All stories

Johnny with Nicky in the pub, only this time they weren’t kids, illicit pint in one hand, fake ID in the other. Johnny found it weird to look at the guy, to see that same kid face he remembered, only now it was sat atop thick shoulders, and arms that had to be paining him, the way the overtight tee shirt was cutting into the oversize biceps.

Johnny said, ‘Was it bonfire night, the last time I saw you? I remember legging it through the subway under the motorway, from those kids, after you took the piss out of that lad, told him his rucksack looked like a granny’s suitcase.’

Nicky chuckled. ‘Yeah. Man, but that kid moved, even with a suitcase.’

‘Then you were gone,’ Johnny said. ‘And all we have left is Nicky, the legend.’

Nicky shrugged as he drank. ‘Load of bullshit.’ He drank some more, then said, ‘A minor disagreement, with Mrs Ellsworth.’

‘The English teacher?’

Nicky nodded. ‘They kicked me out with a load of bullshit – she told them these tales, lied and said I was trying to take photos up her skirt, but the real reason, just a simple disagreement between us two.’

Nicky began to grin. ‘She wanted me, see. I didn’t want her. So she lied, said all that bullshit. Man, vindictive cow.’

‘Right,’ Johnny said. It needed more than that, but his brain couldn’t think of any words.

Nicky was chuckling throatily to himself. ‘Man, what a twat young me was. Today’s Nicholas would’ve shagged the horny mare.’

Johnny said, ‘I remember Mrs Ellsworth. Those legs. And the skirts.’

‘Shame about the tits, though,’ Nicky said. ‘First years with bigger tits than hers.’

‘That’s not where I was going,’ Johnny said. ‘Think about a league, your tippermost, toppermost, upper echelons of hot woman. Got it?’

‘Permanently.’

‘And then above that, there’s a whole other league. You have models in it, you have Bond girls. You have Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.’

‘Oh man,’ Nicky said.

‘And then above that is a whole other league with Mrs Ellsworth in it, because My-Fucking-God, she is an actual real person that we know. Got it?’

Nicky nodded.

‘So here’s my question,’ Johnny said. He smiled, to show the guy he was only kidding around. ‘Mrs Ellsworth. Twenty-nine. Top league, by herself. And she wants to shag sixteen-year-old you?’

Nicky’s lips didn’t move. Nothing about his face moved, and yet he was no longer grinning as he looked at Johnny, and Johnny was suddenly aware of the guy’s teeth, this mouth full of crooked horse teeth.

Softly, Nicky said, ‘You kidding me?’

Johnny tried to keep smiling. Him and Nicky, they kidded around, ripped the piss. Only Nicky wasn’t smiling.

He planted both palms flat on the table. His eyes had gone wide, his nostrils wider.

Johnny said, ‘Listen, mate.’

Nicky shot to his feet, the back of his chair cracking into the chair behind. The whole of the pub turned to watching standing there, towering above Johnny, Nicky quivering, his voice almost shaking as he asked Johnny again if he was kidding him.

Looking up at the guy, all Johnny could think – definitely not kids any more.

I had no time to take much stock

So parodied Hilaire Belloc *

and if that isn’t to your taste

Apologies, please blame my haste

1.

Charles Alexander Fennimore

A child, I’ve not described before,

displayed the most outrageous skill

At basting, broiling, spit and grill.

Why, even at the age of 3

His gastronomic mastery

Extended well beyond the fare

His cook and servants could prepare.

His Spatchcock liver gained renown

As far away as Canning Town.

(A destination on a bus

Which may not be salubrious

But came quite quickly to my mind

Because it sort of scanned and rhymed).

“What a lad” I hear you cry

“There’s naught to stop him riding high.”

But Charles endured the shameful fall

Of which I now must tell you all.

2

His fame soon spread from there to here

As it was whispered far and near

That this precocious ingénue

had caught the eye of Michel Roux

who said “he’s just the boy I want

to run my brand new restaurant.

But first I think I’ll test him out

And see what he is all about”.

