Trevor A. Gordon


Writings 2006-2008













































Black Tear


It fell on a warm summers evening, sliding over the face of the blue sky, turning gently as it came down to meet the earth. Silent had been its descent and the evening chatter of birds was not broken as it corkscrewed into the parched ground of a hillside. A gentle shrug of unsettled dust and buzzing life rose as it settled, but barely a leaf or blade of grass moved for it. It was jet black yet bluish like a crow’s feather and as large as a door, but almond shaped point downward. Its substance was glass-like, but the strong evening sunshine did not penetrate its skin, instead played on the surface flicking over many pits and scores. The object was neither hot nor cold, but something else that neither gave nor took. As it settled it seemed to sigh and the night air cooled around it as the darkness approached. And so it sat untroubled for day after day the wind lay a covering of dust and spoil and animals scuttled and slimed and crawled over its dulling, crusting surface. Then the seasons changed and still it sat cloaked by bushes till the frosts came and stole their leaves and the first snow fell. The object seemed to shiver shaking off a dusting of ice that could neither freeze or be melted by its nothingness. On the surface nothing else could be seen, but underground slow black tendrils moved like hands through the soft earth first as thick as wrists then sprouting smaller into countless spreading rhizomes. The source above for the first time bloomed heat and sloughed of a scaled crust of leaf mould and dirt to reveal a slick skin as white as fresh conker that darkened pupil black on exposure to the air. The object once so crystalline grew soft and expanded in the imitation of a breath and from the smooth pitch surface shot spears of fibrous form. Surrounded by biting clean air the object clouded in cooling steam and for the first time the neighbouring life took notice and a startled deer ran a wild eyed race over a nearby bank of shale. The listening silence was ended by the slight sound of a tear like a blade over canvas it grew louder as a hole no larger than an eye grew on the objects flank opening upwards and widening out like the parting of lips. A dry heat like the fading embers of a fire flew out to meet the winters night and sizzled as water on hot stones as a figure stepped out cleanly into the dark.


























Bait Bus

Every school morning the bus would stop at the far side of the bridge where the river grew lazy and dawdled round an elbow bend. The other children would peer out their smeared windows and even the driver could not resist a curious glance as the Barnum children appeared as they did each morning from the dried hogweed stalks and stepped lightly onto the bus. Two children dressed neatly in the navy uniform of the little country school. One taller, the older by two years, the other smaller tucked by her brother’s side. Each morning they nodded politely at the driver looked him straight in the eye, but never said a word even though they clucked away at each other incessantly in that funny private language of theirs. And each morning they handed him their money always polished clean and walked to their seats at the front of the bus. The other children who had been kicking and spitting and bragging for the rest of the trip sat and gawped as they had since the Barnum’s had arrived two years before. Givven the driver, for that was his name looked in his rear view and took a deep breath and smelt the clean salt air smell that they always brought and his simple but good mind tried as it always had to get round what sat on his clean and tidy bus. The two were tall slender graceful children not ruffled like the others. They sat straight backed, looking forward with watchful eyes. But theirs were not human eyes they were eyes from a fishmongers window, or rather like an aquarium for they were very much alive, huge and lidless and the colour of poured gold and turquoise and these curious eyes peered from faces that had no nose to speak of, but large lipless mouths filled with sharp silverine teeth sat above a delicately pointed chin sprinkled with scales that caught and threw the light. Their faces adjoined to heads not unlike the human variety in idea but without earlobes or hair and sloping backwards to a fine point to the rear. The sides of their heads carried more scales that spun and sparkled in colours that often blinded Givven if caught wrong by the light and connected smoothly with the slender neck from which at either side sprouted a gently moving frill of lace like gills. As they spoke these gills would gently undulate for the mouth seldom moved and the noise they made if it could be compared to anything was like the noise made when a wet finger runs round the rim of a wineglass. Each carried a finely worked leather satchel from which they would periodically remove an oily substance and apply it to each others visible skin, but other than that Givven never saw them eat or what he took to be laugh. As for their sex the older brother for that was what he had been told, other than being taller was no different from his sister, the younger was too young to have breasts if she ever would and they shared the same slim hands complete with seven nail less fingers. Givven had never laid eyes on their parents and knew of no one who had, but he had once dreamt of a woman with a silver scaled body and felt guilty as hell for it ever since. So he drove and glimpsed and drove some more and when he stopped to let everyone off he felt the usual relief cut through with a wish to watch those strange creatures forever as they left the bus together, nodded a thanks and walked hand in silver hand to the school














Paper Girl

His wife had died young the year before and left him no children to look after so he sat in the dry warm house all by himself with a clutch of happy memories and his books. He had never much cared for television though his wife had fought for a small set to watch her nature programs, and although he would still never watch he found a little solace and company in the sounds it made from the other room. And so his life never the brightest of existences before settled dully into a considerable grove. Money was never a problem rich deceased parents had seen to that so his teaching job fell at the wayside. The school was where he had met his wife and it was just a loud place without her calming warm centre. So he sat and mouldered and read save for the occasional stroll to the shops for food and newspapers and without his wife’s tidy hand the room and himself filled gently with leftovers of all kinds as he sat on the battered old armchair at it’s heart. This pattern would have continued till the building crumbled slowly around him or his body failed, but instead it fell to a little of each. The winter had come a wet damp season that got into his lungs and sent him to his empty bed, but he did so leaving a window open and the rain blowing horizontal flooded in seeking out and soaking his book stacks. Only when he had risen a few days later did he find the great sodden mess and for the first time since his wife’s passing he cried afresh. He tried to save what he could but pages where adhered together ink run spines drenched. One particular favourite opened briefly while wetly sliding apart to reveal his wife’s blotted hand “To Caleb all the love in the world forever from Jenna.” The gentlest of touches from his fingertips obliterated the words as his fingers meet between the softened pages, which slipped to the ground in a spongy heap. Feeling weak he sat down and looked desperately at the ruined pile staring till his vision blurred in and out of focus and his mind played tricks. He could see forms in the softened paper and for a second thought himself delirious, but then knew it was just the peculiarities of the human eye to seek out a face there, the suggestion of a hand next to it. He stood and approached the pile his feet trailing over wet floorboards and thrust his hands inwards. The sensation was cold but not unpleasant as he tried to manipulate the material, surprised how pliable the material was he soon formed a rudimentary human shape. He soon realised the bindings being more resilient to the water would make suitable bone and harder tissue and so began to mine it from the softer parts and use it to form the skeleton. Looking up after several hours work he found he created a crude but recognisable human form, a thick limbed Golem, heavy torsoed, the head a little nub on a trunk like neck, but he was strangely satisfied. He felt good the exertion having sweated out the remnants of his cold. He sat contentedly amongst the ruined books soaked to his skin; his clothes hands and face smeared with drying paper pulp and in the fullness of time fell sound asleep. The following morning he awoke early feeling refreshed and began to work, moving through to the bathroom he began shredding down his interlocking stacks of newspaper sorting them carefully into colour and content. The crude shape had firmed considerably over night and it resisted as he clawed back into it. With trial and error he was able to refine his technique. He worked in the chest cavity first fashioning organs from on old medical journal. The heart the lungs down to every intricate artery and ventricle. He gently wrapped veins and tissue and encased it in flesh, muscle and paper fats. From the body he moved outwards working the extremities fashioning slim arms out to delicate graceful fingers. The head was last in the making as he patiently built up the face with a fine web of nerves and formed two soft eyes to fix into their sockets. The hollow of the head he filled with a brain formed from his favourite books of poetry and every scholarly book he could find all squeezed and shaped into ganglia and minute synapses. The process was laborious and after several days without food or sleep he felt finished. He had developed an artistry he felt beyond himself and his work lay by his feet. He picked up the prone cold form and held its lifeless weight. There was no response as he carried it through to the living room and placed it gently in the old armchair. He sat at its feet looking up at the pallid grey face liquid rolling like tears over the smooth skin for an age till the eyelids flicked open with a slick oiled sound and the pigment less eyes flickered with life. The nostrils flared ever so slightly and the lips pulled back from wet light newsprint teeth as a charcoal tinged tongue protruded and flexed from the dark mouth. The long pale fingers gripped at the arms of the chair pulling the figure forward then one hand traced a slippery line down over small dripping breasts before reaching out to Caleb. The mouth opened to speak and water ran freely like someone revived from drowning.
‘Caleb’
His wife’s soft voice, distant from a deep well.
‘Caleb’
He reached out and took her cold damp hand in his.
‘Caleb’
He stood her up held her to him her wet coldness soaking through his clothes to his own skin.
‘Caleb’
He carried her outside, out of the darkness of the house and into the overgrown garden. The sun was shining strongly and he took her to the once circular lawn and sat her down. Her movements were stilted and strange and he looked at her the sun picked out a bloom of dark mould covered her left breast, the trace of printed letters caught on her forehead.
‘Jenna, is that you?’
Her head swivelled wetly towards him the paper spiral pupils of her eyes little more than pinpricks in the strong light.
‘I am in as much as you have made me so.’
And she reached out and touched his cheek, here grass stained hand stealing warmth from his face.
‘My veins do not flow with blood. I am cold Caleb and nothing will warm me. I am a made thing and will not last. Kiss me one last time and leave me here in the sun.’
He moved forward and kissed her. She tasted of stale water and her lips were saturated with sour liquid. Her tongue flicked his own, eel like and dead. He stood up on unsteady legs and headed back to the house not looking back while wiping the chilling wet from his face. Behind him he heard her lie back slippery on the long grass. He stayed inside for the rest of the day windows drawn listening for her hand on the door handle, but it never came and in the evening ventured out. She was lying were he’d left her, but both the sun and her own hand had been at work. Her skin was now dry as bark and she had torn herself open spilling herself apart so the light had bleached out her life and only insects and snails sought out what residue remained.























Dog Swap

The bar was quiet on the Friday evening when the dog ambled in and stood looking up at the barman. The place was on the verge of being a dive, but far enough away from spittoons and sawdust that the locals could bring their wives at a push. The place had its fair share of mangy dogs and their often mankier owners, but few came in solo. Canon the barman was moving the grease around on a pint glass and stared back at the beast. It seemed a fairly clean member of its species one of those grey wiry haired lurcher types and bright enough looking. He was tempted to boot the animal out the door, but instead threw it pork scratching which it sniffed but declined to eat. Instead it gazed around the half empty room quite serenely. There wasn’t much to see on this particular night, but then again neither on any given night of the week. Old Conroy sat with his pint and gumming on an unlit pipe, Jake Sabiston was making hard going of the Sun crossword while his wife rummaged wilfully in her handbag and over by the pool table the Locke twins argued over whose round was forthcoming. The only stranger was a thin fella called Kelpie based in the town for the last six months with the Forestry Commission. A dour lad from highland stock studious looking for a man in his profession his face hovering close to leather bound book of all things while he sipped occasionally at a cooling mug of coffee. The barman watched absently as the dog made a beeline straight for the young man winding its way past table legs and the other punters feet. Head down haunches up like a sheep dog it crept till it stood stock still by his side and stared up at him in a very human manner. Kelpie never noticed till it was right at him. He got a slight shock but his sharp dark features broke into an unfamiliar smile. The barman was about to shout at him not altogether unfriendly like that he never knew the professor had a wee dog, but at that moment the dog stuck out it’s snout and the two were face to face. It was either a sloppy tongue or a bite for sure, but instead it was like a burst of ozone and the most damnable change occurred. At the point of contact was a bright star like welding sparks that even jolted Old Conroy out of his stupor and as the bar watched on the hair on both animal and mans head stood up with static. The point of contact was indistinct, but it seemed that the dog’s coat was withdrawing into its pelt the grey vanishing back into it’s follicles in a wave that travelled backwards in a rippling wave. In contrast the man seemed to be sprouting hair soft and moist from forehead down neck and disappeared into his collar. Neither moved, locked in place, as a strange cracking sound started up like stock bones broken up for soup. The dog now a strange smooth skinned thing jerked as its dog shape swelled and thickened as its ears withdrew and its long face contracted. Kelpie by contrast seemed to diminish his slim form shrunk thinner so his clothes feel off loosely as a long whipping tail emerged from the base of his spine. Neither made a sound as they turned in their skins into new forms till finally the point of contact broke the change complete. The barman and regulars who had till now watched on slacked jawed approached with caution and stood in a sparse circle around the two. Where the man had sat now amidst a heap of discarded clothes sat a small fell terrier its paws up on the wooden table astride the old book. Its mouth open and tongue lolling about it looked nothing other than a well-fed pet. While on the ground, naked as a lamb, lay a young woman, slim and clean as from a hot bath. She was helped to her feet shy and slightly confused looking as she drew her long dark hair with a slight trace of grey back from her pretty face.










