Dane Cobain's Blog, page 28

Albufeira 2016 Journal

Thursday 1st December 2016

Oh no, here we go again. It’s time for another travel journal. This one takes us to the south coast of Portugal, but first there’s a gig to go to and a little history.

See, this trip almost didn’t happen. I was off work for most of the week during the build-up to it because of problems with my teeth. On the Thursday, the pain was so bad that even cocodamol barey took the edge off it. The only thing that helped was if I filled my mouth with cold water and rinsed it around, but it needed replacing every minute or so because otherwise the pain was just unbearable. I looked it up and basically the issue was that I had an infection and it had spread to the root of the tooth. The tooth was dead but the nerve wasn’t, hence the pain, and cold water reduced the temperature and therefore the pressure and the pain.

Luckily, after staying up all night on Tuesday because of the water in the mouth thing, I was able to get an emergency appointment at 10:15 AM. I went in, had my face numbed and the damn thing pulled out of my face, and was out of there by 11:30. I went home and promptly passed out.

That pretty much sorted out the toothache, although I was given antibiotics and ordered not to smoke for two days or to drink for a week. Bit of a bummer, considering the timing.

All of this brings us up to Thursday 1st December. It was a surreal day. I went back to work after not being able to do much all week, but then everyone left at about three to go to the airport and, from there, to Albufeira. But I had something else to do first, so I stayed at the office and got to say one of the last goodbyes to Josefina – who was in on her last day because she’s basically being deported – and to be the last person out of the office with Ryan, who locked up.

While everyone else was on their way to the airport, I had to catch the early bus home to sort my house out – I’d brought the mattress through into the living room so I could at least be comfortable while I was in pain. I had to move that back, bring the bins in and do a few other boring admin bits, and I also had to finish packing my stuff for Albufeira.

With that done, I locked up and headed to the train station. Of course, as is always the way when I want to get somewhere, there were delays – a train had broken down between Wycombe and London. Still, I got to Marylebone eventually, where I met Becca and ate a bagel. Solid food, woohoo!

From Marylebone, we hopped on the tube to Highbury and Islington, only to discovery when we got off that the O2 Academy Islington is about a mile away from the station. Should’ve got off at Angel! But still, we got to the venue just before nine, and they even had a cloak room so I could put my bag down for a while.

Even though we arrived way later than we’d planned to, we still arrived in time to see some of the support acts, although I didn’t catch their names. The first was a young ska band from Birmingham who were awesome – very charismatic, and with an interesting mix o influences and three people in the brass section. I’ll have to give it a Google and check out some more of their stuff. They were followed by an old (60 ish?) guy who kept on shouting, “Yeah, yeah!” into a microphone while playing reggae tunes. It was one of the strangest (and most cringeworthy) things I’ve seen in my life, but the crowd loved it. I did not – I snuck outside for a cigarette – but I guess I can see why they put him on. Comedy value.

And then it was time for Dub Pistols, the main event. I’ve seen them three or four times before, including at Glastonbury, but this was the first time I’d ever been sober. Luckily, they still put on a great show – despite Dave Vader’s bass malfunctioning at the start of the set and forcing them to adlib – and it proved that you don’t have to be wrecked to enjoy their music, although it helps. They’re all from London and proud of their London roots, and so the gig was a bit of a homecoming show. They played most of the tunes that I know and love, as well as Peaches (which I’ve never seen them do before) and a new one from their upcoming album.

It was a great show, but it was almost half eleven by the time that they finished and by the time that we got to Waterloo, Becca had already missed her last train home. Luckily, she was able to hop on to another one that took her most of the way, and then she hopped into a taxi. I, meanwhile, was in London.

 

Drunk, Sad or Tired

This is London,

midnight

as December 1st

becomes December 2nd.

 

The people dance

while buskers play

Oasis songs;

a homeless guy

asks me for change

and I say,

“Mate, I’m sorry,

I can’t help you.”

 

I like to watch people

on the underground.

 

I like how

the light makes

everyone look ugly;

I like to play drunk,

sad or tired.

 

You see,

you’ll look at the eyes

and find

they’re always one,

two or the other.

 

The drunks

wear high-heeled shoes

or take off their ties

and undo

their top button.

 

The sad people

stare doey-eyed

at night

in particular.

 

The tired people

look like the sad people

and the drunks

and they can’t stop yawning

or checking their watches.

 

London,

I love you;

you remind me

I’m mostly insignificant.

 

Tonight,

I shall mostly

be tired.

 

But by that point it was past midnight, and so…

 

Friday 2nd December 2016

With Becca on her way back home, I was ready to head to the airport, so I took the tube to Victoria and then hopped on the 1 AM to Brighton, alighting at Gatwick just before two. It gave me a strange sense of déjà vu because I’ve spent the night in the North Terminal before, one of the times I went to Amsterdam. I ended up sitting in the same place that I sat before, where I wrote ‘Automatic Po-Po’ – one of the poems from Eyes Like Lighthouses When the Boats Come Home.

 

Spending the Night at Gatwick

Waiting again,

this time at Gatwick Airport

North Terminal,

right by Jamie Oliver’s

cafeteria.

 

I’ve been here

before.

 

I’ve written here

Before.

