Quinn

Quinn

Nexis Pas

© 2010 by the author

The man’s gaze lingered on Owen. He had stopped suddenly on the busy pavement, forcing the office workers streaming out of the nearby buildings to part and walk around him. Several of them glanced in Owen’s direction to see what had attracted the man’s attention. Owen shifted uneasily in the queue and looked down the street to see if the bus was coming. He hoped no one he knew was witnessing the encounter. Owen tried not to look, but his eyes kept shifting toward the man to see if he was still staring. The man wasn’t half-bad looking, Owen decided. Not good enough to go with, but not bad. Certainly presentable enough to make his desire for Owen worth having. The man’s mouth opened slightly, and the tip of his tongue flickered over his lips. He kept his eyes on Owen’s face, willing Owen to make contact, to admit that Owen was as interested in him as he was in Owen.

The man was rocking back and forth on his feet now, his hand smoothing his tie against his chest. He glanced around at the flow of pedestrians as if looking for an opening so that he could close the gap separating him from Owen. He tilted his chin slightly and jerked it in the direction he had been headed when he stopped to look at Owen, inviting Owen to join him. Now he expects me to proposition him, thought Owen. He’s already in mid-fantasy about me, some fantasy about my wanting him. Owen grew suddenly disgusted with the encounter and pointedly turned around, breaking contact with the man.

That happened so often now. Owen would become aware that someone, usually a man, was staring at him. He had been the focus of attention before, the looks that darted his way whenever he was in public. They had simply been a recognition of his appearance. He had received such glances since he had been a child and grown used to them. They were so common that he would have noticed them only if he had not received those brief moments of homage. He was handsome, people looked, that was only natural.

But it was different now. His cool stare challenged passersby from larger-than-life-size posters on the walls of bus shelters and the windows of upscale men’s shops, his muscled body escaping total nudity only by the few square inches of cloth hiding his groin, a few square inches that did nothing to hide the fact that he was male. The same images demanded attention from the pages of glossy magazines. There were even montages of his pictures available on websites devoted to the male body, with quite explicit comments detailing what certain viewers wanted from him or wanted to do to him.

Publicly Owen complained about the attention, but occasionally, to himself, he admitted that he liked it. It was after all a form of flattery, even though there were times when it was an inconvenience to be known as the Quinn Man, the model for Quinn’s new line of underwear. The trademark x-shaped white bands highlighting his groin focused the mind on that part of his body—‘X marks the spot,’ one of the photographer’s assistants had remarked to general groans during one of the photo sessions. There were times when he felt the heat of others’ focus on his crotch now, as if they could see the X through his trousers.

When Owen signed the contracts, he had been elated at being chosen. He hadn’t thought much about the consequences of posing for the pictures, of becoming this season’s Quinn Man. He hadn’t anticipated the loss of privacy that the ad campaign would bring. His pictures saturated public spaces, and everyone seemed to have seen them and to recognise him instantly. The slight smile on his lips and the hint of amused self-mockery in his eyes seemed to invite interest and promise accessibility to those who wanted it. Most people assumed they had as much a right to stare at him personally as they had at his picture. Many thought he owed them more, to be as available physically as he was visually. The attention had become even more blatant in the past month, since the second series of pictures had started to appear.

It had seemed a harmless lark at the time. Connor had told him of a photographer—Jimmy—who had hired him and was looking for another young man, someone who was ‘handsome but didn’t look like a model’ for a series of ads for a new line of casual clothes. Owen had gone for an interview on a whim. He was curious to see how the photographer would respond to his looks and if Jimmy would like him well enough to want him to appear in ads. Jimmy did. He offered Owen 200 pounds for a day’s work. Owen signed the release forms without bothering to read them.

Early one sunny Saturday morning, one of Jimmy’s assistants had picked Connor and Owen up in his van. They spent the day being photographed in the grounds of large house in the Kent countryside. Jimmy posed them together and alone. The day was more tedious than Owen had expected. There were long stretches of time when they stood around trying to remain still so that the clothes wouldn’t get wrinkled or disarranged while Jimmy and the others measured distances and checked gauges and settings. These would be followed by frantic minutes of posing while Jimmy snapped hundreds of shots and shouted out directions. ‘Look over my right shoulder.’ ‘Turn your head slightly to the left.’ ‘Lower your chin just a tad.’ But it had been an easy 200 quid.

Owen’s favourite image was one of himself leaning against a tree. He was looking into the camera, his eyes frankly appraising the viewer, a slight smile on his face. The T-shirt he was wearing hugged his body, and it was clear that he was well muscled. What wasn’t apparent in the picture was that the Jimmy’s assistant had pinned the shirt in the back so that it clung to his torso. The pins were scratching his back when the shots in that sequence were taken.

The photographs had appeared online and in print ads. Several people told him that they had seen them. A friend of his mother’s brought them to her attention and she rang wanting to know why he hadn’t let her know beforehand. She would have bought copies of all the papers. Owen asked Jimmy for copies of the photographs to send her but was told that the company whose clothes he was modelling owned the photos and didn’t permit their distribution. It was only then that Owen realised that he no longer controlled his image.

The attention died as quickly as it had flared. Two months later, Jimmy called again and asked if he would model for another series of shots—this time for underwear. The payment was higher this time, 350 pounds for a day’s work. He also had to have his body shaved and then waxed. To his chagrin, the ‘hair sculptor’ left a carefully trimmed patch just above his cock. He also had to spend several hours over the course of a week in a tanning salon getting an all-over tan.

The morning of the shoot, the hair sculptor had given him a touch-up trim. When she had finished, Jimmy and several of his crew, as well as a representative of the manufacturer and people from the ad agency, had come in and inspected the results. They discussed his body dispassionately as if it were no more than a frame for selling underwear. The few blemishes they found were quickly covered with make-up. The young woman who did it had studied his skin carefully and then selected the concealer from a large case of cosmetics.

The soft bristles of the brush tickled and he giggled, more from embarrassment than anything else. A table piled with underwear in his size was off to one side, out of the range of the set-up for the camera. He soon got used to being naked and changing from one set of underwear to the next in full view of everyone. There were many more people this time. The drawing room of an old house had been rented for the occasion. A dozen other models, both men and women, lounged about on sofas and chairs or stood before a fireplace. The men were wearing evening clothes, and the women formal gowns out of a movie from the 1930s. Owen was the only person less than fully dressed. He wore only underpants in various styles—briefs, bikinis, thongs. He stood in the centre of the group, holding a cocktail glass filled with water and a skewered olive, and pretending to engage in an animated conversation with the others.

Several of the other models were acting students, and they turned the shoot into a game. Each tried to outdo the others in making salacious remarks about Owen’s body while maintaining the charade of an elegant cocktail party and pretending that the nearly naked man in their midst was nothing unusual.

Owen’s body was the subject of constant primping to make it less shiny, to make it more shiny, to add highlights, to tone down highlights. It was hot under the lights, and at one point someone used cotton wool to soak up the sweat on this forehead. The next second another person stepped forward and sprayed his body with water to make it look as if he had been sweating. He smiled, he frowned, he tried to look sexy. Jimmy kept up a steady stream of instructions telling him where to look and what expression to have on his face.

The first few minutes he had felt uneasy about being the only naked person, but once the others turned it into a comedy, he relaxed and started playing the game as well. The day passed quickly. The humorous banter came across in the results. Despite the incongruity of a nearly naked man in the midst of a crowd of fully dressed people, the group looked as if they were enjoying themselves. After the session, some of the other models had invited him to join them for a drink. Owen ended up in bed with one of the men.

Three weeks later Jimmy called and invited him to his studio to meet with the advertising people. They offered him a contract to be the Quinn Man for the next six months. The sum offered was more than double his yearly income, all for a few days' work. The first series of ads were variations on the drawing room scene. Owen appeared clothed in only Quinn underwear amid a throng of fully dressed people. A crowd waiting to cross a street on a rainy day, everyone in raincoats and huddled under umbrellas except for Owen. A queue waiting to buy tickets in a train station, businessmen and -women reading folded newspapers, young tourists with backpacks consulting guidebooks, and Owen wearing nothing but a red bikini brief and an expression of impatience at the slow speed of the line. A crowd in the fruit and vegetable section of a supermarket, harried mothers trying to shop and keep track of toddlers at the same time, as Owen looked askance at the bunch of bananas he was holding in one hand.

There were eighteen such shots in all. In each shot, the background and the other people had been manipulated to appear in only black-and-white. The only colour in the image was Owen and the bold logo beneath the picture. ‘Quinn.’ No other word appeared in the pictures. Just ‘Quinn.’

He was identified as the model within hours of the appearance of the first ads. He finally switched off his mobile to get some peace. The second series of shots brought even more attention. This time he was posed alone, on a bed. In the first of the series the sheets and the pillows were unruffled. Owen’s arms were stretched above his head, his right hand lightly grasping his left wrist. The pose opened his body to the camera, making it totally available to the viewer. He smiled a confident invitation. The man in the picture knew that everyone who saw him would want to join him in bed.

In the succeeding shots, the bedclothes became increasingly disarranged. The photographs caught Owen from different angles, but always with his eyes looking directly at the viewer, except in the last image. In the final shot in the series, one of the pillows had tumbled unnoticed to the floor, and the other had been pushed to the far edge of the bed. Owen’s eyes were lidded, his body relaxed in languorous bliss. A corner of the sheet had been mounded over his crotch, covering the bare minimum needed to avoid charges of indecency. The pair of Quinn briefs he had been wearing in the series lay artfully rumpled next to his exposed hip.

*****

‘Oh, you’re hairy.’ The man who had invited him back to his flat stared at him in dismay. Owen had just unbuttoned his shirt and started pulling it free of his trousers. ‘You’re smooth in the pictures.’

