by Jonny Glynn
I could feel my anger thickening, lumping into indignation. Stewing and fuming through their purple-gummed, foulmouthed excess until I could take it no more. How dare they?
‘Excuse me,’ I blurted, my fingers prodding her shoulder, ‘but could you please stop swearing.’ A perfectly reasonable and politely put request I thought. But no–
‘Don’t you fuckin’ touch me!’ the first one spat. ‘Fuckin’ pokin’ my shoulder.’
‘Well, would you please stop swearing,’ I persisted.
‘Who da fuck’s it gotta do wiv you?’ the other one chipped in.
‘Pokin’ my shoulder.’
‘Tell me what I can do.’
‘Fuckin’ pokin’ my shoulder.’
‘Oo da fuck is you to fuckin’ tell me?–I ain’t told by you.’
‘Fuckin’ pokin’ my shoulder.’
‘You should have some respect and consideration for the other passengers,’ I endeavoured.
‘What respec you giving me? Fuckin’ pokin’ my shoulder–oo da fuck are you?’
‘Fuckin’ respec–you’s a fuckin’ homeless boy.’
People were turning and watching. Looking at me. I could feel myself blushing. The girls were triumphant. Their faces were screwed into a hideous gnarl, their teeth spitting kisses. They knew they’d won. They knew there was nothing I could do to stop them. And they knew nobody would come to my rescue. They had me cornered and were going in for the kill.
‘Oo da fuck are you?!’
‘Pokin’ my shoulder.’
‘Don’t fuckin’ tell me what I can do.’
‘I fuckin’ say what I fuckin’ like–innit.’
‘Hello–is a fuckin’ democracy.’
‘Pokin’ my shoulder? Tell me I ’ave respec.’
‘I don’t get fuckin’ told by fuckin’ no-one–not by my teacher–not by my mum not by fuckin’ no-one. I say what I like cos that’s the way I am innit–I is oo I is. You don’t know nuffin abart me. And you fink you can call on me. You’s a fool boy. Show me I.’
‘Pokin’ my shoulder!’
‘Fuckin’ tramp man.’
‘Fuckin’ stinkin of piss boy.’
‘Tell me what I do.’
‘Pokin’ my shoulder.’
‘Piss boy.’
And so they went on. I was humiliated. And everyone was watching. The whole bus saw it–heard every word of it, but said nothing. And did nothing. My face was burning–blushing raw embarrassed shame. I had been utterly debased. It was awful. I stood up, timid and afraid. Yes, I was afraid–afraid, can you believe?–of two schoolgirls. Afraid, defeated and shat on. I shuffled forward to descend the stairs and get off the bus, but the girls weren’t through with me yet, they turned and fired one last salvo–‘Yeah you betta get off paedo, before I tell the Popo.’ And then they started laughing. Laughing with the unrestrained, unembarrassed joy that only children know. I put my eyes to the floor. It was awful. Everyone was watching. All eyes were on me. I was filled with shame. I wanted to lash out and hurt them. Hurt them all. Hurt every gutless one of them. Sat there, with their sneering lips and half-cocked eyebrows. Have at my hammer and hack at them all. The bus was hurtling down Rosebery Avenue. ‘Cowards!’ I started to shout, but lost courage halfway through and quickly converted my deranged scream into a coughing sound. But the cough came out confused and sounded like the noise you make when you’re trying to stop yourself from crying. It was pathetic, awful, and utterly humiliating…A woman, a woman, looked at me with pity and disdain…I shuffled off, and ambled on…Poor Crumb.