 

It’s funny how

that’s how

I remember it;

I’m on the same seats

at the same time

maybe two years later;

once more

with no gun-toting

automatic po-po.

 

A woman is asleep

on the seats beside me;

she curled into

an E’s mirror image

because these charts

have arm rests,

in case you want

to rest your arms.

 

If you want

to stretch and sleep,

you’re out of luck.

 

Still,

I’ve got a good book,

and pens and paper

to write me another.

 

Let’s see,

“Once upon

a time…”

 

I only had to wait for a couple of hours before check-in, and so I kicked back and wrote in here, reading a little Peter James whenever my hand started to cramp. I also had to buy some new earphones (£5.99, so not too bad) because Becca took my headphones for safekeeping and forgot to give them back before she left. But the time just flew by, and soon I was heading through security.

I thought I’d done a good job of obeying the rules, but then my bag was taken aside and tested for explosives because I’m a fool and forgot to get rid of my bottle of water. But security were cool about it and it didn’t take me long for me to finish making my way through and to head to Wetherspoons. I couldn’t have a beer, but I did get a coffee for £2.20 which included unlimited refills. I had three cups, because caffeine.

 

Unlimited Refills

4:30 AM

at The Red Lion

Wetherspoons Gatwick

and I don’t know about youy

but I could use

a drink right now.

 

Alas,

I’m on antibiotics,

and while I love me a drink

I haven’t slept a wink

and one doesn’t just

drink alone in an airport

at 4:30 AM,

don’tchaknow?

 

Fortunately,

filter coffee’s

£2.25

with unlimited refills

until 2 PM.

 

I like to think

that’s a challenge.

 

The nice lady

at security

asked me why

my boss booked my tickets;

I said my boss booked my tickets

because your smile is nice,

or maybe I’m thinking

of someone else.

 

Yeah,

probably someone else;

she was helpful,

though.

 

Like the man

who checked my bag

for explosives

because I forgot

to remove

my water bottle.

 

My gate was called after the third cup, so I headed through to board the aeroplane. The flight itself was uneventful, except for when the pilot tried to land, screwed it up and had to loop around for another pass. Besides, I slept through most of it, if you can call it sleep. My main regret was that I didn’t buy a drink; I tried to, but I could only find a vending machine and it didn’t like me. Wouldn’t take my money.

After landing, some time around nine-ish, I made my way through passport control (eventually) and then immediately went out for a cigarette. Then, with that out of the way, I bought a drink (at last), nipped to the toilet and then found a taxi so I could head over to the hotel. Mark had given me 25 euros to cover it, but I guess he underestimated how much it would cost…

 

In the Back of a Taxi

I spent the flight

reading a crime novel

about a rapist

who drove a taxi…

 

Then

I made my way

through passport control,

smoked my first cigarette

in approximately six hours,

urinated

in a stall so narrow

I couldn’t fit my shoulders in,

bought a bottle of water,

took my medication

and jumped

in the back

of a taxicab.

 

I have no idea

where I’m going

and I hope

I don’t

get molested.

 

The driver speaks

English,

which is good;

I’m the typical

English tourist

with no knowledge

of basic

Portuguese.

 

It also means

he tried to talk to me,

mainly to say

it’s meant to rain

today.

 

I guess taxi chat

is the same

in every country.

 

But now

I’m on my way

to Albufeira,

and the air smells

very different here.

 

And everything seems

so peaceful.

 

Still, I made it to the hotel okay and didn’t have any problems checking into my room. I had a twin room to myself because Kelvyn’s couldn’t come, and it had a great view of the pool out back and the sea in the distance. It’s a lovely little hotel, but I didn’t have a chance to enjoy it later on. I just had time to shower, change and unpack before I left again to meet up with people in the lobby.

They weren’t there when I first checked – they were all hungover and so people were running late – and so I had a quick wander down the street to get some tobacco and to find my bearings. By the time I got back, people had started to gather, and it wasn’t long until we headed off to Sol Rosa.

It was a lovely little place, a terrace bar with a sea view, and fst paid for drinks and for a tapas lunch which, while reasonably tasty, wasn’t particularly filling. To begin with, I stuck to soft drinks, but it wasn’t long before I figured ‘fuck it’ and had a beer. I eased in to begin with, alternating between alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, but it quickly became apparent that mixing booze and antibiotics was having no noticeable side-effects and so I decided to commit myself and to go all out on the beer.

It was my first real chance to catch up with people, although there was no particular gossip. The main thing was that Becky had a burn on her forehead because Charlotte accidentally stabbed her in the face with a cigarette. After a few drinks, we even had the bright idea to play football on the beach, even though it was raining. We played barefoot and my team won 5-4 – I was in goal and people said I was man of the match. They also want me to play for fst Athletic once we’re back in the UK. I got sand all over the place though, and I also ended up with a huge rip on the back of my jeans from my arse down to my knees.

After the game, we had another beer and then headed back to the hotel for another (much needed) shower. It started raining on the way back and carried on raining – on and off – for the rest of the weekend. Then we headed downstairs to the Dog and Duck – the hotel’s in-house boozer, basically an English style pub on the bottom floor – to have a few drinks while we gathered the crew and prepared to head out.

