Tuesday, 8 October 2013

I am not alone.

I left because our village was dead and Mama was bloated. Her eyes had sunk into her sockets revealing how hollow she was without food.
I left thinking of Papa’s last words.

‘I will be the one to go; there will be food for us all at the feeding station. Stay alive. Do that for me and don’t give up!’

He was strong enough for the walk but that was days ago. I wanted to tell him I was strong too.
I walked out onto the dusty track, belly first. I was so sore. I could feel the dry earth scraping my heels. I kept walking and I cried.
I cried because it was too hot because my bones ached because there was nothing I could do but walk. Then I could not walk. I sat on the dry stoned earth and begged it to swallow me. The earth could not answer.
But I was not alone.
It was behind me lurking on the dusty track. I’ve seen it before on this path when Papa and I would go to the rubbish tip, I’ve seen it hunched over dead animals. Its eyes look past you but not at you.
I knew it was there. I bowed to the earth and I cried out to Papa.


‘Please come back Papa. Please don’t let it eat me or its beak pierce my sore belly! I am strong, I will get up now and I will not give up.’

Thursday, 3 October 2013

Her Shoes.

      

            The first pair.
            White leather T-bar shoes with hole-punched flowers and silver buckles.
In these shoes she bent like a dining room chair, straight backed, examining grass, ladybirds, snails and ants that busied themselves around and over the toes. These shoes would be stored in numerous wardrobes and chests of drawers, brought out on the odd occasion by her mother. She would look at them through opaque eyes, brushing them gently removing dust that had crept into the creases, overtly sighing in an empty room.
‘Mummy look a snail’
‘Yes darling,’
‘Mummy, snail broken.’
‘It’s not broken darling its dead. Now go and play quietly please, Mummy has a                    headache.’
           Plastic patent purple shoes with sharp buckles.
These shoes witnessed many a fight and were tight across the toes. Scuffed and dragged across the ground. These shoes felt her frustration as they were scraped against hot concrete.
“You can’t play with us; you don’t play right because you’re a girl.”
Hot tears splashed the scratched shiny surface while she sat crossed legged under the teacher’s desk as punishment for talking. Her heels stood guard as she cut into her purple and brown dress with a found pair of scissors.
Just a small slit, like the girls on television, higher so they see my legs, then they will like me.

Black gusset plimsolls.
Too tight after several hazy summers cutting into the right big toe until the rubber split. They listened to her many stories and defiant tales.
‘Is that Jennifer’s sweet? Did you steal it? It’s better that you tell the truth’
‘No Miss I didn’t steal it I found it.’
‘Go straight to Miss Hoey’s office young lady!’

Dusty holed black plimsolls felt the sharp sting of the ruler slapped across the knuckles. She never once flinched; much to the displeasure of the head teacher but those plimsolls knew how her toes curled with every slap.
‘I’m adopted. My real parents are from Mars.’

One pair of Jelly pink sandals.
Worn to school with an accompanying plastic transparent bag.
‘That bag is so last year.’
‘It’s all the rage in Glasgow.’
‘Glasgow!?’
The pink sandals faded to a murky coral when subjected to climbing sweet chestnut trees in the park. High above the world with soft blowing breeze tickling her toes, she gazed upon regal white buildings and the masts of an ancient tea clipper.
‘Do you like me Mr Squirrel? I don’t have any nuts but you can share my Curly wurly.’
These shoes were her only companion when she devoured the children’s play park like a plague of locust, every swing, slide, climbing frame and roundabout. Jelly sandals that were buried deep into the sandpit past the ruins of ancient cities, lost tribes and prehistoric bones, digging deep into the bowels of the earth.
           Cheap canvas black hessian soled shoes worn only for one summer.
They never felt the toes curl and were never scraped. They got soaked by tall lady-like water sprinklers on apple green lawns by the Queens house countless times and dried off in the blazing sun. They felt the swell of heat trickling down from the spine caressing the toes while she kissed a boy on the single train carriage to Margate. The swirling swings of Bembom Brothers white knuckle theme park and the sticky softness of candyfloss never faded their fabric.                                                                                                 
These shoes squeaked and slid over the polished floors and echoing halls of the         Maritime museum watched as she sniffed at its wizen air, sniggered at the sombre but very vigilant attendants and gazed ignorantly at pictures of past times, wars famines, gunpowder, shipwrecks and slavery. They discovered blackberries growing by the Thames.
‘Mum said it’s not safe to swim in the Thames.’
‘Look its fine as long as you don’t go too far out.’
They were sucked off the feet by the strong ebbing currents, lost forever in the swirling slate river.