‘Sorry. They remove all my hair for the shoots.’ Owen sighed inwardly. He didn’t have a lot of body hair, just a light fuzz on his chest and stomach. Before the photos had appeared, no one had even mentioned it. Now that he was being compared to the god in the Quinn advertisements, it had become a flaw. ‘I hope it doesn’t bother you.’

Along with the increasing number of bed partners had come an increasing number of complaints that he didn’t live up to the dream in the advertisements. Some were even disappointed to discover he didn’t wear Quinn underwear. His excuse—‘It’s uncomfortable’—offended their image of him. The loose, unfashionable boxer shorts he favoured upset his public.

One man had even noticed that Owen had a small mole on his abdomen that had been airbrushed out of the pictures. Owen found the proof that the man had studied his photographs that carefully both exhilarating and unnerving. Exhilarating because the man had paid so much attention to his body and unnerving because he had been reduced to an object to be studied.

The other man shook his head. ‘No, I don’t mind.’ But it was clear that he did. Owen’s reality had spoiled his Quinn fantasy. The man rushed the sex and then said pointedly, ‘If you want to use the toilet before you leave, Quinn, it’s through there, off the bedroom.’

That was the thing Owen resented most. He had lost his own name. ‘Quinn’. The name followed him down the street. If he stepped into the street or a store, he would be greeted with ‘There’s Quinn’. Strangers came up to him and called him that name, never thinking that he might have a name of his own.

The fame also brought benefits, Owen was honest enough with himself to admit that. It wasn’t just the money. He was also well paid with the coin of admiration. He had had partners before the photos appeared. He was handsome, after all. But the ad campaigns had changed how he was perceived, he found. His looks hadn’t changed, but the publicity had somehow made him more desirable, as if the public validation of his beauty in the ads increased his value. He could walk into the busiest club in London and have his pick of partner for the evening. Owen quickly learned that it wasn’t himself the chosen one wanted. He wanted to be seen with Owen, to be known as someone Owen had chosen, to have the cachet of his own desirability being recognised by someone everyone found desirable.

Owen would circle the club, acknowledging the salutes of the crowd, meeting eyes, and coolly appraising what was on offer that night. ‘That one, I’ll have that one,’ he would think. He would smile at the one and then stop to chat. The two of them might find themselves disappointed later, when they were alone, but for an hour or two in the club, everyone envied them. And the spark of recognition in the chosen one’s eyes, his delight upon being chosen, and the envy of others—those were enough for Owen.

Occasionally he was rebuffed. A famous singer in a boy band had smiled pleasantly and then said, ‘I have a lover.’ He had pulled another man forward and introduced him to Owen. Owen hadn’t believed him at first, he thought the man was joking. The singer could have anyone he wanted. Granted he wasn’t great looking, but with his fame he would have been able to get someone far better looking than himself. Instead he had chosen this nondescript man as his partner. The two lovers weren’t even attracted by the prospect of a threesome when Owen had hinted at the possibility. If anything, they seemed insulted, barely acknowledging the suggestion before moving away. Owen had felt a twinge of envy for the way they looked at each other, the way they were together in that throng. There seemed to be a protective circle around them excluding the crowd from their intimacy and their happiness. There were others like that. Their eyes might linger on Owen, but out of curiosity rather than a desire to possess. Owen wasn’t worth trading for what they already had or what they were waiting for.

Owen decided that he would eventually, when he was old, maybe in his mid-thirties, if his looks had started to fade, find someone to settle down with. But not now. Now there were too many opportunities to play. He would be a fool, he thought, to pass the riches life had to offer for the dull routines of married life and the monotony of the same person. Still, occasionally he found his thoughts drifting to the contentment in the singer’s voice when he had said, ‘I have a lover’.

But there weren’t many public rebuffs. Most of the time, he was successful in getting the partner he wanted. He grew less polite with those who approached him without permission, barely acknowledging their attempts at conversation, his eyes briefly resting on their face before slowly drifting elsewhere. They were not worth even the effort of an explicit refusal, his manner implied. It was, he told himself, what they deserved. The worst were those who had fantasised about him. As soon as they began speaking, it was clear that they had already been with Quinn in their minds. When Owen turned them down, they called him a ‘bitch’ or remarked loudly within his hearing that he was stuck on himself. Even some of the chosen ones got angry when Owen stubbornly resisted becoming the creature they thought they knew. Some waited until after the sex, as they hurriedly dressed, before making their disappointment known. They had wanted the Quinn Man. They didn’t want Owen, and that was increasingly all that he was willing to give them.

*****

‘You could wear dark glasses and a hat and old clothes. I’ve tried that occasionally when I want privacy. If you really want to go unrecognised, I suppose you could grow a beard and get a different haircut, even dye your hair.’ Jason idly turned the pages of a magazine he had picked up from the pile on the coffee table in Owen’s flat. He had listened patiently to Owen’s recital of grievances about the drawbacks of fame. Their friendship dated to their childhood and had survived Jason’s rise to fame as a member of the cast of Brighton Beach and Owen’s apotheosis as the Quinn Man.

‘Does that work?’

‘Not really. Maybe if it’s dark. Sometimes I get away with a disguise, and people don’t recognise me. It’s worse when I’m found out. Then the photos appear in the papers with captions like “Jason tries to hide from his fans”. I end up looking like a fool who’s been caught and exposed.’

‘I don’t want to be the one that has to change. I want them to change and stop thinking of me as the Quinn Man. I started chatting a guy up the other night. We were hitting it off, and then I realised he was talking to Quinn, and I lost interest. I went home by myself.’

‘Well, the ads will be over soon enough, won’t they? What is it, another two months and then there’s a new Quinn Man?’

‘Yes, the photos for that have already been shot.’

‘The problem will solve itself then. I don’t mean to be cruel, chum, but you’ll soon become “what’s-his-name?”. That’s even worse than being hounded by fans.’

‘That can’t happen soon enough for me.’

‘Do you really mean that?’ Jason tossed the magazine back on the table and took the next one in the stack. ‘Won’t you miss the attention?’

‘Not at all.’ Owen looked Jason in the eyes and tried to put as much conviction into his voice as he could.

‘Liar.’ Jason smiled at Owen with affection. ‘Why do you have all these magazines with your photos, then? You like looking at these pictures. And you like thinking about all the people looking at them and admiring you. Wishing they were you.’

Owen shrugged. ‘Yeah, a bit. How did you know that?’

‘I have files full of pictures of myself. I’m not as bad now, but when I first became known, I was obsessive about collecting everything about myself. I eventually had to limit myself to checking just once a day on Google for mentions of my name. Now I try to keep it to once a week. I won’t tell you what I did when YouTube became popular.’

‘I probably do the same thing. All right,’ Owen admitted, ‘I like being noticed. I just don’t like the other stuff. I just wish they liked me instead of my image.’

‘One goes with the other. Face it, people want the image of you. They have fantasies about you wanting them. Oh, this is the best picture of you.’

Owen sat down beside Jason on the sofa. The picture was a cropped version of his favourite shot from the first set that Jimmy had taken, before he had become the Quinn Man. Only his face and the upper part of his body were visible in the picture. On the left side of the picture, a tree trunk cut diagonally across the image, obscuring one side of his face, its bark a rough contrast to the smoothness of his face.

‘Why that one? It’s not revealing.’

‘You say that as if you’re disappointed that I didn’t chose one of your nude shots.’

Owen slid down slightly and rested his head against Jason’s shoulder. The fabric of Jason’s shirt was soft against his cheek. It was warm from Jason’s body. He rubbed his face against it two or three time before coming to rest. ‘Most people like the nudes. They like looking at my body.’

‘They’re okay. Sure I like looking at your body. But I felt I was intruding when I looked at those pictures. I guess I just want a more private view of you. This one, well, I suppose I like it because you look like the Owen I know.’ Jason traced the contour of Owen’s chin in the picture with the tip of a finger. ‘I wish you would look at me like that.’ Jason said that so softly that Owen wasn’t sure that he had heard.

‘What?’

Jason looked away, slightly embarrassed at being found out but equally as glad that he had made his feelings known. ‘Sorry, I have fantasies about you too. Don’t be angry. That’s why I don’t like the nude shots. I was always hoping that I would get to be the only person who saw your body.’

Owen sat up and drew apart from Jason. ‘I’m not angry. Just surprised. You’ve never said anything.’

‘Is it so surprising? I thought . . .’

‘What? What did you think?’

‘That you might know what I feel for you without my having to say anything. I guess I’m afraid that you don’t feel that way about me. That’s why I’ve never said anything. All your boyfriends and dates have always been as good-looking as you, and I thought maybe you feel that I’m not good enough for you.’ Jason finally looked at Owen, the expression on his face willing Owen to deny that statement.

The ache of Jason’s longing hung in the air between them. After a few seconds Owen moved closer again and wrapped his arms around Jason. But he had waited too long. It was a polite embrace when only a passionate one would have answered Jason in the way he wanted to be answered. Owen rubbed his palms up and down Jason’s back in a gesture meant to be comforting rather than arousing. When Jason tried to raise himself up to bring his face level with Owen’s, Owen put a hand on the back of Jason’s head and drew it into his neck. He didn’t want to risk what would follow a kiss. He owed Jason more than what would be at best charity.

A sob escaped Jason’s lips. ‘You’re so beautiful. I love you so much. I’ve wanted you for so long.’ It was, despite the words, an admission of defeat. He pushed himself back from Owen and said, ‘I’d better leave. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken.’ He ran out without looking back.

The magazine had fallen to the floor when Jason stood up. Owen picked it up and looked at his image. ‘You’re so beautiful. I love you.’ A statement of cause and effect. And what if he were not so beautiful, would anyone want him then? There were ugly people who were loved. He had seen them and wondered how they managed to generate such feelings. It was not something he could experience. His looks guaranteed that he was desired for them. Everyone wanted him for his looks, not for what he was inside. Sometimes he wasn’t sure that there was an inside, just the shell that everyone wanted.