For dinner, we went to a place called ‘Urban Pizza’, where they had a band playing Johnny Cash tunes while you ate. I was able to game the system – it was cheaper to order the vegetarian pizza and get extra mushrooms than it was just to order the funghi pizza. It was delicious, even though it had olives on it. Annalize had the same pizza, and she also hates olives, but she agreed that it was tasty as hell and so I got my third-party confirmation. I also put some chilli oil on it, which helped, although it probably wasn’t the best idea when it comes to my teeth.

Charlotte, meanwhile, ordered a calzone but asked them not to fold it. So a pizza, then.

From there, everything starts to get a little hazy. After the food was finished, we headed into a bar called Route 55, which had a police car mounted on the wall and live music. It was dead when we arrived, but we all went a bit mental and the band got more into it as a result. They even got heavier and did some Metallica and Nirvana after we requested it. Kerryn and I gave ourselves neckache from headbanging, half of the company went crowd surfing, and Cicely tried to stage dive and ended up falling off the stage and bruising her legs instead.

I left at about 2 AM because I was exhausted – I’d been up for 42 hours by then and needed some sleep. For some reason, though, I decided against a taxi and decided to walk home, alone, in the rain. As you can probably imagine, I was ready for bed when I got back.

 

Saturday 3rd December 2016

I didn’t wake up until 1:30 PM, by which point everyone else had already got up and gone about doing their activities. I downed a bottle of water from the hotel minibar, took my medication, showered off as much of the hangover as possible and then went for a little walk.

It didn’t take long for the hangover to properly kick in, and I was also sore from headbanging and playing football. My first stop was the supermarket for some juice and pain au chocolat; then, I went through some of the different tourist shops to get gifts and shit. For myself, I got an Albufeira t-shirt and a ‘Pug Life’ lighter and bottle opener. For my mom, a fridge magnet and a couple of postcards, plus a bookmark. And for Becca, a postcard, a purse made from cork (a local tradition), a set of colouring pencils, some hand-made olive soap and the toiletries from the hotel bathroom.

With shopping done and my wallet considerably lighter, I stopped off at an ATM and then paid a visit to McDonalds. Portuguese McDonalds are weird. You order on a self-service machine and can get beer, and they had a bank of a dozen or so iPads for kids to play on. I ordered a McVeggie meal with a pineapple Fanta, which is apparently a thing. It was fricken delicious, and so now I’m annoyed that it doesn’t seem to exist anywhere else. Sorted my hangover right out.

I ate it back in my room while watching a car restoration show on the Discovery Channel. I still hadn’t seen anyone, and I was about to have a relaxing bath with my Peter James book when the cleaner knocked on the door and turfed me out of the room. I tried to get her to go away, but she didn’t understand English and so I gave up and went to the Dog and Duck instead.

 

Rage, Rave and Rain

Don’t rage at the rain

or at the aches and pains

of a hangover brain,

and don’t go to Spain

when you could go

to Portugal.

 

My bowels

are irritable,

and so are

my throat

and my liver.

 

My lungs?

Forget ‘em,

they’ve gone on strike,

and now I’m trying to breathe

without breathing.

 

But it’s all fine

I think

I don’t know

how my body

works;

sometimes,

I sometimes think

it doesn’t.

 

Don’t rage at the rain

because the rain

ain’t rainin’;

not anymore,

now the palm trees

are blowing

in the wind.

 

That’s the answer,

my friend;

we’re all just

migratory birds

travelling south

for the winter.

 

Thank you

RyanAir –

you make

human flight

possible,

and you’re

reasonably priced

to boot.

 

I still

hate flying,

though.

 

Charlotte and Jessica were already down there, along with Becky Yates, who was feeling better after spending Friday in bed with food poisoning. We chatted literal shit for a while – Jessica had a story about an ex-boyfriend and a toilet brush that I’d love to repeat but probably shouldn’t – and I had my first pint of the day to ease myself in. Then we all headed upstairs to get ready, which for me involved taking a bath and reading my Peter James book.

 

Blind Bitter

Blind bitter

biting badly

burned butter

big buildings

better built

before birth.

 

Bastard brothers

breaking bread

before being

briefly badgered

because bored

babies buy

blind bitter

biting badly.

 

Brilliant beauty

being bearable

by borrowing

Bryan Bilston’s

book beside

Borders’ bright

borders but

bad bibliophiles

buy backwards

before bribing

blind bitter

biting badly.

 

Beatles beat

beetles because

beetles bleed

blue but

Beatles bleed

bright blood

by being

brilliant bassists

basically being

broken by

Belgian burglars

because Belgian

burglars beat

both beetles

by brewing

blind bitter

biting badly.

 

Biting badly

blind bitter

barrel bottoms

before bread

blames beer

by being

bloated brown

burning big

bad burps

brought by

blind bitter

biting badly.

 

Bite big

baby boy.

 

Bite big

bad boring

blind bitter

bitting badly.

 

When I headed back down again, I had a little time to write in my journal before Kerryn showed up, and people started filtering down shortly afterwards. We had enough time for a quick drink and a chat – while someone played jazz guitar for a little background noise – before we had to head off for dinner.

The place that we ate at was a seafood restaurant with fairly limited choices. In fact, there was only one veggie starter and one veggie main, and they were basically the same. The main was just the salad I had as a starter with some sort of stuffed pastry to accompany it. But the food was good and so was the company, even if there were one or two people starting to flag after too much heavy drinking.

