Hide and Seek

‘They played the game two or three days a week without fail. Never the mother, just him and the two kids; the boy and the girl.’ The old man snorted, spat to the side. ‘There was one time, mind, I remember not seeing them for a while. The boy cut his hand on a broken bottle. Scre amed so loud that the girl started crying too. After that it was a couple of weeks before they came back, then every few days without fail… until recently, of course.’

Standing, legs apart, on an old tyre, James looked out across the field - a maze of paths and patches of flattened grass, the houses in the distance divorced from it by tall fences. He hunched his shoulders. ‘Dunno much about it mister.’

‘Best that way. Nowt you can do.’

‘So…’ James paused a second. ‘Do you know then?’

The old man shrugged.

‘Were ye here?’

‘Not on the day I wasn’t, naw, but plenty others I was. Often met them when I was out with the dog. The bairns didn’t like it - the dog - gave away their hiding places. Still, sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I had been out that day, you know, it was the time the dad took to find them in the end.’ The old man waited, as if expecting a response from James. After a few seconds he went on: ‘He didn’t know the area, see, that’s another thing I could’ve done to help. I grew up here. There’s not a single hiding place I don’t know about. I practically invented them…’ He sighed and scratched the end of his nose. ‘Similar thing happened a few years back.’

‘Aye?’

‘Aye, a little boy went missing.’ The old man glanced James up and down. ‘How old are you?’

James puffed his chest out and straightened his back. ‘Twelve and a half.’

The old man gazed a little longer at James, then nodded and set off along the dirt trail, leading to the colliery, girding the heath. James hesitated a moment then leapt off the tyre and followed.

Tracks from heavy vehicles were baked into the trail. James balanced along the peaks, his arms out to the sides, leaping over the dips and dwindling puddles, that the earth drank slowly through its cracked lips. The road was flanked on one side by dying trees and bushes: rubbish for hiding behind, thought James, watching the old man’s dog weaving through them. He took a run and jump at a large puddle, catching the edge with his heels - a shock of water rising in his wake - then ran to get alongside the old man. They walked in silence for a bit, then James spoke: ‘What d’ you think happened?’

‘What do I think happened?’ The old man hawked up some phlegm and spat it out in front of him. He frowned at it for an instant before speaking. ‘The day started same as usual: the bairns running into the grass till it rose above their waists, yelling for the dad to close his eyes, count to fifty. He counted quietly at first, louder as he got toward fifty, slurring the numbers to make his voice sound bored. But at fifty he didn’t go, not straight away. He stood and waited, rolling himself a cigarette, calling out “I know you’re in there”, things like that, then walking off in the wrong direction, or stepping straight past one of their hiding places, looking away, pretending not to see, just to drag out time, build anticipation.’

‘Then what happened?’

The old man splayed his hands to the sides. ‘He found them.’

‘I thought ye said he didn’t,’ scowled James.

‘The first few times he did.’

‘Then what happened?’ he said impatiently.

‘It began as usual. The bairns telling the dad to close his eyes, turn around, count to sixty.’

‘Fifty.’

‘Eh?’

‘Ye said fifty before.’

The old guy shrugged. ‘Fifty, sixty… do you want to hear the rest or not?’

James nodded.

‘The dad closed his eyes and counted to fifty, but this time something was different and he counted quickly, then waded straight into the grass, eager to find them.’

‘How do ye know he counted to fifty if you weren’t there?’

‘It’s the rules,’ the old man stated, stepping to the edge of the field. ‘It’ll be easier if I show you.’

‘Can’t ye just tell us?’

‘It’s only a short walk,’ the old man said. ‘You want to know what happened, aye?

James gestured that he did. The old man smiled, lifted his hand, and beckoned him over.

The grass rose up above their waists - almost chest high on James. In the centre of the land the old man stopped and looked around, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. He shook his head and mumbled something to himself, then took a few steps and searched again. He sniffed and wiped his hand across his nose, it flattened against his face as though it was rubber.

‘The dad stopped about here to get a good view of the area, then cupped his hands to his mouth. “I give up, you’re too good,” he shouted. Something moved. The bairns! He smiled, relieved, ducked into the cover of the grass, and crept slowly towards them.’

With difficulty the old guy squatted onto his haunches, placing his fingertips against the ground for balance. James eyeballed the thick white hair spiralling into his scalp. The old man waved that he should get down also. He stooped and bent slightly at the knees.

They moved through the field, the yellowish green blades whipping into James as his guide moved beyond them.

