David Hadley's Blog, page 190

When the Revolution Comes

Plutonium Teagarden decided that he must become a left-wing revolutionary one Saturday, around tea-time. Up until then he had been a mild-mannered clerical assistant, tasked with the vital filing of costumer-satisfaction reports for one of the most well-known contemporary hair care product lines on the market.

For some time, Teagarden had realised that not only was his existence pointless and purposeless, it also made it very difficult for him to get a decent shag.

However, for some reason, he thought that committing himself to a political ideology would somehow change this state of affairs. If not that, he hoped it would, at least, get him out of his rather dull room in his parent's house where he had spent every Saturday afternoon since he was born, apart from one six-week stretch in his early teens when he'd developed a sudden interest – swiftly followed by equally-sudden complete disinterest – in the local football team.

Of course, political activism is about as sexy as sharing an ice-cold sheep dip with a trainee supermarket manager, a confused toad and several dead leaves, but Teagarden did not realise this at the time.

This sudden political awakening was mainly due to him opening the door to a political party canvasser at around half-past-seven on Wednesday afternoon the previous week. The party worker was what Teagarden could only describe as a young woman. It was most unusual for a young woman to want to speak to Teagarden about anything – including hair care customer satisfaction reports – so one actually interested – or even pretending to be interested – in his opinions was a novel – and a somewhat surprisingly sexually-arousing - experience for Teagarden. His only other real sexual experience up until then happened when a young Blue Peter presenter had become rather stickily-entangled in a wayward piece of sticky-backed plastic, just three weeks after Teagarden's 14th birthday.

The young female party worker – Jemima – was of course of impeccable modern left-wing credentials, being the privately-educated offspring of a hedge-fund manager and BBC political journalist. It took her only a matter of moments and an ethical feminism-inspired display of her not-inconsiderable cleavage to get Teagarden to sign up to a lifetime party membership.

Another ethical display of cleavage – with the merest hint of nipple – made Teagarden also promise to attend a demo the following week where - Jemima promised - several thousand like-minded 'activists' would demonstrate against the government's callous decision not to spend other people's money on those that didn't need it, but felt they deserved it anyway as a basic human right.

The members of Jemima's workers' revolutionary party cadre: Sebastian, Tarquin, Samantha and the others were all keen to involve Teagarden in their revolutionary activities in preparation for the upcoming demo. Some of them even went as far as ostentatiously refusing to wash their hands after discovering that Teagarden actually worked for a living, with Sebastian even enquiring if Teagarden would consider being his butler should the demo turn into a sit-in or protest encampment.

However, once the demo got underway, the entire cadre were arrested for being 'smug self-obsessed posh bastards in a manner likely to cause physical illness in a police officer', in the first 10 minutes of the demo. Teagarden then found himself alone in the police cells. The rest of the gang had all immediately phoned each of their daddy's lawyers who all had a word with the Chief Constable over a promise of a round of golf in the near future and thus enabling the police to release the protestors without charge.

Teagarden was found guilty of looking like a trouble-maker and sentenced to 10 minutes of community service. Afterwards, he decided that political activism was not really his sort of thing after all. He then decided to devote the rest of his life to internet-inspired mammoth masturbation sessions, just like any other normal young man, instead.

The Grey Morning

It all began on one of those ordinary grey mornings when it seems the sun will never appear from behind a dull, uniform blanket of grey cloud that wraps up the whole day in some kind of deadening dullness. When he stepped out of the doorway and into the street, Harry could feel, taste, the dampness in the air around him. It was the sort of day when the cold and damp seemed to seep into the bones, making them ache with weariness.

As he walked down the High Street, too early for the shops to be open, he could recall how the Travel Agent's window used to mock days like this with its pictures of tropical beaches and women in white bikinis (always white bikinis, for some reason). Now, though, the Travel Agent had long since closed - replaced by a charity shop, of course.

The newsagent was the only beacon of light in the street, drawing everyone out on the street – the few that there were around at that time of day – into the bright sanctuary of its open doorway. It was the closest thing to a welcome anyone would get on a day like this.

Harry picked up his usual newspaper, said his usual good mornings to those he usually said good morning to and ignored those who usually did not say good morning to him. He had the usual desultory half-conversation with the newsagent, and then stepped back out into the dull, damp, grey morning.

He had long since given up any hope of anything any different happening on days like this.

When it did, it took him by so much surprise he found that he was unable to do anything, but stand and stare, as the burglar alarm broke the morning's dull leaden silence.

A car screeched out of nowhere as three men, all carrying filled black bin bags and sawn-off shotguns, poured out of the smashed open door of the bank, shoving Harry out of the way, pointing their guns at him and throwing him to the damp ground, his newspaper scattering and wrapping its flapping pages around their feet.

The three men threw the bags through the open back doors of the van and two of them clambered in after them.

'Wait!' the last of the three yelled. He walked slowly back to where Harry was struggling to his knees.