Pearl Wizard

The Railway club was busy as usual the clientele older, but keen on a good session with a game of dominoes thrown in. Mainly men and old school through and through except a small contingent of younger folk who were accepted grudgingly because they spent well and some of their girlfriends were a welcome change in the place. The place as always was over warm and when the front doors opened wide at two o’clock the cold air fairly screamed in provoking quite a reaction from the chapping committee by the entrance. In strolled an unusual looking old guy. The kind of person not seen in the area for years. The old guys looked up and thought immediately of the tinkers from before the war, the younger contingent had him pegged as a crusty new ager of vintage. From head to toe he cut quite a dash dressed in a wild assemblage of colour from his feathered black fedora, orange silk scarf, green frilled shirt and pinstripe trousers. All wrapped up in an ice-cream raincoat with a pair of patent winkle pickers on his feet. He strutted as the audience looked on giving a show manly twirl as he reached the bar trailing a smell of wet leaves, cinnamon and hand rolled smokes. Over his shoulder he carried a worn old pack and he slid it to towards the bar in one deft movement reaching it simultaneously with a jaunty skip. Sheila at the bar approached him like he was some exotic creature, but he elegantly doffed his hat and gave a wee bow his hair full and tied back in a bow and an amiable brown faced smile shining out from a nest of beard. She couldn’t help but to smile herself a little bedazzled by his mouth full of gold teeth and the not too savoury way he was looking her up and down.
‘Dear madam I have found myself a poor traveller without coin but it would be my honour to accept a fine drink from your good self.’
‘Oh I would have to ask my boss about that we can’t really hand out freebies.’
‘Go ask the gentleman I’m sure we can formulate a sweet deal for us both.’
So Sheila tottered of in her high heels through to the back room to fetch Hailey the club manager who in the end had to be retrieved from the toilet rolling the days paper into his back pocket.

‘What if I were to tell you magic was in my bones and a wee snifter of Isla malt would unlock the secrets of the universe?”
‘Do I honestly look like a prick?’
‘My good man you have the profile of Nero and the carriage of Apollo.”
‘Bollocks! Out with you.’
‘Oh Hailey give him one I love all those magic tricks’
‘It’ll come out of your tips then Sheila. You have five minutes mate it had better be special.’
The stranger shrugged of his long coat revealing a strange leather waistcoat in which ran strange tooled hounds and their prey, By this time most people in the room were glancing across there had been no free entertainment since Cockburn had been buried with his accordion. Casting his hat and skimming it along the bar the man stood listening head cocked to one side. He suddenly held up a calloused hand with several rings and spat squarely in his palm. At the same time from the drink optics buzzed a sluggish fat blue bottle, which made directly for him, circled around his head he held out his hand and it landed amongst the spit twitched and lay flat out, dead legs in the air. Closing his hand into a tight fist he then whistled gently and sprang his hand back open revealing the fly gone and in its place a large freshwater pearl. The audience clapped, but he held up a hand for silence and began to run the pea sized pearl around his fingers as if it moved by itself. Transferring it to his free hand he repeated the process and produced first a shining diamond then a blood red ruby and finally a smooth nugget of gold. By this time the crowd were crowded tight as he solemnly placed the small treasures on the bar in front of him.
‘To Hell they are not real man?’ cried Hailey
‘Why would you be mooching for drink with those in your pocket?
‘Oh you cannot spend these gifts’
‘Let me see!’ and Hailey snatched up the gold with a large freckled hand, but with a sudden start he dropped back on to the bar an angry stinging wasp which he angrily swatted flat with his rolled paper.
‘Jesus, give him a drink and get him out of here’
Sheila poured a large free hand measure of Tallisker into a tumbler and handed it to the stranger who placed all his articles including the mangled wasp into the glass and swallowed it in one gulp. He burped loudly and wiped the back of his hand over his whiskers.
‘Thank you my dear lady. I will trouble you no further. But here a small token of my thanks.’
And from his pocket he retrieved a crisply folded silk hankie of fine quality, which she gingerly took. On its left corner was embroidered SH in a fine delicate script.
‘God this was my grannies hankie I remember it as a child. Where did u find this? I remember the wee red stain she wiped jam from my face when I was just a lass.’
But as she looked up, a tear in her eye, the stranger had walked cleanly through the crowd and out of the door letting in the cold draft at his back.











































Barmat

In its heyday the pub had been some place. Never the cleanest or brightest or the best of beer, but Tommy had run it well and kept the punters happy. He was fair and well liked, served a good toastie, and the place could be fair jumping. That was ten years ago when his wife was still around and before the bairns had moved to the city. Now the place had fallen into blight. Where he had once been a good natured blether he had drawn in on himself and taken the place with him. Where once the pub had a laid back charm, an old fashioned cosiness it was now cramped, cheerless and the occasional stain and torn seat had spread like a growth. The local trade had moved elsewhere and left Tommy with a few diehards nursing spent faces and empty pockets. He stood amongst them radiating not the warmth of old but instead a washed out greyness. He was past caring and neither were his regulars and the place trundled on. The occasional random would stumble in, but more than one polite pint was unlikely amongst the gloom and stoor.
Monday afternoon was the usual effort Tommy stood sipping at a pint watching Bob and Ether read the day before’s papers while rolling greasy rollups to take outside. The smoking ban was perversely obeyed even here.
‘Christ Tommy ma papers are sticking to the fucking bar can ye no gie it a wipe noo an again?’
Rasped red faced Bob.
Tommy said nothing but managed to half heartedly wipe a damp rag along the Formica skirting around the untidy newspapers.
‘Better?’ he flatly asked.
‘Aye, very nice, afae clean.’
Said Bob as he dried a patch with his sleeve. Then peeled his paper from the bar leaving an inky imprint.
‘The bars almost as sticky as yer lavvy fleer Tom.’
‘If ye dinnae like it ye ken whaur ye can go Bob.’
‘Dinnae be like that man. But when ye think how you an Sheila hid the place before.’
‘Bonnie.’
Added the wizened Ether.
‘Aw dinnae mention that bloody wummin in here again sup up yer pint and shut it.’
‘Bit Tommy look at this bar. God am no a clean man missel, bit its like toffee. Look at these beermats their growin intae the wud!’
Said Bob as he tore at a line of paper Tennent’s mats with dirty fingernails levering with some effort from the bar top.
‘ Leave thum!
Barked Tommy
‘I’ll clean ma ane bar if ye dinnae mind!’
Angrily pushing Bobs hands aside and tearing at the remaining mat. Red faced he dug at the edges with bitten nails to no avail.
‘Fuckin HELL.’
He bawled frustration growing as the mat stayed firm.
‘Calm doon Tommy lad let me try.’
‘Piss off this is my fuckin property.’
Again he tore at the mat unable to get a purchase and his fingers slipped off hurting.
‘Ayeh bastard!’
Tommy bawled.
‘Whits wee this bloody thing. Did you cunts glue this on?’
‘ No Tommy. It’s been sat there since last nicht.’
‘ Look I’ll get it, uve no nails.’
And with that Bob reached over digging nicotine stained fingers on the edge of the mat.
Confusion came to his face when it refused to move even as his fingers offered to pop and his own nails tear loose. The three men stood closer to the mat.
‘Are ye sure there’s nae glue on that?’
Ether reached into his work overall pocket and fished out an oily pocket-knife.
‘Look this ill dae the job, ye daft buggers.’
And with that he attempted to drive the blade into the edge of the mat carefully at first but with some force as the blade failed to go in.’
‘Bloody Hell whit is goin on here?’
And with one final stabbing thrust managed to snap the knife at its tip, and sending it straight in to one of his fingers.
‘OOCHA bastard!’
The men stood back, slack jawed. Ether sucking on a nasty slash on his finger tip.
‘This must be some kinda joke. Is some body takin the pish? Is there a hidden camera aboot here?’
Bob asked taking a hurried splootery drink from his pint.
‘Look there has got tae be a simple reason for a this?’
The three men leaned down to examine the barmat.
‘Gie me room a need light to see wits goin on we this.’
ordered Tommy
On close examination he could see nothing but a stained beermat of ordinary appearance with the Tennent’s logo and slight squiggle of blue ink on its face where someone had tried a pen. The beermat however showed no sign of having come free from the bar indeed the pen knife had not cut it or left the slightest mark. It was sealed limpet tight.
‘This is impossible. Bob go under the bar next tae the brush n pan there’s ma tool box. Get it oot wid ye?’
‘Aye nae bother Tommy. Bring oot the heavy guns eh?’
Bob quickly found the red steel box and handed it over. Tommy snapped it open and determinedly brought out a couple of rusty hammers a screwdriver and an old but sharp looking chisel.
‘This will de the job or nuthin will lads.’
Said Tommy, before rolling up his sleeves placing the chisel edge to the beermat and giving
it a hefty smack with the largest hammer.
‘Thwack’
Nothing
‘THWACK’
The harder strike left the mat undinted but the chisel shattered and the vibration sent a wave of pain up Tommy’s arm making him drop both tools with a clatter.
‘Jesus!’
As Tommy shook feeling back into his fingers Bob and Ether crowded into see and again the beermat was untouched.
‘Tommy this is a wrang. This is no richt. No natural I tell ye. Let’s leave it well alane ok?’
pleaded Ether.
‘No lads this is a richt .’
smiled Tommy for the first time in years.
‘A hiv tae mak a wee phone call. Help yersels tae a dram both o ye.’