            Black high boot trainers.
Bought by Nana in Glasgow who insisted they looked like boy pumps. These shoes discovered the city of London. They marched around the damp streets and marvelled at the languages spoken by passersby as she sat high on a butch bronzed lion.
‘Prendre mon photo rapide avant qu'il ne vole loin!’
These shoes were brushed of dirt in the evenings and knew all her secrets all the while she whispered under Hubba bubba breath and hummed to herself.
‘Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it, no one wants to be defeated.’
They knew how she sobbed, but not about the dull burrowing ache in her pelvis or the wave upon wave of period pains in her womb or her mother who would announce to strangers her imagined condition.
Her sobs were for the handsome young street performer at Covent Garden who ignored her sweet innocent stalking and vain attempts to get his attention and the fact she would probably never get to meet Michael J fox.
With a needle and thread she stitched heart shapes on each side panel of the boots because being different was now all the rage. These black high boot trainers tapped an inconsistent rhythm on the lino school floor, knew all too well that she could not understand English no more than French much to her mother’s drunken disgust and her French teacher’s middle class condescending demeanour.
‘I need to go to the office Miss.’
‘Why does she get to go out of class Miss when we have a test?’
‘She’s going to the office to get some old socks!’
‘Period, Period, PERIOD!’

Black high boot trainers resisted toe scrunching and begged for new laces but she ignored everyone under her new black sloping fringe. No one could penetrate that sullen stare that she practised in the mirror or the sulky roll of her brown eyes.

         Shoes were important now. They played a role and they camouflaged her soul.

Low heeled blue court shoes
Polished as part of a Friday night ritual and stored on a rack in the communal hallway, next to unloved grey trainers and unworn yellow sling backs. Prim and proper not unlike their pretending owner whose toe curling tick came back to warn her.
They sizzled and sparked off the office floor to the amusement of her manager Chantelle whose brown high heeled shoes were certainly no match.
‘Look your shoes are almost the same colour as the carpet. You look after your shoes don’t you. I can never be bothered to polish mine. These are only cheap ones anyway; I’ll just buy another pair if they fall apart.’
‘My Nana taught me if I take care of my shoes they take care of me and besides, you can tell everything about a person by their shoes, don’t you think?’
Court shoes that put up with her loathing, grumbling, complaining, bitching and bitten bottom lip till both the heels peeled like drooping tulips.

Grey trainers.
Worn once at the local gym. Stuck onto the feet at speed when going to get milk, bending the heel, scraping against the painted door stop and stepping into what the dog had left behind.

Plastic yellow sling backs.
Worn once, she hobbled in the park with her new boyfriend Kevin. Winced when peeling them off her swollen feet because of burst blooded blisters on both heels.

High wedged strappy beige sandals.
Worn only for one evening.
At a dinner party at Chantelle’s house with new boyfriend Mark. They matched Mark’s beige trousers, Chantelle’s beige sofa and their beige mood
White pointy high heels.
Scuffed on the way to a date with Paul.
He never liked her or her shoes. He thought the shoes looked cheap. These shoes did not compliment his balding spot or his beer belly or his visual point of view. They were never worn again.

High heeled pillar-box red suede sling backs.
Their height brought no comfort and their colour never matched a single outfit. She staggered in and out of bars swaying like the child she still was. She wobbled into the back of many a black cab insisting her date paid.
‘Oi, look at the mess you’ve made on the door! I hope you’re gonna wipe that sick off. Fucking hell!’
She was in a rush. She ran from bar to bar to club to pub until the right heel snapped off. She kept this pair of shoes in the loft, not intending to repair them but just to remember the beginnings of her bunions.

Flat burgundy Velcro strapped ballerina pumps.
These poor shoes were unloved. They were chewed by the dog and her daughter. Bounced against her head in a fight. Never polished or wiped clean. Stained by baby sick and sticky orange juice. Caught and snagged on kerbs, rolled over by four different model of stroller till a new pair were bought.

Flat burgundy Velcro strapped ballerina pumps. (Second pair)
They saw how she would sigh in the park when she played football with her two sons and daughter. These shoes didn’t understand how she came to have such bent feet that warped their shape.
They were the only witnesses to the punches and slaps across the face that she regularly took and her sobbing in the toilet privately while rocking her daughter to sleep. They’d had enough of the sharp flash that shot down each leg whenever he spoke. They didn’t like him. They didn’t like being on her feet when he threatened to kill her and the children for the umpteenth time.
In these shoes plans were made that brought horror, relief, plans that scared her so much she couldn’t utter them under her breath.
These shoes hid in the cupboard. They were now more scared of her than of him.

