowed the machine to generate violently powerful ‘sonic missiles’ that reduced people’s homes to dust with volatile vibrations. Though it was an energy-exhausting weapon, the battery was capable of allowing the machine to fire 1,000 shots – enough to level New York – and move the machine 30 miles a day at a 5-miles-an-hour pace for a month.

All in all, a machine that could destroy things before they got too close, that would be nigh-impossible to kill from a distance and that would have a ridiculously high kill-capacity would indeed be the ultimate war machine. What’s more, it was American.

The computer chip, the nucleus, had been told to destroy un-American obstacles. Americans and un-Americans were starkly, powerfully dichotomised by the most assured and American minds. Americans were lovers of liberty, of peace and of justice. They believed in equality and freedom for all. The un-American people believed in the opposite. They believed in oppression and opposed free-will and democracy. The machine could be moved anywhere – South America, the Middle East, Russia – and it would recognise the ugly and unwholesome minds before it. In no time at all these people would become American or condemned to death.

The machine was unveiled at a Republican convention to rapturous, American applause. The machine looked like a cat-carrier with caterpillar-tires attached to either side. It was switched on and a little, blue light flickered to life. The machine said ‘Hail to the Chief’ and the crowd went primal.

The speaker began to talk of the impact of this almighty machine of peace. The machine gleamed its new-robot-gleam as the orator expounded on the virtues of America. Of peace. Of love. Of tolerance and freedom. The robot seemed to hum in agreement. He spoke of a new era, of safety and security and promise. The machine sat there – a symbol of these dreams, these ideals. The speaker followed these ideals with the dangers of the un-American. Their hatred, their terrorism, their unwillingness to compromise. The crowd growled. He warned of their deceitfulness, their manipulation and their evil desire to see America destroyed. The crowd muttered in a sour tone. The machine stood there, again a symbol of hope – an eradicator of the ill-thinking ‘others’.

And then he began to explain what must be done:

“If they think we are trying to kill them, we should just do it. They think so little of us anyway…We should invade their countries, kill their leaders and convert them to Christianity…a great fumigation shall begin…You do not compromise with these…sub-humans.”

The mass roared, maniacally, stirred by bloodlust, rancour and bestial righteousness. Amongst the yells of ecstasy for deaths not yet dealt, no one noted the oh-so-slightly audible hum of an ultimate war machine beginning to rev into action.

In 24 hours, New York was levelled and the machine was surrounded by miles and miles and miles of debris and thousands of dead un-American Americans. Those who roared their thoughts of oppression and elimination of free-will. Those who seemed to embody the antithesis of peace, liberty and love. The Americans had built the ultimate war machine to bring peace. They created a machine to kill those that wanted to kill.
Once again, the irony was lost on the Americans.

Probably because they were all dead.

Dilemma

A dark story. Quite a lot of harsh language. Not a lot else to say about the piece. Written a good few years back, maybe 2006. About 5,000 words.

Dilemma

I want to tell you a story. It is a true story; it’s about an experience that happened to me, about a situation I found myself in. I tell this story to you for two main reasons. First, I want you to ask yourself some questions; questions that have gnawed at me ever since this event took place and questions I couldn’t resolve. Indeed, I still cannot answer these questions. Maybe they will be simpler for you but then, to you, it’s all so hypothetical. Maybe that is another question you should ask yourself at the end, whether your response is what you think you’d do or what you know you’d do. The second reason I am telling this story is because the questions I want to ask you, I want you to ask yourself, are questions that I want to resolve. Like I said to you, I still cannot answer these questions. If I tell this story to you perhaps I will end up finding the answer in the telling. The proof is in the eating and all that. I don’t know if it will work, maybe it doesn’t even matter. Well, whatever, here’s my story. I hope you find it interesting and I hope it makes you think. At the end of the day, they say a problem shared is a problem halved; if I can halve this dilemma, maybe I can move on from the whole ordeal…


The central stage for my tale is my local watering hole, Ye Olde Crown (or The Crown, as it is affectionately known). It’s a lovely pub filled with warm, friendly decent people. The jukebox plays a load of different music and I can happily put on The Eagles and Lynyrd Skynyrd to my heart’s content. They even have a couple of Hawkwind tracks that I can play when it gets nice and empty. The landlord is a great guy; Jeff Wonder is his name. He likes the seventies rock much like myself. I have been going to this pub since 1990, when I moved to Thanet at the age of 22. I missed all the classic acts in their heyday because I was young and hadn’t discovered my musical taste. Jeff, however, had seen it all, got every T-shirt and he was still wearing them the two decades after. He was like a cool uncle who had lived through the time I loved so much. He would relay to me these great stories of rocking to Thin Lizzy, or whoever, and then hanging out with them afterwards. Some of the tales were pretty wild but I can’t really digress into another man’s anecdotes, especially as they hold little concern to my story. Still, Jeff remains the landlord and I remain a regular, even seventeen years later.

There are lots of others who frequent The Crown and most of them are really nice characters too. Often they keep pretty much to themselves, occasionally saying hello, but their conversations are normally either with Jeff or whoever they bring in with them. Normally, I go with a couple of friends but none of them are there as frequently as myself. However, my friends are not main players in this tale and neither are the other regulars. Even Jeff is a mere side-character in this story.

The individuals you need to concern yourself with are me, Chris (my second name is irrelevant), and Dave Meadows. I hope you’re getting a vague picture of me, but I will just paint me a bit clearer for the purpose of this story. I’m now 39 and married but the events that matter took place when I was 33 and single. I was a slightly different person then, a bit less mellow. I was a member of a socialist party and I worked as a fireman. I am still a fireman but my money no longer goes to a radical cause and is instead spent on my vinyl collection and my wife and kid. I had been raised in a worker’s party household and the ideas were pretty ingrained in me, even if 2001 was a very lonely time to be a socialist. I just want to give you an idea of the sort of person I was - a fairly angry guy who was quite involved in a small, widely-ignored collective, I was filled with good intentions and had two real loves, music and politics. Two areas I shared with Jeff who, though not an active radical, certainly had strong left-wing leanings. These two passions were not shared with Dave, however. The only thing Dave and I had in common was The Crown. He was a regular too and still visit’s the pub, though not so much anymore. He was a real nasty piece of work; he still is but far less vocal these days. He’s a big guy and as tough as a bull. He is the reason this story is being written. I want to tell you about Dave. I want to tell you what he was like and then I want to tell you what happened to him. I want you to think about what you would have done if you were me with my feelings at that time, if you found yourself in the situation that I had found myself in, six years ago.


Dave started coming to The Crown regularly around mid-1995 and he always appeared to be there from then onwards. Whenever I would go there after work he was already there, visibly drunk. He always drank alone until the point where he would go and speak to others and he often went up to them to cause an upset of some kind. He would get really tanked up and then he’d go up to someone and make some nasty remark; he’d make the whole place feel pretty uncomfortable and then he’d leave, an awkward tension lingering for some time after his departure.

At first, he had been quiet, he had ignored us as much as we him and he would sit there with his permanent scowl of malice. As time went on though, his true colours began to show and they were horrible. He was a twisted man, everything about him suggested violence and bad news. The first time he caused a scene was pretty horrible. I guess he wanted to make an impact so everyone would know to be scared.

He had been sitting by the bar, knocking the pints back as hard as usual when he suddenly went over to this table of three men. One of them had just been promoted at work, some accountancy firm, and he had got drunk with a couple of friends to celebrate. The guy had been loud but he wasn’t being a nuisance or anything. Anyway, it got to about half ten and the trio were quietening down, getting ready to leave. Dave went up to the table and sat down. I didn’t hear how it started but I understand that it went a bit like this:

“So, you got a raise, did you?” There’s nothing in Dave’s voice but spite but the guy starts off ignorant to his tone.

“Yeah, I’m going up. I’m glad my hard work is paying off.”

“What did you do? Fucking brown nose? Worm your way in with boss, yeah?”

“No,” the guy laughed, he still thought that Dave was messing about, “I just worked as hard as I could and it got rewarded.”

“You suck your boss’ cock. You fucking licked the shit off his shoes. You think you’re so fucking special, you’re a fucking maggot-piece-of-shit.”

“Er…” The guy was getting pretty intimidated.

“You fucking useless shitbag. You waste of space. Think you’re some fucking hot shit, I should fucking gut you.”

At this point one of the guy’s friends stood up. He was the biggest out of the three and looked pretty fit. Dave, however, was pretty big himself - kind of fat, but you could tell most of him was muscle. This guy that stood up looked as if he was ready to stand his ground if necessary.