‘I wish you would look at me like that,’ Jason had said of this picture. Others read so much into Owen’s all-regarding look of wonderment and pleasure. Some saw Owen’s frank gaze as an invitation for intimacy. Some fantasised an encounter with an understanding friend, the Mr Right everyone wanted. If this were a picture of someone else, Owen speculated, what would I feel? Would I want that person?



‘What do I want?’ he asked himself. Would it be enough to be able to pull Jason forward in answer to someone hitting on him and say, ‘I have a lover’? To say it with pride, the astonishment he felt at his own good fortune apparent to everyone. To have someone, would that be enough to make him happy? Did the acceptance of another’s desire count as desire, of another’s love as love?

Jason was well known, almost famous. He and I would be thought well matched and lucky to have one another, thought Owen. We would become a celebrity couple. Our pictures would appear in the papers and magazines, entering clubs, attending the openings of films and shows, perhaps even shopping together. It was something to consider. It would end the series of disappointed and disappointing partners. And Jason was easy to talk with. Jason would solve a lot of problems.

He picked up his mobile and pressed the keys for Jason’s number. The phone rang several times and then the recording cut in with its automatic invitation to leave a message. Owen thought about leaving a message but then decided he would call again later. Or perhaps he would buy a bottle of champagne—and flowers, flowers would be a nice touch—and then drop by Jason’s flat unannounced. It might even be more effective if Jason were not in and came back to discover him waiting at this door. The repentant lover standing in the cold to apologise to his lover. It would make a nice story for the accounts that would appear later.

Tomorrow Island

Tabulae mundi mihi, The Island

(This will eventually be a segment of The Island.)

Nexis Pas
(c) 2010 by the author.

Tomorrow Island

‘And is it something you’ll be wanting then? Or are you just after watching other folk work?’ Mr Cusack looked up at me from the deck of his boat, several feet below where I stood on shore. He spoke gruffly, but with the sort of friendly gruffness that the men of Munfrees reserved for not unwelcome breaks from their labours. The gruffness was to let you know that he was busy, as you clearly were not or you would not be bothering him, but—and this was part of the gruffness too—you were not to abuse his willingness to stop and talk with you a bit.

I had been standing there for several minutes waiting for him to acknowledge my presence, wondering if it would be all right for me to speak. I was still unsure of myself around the villagers. Their lives were devoted to activities unfamiliar to me, and in the first days after we arrived in Munfrees I had peppered them with questions. My mother and Aunt Alyce had encouraged me to be curious. Unlike the other behaviours they tried to instil in me, curiosity was a habit I was happy to pursue zealously. But I quickly learned that the inhabitants of Munfrees did not always welcome children’s interruptions. My ‘What are you doing?’ would elicit a scowl and a dark look more often than an answer. That didn’t stop me from being curious—but I usually exercised my curiosity at a careful distance. That day, however, I had a reason for being there, and that emboldened me now that I had received permission to speak. ‘My aunt sent me to ask, Mr Cusack, if we could please have a fish tomorrow.’

‘And did she say what kind? There are lots of fish in the ocean. Is it a whale she’ll be wanting or a mackerel?’ He shook his head with the amused puzzlement that the villagers often greeted the ignorance of outsiders such as ourselves.

Mr Cusack was the only commercial fisherman remaining at Munfrees. Old Mrs Ahern had told us that when she had been a girl, there had been a dozen, and small boats had crowded the sheltered inlet just north of the last house in Munfrees. My aunt had asked if it was possible to buy fish in Munfrees, and Mrs Ahern had explained the villagers’ arrangement with Mr Cusack. But as often happened in Munfrees, the present quickly led to the past.

‘The boats were painted all different colours, so you could look out and tell who was setting out or returning.’ She stared toward the inlet where the boats had been moored. At some time in the past, a stone wall had been built out in the deeper part of the inlet to provide a dock. The landward side had been filled in with dirt and rocks to form a level platform. ‘Those men were so proud of their boats. Everything about them had to be perfect. Treated them like a member of the family, they did. Better than their families, some of them. They always painted them in bright colours, and in the evening when the water was still and all the boats tied up along the wall, the reflections shimmered in the water. When I was small, I used to pretend that the water was covered with bright cloths, just floating there on the surface. Like the clothes the bishop wore when he came to confirm us, all red and green and gold. It was magic.’ She paused and sighed, and then voiced the frequently heard lament, ‘Oh well, that’s all gone now. The others have all died or given over fishing or moved elsewhere. There’s only Donal Cusack now.’

Mr Cusack’s May was usually the only boat tied up alongside the old stone wall. True to tradition, he had painted his boat. The hull was blue and the small cabin a bright red. Unless the weather was truly foul, every day but Sunday Mr Cusack left Munfrees at first light and returned in mid-afternoon. He sold most of his catch further south, to the processing plants in Killybegs. Anyone in Munfrees who wanted a fish would ask him the night before, and Mr Cusack would bring it back the next day. He expected you to meet his boat, however, and have a basin ready to carry the fish back home. He had told my aunt that the first time she asked him for a fish. ‘I’m not a deliveryman,’ he said. ‘I’ve been working all day, and I’m ready for a pint and a smoke. This isn’t Dublin, and I’ll not be waiting on you. You clean the fish yourself or have the lad do it. And there’s no credit. If you ask me to save you a fish and don’t have the money, then you won’t get the fish and you’ll not be needing to ask me again.’

‘She says, a whitefish please, enough for our tea tomorrow and then for a fish pie the next day, Mr Cusack. And she says to ask, please, if she could have some heads for the broth.’

Mr Cusack considered the request for a moment and then nodded. ‘Tell Miss Collins she will have her fish. And it will be three shillings, lad.’

My mission accomplished, I was in no hurry, and I sat down on the old wall, with my legs dangling over the water, a few feet seaward from where Mr Cusack’s boat was tied up. The sea was calm that day, and each incoming wave lifted the water only a half-foot or so. The shape of the inlet and the position of the wall to one side meant that the waves flowed down the inlet perpendicular to where I sat. The crest of the wave would charge down the wall, lifting the seaweed attached to the stones and raising the water toward me but not so close that my topboots were in danger of getting wet. I could safely entertain thoughts of being swept into the water and going home soaked.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I watched Mr Cusack as he cleaned his nets and washed down the deck of his boat. He must have been in his late sixties or early seventies at that time. Years of exposure to the North Atlantic had permanently wrinkled his face and hands. His clothes were for a much larger man, as if he had shrunk over the years. He was almost lost within them. It was warmer than usual that day, and he had tossed his yellow mac up onto the wall beside the other gear he planned to take with him. He wore an old white pullover and had pushed the sleeves up, exposing thin forearms corded with muscle and ribbed with hard veins. His small boat rocked with every wave, but he compensated effortlessly for the motion, as if years of waves had imprinted themselves on the movements of his body.

He worked for about five minutes without appearing to notice me. He wasn’t even looking at me when he asked, ‘And what does your aunt put in her fish pie, then?’

‘She says that she will teach me how to gather sea lettuce and mussels and we will have those in the pie.’

‘No potatoes?’

‘Lots of potatoes. And onions too, I think.’ At best my notions of what went into a fish pie were vague. The dish clearly contained fish, and it was a pie, but that exhausted my knowledge and my expectations. I had eaten fish pies before, but not with the attentiveness to the contents the discussion had grown to demand. My aunt had proposed the idea earlier that day as a way of using what was available for free along the shores of Munfrees. Mr Cusack seemed to expect potatoes, and so I supplied them. Onions showed up frequently in Aunt Alyce’s cooking, and they seemed a probable addition.

He considered those ingredients for a moment and then said thoughtfully, as if he were tasting the pie in his imagination, ‘I like a bit of cabbage in mine.’

‘Me too.’ I tried very hard to sound as judiciously adult as Mr Cusack.

He gazed at me speculatively as if testing my remark for irony or mockery and then chuckled, ‘You’ll be thinking then that a bit of cabbage improves most everything?’

It was my turn to test that ingredient against my imagination. ‘Well, not a pudding. You wouldn’t want cabbage in a pudding.’

‘Now, lad, old Mrs Sheahan that lived next to Feelihy’s shop—you know that house to the left?’

I nodded.

‘Well, she made a fine cabbage pudding. She was famous for her cabbage pudding. They even knew about her cabbage pudding down in Sligo. She sent them down by the mailman’s cart. Even the magistrate used to beg his housekeeper for a slice of Mrs Sheahan’s cabbage pudding.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She died and took the receipt for her cabbage pudding with her. Nobody knows how to make it now. So you’ll never get to taste it, lad. Tis a pity. You tell your ma and your aunt about it. Maybe they can put it in one of those books they’re writing. Old Mrs Sheahan and her cabbage pudding that was famous down to Sligo.’

I took Mr Cusack’s willingness to talk to me as permission to engage in further conversation. ‘Where do you catch the fish, Mr Cusack?’

‘Where the fish are, lad. That’s the only trick there is to fishing. Go to where the fish are if you want to catch them.’

‘But how do you know where they are?’

‘Can’t tell you that, lad. That’s my secret. If I tell you, then you’ll be able to find your own fish. Won’t need me. That wouldn’t be half clever of me, would it?’

‘I won’t tell anyone. I promise. And I don’t have a boat. I couldn’t go out. Unless you took me.’

‘I can’t do that.’ Mr Cusack was suddenly serious. ‘It’s dangerous out there, lad.’

‘I’ll be careful.’

‘No, it wouldn’t do. It’s only luck and St Peter that’ve kept me alive this long.’ He said this with such finality that I knew better than to ask again. My disappointment must have shown because his next words were, ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you where the best fishing is. But you have to promise not to tell anyone.’