Brown men’s boots. (Bought at an out of town car boot sale)
The toes were crammed tight with marbles and old newspaper. Three sizes too big for her narrow disfigured feet. The earth sucked at the heavy soles while she dug in darkness by the train track. Tight laces held them to the ankles when she dragged his body into the shallow grave. They kept her anger her fear her revulsion when they were dumped into the grey slate river.
The right boot washed up on the shingle at Chelsea Bridge, inhaled by the mud and baked by the scorching sun till it became part of the landscape of the bank. The left boot became part of the Gulf Stream conveyor belt.

Live in your feet and in your toes otherwise your shoes will resist.
She sat bare footed in the garden eating cake, crisps, chocolate and cookies. Feeding away her fears, fighting her night time fury and padding out her guilt. Too many shoes wasted, too many bought in a rush in the sales, too many to mention and they were all too tight on her fat pudgy feet.
Flip flops in various colours came and went until she was ready…

Beautiful black trainers with three pink stripes.
Now these trainers were tough. They heard her cries and wails when shin splint held her hostage demanding that she walk. They were soaked in sweat, saturated in salty saliva but with every wash and tumble dry they came bouncing back ready to train with her. They took her weight and squelched on muddy tracks, ignoring the curling toes.
‘Oi, fatty go lightly! Try running. Ha, you look like a beetroot. You’re a bit late for the Marathon love!’
Why can’t I do this? It used to be so easy. What the hell happened?
Eventually like all shoes they wore out simply and graciously replaced by a new pair.
Bold black trainers with three yellow luminous stripes.
These shoes felt her stride. They felt her strong calves and slim shins power her steps. No longer power-walking but running. They took note of her increasing confidence, her application pack and her pre-race GP check up. They begged her to stop at every water station and at Buckingham palace their laces unravelled but she kept on till the finishing line. She belted out many a race in these trainers and when the time came they were lovingly placed in the loft.

            Shiny Black leather patent boots with yellow tags.
Worn with every outfit come rain or shine these boots stomped over the Meridian line. Absorbing greedily English root words and English poetry.
These glossy black boots saw his reflection from the library desk, smiling at her, whilst she struggled to put on her heaving rucksack. The boots observed his shy approach and careful design to speak rehearsed words gently, gestures of kindness he so wanted to bestow.
‘Hi, can I help you at all? You seem a little lost.’
‘No I’m fine, thank you.’
‘I’m James, if you ever need any help just ask, I could do with being distracted.’
‘I distract you?’
‘Yes very much.’
James distracted her from learning anything useful from Shakespeare, Thomas Hardy and Chaucer.
But the patent black boots didn’t mind, they were water, oil, petrol and scratch proof, could out last any apocalyptic disaster  yet love penetrated their polished surface. They took slow walks in the park under sweet chestnut trees contemplating life and his freckles his golden curls his blushing playful laugh.
He taught her the French language she taught him patience. Until the day the police came to the front door.
These boots were clever like their owner, they listened to the questioning and concealed the toes that not only curled but flicked to a very strange beat. The police asked her so many questions. Had he been in contact since his disappearance? Was he suffering from depression? What did she know about his gambling addiction? Had anyone been acting suspicious before his disappearance? Had he left a note?  Reflections of police waiting rooms and many meetings with her solicitor never misted their appearance but the boots knew she was hiding something and it was buried by the railway track.

Shoes have no meaning without free soul and free toes.

Bare feet in the grass.
Cream flat vintage ballerina shoes were bought for this occasion and never worn. They were too big and had to be stuffed with paper so she wrote a message on each piece placed them in the loft.
Her soles frolicked on dapper grasses to a chirpy summer song. The earth’s pulses rejuvenated the bent toes while she danced, counting freckles on James’ face, the face that never asked her if she knew anything about the whereabouts of her ex. He noticed her curling toes in an argument and never wanted to make them look like that ever again.

Designer three buckled bright red funky heeled shoes.
Her favourite pair of shoes. She went to a film première in London with these unique shoes. They were worn with too much pride at many christenings and weddings.
‘Inappropriate colour to wear at a funeral. You’d think James would tell her.’
She swaggered when drunk but they never let her topple. James would always take them off gently without looking away from her eyes. She grinned at these shoes while polishing them. The pair she had always wanted but her bunions protested.
And as every runner knows when your feet tell you something you should listen but she found another way.

Flat embroidered Mojari shoes.
Bought on a trip to Mumbai, these shoes felt at ease on her veined feet. They walked quietly by sweet chestnut trees. Their leather softened her feet with each step her toes flexed when she felt the pain of age clog the joints.
‘You’re so good at massage James; I should hire you out and make some money.’
Shoes that listened to the deviant beat of her foot as she watched James play with the grandchildren in the garden or the dressing up as pirates and parading around or the quiet times with them reading Roald Dahl books.
‘I hope you remember me.’
‘I will always remember you Nanny, who could forget you?’