Suddenly the old man stopped, James just managing to avoid a collision.

‘It was a good one, much deeper than usual. When he got close enough the dad burst out the grass and rushed toward the bairns, shouting and holding his hands out, ready to grab them.’ He took a deep breath, then screamed and jerked upright. He jogged forward, his hands in the air, fingers crooked. James’s mouth hung open as though the terrible cry was gargling up from his own throat. Ten of so feet away, the old man doubled over, resting his hands on his knees. His ruddy cheeks pumped in and out, saliva clinging to his lips. ‘But they weren’t there,’ he wheezed, pausing to take a few breaths. ‘Just an old T-shirt tangled in the grass.’

A few moments passed. James went over to the man. ‘Did ye have to scream like that?’

‘He did.’

‘How d’ ye know he did?’

The old man rubbed the small of his back and straightened up, sucking through his lips as he did so. He clapped off the dried grass embedded in his palms, then took a tobacco pouch from his jacket pocket and began rolling a cigarette. His hands were shaking. Shreds of tobacco jumped to the ground. The old man glanced at James, then dropped his gaze back to the tobacco. He licked across the gummed edge of the paper, then ran his fingers over to seal it. ‘Paul! Sarah!’ he shouted. ‘Come out where I can see you now!’

‘Who’s Paul and Sarah?’

The old man shrugged. He picked a flake of tobacco off his tongue, then lit the cigarette and inhaled.

‘I’ve got to go,’ said James.

‘But we’ve nearly found them.’

‘There’s no one to find.’

‘There’s always someone to find.’

James tutted and made to leave but before he could do so the old man darted forward and seized him by the arm. James tried to prise away the fingers. The grip was strong and got stronger the more he attempted to loosen it. Effortlessly seizing the other arm, the old man yanked James up close. ‘Fifty’s the count,’ he whispered, then let go and turned his back.

James stood motionless for one through to three. Upon four he ran.

 Dirty Boy

Wake Early. Instinctive. No need for an alarm clock here. Pull back the sheets and swing straight out onto the feet. Dress. Wearing undergarments from the day before cuts out dilly-dally. Trousers, shirt and jacket slipped on in next to no time. Pat the hair into place, pick up the keys and exit for work.

The paper-round. I wear two sacks, one slung over each shoulder. I alternate picking between bags so that the load will not tip to one side and leave me walking lopsided, in circles. The two bags at once is heavy, forces a stoop, wears the soles clean off the shoes. These ones have gone beyond common decency. No uniform is provided so that’s me reaching into the coffers again. Second hand shops suffice. Not to say I don’t look the part, I do. The jacket is blue pin stripe, the trousers grey. The glasses are held together with tape and give the wrong impression.

Upon reaching a door I push the newspaper right the way through the letterbox. Not to might result in theft and though the paper is free, it is looked forward to by some; the old I imagine but that is beside the point. Theft is theft and once in, the paper, whether partially or wholly posted, is the property of the household.

Postmen. Hello, I say but they do not see me as one of them. Technically I am not. The lack of uniform plays its part. But what I do is what they do only without names and numbers involved. Numbers are not a problem for me. 1, 2, 3, 4, I could go on all day like this. My applications to the post office have all been turned down but this does not bother me.

Sometimes I hear my voice and am surprised by its gruffness. The lack of practice is something to consider, the smoking too. A dog would be good to this end. Ideal for trying the voice out on: GOOD BOY! COME HERE! SIT! STAY! FUCK OFF! DIRTY BOY!

Dirty Boy. I shit myself at school but so what. A one off - never happened since. Ask my mother.

Good, Clean Living

The bath was full. Glassy eyed, John undressed, removing first his shirt, then trousers and boxer shorts. He shivered and looked down at his body. Without clothes, most of the blood was gone, only his hands were still tacky, as if he was wearing a pair of tight fitting gloves.

He rinsed them clean in the sink; not wanting to bathe in what was, in some ways, another person. When the swirls ran pure he reached to make them stop. A dread look fell across his face. The faintest of handprints gripped the tap. He turned to the bath. Keener versions of the print clung to the taps and dashed the rim. Picking one from several towels heaped on the radiator, he made good these, before noticing the same marks on the walls. Doubtless these daubs continued throughout the house, but they could wait for now. The bath was the important thing. He dropped to his knees and stared into the water, wafting a hand in front of his face to clear a view through the steam.

It was impossible to be sure: additional measures needed to be taken.