So Charles made jelly from a quince

And ballotine of sprouts in mince

And Turbot wrapped in nettle stems

That day fished from the mighty Thames

And bacon fat and blackberry tart

And langoustines with rabbit heart.

With staff of merely 28

(If one includes Miss Postlethwaite).

3

But then upon the very day

That Michel Roux was come to stay

Charles spied a mongrel dog called Rover.

and left his sauce pans boiling over

and went to play upon the green

Forgetting his effete cuisine.

And shouting “good boy” “Run” and Fetch”

This miserable little wretch

Let carnage reign upon his hob

And only finished half the job.

The unsuspecting Chef Michel

Arrived at Charles’s kitchen hell

But sadly was a trifle late.

To save the poor Miss Postlethwaite

And several others in the team

The coroner said, “death by steam”.

4,

Although his mother almost pleaded

He wasn’t what the great chef needed

“That child alas is just not like us

Let him join the hairy bikers”

But even they would not employ

This most obnoxious little boy.

Too late his parents set him free

From ties of high society

And let him loose to sink or swim

Even the dog deserted him.

So heed the lessons of this tale

When cooking dinner never fail

To turn the cooker dials to off

Or don’t expect to stay a toff

And like young Charles you’ll soon be found

Busking on the underground.

---

*an Edwardian author who

Warned naughty children old and new.

That was it. They had gone too far. Eyes filling with tears Barbara flew up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door, ignoring the shrill cries of her mother catching at her heels, trying to pull her back down and apologise this instant, young lady.

She wouldn’t stay. She couldn’t, it was as simple as that. Without thinking Barbara pulled out her old suitcase and began absently filling it with clothes. Underthings, jumpers. The shoes that had been the cause of all this fuss.

She had two pounds and twelve shillings and sixpence saved. It wasn’t much but it would have to do. She wrapped the money in a scarf and shoved it to the bottom of the case.

Outside the wind had a bite to it and Barbara wished she’d thought to get her coat. Never mind, she would have to buy one when she got to - but where would she go? London? That’s where people went, wasn’t it?

Number 47's curtains twitched as she passed. Good. Let them stare. Let them all see what she’d been driven to.

The smell of bonfires and raked leaves and crisp winter-spiced air wrapped itself around her as she walked towards the subway and the world began to settle itself. It really was silly to have left without her coat, but that couldn’t be helped now.

In London there’d be no-one to make her come home early, no-one to say her skirt was too

short or her heels too high. She could stay out till midnight if she chose, with writers and artists!

The bus station was loud and cold. A group of men stared as she passed and pointed, nudging each other, but they didn’t say anything. The London bus was in an hour, so she sat down to wait for it.

Her fingers began to ache from the cold. With the slowing of her heart came the cooling of her blood; maybe she had been wrong to shout at Mam like that? She hoped that wherever she ended up would have a bath. As she imagined hot water thawing the chill that seeped into her bones, Barbara began to shiver.

The bench shifted. A man had sat beside her. Barbara didn’t look. What should she do? She’d heard stories about men taking advantage of girls alone in the city, whatever that meant, and suddenly Barbara was afraid. What if someone tried to take advantage of her? How would she know?

When the man reached out and touched her shoulder, she whirled around and saw in that instant that it was Dad.

For a moment they didn’t speak. Then:

“London is it?”

Barbara nodded.

“What’ll you do when you get there?”

Barbara shrugged.

“It’s bangers and mash for tea tonight. Sure you’d not prefer to come back for a bit of something to eat before you go? It’s chilly and you can always catch a later bus?”

Barbara looked up at him. It was cold. One last meal at home would mean she could keep back a little more of that two pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence. She could fetch her coat too, and maybe have that bath before she left, to take the chill off.

“Come on” said Dad, picking up her suitcase. They walked back through the station towards home.

She sees tiny little bubbles first, on the surface. Milk in a pan on the gas hob, being heated for hot chocolate. Outside sparks and sparklers and the crackle and spit of wet wood in flame. People drift in and bring the bonfire smell in their hair and she winces as they laugh. In the pan the bubbles coalesce, become a bubble collective before bursting to make room for new ones.