            The last pair.
Black bendable low strapped shoes.
They had to yield to her every whim, curve when practising yoga, skip when walking the dog along the Thames. She didn’t mind if the grandchildren dribbled on them or if James spilt red wine on them, they were purposeful and expendable. Worn at a protest march on parliament with James proudly by her side. Her grown up children grasping for the record button on the TV remote when their mother appeared on the BBC news.
‘I will not stand by while my government practises violence in other countries. I know all about violence. We need to practise love; we’re not any good at that, that’s why we need to practise it.
These shoes weren’t so flexible when it became time for James to leave. His care at the hospice was never to standard, never good enough. This pair of shoes felt her defiant blows as she flung them off her feet every time she came home from visiting him. Time had run out and her shoes clung to her feet as she sat staring at her wedding photo.
And when he forgot her name and forgot the children she knew it was her time too.
She slipped on her black flexible shoes and put on her coat without any clothes underneath and walked slowly towards the river.
She stood by the river’s edge looking down at her twisted feet. They were the shape of a life, bent by bad shoes, caressed by several lovers, bathed after many a rainy day and many long runs.
‘Your feet are like a treasure map of ancient days,’ said James one lazy Sunday morning. She laughed again at his words as she slid off the edge into the murky mercury tide.
Months later her daughter cleared out the loft and came across those antique flat ballerina shoes. Fighting back the tears she unrolled the paper wedged in the right toe. It simply read,
Try all my shoes.
And in the left foot,

Forgive me.

Tuesday, 5 June 2012

Memories.


Samantha zdanavich                            Memories.

Ben took his diary out of the drawer and flicked through to the last entry. Tuesday 1st May 2001. I’ve lost four months and three days of memory having doctors baffled but I am still looking for a cause. I know by the time I’ve read today’s events I will have forgotten all that’s happened. All I remember is the word delete. It is important somehow. Watch Emily. She knows more than she is letting on. Gemma is your carer. Don’t scream at her it’s not her fault…
Ben sits on the edge of the bed with Gemma bemused as he does every morning. It is hard having to start the day with the same monotonous routine only to end up as confused as the day before.
“Are you ready?” Gemma sighs. She has to do this and she has little sympathy. She sits next to Ben trying to comfort him once again.
“Emily is at work and she will pop in at lunchtime to see you. I have been looking after you for the past five months. I know it is hard to understand but you are safe. Read the rest of the diary and I’ll go make us a cup of tea.” Gemma sees this part of her morning as the most tedious and with each new day, she cannot wait to get it over.
“Just read the diary, it’s in your own handwriting and it will explain. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She looks intently at Ben before she leaves the room giving him her best reassuring smile. Ben’s reaction is the same everyday. Where is my wife? Who the hell are you? Why are you here? After reading the diary, Ben finally calms down and starts to relax into his amnesic condition. Gemma brings him a cup of tea. They sit and talk over some of the events that Ben has missed. His cousin Alice has had her baby. They look at the photos on the computer of baby Harry rapped up in a multi-coloured shawl and this ads weight to the diary entries. By the time Emily arrives, Ben finds himself feeling quite cheery and comfortable. She sets his mind to rest and leaves him laughing about his condition.
“Don’t forget to write in the diary that you have another scan on Friday.” She said as she left to go back to work.
“I’ll do it now.”
Gemma leaves Ben to his own devices to fill in his account of the day. Soon he finds himself back on the computer musing over baby Harry once more. He clicks the mouse over several folders on the screen. Ireland Holiday, Florida, Donal’s wedding. The folders are endless it seems at least he can remember most of them. The last one is simply titled BEN. He clicks on it to find more folders, each one marked with a date. He clicks on today’s date. It opens several pictures. As he looks at them, he is astonished to find they are of his day so far.
One of him getting out of bed, pointing and shouting his usual barrage of questions at Gemma, him sitting on the bed gazing through his diary another of him eating breakfast, Gemma sitting next to him on the sofa drinking tea.
A shiver creeps its way across his shoulder blades. He wants to show Gemma what he has discovered but something stops him, something niggling at the back of his mind. He tries to work out at what angle these picture have been taken. He can’t see any cameras; it’s as if an invisible person was in his house watching him and snapping a photo every hour of his day.
He closes the file and looks at yesterday’s folder. It is empty. He opens the recycle bin icon on the desktop to find numerous files with dates. He clicks on yesterdays file and clicks on restore.
Ben leans back in his black leather Eames chair as the computer slowly restores each picture. It takes a few minutes and with every file, Ben has a tingling sensation across his head. The computer makes a high-pitched ding sound when it has finished and he can now remember the day before. He can remember. The computer has restored his memory. He sits baffled. Why are his memories stored on a computer and not in his mind?
Yesterday he went through the same kind of day but in the evening when Emily had come home from work relieving Gemma and waving goodbye to her as she reversed out of the drive a change occurred. From the moment the door shut, Emily began her questions. How was your day sweetheart? Can you remember the Christmas works party? No. Can you remember Alice? The woman you were going to leave me for after fifteen years of marriage. Such a shame you can’t remember.
Emily went on like this all evening. Recounting his affair in detail. Being accused of something you have no record of not even a hazy outline is torture.
“I would never do a thing like that!” Ben retorted in defence. He can remember working for Credit Swiss for years but has no recollection of an Alice.
“That’s right; you don’t remember her do you? Was she a blonde or a brunette? Your so pathetic, look at you. The young dementia victim. Don’t worry darling you won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”
Ben looked through the computers recycle bin to find all five months worth of files. He clicked restore. As each day came to him his head felt fizzy like he was about to pass out.
Once all his memories were restored, he unplugs the computer and takes it out into the garden. He takes a hammer from the shed and smashes the desktop. With each blow sparks fly off as the metal scraps against metal.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Gemma said as she rushes towards him.
‘She can’t delete my whole life.’
‘Shall I call Emily?’
‘Don’t you dare!’
‘But I don’t understand’
‘I won’t be needing your services anymore Gemma.’ Ben said. He stood tall looking down at the mangled metal and circuit boards that had been his computer.
‘In fact, I need to make a phone call.’
‘I think maybe I should call Emily or the Doctor.’ Gemma said. She went into the house and bent to pick up the phone, only Ben got there first and grabbed the receiver out of her hand. He tapped in a number.
‘Hello Alice…’