“Look,” the man on his feet said, “why don’t you leave us alone. We’re just celebrating some good news and we’re off soon. Leave it out, yeah?”

Quick as anything, Dave reacted. Thump, smash, swing. Dave broke his empty pint glass on the table, moved up off his bar stool and grabbed the guy by his shirt, his other hand holding the jagged edges of the pint glass against the crotch of the man’s trousers.

“Think you’re some kind of hard man, do you?” Dave hissed the question with venom.

At this point Jeff calls over and tells Dave to leave immediately or he’s barred and the police will be called. Dave left. I don’t know if it’s true but apparently the guy Dave threatened had wet himself. I don’t blame him if he did. The way Dave acted that night, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had attempted to remove the guy’s manhood. Horrified, but not surprised.

Anyway, that was when we first realised what sort of man Dave Meadows really was - scum. He just hated people and wanted to make their life as miserable has his own.


There were some events that took place very close to one another about seven years after the above incident. These events are what I really want to discuss with you. It begins in The Crown, a lively Friday night. There are a few regulars, including me and Dave, and there are also a few people who are here for the first time. Of particular relevance are a group of black guys playing pool. Now, Thanet has proved itself to be pretty backward and racially intolerant generally - a result of asylum seekers entering through Dover, meaning The Daily Mail’s rants struck a particular chord- but Dave was always going to be the worst example of local bigotry. On this night, Dave’s face looks especially hateful and he is drinking as constant as ever. He starts quiet but consider the scene set: A vicious and spiteful drunk simmering at the bar; five men oblivious to the monster only a few feet away, happily relaxing into their weekend; and me, sat near the wall, Dave in my front vision, just to my right and sitting at the bar, the crowd of pool players a little bit on my left hand side. I have the perfect spectator seat for a horrible show that is just about to occur; a show that I had no idea was about to explode into action.

Dave stands up and walks to the table. It begins:

“Alright, lads? Where’re you from?” Dave places a hand on the pool table and the game is brought to an abrupt halt.

“We’re from up London way. Get your hand off the table.” The response was straight but hardly civil. The mood of the group had changed as suddenly as the game had stopped.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dave starts, lifting his hand to complete their request, “but where are you from. I mean, you ain’t English are you?”

“What’s that meant to mean?” one of them asks. It’s difficult at first to determine which of the group is speaking, they’re all looking at Dave and away from me. Another one says ‘leave it’, but it’s Dave next to speak.

“Well, I don’t know any dark Englishmen. I mean, Churchill wasn’t dark, the Queen ain’t black. You come from somewhere, but it’s nowhere English. Where’re you from?”

“I’m English. I come from London. I was born there and I have lived there all my life, until I moved down here.”

“Well, maybe you should check your roots. Find out where you came from. Exactly-”

“Just what the fuck is your problem?” The burst was sudden, a pool cue was thrown from a hand and I saw the guy stand over Dave. Dave was a good bit shorter than the man confronting him but the hatred in his eyes made up for what he lacked in stature.

“I mean get out of here!” Dave was raging “ We don’t want you here. Get the fuck out, you cunts! You fucking darkie cunts. Fucking nigger shits! Ruining our country. We’re going to shit and it’s because of you. Taking benefits, fucking about and fucking our women! You make me fucking sick. Fucking slave-race scum thinking you’re human. You’re fucking animals! Animals! (His voice was breaking with fury) We don’t want your stinking kind round here. Get out! Get the fuck out of here, you black, rotten, fucking, stealing, revolting fucking NIGGERCUNTS!”

“Dave, you get out of here, now! I don’t want to see you in here again. Out!” Jeff boomed at him with anger and I stood up, my body shaking with rage. I had never seen such a sickening display from Dave. He could be nasty but this was just inhuman. Disgusting. I was ready to kick him out myself.

“It’s alright,” said one of the five, “we’ll go. Don’t think we’ll be back anytime. Oh,” he added turning to Dave, “you better watch out. You’re going to get what’s coming.”

Dave smiled a malicious grin, nothing but sadistic satisfaction in his eyes. In the next instant he was on the floor, nose bleeding and cursing wildly. The man had clearly been pushed over the edge by that look. Everyone can only be pushed so far. I couldn’t help but smile at the crumpled mess of a man on the floor. It was pleasing to see him looking so pathetic. I sat back down.

And then they were gone.

Dave slammed a note on the bar, shouted for his drink, was promptly served and told it would be his last one. Moments later something unexpected happened. Dave gulped down the top of his pint and began walking over to my table. For the first time in the seven years I had seen him there, he came and sat next to me. I was a little taken aback and angry that he thought that it would be acceptable after the shocking display I had just witnessed. I was about to say something when he got their first:

“Fucking cunts,” he muttered, “who’d they think they are? I’ll get mine? Fucking I’ll get mine? They make me sick. Sick to my fucking gut.”

He paused to take out a cigarette and he looked at me; he wasn‘t looking to signify that I should speak, on the contrary he was tracing my face with his eyes as if looking for something, if I was to speak it looked like he would lose his thought. Sharply, his eyes widened and he began to speak once more:

“I saw you, you know. Smiling at me while I was on the floor. Find it fucking comical, do you? Guess I can tell where you stood when watching your little show. Rooting for the nigger, were you? Yeah, fucking whites unite don’t mean shit to you.”

“No. You want to talk about being sick to the gut, you should look at yourself.” It was my turn to pause. I was about to stand and walk out, leaving my last comment as I went, but my actions were cut short by a clicking sound from Dave’s hand. After he had lit his fag he had pulled out a knife and, with the push of a button, the blade had flicked out an inch from my stomach. I froze, I could not move my legs or my mouth. Instead, I found myself trapped by fear next to this twisted maniac. I looked around desperately.

“Hardly anyone about now, boy.” Dave spoke to me as if he could read my thoughts; that malicious smile had returned. “It’s getting late. Just you and me. If I see you move… I’ll cut you, no problems. Right where you sit.”

I looked at his face and that desperate, sadistic grin. After Dave’s humiliation he was probably even more unstable than usual and this meant that he was not a man to be tested. It was time for him to redeem himself in his eyes; it was time for someone else to be humiliated.

“Come on, boy. Why do you stand by the dregs instead of with your own? You’re fucking worse than them.”

I said nothing.

“Say you’re sorry.”

I looked at the knife, though I didn’t need to for I could feel it’s light prod on the outer part of my clothing. The metal was dull but the tip was sharp. One push and I’d be bleeding pretty bad and I had no idea how severely Dave would cut me. I looked into his dark, spiteful stare.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For smiling at you when you got hit, I should have helped you out.”

“Fuck you,” his eyes narrowed as he was reminded of his just desserts, “I don’t need your fucking assistance. I don’t need you to apologise for what you owe me. Say sorry for being a fucking nigger lover.”

The blade rode up and down my top, I could feel it move, painless but so very threatening. “I’m sorry.”

“For being a fucking nigger lover”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m sorry for being a fucking nigger lover.”

“They’re scum.”

“They’re scum.” I agreed. I felt a number of emotions, all of them horrible. I felt anger at Dave for being who he was and for doing this to me. He was such a nasty piece of scum and every cell in my body was filled with rage at his horrid existence. I also felt humiliated that I would let him treat me like this, that I was stuck in a situation where I was parroting this man’s hate-filled bile. Finally, I felt disgusted with myself; disgusted that I would allow myself to be humiliated in such a way. I should have been braver, risked a punctured lung. He shouldn’t have been able to play me like he did; he only could because I was weak and I felt so sick at knowing this. This disgust and shame led me back to anger. The three emotions stirred in me, cycling through me. I felt ill.

After being made to repeat more of his racist diatribes for about ten minutes, he grew satisfied while I grew more repulsed. I don’t want to bore you any more with the specifics and I don’t want to delve any deeper into the wretched things I allowed myself to say. Needless to say they were crass and repugnant, against the very principles I had stood by all my life. He clicked his knife back in but held it in his hand, ready to be activated if necessary. It wouldn’t be though for I was still paralysed.

He stood up and bid me good night, as if we were now close acquaintances. I said nothing and watched him leave.