He emptied the glass containing his toothbrush and paste into the sink and took a sample of the water. Holding it up to the light, he squinted and turned it slightly this way then that. He smiled weakly. Clean.

With a hissing intake of breath, John plunged his right foot into the soak, then followed with his left. He squatted for a second to get used to the temperature before immersing himself. Perspiration dappled his brow. The idea of a roaring fire flashed through his head.

The soap was translucent orange with opaque white streaks running through it and, though the smell was slightly bitter - industrial even - it worked up a lather that made John feel really clean. He dipped it and rubbed it between his hands then over his body. Soothed as much by the extractor fan’s thrum as by the routine act, he sleepily began to count the red marks peppering the room. There were six on the door, easily identifiable against the white gloss, but upon the ochre walls they were ill defined and he found whenever a total was close to being reached, a momentary stupor would send him back to the start.

Replacing the soap, he closed his eyes and submerged his head.

Silence. Light flickered against the surface of the water. Then a shape cut into the corner of his vision. Gasping, John sat up. Splashes slapped against the floor. He wiped his hands over his eyes and glanced around, blood pounding violently in his ears. The room was empty. His nostrils flared and lips quivered. Noiselessly he wept. The day had gone wrong, terribly wrong.

The boy’s name was Martin.

If only John could rinse him down the plughole, like the blood, like a spider. People kill spiders all the time and no one flicks an eyelid. But it’s still murder. Ask god if it’s not. And Martin was an accident. God would know that too. John sniffled, composed himself. He had twenty-eight years of good, clean living behind him. He raked his fingers through his hair, slicking it back. He thought of Martin’s hair: thin, so thin it was inevitable he would go bald early. After their struggle John had swept his hand through it, brushing it away from the boy’s eyes and, though he did not appear vain, he imagined Martin was always sweeping aside his fringe, especially when his head was bowed and he was concentrating on his schoolwork. Then John saw, quite clearly, an image of Martin lying on the floor of a well-lit room, his feet raised in the air behind him and homework spread out in front of him. The left side of his body was hot, much hotter than the right. How did John know that? Because he could feel it, a wave of heat hitting his left side and the sound of flames crackling. And now Martin was gone. It was John on the floor, gazing down at the books. At the top of a ruled page was a question. He read it and put pen to paper. A minute or two went by without movement. He sighed - the heat was really too much to bear - and shuffled slightly to the right. He looked back at the problem, pressed the pen nib into the indented blue dot he had created and began tapping his shoes together.

‘Martin!’ a female voice whispered sternly. He looked over his shoulder. A woman, sitting with her legs tucked under her on a fat leather couch, lowered a magazine onto her lap and smiled. Softly, almost apologetically, she said, ‘You don’t use your feet to write.’

A cold drip landed on John’s big toe, rousing him to the perception of his surroundings. He shook his head. Why was he daydreaming of doing Martin’s homework? His mouth dropped open and throat tightened. The thought must have leaked into his body from the blood! There must be traces in the bathwater after all!

He gripped the handles on the sides of the bath, thrust himself to his feet and reached for a towel: needled by the rumour that there was a girl in the year above that fancied him and the desire for a pair of fashionable trainers. He dried himself vigorously, pleased for a second by the thickness of his pubic hair - it would certainly impress in the changing rooms. But no! Bodily hair was something John had long taken for granted. And yet upon inspection he thought it less dense than previously - balder - his chest hair too.

He stepped over to the mirror, wiped the condensation away and craned his neck towards the smudged reflection. He dropped his gaze and took a deep breath, releasing it through a series of short, trembling exhalations. He looked back at the reflection. It was John’s face but John’s face smoothed of all detail: wrinkles, stubble, even the scar he got falling off his bike as a child, were absent.

His head lolled. He needed to lie down, clarify things. He took a step towards the door, tottered, then staggered back a pace, bringing himself to rest on the edge of the bath. He hunched forward and vomited over his feet, then, shaking hysterically, dropped onto the damp carpet and curled up.

An entire childhood flooded John’s mind. Some vague notion that he had once unwittingly drank a mouthful of his best friend’s urine - a secret he tried to keep even from himself; a football match where his team had trounced the opposition six goals to nil; a joke that had backfired badly, leaving his sister partially deaf in one ear. But within all this one memory dominated. He was alone on a street, trees lining either side of the road. He was happy. Why? Because school was over for the day and he would soon be home. His heart warmed with the thought of sitting in front of the fire, watching the cartoons on television. He ran up the gravel driveway and pushed the doorbell, the sound of which never failed to make him feel welcome. The passage light came on and he heard footsteps. He ran his fingers through his hair, smiled.