Down by the river.


                                               The stale River.

                                      By  Samantha Zdanavich.

I can’t see the River anymore but I can smell it. It comes in through the kitchen window in the morning when I’m making tea, a stale stench that shuffles slowly in the room, uninvited like Uncle Jimmy in his slippers. But, I hardly notice it now, been living here far too long, although, if the smell disappeared I think I would notice. I’m completely blind in one eye and the other eye I can only see shadows. It is enough for me to have my independence, although I’m sure that will be gone soon.
I have always lived by the Thames. I would hate to live anywhere else. It’s what I’m used to. Significant things in my life have happened on or by the River.  It is on the Greenwich pier that I lost my virginity. Yes, right behind the foot tunnel entrance. I told that to the woman from the RNIB on Wednesday afternoon.
‘I was nine years old when it happened.’ I said.
 She gasped and shook her head.
Of course, what I hadn’t told her was that it was an accident.
My parents were in the Gypsy Moth pub not far from the Cutty Sark tea clipper in its dry dock. Their drunken talk of travelling through Europe, and how my stepfather was going to become a great playwright bored me. So out of the pub I wondered, along Greenwich Village towards the Magic shop to see if they had any new vampire teeth. They’d run out, you see, last time I was in there, because every kid in the area wanted a pair. It was the new craze. They had just put out some new stock, so I grabbed a pair, they cost me fifty pence. I ripped the packet open and shoved them straight into my mouth. I smiled a proud plastic vampire grin to every person that I encountered on my way back to the pub.
Only, when I got there my parents had wondered off. It’s not unusual for them to forget I exist. I ran out of the pub and on to the pier. I thought, maybe they were probably staggering along towards home. I ran around the Cutty Sark. It was devoid of tourists and locals, empty. I felt a little scared. Saturday was normally very busy in Greenwich.
I ran towards the foot-tunnel, which had now closed the gate to the lift, but the stairs were still open. I hated the foot-tunnel. Its dark red-bricked entrance reminded me of an old Victorian toilet. The kind that old creepy men, like Uncle Jimmy, seeped in the smell of urine, Old spice and cheap tobacco would grab at you, given half the chance.  This thought, now entrenched in my mind gave me goose bumps. I was scared, my heart and eyes raced to find my staggering parents. It was beginning to rain. Big splodges of summer water began to drop on the dry concreted pavement as I ran along the pier clenching my new plastic teeth in my mouth. The sweet yeasty smell of the local sugar factory mixed with the stale muddy river made my head swirl. Then I saw them.
Behind the Foot-tunnel dome, they were slopping against the railings, peering over at the Thames, laughing in their warped legless stupor. I was so angry. How dare they laugh, when I felt so alone. I ran full pelt through the rain, foaming and dribbling spit down my chin as I clenched down hard biting back my anger. And that’s when it happened.
Down I went, hard. Hitting the concrete. My right leg slipped forward, my left held straight back. Directly into straddle splits. Who falls into such a position?
I screamed. The teeth toppled out of my mouth onto the floor. I was flat against the concrete, I couldn’t move. Oh, how they laughed.
I shook from pain and anger as my mother dragged me up from the floor. ‘Bang goes your virginity.’ she said as we made our way back home. She was right; there was blood in my knickers.
I never could wear vampire teeth after that, although, I could show-off at school, now being able to do the splits. I became the new Trampoline star.  Not that my parents noticed. I brought home badges and certificates, commendation from my sports teacher. Being that flexible had its advantages. They would ask me to do the splits at family occasions and at Christmas, when we visited Uncle Jimmy.  Of course, I was at a more appropriate age when I lost my real virginity. That happened on a sunny Sunday afternoon and I was twenty-two. It wasn’t like I had imagined, or anything like the stories I’d heard from girls at school. It didn’t hurt.
There are plenty of other moments that happened down by the river. Down by the stale Thames. I may not be able to see the river, but I know it is there.