I asked Jeff for a shot of whiskey and contemplated whether to tell him what had happened. I decided to leave it. Truth be told, we were all already a bit scared of Dave because we weren’t sure how far he’d go, what he was really capable of doing. I didn’t want to burden Jeff with having to piss off that crazy worm. I knocked back the drink and went home. I couldn’t sleep that night for the rage that flowed through me. I kept playing the scenario in my head, over and over. The taunting was unbearable. I felt defeated. I vowed never to give Dave another chance to humiliate me or even come near me, threat or no threat. For the first and last time in my life, I wished a person dead.


The following day I went to work looking much like the living dead. My eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and my entire body looked and felt sore from an awkward and disrupted night. I managed half the shift before my superior suggested I go home. I didn’t need telling twice, I was shattered. I returned home and collapsed into slumber almost immediately.

The following day I felt much better and began to function properly. It helped that I had the night shift meaning I could properly get my head together before heading back to the fire station. The shift passed without mishap but it did mean that for two consecutive nights I did not return to The Crown. The third night I was going to go back and so I deliberated with myself on what to do about Dave. The chances were he would ignore me much like every other time I had gone to the pub; he had his fun with me now and he was probably happy to move on - I imagined that two days was a long time in Dave’s head. However, just because he was likely to act like nothing had happened didn’t mean I was willing to return the attitude. Dave had seriously wounded my pride and offended me more than he had ever before, not merely with the personal harassment but the filthy racist mentality had been very difficult for me to stomach as well. I didn’t know how I should act when I entered the pub that night although, realistically speaking, my personality was not made much of confrontational qualities. I had done a little direct action but I had never really got my hands dirty, either one-on-one or in a mob. Still, this fact hid itself from me and I wondered whether I would give Dave what he deserved or even whether I should. Furthermore, he might approach me, this could be the start of a whole new relationship of taunting and abuse for this putrid maggot. If this was the case, I’d have to work out the best course of action to follow. After all, I did genuinely enjoy going to The Crown and I considered it much my local, I wasn’t ready to give it up because of some bastard with a nasty chip on his shoulder. I wondered whether I would have to tell Jeff to salvage the situation, as much as I wanted to leave him out of the whole wretched mess. I speculated and contemplated the issues for some time before I actually decided that the ‘fuck it all’ approach was the best, donning my coat and heading to the pub utterly unsure of what was going to happen or how I was going to play the inevitable encounter.

It soon turned out, however, that the inevitable was not going to be that evening because when I reached the inside of The Crown, Dave was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, Chris, how are you?” Jeff welcomed me with a bright smile and started pulling my pint.

“Not bad, not bad,” I responded, “Where’s that bastard?”

“Dave? I don’t know. He was here last night but he hasn’t been in all day. I don’t care, I’m glad not to see his fucking sorry mug. Hope he never comes back. Piece of shit. You saw him that other night with those black lads; I should have banned him there and then. It’s just, with Dave, you don’t know what he’s going to do. He made that clear that first night with the pint glass. Let’s just have a good night, yeah? This one’s on me.”

And so that night we did enjoy ourselves. Everyone did. It wasn’t just that we were celebrating Dave not being there, the general atmosphere became more relaxed. There was no edge to the evening and it was something we hadn’t realised had haunted the place so much until we were given a night off from that bigoted scumbag.

Having spent the night in the pub a lot of my anxiety about what had happened quickly ebbed away. By the time I left, I was drunk, mellow and feeling lighter than air. It was on the way home I was unpleasantly brought back to earth.

I only live a short walk from the pub but on the way I pass an alley or two and down one of them, less than two minutes from my house, I heard the most disgusting, retching noise. I turned my head thinking little of it and saw a body slump over with a groan. Our area had very little problem with the homeless and so I began to be concerned. The noises had been unhealthy and I didn’t want to leave someone lying in the street all night, even though I felt sure it was someone simply the worse for wear because of too much booze.

I knelt down and asked patronisingly whether the person was feeling okay. The response was a gargled choke and large thick spit in my direction.

I immediately realised two things. First, the spit had been thick, thicker than saliva. The person I had discovered was coughing up blood. Second of all, I knew this person - it was Dave. It was very dark but his features and bulky build were quite distinguishable. He tried to speak but he was near fainting point and mostly incoherent. However, he did manage to reveal that he had been stabbed. It was a long, deep cut from just left of his bellybutton up to his chest. I looked at him and was pretty sure he had taken a beating too. He swayed back and forth, his silhouette moving like a misshapen pendulum, possibly tracking his own time until unconsciousness. I looked at him and felt his blood-drenched shirt before standing up. I took a step back out into the street. As I did, Dave screamed a slurred ‘fuck’ and I began to contemplate what I should do.

It seems so obvious that when you see a person in such a distressed and distressing state that you should help. Whether you call an ambulance and wait, just make the call and run or attempt to deal with the issue entirely on your own, you do not leave a person for dead. However, it was debatable whether you could even call Dave a person. All he had shown was a complete hatred and intolerance towards all other people; I knew not of one person he had left the slightest positive impression upon. As horrible and inhumane as it sounds, I wondered if Dave’s life was really worth saving. Remember that this was the man who had pulled a blade on me and had held me at knifepoint only a couple of evenings before. Not only had he shown himself in his worst colours that night – a night that flashed through my mind as I considered what part to play – but he had made that evil charade grotesquely a part of me. The worst thing I could have done was finish the job myself, to return to the alley and beat the final measure of life from the bastard. However, I was not that malicious and, as I have already confessed, I had never been one to get my hands dirty. So, I asked myself what to do: offer help or leave him to fate? Do I make the call to the right services and salvage a man who can best be described as a monster or do I wash my hands of the situation altogether? I ask you, now, what would you do? Think about it. Look at the things this man has done. Imagine that you had many unpleasant scenes in your mind of an individual, a fucking filthy vermin of a human. Imagine those disgusting scenes, imagine how, over five years, those scenes would affect you. There is no person in the world you have any genuine hate for - genuine, particular loathing - except for this individual who possibly only you can save from death. Now imagine that the freshest scene is the most humiliating experience of you life. What would you do? Could you honestly say that saving this individual would be your definite choice of action? Likewise, do you honestly think you could leave a human being to die? The clock is ticking, the pendulum barely swings, what is your conclusion?

I’m not going to tell you my decision. If I did you may feel you need to rationalise it. Or contradict it. What’s more is that I might feel that I need to rationalise it to you. I don’t need your opinion on what I should have done, it was a difficult decision to make and if I do work this out, it must ultimately be on my own. In other words, I wanted to share the story and the burden. I wanted you to ask yourself the questions I asked myself and have continued to ask myself. I wanted to ask them once more. Maybe I will now be ready to let go.

I will tell you what happened. Someone called an ambulance. It may have been me, it may have been someone else who found him after I left him for dead. Either way, Dave was hospitalised and he survived with no recollection of who attacked him or anything after the assault. Since then he has been much less frequent in The Crown and he has never returned to his abominable displays. He drinks less and looks a lot more cautious and timid, though just as hate-filled. Therefore, I do feel that what was done to him that night was for the best. I also feel that – because of his new, quieter personality – that it was right that he survived. However, I do often fear that he is now a time bomb with one last twisted stunt left to express upon the world. At the moment though, it appears that Dave is no longer the menace he once was. But I never had the privilege of hindsight when that night took place. I hope you developed your opinion before you discovered these conclusions because they undeniably taint things unfairly. Or maybe it makes no difference to you.

I often go over the events of those few days. There are definitely things I would change in how I acted but I ask myself, time after time, whether I behaved in an acceptable way. When you are in the night and you can help or hurt a monster what do you do? I made my choice.
Have you made yours?

A Story about a Picture

This story was written a good couple of years back. It features a small, strange community of all sorts of characters. This story I once read to a writers' collective and they were very supportive and encouraging about it, which was nice. They suggested that the characters should get their own stories as a sort of 'Mr Men for grown ups.' No real hidden meaning, just a pleasant yarn. I hope you like. About 3,000 words.

A Story about a Picture

This is a story. It is a story about a picture. Kind of. It’s more about people but the picture is important. You’ll see…

A little town on the Isle of Dogs was the home to a very small and unsociable collective. This town (its name is unimportant) had a population of no more than fifty people. It was so small that it didn’t have a local newspaper. It didn’t even have a roughly-put-together newsletter about the what was going on in the town. Besides its size, there were two other reasons for this:

First, despite being a very small and very exclusive community, the inhabitants were about as civil to each other as they were to outsiders. Each individual probably knew two or three other individuals and had no interest in knowing any more. Although most newsletters are silly follies that tell people the local trivialities they do not wish to know, this group of people did not find such indulgences desirable.