I solemnly vowed never to reveal the location of his fishing grounds. He stepped off his boat and sat down beside me. He looked around, scouring the vicinity for anyone who might overhear what he was about to say. When he was satisfied that we were alone, he pointed out to sea and whispered, ‘You see that island out there? Some fish like to feed in shallow waters, around islands and such like. And that’s where I’ll be fishing tomorrow.’

I followed the direction of his finger. I shook my head. ‘There’s nothing out there.’

‘Well, that’s where I catch my fish. By that island.’

‘But there’s no island there.’

‘Well, you can’t see it today. It’s called Tomorrow Island, and it’s there where today meets tomorrow. It’ll be right where I need it to be tomorrow.’

‘So I’ll be able to see it tomorrow.’

‘No, tomorrow it will be today, and then the island won’t be around. It will already be in tomorrow’s tomorrow. It’s never in today. That’s why we can’t see it. It’s always at the edge of tomorrow.’

‘But how do you know it’s there if you can’t see it? What if your boat crashes into it?’

‘I’m not in any danger if I stay in today. Now if I were in tomorrow, it would be a different story.’

‘Does anybody live there?’

‘Now how would I be knowing that, lad? I would have to get to Tomorrow Island to find that out.’

I could see Tomorrow Island in my imagination. I knew that Mr Cusack was pulling my leg, but the story was to my liking and I began to embroider it. ‘I bet lots of people live there. But they don’t know about us. Because we’re in yesterday to them.’

‘Well, now, people have been telling me that you’re a clever lad. And I can see that you are.’ He smiled and then braced an arm on the ground to balance himself as he prepared to stand up. ‘We’ll talk about it another time. For now, I better get on. Things to do before I go to bed. You tell your aunt she’ll have her fish tomorrow.’ He took two or three gingerly steps as if unsure that his legs would support him. ‘Ah, it’s hell to grow old, lad. Avoid it. That’s my advice to you.’ He rotated his neck slowly to the left and then to the right to loosen it as he walked back to where he had left his gear and bent over to pick it up.

‘Mr Cusack?’

He turned to look at me again. ‘What, lad?’

‘Do you think you’ll ever reach Tomorrow Island?’

‘Of course. One day. That’s the thought that keeps me going. One morning I’ll sail out to do a bit of fishing, and there will be Tomorrow Island, right where I need it to be.’ He looked over my head toward the ocean. A wistful look crossed his face.

When he said nothing, I prodded him to continue. ‘What happens then?’

‘I’ll settle down. It’s a better life there, I’m sure of that. I’ll be young and sturdy again, and the fish will jump right into me boat. I won’t even have to set me nets. So I’d be a fool to come back here. Anyway, there’s no coming back from tomorrow, is there? So even if I wanted to come back, I couldn’t.’

‘But . . .’

‘Ah, lad, leave off. That’s enough talk for a day. You had me saying more today than I usually say in a week. Whenever I start talking, I end up saying something foolish—that’s what I’ve found in this life. Better to keep me mouth shut. Now you, you talk so much you’ll soon run out of things to say. They’ll be other days. You don’t have to say everything today. You spend all your words today, and you won’t have any tomorrow. You’ll be like Michael Garrity. Fond of hearing hisself talk, that one was. He talked so much that he grew thinner and thinner. Just used hisself up in talking. He got so light that one day he was standing in front of Feelihy’s talking away and the wind just picked him and blew him away up over the hills, and we never saw him again.’ He was smiling at me as he said those words. So I knew they were friendly. I wasn’t so much being told to keep quiet as to save the conversation for another day.

He turned away for a final time and began walking up the street. I almost offered to help him carry part of his gear, but something about the set of his shoulders and the careful way he held his head up told me the offer would be refused. He might have forgiven me for insinuating that he needed help—I was after all an ignorant child from Dublin. He would have considered a similar offer from anyone else in the village an insult. I would guess that the only day anyone carried anything for Mr Cusack was the day they took his corpse in a coffin to St Anne’s for the funeral mass.

The wall was anchored on the seaward end by a little hillock of shale. I stepped up onto it and looked out to sea. The ocean was calm that day, and a golden path of sunlight stretched across the water toward the horizon. I traced it out as far as I could see. At the end of the path the dark, faint mass of Tomorrow Island hovered at the edge of the world. I felt that if the sun would remain in the sky long enough, I could walk there.

And on Tomorrow Island, a boy much like me stared back at yesterday along the golden highway .

The Game

The Game

Nexis Pas

© 2010 by the author

A fantasy

“Yes, officer, I recognize him. We ride the same bus in the morning sometimes.


“Well, no, I don’t remember everyone. Of course there are the regulars, and I recognize them, but this man--Mr. Williams, you said?--I remember him because of the game.


“It’s just a game I play on the bus on the way to work in the morning. A silly game to pass the time. Do you ride the bus? No. Well, there are several ways you can pay. Cash. Or you can buy a card for a set amount of money. Or you can get a Tap Card. If you pay cash, you have to put the money in a slot that has some sort of reader in it. But the machine doesn’t work very well. It rejects the bills and the coins about half the time. And so the person has to put the money in again, and that takes time. When they first put the machines in, people found out very quickly that if you use an old bill, the machine would reject it. They would insert the same bill over and over, and the machine would keep rejecting it. Finally the driver would get impatient and worried about the schedule, and then he would let them ride for free. But then the bus company cracked down, and now people who pay cash have to insert the full amount or the driver won’t let them ride. But it still takes more time, and so I lose a point if someone pays in cash.


“Some people buy a card worth ten or twenty dollars. That card goes into a special slot, and the fare is subtracted from the card. The machine makes a chirping noise as it reads the card and then a bell dings when it’s finished. That takes a bit longer than the Tap Card, but it’s faster than paying cash. So I get half a point when someone uses one of those cards. Of course, occasionally the money on the card has run out, and the person has to pay by cash, and then I lose a point and a half.


“Then there’s the Tap Card. Those you just tap against a special place on the machine and it records the fare. My Tap Card is a monthly pass, and I can ride anywhere on the bus or subway for the month. I just have to remember toward the end of the month to go online and pay for the next month. It’s very convenient. It’s all electronic and I just use my credit card to pay for it. You can also load whatever sum you want onto the card. If you don’t ride the bus or subway often enough to make the monthly pass cheaper than paying each time, that’s what you should do. The Tap Card’s the fastest way to pay. So if someone uses one of those, I get a full point.


“But sometimes, someone gets on and there’s no money on the Tap Card. So they have to add money. And that’s a complicated procedure. You have to push a button. Then you tap the card on the reader. Then you insert the money. Of course, sometimes the machine rejects it, and you have to do it again. Then when the machine accepts the money, you push the button again. Then you wait until a light glows green, and you tap the card again twice, once to load the money onto the card and once to pay the fare. A lot of people can’t do this and the driver has to explain the procedure or help them do it. Even when the person knows how to do it, it takes time and holds the bus up. So I lose two points if someone has to add money to a Tap Card.


“That’s the basic game. But I started adding bonus and penalty points. Like if someone is talking on a phone, I lose a point. Or there are these two guys. They really annoy me. But they don’t ride every day. So I lose a point whenever one of them gets on the bus. One of them gets on at the same stop as me. Him, I just lose a point if he’s there. The other one is more annoying. I lose a point if he rides the bus, but I gain a point if he’s not there that day. Why? Well, for starters, he always takes up two seats. He’s always carrying a back pack and usually a large paper bag stuffed full. I mean, how much stuff does he have to take to work each day? And half the time, he sits down for a few minutes and then he jumps up and takes his coat off. I lose an extra point if does that. Then when he gets to the station, he always wants to be the first one off the bus. Sometimes he even pushes people aside so that he can get off first. The man who gets on at the same stop as me also likes to be the first person off the bus. Some days the two of them line up and are the first two people off the bus. When they are, I lose all the points I’ve accumulated for that day. This is probably more explanation than you wanted. I’m just a little nervous. It’s not usual for the police to knock on the door and start asking questions.


“How does the game relate to Mr. Williams? Well, he’s worth five bonus points. You see, he doesn’t ride the bus very often. Maybe once or twice a month, he’ll be on the bus when I get on. So it’s unusual to see him. I mean if he rode the bus every day, then he wouldn’t be worth as much.


“No, he’s the only person I get bonus points for. In fact, once he rode the bus two days in succession, and I got ten points the second day.


“Why him?


“Well, I suppose there are other people who ride only once or twice a month, but he’s the only one I remember.


“Because, well, it’s because the first time he rode the bus, I noticed that he watches men, particularly middle-aged men. He always sits on the bench at the front next to the front door, one of the seats that faces sideways rather than forward, and I so I can see him. If a middle-aged man gets on the bus, he stares at him and examines him. He did the same to me the first few times he saw me. If a young guy gets on the bus, someone closer to his own age, then he just glances at them, the way you do anyone who gets on the bus.


“Yeah, I guess I was looking at him or I wouldn’t have noticed that.


“Sure, he’s good-looking, but that’s not the only reason. It’s just that, that he smiled at me. The bus went over a rough patch in the road and the driver was going too fast. Those buses don’t have good shocks, and they bounce around a bit. The bus was really shaking. He looked around and saw me and smiled. And I smiled back, and we both shrugged our shoulders. That’s all. So I just, well, I guess I felt that he had singled me out. That’s when he became a five-pointer.


“No, I never spoke to him. It wasn’t like that.


“He just seemed like a nice young man. That’s all. You’re trying to make this into something it wasn’t.


“I wasn’t stalking him. I didn’t even realize he lived in my neighborhood till I saw him on the street one day. He was always on the bus when I got on. I didn’t know where he lived. He could have gotten on at any point along the route before I get on. I didn’t know he got on at the stop before mine.