It was almost midnight by the time we finished eating, but it was the last night and so we headed back to Route 66, because we have a habit of repeating ourselves on Christmas parties. But it wasn’t as good there on the Saturday, and so we doubled back on ourselves and went to a different place, also called Route 66, which they went to on the first night while I was put watching Dub Pistols.

Luckily, it was a good night out. It was a karaoke night, and so I ended up singing Torn by Natalie Imbruglia (in the wrong key) and Merry Xmas Everybody by Slade with Annalize, as you do. I was on an early flight back in the morning, but that didn’t stop me from staying out until closing time before passing out at 5 AM.

 

Sunday 4th December 2016

I managed to sneak in a whopping two hours of sleep before getting up at 7, getting my shit together and checking out of the room. I was heading back with Dan and Aisha (a new recruit) and so we met up in reception and then hopped into the back of a taxi.

 

No New Poems

No new poems

because new poems

take time

and time

is a commodity

that’s left me

a short

supply.

 

I was exhausted of course, but the flight wasn’t too bad – we had just enough time to have a coffee before heading through security, and not long after that we boarded. There was a bit of a delay before we left because the air conditioning smelled like something was burning and so they had to get an engineer just to check it was all okay, and a kid was crying for most of the flight. Luckily, I had my headphones, and so I put a little music on and dozed the flight away.

We landed at around 1 PM UK time, and Super Mark had booked a taxi in advance and so I had time for a quick cigarette before we hopped in. It dropped us off at the office in Marlow, but I’d missed my bus and so I took the chance to stay for one last pint at the Cross Keys before heading home. The adventure was over… at least until next year…

Writing Update: Plans for 2017!

Hi, folks! Well, it’s been a little while since I wrote one of these, but I thought it was about time for me to outline where I’m at with my writing, what’s new and what’s old, and what my plans are for 2017. Let’s do this!

 

 

Okay, the first thing to mention is that I’ve been experimenting with some slight tweaks to ‘the schedule’. I’m not going to go into huge detail here, but basically ‘the schedule’ is my name for my approach to creativity, a system which basically ensures I spend all of my free time either writing, tidying up or doing ‘computer stuff’.

It’s a very OCD system with many, many rules, but the upshot is that these new tweaks are designed to make sure that I spend more time writing – and slightly less time at the computer or tidying – and that the initial results are looking good. It has the potential to boost my written output by 50%!

I should also mention Discordia, which is the tentative working title of my next album. It’s the third album of original music that I’ve worked on – all written, performed, recorded and engineered by myself – and each of my albums are exactly 72 minutes long, the maximum amount of time you can fit on a CD. Discordia is currently up to 66 minutes, and so I just need to record a few more songs and do some extra dubs on some existing tracks and then we’re good to go.

 

 

When it comes to books, my next release is likely to be Subject Verb Object, an anthology of new writing. It features contributions from 21 different authors, and so most of my time has actually been spent orchestrating it all. That said, it’s coming along nicely, and we’re currently going through our last round of edits. Unfortunately, Pam Harris – my editor and partner in crime – has carpel tunnel, and so everything’s currently on hold while we wait for her to get better. Get well soon, Pam!

After Subject Verb Object, I’ll be looking at releasing Driven, the detective novel that I’ve been working on. At the time of writing, I’m literally finishing off a couple of bonus scenes to sit alongside the main story line, and then I’ll need to carry out my own edits before it goes over to Pam. Driven should be out in Q2 of 2017 and will be followed by Netflix and Kill, the second book in the series, in late 2017 or early 2018.

Meanwhile, I have some old manuscripts to dig back through, including Oceanus (a book of poetry based on the story of the Titanic) and The Lexicologist’s Handbook (a reference book for writers and people who like unusual words).

 

 

That’s all happening at the same time as me working on new stuff, including two new ideas for novels that I have. The first is called Greebos, and is a fictionalised account of growing up in Tamworth in the early 2000s. The second is called Meat, and follows the story of a group of slaughterhouse employees as a mysterious disease leads to the facility being quarantined.

And there are plenty of other things going on, from new marketing efforts to freelance and commissioned writing projects, new books that I haven’t started but might finish before the end of the year, and other exciting opportunities that could quite literally turn my life upside down.

So there you have it – that, in a nutshell, is what I’m up to! Of course, there’s loads of other stuff happening as always, so be sure to sign up to my mailing list or to follow me on Facebook and Twitter for further updates. You can also check out my current releases on Amazon. I’ll see you soon!

All I Want for Christmas

All I want for Christmas

is the full collection of Charles Bukowski novels,

preferably signed or at least in relatively good condition,

two crates of Stella Artois with the festive snowflake design on the cans,

half an ounce of marijuana,

four ounces of Drum Gold tobacco,

three packs of little green rizzla,

two packs of menthol filters

and a partridge in a pear tree.

All I want for Christmas

is a personalised message from Santa Claus

only instead of Santa Claus

it’s Bob Dylan wearing a Santa hat,

singing, “Dane, you took my shoe,

and just like a rolling stone,

I want to work with you.”

All I want for Christmas

is Stephen King

reading my books and things

and giving me the gift

of a pithy quote

for the front cover.