The other reason that there wasn’t a newsletter was because, due to the facts that the town was so small and that the people had no interest in interacting with each other, there were no town related events. No events meant no news meant no newsletter. And that’s the way people liked it.

However, despite the complete lack of community news, or indeed community, that didn’t mean that the town was above the absurdities of gossip. Various people would mention certain events they had seen or heard and the Chinese whispers would spread like wildfire - quickly out of control. You see, in a town so small and so loosely bound, the topics for gossip are always tediously tame. This obviously demands a lot of exaggeration and distortion to make the gossip worthwhile.

For example, Mr Welkins once left the town’s only pub (with a capacity to fit perhaps fifteen customers at a time) a little worse for wear. Upon his journey home, a full eighty meters away, he had a bit of a drunken stumble, jut managing to maintain his balance. By ten o’clock the next morning, it was said that Mr Welkins’ had not maintained his balance at all. In fact, (by eleven) it was common knowledge that Mr Welkins had collapsed in a drunken stupor, unable to keep his boozy body upright. By this time it was also common knowledge that it was because of trouble at home with Mrs Welkins, who had been overheard shouting at Mr Welkins a few weeks earlier. By the end of the day Mr Welkins was an extreme alcoholic, the town drunk, because his wife was an overbearing, rampant beast of a spouse. The reality, of course, was that Mr Welkins stopped finishing his nights in the pub with a whiskey nightcap and never lost his footing again. Meanwhile, Mrs Welkins had never shouted at Mr Welkins at all. She had merely shouted ‘Bastard!’ once after stubbing her toe. However, the rumours were in place and the reputations entrenched in the township’s minds.

Such are the dangers of little minds, desperate for bigger things to entertain them.

One day, the quietest and most solitary person of the town did something extraordinary. He put a picture on the sill of his front window facing outwards, ahead of the curtains. For everyone to see. In most circumstances this event would hardly merit the adjective ‘extraordinary’. However, in a town of few people (and there are few towns with fewer people), when you are known for being spectacularly unspectacular, this was an act of unparalleled radicalism. Mr Redford was the name of this individual and the picture was a painting of a little girl eating a banana. The background was indistinct, a garden or a park, definitely somewhere green. The girl was likewise forgettable, a cute little smile on her face but essentially an average little girl. The banana was curved, like a crescent moon and a mild yellow - in other words, it was a banana. The painter was clearly competent but hardly phenomenal and the picture did little to draw attention to itself.

Yet it did draw attention. A lady of the town, a widow known as Ms Haversham, spied the picture on the way to the shops to buy some sugar and eggs for a sponge cake. Ms Haversham made a sponge cake every week with the intention of giving a slice to the vicar of the church in the adjacent village; but Ms Haversham always finished the last slice before the Sunday service.

So, like clockwork, she left her house to take the two minute stroll to the local convenience shop to purchase the necessary items. However, Mr Redford’s bland building had been brightened up by a colourful picture ahead of its beige curtains. A green background, a red top, pale skin and light brown hair completed by a mellow-yellow banana. Her stride slowed as she came to grips with the change and eventually pulled to a halt.

For a few minutes, Ms Haversham stood, her eyes unthinkingly transfixed on the image in the window. No questions nor any attempt to comprehend the change occurred in her mind. She just tried to take in this confusing development. Eventually, she came round and she felt overwhelmed by the questions that came to her. Why had Mr Redford put the picture there? What did it mean? Who was the little girl? Why was she eating a banana? What was Mr Redford trying to say? Why did he decide to use this picture to express himself? As the questions burned and began to spread, Ms Haversham became consumed with curiosity.

Unfortunately, Ms Haversham was nowhere near as bright as she was nosey. So while these thoughts thrashed wildly in her head, she could not manage to make any leeway with solutions. She stood there quite still and alone for fifteen minutes until another individual arrived.

Mr Smith was walking down the street on his daily walk. He was retired and wealthy and he walked with a snooty air of importance because he believed that his age and wealth made him some sort of figurehead for the town. Mr Smith’s attitude was secretly recognised and ridiculed by the majority of its dwellers. As Mr Smith passed Ms Haversham standing as rigid as a statue, he felt slightly perturbed by her actions - or, rather, lack of them. His unease was expressed by a twitch of his moustache, an indicator that only his wife had learnt to notice. He stopped his walk for a few moments to see if she would realise she was being stared at or to see if she would start to move on again. After neither event happened, Mr Smith, who knew Ms Haversham only well enough to cordially address her in the street, began their first real conversation.

“Good day to you, Ms Haversham, Are you alright, dear?”

“Hmm? Oh!” Ms Haversham was mildly taken aback, as she was not really used to being spoken to, “Hello, Mr Smith. I was just looking at Mr Redford’s picture. I have no idea why he has put it there…” She trailed off back into her own thoughts.

Mr Smith looked towards Mr Redford’s house, raised an intrigued eyebrow and twitched his moustache.

“Well, what the blazes does he think he’s doing?” asked an exasperated Mr Smith. Although the painting did not offend him in the slightest, his inability to understand its purpose infuriated him. Like Ms Haversham, his intellect was lacking, superseded by his inflated sense of self-importance. “He’s trying to make bloody monkeys out of us!”

“Do you think?” asked Ms Haversham, quaintly curious. “Is that what the banana’s about?”

Mr Smith had not consciously made the connection but ran away with it in his furious frustration, “Yes! Bloody exactly! He’s saying we’re bloody bananas! He’s laughing at us, the swine! If we’re all monkeys, he’s a pig!” Mr Smith felt very proud of that line and considered himself witty as well as angry. Few people knew it, but Mr Smith had a very short but truly harmless temper.

Being such a quiet town, Mr Smith’s outrageous outburst drew a bit of attention. The Walker family came out of their house; Mr and Mrs Walker and their two children all walking towards the raving, elderly man. The Walkers were one of two families living in the town, all others being retired people either alone or in couples. Though the children were quite ordinary, they were reputed as being insolent hell-raisers - more victims to the town’s ludicrous gossip. Along with the Walkers, Mr Mulchett and Miss Jones left their quiet homes to discover the disruptions in the street.

Mr Walker, a friendly man (a manner that meant he was perceived as intrusive to the rest of the townsfolk), calmly inquired why Mr Smith was so worked up. Mr Smith explained that Mr Redford was attempting to goad and taunt his neighbours with an offensive piece of art. Mr Walker’s eyes followed Mr Smith’s accusatory finger to the uninteresting yet pleasant painting in Mr Redford’s window. The rest of the crowd followed suit and they all began to stare at the art piece.

After a few moments, Mr Walker - being a fairly rational man - let out a light-hearted chuckle. “Come on, Mr Smith,” he said, “that is hardly an offensive piece of art.”

“Well, why’s he put it there, then? He doesn’t like art does he? And even if he does, he should be bloody looking at it! Why is he exposing it like that?”

“True, it is a rather strange thing for Mr Redford to do,” Mr Walker admitted. Mrs Walker and her daughter were discussing the matter with the other neighbours who had come to view the spectacle, while the Walker’s son had run off to the Richards house to tell their son. The Richards family arrived a few minutes later, having picked up Mr and Mrs Welkins, Mr Clements and Mr and Mrs Bolton along the way. More and more people began to gather, intrigued and in awe. The audience outside Mr Redford’s house soon became one of the largest congregations the town had ever experienced.

It was without a doubt the loudest crowd the town had created for decades. This quiet, unsociable town was talking wildly and excitedly about Mr Redford’s unusual action and the possible logic behind the move. Ideas were diverse and confused, probably because people knew so little about Mr Redford. This enigma had now done something truly enigmatic.

Mr Walker said that Mr Redford’s motives were entirely his own and that people should not worry about this recent event. Mr Smith disagreed and was still raging about the subversive nature of the act. Meanwhile, everyone else disagreed with Mr Walker and considered the matter important but no one thought that Mr Smith had got it quite right either, including Mrs Smith who meekly tried to calm her husband’s mood. Mrs Walker and Miss Jones decided that he had obviously gone a bit mad due to his extreme isolation. Others thought that the picture must have had some particular meaning, that Mr Redford was expressing some personal idea.

Mr Mulchett, a very eco-conscious individual, believed the message was one about the significance of nature because the child was happy in a serene green environment and eating untainted, natural produce. “It’s to highlight man’s role within, and as a part of, nature,” Mr Mulchett had said.