Being a slow news day the local papers and indeed the regional television news where keen on the story of the magic beermat and within a few days more feet had tramped through Tommy’s bar than the total for the last decade. Squeezed beside a cat that fortold the death of its neighbours and a calf born with a third eye the story was a small scale phenomenon. Tennent’s brewery were more than happy with the publicity and offered Tommy a total refit free of charge. Not only did the locals return in droves, but people were arriving from afar. Tommy cleaned his pipes dusted off the toastie maker and even took on a couple girls from the town to help behind the bar. Things were going like a dream and Tommy felt revived. Bob and Ether had enjoyed their share of the limelight and appeared on everything from the BBC to CNN. Scientists had probed and tested and pondered, but no answer was forthcoming. It was a mystery, but a lucrative one. Tommy charged thirty quid a time to move the red rope and let the punters test themselves against the beermat and everything from weightlifters, martial artists and even diamond drill bits had failed. Even when the initial interest waned the customers remained numerous and the pub was seldom other than full. Even Tommy’s children had paid him a visit and thought him his own self. All in all the beermat was the best thing that ever happened to him. He had even splashed out on a fantastic neon sigh outside that read ..
‘TOMMY’S BAR HOME OF THE BEERMAT.’
And that was dear per letter.
It was a Monday morning four months from that fateful day when Tommy stepped behind his bar having heard movement. It was before opening time and guessed it was Bob and Ether come to show some more ladies their discovery only to find his wife standing at the bar.
‘ Hello Tommy, your looking well.’
‘Sheila might have guessed. Where’s the new man?
‘Tommy he’s long gone. I just wanted to see you.’
‘Bollocks love yer efter my money again.’
‘No Tommy I want to come home to you. Look pour yourself a wee dram an we can blether. Hope you don’t mind, but I got myself a G&T. I’m thirsty efter the drive.’
Tommy absently glanced down from his wife’s eyes to see her glass resting on the beermat her brassy nail varnish and many rings bright on her hand.
‘Heres tae ye Tom.’
She said as she raised her glass to toast and the mat came clean away from the bar on the underside of her schooner glass.






































Big Trouble in Little Art Town



Day 1

It was one of those in-between days prevalent in the town, neither wet nor dry, when the small crowd assembled to see the unveiling of the new public art. Two local councillors, the local art teacher and five members of the Rotarian club watched on as the three men hoisted the large granite slab into position. At eight by two feet and weighing a hefty tonne the work depicted labourers toiling in the fields and the twin whisky and mill industries. It had cost in excess of twenty thousand pounds, been partly paid for by lottery funds and was the work of the renowned C. John Taylor, five mixed committees and a five-year consultation period. The three men laboured hard to position the dead weight and it was with some relief that they reached the edge of the pre dug hole and levered the stone into place sliding it in like a dislodged tooth back into its socket. The slab wobbled precariously, then settled with a dull slick thudge generating a tremor outwards in all directions. Words where spoken, backs slapped and the artist unable to attend due to ill health thanked in absentia. Photographs were taken, but the proceedings where brief, hurried on as the skies opened driving the group to the nearest pub, leaving the three workers to pour some concrete and drag on well-deserved rollups. When the rain stopped two hours later the art stood alone in the town square the surface of the granite glazed with rain water, across the way the public bar was full, the crowd making a night of it. A small dog ambled by, nose to the floor, and gave the new thing a once over before stopping briefly to delicately piss on one corner and continue on its way.

Day 2

The town awoke to a clear sunny morning Robin Jenkins the art teacher was on his way to work, his head fuzzy from the previous nights celebrations. He strolled down the town square, and as he approached the new art stopped to light the first cigarette of the day. As he absently looked around his eyes rested upon the new monument and he cursed to himself as he saw what had been done. During the night someone had poured a large quantity of red gloss paint over the stone. Thickly it covered the detail, and had run in syrupy streams onto the pavement. He angrily ground out his cigarette under foot only to stand in a globule of red. As he stood trying to think which of those he taught had been responsible, the local postman joined him handing over a tissue to wipe his shoe.
“Fucking typical Mr Jenkins eh? Cannot leave anything be these days.
What was it anyway?”
“Piece of sculpture a friend of mine carved. This will be a hell of a job
to clean.” He said as he worked at his shoe with the disintegrating tissue.
“I’d better phone Brian at the council offices get this sorted out then
get to work and catch the culprit with the red hands.”
“You do that Mr Jenkins I’ll stand guard for now.” He said with a wink and a salute as the teacher strode determinedly off he laughed to himself.
“Bloody eyesore in the first place, if you ask me.”
Which they never did.
He gazed at the teacher as he vanished off into the distance, spat on the ground and headed off, his heavy bag irritating on his shoulder.
When Jenkins reached school most of the alcohol was sweated out of his pores, but a polo mint just in case as he entered the dull 1960s building and headed off to the staff room to make a call. The place was empty, the corridors drab save the occasional work his classes were duty bound to produce. He stooped to pick up two which had peeled from the wall from the stifling heat and was going to reattach them, but thought better of it and scrunched them angrily into a ball. Nothing that would set the art world alight he thought bitterly. He entered the staff room; still reeking of cigarettes even a week into the smoking ban, hurled the paper into the bin, and clutched at the phone. His head was biting as he got through to Brian Duror his long time friend and town councillor
“Brian some little shite has poured red paint on John’s sculpture!”
“Good morning to you too Rob. That’s a record. One of yours no
doubt. I’ll get some men right on it.”
“Thanks mate sorry my hangovers rough. Why don’t you and Jean
come over for tea later in the week?”
“Sounds do able. Lighten up mate these things happen. You art types
are so high maintenance don’t you know” he laughed
“That remark will cost you a good bottle of wine my friend. See you
soon.”
The machinations of council protocol now in place two men were soon dispatched and sped to the spot in a fully equipped council van.
“That Stephen is a lazy sod lying in bed even with the state of his
wife!”
“Come on George give the laddie a break his backs no so good and
you never exactly bust a gut lifting the other day.”
“I told you before I’m not paid to do all that poncy stuff. Council
taxes are high enough. No grit for the roads or paint for my fence, but
this big lump costs thousands no questions asked.”
“I thought it looked nice, my old man worked the plough. I thought it
stood out. A wee bit big, but not bad really.”
“Ach listen to you mister art critic. Shitey beds and piles of bricks
that’s art these days. All I saw was a tonne of bloody stone that we
never asked for and now were left to keep clean.”
“I never said I liked all that modern stuff, but if I had the money I’d get
the wife a nice wee bit for the garden by that seat in the sun.”
When they arrived in the square a few people were milling around older people mainly out for their shopping, but a small amount gathered at the stone, more in fact than at the unveiling.
“Bloody disgrace!” cried one irate oxygen thief.
“Who’s going to pay for this?” she muttered whacking the stone with
the end of her walking stick
“Step aside there’s nothing to see here. Give her air.” Laughed Gilbert
The two men approached tutting in unison at the mess. The viscous paint had almost dried, but not before ensnaring leaves, insects and general muck. Removing the worst of it with trowels then applying strong solvents the men put on masks protect them from the smell that drove away the group of elders. Slowly the paint came away.
“Bloody hell that’s going to my head George. Go and get the power
hose we can clean this all off.”


Day 3

Jenkins work the day before, once he had has his lunchtime whisky, had been manageable. He had decided against phoning John about the damage, his wife and he had enough on their plate. The search for the vandal had proved fruitless. None of the usual suspects had shown any trace of paint and he had never believed them bright enough to remove all the incriminating evidence if guilty. His wife and he had argued when he got home, but no more than usual, and he had managed some good work when he retreated to the sanctuary of his shed stroke studio. He awoke with a clear head and some fresh ideas for that days classes. As he approached the sculpture he was busy planning materials he had to look out for the day ahead, and indeed grudgingly admiring the cheek of the mystery vandal, but this changed as he saw what today had brought. Someone had taken a hammer to the stone, repeatedly striking it and doing considerable damage. The relief carved figures had been all but obliterated. He suddenly thought of Knox and his iconoclasts or even the Taleban and their attacks on Buddha. He felt the urge for a cigarette, but chided himself for overreacting yet there was something in the methodical violence that disturbed him. What was sure was that this was not the work of a child; the granite was a hard rock. He also noticed that strangely all the debris had been carefully removed. Just then he heard a cry from along the street and looked around to see Simon Kress who owned the nearby café gallery with his partner Richard. Sean moved quickly towards him to see what the commotion was about to find the postie there before him. The three men looked at the front of the property, the window having been smashed, the interior filled with broken glass from a selection of framed paintings on the wall.
“Who could have done this? I never heard a thing through the night.
Oh God those were all new works from a friend in Ullapool and a
Vettriano limited edition. I’ll have to call the police. Could you both
wait here while I’m away? Thanks.”
“What a state the place is in. The stones been wrecked too. What the
hell is going on?”
“Come on now teacher those two have been looking for a wee bit
trouble since they arrived. Some of the locals are just being a bit
friendly.”
The postie smirked. Jenkins noticed the man had an unravelled look his face unshaven; letters seemed to be crudely crammed into his postbag.
Before he had time to reply to the man’s suggestion a police car pulled up and the local policeman Sergeant Cowl briskly emerged.
“I would have expected this from you Ian, but Mister Jenkins how
could you?” he joked, but there was a shrewdness to his gaze as he surveyed the scene. At that moment Kress reappeared and the policeman took him to one side. Jenkins turned his back on the postie, who stood gazing at nothing in particular, and glanced into the window noticing several good sized lumps of granite, indeed the head of what appeared to be a farm labourer amongst the shards of glass and smashed picture frames.
After giving a brief statement and asking Kress if there was anything he could do Jenkins headed to work, the streets by this time were busy with children dragging their feet to school. All the promise he had felt earlier had gone. He needed a drink. Settling for a quick coffee he sat in the staffroom with a handful of staff and passed the time with Galloway the avuncular gym teacher and Louise Briar the student teacher who had been helping him out. The conversation turned to the vandalism and Galloway as usual blamed the state of affairs on the lack of P.E. and children’s surfeit energy levels.
“Kids need to develop physical awareness; it’s a focuser, a mediator.
Art just confuses them.”
“For Christ sake Colin it’s more than that. It’s a lack of care for anyone
or anything all the sport in the world won’t sort it out. It’s a malaise
with young and old.”
“Why the stone though? They really went to work on it. Then they
went to the trouble of using the bits to turn over the gallery.” Replied Jenkins
“Forgive me Rob, but that damned stone was hoisted on the town…”
“That stone happens to be by a good friend of mine!”
“As I said, that stone was hoisted by a committee on this town as some kind of art salve for the problems of this community. Jesus where’s the relevance in it?”
“It was a well crafted piece of work ….”
“It was a lost opportunity and you know it!”
“Don’t tell me what I know you’re a wee bit wet behind the ears so
fresh out of art school.”
“I didn’t mean offence, but I feel that if we are going to make even the
tiniest bit of difference we have got to do more than stick up lumps of
stone. You have said yourself you feel like your treading water here.”
Suddenly the class bell sounded. Galloway bounded off like a thoroughbred. Louise glanced at him.
“I know what your saying Louise. I guess this has just compounded
what I’ve been feeling lately.”
“Rob neither of us are here because we’ve made the grade, but I hoped
I could do some good here. Galloway and the rest of them love the
jargon, but you can’t just turn art into funding committees and grants
proposals.”
“Fuck sake and here’s me thinking I was the old hippie around here.”
The rest of the day involved mess making and Sean found himself relaxing. He looked around the faces of the class and saw genuine enjoyment. Occasionally he would scrutinise their hands for some ingrained red paint, but soon everyone’s hands, including his own were covered in many colours.
When he arrived home there was a note on the fridge door his wife was out at her biweekly book club. She had left him a beautifully turned out plate of food, a product of her monthly gourmet course, which he arranged into a sandwich and took, with a can of cold beer, out to his studio. It was only when he was inside seated by his easel that he noticed some small pieces of glass. Looking up he saw that one of the windows were broken, and when searching the floor for the cause, he found a small piece of granite. Picking it up and turning it in his hand he was sure it was a piece of arm with the remnants of a hand. He found himself shaking and hurriedly headed for the house. It was getting dark. He headed to the bathroom and gave his face a splash of cold water before heading to the living room where he phoned Bill.
“What’s up mien artist?”
“Did you hear what happened in the town today?”
“Oh yeah the monolith. Someone is determined to get rid.”
“The gallery as well. It’s all a bit odd.”
“Costly you mean. Look I spoke to Cowl he reckons its boozed up
youths of which we have our share. Simon is upset, but well insured.
The two may be connected, but Cowl will know when the fingerprint
guys are through. It’s a pain Rob, but hardly some criminal
mastermind. You know I thought the stone was a bad bet anyway.
Twenty thousand could have been used elsewhere, but it was a higher
echelon decision and it ticked all the right boxes for their heritage
renewal budget .”
“My studio was done over and I found a bit of the stone here too.”
“Jesus Sean you sure you don’t watch Columbo. I thought you were gainfully employed. Look is Jean there?”
“No book club night”
“If your really serious phone Cowl.”
“No forget it I’m being a bit over the top I guess, look are you still on for meal later in week?”
“Sure thing. Look there’ a program on about the Davinci code go and put your feet up and soak it in.”
“You are a prick. Thanks for listening.”