He said that it was pointless trying to communicate with the social underbelly. They’re savages, he said–wild untamed savages. There’s no use trying to reason with them, they don’t know any better. You should pity them, he said. Their fathers were probably absent, and they only ever eat fried chicken, imagine that for a lifetime. They’re Special Needs, he said–you want to give them a chance–a weekend in the country is all they need, mud all over their trainers and they’ll soon come to their senses. You were probably the same at their age–a cheeky little monkey answering back, playing the fool, getting up to mischief…
But I wasn’t. I was a good boy. I was quiet and did what I was told. I had a mother and a father. Present every day. We ate meals together around a table. They taught me the difference between right and wrong, good manners from bad. They set the correct pattern of behaviour and liaised with my teachers to ensure that my homework was always of the highest standard and in on time. They taught me to respect my elders, not tell them to fuck off…You’re privileged, he said, and blessed to have been born into the middle classes. You should know better, he said. You’ve no excuses…I ambled on at pace, shooing myself away, grinding my teeth. I was hot and completely inappropriately dressed, as usual. I felt worried and anxious and paranoid. My skin was tight. That goading feeling was there again, twisted in my innards, working me into a state. I was sweating and people were looking.
‘They can smell you, Crumb–they can smell you.’ He kept repeating it. ‘They can smell you, Crumb.’ Goading me, kindling that rage within, that hatred–that petty bitter hatred that’s vicious and mean, bristling and frenzied…I was stalking like a madman out of all control, this way and that–up Regent Street, and Piccadilly, through Green Park and St James’s, into Parliament Square, and then up Whitehall, past Montgomery, Allenbrook and Slim–left right, left right…Tired out and trodden off, my legs like sautéed leeks–the pavement arguing and answering back every step of the way, and people everywhere, under my feet. Dawdling great apes. I stopped in Trafalgar Square, took in the sights and rolled another jazz. What a horrifying place Trafalgar Square is–full of freakshow gawping youth and holiday-of-a-lifetime losers, pigeons shitting everywhere…Kiss me Hardy and think of England…I scuttled off and took refuge in the National Gallery…‘Where the Peach and I first kissed, and were in love.’
The Peach that he refers to was a girl called Valerie Cheatle. We were in love. I know–doesn’t that sound ridiculous?–in love. How many times must I have uttered those words in sorry excuse. It almost makes me want to vomit. It was a long time ago now but the memory of it all still haunts. How does one forget? We would idle away hours in galleries, wandering corridors, paddling palms and pinching fingers, kissing…When was I last kissed? I remember it all meant so much to me, love. And being in love…
All of this reflection, and all of this living–why do I indulge it? Excuses and pardons from the past to the present. Yesterday’s apologies for tomorrow’s mistakes. All of it very regrettable, I know that–oh yes, I’ve plenty to regret. I was only a boy, you say–a mere youth, you say, engaged in the usual youthful travails, you say–setting out on my journey, making my way, deluding myself into thinking that there was something more to all of this–something more to all of me. Well there isn’t, and there won’t be, and there wasn’t. I was the same from the start–and will be to the end–the Alpha and the Omega–as was, is now, and ever shall be–lies and lies and more lies–all lies–stuff and things and thoughts and nonsense. The drivelling joke of it. The obfuscating farce of it!
But I digress…The Pre-Raphaelites were mooning–I felt hot, my ankle was itching, people were looking, there were noises I couldn’t identify–my thoughts were jumbled, I needed to get out, I was dying for a piss…Bladderwrack, I remember thinking, is a type of seaweed. My father showed me how you can wear it like a wig and be a sea monster. I associate this memory with the image of nicotine-stained lower incisors and red receding gums, which for some reason reminds me that I once killed a frog. I killed it with a penknife. Whatever happened to that knife? Dad brought it back from Spain. It was a present–a masculine present–something to treasure and hold onto and not lose. Something to pass down through the generations and say, ‘My father gave me that and now I’m giving it to you. Hold onto it, son–one day you may need to kill a frog.’ It had a green and yellow handle and was shaped like a fish. The bucket was blue, I remember