All I want for Christmas

is you,

naked from the waist up,

covered in syrup

and a big wooden spoon

to eat you with.

All I want for Christmas

is world peace

and no religion,

which gets kind of deep

when you remember

what Christmas is.

Unfortunately,

I’m naughty not nice,

so this year

I’m just getting

coal.

It’s the story of my life;

I don’t even own

a fireplace.

Miracles

I went out drinking

but I don’t feel ill,

so maybe it’s a minor miracle

like when I lost my phone at the Cider Bus

and somebody handed it in,

although making lame men walk

is more impressive.

Still,

I’ll write a letter to the Pope

and hope he opens it,

I might not be canonised

but at least I’m wearing

a crash helmet.

People talk about childbirth

like they’re not turned off

by the blood and gore,

but life ain’t like a slasher flick

and I would like

my money back.

More miraculous

is the way three chords

make so much music,

and even though

you haven’t met someone,

you can see inside their head

and their heart.

I eat miracles for breakfast,

best served with milk

and a sprinkle of sugar.

Miracles taste

like apple pie.

Trolls in the Snow

There’s a jumper over there

made from polar bear hair,

so let the bells ring out

from the top of the tower.

We’re having Christmas in Iceland

making a festive stand

like a snowman can,

yule lads on the yule town

and you’ll be glad

if you don’t run

into ‘em.

Peglegged

sheep harassment

scaring children

into being good

until kids are too scared

to leave the house,

oh so magical.

Sometimes

we used

to eat candles;

their tallow’s not wax

‘cause it’s animal fat,

and there’s a Christmas cat

in a Santa hat,

don’t meet it

in the middle of

the evening.

Tim Minchin

really likes Christmas,

and maybe I do too,

what’s not to love?

Good food,

good booze,

days off,

weird gifts,

office Secret Santa,

like when Josh got given a chew toy

four days after his dog died

because Santa didn’t know him that well,

and no-one ever owned up to it,

or like my grandma

borderline racist

watching Corrie.

If I’m getting kinda bleak

then I apologise,

I have pagan sensibilities

and a heart as dark

as the hair on my head,

it dyed and came back to life,

or maybe that’s easter.

This Christmas,

spare a minute

for the people who need it;

help often

homeless alcoholics

with their Rudolf red noses,

nurses, doctors and policemen

keeping the country running,

the elderly eating alone

and struggling to pay

their gas bills,

or the millions of people

struggling with mental health issues

through the long, dark nights

of the soul.

You’d be amazed

how much

a word can do,

and the season’s not for you,

‘cause it’s for all of us.

Don’t be a troll

in the snow,

stealing sausages;

bring a little meaning

to the season,

tell someone you love

that you love ‘em,

or live long and prosper

like philosophers.

Have the Christmas

that’s right for you,

and have a happy new year

to boot.

New Song: Waterfall

Hi, folks! Just a quick update today to let you know about a new song that I wrote. It’s called ‘Waterfall‘, and so far it’s only available to watch/listen to on YouTube.

You can check it out by clicking here or checking out the video below. Be sure to let me know what you think of it – I’m even considering including it on an upcoming album!

 

 

If you want to check out some more of my music, you can check out my first two albums – Nocturne and Sketches – on Spotify or iTunes, or you can subscribe to my YouTube channel for further videos.

You can also follow me on Facebook and Twitter for further updates. I’ll see you soon!

Release Day: Come On Up to the House by Dane Cobain

Hi, folks! It’s an exciting day for me today because it’s the launch day for Come On Up to the House, my new horror novella and screenplay! Read on to find out all about it and to learn how to scoop yourself a copy…

 

 

Doesn’t life seem nasty, brutish and short?

This horror novella and accompanying screenplay tells the story of Darran Jersey, a troubled teenager who moves into a house that’s inhabited by the malevolent spirit of his predecessor.

As time goes by and the family begins to settle, Darran begins to take on more and more of the qualities of James, the dead teenager who committed a bloody suicide.

As tragedy after tragedy threatens to destroy the family, Darran’s mother Alice decides to leave the house behind and start afresh, but is it too late?

Find out when you Come On Up to the House…

 

Dane Cobain

 

Come On Up to the House is out now in both paperback and e-book formats from all major retailers, including Amazon. Be sure to grab a copy if it takes your fancy!

You can also follow me on Facebook and Twitter for further updates. I’ll see you soon!

Matt’s Getting Married

Matt’s getting married

and I feel a little old,

what happened to

the friends I had

who sometimes got

arrested?

I’m an old man now,

I have friends

who work in banks

and who know

how to change a fuse

or how to wire a plug

and switch energy providers.

My friends

have home and contents insurance;

they can go for one drink

and not have another.

I have

a fucking

pension!

I get excited

about staying at home

for the weekend.

Matt’s getting

married;

what’s that

all about?

Fuck,

man,

I don’t want

to be a grown-up;

where the hell’s

the fun in that?

I never liked weddings

to begin with.

Three Hoodlums

Note: This short story is one of several shorts about James Leipfold, the protagonist in my upcoming series of detective novels. This is just the first draft, but I wanted to share it with you to see what you think!

“OI MATE, YOU GOT A CIGARETTE?”

14-year-old James Leipfold flinched as he heard the words, then bowed his head and increased his speed slightly until he was half-running, half-walking through the underpass.