“I just saw him one day. I was coming back from shopping. And he was walking along Englewood Avenue. It’s on my way back to my place, and I just happened to be walking on Englewood at the same time.


“No, I wasn’t following him. He was preceding me. We just happened to be walking along the same street at the same time. I didn’t even know he lived there. He could have been visiting someone for all I knew.


“No, it’s not the only street I can use to get to my place. It’s just the one I happened to take that day.


“I did not. I never spoke to him. That’s a lie. He didn’t even look at me. He just walked into an apartment building. You’re making that up to try to make me confess to something I didn’t do.


“No, I didn’t make a habit of loitering on that street. I just said that I walk along that street sometimes. It’s the most direct route to Beacon Street from my place. Look on a map. I can’t avoid Englewood if I want to get to Beacon.


“Yeah, well now I know what building he lives in. I didn’t before. And it was just an accident that one day I happened to look across the street last Sunday as I was walking past, and I saw him at the window.


“Big deal. So I waved. It’s just that I feel that I know him. Of course, he didn’t know who I was. Why should he? We just happen to ride on the same bus once or twice a month. I wouldn’t remember him at all if it weren’t for the game.


“How could I look in the window? It’s on the fourth floor. I’m not that tall. This is getting ridiculous.


“I am not stalking him. I’ve seen him perhaps two times this past month.


“Yes, I live alone. What of it?


“Yes, I’m gay. What has that got to do with this? I suppose you think that just because I’m gay, I chase after every young man who crosses my path. It isn’t a crime to be gay, and if cruising were illegal, you’d have to arrest every man, straight or gay, in the city.


“There is nothing unhealthy about my interest in Mr. Williams because I don’t have any interest in him at all. Look, are you charging me with a crime? Because if you are, I’m calling my lawyer, and I’m not saying anything more until he arrives. If you’re not, you can leave.


“What’s the point of the game? Well, I keep track of the points. It’s silly but if I get more than twenty points, which is rare, I count on having a good day. If I get more than fifteen, the day’s going to be better than usual. More than ten, it’s going to be an average day. Less than ten, not so good.


“What was my score this morning? Eighteen, I think. I don’t keep track. Something like that.


“Yeah, well, this hasn’t been a better than average day, has it? Things were going all right until you knocked on the door and started asking me these questions. A visit from the police is hardly a great way to spend the evening.


“How would I know where Mr. Williams works? He gets off the bus at Brighton Centre. He could take any one of dozens of buses in any direction from there.


“He’s what? Oh god, look, officer. I didn’t mean anything by it. He’s just part of a silly game. That’s all. I wasn’t chasing him. Jesus, he’s a detective. Oh my god.


“He wants to meet me? A date? Why didn’t he just ask me himself? What’s the point of scaring the shit out of me? I thought you were here to arrest me.


“He needs to be discreet? What the fuck sort of game are you two playing?


“Who are you calling? And what do you mean it’s ok to come in?


“Do you mean he’s been outside this entire time?


“Oh, hi. Yeah, well, it was kind of an unorthodox approach. I’m not very happy about this.


“Are you leaving?


“What did he mean that he had served his purpose?


“Oh, thanks. But you didn’t have to bring a bottle of wine, Detective Williams.


“David. Thanks, David. I’m John. But I guess you know that. Well, can I offer you a glass of wine? Or I have some beer. Or whiskey.


“Wine it is, then.”

The Island 1

Tabulae mundi mihi

The Island 1

Nexis Pas

© 2009

For me, the maps of the world start with a place—a village called Munfrees along the northwestern coast of Donegal.

Munfrees lies at the end of a narrow road extending south off the N54. The road runs down the center of a nameless uninhabited valley between craggy hills covered with low-growing vegetation. In the late summer when the gorse and furze are in bloom, the valley becomes spotted with colour. No one would call it Eden, but surely it is a remnant of another primeval garden, one without apples or serpents. At least I find it so. Perhaps I am romanticising. Most, I suspect, see a barren landscape devoid of charm or beauty.


The road parallels a rocky stream bed. Usually only a trickle of water flows in it, almost hidden beneath the boulders, silent threads of water oozing between the rocks and the grasses that force their way up between them. Occasionally a storm will fill the stream for a few minutes, and the water will briefly surge noisily down the valley, a passing tempest. But overt drama is rare in this corner of the world.


Eighteen kilometres above the junction with the N54, the road climbs towards the head of the valley in a series of sharp hairpin bends. At the top of the hill, the vista suddenly opens to a green expanse perhaps fifteen kilometres wide and three kilometres deep extending upward to the crests of the hills that shelter that landbound island. In the relatively level area between the sea and the hills, stone fences mark the borders of the fields and lines of bushes the courses of the few streams.


Beyond the slate outcroppings that form the shore, the Atlantic appears grey or blue or green, depending on the weather. There are no islands offshore. The ocean extends unbroken to the horizon. A limitless expanse of water and sky facing a strip of land limited on all sides by boundaries.


The village of Munfrees is located on a shallow inlet near the north end of the valley. Perhaps seventy people live in the valley year around now. There are a few more who live elsewhere but own houses there and visit from time to time.


What I most remember of my childhood there was the freedom. I rose early and completed my lessons for the day as quickly as I could. Unless the weather were such to threaten serious physical harm, I was encouraged to spend the rest of the day roaming in order to give my mother and Alyce quiet to work. As long as I returned home in time for supper and didn’t get too dirty or tear my clothes too badly, I was allowed to roam where I wished. And I did. I followed the thin pathway that ran between the shore and the stone fences of the fields. I climbed the hills. I investigated every bothy in the fields. I inventoried every sheep and lamb in each of the fields. I knew every dog, every cat. They often joined me on my rambles, the chance of accompanying a fellow rover outweighing the fortuitous ties of ownership.


When the tide was out, I walked the narrow beach, investigating tidepools and gathering driftwood and piling it up above the tideline to dry. That was my job as it were—helping to find wood to feed the kitchen fires. Everyone who could did that. Wood and fuel were too scarce to waste. The piles of wood were there for everyone. You took what you needed and no more. Now that the electricity has come, most of us have electric stoves and heaters. I still pile up the driftwood, though, when I am out walking. Perhaps someone needs it.


One of my favourite places was a shallow cove of land high in the hills. It was sheltered on the three landward sides and open toward the sea. It was a relatively warm spot when the afternoon sun was shining on it. A flat boulder formed a natural bench. It had to be approached from above, along a narrow ledge that even as a small boy I could negotiate only by grasping the low trunks of the tough bushes rooted in the hillside. A scree of small rounded rocks covered the slope below it. My many attempts to walk up that slope always ended in defeat. I would succeed in gaining perhaps twenty feet before the rocks gave way beneath my feet and I slid gently back down the hill, my feet sinking into the pebbles as I rode the rockslide downward. That was part of the game. There was a danger, at least I thought so, that the entire slope would give way and I would be propelled backward and then buried beneath a rockfall. The threat itself posed a certain attraction, although I was sure it would never happen to me. I couldn’t imagine that that land would harm me. Danger was an abstraction for adults to brandish as a threat to keep one from exploring. More fools they to believe in it. Boys know better than to worry.


I think I was among the few ever to have visited that place. Certainly there were no signs of other wayfarers. A straying sheep might draw a farmer into the hills but that seldom happened. I suppose that was another of its attractions—the knowledge that I was not only alone but also unobserved.


From that height, I could see far out over the ocean and watch the waves move slowly toward the land. From the shore the sea might appear flat and calm. But from the hills, the passage of each swell was visible as a broad band of energy moving through the water lifted the ocean. Out at sea the wave was always straight, but as it neared the shore, it would curve as it began to fit itself to the demands of the shoaling land.


I learned to read the signs of distant storms through the larger waves. Long before the clouds appeared on the horizon, the ocean would be roiled. And then a smudge of grey, often imagined before I could actually see it, would blur that almost invisible line between water and sky. The front of the storm would approach like a wall upon the water. Only when it drew within a few miles of the land would the clouds appear separate from the water. I grew skilled in estimating if and when I had to leave the hills and return home in time to avoid a soaking.


From late autumn until early spring, that coast is frequently covered by low-lying rain clouds and fogs, trapped by the hills that surround the valley. The route to my perch in the hills led upward through the clouds. As I entered the clouds, they would close around me. Nothing beyond a few feet would be visible. A bush that marked a familiar landmark on the path would remain hidden until I was almost upon it, and then it would emerge suddenly, swathed in the grey mist. Sometimes even my secret place would be in the clouds, and on those days I abandoned it and moved higher. Eventually the clouds would begin to thin. The light would begin to grow, the mist to break up into patches. I would emerge into the sunlight, surrounded by the crests of the hills. Alyce often set me writing assignments. “Describe what you feel like when you stand on the shore.” “Describe what you saw on your walk yesterday.” “Write down the conversation you had with Mr Ahern about his dog. Remember to tell us how he looked and what you were thinking.” And I would comply by describing my investigations of the tidal pools or the seal I had seen hunting close to the shore or the news about Mr Ahern’s dog. But I never told her about that solitude above the clouds—or the magic that happened there. Those were mine.


Occasionally I was rewarded with the sight of a ship near the horizon. Bad weather in the North Atlantic sometimes forced ships passing to and from the Baltic closer to the land, where they inspired a boy’s rambles further afield than his legs could carry him.


I also liked to watch the birds from above. The hawks would drift in the sky below me, barely moving their wings as they floated on the currents of air, tilting from side to side. And they would fold their wings and plunge downward, only to rise a few seconds later, their talons carrying the vole or rat they had snatched from the ground. Once, in early autumn, I saw a flock of swifts, flying in formation. There must have been several hundred of them. They were moving very rapidly, and at some unheard signal, all of them would shift direction simultaneously. Looking back on it, I suppose they were feeding on insects I could not see, but at the time they seemed to be flying for the sheer joy of it. They filled the air for a half hour of wonder and then suddenly they ceased being a flock and flew off separately.