that. Yes. I drove it straight down through the frog’s back and into the ground. The frog didn’t make a sound. It was a horrid sight. I don’t remember feeling anything. I went home and ate a Penguin. I didn’t tell anyone. It was a sordid guilty secret. Many more of those now. Sordid furtive dirty unspeakable secrets. All the things we don’t tell. That’s who we are. I left the knife in the frog–that’s right. I told Dad that Geoffrey Webb had stolen it. He told Geoff’s parents and there was a scene. Geoff started crying and said I was lying. I came clean and said I’d lost it. Dad was disappointed and said I’d let him down. Mum stood in the doorway holding a plate of chilled chocolate digestives…We all felt ashamed…But again, I digress…
I was standing in the Wolfson Room admiring Nattier’s Manon Balletti–she’s so beautiful. In spite of the fact that she looks so like Valerie I cannot help returning to her. She has all the qualities I admire in a woman–stillness, quiet and a touch of pink. I lost myself looking at her and I think I may have dissociated. People were looking at me…I think I might have been thinking out loud, but I can’t for certain recall. The long arm pointed north, the short arm south, I remember that. Rush hour had started. Everyone was busying and bustling home. I was sitting in Cranley Gardens drinking a can of lager, trying to compose myself. There had been an ‘episode’…I let him get the better of me. Somewhere between the National Gallery and Cranley Gardens he urinated in my trousers. I don’t know when or where exactly this happened, but I fear it may have been on the Tube. When I think of Oxford Circus, I think of the word ‘purling’. How embarrassing. I bet everyone was looking at me and laughing–disgusted. They’ll all be at home now, telling their nearest and dearest about a strange man they saw on the Tube–a revolting degenerate pervert, pissing his pants and rambling on about frogs and penknives and Manon Balletti and God only knows what else. Poor Peter Crumb, the unwitting star of a hundred anecdotes told at teatime to children as a warning of what will become of them if they don’t do well at school…Poor Crumb–the fool…But again, I digress.
I was sitting in Cranley Gardens…the afternoon was at an end and the evening drawing in. It had been a weird day, and there was still the small matter of murder to contend with. My trousers were damp and heavy, like soggy cardboard, and my spirits the same. I was bored and felt lonely. I caught myself sighing, and that’s always a bad sign. I wanted someone to talk to…He told me to shut up. He enjoys these petty assaults–it’s how he engages. I sat in silence for some time, just watching and listening, smoking fags and smelling the air. And then I saw a man, an itinerant, shuffling from one litter bin to another and having a good old rummage. He was wearing a green cotton baseball cap, a worn stained duffel coat, blue Adidas tracksuit bottoms, red socks and open-toed sandals. He looked faintly ridiculous, but vaguely familiar…A kindred spirit? I thought. I gave him a nod as he wandered by and offered him a can of lager. It was a mistake. He was a revolting drunk, sodden in misery and almost certainly insane. A dirty old mumper of the lowest order. Slurping and burping, reeking of neglect, muttering thankyous and offering God’s blessings–I don’t know what I was thinking. The moment he sat down I was immediately reminded of what an uncomfortable arrangement talking to human beings is, so I said nothing–just fell silent, and thankfully so did he. We sat there tipping our cans and belching, legs crossed, ankles rotating, both of us quite separate. It’s sad, we are all of us separate and there’s no getting away from it. He finished his can and asked me if I had a fag. I lied and said no, even though I was smoking one. He got the message. He gave his can one last licking, stood up, paused, looked at me for a moment and then said–it amazed me–he said:
‘Right then, must get on, that scab on my ankle’s been weeping all morning.’
I couldn’t believe it. I looked at him and he winked at me, nodded towards the hammer poking out of my pocket, smiled, opened his duffel coat and discreetly showed me a seven-inch screwdriver he had tucked into his belt.
‘My aunt Sally gim in that.’ Whatever that meant. He winked again, smiled again, brought the edge of his hand to the middle of his forehead, made a gurgling noise and went on his way. Poor old bugger, I thought. Crackers in the community, out wandering the streets, half his mind in pieces…The dirty old mumper.
Shuffle on, Crumb. Shuffle on and don’t look back. Go to the pub. Buy a pint. Stand next to the radiator, get warm and dry your trousers…I ambled on to the Newman Arms.
A pint of black-and-tan, hot air, healthy smoke-filled backslapping pubbery. A quiet corner, City Prices and my horror scope. Cheers.
Aries
As an Aries you are both patient and resourceful.
Yes, I am.