Her suitcase is still in the hall, where she left it. Dirty and battered with its sticky wheels, in it the socks and pants and other dirty things of her life. She has dragged it all across town, from the station, along the streets, under the subway, around the park to this house, this place on this night. Because there is nowhere else to be, not because she wants to be here.

Her sister passing by touches her lightly on the elbow. Sending connection and rejection through her neurons to where her thoughts should be. But she isn’t really thinking. Just watching the milk in the pan as it starts to simmer.

Back where she was, where the suitcase comes from, the place she left, is that man who was a boy once. She imagines he is sitting as she left him, slumped on the rug. Wet face, whimpering, smashing his fist on the floorboards. He didn’t have to do that.

Their life together had started as a dance, until it decelerated. One minute she was spinning and leaping, the next wading through mud. Looking at him and all the small daily betrayals of his face made her hate him in the end. Looking at him was like burning in her head.

The milk at the bottom is catching. The simmer is becoming a rolling boil. She turns away from the pan for a moment, wanting to be where the others are. Her feet won’t move, still clogged with mud. Her sister smiles and moves like silk around the guests, draping across them with a self-aware deftness that they admire and desire.

The man in the flat, the flat man, he made her feel full up and bursting with stuff to say that could never be said. “You’re fucking mad” he had said when she finally burst and all the words inside her vomited all over him. Her skin was itching, her eyes were dry as blades. Her sister called from the garden, with her sweet and singsong voice like an angel bitch. The milk in the pan was boiling, rising, near the top of the pan. It breached the sides and hissed as it ran into the gas flame.

Her sister’s fist gripped her wrist, pulled it back from the pan. Flame extinguished, milk subsided, bubbles dissipating, boiled and done. Nothing left but a dirty pan.

Fei heard the click first. No movement just the sound and feel of the clasp sliding open. He waited, his long thick ear slowly twisted in the air sensing what would happen next. A thin ray of light spread down onto the rolling coils of his body. Fei smelled the air, his tongues darted in and out. One mouth gaped open sucking the air in. It had been a long time since he had tasted clean fresh air. This strange box had been his cage for so long now. His fingers nervously scratched an eyelid. The strip of light widened until he could see out into the world once more.

They seemed to be in an underground tunnel but in the dim light he couldn't see much else. The woman’s voice sent a shiver through his body and his eyes flickered nervously from side to side.

“It’s not been easy. But you asked and I always deliver.” There was a cruel playfulness in her voice. Fei couldn’t hear the reply. But he saw her face flicker as she hid her displeasure. “Of course...but this is something special, maybe the last of its kind. As well you know.” As she spoke Fei slowly pushed at the side of the suitcase, testing her awareness.

She was deep in negotiations now, regaling the buyer, with the story of how she had risked her life snatching the filthy beast from its cave, smoked it out with a blend of herbs that had plunged him into a deep sleep. He remembered waking up, trapped in the dark, unable to move, miles away from his home, confused and angry. That had been months ago, maybe longer. Since then time had lost all meaning. She had kept him alive, feeding him scraps every few days, never giving him a chance to unfold and move. But it was not the scraps he was fed that nourished him, but his anger, quietly simmering away, waiting for the right moment to boil over.

With a sudden burst of energy Fei launched himself sideways. The suitcase collapsed open as he, finally free, unfolded his aching, curled wings. Leaping into the air, his heart soared at the feel of the fresh air. For a moment he forgot everything. And then his rage hit him. He swept passed the flailing arms, soaring upwards before circling around to find her. All of his eyes were focussed on her now. She screamed before he had reached her, clawing across her face and arms and spraying forth toxins from the edge of his wings. Her scream melted from fear to pain as she dropped to the floor. In the distant he saw the buyer running in panic. In a moment he was tearing into his back, his thick tentacle digging into his spine, hungry. He watched her as he fed. Clawing at her swollen face. Eyes rolling, chest heaving, blood bubbling from her wounds, trying to crawl, to speak. He smiled as he watched hee . He would enjoy this.