'Well… well… Well….' The masked man said, pumping a round into his shotgun. 'Good morning, Detective Chief Inspector Harry Clarke. Doesn't look like it is going to be your day, does it?'

Thursday Poem: Wind Blown Dreams

Wind Blown Dreams

These could be your dreams
blown like dead leaves over dry ground
by a wind that respects no sanctuary
and leaves no corner of all you hold dear

safe from its probing fingers that churn
all you dreams, all your hopes and memories
into a maelstrom that leaves you spinning
wondering which way you should turn

as days gone by and days yet to be
twist around each other in your mind
and you wonder if you'll ever see
a day again where this wind doesn't blow.

Under the Desert Sun

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. There was no-one here but me to say it to anyway. I had woken here, lying under this tree, just out of the burning sun with absolutely no clue as to how I'd arrived here. That is, apart from the aches, bruises and a few cuts and scratches. All of which would probably not have been so bad, or so noticeable, if I were not completely naked.

Naked, that is, except for the dust and dirt that covered most of me.

When it didn't make me feel too dizzy and nauseous to do it, I lifted up my head to look around.

I was in some sort of desert valley, sandy soil with desultory scrubby grass and a few plants leading down a slope to this stream where a few trees grew. One of which was shading me from the heat of the sun. I had a feeling that without the tree being there to protect me, I would have some serious sunburn, if not sunstroke by now. I felt hazy, woozy and out of it, but somehow I felt I'd been there a long time.

Shading my eyes from the sun, I looked around. There was no sign of my clothes, or of anything else, except as I stared I could make out signs of where I seem to have roiled down the hillside to end up under the tree.

Eventually, I managed to get to my feet, I was a bit stiff but I could walk, more or less. Slowly, gingerly in my bare feet I followed the flattened grass and disturbed sand back up the hill, looking for where I'd come from.

Then, as I sat down in the shade of another tree, I saw the dust kicked up by the riders as they rode towards me.

Holiday Invasions

[image error]

Still, we did what we could for the wounded holiday-rep, even though – at the time – it seemed more like a holding operation than the full-frontal assault promised in the holiday brochure. After all, there is nothing quite as invigorating as a full fortnight's holiday invading small foreign countries (full board) is there? Especially when the resort offers several luxury – at least, initially – hotels on the beachhead, all within easy reach of the first wave of landing craft and assault vehicles, even if –on the first day – most of those are festooned with German invasion beachhead towels.

Once the invading force of holiday-makers have assaulted and captured initial beachhead hotels and swimming pools, it is then a matter of pushing deeper into the county and liberating as many quaint local bars, restaurants, tavernas, places of historical interest and areas of natural beauty as the holiday-company supplied ordnance allows.

Alternatively, for those satisfied with just capturing the beachfront hotels, they can spend the two weeks lounging by the hotel pool. Apart from the enemy's counter-attacks and air raids, of course, this should provide plenty of opportunity for rest and relaxation.

Obviously, for the kids, a chance to operate the anti-aircraft defences is something for them to look forward to in their holiday, especially if they manage to shoot down a fighter-bomber to show everyone back at school, when they return home after the holiday.

Mugging

[image error]

The rain had been falling as though someone up high in the heavy grey-black clouds had upended a bucket over the streets below. Now, though, night was falling under a sky clear of clouds. It was as though the clouds had heard night was coming and run for cover, out of the way.

Suddenly, down the otherwise deserted side street, Libby wished they could've run for cover too.

As soon as the scrawny scruffily-dressed youth had stepped out of the shadows behind the bins and into their path, Libby has sensed - rather than seen - Heller step forward so that his body was between her and the youth. She was supposed to be the one trained for this, supposed to be the one protecting the older man, but somehow she felt more secure with the bulk of the man between her and the knife the youth held in his now-trembling hand.

'Hand over your money... your mobiles... both of you… everything you've got!' the knife waved uncertainly between Heller and Libby. The youth's eyes flickered back and forwards between the couple, blinking and nervous.

'Now, why on Earth should I even consider such a thing?' Heller's voice was mocking, but firm.

''Cos I've got this fuckin' knife... that's why!' the uncertainty and nervousness was giving way to anger. The youth took a step forward, and the wavering knife moved closer towards Heller.

'Really?' Heller said, moving so even more of himself came between the knife-man and Libby.

'Come on, old man... I'm not fuckin' scared of using this, y'know....' He held the knife up so that the blade glinted in the distant streetlight.

Libby was grateful for the old man blocking her from the youth's view as she eased out her radio, ready to call for the back-up that should only be a few streets away.

Before she could pull her radio free, the mugger lunged at the old man. Libby felt the scream die in her throat as the mugger seemed to fly in slow motion into the bins at the side of the street, landing with a heavy metallic clatter amongst them.

'I think, really, you ought to consider fucking off, don't you?' Heller said. 'I'll keep this.' He pocketed the knife. 'Maybe you ought to consider some sort of change of career of some kind…. Hmmm?'