A Generous Offer

They found him in the oven, his whole body crammed in there with the aid of an extension welded on specifically for the occasion. His skin was badly burnt but he was breathing. He had come to believe that his oven possessed the ability to rekindle youth and, following a series of careful experiments with various foods and animals, had planned to cook himself back to his late teens. Attention was drawn to his activities on the morning of the event, when he handed his elderly neighbour the charred carcass of her Chihuahua and said he would gladly do the same for her - a generous offer as he saw it.

Jimmy

After half an hours wait my name is called. I get up from the seat and follow the fat man into the back of the building. We sit opposite each other at a semicircular table in a makeshift office.

‘Sorry about the wait,’ he says to me. ‘I’ve just been in with Jimmy - and well - he pongs a bit, you know. You don’t like to say it but he does.’

I nod though I don’t know who Jimmy is.

‘I mean you’ve been near him, you’ll know what I mean. Bad enough you get the smell of him out there but sat in this tiny room with him, the door shut… Well you don’t know if it’s you, you know, you feel like…’ He sniffs his clothes and jabs up at his nose with both sets of fingers. ‘The pong, you know? On your clothes, up your nose and that; you wonder if it’s you.’

‘Yeah,’ I say.

The fat man looks at me in earnest. ‘They keep asking me to stop him from coming in, because it can be a bit unpleasant for the others, the smell and that, but I mean he’s not hurting anyone and…’ He pauses and takes a deep breath. ‘He wets himself see, but he doesn’t wear anything, so there’s nothing to soak it up. He doesn’t wear pads or special pants, so the dribbles just come through onto his trousers. There’s nothing to mop up the dribbles.’

‘Aw, right.’ I lean my elbow on the armrest and push my backside clear of the vinyl covering. The fat man continues talking.

‘We get complaints but - and you keep sniffing yourself to see if it’s you - but I feel bad for him, you know? I’m not going to get up in arms over it.’

‘Naw.’ I mutter.

The fat man’s sad eyes move to my elevated rump. I mumble something about a missing bus ticket and reluctantly lower myself back onto the seat. He turns away as though I have let Jimmy down.

We sit in awkward silence for a few seconds then he claps his hands together. ‘Well anyway,’ he sighs, ‘best crack straight on and get you on your way eh.’

He straightens himself in his seat. I mimic to show my approval.

‘Let’s see,’ he guides his eyes along a sheet of paper with the tip of his biro. ‘Leonard Pepper, mandatory, yes?’

‘Aye.’

‘Right - good - we’ve got the right sheet. If you just bear with me a minute I’ll get this filled in for you…’ He begins to scribble some notes down then stops abruptly. ‘Three and a half years unemployed eh?’

‘Yeah.’ I feign a sigh.

‘Still, you apply for jobs what else can you do?’

‘That’s it like.’

The fat man’s shoulders deflate; his body slides down the chair. He turns away, shaking his head. ‘He makes life hard for himself though.’

My brow creases. ‘Sorry?’

‘Jimmy.’ He throws his palms up in disbelief at me.

‘Aw right… I thought you were talking about… Jimmy aye.’ I slouch back.

‘Not wearing the pads and that.’

‘Mm.’
‘But I mean this place doesn’t help. When you get enough bodies out there the temperature…’

‘Hot. I noticed.’

‘And the smell. Jesus!’ He wafts a hand under his nose. ‘Cos it’s not just Jimmy, you know?’

‘I suppose.’

‘So anyway, this form,’ he says, raising a corner from the desk with the tip of his pen. ‘Do you want to come back or not?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘Is that…?’

‘No. That’s fine. Suit yourself.’ He shrugs. ‘And you’re sure about that cos once you’ve said you don’t it’s over, you’ll not be allowed back?’

‘I’m sure.’  

Latch

I must have been asleep for a long time because when I woke my body was tangled high in the branches of a tree. My eyes, unused to the light, were narrowed to slits and the lashes blurred all I could see. I shivered. A few tattered rags aside, I was naked, cold. My penis had shrivelled to a small bluish-pink ball that, because of my bonds, I was unable to cover. I thought about urinating and, in thinking, developed an urge to do so. I strained. The first squirts ran onto my legs and then my penis unfurled and I was able to propel the piss away from my body. It stung then warmed my cock. The sound of it splattering against the ground and the pungent whiff of it, pricking up against my nostrils, pleased me with their familiarity. This went on for some considerable time then the piss petered out and ran onto my legs once more. I grunted and squeezed to get the last dribbles out, but then, worried I might shit, eased off; to drip dry was fine in the circumstances. I looked around. Things were getting clearer: a walled garden, a house; down below a woman with a dog watched me.