DAY 4

Jenkins awoke feeling tired. He had gone to bed early and awoke to find Jean curled up by his side. He quietly got, showered and dressed, ate a light breakfast and watched some crap on the TV. He was heading for the door when he remembered the stone, and after some searching found it safely in the empty fruit bowl. Holding it to the light he could not be so sure it was an arm after all, but decided to take it and see if he could match it to the stone itself. The morning was fresh, clearing his head and he made good time. When he arrived in town it was busier than usual. He found Gilbert in attendance, washing the damaged monument and readying a large sheet of tarpaulin to wrap round it.
“Morning, You all alone at work?”
Gilbert looked up, his face greyer than usual, and gave a resigned smile.
“George has pulled a sickie. Work! They don’t know the word.”
“God they made a mess of that.”
Dusted off and washed down the stone resembled chewed flesh. The hammer blows had formed crude, deep gouges, down which the water from Willie’s hose travelled.
“I found this piece on the street.” Jenkins lied
“I was wondering if it could be replaced.”
“Who knows, give it a try.”
Sean held out the fragment but the damage was great and try as he might he couldn’t find a place for it to fit.
“No luck it’s too badly damaged.”
“Aye some force, needed a lot of hate. Some people have no taste I
guess.”
“You like it?”
“Aye it’s no bad, but I liked the other stuff more and the bastards got to
them as well.”
“You like the work in the gallery?”
“No, no the other stuff from last night.”
Just then Cowl and one of his constables appeared, a man little older than some of Jenkin’s pupils.
“Well Mr. Jenkins you return to the scene of the crime.”
Cowl joked, but once again there was coolness to his eyes.
“Gilbert just mentioned some more vandalism.”
“Oh haven’t you heard? The chapel statue, the church windows, the war
memorial and the decorative garden all were badly damaged last
night.”
“Did you catch anyone?”
“Not yet, like ghosts in the night up till now. As you can see we have
increased our investigating team” he smiled gesturing to the constable.
“Anyway we had better get on” and headed towards their car
“Oh and by the way Mr Jenkins…” said Cowl turning briefly back.
“It seems our culprit or culprits don’t have a fondness for art.”
Jenkins became distracted as Gilbert noisily wrapped the stone in the tarp and by the time he looked back round Cowl and his man were on their way.
He headed down the road passing the boarded window of the gallery and decided to take a detour past the churches and garden. St.Thomas’s a stout copper roofed building appeared fine, but the benign saint who stood watch in a recessed alcove had been worked over to quite a degree. Rather than a hammer, this time a pointed implement had been used gouging eyes, ears and torso, leaving it resembling, if nothing else, the damage of strafed buildings from the war. Some police tape had been hurriedly wrapped around the saint, but there was no sign of officers or the ill tempered Monsignor Reagan. A little way on the dark gothic spire of the North Church rose upwards, a sombre building, but what little colour it had contained in the form of bright geometrically patterned stained glass had been utterly destroyed. The gravel around the building was littered with varying sized pieces of blue, red and green glass and as he bent to pick one up he heard footsteps hurriedly approaching. Abruptly standing up he came face to face with the minister, a small amiable man named Robertson, accompanied by a wiry bearded man Jenkins didn’t know.
“What a mess Mr. Jenkins. Terrible. These windows cannot be replaced
particularly with the state of our finances, and now Mr. Bryant here
tells me his life’s work at the gardens have been destroyed.”
Jenkins could see the man of indiscriminate age was red eyed his weather beaten face raw with tears.
“Fuckers! They are always drinking and fucking in my gardens
especially in the summer if I had caught the cunts this time mind you.”
“Mr. Bryant is quite upset.” The minister explained as he put a comforting hand on the taller man’s shoulder.
“Come and see for yourself!” barked Bryant as he led Sean backwards crunching through a mix of gravel and coloured glass.
The gates to the garden were tucked behind the church grounds leading down a winding path to a generous space filled with assorted topiary and leading to what had been a lovingly rendered miniature town, complete with roads, running rivers and indeed a small version of the church, which loomed nearby. However someone had utterly destroyed every aspect. They had stamped the delicate structures into kindling, crushed scale model figures into the earth. Jenkins had visions of Godzilla raising Tokyo to the ground but held his tongue when he saw Bryant’s distraught face.
“You can fix this all given time.” Jenkins offered.
“What’s the fucking point if they’ll just break it up again? Twenty years
I’ve worked on this ever since my wife died and fucking look at it!
Every piece made by hand.”
“Look I have to get to the school perhaps the kids could help out, do
some repairs?”
“Fuck that. The little fuckers I’d rather burn this whole place up.”
Jenkins made his excuses and headed off passing the minister, now joined by his wife as they dejectedly placed the pieces of glass into boxes filled with shredded paper.
The staffroom was empty by the time he arrived. He hurriedly hung his coat, which was covered in small scraps from the destroyed town and sparkles of church glass and rushed to class to find Louise minding both groups. She smiled, shaking her head and making a fuss of checking her watch.
“Sorry Miss Briar.” He tried for humour, but his expression made her frown.
“Are you ok?”
Aware of the ever inquisitive gaze of the pupils they stepped into the adjoining corridor.
“Things are getting odder by the minute. More destruction all over the
town.”
“Yeah the janitor was saying earlier. Have they any idea who?”
“Not a bit. Believe me this isn’t just a couple of kids the old church
looks like its been bombed.”
“Religious fanatics here?”
“No I don’t think so the attacks seem random. I think its an attack on a
the objects themselves rather than any doctrine.”
“This all seems rather far fetched. Do you not think it’s someone with
an axe to grind against the town rather than some psychopathic
aesthete?”
“Christ, this place is hardly enlightened, but it’s not worthy of that
much spite. If it’s a matter of taste the vandal seems to loathe
everything Anyway I’d better get back to it. Cheers for minding the
store.”
“Anytime Rob. Listen if you ever need to talk.”
On returning home Jenkins hurried, not wanting to dwell by any of the vandalised sites, besides people were flocking in large numbers, children in raucous gaggles besides working people daundering on their way home and the ubiquitous pensioners. Getting in he was surprised to find his wife ensconced in the kitchen, knife in hand, and boning a large corn-fed chicken.
“Hello stranger what a pleasant surprise.” She said breaking off from total concentration to give him a warm smile.
“What’s the occasion? Our anniversary?”
“No Bill and Rhona are coming over, Bill said you had organised it.”
“Shit yeah, things have been up in the air”
“Oh yes, the attacks.It was all the talk of the book group. That and what
a shit Richard Madeley is.”
“Well things have been a little peculiar. My walks to work have taken
on a slight Twilight zone ambience.” Jenkins walked around and held his wife
“Watch the knife! How about a wee glass of wine?”
Jenkins left his wife to turn out the usual five star fare and headed for a bath, wine in hand. He was ready in time for the doorbell, but beaten to it by his wife trailing steam and cooking smells from the kitchen. Rhona looked her usual self, a handsome mother, but Bill, scrawny and balding even in his prime had a dried out look.
“ You girls go and blether us men are going to the garden to make
smoke signals.” With that Jenkins followed him down the hall and out
into his own garden.
“Fucking hell mate is there something in the water? I’ve got staff off left
right and centre, half the town looks like Dresden and the phone is
ringing red hot.”
“Bill it was you telling me the other night not to overreact. I admit I’ve
been a little spooked, but it’s only some nasty little hooligan.”
“That’s the thing mate you only know the big things. Christ I’ve got a
list as long as my arm with little things, but added up it’s not one
persons work, it’s a fucking epidemic.” Bill stopped to share out some cigarettes.
“Prize roses beheaded, fish ponds poisoned and countless bits of house
decoration destroyed. Old Dr Sinclair found his vintage car covered in
paint stripper then the covers put back in place. It’s all malicious nasty
little acts, but not one person has been seen doing any of it.”
“It all seems well planned. Is someone trying to make a point?”
“Well I’ve organised a town meeting. People want reassurance and
Cowl wants to scan the crowd for anyone looking shifty. Tomorrow
night at eight in the town hall.”
“ I’m going to go and see John tomorrow I wanted to keep all this from
him, but he might have some advice.”
“OK. How about tonight we eat some of that lovely smelling grub and get bladdered.”