Heller looked behind him. Libby closed her mouth and gave a weak grin at Heller, standing there in the middle of the side street as though he was on a pleasant afternoon stroll. 'Are you all right?' he said to Libby, who could only nod dumbly in reply.

'Come on, then' Heller said 'or we'll be late.' Turning back, he walked past the groaning mugger without a glance at him, and carried on up the street with Libby rushing to catch up with him.

When she Came

[image error]

I woke suddenly, convinced that something was wrong. I felt as though I was not alone. I was right, when I looked; she was there, standing at the bottom of my bed.

'Who are yo…? What the fu…?' I mumbled, wondering how she had managed to get into my house and – absurdly - what time it was.

'Come,' she said.

I glanced at the clock: 00:00, it said.

'What the hell…?' I started at the woman, she was young, but somehow seemed ancient. A look in her eyes that suggested she had seen so much.

'Come…' she repeated, reaching out a hand towards me.

'What..?' I fumbled for the bedclothes, suddenly very conscious of this stranger in the room and my nudity.

'Come.'

I found myself getting up, out of the bed as though her words and that reaching hand had me under her spell. It was as though I had no volition of my own. I took a step around the side of the bed to where she was waiting; suddenly realising I had an erection. She did not even glance or acknowledge it.

I decided I must have been dreaming.

I glanced back at the bed, and surprised myself by how unsurprised I was to see my sleeping form still there in the bed.

'Come,' she said, turning to lead me out of the bedroom. I thought about turning back to the bed, ignoring her, but even as I did, my feet were moving, tracing her footsteps, which left a sort of ghostly wisp of mist behind them on the floor as she walked away.

She stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for me to catch up with her.

'Come,' she said again, this time glancing over her shoulder as she walked through the wall.

'Bu….' I said even as I felt the solidity of the wall open for me, I felt as though I was dipping my whole body in custard, or something like that, something that looked solid but was in fact permeable. Then, I was through and outside; standing in mid-air, naked. I was standing on nothing as she did the same a few feet in front of me.

This is some dream, I thought.

She turned her head to look at me once again. 'This is no dream,' she said. 'Come.'

Monday Poem: A Prevented Falling

[image error]

A Prevented Falling

A slowly moving thunderstorm
with rain that never stops, her hands
will hold me still, preventing me

from falling as the planet spins
around and all the days fall down
get lost and washed away from us

through gutters and down drains to leave
us here to look up at a sky
which only holds the clouds and rain

that fall down upon us to wash
it all away eventually,
and leaving us with hands that can't,

even now, hold the rain, and reach
instead for empty air as rain
falls from them like the tears we once
thought we knew just how to shed.

2011: Review of the year

Last year, 2011 happened.



Now it has stopped.

A Walking Ghost

[image error]

As we sat there, watching the latest detective solving his latest whodunit on the TV, Cathy and I would often laugh about how it always seemed to be someone out walking their dog who found the body. Cathy would often say that I should always make sure I'd charged my mobile before I took Meg out each morning, because one day I could end up being the dog walker who discovers the body.

Not that Cathy or I had ever really expected to come across a body, not in our sleepy little backwater village.

Here I was, though, standing just off the familiar path where I walked Meg every morning: summer or winter, rain or shine. I was looking down into the trees and at the dead body that lay awkwardly against the base of a tree, its feet almost in the narrow brook, just under where the wooden bridge crossed over it.

I would never get to make that breathless panicked 999 call on my mobile though. One reason was that the police were already here, secondly, and more importantly – to me at least – because that dead body I was staring at was mine.

Faithfully, Meg was sitting by the body, a very young-looking and slightly queasy seeming PC holding her lead. Every now and then, though, Meg would look up to where I was standing in the trees. She would cock her head to one side as if tying to make sense of the fact that she could see me in two places at once.

There were several detectives - I presumed that was what they were – standing around the body. One of them, wearing a long old-fashioned coat and the sort of hat that only appears these days in black-and-white films on TV in the afternoons detached himself from the group and made his way up to me.

I - believing I must be some sort of ghost – expected him to just walk through me, maybe shivering, as his body met my incorporeal form, or something like that.

Instead, he looked up to me.

'So, y'know, how do you feel? About being dead, that is?'

'You can see me?'

He just nodded and seemed to be considering lighting a cigarette, absently patting the pockets of the overcoat.

'But, I thought... well, none of the others are able to see me, except Meg... the dog.'

'Yes, well dogs… they can't exactly see us... but they sense us.'

'Us?'

He nodded again.

'So... you... are....' I shook my head in wonder. 'I thought you were with the police?'

'I am.'

I looked over towards where the detectives, forensic people and so forth were gathered around the body that I still couldn't quite believe was me.

'No, not with them,' he said. 'Although, I used to be. No, I work for the police on this side.'

'This side?'

'Come on,' he said. 'Let's get away from here. I think I may have some explaining to do.'