His mind was working overtime as he tried to analyse the situation without turning his head. The easy confidence with which the request had been made, coupled with the timbre of the voice and the slight inflections of the dialect, put him in mind of a spotty 17-year-old, probably one of the kids (he thought of them as kids even if they were older than him) from the estate. He could hear the click-clacking of bicycle wheels and amended his mental picture to include a couple of accomplices, probably wearing Doc Martens and leather jackets and trying their best to look pissed off at the world.

“Oi, I’m talking to you,” the voice said. It was closer this time, and Leipfold was still thirty feet from the end of the underpass. Like most of the estate, the underpass had a bad reputation. Drug deals, solicitation, mugging and murder – if it could lead to jail time, it had happened there. Leipfold was so buys wondering what the walls would say if they could speak that he didn’t register the screech of the bike’s tyres until it skidded to a halt in front of him.

Leipfold stopped dead in his tracks, then risked a quick glance behind him. His assumptions, for once, were incorrect; the man on the bike was in his early thirties, and the two of them were alone in the underpass. The bike was built for comfort not for speed, and the man had short black hair and a sharp suit that would have looked more at home in a bank or the Houses of Parliament than in a shit-stained underpass. He wore patent leather shoes which looked unsuitable for a bicycle ride and a platinum wedding ring on his left hand. He looked appraisingly at Leipfold.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “You deaf or something?”

Leipfold shook his head but didn’t say anything.

“Well, whatever,” the stranger said, as he put a foot to the floor to steady himself. “You got a ciggie?”

“Why?” Leipfold asked. “You don’t look like a smoker. Your fingers for a start. Immaculate, never chewed and no nicotine stains. If I give you a cigarette, will you need a lighter, too?”

“Huh?”

“Perhaps you’re having problems at work. Shouldn’t you be in the office right now? Or maybe it’s to do with the wife? You’ve got a tan-line on your finger, you must be more careful to put your ring on in exactly the same place. Did she catch you–“

Leipfold was cut short as the ring – along with the fist that it was riding on – connected with his cheek. It wasn’t a hard punch, but it did take him by surprise and send him reeling a couple of steps backward.

“You horrible little shit,” the man said. Then he boosted himself back on to his pedals and rode away. Leipfold spat a little blood and laughed himself silly. Must’ve touched a nerve, he thought.

Violence was a part of life for Leipfold, and though his nose throbbed and his eyes were watering, he savoured the pain like a connoisseur. He’d never been good with people; either that, or he was too good. He knew what buttons to press to get people going, whether they were friends and relatives or total strangers in the underpass. He liked to make them uncomfortable, to disrupt their narrow-minded view of the world and to push them until they snapped and did something that they wouldn’t normally do. And in spite of the shiner he’d be sporting once the swelling died down, he felt good about himself. And he felt good about the man on the bicycle, too. Hell, Leipfold thought. Maybe he’ll feel bad enough to patch his life up. One minute you’re hitting a kid in the underpass and the next you’re trying to figure out where it all went wrong. Like a wake up call, but with a fist to the lips.

Leipfold walked out of the underpass and along the street for a couple hundred yards before sitting down on a low wall and lighting a cigarette. He watched as the traffic rolled by and wondered whether the man he’d just met had stopped to call his wife. In his (admittedly limited) experience, women were perceptive creatures of a seemingly different species, simultaneously more observant and less likely to encourage confrontation. But he’d be willing to put a fifty on the fact that the man was having an affair, a twenty on the fact that his wife already knew, and a tenner on him being so shook up that he’d come clean and she’d forgive him. And a fiver said he’d goaded a stranger into punching for no real reason other than it being a cheaper thrill than a hit of cocaine or amphetamine.

Leipfold’s train of thought was interrupted by a familiar clicker-clacker sound, and for a brief moment he entertained the thought that the man on the bike had doubled back to apologise. Then he started laughing again when he realised it was three teenage kids (older than him, again) tearing along the path like they were racing Croydon’s equivalent of the Tour de France. The leader of the pack hit a wheelie while the three of them hooted and guffawed their way past. He watched them with lazy amusement as they disappeared towards the inner city.

Leipfold finished his cigarette and flicked it to the floor, and was about to get up and go about his business – mostly taking notes on the locals and getting himself into trouble – when he spotted the policeman hobbling along the path towards him. He was a tall man who walked with a slight stoop, who cut his scruffy black hair short and wore his uniform with the same kind of reverence that an army veteran has for the medals he earned. Not quite imposing and with a baby face that betrayed his inexperienced, the policeman still exuded an air of quiet confidence and authority that persisted despite the scowl on his face and the perspiration that had pooled around his temples and started to dribble inexorably down the sides of his face.

“Excuse me,” the policeman said, slowing to a halt in front of Leipfold. “The name’s Jack Cholmondeley. I don’t suppose you saw a bunch of kids going past on bicycles?”

“Might’ve done,” Leipfold replied. “What’s it worth?”

“It’s worth a bloody great deal,” Cholmondeley replied. “The little bastards jumped and then rode away before I could get a good look at them. Looks like they got you, as well.”

“What?”

“Don’t play ignorant with me, young man,” Cholmondeley replied. “That’s quite the shiner you have there.”