Day 5

Jenkins set off early walking through an almost deserted town He saw that every house had put a great deal of rubbish out in bags. Strange, since the bin men weren’t due. Stranger still one bag, which had spilled open revealed a selection of ceramic animals and two old looking crude oil paintings. The town also had a locked up look, none of the usual faces where on the move. Making good time Jenkins cut down along the old railway line and arrived a little out of breath at the long gravel drive to the impressive Abartach House. To one side stood the large glass house John had converted into his studio. All around in the lengthening undergrowth stood sculptures, many unfinished. Crumbling totems of stone and wood. The place had always had a vibrant bohemian feel at odds with the town on whose shoulder it sat, but there had been a deepening melancholy since John had declined.
He rang at the large brass doorbell surprised not to hear the bark of Helliger the poodle, but Rose opened the door and proffered a huge hug.
“Robbie come in he’ll be so pleased to see you.”
“Sorry it’s been so long.”
“Oh shush come on up.”
The lobby, once a bright place of vibrant watercolours and streaming light had a strange greyness, the air cool and medicinal. They walked up the stairs past an unused looking stair lift and on to the main bedroom. The room was dark. John lay on a large bed surrounded by the paraphernalia of his illness. A once strapping figure of a man reduced down. Where once drapes and strange objects cluttered the room now it was stripped back and sterile.
“Hello Rob”
Voice still loud, but strangely hollow
“They tell me someone destroyed that thing we made.”
“I am so sorry, but you can fix it when you’re up and about again.”
“Rob?” He whispered holding up hands made almost translucent backlit by a bedside lamp.
“Yes John?”
“You did all the work I can’t even hold a chisel now. I had such strong
hands, workers hands. There is nothing we can do now go home to
your wife.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had such plans, but there is no time. The worlds changed around us
and we didn’t even notice.”
John stared at him with rheumy eyes set in wax skin.
“It’s a good town, we could never keep the bad stuff out for ever, but
this will all blow over. We’ll soon find out what’s going on and when
your back on your feet we can make some new work together.”
“Goodbye Rob, go home stay home.”
The room had become tomb-like. Jenkins turned. Rose smiled a weak smile and saw him to the door. He kissed her on the cheek, cold and suddenly old to the touch. He walked with weak legs back down the drive noticing a cloud of flies buzzing around something in the long grass. He walked over and gagged as he found their dog lying dead, open mouthed it’s tongue a carpet of flies.
Jenkins rushed home Jean commented on how white he looked. He had a glass of wine, but couldn’t eat. The day darkened and it was soon time to go to the town hall. When they arrived they looked out for Bill and his wife, but there was no sign just a large crowd of locals. Jenkins scanned the crowd saw dour faces, frightened faces. Strangely there were a lot of close-cropped heads even on women. There was no makeup all sombre clothes. He saw the postman, wild eyed as he passed. George the workman walking in a stupor. The crowd streamed silently into the hall making for the seats. A large table on the stage housed Bill, who did not see their wave, Cowl looking imperious and oddly Louise from school.
“What’s going on? Why is she up…” He went to say to his wife but was angrily hushed by some grim faces around him.
“There is a problem with this town. We were once a nice safe place.
Now there is jealousy and spite here!” Cowl barked
“Its my job to maintain the peace and punish the culprits.”
Bill joined him in standing
“Things were quiet here and we don’t need the problems of the outside world. The council have decided to take measures.”
Jenkins could see even from a distance the fever in his friend’s eyes.
“You will find a pamphlet under each of your seats. Miss Briar here has
kindly helped us with the information.”
As Jenkins bent awkwardly to retrieve the paper there was a commotion in the crowd, looking up he saw Mr. Macduff, the local butcher and his wife making for the stage. Once a rosy, cheery faced couple they looked almost corpse like.
“Jim and me have decided to sort things out. We were worried about
things.” As his wife spoke Macduff slowly removed a red shirt to reveal underneath a mass of raw bleeding skin.
“He had them done in the army. I always hated them, but he said they
were art. Well at tea time we took a razor blade and a bottle of iodine
and we cut them all out.”
Macduff turned revealing sections of skin where tattoos had been excised from the flesh. Jenkins gripped his wife’s hand as the crowd broke into sudden steady applause.
“A brave act benefiting this town!” Bill shouted over the crowd.
“I know some of you have more art we will be burning after the
meeting.”
Jenkins glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand and saw with horror a list of names including his and his wife’s.
“Robin could you and Jean come to the stage please.” Bill was staring straight at him.
The crowd gathered around him closely leaving the barest of passages for them to reach the stage.
“What’s going on Bill?”
Jenkins held his wife’s hand tightly as the pushed against and were pushed by the crowd onto the stage.
“Rob, I told you I have this community to look after. You said yourself
things were getting bad. Tonight we put a stop to it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Just then he felt a hard blow to the back of his head as fingers clawed at his back.
“People, behave this is a police matter no place for that!” bellowed a black eyed Cowl
“We have found a cancer and tonight we cut it out.”
“You’re both my friends, but Miss Briar has been questioned and the decision has been made.”
As they were thrown on the stage Jenkins lost his wife’s hand. He looked up at the fevered face of his friend, the bruises on Miss Briar’s face, then darkness.
Jenkins came to with a wave of nausea in the dusty back room of the hall. His hands and feet were tied. All around him were stacks of books, piles of framed pictures box after box of trinkets, plaster figurines, Seventies kitsch mixed up with school projects and keep sakes. In one corner stood a pyramid of televisions alongside several taxidermy cabinets and a heap of skateboards.
“Hello!” he shouted with a dry throat into the surrounding gloom.
“It’s no good Rob. They are all mad.”
“Louise? God, are you ok?
“I was heading out of town, but they have fucking road blocks would you believe?”
“Everyone has been made to choose. Arts bad you see it’s at the root.
People were asked to choose and art lost. They are very persuasive. I
saw them break your friend and now he is the worst of them. This little
bit is his idea.”
“Someone must be getting help. This is crazy.”
“Help oh no. This is a quiet little town no one will know for a long
time. That is if they ever know.”
“Well we can choose then go and get help, get to a phone.”
“We don’t get to choose. We are the enemy. Professionals in the field
of art. Christ guess that gave me these bruises that asshole Galloway
from school. He’s strutting about like Torquemada.”
Just then the door opened. Jenkins, blinking against the light, saw his wife and Bill.
“Jean, are you ok?”
“I came to say goodbye Bill. You’re not good for me. I should have seen it all along.”
“What?...”
“ It wont hurt too much. They promised. My life was getting to full of
stuff and we weren’t happy. This is better.”
She quickly left the room not looking back.
“Bill, are you mad. If this is some prank is there a camera. Honestly
there’s no sense to this.”
“Oh this makes perfect sense. I never saw it at first. Cowl explained it all. Get back to basics. Cut loose all the excess. Make this little town good again.”
“But art? Do you see what your saying? Art is not the problem.”
“People like you patronising us. Covetous little shits with your liberal
bullshit and your superior sense of taste. It stops here. This old
building is tinder dry. We’ve added some fuel so tonight…”
With that Bill reached into his pocket and drew out his lighter his face looked to Jenkins like some Caravaggio painting as the flame filled the room. While outside the folk stood opened mouthed and dead eyed as the smoke rose into the dark Highland sky.

_
















The following fragment was discovered on the hard drive of a damaged laptop found in the abandoned town of Keith in the Highlands of Scotland.


Small Town Art

Louise Briar

“And amidst the little population of that now isolated and forgotten
valley the disease ran its course. The old became groping and
purblind, the young saw but dimly, and the children that were born to
them saw never at all.”

H.G. Wells - (The Country of the Blind, p.3, l.21-25)

Small town’s people are on the fringes of the art world. Art caters mainly for the city. Although the modern world with the benefits of increased travel and access to the media has allowed more art exposure it is still far from an everyday experience in the small towns of the country. Art is treated with suspicion by the small town. It is part of the city and cities are places of excess. Although many of the vices of the city are visited upon the small town they are perceived as foreign fleeting occurrences. Art in the small town is a foreign fleeting experience. Cities are expensive places. Cost is important in the small town. Gourmet food is a luxury. There are gourmet restaurants in small towns, but they rely on passing trade. Locals would baulk at paying forty pounds for a monkfish and mandarin roulade as they would for paying two hundred pounds for a minimalist oil painting. Art is symptomatic of the divide between the small town mindset and that of the city. The feeling is mutual. Cities regard the small town as backward, inward looking places. Culture is currency and the small town in is deficit. Small town people react against the city with grudging acceptance. They will in sufferance shop there, but they freely criticise. Cities have more of an arsenal. Cities portray towns through the media. Small towns are portrayed in two ways. Firstly the small town is quimsical a place of cheery empty headed yokels or secondly it is barren a place of incestuous dangerous empty headed yokels. City people misunderstand and in turn distrust the countryside. Small towns are outposts in the countryside. While the small town community fears absorption and the detrimental aspects of the city, the city in turn reacts with repulsion from the perceived cruelty or oppositely ‘coothiness’ of the small town. The city is often portrayed as a dangerous, but at the same time sexually exciting environment, while the small town is at best sexually repressed, as well as dangerous.
From a Scottish perspective the differences between the rural and urban is marked. When we examine the perception of the Scottish rural life in a world view the same holds. In movie terms the small town Scot is either a tartan-clad simpleton in the ‘Brigadoon’ or ‘Greyfriars Bobby’ mould, a cannier but nonetheless harmless sop in ‘Whisky Galore’ or ‘Local Hero’, or latterly a darker incarnation harking back to the ‘Sawney Bean’ legend with ‘Dog Soldiers’ or ‘The Last Great Wilderness. It is this hidden more unsettling incarnation that the Scottish small town shares in perception with the unwelcoming denizens in ‘Bad Day at Black Rock’ and ‘Dogville’. When a city dweller strays into the country there is a high probability he will encounter inbreeds, homicidal rednecks, lycanthropes or a combination of all three. With the werewolf option he will then invariably bring the countryside’s folkloric curse back into the city wreaking havoc. (See American Werewolf in London) The reversal is when the technology of the city devastates the countryside with alien bacteria, mutated animal life etc. only for the local populous to scratch their heads and die while waiting for Science/City to help sort things out. (See ‘Them’ and ‘The Andromeda Strain’)
A small town starved of art with a school system that does not prioritise it and a population that hold it in low regard must surely be artless? Quite the opposite. I propose that the small town is when viewed as a whole the richest of environments. Whereas the city may well have a vibrant artistic community it can never compete with the unconsciously created art works of the small town. In a city we might well be surrounded by a plethora of galleries and organised art ‘happenings’, but they lack the visceral aspects of the small town. A murder of which we read in a paper or a bizarre character we pass in the street are regular in the city, but in the small town the murderer is a neighbour the crazy man went to school with us. Taken as a whole the small town is a genuine piece of art a layered structure of madness and beauty. While the city seeks commerce by trading in culture the small town is free of those concerns. Small towns have seldom any treasure buildings or high end historical selling points instead they have fleeting moments of unconscious beauty. A neighbour having a sex change at the age of fifty and buying a new pair of crimson shoes, a circus coming to town and leaving a stillborn tiger cub in a council bin, the gaudy drunken pleasure of a local fete, a raging fire in a field of barley. A small town has a memory that sits on two levels, the discussed and the known. Dark things happen. While the city allows anonymity where the individual can live out their preferred life the small town is a world of masks. Public faces are maintained.
The identity of a city if often corralled by an appointed committee while the small town is a plethora of small acts. The retired soldier trimming his lawn with nail scissors for a local competition or the canary breeder whose neighbours wake each morning to the sound of bird song.
The perceived drudgery of the small town gives many the impetus to move farther a field to make new lives. It’s only when the city disappoints as a Bohemian idyll that we realise how uncommon the common small town is.
Contemporary art in particular struggles to take root in the small town. One experiment in the form of the Glenfiddich art residency highlights the problem. It is a corporate sponsor led initiative that considers area a haven for kitsch ness and believes paying foreign artists to hoist work on a local community is by no means patronising. In truth the locals are simply unaware of its existence. How can this drip fed artists ‘community’compete.