My perch also allowed me to watch Munfrees and the villagers. The inhabitants of that valley followed set daily routines. The front sitting rooms of the better off might have a clock that chimed the quarter hours and the hours, but they were more ornamental than utilitarian. The demands of the land, of the animals that lived on it, the daily and weekly routines of living—those were stricter taskmasters than any closely timed production line.


So much has changed since my youth half a century ago. Many of the fields have been abandoned. The stone fences remain, but even they are decaying. No one walks the land now and resets the stones that have fallen. I try sometimes to lift a rock back into place, but I lack the eye to see the natural cradle. Instead of resting securely in place, my stones totter and rock. My efforts do not survive the first frost, I fear.


The many vacant houses in the village bear witness to Munfrees’s biggest export—people. For generations, the more ambitious young people left, for Dublin or Belfast, for England, many of them for America or Australia. They were navvies, maids, labourers. The village grew old. There are no children now. Even though I am in my sixties, I am still known as the Brennan ‘boy’. Occasionally I am promoted to ‘lad’. In comparison to most of the inhabitants, I am young. I am one of the few not dependent on the old-age pension to survive.


I spend most of the year here now. The solitude and quiet suit me. The ocean is an endless screen for the stories in my mind. My writing flourishes on them, this chance inheritance that contrasts so strongly with the urban life in my books.


The village is not cut off, however. Especially during the summer, there are many visitors, the great-grandchildren and the great-great-grandchildren of those who left. Munfrees’ emigrants had so many descendents, and so many seem to feel a need to come here. I wonder what stories of Munfrees have been passed down in these families. Did those who left speak of a paradise at the end of a narrow road through a dry valley, a green garden between the hills and the sea? What impossible dream of a lost home draws these people back to their ancestral source? From elsewhere in Ireland, from England and Scotland, from the States, even from Australia and New Zealand, they come.


Until a few years ago, our visitors’ disappointment was all too apparent. They would park in front of the old quay and emerge stiffly from their hired cars. They would look around and ask if there was anyone named Cullen left in the village. Was there anywhere they could find information on a Michael Brady and his wife Mary, maiden name unknown, who left in 1849? When we told them no, they would shrug and then walk around for a time, taking pictures of themselves in front of our houses, before climbing back into their car and leaving. The occasional visitor might find someone with the same surname and claim a lost kinship, but the local accent usually defeated their attempts at communication.


I suspect our greatest offence in their eyes, however, was the smell. We were not then a village of bathers. We were not unwashed, but the fitful water supply and the lack of means to heat it made a daily bath out of the question. We were perhaps more neglectful of the laundry than all these visitors, and some of the villagers wore the same clothes for weeks between washings. We were also somewhat behind the times in sanitary facilities and other ‘mod cons’. Every house had a bog out the back, and we lived more familiarly with sheep and other animals than most inhabitants of cities.


Perhaps it was the poverty that offended them—these successful offspring of our emigrants. Their shocked looks as they emerged from their cars and took in the dilapidation of the village made the source of their disgust evident. Nor did the native inhabitants of the village encourage them to a better view of Munfries. As soon as one of the villagers spoke, the lack of access to medical and dental care was visible in the endless racking coughs and the chipped and misaligned teeth. Poverty and bad nutrition breed a special kind of thinness. There were many whose bodies bore witness to a lifetime of skimping on food but not on cigarettes and alcohol. But what did our visitors expect to see? Did they think their ancestors were different? If their ancestors had been rich and Munfrees properous, would they have left?

Lenition 1

Lenition

Nexis Pas

© 2009 by the author

Lenny is a liar. He lies about everything. When opportunity knocks, he lies. When it doesn’t knock, he lies. He lies about important things. He lies about trivial things. He lies because he enjoys lying. And he is a good liar. Even his closest friends believe the fictitious history he has concocted about himself. Sometimes Lenny himself forgets that that history is a lie. He even lies for a living.



Lenny began lying at the age of four. His parents believed in reading to children, and even before Lenny had started school, he had had dozens of stories read to him and seen hundreds more on television. He was an imaginative child surrounded by stories. Small wonder, then, that he began to tell them. All the children in the stories had friends. It seemed only reasonable to Lenny that he should have one too.



There was no one his age in the neighbourhood. Even if there had been, his mother would have carefully screened his playmates. The back garden was large and fenced in. He was allowed to play there on his own as long as he always came when one of his parents called. At the bottom of the garden in a sunny area was a paved patio, with chairs and a metal table with a sun shade. His mother encouraged him to play there because she could watch him from the back windows of the house. She knew that it was important for children to get plenty of fresh air and to be physically active. On sunny days, she piled the toys she permitted Lenny to take outside into his wagon and told him to wheel it down to the patio and play. But always with admonitions. ‘Don’t sit on the ground, darling. You don’t want to get your trousers dirty.’ ‘Don’t go hunting for bugs again, darling. They’ll bite you.’ ‘Don’t run about, darling. You might fall and hurt yourself.’



One day, after the twentieth circuit of the patio pulling his Paddington Bear in the wagon, Lenny found himself wishing for more. He pushed one of the chairs back from the table and climbed into the seat. He bent his legs at the knees and knelt with his calves folded flat against the seat of the chair and his feet protruding out the back. He rested an arm on the table and lay his cheek on it, his chin almost touching the surface of the table and his fair hair falling to one side. With his free hand he idly ran a small truck back and forth along the table.



‘What are you doing?’



Lenny looked up at the interruption. A boy his own age and size stood at the edge of the patio. He was dressed like Paddington Bear. ‘Nothing. Who are you?’



‘Jimmy. What’s your name?’



‘Leonard. Why are you dressed like Paddington Bear?’



The small boy pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him. He shrugged. ‘It’s what I wore today, innit it?’ Jimmy had a very dirty face, and his fingernails weren’t clean.



‘Doesn’t your mother make you wash your face and hands?’



‘She would if she could catch me. But I snucked away while she wasn’t looking.’



‘Where do you live?’



In answer Jimmy pointed a finger at a vague distance. ‘Over there. In a small cottage in the forest. With a dog and a duck. The duck’s name is Clarence, and I call the dog Bill. But that’s not his real name. That’s a secret. And a big green frog. And a black and white horse. Me da’s a fireman, and me mam’s a . . . ’ Jimmy paused, uncertain what his mother might be.



‘Your mum could be a fairy princess.’



Jimmy’s lips curled in disdain. ‘That’s stupid, Lenny.’



‘Maybe a spaceman.’



‘Yeah, a spaceman. She flies to the moon. That’s why she doesn’t have time to wash my face and hands. She’s busy flying to the moon. And it’s why I get to eat chocolates all the time. She brings them back from the moon as a present just for me, and I don’t have to share them, unless I want. I could share them with you if I wanted. Or maybe I’ll eat them all myself.’ Jimmy swung his feet up and down, his red wellies thudding against the underside of the table.



‘I’m not supposed to kick the furniture.’



‘Neither am I,’ said Jimmy. And he grinned very wickedly.



Jimmy was perhaps not the best playmate for Lenny. He seemed free to do all the things that Lenny’s parents forbade him to do. He jumped out of trees imitating an airplane and plummeted to earth. He sped about the patio in a fast-moving car, in blithe disregard of his own safety. He was quite proud of the scabs on his knees and picked at them and pulled them off to show Lenny instead of letting them heal properly. He dug holes in the ground and filled them with water. His clothes became smeared with mud in the process. He tore the knees of his trousers and he lost his hat frequently. He never ate anything that was good for him. He went behind the bushes when he had to wee instead of walking up to the house and using the toilet off the kitchen. Jimmy was Lenny’s hero. He was very real to Lenny.



******



‘Who are you talking to, darling?’ Lenny’s mother sat the plate with the apple slices and grapes and the glass of milk on the table.



‘Jimmy.’



‘Who’s Jimmy?’



‘He’s my friend.’ Lenny turned around to point at Jimmy but his friend had faded away. ‘He’s gone. He must have gone home.’



‘And where does Jimmy live?’



‘In the forest. Over there. He has a duck. Its name is Clarence, and a black and white horse. And his da’s a fireman and his mam’s a spaceman. She brings him chocolates from the moon, and . . .’



‘Don’t say “da” and “mam”, darling. It’s “father” and “mother”. Wherever do you hear such words?’



‘They say them on the telly.’



‘Television, darling. And if you’re learning words like that from the television, we’ll have to take more care about what you watch. Are you warm enough? It’s getting chilly. Let’s pick your toys up and go back inside the house. You can eat your snack at the kitchen table and then play in the sitting room until your father comes home.’



*****



‘Leonard has an imaginary playmate now. I overheard him talking to his “friend Jimmy” in the garden. I wonder if we should take him to see a doctor.’ Lenny’s mother didn’t bother to lower her voice. She was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Lenny stopped paging through the picture book of birds that his mother had given him to occupy his time. He sat very still and listened carefully.



‘It’s just a stage,’ Lenny’s father said. ‘All kids have imaginary playmates. Do you want me to pour you a glass of wine as well?’



‘No. I’ll wait until later. I need to get this in the oven. I’m sure this imaginary playmate’s not healthy. Perhaps you should talk with Leonard.’



Lenny heard his father sigh. A short time later, his father came into the sitting room and sat down. ‘How are you doing, champ?’



‘Fine.’ Lenny turned a page in his book.



‘What are you reading?’



Lenny picked the book off the floor with both hands and held the cover side toward his father.



‘Is that a good book?’



‘I guess so. It’s about birds.’



‘Why don’t you put it down for a minute and come sit by me.’ Lenny’s father patted the cushion of the sofa beside himself.



Lenny carefully closed the book and sat it squarely on a table. He took a seat gingerly beside his father, barely resting his buttocks on the edge of the sofa. His father put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it briefly. ‘What did you do today?’