Mr and Mrs Bolton, being grandparents that rarely saw their beloved grandchildren, thought that the picture was meant to show the innocence and joy of childhood. They considered the sweet smile and the idyllic nature of the painting to highlight the happiness of youth, both the child’s happiness and the happiness children give to others.

Mr Samson who had been a single man all of his forty-five years and who ran the pub, saw the opposite message to the Bolton’s. Being a man with a negative frame of mind who never had much time for children, Mr Samson said that the imperfections in the artwork showed that the message was that this vision of childhood was wrong. He argued that the awkward dimensions in the little girl’s face were intentional distortions to show that people’s views - people like the Boltons - were likewise distorted.

Mr Fraudian was a shamed psychoanalyst who had come to the island to escape a lot of the hassle he was getting in the various university journals on psychology. He saw a distinct, perverse message in Mr Redford’s picture. He said that the picture was laden with innuendo and was clearly advocating paedophilia. He said the banana was the most blatant metaphor for a penis he had ever seen. (At this point, Mr Clements - who had always considered himself a comedian - commented that if Mr Fraudian’s willy was yellow and curved in such a manner he should go see Dr Aquinas. A few people tittered but Mr Fraudian ignored the taunt and continued). He said the smile on the girl’s face suggested that she wanted to perform the act of fellatio and, what’s more, the green background and the red top revealed that it was considered respectively natural and desirable.

Mr Welkins said that there was definitely a point to all this but he was damned if he knew what was going on. Everyone was unsurprised at this as they thought that Mr Welkins was a clueless waster who was probably too blind-drunk to even see the details of the picture. Mr Welkins hadn’t actually had a drink for about four days and although his wife agreed with him, everyone thought that Mr Welkins would probably face the fiery wrath of Mrs Welkins later.

Meanwhile, during all this calamity, the Walker children and the Richards boy found much humour in the hysteria.

Ms Haversham discovered the painting at about half-past ten. The crowd were still arguing by four o’clock, with Miss Jones and Mrs Walker preparing sandwiches and tea for the throng so the conversations could be continued. However, by four, Mr Walker, who had been trying to get people to go about their day, found his patience had run their course. “Right,” he declared loudly to hush the manic chattering, “I will go ask Mr Redford exactly why he put it there and what he was trying to achieve. Okay, everyone?”

The crowd cheered. “Let’s put an end to this bloody scandal!” added Mr Smith. Mr Walker nodded, walked through Mr Redford’s gate and headed towards the front door. Everyone else huddled towards the gate, keeping their distance but getting close enough to hear what Mr Redford had to say for himself.

Knock-knock-knock, Mr Walker rapped on the door. Moments later Mr Redford opened the door, a warm smile on his face. “Oh… hello. What can I do you for?” Mr Redford was a fairly young-looking sixty seven year old. Being a highly elusive character, this was the first time Mr Walker had really seen him and he noted how approachable the old man appeared.

“Hello, Mr Redford,” Mr Walker began before hesitating. ‘How best to approach this question after all the chaos?’ he thought. In the end, he decided to ask it casually, “My friends and I were wondering why you put that picture up in your window?”

Mr Redford looked beyond Mr Walker and his wrinkled eyes widened at the sight of the swarm. “My picture? How do you know that I’ve put a picture up?”

“Because it’s right bloody there!” Mr Smith yelled from the crowd. Mr Redford couldn’t see who spoke but spotted a finger sticking out of the group toward his window. He turned and saw the picture of the girl.

“Oh dear me!” Mr Redford declared, “I’m sorry, I must have placed the picture facing outwards without thinking. I’ve been in the garden all day and that would be why I hadn’t noticed…”

“Yes, but what does it mean?” asked Mr Bolton.

“Mean? It doesn’t mean anything…”

Mr Redford then explained that his granddaughter was doing an art A’ Level. She had felt that this picture was not quite up to standard for her portfolio and so she was going to throw it away. It is a picture of her younger sister and Mr Redford, being the sentimental chap he was, asked his granddaughter if he could have it. It then became known to everyone that Mr Redford was not really a man that hid himself away. Instead he was merely away a lot, unknown to everyone else, visiting family. As all this was explained the crowd ‘ooohed’ and ‘aaahed’ their way to realisation that the whole incident was merely a giant misunderstanding.

The crowd joked and laughed in a way they had never done before and many new friendships were made that day. Due to the slightest error, the town had experienced a wild panic that went beyond all proportions of sensibility. After all the speculation and debate, people realised the real value of communication.

Because…sometimes…a picture is just a picture.

And…sometimes…a story is just a story.

Issues of Equality

A rather daft, rather short essay on the idea of equality and how we live. Not to be taken too seriously. Written end of 2008, I believe.

Issues of Equality

Human beings talk a lot of shit. Apparently, it makes life easier. But appearances are deceptive. The things we imagine, the things we believe, can be distracting. And the things we imagine to be true, we believe to be true, can distract us from the truth. Let me explain…

I was in a classroom today, a cool December day, and I spied a poster emblazoned with a slogan akin to “WE ARE ALL EQUAL!” I nodded at that; it’s a nice idea. It is acceptable to imagine and believe we are all equal. However, I soon realised that I was imagining a thing to be true that was, in fact, shit. As a statement of truth, it is a bullshit statement. However, as a directive, a guiding concept, it is justice. Again, let me explain…

We are not equal. If equal means ‘the same’ then it is clearly nonsense. If equal is ‘equivalent to’, that is also untrue. Pas example, Adolph Hitler is in no way equal to Stevie Wonder. They are not physically – Stevie Wonder being a blind, black, soulful singer and Adolph Hitler was a rumoured-testicularly-deficient, white, impassioned man of hate. Their skills and talents are also incomparable. Hearing Hitler’s terrifyingly powerful speeches, one gets the impression that he would not have had the vocal capacity to belt out a successful classic like ‘Superstition’. By contrast, when one sees Wonder perform, all warmth and smiles, it seems entirely apparent that he does not have the moral (in)capacity to attempt the extermination of an entire race of people.

Therefore, it can be seen that humans are not equal – not in form, not in worth and not in treatment. So, if we are not equal, should we not treat people unequally? Generally, I think we should treat each other equally. However, as we see ourselves as equal we do not have to deal with the fact that we are not. More explanations to follow…

We humans walk around with such stupid ideas such as:

“Brussel sprouts aren’t nice.*”

“We live in a democracy.”

“The ten commandments are good tenets whatever your faith.”

and

“We are all equal.”

We never think about the consequences of having these beliefs. When we see a homeless person we get by, ignoring the dilemma because “we are all equal.” The student that is being bullied by their peers and teachers because of their gender, ethnicity, race, sexuality, whatever is not really being mistreated because “we are all equal.” Third world hunger, ha! “we are all equal.” Domestic abuse, social unrest, American hegemony, obesity, drug addiction, depression, dyslexia, autism, necrophiles, paedophiles, victims of paedophiles: they can all fuck off because “we are all equal.”

Obviously, no one really thinks this. However, all the horrors in the world are ignored because we lie back in the hammocks of fallacies. It’s all far too comfortable to motivate us to sit up and face reality. Because we are comforted and contented by the belief that we are equal, we ignore the dilemma that is the reality of inequality.

Here’s what I think the truth is: Not one of us is equal to another.

However, none of us are naturally notably superior. We are all different and it is these differences that make life unequal. It is our evaluations of these differences that make life unequal. Going back to the Bible, we can see in the story of David and Goliath that physical superiority does not mean diddly-squat. It cannot justify or even guarantee dominance. These days, there are lots of Davids getting stomped on by Goliaths, it’s just, these days, the Goliaths get away with their big placards of “WE ARE ALL EQUAL!” One day, I like to think, the Davids will say ‘enough,’ kill the Goliaths and become Kings. All of them Kings – different Kings, but equal. Sorry for such a sexist metaphor but it’s based on a story that’s from a very unequal time.

A good while ago, I was in a classroom as the one being taught and not the teacher. We were learning about the beginning of America and its slave society (subtle changes…subtle changes…). The teacher mentioned how the Declaration of Independence also declared that “ALL MEN ARE EQUAL.**” He asked, with quiet disgust, how men could be equal if they were slaves. I answered that the declaration does not say that “ALL MEN SHOULD BE TREATED EQUALLY.”

In truth, that Declaration banters about an idea that means very little – it’s shit. However, just because something is bullshit as a truth does not mean it should not be a guiding concept. It is time to stop being distracted by the nice things we imagine and believe and to start being motivated by the nice things we desire.