Sunday, 6 May 2012

Colourless.



                                                               Colourless.

I was a glowing winter White, young without knowledge, in keen want. They knocked on my door late at night.
Him all wet dark Grape, her Yellow sunflower sharp, talking about God with insight.
‘You’re welcome to come to our meeting on Sunday.’ she said.
They left my White and I shone bright, all winter sun with no colour of my own.
On Sunday, I went along to their meeting, seeing an array of colours, Green, Gold’s and many shades of Blue. The Blues at first blended in their palette, mixing well among Orange wives tangy and sweet. I was amazed by the scene and wanted to blend in, after all White is not a colour.

They soon got to work with their paintbrushes stroking me gently with Reds, Silver and Purple. I was many colours for a while; splashing rainbow drops on all until I went home. The colour would drain away but my White was no longer bright but a dull chalky grey. I went back and rubbed against them soaking up their colours. My White disappeared. What was left was the muddy swirl, too many shades fighting to surface.
Then Red came along, glossy, new, making me feel I could be too. So I married Red, his fresh glossy new car look against my muddy complexion. What a sight!

Sunflower Yellow had gone sour at the thought of my muddy splashes. Her vomit sharp yellow stung my eyes and I hid in shame from dark Grape that had now melted to rotten brown mulch.  The many Blues dominated my view, weighing me down dark in a sea of rules and regulations.
‘That skirt is too short.’ A Blue commented.
‘Your top is too low.’ exclaimed another.

Red said we should start again, so, I got us a new house to go with his new Red look. I raised a son, he too was white, oh so white gleaming so high that other colours were blinded by him. He out shone every colour.
A new congregation of new colours. Pale baby blues, Caribbean blues, Royal blues, box blue and my muddy colour. It didn’t work. The canvas blurred, it was too messy too black and blue and bruised.
Red had gone all Pink and had to leave. The other colours watched and pitied the muddy washed girl. Pity is an awful feeling to eat for so long. Pity is a spot, oozing with pus. If you scratch it, it will bleed.
I bled away the sharp daffodil Yellow with it’s wasp like sting. The Purple rotted and dripped down into the earth. The Blues lost interest and faded way. The Gold’s and Green’s washed away blurring any that came to see.

 Colourless glass was left. I reflect all colours now, mirroring green, blue, pink orange, yellow whatever colour I want to be. It scared the other colours so I left them in their plain dye cast. Being one colour is no fun, that’s why there are so many colours to choose from.