Ross Sinclair - lives in Kilcreggan near Loch Lomond. Since he had the words Real Life tattooed on his back in 1994, Ross Sinclair has produced performances, installations, photography and video exploring the political and the personal ramifications of the culture in which we are involved, asking us what constitutes the 'real' in society where so much is rendered inauthentic.
Northings – Highlands and Islands Arts Journal

An artist with a tattoo, working for a corporation whose intentions are not altruistic but commercial, talking about the inauthenticity of society when he is surrounded by whisky drinking tattooed men in a hardworking community which is unselfconsciously real.
What I propose is that the small town does not need any art transfusions, but neither am I suggesting it should be studied as some ethnographic experiment. The small town is a rich environment whose stories do need recording. The small towns I champion are not the prettified tourist havens, but the workaday places, the ugly places. The type of place that when you walk into a pub all goes quiet. The suspicious places free of the cultural mainline. The kind of mean spirited place that considers carrying a small dog under your arm suspect. The kind of place where the caravan park needs a lick of paint, whose music festival is one man and a fiddle. The kind of place that keeps sentiment behind closed doors.
In one year in one small town the following occurred.
Man goes on drunken J.C.B. rampage destroying ten cars and four immaculate gardens. The police unable to stop the vehicle tempt him out with a bottle of whisky.
Man introduces particularly aggressive Spanish bees to town. Herd of cows driven mad with stings stampede down main street.
Two men hook seagulls with fishing line dip in paint and release. The town is plagued with red, white and blue birds for weeks after.
Man has tattoo of wife’s name on neck covered by large axe to celebrate his divorce.
Man has finger chopped off in argument in restaurant over unpaid bill.
Woman sends out suicide note to friends and family. Attempt fails so goes to work as usual.
Opening of Tartan Museum, thirty visitors to date.
Suspected human combustion case.
How do you contextualize a town? At best I can see a similar practice between my own work and that of the diligent local paper albeit I will remove all the mundane bits and add a fine coat of bullshit over the interesting story threads. Growing up in a town where the two most inspiring sources were the now destroyed Art Deco cinema, which specialized in cheap to show B-movie horror and the badly stocked library. The work of Ray Bradbury became a constant, always lyrical, often disturbing and portraying that scrubbed step, murky cellar small town that I always believed, with good reason drew parallels with my own town. A place that strives for ‘Brigadoon’ is often ‘Deliverance’ and usually falls somewhere in between.

“I lengthened my bones, put flesh on them, changed my young mind for
an older one, threw away clothes as they no longer fitted, shifted from
grammar to high-school, to college. By the time I was twenty-two, I had
almost forgotten what the East was like.”

Ray Bradbury – (The October Country, p.111, l.29-35)


































Bibliography

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Abacus 2005
Bradbury, Ray - The Machineries of Joy
Rupert Hart – Davies 1964
Bradbury, Ray - The October Country
Hart – Davies, MacGibbon London 1974
Camus, Albert - The Plague
Penguin Books 2004
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Picador 1979
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Gollanz Horror 1988
Matheson, Richard - I am Legend
The Shrinking Man
Orion Books Ltd. 2003
Montandon, Mac - Innocent When I Dream
Tom Waits - The Collected Interviews
Orion Books 2005
Read, Herbert - A Concise History of Modern Sculpture
Thames and Hudson London 1964
Tevis, Walter - The Man Who Fell to Earth
Bloomsbury Film Classics 1999
Wells, H.G. - The Country of the Blind
Penguin Books 2005
Wells, H.G. - The First Men in the Moon
Fontana Books 1960


Bass, Saul - Phase IV
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Cronenberg, David - A History of Violence
U.S.A. 2005
Forsyth, Bill - Local Hero
U.K. 1983
Mackendrick, Alexander - Whisky Galore
U.K. 1949
Mackenzie, David - The Last Great Wilderness
U.K. 2002
Marshall, Neil - Dog Soldiers
U.K. 2002
Meadows, Shane - Dead Man’s Shoes
U.K. 2005
Menzies, William Cameron - Invaders from Mars
U.S.A 1953
Minelli, Vincente - Brigadoon
U.S.A. 1954
Murnau, F.W. - Nosferatu
Germany 1922
Raimi, Sam - The Evil Dead
U.S.A. 1979
Siegal, Don - Invasion of the Body Snatchers
U.S.A. 1956
Sturges, John - Bad Day at Black Rock
U.S.A. 1955
Von Trier, Lars - Dogville
U.S.A 2003
Wise, Robert - The Andromeda Strain
U.S.A. 1971
Woon, Kim Jee - A Tale of Two Sisters
South Korea 2004




























































Bar War
Stanley Versus The Mor-men


I had been working behind the bar for a few months, helping out my mate Cottar mostly, but the extra money that should have went towards the study fund kept me in tobacco, and the place was never busy so I could sit comfortably in first gear. The locals where a geriatric old bunch, but funny with it and I have always enjoyed a tall tale. The place was small, but on the right side of pokey and a breeze to keep wiped and clean. The gent’s toilet could get a little fragrant and the ladies were so infrequently used it stored a derelict puggy machine and some prehistoric crisp boxes, but all in all it was a nice wee gaff. Anyway I could rest my elbows on the, read a good book and get a good blether with some of the punters.
Today’s business had concerned old John, single whisky and a half Guinness to wash down two cheese and onion toasties, one for him, one for his toothless dog Stinking Molly. He had been in a rush his wife having forcibly persuaded him to get home sharpish for the arrival of her sister back from a thirty year sentence in Australia. Colin and his son Christopher popped in to read the paper. Never the liveliest of customers. Colin a retired tailor, while his son had been a borderline zombie since the bike crash. Anyway Colin dropped in a suit he had sorted out a treat for me for my promised round of interviews so their presence wasn’t a dead loss. So that left Stanley Eldritch and me. What to say about him? Well he had been drinking in the pub as long as anyone could remember. Through about seven owners and assorted name changes in fact. He had worn out a succession of bar stools with his arse and was as much a part of the bar furniture as the faded prints on the wall and dust covered bottles on the bar gantry. Don’t get me wrong he was by far my favourite customer. Low maintenance and nice with it I remember him from when I was a kid and even then I was fascinated by him a tall figure with high cheekbones and dark eyes. Some of the other kids would shout abuse at him, but not me. He never paid them the slightest bit of attention. He was weather-beaten and white haired with a bush of a beard like a bohemian Santa Claus and he dressed in a dark suit that had seen better days, but kept patched and clean. His nose was like a white blade with great hairy nostrils and all the time he smoked a great big pipe.. No one could give me a definitive answer as to where he came from, so I imagined him as an explorer washed up here. Or someone freshly climbed out of a display at a museum. So when I finally got to spend some time with him on either side of the bar it came as a bit of a let down. Close up he hadn’t changed, but hunched over the bar he seemed smaller perhaps frailer and as we got spoken I found he had travelled a bit in the merchant navy, but not too the ends of the earth. He had arrived by bus here forty years earlier with a bad back and little money to start work as a guard in the mills. He kept himself to himself, had no family left and no inclination to marry. He liked going for a stroll in the countryside doing a bit of poaching and brewing his own beer. His voice was quiet, but his accent was strange and hard to place. His hands where strange, too long with great broken knuckles and twisted with the first tinges of arthritis and they would work and worry his great pipe. I asked him where he had gotten it and he said his grandfather had carved it when he had also been to sea. The stem was a dark wood, oily and rich and the bowl was intricately carved from what he had said was Meerschaum, a material from the sea. White like ivory but yellowed with tobacco and tinged with smoke. I had finally got a close look of it a great wild eyed face with an open mouth and shark like teeth and skin that was dabbled with scales. The eyes were inlaid with a red blazing stone. He couldn’t smoke since the ban, but strangely he never complained or went outside, instead he said it would save him a bit of money, then went and upped the port and brandies he slowly quaffed. He preferred to read the broad sheets and I was amazed to see him slowly finish each day’s crossword. He also had the ability to ignore without fail the chatter from the small TV set on the wall by the bar. Myself, I found my eyes drawn to it regardless of whatever shite was on. We spoke irregularly, but he was warm and had a sly wit, as well as generous with advice and drinks. His pension seemed to stretch quite far and I was yet to see him eat. He could talk at length on a range of subjects, but had no real grasp of the technologies of the day. Even Old John tootered about with a clunky mobile phone, but Stanley didn’t even appear to favour gas lighters ahead of a good match. He would tell me about the sea and some of the peoples and cities he had encountered, good stories high in detail and ambiance, but with no daring do. I suspected there was not a trace of bullshit in him and he would roll his deep dark eyes at some of the whoppers the other locals would spin. He had a quiet dignity and had a dead eye at darts although he would never join the team. In the winter his back would pain him and he would look out a functional looking stick with a great scuffed rubber tip. I had mentioned I was considering trying my hand at getting to art school and he came in the following day with a leather bound book on sculpture which he wanted me to have. I thanked him, stifling the urge to say it was too much and I couldn’t accept it.
So on that day the place was quieter than usual standards, Stanley had been in for a couple of hours only now getting around to uncreasing his paper. I was about to get myself a sandwich when the door opened and in strode a guy in the standard sales rep suit, crumpled by the drive, a little overweight and thinning hair struggling to make up a fashionable haircut. He had a large full looking bag slung over his shoulder and approached the bar with a practised smile.
‘Hello there squire are you the licensee?’
‘No mate, Cottars not here, in Spain for a week as a matter of fact.’
‘Pity, just a courteousy call really a new line in bar goods we’re trying out in these parts.’
‘Cottars not much on door to door sales really. Not much in sales in general as you can see by the place but I can take your card and stick it by the till.’
‘Oh we can do better than that eh lads?’
He smiled as he glanced along at Stanley. Then with a swoop of his arms he flung his bag on the bar.
‘In here I have some special goods not available in the shops.’
And he proceeded to attempt to pass around the usual door to door toot.
‘The very finest in mobile phone accessories, novelty lighters, bar paraphernalia and cleaning materials.’
He recited in a strangled baritone.
‘Like I said Cottar doesn’t really buy in stuff and I’m a low paid functionary struggling for ends meat.’
‘No probs mate, but what about this gentleman here would he be interested?’
‘We have a wonderful line in male grooming products.’
He flashed a winning smile along the bar only for Stanley to deflect it with a dead eyed stare.
‘Oh well guys I tried. Pour me a pint for the road and maybe a bag of smoky bacon for the long and winding road.’
He placed a fiver on the bar.
‘Time for my ablutions as well.’ he laughed and hurried with his restocked holdall to the toilet.
‘Prick.'
I whispered to a stern faced Caleb.’
Just then the pub door swung open suddenly and two other strangers walked in. Tall thin men with dark clothing and neatly parted oiled hair. I spotted identification badges pinned to their labels that shouted missionary religion. Each carried a small neat briefcase.
They strode unsmiling to the bar and perched on the nearest stools to the door.
’What can I get you lads?
‘Water’
The nearest of the two said dryly.
‘And your friend?’
‘My colleague will also have water.’
‘Tap or sparkling mineral?’
The two men stared blankly at me stifling my smile.
‘Coming right up gents. It is usual for payment in this establishment so will you be having food with that?’
The smaller reached into his pocket and retrieved a handful of change which he slapped on the bar top.
‘Easy guys. Here knock yourselves out.’
They simultaneously reached out for their glasses as I took two steps over towards Stanley.
‘Busy day with some interesting folks eh? All this work for me today trying to make me do a proper days work for once. ’
I smiled, but Stanley was deep in thought his pipe clenched tight between his teeth
‘You ok mate?’
Just then I heard a clicking noise to my right and looked over to see the two Mormons had placed their cases on the bar and were reaching inside. Their necks snapped up and they were both staring directly at me. The taller pulled an object from his case larger than I would have thought it would hold. It was a strange thing, resembling a grey spined mushroom and he thrust it in my direction. I winced unsure of what was happening only for the man’s features to seem to boil and flow as steam. In slow motion I glanced back at Stanley, who with a determined look on his face had swivelled round in his seat and was pointing his pipe, mouthpiece first at the man, a strange blurring of the light emitting and shooting straight at the stranger’s face.
‘What the fuck?’
Meanwhile Stanley sprang backwards turning his pipe towards the second man as the first fell clutching his face, as it poured steadily through his fingers. However as the indistinct ray cut a burning swathe along the wall behind him the second man had retrieved his device and calmly pointed it in Stanley’s direction. Silently the cactus like object burst like a puffball and the room around me seemed to explode. I managed to get my arm in front of my face looking to the side as the full force of the explosion hit Stanley like a blast of freezer cold filled with steel hooks. He somehow managed to keep to his feet but was moved back his feet sliding on the linoleum floor. I looked down at my arm and saw it was peppered with thorn-like barbs which dug in like bee stings. On the verge of passing out I managed to fumble in my pocket for my phone and attempted to hit 999. However glancing back up I found the remaining Morman had reached me in a moment and was pointing the fired stump of his device at me which sprouted a black tendril straight at my eyes, but in an instant Stanley ran up and snatched at the thing his face and body still smouldering and writhing with living shrapnel. With his other hand he once again brought his pipe weapon upwards only for the Morman to attempt to block it with his free hand clutching with a detached resolve. The two men swung each other round to fully face each other. The black tendril coiling and constricting and breaking Stanley’s long fingers but still he held firm, while the Morman continued to try to snatch the pipe weapon even as it burnt the flesh like molten wax from his hand, revealing bone and sizzling sinew. Stanley lent forward and butted the Morman full in the face, but there was no cracking of bone instead the nose flattened like plasticene and an eye split like plastic to reveal a dark jellied hole. The Morman’s hand had finally disintegrated allowing Caleb to thrust the pipe directly into this hole and the whole head caved in on itself as the body sank heavily to the floor. I meanwhile stood unblinking, staring at the bizarre carnage
‘Stanley man what’s going on? Who the fuck are you all?’
The old man turned to me his face ruined, blood the wrong shade of red pouring freely, but his eyes were calm and his voice when he talked steady.
‘From all over son, debts owed and debts to be paid .I am sorry you had to be involved.’
At that the door of the toilet slammed open.
‘Jesus the salesman, he must have been hiding.’
But the salesman came out I knew he was no bystander. Over his plump features he had pulled a tight plastic cowl with no mouth or nose holes, but two scale-like protuberances at the eyes. Still I could see his smile in place through the hood. In his hands he held a large undulating mass like a bubble of melted tarmac. He hurled it in the air where it seemed to hang for a split second before it expanded and burst into a dense black spore. The blackness was choking, a blinding cloud. I held a damp rap to my mouth, my eyes streaming as I tried to make out what was going on in front of me.
‘Stanley, help me.’
I began to shout as the blackness parted directly ahead of me and the hooded salesman seemed to crawl through the treacle thick air. His eyes sought me out and I could see his fingers were webbed and ended in crops of needles rather than nails. He reached for me, hands scything, but just falling to grasp my face. Then he was dragged backwards as a harsh white light erupted behind him. The smile tore into a scream from which spurted a yellowish liquid that filled the hood. Then the light blinded me and my hazy vision saw the blackness dissipate as quickly as it had arrived.
When my vision returned I saw Stanley standing, his feet planted firmly apart and in his hands he held what had once been his walking stick, but now extended out in a thin florescent skewer which he had speared through the upper body of the salesman who continued to spasm and leak gore. Clicking some unseen switch the weapon instantly evaporated and the salesman wetly slid to the floor. Suddenly tired Stanley lent on what was to all intensive purposes now an ordinary walking stick and walked towards me. His clothes were ragged and riddles with holes and his hair was singed and burnt clean away in patches. His skin was torn and burn and coated in rapidly drying blood and the tarry pitch like residue of the dark gas.
’Well lad we had better get cleaned up eh?’
‘Hold on a minute I wanna know what has just happened Christ what is all this?’
‘Look lad let me deal with this first ok?’
He gave a reassuring smile from the ruin of his face.
‘Pour me two pints of water and put them on the bar for me. Have you a change of clothes? Can I borrow your suit?’
With a bemused shrug I did as he asked. From his inside pocket he pulled out his tobacco pouch and from amongst the damp tobacco he retrieved a small silver container from which he shook a number of pills. Selecting one red and one blue he popped one in each of the pint glasses of water.
‘Excuse me my need is greater’
He said and took a large swig of the red liquid. After burping loudly he then took hold of the hair and skin of his neck and pulled sharply backwards and like a snake sloughing it’s skin revealed a fresh baby soft version of himself underneath which as soon as it meet air darkened and creased into the man he had always been.
‘Here trust me take some, but just a sip mind you.’
‘Aw fuck what the Hell.’
I said and gingerly took a drink of the liquid which had an aniseed sweetness. Immediately I felt a numbness to my senses and as I looked down I could see my arms heal, the shrapnel repelled by my own skin and turn to dust as it fell away. Then I was fully awake and Stanley was behind the bar beside me retrieving the knife we used to slice lemon which he hurriedly used to butcher open the remains of the three strangers. When he had retrieved three objects, one from each corpse he then poured the second glass this time of blue dyed water on the remains. They instantly dissolved without any odour and leaving nothing behind to show they had ever existed.
‘Now let’s get ourselves cleaned up. Hand me over your suit would you. Don’t look so worried it’s all over. You’ll have to bin those clothes of yours, but you keep a change behind the bar don’t you? And when you’ve done pour me a large port and brandy lad.’
‘Is that all you have to say after all that? God sake you lot seemed to be some kind of fucking aliens and you’ve just committed some nasty space murder in the local bar. Christ I thought you were a retired security guard and full time alcoholic?’
‘Look lad it’s a complicated business and it will benefit no one to tell you the details. Safe to say it is done and dusted. Those three are all I have to deal with and once we burn down the bar we can be getting along.’
‘Burn down the bar?!
‘There’s nothing left of those three and believe me they will not be missed. They will have arrived in the area today. That’s how they operate. Christ I am amazed they came at all. I am not a big deal here or anywhere else, but if nothing else I suppose some are thorough. Believe me a good drink and a warm while at the bar is up there with anything the rest of things has offer. Time and space is big lonely and tedious places believe me.’
‘I’ll be getting on and find somewhere else to put my feet up in.’
‘What have you a space ship or something?’
‘No lad I’ll take the bus as I did before. Here, before we get the fire going take this and make sure Cottar gets a share.’
And from amongst his tobacco he retrieved what looked to be a few large carat diamonds.
‘Don’t get too giddy they have flaws, but they will see you through college with a wee bit to spare and Cottar will have good insurance cover if nothing else believe me, but just in case.’
‘But what if someone comes in? In fact why did no one appear when all that was going on?’
‘Just the way things work. Discretion is all the rage in the workings of my one time associates. We have a time yet I imagine.’
‘Now fetch me something flammable. That cheap blended whisky will do a treat. And while you’re at it where is my drink lad?’
With a sigh I handed him a couple of bottles which he liberally sloshed up the walls and seat covers. I poured him a drink and took a large one for myself.
‘Cheers Stanley,
I toasted him
‘Thanks for nothing I guess.’
‘Lad, lad I never had you down as a complainer now lets head out of here and you can see an old man to his bus. Do you know where I put my pipe I am very fond of that you know? My father made that did I say?'
‘Thought it was your Grandfather who carved it at sea?’
‘Pot-ate-o pot-at-o laddie.’
And we walked out the bar as Stanley lit a match and ignited the whole interior and sure enough the street was quite not a soul in site as we walked a young guy and an old man leaning heavily on his stick to the bus stop.





