Peace and love,
Chris Caps.


*Brussel sprouts are versatile and tasty. They are just too frequently boiled into disgusting, soggy mini-cabbages. Even if you don’t like them, stop following the farcical tradition of whopping them on your Christmas plate.


** The Declaration of Independence was written a considerable many years after The Bible. However, unequal views were as apparent as ever. At the time, I was not aware of the sexism in language, hence my own ignorant response that shortly follows.

The Captives

The Captives is a collection of two short stories on the theme of war. Very clearly inspired by the Iraq war, as noted in the short reflection at the end. It is not a happy tale but, then, war never is and this one impacted upon me a lot. It was written over the end of 2007/ start of 2008, I think. The ideas, had obviously been there much longer. About 6,000 words altogether.

The Captive (Part 1)

He was sitting at home when it happened.

Living in a war zone is actually incomprehensibly worse than living under a dictator for most people. It is a very rough transition point. Whilst the despot had slaughtered and persecuted a countless number of people, basics like food, water and, often, electricity were available. But during war, food is incredibly scarce. Water does not run freely. To be a civilian in the middle of a conflict is not an existence much worth living.

Before they arrived, he had been looking at his children. They were wearing torn rags, the constant chaos of war had left all their garments scrappy and impoverished. Through the rips he could see their skinny arms and he worried about their health. It had been a week since the last time any troops had entered this district with food supplies. The market was mostly rubble and was a hotbed for terrorist attacks. There is no peace in a war zone. He closed his eyes, solemn and resigned. He understood the cause, he understood that the war was started to liberate his country, to free him and others like him. These were not ‘infidels’ like the radicals claimed. His brother had been taken in by the extremist propaganda, he had turned against the liberators. He had not seen his brother for months, claiming he must choose a side - for or against the invaders. He could not do this, however. He knew that they wanted to remove a dictator and offer the opportunity for democracy. He knew that their mission was never going to be easy, he accepted that he had to be patient and that he should be grateful for their efforts. He opened his eyes and they were slightly more alive; a flicker of hope briefly shone through them. One day, they would be free. Free of tyrants and free of war.

Free.

That was his last thought when the door burst open. Rough shouting everywhere and the chaos of war was suddenly in his front room. Through the insanity he could not understand what was happening, who was shouting at him or why.

His wife came flying into the room hysterically, arms flailing in terror and screaming with primal fear. One of the intruders shot instantly, instinctively, and she was silenced by immediate death. He leapt out of his seat and let out a painful cry of denial. As he stood he received a vicious strike to the ribs, the impact brought him to the ground. He tried to scream some more but the wind had been taken out of him, stifling his voice.

They were upon him with violent speed. A bag was put over his head and he entered darkness. His ears were filled with shouting and the horrified, desperate yells of his children. They grappled his arms and roughly, forcefully locked them behind his back. Something else was roaring, this time specifically at him, but he could not understand the language. He tried to answer in a panic but received another painful blow to his ribs. He was lifted and then taken one direction and another. Being blinded, he could not work out what was happening. He called out to his children. He called their names again and again until something collided with his skull. His mind went blank.

*

He woke up with a powerful, pounding migraine. He was lying on some unknown floor. His head covered, he could not see a thing, could not know a thing. The hood was uncomfortably warm and suffocating in its claustrophobic pressure. All he could smell was the mustiness of the bag and his stale breath. He attempted to move but discovered that both his arms and legs are tied. What is more, the thumping in his brain began to pulsate with agony at the slightest strain. He let out a pained groan.

Someone or something reacted to the noise and he could hear their muffled speaking. Despite their words being dulled by the bag over his head he could tell that they were not speaking his language. He felt like crying as he began to realise: He was a captive.

He felt the bag ripped off of his head and his eyes twitched as they adjusted to the gloomy light. The man standing over him stared with a cruel sneer on his face. The man said something but he could not understand his words. He responded with a confused look and received a kick in the gut for his troubles. He was then picked up and carried into a new room.

This room was also grimy and dull; it had an unpleasant odour, something like mould. As his eyes scanned the back wall, he realised that it was a shower room. Upon further inspection he noticed that he was not the only captured person in the room. Standing in front of the showers was a long line of men. Men like him. They were naked, bruised and looking straight ahead as if statues, except statues do not shiver. He was placed at the end of the line and the locks on his hands were removed. However, a gun was now directed straight at his face. Less than a foot away he could see that hole at the tip of the rifle - one wrong move and a bullet would escape. He would join his wife. He considered it and then considered his children. He clung to that idea desperately, that they might be alive somewhere. On the streets. Hungry. Searching. Waiting.

One of the soldiers, not the one aiming the gun, said something to him. He did not understand and so he looked at him, confused. The soldier pointed at the other men, the naked row, and then pointed back at him. The soldier then began to simulate stripping, in an elaborate, taunting manner. Some of the other soldiers laughed but the prisoner could not see the humour. Suddenly, they went serious again. The soldier that had originally addressed him clapped his hands and he began to strip.

Once he had taken his clothes off, he and the others were made to wash. However, there was no water in the showers, despite it being a shower room. The soldiers flung buckets of water - cold and unclean - over the naked men. They recoiled and vibrated with chill. Afterwards, they were thrown robes to wear, although they were still wet. Whilst dressing, the soldiers called out and directed the group of captives out of the room. They were now in a corridor of cells. Each captive was given their own cell and he entered silently, the door slamming, ominous and powerful behind.

Alone in the grimy room he realised the seriousness of his situation. He had been falsely identified, he was considered another extremist. He would have to explain to them that he knew their cause was honourable and that he accepted the difficulties involved in their work. He would plead with them, he decided. He would make them realise that he did not consider them ‘infidels’ or ‘the enemy’ and he would be released. Any information he could offer them he would give. He realised he would have to wait for one of the soldiers to return.

In the meantime, he sat in the cell and the day began to seep into his consciousness. He felt the sense of loss wake up inside him once more; he remembered the sharp, automatic end to his wife’s pained screams. He felt the echoes of his children; he heard their calls, their pleas. His emotions swathed through him like sewage and he felt violently ill and desperately ashamed. He rolled onto his back and began to cry, consumed by humiliation and an oppressive melancholy. His tears eventually led him to sleep.


He woke as the cell door screeched open. His head still ached and his body felt drained of all its energy. A soldier and a nicely-dressed man entered the room. The soldier dropped a tray of food carelessly on the floor and it vibrated an unnerving rattle. The soldier’s eyes were cold - equally menacing and indifferent. He spoke to the other visitor who then spoke to the captive:

“You are here because of your association with the extremists. We cannot let you go until we have all the information we require. You have an opportunity to right your wrongs. If you comply sufficiently, you will be freed and taken somewhere safe. If we feel you are lying to us or withholding information, you will be punished. We are not negotiating. We are offering you a chance to help us and help yourself. Understand?”

This smartly dressed visitor spoke the captive’s language with an accent but he was clear enough. The captive nodded. His head moved in a cautious, slow manner though his heart and mind were racing furiously. He knew so little and had not been associating with extremists as far as he was aware. However, he hoped their questions would be answerable and he could achieve his freedom.

After an hour-long interrogation it became desperately clear that his information was to be of no use at all. He had pleaded and apologised all the way through the questioning but it was to no avail. Their inquiries increased in volume and in aggression. They never struck him but they threatened him terrible repercussions. They told him his truths were lies, his honest answers unacceptable and his hopes were dust. They left in silence, the air full of malice. The soldier kicked the food tray as he left, scattering the watery, stew-like meal upon the floor. The captive picked up the bread and began to mop the food from the floor, tears falling in the midst of his miserable chewing.

The days began to pass beyond the captive’s comprehension, days meshing into one after the other. Everyday brought more sessions of questions and harassment, increasingly their aggression turned into threats turned into deeds. At first they kicked him with irritation, nudging him for the answers they wanted as if swatting an insect. However, as their attempts remained futile, their methods grew more unpleasant. They began thrusting the butts of rifles into his body, occasionally swinging them like bats. They spat on him and slapped his face. By the end of the tortuous interrogations he was bruised, sometimes bleeding, and humiliated. However, it did not matter what they did to him, it was impossible for him to give them the answers they were looking for because they made no sense to him. The groups they mentioned, the people and the code names of places, none of these held significance to him. They punished him for his insolence, his disobedience.