Lenny shrugged. ‘I played outside until Mother said it was too cold.’



‘Your mother tells me that you were playing with someone.’



‘With Jimmy. He’s my friend. He has a horse and a dog.’



‘Both a horse and a dog. Jimmy must be very lucky.’



Lenny nodded his head vigorously. ‘And he gets to do whatever he wants. His parents let him do what he wants.’



‘Do they? Well, I’m sure that sounds good, Leonard, but sometimes little boys need their parents to guide them.’



‘But . . .’



‘Now, no buts. And there isn’t really a Jimmy, is there? You mustn’t lie to your mother. It worries her. And you must never worry your mother, Leonard. Let’s hear no more of this nonsense. Now promise me that you’ll forget all about this Jimmy.’



Lenny looked guilelessly at his father. With his blue eyes and blond hair and fair complexion, he could have posed for cherub. ‘But he’s just a story. Like in my books. He’s just a story I made up. I wasn’t lying. I wasn’t. I was just pretending. I’m sorry if I worried Mother.’



‘That’s better. I’m glad to see that you know the difference between pretending and the truth, Leonard. Pretending is fine for people who write stories, but it doesn’t do for the rest of us. Now why don’t you read your book until dinner is ready.’ Lenny’s father turned away and picked up the newspaper.



Lenny and Jimmy talked about it later that night when they were lying in bed together. Jimmy had climbed up the tree beside the house and crawled in the bedroom window. It was raining outside, and his boots were quite muddy. He didn’t bother to take them off before he got into bed with Lenny. Lenny discovered they didn’t even have to whisper. They could hear each other inside their heads.



‘You did good. Pretending I’m just a story. Now we can be together for ever and ever. And no one will ever bother us again.’ Jimmy put his arms around Lenny’s shoulders and hugged him tightly, like his grandmother did, but it was much nicer with Jimmy because Jimmy wasn’t wearing a lot of perfume that made Lenny’s eyes itch. He smelled comfortably of damp leaves and wet earth. It made Lenny feel very safe and secure, and he soon went to sleep.



And that was Lenny’s first lesson in lying. His parents thought they had helped Lenny see the difference between lying and reality. Instead they had taught him how to dissemble to authority. One gave the authorities the answer they wanted to hear, not what was true. In the years to come, it would become Lenny’s standard method of dealing with his parents, his teachers, and other adults who crossed his path. He was free to pursue a rich inner life as long as took care to make his outer life conform to the proprieties.

All That Jazz

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All That Jazz: The Runcible Lad 2

Nexis Pas

© 2009

(With thanks to Anonymous for the title and the thoughts that ensued)

The half of a mobile phone conversation overheard on a bus.

“No, I can’t tonight. I have to get home. Henry and me are having a six months’ anniversary.”

“It’s just six months since six months ago. We just decided last night that it was time to celebrate another anniversary.”

“Of course, it’s a real anniversary. We were together six months ago today, and that’s reason enough. Who said anniversaries have to be only on dates like weddings and birthdays? There aren’t enough of those for us to celebrate. So we find other reasons.”

“No, no plans. It’s just an evening for the two of us. We turn off the phones and wouldn’t answer the door if anyone knocked. Henry’s buying takeaway at that kebab shop in the square. We found a movie we want to watch. Later we’ll take the dog for a walk and when we get back, we’ll go to bed. That’s all.”

“Of course, it’s ordinary. It’s being together that makes the ordinary special. It isn’t what you do. It’s the fact that you do it together that makes it special.”

“I suppose I am becoming an old married man. There are worse things I could be. I just got lucky and found someone who makes me want to hurry home from work. Wait until you find someone like Henry and then you’ll understand what it’s like.”

“No, we’re not perfect. We have fights. My Nan told me to expect that. When I told her that Henry and me were getting married, she said that she supposed two men wouldn’t be any different than a man and a woman. There were going to be arguments, and that you just had to remember that you would survive them.”

“Well, sometimes it’s comfortable to have someone you can have a fight with and not worry that it’s going to be the end of everything. Like when you’ve have a bad day at work and need to let off steam. Henry knows I have a temper. I’m not saying it’s right for me to get angry at him, but he knows when I’m angry at him and when I’m just shouting at him because I’m angry at someone else. Then he just asks me what’s wrong, and I tell him and then I apologise for shouting at him, and he gives me a hug and a kiss and says ‘It’s all right, lad’. And it usually is by the time he gets through kissing me. I do the same for him when he’s mad at the world.”

“Maybe. If we’re in the mood. If not tonight, then tomorrow morning or some other time. There’s no need to rush things if we’re not in the mood. It’s not like when I was single and going out on Friday night and having to get off just because I knew there wouldn’t be another night when I could get out.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that being together can be just as satisfying. It’s like waking up in the morning and finding Henry’s arms wrapped around me or his head resting on my shoulder. That’s just so wonderful. And knowing that you don’t have to do anything but cuddle, that makes it wonderful too.”

“I don’t know if it’s what I always wanted. It’s what I was lucky enough to find, and I’m glad I found it so soon.”

“No, I still look. It’s just that now I point the good ones out to Henry. And he says ‘Hmmm, yes’ or maybe ‘Hey Lad, it’s glasses you’re needing now.’ ”

“No, why would I go out to eat a burger when I have steak at home? Oh, here’s my stop.”

The Angel of _________________

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The Angel of ______________

Nexis Pas

© 2009 by the author
Nexis Pas asserts to moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Basic idea. An angel on a mission to destroy a demon. Demon is tempting humans and angel is out to prevent that. Not an epic battle, however, contest has to be over something simple and everyday. Trivial and banal.

Title: The Angel of Golders Green? Ok, but haven’t been there in years. Check to see if there is a website or Google Earth street views. Probably better not to use an actual location, will just get more emails from doryphores about my errors. The Angel of Grantham Green? Is there a Grantham Green? Oops--lots of them. No wonder name was familiar. Granmer Green? Too close to Grammar? Grandmere? Graston Green? Now I’m stuck on Something Green. Could get something else but then would have to re-envision opening scene of discovery in park. Use what I remember of Golders Green Park but give it some other name.

The Angel: terrifying, can’t be modern wishy-washy saint. Needs to be warrior angel. Apparently amoral, indifferent at first, but open to temptation. (What would tempt an angel? Money is irrelevant. Sex implausible. Power? The prospect of doing good? Has to choose between defeating the demon and saving the world? An angel would be tempted by an opportunity of doing good.) Both angel and demon immortal, so defeat has to involve destruction of who they are, rather than death.

The Demon: Like Paul this morning. Foul mood. Demon has wings, so fowl mood? Don’t go there. Demon has taken on human guise. Attractive. Personable. Tempter.

Opening: discovery of angel’s wings. From human perspective. Why would angel leave wings behind? Who would discover wings? A grounds man would be the first person in the park in the morning. Discoverer parallels the sort of person who is object of demon’s temptations. Joined by someone—boss?—who is more demonic. Beginning implants suggestion of angel vs. demon through the two workers. Wings near some place that suggests a contest, a game.

They found the angel’s wings in __________ Green Park, near the tennis courts. The grounds men had arrived at 6:00 to prepare the park to open. Bob Liskom, who began each morning by redrawing the lines on the grass courts, was the first to see the wings. He thought it was a new sculpture. The tops of the wings rose about six feet into the air, even with lower ends bent flat against the ground. The two wings were connected halfway up by an arched, bone-like structure. His first impression was that the feathers on the sculpture were incredibly detailed and lifelike. It wasn’t until he stepped closer and touched them that he realized that the wings were indeed made of feathers.{less description of wings and more focus on L’s reaction to them}

Bob found that he enjoyed touching the feathers. They were silky and smooth beneath his fingers. They smelled fresh. It wasn’t a perfume, just a scent of cleanliness in the air. The air whispered with a faint musical harmony as he stroked the wings. More here to make him a sympathetic character, drawn to good (wings = sign of goodness). Wings make him think of his family? Rings wife on his mobile and tells her to bring the children over to see them?

‘What the bloody hell is that? Who put that here? If this is your idea of a joke, Bob Liskom, you can take that ruddy thing out of here. And you can take yourself out of here as well.’ The head ground man’s shout could be heard from a hundred feet off. Mr William ‘Bull’ Garret charged down the hill from the animal pens for the children’s petting zoo, his stubby legs windmilling, a fist pummelling the air. {nasty man, prone to anger, provokes others to reproduce his own behaviour}

His shouts attracted the attention of several other workers, and soon the wings were surrounded by a crowd. ‘They were here when I got here,” Bob explained to everyone who would listen. ‘Someone must have climbed over the fence and left them here.’ {need more interaction between the two men here. When Garret discovers the wings are real feathers, he tries to remove them. He doesn’t react to them in the same way the others do. No sense of wonder, no attraction to them.}

{much of the following will appear later in the story, if at all. Toward the end, when the angel returns to repossess his wings. Just background for me for now. But move more quickly to angel here}There was much speculation about the wings over the next several weeks. The television crews arrived with their cameras and reporters, and spoke with Bull Garret and Bob Liskom. The morning talk show hosts interviewed scientists and ornithologists. Websites were devoted to the subject of the wings. No one had an answer. ‘A sign of the end of the world.’ ‘An alien being.’ ‘A freak of nature.’ ‘A monster.’ ‘An elaborate hoax.’

The wings began to attract large crowds. Lines of sightseers formed daily from the gate on Park Hill Road to the wings. A path was quickly beaten over the once-immaculate grass of the park, and the ground was churned into mud. The park filled with litter, discarded food wrappers, cigarette butts. Oddly, however, the wings remained immaculate, no matter how many children with grubby hands touched them, no matter how many . . .