An Amphibious Landing


‘Hi there Craigie. How’s you?’
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‘Good, good.’
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‘Just a quick call. The weirdest bloody thing just happened to me.’
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‘No I’ve not been drinking. Well not any more than…’
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‘Listen will you?’
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‘Look I got in from work an hour ago and I’m knackered as always. So I heated up one of those pies I like and ran a bath..’
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‘Look bear with me.’
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‘So I get in the bath with a cold bottle of Grolsch…’
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‘One bottle I told you. Look don’t laugh’
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‘So I’m laid back in the bath reading a paperback.
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‘It doesn’t matter what I was reading for fuck’s sake.
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‘So I’m laid back and just putting the bottle to my lips…’
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‘My lips you prick!’
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‘I’m lying there about to have a drink and I hear a noise coming from the toilet bowl.’
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‘I’m about to tell you if you what kind of noise. Just let me speak.’
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‘So at first I think it’s the plumbing you know these old flats are totally wrecked, but its not coming from the pipes but from the bowl itself. A weird wet slopping noise….
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‘Sloppy or slippery you know what I mean. Listen will you. And the first thing I think is that there’s a fucking rat coming up through the toilet.’
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‘Look it does happen!’
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‘Anyway my first reaction is to jump out of the bath, close the lid or smack the sneaky thing on the head with my bottle. But do I move? Do I fuck. Instead I’m laying there bottle still at my lips. All staring eyes and all
tensed up.’
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‘Shitting myself? Of course I was shitting myself. Anyway so ever so slowly something starts to poke out of the pan. You know how small my toilet is? The baths right next to the toilet pan so I can see this dark shape poking out bit by bit.
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‘Yeah really dark and kinda shiny. Christ at first I thought it was the mother of all turds coming back to haunt me but no it was alive. And then I can see a great wide mouth. All wet and gaping and full of teeth.
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‘Gaping…’
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‘Then I can see it’s a head a great big lumpy shovel of a head with tiny little eyes and its swaying about. And I’m still frozen as its head keeps moving and it’s dripping water over the rim of the pan and it’s mouth is letting out a gasping noise and the next thing two stumpy arms grasp the rim and it lunges forward and pulls a long soft warty body clean out of the toilet and plops onto the floor on its back
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‘No I told you I couldn’t move.’
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‘Not a bloody muscle.’
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‘Anyway where was I? Oh yeah so you should have seen the size of the thing. Thick as your thigh, and about two feet long. And it’s thrashing about a bit as it rights itself and those stumpy little legs are clawing at the floor tiles and it’s body is all loose skin and frills. And I’m thinking what the fuck is it? Some kinda lizard from a zoo or a mad neighbour’s pet? Is it going to have a go at me with that great fucking mouth? But anyway I’m still laid there and the bath feels cold and I’m waiting for something to happen when it drags itself out the door of the bathroom leaving a wet trail and with little spongy steps heads along the hall. And finally I think should I shout out or get out the bath, but I just think fuck that play dead and it will leave me alone.’
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‘Yeah I know that works with bears.’
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‘Listen has anything like this happened to you?’
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‘No? ‘
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‘Well shut up and let me continue. Anyway so I can see it take a left and drag its belly into the kitchen and I can hear it rattling about in there and I think maybe its raiding the bins. Then I worry some more because it might be hungry and how do I know what it would eat. So I’m peering out of the door when I see its snout reappear and it trundles back towards me and I can see it has something in its mouth. And you will not believe this..’
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‘Yeah I know it’s all sounded a bit flaky so far, but the bloody thing has raided my coppers jar. Its great big slimy gob is crammed full of twos and ones and as it creeps along they’re spilling out so it starts to hurry and its legs speed up and I think fuck its going to go for me but no it picks up speed and flops with a great heave into the toilet again scattering coins all over and its great big mucky tail wags around throwing water around as it disappears.
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‘Of course I got up then. I jumped up quick style and looked down the pan. All I could see was bubbles. I slammed down the lid. It’s one of those cheap plastic ones. No weight so I ran to the hall cupboard for some gaffer tape tied it up tight and plonked a load of heavy boots, tools and an iron on it.’
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‘Look every bloody word is true mate. I swear to you.’
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‘I told you I’m not drunk, stoned or pulling your leg. Look I Googled the bloody thing and I reckon it was some kind of giant salamander.
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‘A salamander S.A.L.A.M.A.N.D.E.R. Some kinda huge frog thing. ’
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‘Look mate you have to believe me. Come right over. I have proof. The fucking thing has left about a hundred slimey eggs in my coppers jar!’