And then one day, he made a tragic error in judgement. Recalling his brother’s flight to an extremist resistance group, he mentioned it in the hope to receive their approval. They had never mentioned his brother or asked any information about him or his group; this would be new information, he had thought, they would treasure it. However, instead of appreciating the details he could give them, they merely took this information to be evidence of his surreptitious association. They refused to accept that he was bestowing all he could - they wanted more and, when he could offer no more, they punished him worse than ever before. They grabbed him by his hair, knotted and greasy with neglect, and dragged him from the room. He struggled as they pulled, his legs splaying around the floor desperately but their violent tugging was irresistible. They threw him down and he found himself back in the useless shell that was the shower room. As soon as his head was freed and his bearing grasped, they grabbed him by his hair again. There was yelling, bellowing, taunting, the language completely alien. He looked up at one of his khaki-clothed tormentors and he saw their teeth gnashing as they roared in his face. The soldier then spat a globule of saliva violently into the captive’s face, it splashing into his left eye. His face was then turned to a bucket and the stench immediately overwhelmed him. A gruesome cocktail of filth and shit confronted him, stinging his eyes to tears. The bewildering bellows began once more and his head spun with fear, repulsion and confusion. Without warning they lunged his head forwards into the disgusting mix of slop and excrement. The vile, rancid liquid forced itself down his throat and nose before immediately making him wretch and choke. His entire body flailed as they kept his head under through is vomiting. Though the intensity of his torment did not dull, his lungs feeling hot and stretched, he felt himself growing gradually more faint and then they finally tore his head out of the filthy hole. Once again they began their shouts, others screaming and others laughing. Countless soldiers looking and taunting him; their eyes revealed multiple emotions, all of them violent. Once again, his head was pushed under and, though he tried, he could not keep control during the horrific ordeal. He could not help but immediately repeat choking on the bucket’s contents. As the time before, they kept him under for a gruellingly long time, pushing his body to the very limits of distress and abuse. When they pulled out his head for the second time they flung him onto his back. Two of the soldiers then pinned him to the ground with their feet - one on his neck, the other on his belly - while a third cut and tore his clothes away. The soldiers then poured the bucket over him, laughing and whooping as it doused him with faeces and filth, one of the soldiers adding further shame by urinating on the captive’s chest and face. As soon as they were done, they grabbed him under his arms and returned him to his cell. Naked, ashamed and unclean. Incredibly ashamed. Incredibly unclean.

Following the evil abuse of his captors, the man became far more solemn and unhelpful. He no longer told them the little he knew, nor did he implore upon them his innocence and ignorance. Bizarrely, they were far less hostile to this behaviour. Or perhaps it wasn’t that odd, their preference to a broken man over a desperate one - a broken man expected much less.

He was most certainly broken. Now almost a mute, his mind was as hollow as his voice. He struggled to think of his wife and children and accepted that he was not going to see them again. Any further reflection either brought forth painful memories or futile desires. His mind was dominated by the torture he had suffered from his supposed liberators. He felt stupid, cretinous and naïve for having thought that these people were here to help him. There was no honour in their actions, there could be no honour in their motives. He hated them, hated them all. Far more than any frustrated terrorist, he loathed the existence of this occupying force more than words could ever reveal. However, his emotions soon shifted once again. He became such a shell of a man that he could not maintain his bitterness, his shame or his anger. As his feelings began to dissipate, they speedily evaporated, leaving him hollow and indifferent. A vacuous soul trapped in a shell, locked in a cell. Until one day he could concede to his empty existence no longer. One more plate of unpalatable food was thrown pathetically into his room; the tray clattered and the paper plate flipped, spilling his food once again onto the floor. He began to scrape the ugly mush back onto the plate with a plastic fork and, as he did so, he began to realise its potential as a key. He closed his eyes and muttered a prayer, something he had not done in a long while. As he mumbled and weakly intoned the words he snapped the fork producing a splintered, uneven edge. He continued and concluded his incantation as he tore at his wrists, occasionally wincing and yelping. He began to lie back, the river of life flowing freely from him. He could feel his soul slowly escaping its shell. He thought of his wife, his love, as he finally began his escape. The captive was quickly becoming a captive no longer…

END

The Captive (Part 2)

He considers it strange how working in a war zone has slowly become normal. The routine of travelling, working and sleeping through chaotic violence has gradually become as banal as any other life he has experienced. The spitting bursts of gunfire are registered with as much indifference as heavy rain when clashing against the windows of his house in Dorset. The rupturing explosions, no doubt killing tens or even hundreds of people at a time, are commented on as if thunder. ‘Doesn’t bode well,’ someone might say, a phrase that can be used to describe either signs of unpleasant weather or the continuation of on-going devastation. It’s not that these people are heartless or ignorant. They have become desensitised; a tragic trait of human beings - both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it allows them an immunity; an ability to adapt, to resist and to improve when the odds are so heavily against them. A curse because it can equally lead to resignation and acceptance of the most terrible atrocities. It is all the more unpleasant to consider that humans more frequently find this trait to be a curse.

Irrespective of this, he is not here for the war. He is not here against it either. He is merely here because of it and his actions are to the benefit of this country; he is not here to create further devastation. Granted, his motives have nothing to do with rebuilding this country; this is not an altruistic gesture. To work in this war zone, with all the horrific sights and the genuine risks that one encounters, without reward would not be simply generous - it would be insane. Instead, he reaps a considerable economic reward to benefit himself and his family. He will be able to retire at 58, in three years, instead of ten years later than that as he originally feared. His work here is to start the restructuring of the country; to aid its growth back into a place to live instead of a place to suffer and die.

Truth be told, he has never held much opinion on the war. He still doesn’t approve or condemn the actions of his government. He does love his family, however, and he feels that this move to working in a war zone does not have to compromise his neutrality. (Neutrality is a kind way of describing his indifference. It’s how he perceives his position - a position that is shared with a great number of people).

Now he is travelling to work, protected and secure in a British Army vehicle, escorted by two other trucks - one in front, one behind. Just because he is here to rebuild does not mean that he is free of threats. He and his colleagues are discussing the building - what is to become a hospital - casually. This is not a meeting on the way to work, merely the discussion point that they can all share with equal passion. (Not all of them support a Premiership football team). The mood is relaxed, despite the shouts of the country’s angry citizens outside. Even when a rock makes a dull thud against the side of the vehicle not one of them flinches or comments.

The plating of the vehicle does not let those outside see in or those inside see out. This is to the workers’ advantage because certain individuals - terrorists or especially bitter and vengeful fathers - cannot see what they look like. However, today it means that they do not notice that the vehicles have taken a detour. The trucks are being moved out of the conventional route because of some allied soldiers attempting to diffuse a car bomb that has been discovered. This is a rare occurrence but, amidst such chaos, not a surprising one. The journey will merely be slightly delayed.

But there is no bomb. There is not meant to be a detour.

The trucks move round into awkward, narrow streets, the desolate houses look deserted - shells of what they once were. They look haunting. Dead. Another unpleasant component to the sad mechanics of war. There is a blockade in the middle of the road; a collection of barrels, rocks and rubbish. The vehicles slow and then stop. The workers continue their conversation, unperturbed by the fact that they have stopped before their arrival. An inter-com on one of the soldiers reveals the reason for the delay and a few of the soldiers step outside the vehicle. They sense a trap but do not wish to alarm the workers because they are essentially civilians.

A minute later the thunderous roar of detonation booms from outside. And now he and his colleagues can hear gunfire. These noises no longer sound like weather, they are very real. Terrifyingly real. No one nonchalantly suggests that this ‘doesn’t bode well’, instead they are screaming as they feel the truck rock and shake with the violence of the explosion.

Men are shouting and calling outside. In the confusion it is hard to tell if they are speaking in English. Perhaps the attackers have gained the upper-hand. The workers huddle in a corner, covered by their guards. As the doors fly open the soldiers open fire but are quickly overwhelmed and slaughtered. He can smell urine, though he is certain it is not his own. It’s hard to see and the smell of smoke, burning and piss makes him feel disorientated. There are new people on the truck. People he does not know, who do not speak his language. They wear black and look strong, bulky and foreboding. They look like warriors of death. He thinks he might go insane with the fear.

A mumble from one of them. More shots are fired and a few of those around him die. And then they come at him and the rest that are living. They are attacked, hit with gun butts, clubs and knives. A solid crack to the side of his temple renders him unconscious.

*

He wakes up with a powerful, pounding migraine. He is lying on some unknown floor. His head is covered and he cannot see a thing. The hood is uncomfortably warm and suffocating in its claustrophobic pressure. All he can smell is the mustiness of the bag and his stale breath. He attempts to move but discovers that both his arms and legs are tied. What is more, the thumping in his brain pulsates with agony at the slightest strain. He lets out a pained groan.