“Oh, that,” Leipfold replied. He briefly thought about telling the policeman about his altercation with the man in the suit and then decided against it. “Yeah, I saw the kids you’re looking for. They went past a couple of minutes ago. You’ll struggle to catch them on foot, though.”

“I thought as much,” Cholmondeley replied, gloomily. “Did you happen to get a good look at them?”

“Not really,” Leipfold said. “One of them had a mole on his right hand.”

“Well that’s just fantastic,” Cholmondeley replied, sarcastically. “Now I just need to track down a guy with a mole in a city of–“

“No need,” Leipfold interrupted, gesturing for the policeman to let him speak. “I recognise the mole.”

“You recognise a mole?” Cholmondeley asked, incredulously. “Who does that?”

“I do,” Leipfold replied. “You’re after a boy called Jimmy Squires. He has the same mole in the same place, it has to be him. We go to the same school, I’ve seen him around.”

“And you checked his hands for moles?”

“It’s hard to miss it. Besides,” Leipfold admitted, grudgingly, “I saw the back of his head. It’s him.”

“Excellent,” Cholmondeley said. “Do you know where the boy lives, this Jimmy Swires?”

Leipfold shook his head. “Sorry. And I didn’t get a good look at the other two, either. Anything you can tell me to narrow it down? I, uh…I know the circles he hangs around with.”

Cholmondeley considered this for a moment and said, “One of them had a limp. He could’ve been faking it, but I doubt it. I’m a policeman, you see? I know when people are lying.”

No you don’t, thought Leipfold. If you did then you would’ve called me out on it.

Out loud, Leipfold said, “Mark Flowers. His dad runs the Fox and Hound. He’s tight with Jimmy and he walks with a limp. Tells people he was knocked off his bike, but everyone knows he was a sick little kid., Could’ve done us all a favour if he’d been brought out in a body bag, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Interesting,” Cholmondeley murmured.

“You said there were three of them, right?”

“I did indeed.”

“Good,” Leipfold replied. “You might want to have a word with Donnie while you’re at it.”

“Donnie?” Cholmondeley asked.

“Mark’s older brother,” Leipfold explained. “Those two are inseperable, like twins or something. I think he feels bad for not being able to help when Mark was ill, so he follows his brother around like a guard dog. If Mark was there, so was Donnie.”

“How do you know all this?” Cholmondeley asked.

Leipfold laughed, then winced as the pain in his face flared back up again. “I watch people, Mr. Policeman. It’s what I do.”

Cholmondeley nodded absentmindedly and scribbled the names down in his notebook. “Well, gee,” he said. “Thanks for the help, young man. Would you mind if I take your name and address down so I can get in touch if I have further questions?”

As a matter of fact, young James Leipfold did mind. It wasn’t the done thing to be seen talking to a copper, especially on an estate like the one he lived on. Talking to him here, just past the underpass where there were no nosy neighbours to keep tabs on them, was bad enough. A policeman turning up at his door in uniform would be tantamount to social suicide, unless they cuffed him and bundled him into the back of a Black Maria. So Leipfold gave Cholmondeley a fake name and address, then made his excuses and went about his business before the policeman could ask any further questions.

Leipfold’s eye darkened over the next couple of days, but his mood didn’t. As the only child of a working class mother and father in an underprivileged estate on the edge of London, he was left mostly to his own devices. His mother had accepted his story about a bogus game of rugby, and if his father noticed the big bruise on his son’s face then he didn’t mention it. But then, Charles Leipfold had been involved in his fair share of scuffles over the years and only last month he had come home with a bruised knuckles and blood on his shirt. When his wife had asked where the blood had come from, he’d simply shrugged and said, “From people’s faces.”

He spent his time keeping an eye on Jimmy Swires’ place with his father’s Bausch and Lomb binoculars. He’d told the policeman that he didn’t know where the three hoodlums lived, but that had been a lie. Leipfold’s memory verged on eidetic, and he made it his business to know other people’s business. But he also wasn’t a grass, and while he’d been happy to help the policeman by pointing him in the right direction, he wasn’t going to do his job for him.

On the evening of the second day, his patience paid off, and he watched from a distance as Cholmondeley and one of his colleagues parker their car outside the Swires’ dilapidated council house and knocked on the door. The two men entered the house – after some to-ing and fro-ing with James Swires Sr. – and re-emerged some ten minutes later with the Swires kid in tow. He wasn’t cuffed, but he might as well have been. They bundled him into the back of the car and drove away into the evening.

Leipfold had a hunch that Jimmy wouldn’t take long to crack, and so he hopped on to his bicycle and headed over to the Fox and Hound. The place was a quintessential English pub, not one of the quiet country pubs where farmers stopped off for a quiet pint after a hard day on the fields but a bustling spit and sawdust boozer that watered down the spirits and trained its staff on how to throw drunks out and to keep the peace with the baseball bat beneath the counter. Leipfold had been in there a couple of times to bring his old man home, and while there was something undeniably magical about the stench of spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke, he wouldn’t have wanted to live there, like the Flowers family.