Frothy Formicarium

Stella had been working in the coffee house for a week or so. She had arrived barely a week before that from Warsaw and had been disappointed by the work, the pay and the people. The hours were long, the work repetitive. So much for the promised land of milk and honey. Her fellow employees were the usual mix of service industry nationals who had all left their camaraderie well away from the steamed milk and overpriced sandwiches.
This Monday morning was quieter than usual outside was steady with grey rain, but at least the café was its usual roasted warmth. Stella was a little hung-over from the previous night’s vodka and glad that the handful of customers who had been and gone had showed no inclination for chat or for her to ladle on the pleasantries herself. She had barelyy noticed them as she consumed surreptitious espressos with aspirin. Christian who was also meant to be working the counter had failed to appear and none of his numerous mobiles seemed to be switched on so Stella’s fingers were crossed the rain would keep up till the end of her shift.
She was gazing down and flicking distractedly through a glossy magazine when the door opened bringing in a gasp of wind. She looked up smartly to gauge that it wasn’t the doglike area manager and relaxed to see a skinny old man. He stood at the door way wiping his coat with a large hankie which he then ran over his sparse greased hair before using it to dry his thick lensed glasses. She gave him a genuine smile, since he looked so much like the old men of her home village. Which he replied to with a gummy one of his own. He walked sprightly up to the counter and with some thin fingers gestured that he could not speak but pointed out that he would like a hot chocolate and a large muffin. He paid with a crisp five pond note and smiling again pointed for her to keep the change. He then sauntered off and sat at the nearest table and Stella laughed quietly to herself as he leaned over and gave his order a rather theatrical smell of appreciation.
Stella decided to keep on top of her job for once and got about washing the days accumulated cups and plates, her head having cleared considerably. Then she turned back and gave the counter a quick wipe only to see the little man had hunched over his as yet untouched order. For a second she though the poor little soul had fallen asleep then worried he might have taken a turn. She was just about to shout out to him when his head snapped up and she could see his pink little tongue was hanging out his eyes gazed blankly ahead. God he’s a dirty old sex pest was her first reaction, but what happened next made her sure that was not the case. On the end of his tongue was a black dot, perhaps a sultana from his uneaten muffin? Stella could see how dry the tongue was and winced inside as the sultana seemed to move. She could see it had tiny legs and minute searching feelers. As she stared intently at the tiny moving thing her stomach lurched a little as it was joined by a second then a third. Christ they were ants, living black ants. She glanced at the old mans eyes and they remained blindly staring ahead and when she flicked back to the tongue three had become six perched on the tongues tip softly probing the air with their antenna.
Stella took a step back her hands nervously reaching for her mobile. Her fingers succeeded in pushing the phone into the water filled sink. Just then she could see the lead ant crawl to the underside of the extended tongue and work its way round to the tightly knotted red tie. It then picked up speed and made its way down the old man’s body till it descended on the muffin. Stella decided to be a little more proactive and searched hurriedly under the sink for the insect spray. She found a brightly coloured fierce looking can and made her way round to the old man’s table. She held the can out like a gun and slowly approached. By now his tongue was a black moving mass and his chin bristled with living motion. A steady stream of ants was moving to and fro the muffin, which was slowly being consumed. The returning ants each brought a crumb of food in their jaws which disappeared with them into the blackness of the old man’s mouth. Stella made a ‘Dirty Harry’ stance and was about to spray the insecticide directly at the scene, but something staid her hand. She realised that she did not feel threatened. The old man was a statue and the ants were engrossed in their insect manner by the food. She even felt a little pang of sympathy as she saw a few of their number had drowned as they mined the froth of the hot chocolate. She slowly lowered the spray can and took a tentative step forward. The ants now formed a streaming black bib on the man’s front and the muffin was buried underneath a writhing ant heap. Even the hot chocolate had succumbed by sheer weight of numbers. Ants were climbing from the mug their abdomens swollen with liquid. As Stella bent forward she could hear the almost imperceptible noise of chittering and chewing, the tiny rustling of their feet. She reached out her free hand and waved it over the ants but they simply continued about their business. Holding her hand to her nose she could smell the tang of formic acid. She could see the ants had completely consumed the muffin and the cup was wiped clean even the drowned were removed. The ants were returning from where they came, marching orderly file back over the tongue drawbridge and back into the gaping mouth. As the final ant disappeared the tongue shot in as the mouth snapped shut startling Stella. She could see life returning to the old mans eyes and his Adam’s apple bobbled as he swallowed slowly. She placed a hand gently on his shoulder just as he belched loudly and smiled up at her with an innocent smirk. He thanked her and before she could ask the obvious questions he sprung to his feet, fished another crisp fiver from his trouser pocket and pressed it with his warm hands into her own shaking hand. Then nodding smartly he headed out into the street which was now basked in sunshine.
Stella rubbed her eyes, her sore head having returned and headed behind the counter to splash her face with water. She stood for a minute pondering what to do. Who would believe her? Had her drink been spiked the night before? Was she still sound asleep? She jumped with a start when the front door opened once more. Thankfully it was the errant Christian and Andre for the next shift. Time to leave. So with the briefest of greetings she grabbed her stuff and headed out the door passing as she did a large cheery faced woman in a yellow fleece. As they passed at the doorway Stella could smell the sweet aroma of honeycomb heavy in the air and as their eyes met the woman gave her a huge knowing grin.







The Long Red Demon of the Desert and the Great Black Fish of the Inland Sea.

Long ago or countless yesterdays from now there lay a land where the sand fought the water. For as far as the eye could see a desert stretched, but at its heart lay dark bottomless sea. On the white rolling sands of the desert nothing lived, not shrub, not small scuttling thing bar the Long Red Demon and his children. Tall and strong, with eyes of diamond and fireblood they ruled the barren wastes. Always walking searching and immune to the pitiless heat. However for all dominion over the land they could not control the inland sea. Deep and hopelessly dark it was the home of a Great Black Fish. A huge fish. A black island of slate. Bigger than the eye could take in. Blacker than coal or pitch. She ruled the sea from its foaming shores to its utter depths. With her swam her children in shoals of glimmer always following the wash of her huge tail
So the Demon tended his garden of sand drawing patterns and writing words in the dunes with his great clawed hands. Standing over his children as they in turn worked. Proud and knowing and fearless a giant with golden horns and blood red skin his voice could scald and gaze burn. Yet for all his pride, all his arts he feared the waters. He and his children must travel from their lands and walk onto the shores for it was here they feed. On the shores were the feeding lands the polished pebbles and glass shards. For from these stones the Long Red Demon and his children gathered the black salt that sustained them. They crouched down fanned out along the shore gathering the harvest all the time cautious. For the black water lapped on the shore and in the water was all that could destroy them. The Long Red Demon would stand over his herd staring out and screaming in rage each time a wave drove his tribe fleeing back to their lands. For the Great Black fish patrolled the water and would gulp down a Demon in a crashing wave. Swallow it down and let her children graze the remnants from her obsidian teeth.
The Long Red Demon had thought and planned and built. He had hurled rocks and launched fire and fashioned great barbed spears and hooks from his own claws and the scales from his hide. Armies of his people had fought the seas and what it contained yet failed. The great unthinking fish would stare with her black dead eyes and cast bulwarks of water to drown legions. Traps had been set to beach their enemy, but all had failed with great losses. Their dead and dying were left as was their custom on the high parts of the desert for the wind to steal and the great bone yards had become vast white enclaves in the sand. The Long Red Demon had stood at the shoreline willing the Great Black Fish upon him, but she had kept to the deeper water content with smaller prey. He had plucked her young from the shallows with his great taloned hands, but they were thoughtless unformed things that turned to charcoal to his lead hot touch.
So the lines where drawn and kept and the salt was harvested and stored in the skulls of the dead and the Great Black Fish grew larger on the fiery marrow of her own harvest. Her great dark shoal grew in number and the weight of them deepened the inland sea and it encroached more on the Demon lands washing out the dune writ words and floating out the bone yards. So the Long Red Demon sat down with his firstborn and weeks past as they spoke and planned and smoked bone pipes filled with the hair of their woman folk and licked the finest and richest of the salt. Till a plan was formed and the people told and put to work. They came from every part from routes walked since their time began and gathered on the shore and out to sea the watered frothed with hungry mouths. For as many days as grains of sand in the great desert the demon kind approached the waters edge and each in turn threw a handful of sand into the black water and day by endless day the water filled soaking up the sand drawing it in. Till the Great Black Fish felt grains in her tomblike gills and caught in the matter of her lidless eyes and thrashed and rolled to no avail. Still on and on the sand bearers came unsleeping regiments till inch by inch the waters retreated and the black clarity muddied and stagnated till the Long Red Demon of the Desert walked on land unclaimed since aeons passed and left on great hoof prints where water had once flowed. Yet the Great Black Fish still stole those who dallied too long and swallowed them down, but the sand now turned and soured her meal in the chasms of her gut and her teeth rotted now her brethren were all but spent, trapped in the ever expanding mud flats. So she spent her time churning up the depths as her dominion shrank and her enemy prospered in the black salten fields and multiplied as she grew few and withdrew.
The Long Red Devil looked upon his territory and crunched the black salt as he strode on with his horde. He was not content yet for his, fresh returned, was hungry for more. So on they went till the day came that only a vast puddle was left and at its centre, still alive, still dangerous, hulked the Great Black Fish. The broiling sun baked her skin and her eyes were calcified blind milk yet still she swallowed and tore a regiment apart sent to end her. Till finally the Long Red Demon approached and stood in her shadow and smelt her rank smell. Then gently he reached a great iron hand into her eye and felt around in the soft inner till he felt the spark and crushed it out. Then he stood back as in one last heave the great fish, his timeless enemy of old died. So finally the moment came and with a wave of his hand his children descended on their diminished foe and tore her apart and smashed stale eggs waiting to be born, till she was scattered and dried and they stole even the salt that sparkled on the remnants.
The celebrations lasted an age and the one ruler looked over his kingdom content and unchallenged. He wore a crown of curved black teeth to mark his victory. The times of plenty were upon them and nothing could stop the feast. However in time the bounty finally ended when the salt grew scarce and all felt a new hunger. Then the time of wandering began and the people argued and blamed their father. So in desperation from the arid centre they walked outwards searching for fresh fields of the precious salt till countless of their kind once invulnerable simply wore down to red blown sand and their desert home became more deadly than any ravenous fish till even the Long Red Demon felt hunger for the first time. His royal tribute spent. So finally he fell upon his children and ate with fiery tears the trace salt in their flesh. And with this he survived till his people were no more and still he walked on, now a sad wasted thing, a faded, corroded traveller out alone and walking for countless years till he saw at last a sheen of black ahead. A crop of precious crystalline and came upon it sating his hunger, regaining his strength, but glancing up he saw lay stretched to infinite a further great black sea filled with a many Great Black Fish that looked upon him with dark hungry eyes.


Tree Lumps


When I was a little kid I loved a big tree that grew nearby my house. I would stare up into it all day long. It had funny looking lumps that grew on its trunk and sometimes, when I was all alone, they would move about.