‘I didn’t think you’d ever wake up,’ she called, an attempt to smile jerked from her face as her dog tried to go elsewhere. She hissed at it through clenched teeth and gave a sharp tug on the leash, jolting the animal around to face her. It yelped and collapsed miserably onto the grass.

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ A muscular man, grinning stupidly, bounded from the house and put his arms around the woman. He went to kiss her but she recoiled and raised her eyebrows in gesture at me.

The man glanced up then back at her. ‘He can’t stay,’ he muttered.

A sudden realisation occurred to me. I opened my mouth to speak but coughed as I made to do so, getting the attention of them both. My mouth felt dry. I ran my tongue over my teeth and gums, stirring up all the saliva I could muster, sloshed it around by way of lubrication then swallowed. They kept their eyes on me, waiting patiently as if I were about to give a sermon. ‘Get your hands off my wife,’ I croaked, twisting my hand, bound at the wrist, to wag a finger at the man in the jog-suit.

He looked at my wife, who nodded and gently pushed him away. ‘You go ahead,’ she said, holding out the leash handle.

Mumbling huffily, the man dragged the dog, whose head was turned in the direction of my wife, to the end of the garden then glowered at her. Upon leaving he slammed the gate so hard it hit the frame and rattled back open.

My wife hugged her arms around her body. ‘You must be freezing,’ she simpered.

I tried to shrug but to little effect.

‘You were asleep for a long time.’

‘Hih.’

‘You were!’ She snapped then glanced sheepishly around. ‘You were’, she repeated in a sharp whisper.

I nodded to the side. ‘Who’s he?’

‘Darren.’

‘You don’t waste time.’

Her head bowed and she began teasing a loose clump of earth with her foot. After several moments her shoulders gave a shudder.

‘You’re not crying?’

‘No, I’m not,’ she said in a cracked voice.

‘Christ.’

She sniffled and wiped her eyes. ‘I’m not.’

‘Well you obviously are.’

‘I’m not!’ She shot me a defiant stare. ‘But so what if I am! What’s it to you anyway. You useless…’ She snorted and waved a hand dismissively at me. ‘And you expect me to wait! Christ I hate you. Why did you have to go and wake-up? You always spoil things for me.’

I sneered. ‘I swear if I could uproot I’d…’

‘You’d what! You’d wither and die, starved of water. You’d topple over. Or maybe you’d just get lodged in a bigger tree.’

‘Oh, ha ha. Very droll.’

She drew a deep breath then exhaled deliberately and cupped her hands like a beggar. ‘Look, I don’t want to argue. If this is going to work out we have to be able to get on. You, me and Darren… otherwise.’

‘Otherwise what?’

She shook her head and made to leave. ‘I have to go.’

‘Otherwise what Rachael?’ I shouted, the effort grating my throat. ‘Otherwise fucking what?’

Gripping the gate handle, ready to pull it to, she turned to face me. ‘Otherwise we’ll have to cut you down.’

‘Cut me… What, did you think you could leave me here?’

She said nothing, the corners of her mouth turned down slightly. Then I realised; the branches had grown into as well as around me. Up my arse, into my pores, even burrowing new holes where once there were none. I bit into my lip, scrunched my eyes tight shut. After several moments I opened them and writhed violently in all directions then exhausted by the effort, slumped back, panting, into my predicament.

Rachael raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Finished?’

‘I suppose you think this is my fault,’ I said.

‘No, it’s not like that.’

‘Well what is it like then?’

‘It’s nobody’s fault.’ A trace of a smile rose on her face. ‘It’s just how things turned out.’

‘Him in my bed and me a tree!’ I shot forward, hitting my neck against one branch and conscious of a tugging at the nape. ‘You think this is how things turn out?’

I waited for an answer. There was a minute or two of silence and then a rattling sound started up. She was tapping the latch with her thumb. I thought of men whose wife’s stand by them through thick and thin; soldiers, convicts, men in comas, with debilitating diseases, paralytics, alcoholics. They overcame their obstacles, used them to strengthen their relationships.

Not us.

‘I’ll kill you,’ I said.

She sighed and took a step towards the back lane. ‘We’ll talk later,’ she said. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’ Then she left, closing the gate, making sure the latch dropped into place.