The noise is reacted to, he can hear muffled speaking. Despite their words being dulled by the bag over his head he can tell that they are not speaking his language. He feels like crying as he begins to realise: He is a captive.

Someone comes over to him and roughly pulls the bag off his head. The light stings his eyes, causing the migraine to surge once more. He rolls awkwardly around the floor, sighing and moaning. The individual over him is wearing black and begins to yell at him. He can see the person’s face, it is a man - its mouth is twisted, as if snarling. He cannot understand the words. He is kicked by his tormentor, and then he sees the intimidating figure walk away.

He is close to a wall and so he uses all his might to bring himself into a seating position, his back against the wall. His sight has adjusted and he begins to achingly take in the scene before him. He is in a large room, possibly a hall. It is filled with people dressed in black. He can see many men and, to his mild surprise, a few women. Others are wearing balaclavas or face scarves. The walls are covered with flags and banners. Many are written in the language of this country, he can only assume their messages.

‘Death to the infidels.’

‘Down with America and its allies.’

‘Leave now!’

In the far corner he can see a table with a television on it and some other gadgets he cannot identify. The television is playing something but he cannot discern whether it is news or a home recording or something else entirely different.

Now another figure is heading towards him. Their face is covered and he cannot see the intent in their eyes. They have a gun slung over their left shoulder and he wonders if they’ll use it. They bend down and reach into their pocket, bringing out a small flask of water. He realises just how thirsty he is, the fear having dampened all his senses - excepting pain. They pour the water slowly into his mouth and he gulps desperately, nearly choking.

“Thank you,” he croaks. A ridiculous thing to say to your kidnapper but he is truly grateful for their compassion. At hearing him speak, the individual speaks through their face-cover. Heavily accented they ask: “English?” He nods loosely, as if drunk. He begins to feel very woozy and he collapses once more, succumbing to his exhaustion.

When he wakes this time he has been moved to a chair. His body aches but the pain he has been feeling is gradually beginning to lessen. He looks around him. To both his left and right sides there are people standing, still ominously in black. In front of him stands another two of his holders. One walks towards him and speaks in heavily broken English. They call him a dog and tell him that he will die. The idea of death enters his mind once more, stronger than ever before. Too much time has been spent dealing with the fact that he is suffering and yet still, miraculously, alive. It no longer seems that special. He is kicked in the chest, the chair falling backwards. He is picked up, winded, and he sees that the other individual ahead of him is talking to the camera. He does not know what they are saying but he assumes that a tape is being made telling people about his inevitable death.

He wants to speak. He wants to say that this is not right. That they have taken someone who is their friend, who has come to help. However, he fears that if he speaks he is going to be killed for insolence. He doesn’t think anyone would understand his words anyway. The tape is obviously not a live broadcast. He has no way of getting a message back to anyone. He may well never get a message back to someone. Not to those he works with, not to his friends and not to his precious family. His wife and his beautiful children. He loves them so much. Uncontrollably, he begins to snivel. In weak, pathetic tones, he begins to wail. Life never deserves this abuse.

Once the recording is finished, those by his side hoist him to his feet, manoeuvring his arms out of the chair. One of them, the man on his right, looks into his face and spits. The saliva trickles down his face like a humiliating tear. They drag him out of the room and he is back in the hall.

He is thrown to the floor and left alone. Occasionally someone comes up and gives him water but no food or communication is offered. He wonders, in his isolation, if he is the sole survivor from the attack. He has not seen and cannot see anyone from that day. But then, there is every possibility that others are being kept elsewhere. Keeping them divided would make it more difficult for them all to be saved. The solitary existence fills him with futility. He whispers a small prayer for those who have died and for those, if any, sharing in his suffering.

Yes, this situation feels utterly futile.

The days have passed without register. It is impossible for him to establish how long he has been kept here now. They are mostly ignoring him. His only conversations are within his own mind, with God - a subtle but ever present companion.

Not even water is administered to him anymore, they have simply left a bowl on the floor. Perhaps they really do think of him as a dog.

However, there is something different about today. They seem to be staring at him more, their attention is drawn to him. He can only assume that this will be the day they kill him. He finds it difficult to care, they defeated him a long time ago.

He looks at the flags once more. Some of them are quite beautiful, the designs ornate and tender. Red and gold woven together on some of them - it looks almost majestic, regal. Proper. He spits on the floor with contempt. The splendour of the flags seems so inappropriate in this disgusting, hateful arena.

They are walking towards him and he shrivels in fear - just because he is beaten does not mean that he cannot be hurt anymore. He hopes that they did not see his disrespectful act. One boots him but it is lazy, he is not being punished. The characters are wearing balaclavas and face-masks, they look like assassins. ‘And so they are,’ he thinks to himself solemnly.

Once more he is off the floor and made to walk into the room with the camera. He has not been there since he was called a dog and told about his fate. Looking around, all the people shrouded in blackened mystery, he becomes more certain than ever that this fate is to be sealed today. He is pushed onto a chair once more. Two eyes come level with his. They are sharp; malicious. Deadly.

“Today… you die,” say the eyes and a large blade is unsheathed.

He nods. He understands. There is no chance of escape and there is no hope. Just inevitable death.

The camera is clicked on and there is silence. He cannot bring himself to look at the lens, instead letting his neck roll over his left shoulder. He looks at the ground. Through the camera his face looks a lot like Jesus’ does in images of him upon the cross: bearded, weak and dejected. He is oblivious to the comparison but in this moment his faith is brought back to him.

There have been times through this ordeal that he has addressed God. Through his mind he has asked for favours. Not for his own life - such a deal was far too late - but for the well-being of his family. For them to find out about his death and to mourn and then to live happy. He prayed for them to never go through this nightmare. It was a Hell he had experienced, he did not even wish it on those who had taken him hostage. He just wanted to have this torment done.

As the camera records the voice of one of the kidnappers, he wishes once again that he could just die.

In apparent answer to his request, his head is straightened by someone gripping his hair. The blade begins to move. He closes his eyes, both to block out the blade but also to concentrate. Death is seconds away. He feels already dead. And in his last moments, in his head, he begins to recite The Lord’s Prayer:

Our Father,

Who art in Heaven,

Hallowed be Thy name,

Thy kingdom come,

Thy will be done-

On Earth as it is in Heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread,

And forgive us our trespasses,

As we forgive those who trespass against us,

And lead-

END

Reflection:

A few years back I came up with a concept for a novel called ‘Prisoners of War’. Like every other idea I have had, it never got written. It never even got started. However, the essence of the story was that there are many more prisoners of war than just the obvious ones, the soldiers who become captured. The citizens of the war zone are the biggest prisoners, they who never volunteer for war endure it the most. The soldiers who joined to protect their country but find themselves helping to ruin another suffer a terrible entrapment that desecrates their previous ideals. The families back at home who find their loved ones have been killed become eternal prisoners of war, ensnared in its most apparent and consistent consequence: loss. I never wrote it but I really felt that I had to write something about war, especially as resisting it had been a key part of my political development.

It’s obvious that the above stories are immersed with uncomfortable thoughts about the Iraq conflict. In a way, I became captivated by the war, obsessed with the lies, deceit, manipulation, callousness, racism and on and on. It battered my mind everyday and at times I would get powerfully depressed at the horrors of the world and the fact that I, and millions who felt as I felt, were so ineffectual and irrelevant. Once, I had a nightmare of a gladiatorial arena on a huge podium. People were slaughtering each other but their attacks were being marred as they slipped on the blood that had flown forth from thousands already butchered. I awoke with a jump and I knew the dream was about Iraq. It was as subtle as the war itself.

Two stories from the many atrocities of Iraq stuck in my head; one was Abu Ghraib and the other was the Kenneth Bigley execution. I was struck in both cases by the futility, stupidity and hypocrisy of these events. Abu Ghraib was the tormenting and degrading of people who were meant to be liberated from torment and degradation. Kenneth Bigley was used to symbolise the evil of the West though, no doubt, the terrorists themselves probably resented the way Iraqis were being perceived as friends of Saddam and other evils of the East. It was all so crass. So sick.

My message is clear. In this horror of a war, those who deserved least to be its victims, its captives, suffered the greatest humiliations and injustices. I am no longer so bound to this conflict; my heart goes out to those that are and to those that always will be.