The scientists complained that their studies of the wings were being interrupted. The tennis players grumbled they couldn’t get to the courts, and a petition was circulated to have the wings moved, ‘to a safer location’ said the scientists, ‘out of here’ said the tennis players. The local council looked into the matter, sent a committee to investigate, and decided that the wings would be moved to the ___________ Green museum.

On the day appointed for the move, the lorry arrived early in the morning. The crew readied their winches and the cart. They wrapped the wings in padded blankets and tied them securely. The foreman looped a chain around the central arch of the wings. The winch man slowly began turning the drum of the winch.

A sigh rustled the leaves of the trees. The blankets fell to the ground, and the links of the chain dissolved. After several attempts, the workers gave up and reported back that the wings would not be moved. Over the next week, other means were tried, but to no avail.

Finally the council concluded that the wings could not be moved. The path was paved and a pavilion was built over the wings. A low fence was erected to keep visitors from touching the wings, and guards were hired to discourage the curious. Public access was restricted to the afternoon to allow the scientists to conduct their researches. A larger wall was built to direct the crowds away from the tennis courts.

{move this bit earlier}
The angel did not expect to be gone long. In celestial reckoning, his mission should have taken only a few moments. When he wasn’t flying around heaven, the wings were an encumbrance, and the out-of-the-way spot behind the tennis courts in the deserted park had seemed the best place to leave them. It was but a second’s work to shrug them off and stride forth clothed only in the uncreated light.{Is this a plausible reason for leaving wings. Will anyone know what the uncreated light is?} Anyone on the streets of Whatever Green at that hour of the morning would have sensed only an odd tremor in the air, a shimmering at the edge of one’s eyes.

The angel was not one of the benevolent orders of angels. He was one of the avengers, a member of the fiery troop who had barred the gates of Eden when Adam and Eve were expelled. A terrible angel. A bringer of plagues and locusts. Of death and destruction. {has to be a terrifying figure. Almost demonic in his majesty. The demon and the angel are closer to each other than to human beings}

******

‘Hello. Can I come in? I heard you pacing about and I thought it might be all right to interrupt.’


‘Sure. I need a break. I’m just sketching out a new story. How are you doing? Are you feeling better?’


‘Yeah. Look, um, I’m sorry about this morning. I didn’t mean to shout at you like that.’


‘Well, I was a bit put off at first. I know I’m more cheerful than you in the morning and I can be annoying, but it was an overreaction to the provocation. Then after you left, and I calmed down, I thought about it and realised that my perkiness wasn’t the real cause of your anger. In any case, I gave as good as I was getting.’


‘Yes, you did. In fact, I would say you gave better than you were getting.’


‘Hey, I work with words. You’re never going to win an argument with me.’


‘Oh, I’ve won a few. Just not with words.’


‘Well, you have an unfair advantage, what with that sexy body of yours, and the way you always smell of chocolate. I can’t resist either. The temptation is too great. And what are you hiding behind your back?’


‘I brought you a treat as a peace offering. It’s an idea I had this morning. It’s a triple espresso butter cream rolled in hazelnut grenache and covered with dark chocolate. Now that it’s getting colder, I thought something more substantial and stronger flavoured would sell well in the shop.’


‘Oh, that sounds so sinful. Two of my favourites—coffee and chocolate.’


‘I know. I was thinking of you when the idea came to me. Here, taste it.’


‘Mmmmh.’


‘So what do you think?’


‘That was a moan of pleasure.’


‘But more restrained than your usual moans of pleasure.’


‘Those moans have other causes. But, then, all my moans of pleasures are caused by you, come to think of it. Let me try again. Mmmmmmmmmmmmh.’


‘That good?’


‘That good! It will be another winner. Can I have another? After this morning, you owe me more than one chocolate.’


‘Not now. You’ll get fat.’


‘Why did I have to take up with a chocolatier who is concerned about my weight?’


‘One chocolate a day is healthy, two are fattening.’


‘If I were writing this scene up, at this point I would have the character heave an enormous sigh of disappointment. And you would be the evil tempter. “Have a chocolate, my dear. But just the one.” Lust, gluttony, avarice—three deadly sins for the price of one chocolate. Soooooo—what was the real cause of the outburst this morning? Do you want to talk about it?’


‘Oh, I’m worried about the shop. With the economy and all, it’s not doing well. People are more cautious about spending. If they want chocolates, they can buy something cheaper.’


‘How bad are things?’


‘I may have to let one of the women who works at the counter go. I can’t let Marcy or Dev leave, because there have to be three of us to make enough chocolates to keep the shop going.’


‘I could help out. I’m as capable of waiting on customers as the average school-leaver. And you could pay me in chocolates.’


‘You have your own work. And you would eat more in chocolates than the hourly rate for counter help.’


‘Hmm. Curses. Foiled again. You’re getting to know me too well.’


‘Maybe. I was thinking about it. Maybe that was one of the causes of my outburst this morning.’


‘What?’


‘That I know I can get mad and have an argument with you and not risk having you run away. Not all the time, but occasionally I can let off steam with you, and then we can make up and it will be better.’


‘You mean that it’s safe for the two of us to argue sometimes.’


‘Yeah. I shouldn’t do it. But I felt a lot better this morning after I stormed out of here. I was a lot calmer and I could think about the future without feeling sick.’


‘So are you saying that we should have blow-ups from time to time? We could also talk about our problems, you know.’


‘I know. But it felt good to shout. And you’ve done the same thing to me.’


‘Never.’


‘Yes, remember that time you were having all the problems with that editor who was changing one of your stories. You were very irritable for a week.’


‘Oh, that. Yes, well, there was that. I was also channelling one of the characters in the story and he was a very angry man.’


‘That’s what makes it exciting to live with you. I never know who is going to be here when I get home.’


‘Do I do that often? Acting out one of my characters?’


‘Yes.’


‘Well, I’m no saint, am I?


‘No, but then I’m not either. And we’re neither of us devils. And now I should let you get back to your work. How’s it coming.’


‘I’m just getting started with this one. I’m still roughing it in. It’s about an angel who’s come to earth on a mission.’


‘Oh, it’s autobiographical then. I thought you had a rule against writing about yourself.’


‘Flatterer.’


‘Mmmm. Your lips taste of chocolate. If I’m any judge, it’s 92 percent dark Madagascar chocolate. One of my favourites. We’ll make time for more taste tests later. You have to get back to work. Supper in about three hours?’

*******

The angel was not one of the benevolent orders of angels. He was one of the avengers, a member of the fiery troop who had barred the gates of Eden when Adam and Eve were expelled. A terrible angel. A bringer of plagues and locusts. Of death and destruction. {has to be a terrifying figure. Almost demonic in his majesty. The demon and the angel are closer to each other than to human beings}

or--
The angel is a member of one of the benevolent orders. He discovers someone who lives in the shadow of grace and makes love to him. They live together for the human’s lifetime. Then the angel recovers his wings and leaves. ‘In the Grace of Shadows’--maybe that for a title?

The Good Luck Charm

The Good Luck Charm

Nexis Pas

© 2009 by the author.

‘You see that young man in the dark red knit shirt who’s waiting for an order at the bar?’

‘Oh, wow, what a stunner.’

‘He’s my good luck charm.’

‘Your what?’

‘My good luck charm. He rides the bus in the morning two or three times a month. He always sits on the bench near the front along the side of the bus. You know the loudmouth I’ve told you about who gets on at my stop—he usually sits there. So my good luck charm forces that oaf to take another seat, out of the range of my vision, which is a great plus. He’s much easier on the eyes in the morning.’

‘So that makes him your good luck charm?’

‘No. That’s because of what happened one of the first mornings he was on the bus. That was the day I persuaded Gillian Barnes to sign with us. And then the next time he was on the bus was the day I got the promotion. So every time I see him, I expect good things to happen.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to him.’

‘Don’t you want to meet him?’

‘No, not really. For starters, I have you. Why would I be interested in him?’

‘Hmm. So I’m the starters now. I suppose he’s the main course. Fillet of prime-quality beef.’

‘Your starters always leave me stuffed. Can’t handle a main course after one of your starters.’

‘He could be the savoury. Or the pudding. You like Eve’s pudding. He could be that. I’m sure his apples would tempt you. Juicy and sweet and crisp.’

‘To judge from the bulge in his levis, Adam’s pudding would be more appropriate. Figs and bananas covered with double cream. But no, he’s just a bit of eye candy that brings me good luck. And we had better abandon the food comparisons. The next ones could only be a step down.’

‘You said “for starters”. I suppose you have one of your methodical lists of reasons he would not do.’

‘Let’s see. Second, I must be twenty-five years older than he is.’

‘Thirty-five would be closer to the mark.’

‘Oooh, what an awful bitch it is.’

‘Hmmm. Well, I am your bitch. It’s my role in your life.’

‘Indeed. And a very nice one you are.’

‘Is there a third reason?’

‘Third reason for what?’

‘Why you haven’t spoken to your good luck charm.’

‘Oh, he could only disappoint. As long as I know nothing about him, I can pretend he’s perfect. If I spoke to him, I might discover that he comes in second to a seagull in intelligence. Or that he has an unpleasant voice. Or what, oh, I don’t know, that he has a tattoo of a drunken sailor on his left buttock.’

‘So you have imagined his left buttock?’

‘Yes, but not to worry. Yours is much better. Or at least it was when you were his age.’

‘Touché. What about now?’

‘I haven’t seen the tattoo of the drunken sailor on your left buttock since this morning. I hesitate to commit to a comparison for fear that it may have deteriorated since last viewed.’

‘Why don’t you finish your pint? We can go home, and you can inspect it up close and personal.’

‘Well, now, I think I can leave the rest of this. Your offer of a private viewing is incomparably preferable to this inch of ale.’

‘And your good luck charm?’

‘I would say that he has discharged his duties handsomely, wouldn’t you?’