Monday, 24 October 2011

Tagged



                                                                   Tagged.            
         Two large boxes and a polythene bag. That is all of her things ready and waiting for me to examine. I start with a box emptying out its contents one item at a time, listing them as I go.
         Four small blue photo albums each one bulging with the overcrowding of photos. I’m not sure if this is how she kept them or if one of our officers just shoved all the photographs together. It wouldn’t surprise me; I’ve seen this kind of incompetence before. I put these to the left of the table ready to scrutinize later. Two hairbrushes matted with blonde hair, I put these to the right ready for the lab. Two red lipsticks, one sticky red lip-gloss and a clear evidence bag of cigarette butts, each one smeared in red lipstick. The lab will be busy tonight. I have to work quickly to get the boss off our backs but I don’t want to make any mistakes. I finish the rest of the box writing frenetically in my notebook. Toothbrush right, diary left, Filo-fax left, purse left, several unopened letters one of which is hand written left, a folder of bank statements and certificates of accreditation all put to the left. Three bottles of multi vitamins, one box of paracetamol, two boxes of anti depressant and one bottle of herbal sleep aid all put to the right.
My thoughts leap ahead of me as I list each item and I have to keep going back through the list to make sure I don’t miss anything. There is nothing alarming on this table. This is just another evidence login with nothing noteworthy but something is making me feel uneasy. Like low static buzz in the background or the flickering halogen light that is about to black out. There’s a knock at the door and Mark appears.
                   “Coffee?”
                   “Yes please, anything new?”
                   “Not yet. But I’ll let you know.”
       I take the photo albums over to another table. This is where it gets interesting for me, looking at a person through a lens, a flash of their life, piecing together seconds of their happy events, I enjoy this moment because it is private. I’m a spectator in their lives peering into it and making judgements on who they are. I can make a dramatic play in my mind of their holidays and parties. I can keep their happy smiling faces with me to block out all the pain I know I'm going to find. I do this to keep sane and to barricade and repress my true findings.
        The first album is overflowing with photographs and I have to tip some out. They are mainly black and white but some have colour tinting in light blue, pink and olive green. They have been stored rather clumsily and without care, most have cornered edges or creases and others have glue marks on their backs. The first page of the album has a sticker on it, which states, ‘Jennifer is a secret lemonade drinker,’ and underneath the word ‘Family’ is written in black marker.  Every picture tells a story they say. A thousand words can be expressed in every one. There’s a picture of two young women walking down a street in the first photo; from the cut and length of the dresses, you can tell it’s the late 1930’s. Another photo of the same young women standing in a doorway laughing at each other with their short hair in pin curls. I look through the whole album and they are all taken at around the same time, some even as late as the 1950’s. I pick up the next album as Mark walks in with my coffee.
                  “Found anything?”
                  “No, not yet. Can you take the DNA samples off to the lab please?”
                  “Yes”
         Our conversations are clearly controlled, short sentences without any real commitment. Mark feels awkward as if he has to say something to me when he enters a room; I suppose it’s his way of making me one of the guys. I like how pointless our conversations are like we are gliding along only on the surface. Roller-skating over the importance and the horror behind what we do. He’ll be back in another half hour or so to add to our useless banter.
                                                                                                                                                                          The next album has no stickers or labelling. It’s jammed with colour photos of Jennifer as a child and every one has a date on the reverse. Jennifer doing the splits in the park aged eight, Jennifer standing in a cluttered hallway in school uniform aged eleven, Jennifer doing a handstand against a tree aged nine, Jennifer held by Nana aged three. She smiles in every photo and I now recognise Nana as being one of the young women from the 1930’s photos. She has the same shape smile as Jennifer and the same light eyes.  I will keep this photo. I study their smiles and their happiness absorbing it. I want to memorise their joy in that moment to use as a shield. I can’t keep the photo. It’s against the rules and I'm all about the rules.
          The third album has a large folded envelope inside. It has ‘solicitors copy’ written on and it looks worn. Inside I find several photographs taken at some sort of venue. They are recent and show Jennifer smiling with an assortment of friends. I notice him straight away, in every photo. He stands in the background like a shadow just to the left edge. I see him, the way he stares at her, angry that he has been seduced by her, it’s that smile that does it, full of joy & cheer, natural without pain. I must have taken too long with the photographs because my coffee is cold. I drink it anyway.
Mark enters the room again, he says nothing but I can hear his awkward shuffle behind me.
               “I may have something.”
               “Good, we’ve finished all of the family’s interviews and we have nothing.”
         I have to find Jennifer’s letters from her solicitor. I know I’m on the right track now and I know where it’s going to end up but in my mind, Jennifer is still smiling held safe in the hands of her Nana.                                                                  




Friday, 25 March 2011

Agency Worker.

Hello, are you new? Don’t be nervous, we are all pretty friendly around here. What‘s your name? Its okay, you don’t have to tell me it’s all good in fact, that’s the best way to be. They pay you little attention if you’re quiet. It’s good to stay out of their radar.

I’m Jemma by the way, been here a couple of months now, but I’m not going to stay. My work colleagues will be collecting me any day soon. Here take a seat no point standing around all day you might as well rest. We can look out of the window and watch people coming and going. You get all sorts coming here. I am just waiting now to be re-assigned. Silly really how I was caught.

I used to be a carer. You know, in old peoples homes. It didn’t pay very well but I was agency you see, I never worked very long in the same place before I was moved on. Then I left to join another agency. The pay was much better and their offices were closer to my flat. I liked the fact that I don’t stay in one place too long, it meant I didn’t have to make friends. I’m not there for that, I’m there to do my job, you know. The permanent staff took an instant disliking to me. It’s snobbery really, just because I’m temporary. It’s not as if I care for patients any less than they do. Nevertheless, I always got great reports back from the managers and that was pretty much my whole life until I changed agencies.