Leipfold’s hunch was proved correct when, just over an hour after his arrival, Cholmondeley and his colleague pulled up outside the police. He watched the chaos that ensued after they walked in. Coppers weren’t welcome in a pub like that, and half the locals had a reason to run at the sight of a badge or a uniform. When the two men entered, the hustle and bustle stopped abruptly, to be replaced – after a few moments of hostile silence – with an angry sussorous. Leipfold smirked as he spotted a dozen undesirables making their way out of the pub by a side entrance, then wandered over to the front of the pub and lit a cigarette while he waited for something to happen.

He could see the backs of the officers through the window, and he watched as Cholmondeley’s hand inched imperceptibly towards his truncheon. The barman – a young man of eighteen or nineteen with the faintest hint of fiery stubble around his chiselled jaw, was mouthing angrily, and while Leipfold couldn’t make out the words, he understood the gist of it.

Then all hell broke loose, as the barman reached for the baseball bat. He tried to raise it up into a batter’s stance, but Cholmondeley reacted faster, swiping down with his truncheon and breaking the man’s arm with a single sweep. Leipfold couldn’t hear the sound that it made and he was glad of it, but he heard the bartender’s guttural wail and was almost bowled over by the mass exodus of the remaining punters.

Cholmondeley’s partner cuffed the man, dragging the broken arm roughly into place, then the two men escorted him out of the pub on shaking legs and into the back of the police car. He spotted Leipfold leaning against the wall and nodded at him.

“He started it,” Cholmondeley shrugged. “And we finished it.”

Cholmondeley’s partner waited in the car, radioing for back-up while Cholmondeley went back inside.

Leipfold lit another cigarette and smoked it down to the filter, then flicked it aside and waited for Cholmondeley, who re-emerged shortly afterwards with Mark and Donnie Flowers in front of him. Donnie was cuffed, but Mark wasn’t; even in the half-light, Leipfold could see from his expression that he wasn’t going to cause any trouble. He was too scared. Leipfold figured that this was probably the first time the youngest member of the Flowers family had ever been in trouble with the law. Leipfold, ever the cynic, thought it was unlikely to be the last.

Meanwhile, a couple of Black Marias arrived, pulling up outside the pub and idling to a stop. Two more policemen spilled out onto the pavement, and Cholmondeley beckoned them over. He handed over his suspects and watched, stony-faced, as they were led over to the waiting police cars.

“Looks like we didn’t need backup after all,” Cholmondeley said.

His partner grinned. “You can never be too careful, Jack,” he said. “Besides, it looked like you had your hands full.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Cholmondeley replied. “Go on, get in the car. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

His partner did as he was told, and Constable Jack Cholmondeley watched him as he retreated to the relative warmth and comfort of the car. One of the support vehicles had already left for the station, and the driver of the other one gunned the ignition and set off after it. Leipfold and Cholmondeley were alone again.

“Thanks for your help, kid,” Cholmondeley said.

“Don’t mention it.”

“You know, we could use a lad like you. How old are you, anyway?”

“Sixteen,” Leipfold lied. He could tell from the cop’s reaction that it hadn’t worked, but Cholmondeley let it pass without comment.

“Want my advice?” Cholmondeley asked. Leipfold didn’t, but he didn’t have much choice. “Stay in school. Work had and get good grades, then come and see me when you’re ready. There’ll be a job waiting.”

“A job?”

“Yeah,” Cholmondeley said. “In the police force. We’re always on the lookout for new recruits, especially when they’re as perceptive as you are.”

But Leipfold shook his head. “Mister,” he said. “I’m many things, but I’m no cabinet. Never will be.”

Cholmondeley smiled and laid a head on his shoulder. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind,” he said.

“I won’t.”

Cholmondeley smiled again. “Well,” he said, “if you do change your mind, you know where to find me. You seem like a decent kid. Make sure you stay that way.”

“I’ll do my best,” Leipfold said. Then they shake hands and Cholmondeley returned to his partner. He climbed into the passenger seat and they made their way back to the station.

He’s a nice guy, Leipfold reflected, staring thoughtfully into the distance. Shame he’s a copper.

But he knew he’d remember Cholmondeley’s name, and not just because his memory was damn near eidetic. It never hurt to make contacts, even if they were policemen. You never know, Leipfold mused. He might even turn out to be useful.

Then he remembered his father’s words of wisdom. “There are two types of copper,” he used to say. “Bent cops and dead cops.”

But Constable Jack Cholmondeley was different, friendly. And young James Leipfold was forced to admit to himself that maybe Cholmondeley was neither.

The exception that proves the rule.

The National Arboretum

So much death

and wasted potential.

Brave boys and girls,

dogs, pigeons, horses,

postemen being killed in action

just delivering the mail,

dead-eyed prisoners of war

with no food in their bellies

being forced to build

Burmese railways,

and oh,

the birds are so

peaceful here.

Kids who lied about their age,

shot at dawn

or sent over the top

to stare down the barrels

of German guns,

men killing other men

on both sides

of the trenches.

Groves of trees

and names carved

into marble blocks,

a big, bad obelisk

as the sun goes down

on the Somme,

20,000 dead

in one day

of fighting.

Overweight women

in motorised chairs,

army cadets in camo

and middle-aged men

drinking Peroni

in the cafeteria.

100 years of history

represented by trees

in the arboretum;

no time for fight or flight,

they just tried to survive

with their lives on the line.

I couldn’t do it,

but they did it

so I don’t have to;

respect is due,

and so I paid it.