Look, the suns coming out. It’s been a miserable couple of days. Beware the Ides of March. Dreadful month March. I came here back in February. Although it seems I’ve been here for much longer.

I’m not bragging, but I was good at my job. There were others that worked as hard as I did yet after a few months they struggled to get a placement. I was reliable, always turned up on time and just got on with the job at hand. I didn’t complain like the others. That’s why a new agency inquired after me. I knew I had hit on to something special when I was given one of their cards. I wish I still had it to show you. It looked so professional and their offices were spotless. You don’t often get such high-class agencies like that springing up in Greenwich. All the staff are lovely and so smart and polite.

Are you all right there sitting in the sun. It can get hot this time of day. Shall I get you a drink? You don’t want to dehydrate yourself it’s easy done.

I wasn’t surprised they wanted me to join their team. They had been watching me for some time. They said I was very stealth like and unnoticeable. That’s just what they were looking for. I was slightly shocked at first. I couldn’t believe that an agency like this existed. However, nothing shocks me anymore not after working for them. It did mean a slight change to my kind of work.

Look at me sitting here boring you to death with my life story. You don’t have to listen you can always tell me to shut up. I won’t take offence. Let me give you some advice, you have to watch for the tablets they give you. I take the ones they give me in the morning but you see those large blue capsules that come to you after lunch, I hide them at the back of my throat and spit them out when no one is looking. I have a stash of them in my room. If you ever want to be spaced out for several hours just ask me, I won’t charge you, because you’re new. No point really I’m sure you have nothing to trade. I know what their up to giving everyone those blue pills. It’s so they have no trouble and everyone’s calm in the evening. They used to do that in many of the homes I worked in too. You had to draw a blind eye to that sort of thing. After all being a carer is bloody hard work.


I remember very vividly my first assignment. My target was a Mrs Davies. Feisty one she was. But you see it was a test to see if I could handle the job. She was a nice looking old dear bright blue eyes that sparkled. She was very sharp of mind too you could call her a bit of a busybody. She always had opinions on what you were wearing or what programme on the TV she wanted to watch, she had to watch Inspector Morse or there would be trouble. Her son contacted the agency in order to lay claim on the life insurance so I did my job and smothered her with a pillow. I was so nervous after my first job but it didn’t spark any suspicion. The staff at the home thought I was in shock. Mrs Davies son put on a fantastic act of grief; he could have won an Oscar for his performance. He came in the next day all red eyed and fragile.

My boss was very pleased with my success and I was given many more assignments. They trained me very well in their methods and it wasn’t too long before I was given stage three assignments, not just in old people’s homes but also in hospitals and day-care centres too. I had done over thirty-seven jobs before I was caught. I remember all of them, all their names. Funny how these things stay with you.

 I remember one old person called Mr Bishop who knew I was going to kill him. He woke up just as I was injecting a drug overdose into his drip.

‘Who sent you?’ He demanded.

I wasn’t sure whether to tell him that his wife had ordered the hit, but there was something in his glassy eyes that told me he already knew. It was a real shame. I like Mr Bishop he was an interesting person. He spent most of his days telling me how he was a spy assigned to bring down communist Russia and that he was working for the Government. You could say we had a lot in common. He passed away peacefully and his wife never came to the hospital to see him Silly old bitch she could have alerted the police to what had really happened but when its old people no one really thinks anymore of it. It is expected. Old people die.



Look they are passing out the menus for lunch now. You don’t get a great choice. I would stick to the pasta if I were you their soups are disgusting. Always smile when they hand you your plate you don’t want them to know you’re on to them. Never let your guard down. Believe me when I tell you they are watching you very closely.

That’s how I was caught. I let my guard down. You forget these hospitals are very security conscience. CCTV camera’s everywhere. It’s not like the good old days when you could do as you pleased and no one saw you.

I really screwed it up for the agency. I had to tell the police about the agency in the end. They bullied me into it. I think that’s why they haven’t picked me up straight away. Of course I didn't name any names. Just the location.They’re going to punish me for a while. Their like that. They don’t want to be known to the authorities. I’m sure the Government funds them.

The police said that the offices were empty and had been for over a year, but you and I both know that they made it look like they were never there. As I said, they were very smart. I wonder where there new offices are. It won’t be long until they pick me up. You wait and see they will probably come disguised as doctors from another hospital coming to move me to a secure unit. It won’t be long now, any day.
Shall we join the lunch queue?