This means that when faced with a challenge you’ll act first and assess the situation later…
I see. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
However, it’s worth taking into account the fact that certain individuals–
Hello–
Who were previously involved–
Go on–
If not very helpful–
Yes–
Will expect to be asked for their assistance again…?
Certain individuals who were previously involved, if not very helpful, will expect to be asked for their assistance again…
He put down his pint. His heart was beating, his skin tickled, he felt deliciously alive.
My trousers were dry. I returned to Sudder Street. The short arm pointed south-south-west, the long arm north-north-east. I knew what I was going to do…There was no denying it, or stopping it. I was going to murder the skinny Bangladeshi girl. I was going to murder her because the headline in the paper said so, he found a hammer, she entered on cue and Shelley von Strunckel agreed.
As I re-entered the newsagent’s a crumpled sack of old age was standing at the counter, wheezing, reeking of potatoes and muttering something about having her card recharged. Skinny was serving. She glanced at me. I drooled a happy ‘Hello.’ She looked away, embarrassed, pretending not to remember, but she knew all right, she knew. The sack, its business done, slurped and shuffled out. I waited, patiently held in a dislocated calm. The shop was empty. The street outside on hold. Everything had stopped. Darkness gathered at the edges.
I smiled, taking my time, oiling my charm, that spiteful malevolent sneer unfolding. I inhaled deeply–in through my nose, and out through my mouth–seven, eight, nine, ten…Pause…‘We meet again.’
She held my stare. Her little rat-mouth, snapping back, ‘D’you want something?’
‘Ah ha,’ he said. ‘An offer of assistance.’
‘What?’
‘Can I help? Yes, you can–I’m looking for the answer to a riddle.’
She was freaked. ‘What are you on about?’
‘It started this morning at twenty past eight. The long arm east, the short arm west. A melodrama in three acts.’
‘D’you want something or not?’
I was starting to enjoy myself–I could feel his limbs loosening, letting me in.
‘Can I get you something or not?’ Her fear was taking hold.
‘I have a verb.’
‘What?’
‘Murder.’
The word seemed to jolt her, like a punch to the chest. She moved her hands to her hips–posturing, belligerent.
‘Do you want to buy something or not? Cos if you’re not going to buy something can you get out of the shop please.’
‘Tell me, was your sandwich tuna?’
‘What?’ You could see the fear flickering through her. ‘Can you get out of the shop please!’ She stroppily demanded.
‘You should feel lucky,’ I heard myself saying. ‘The other fella had a screwdriver. I’ve only got a hammer.’
And then she saw it, and the penny dropped. She knew. In that moment, she knew. I turned up the gas. ‘Certain individuals who were previously involved, if not very helpful, will expect to be asked for their assistance again.’
She tried to scream, but the fear woul
dn’t let her.
‘As an Aries I am both patient and resourceful.’
‘You’re a fuckin’ nutter!’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Mum!’
There it was–the line had been crossed–she was abandoning herself to desperate pleas. I remember thinking: these are her final words. I stepped behind the counter, trapping her, four feet between us. I could smell her.
‘When faced with a challenge I’ll act first and assess the situation later.’
‘Mum!!’
‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘Please!’
‘Shit in your pants and that’s how they’ll find you!’
Wallop! I swung my arm with all my might and I buried that hammer right in her face, just above her left eye. I swung it with my heart and soul and smashed it straight through her skull and buried it in her brain–mashing it into a pulp. She went straight down and lay there, contorted and tangled. Twitching. Thick dark black blood pouring out of her…I watched her for about a minute, I think…Just watched her, silently dying. It seemed never to end. Get on with it, I thought, die. I lifted the hammer and clattered it down into her face a second time. I didn’t need to. It was a mercy blow, to put her out of her misery. Her skull split in two. Her skin was ripped and…her features deformed and broken and mutilated…I just stood there looking at her and thought, right, that’s that then…There you are…dead…You’re dead now, and that’s that.
At this point I allowed him an ironic smile and he said, ‘She looks hammered.’
Her eye sockets had filled with dark pools of blood. He reached forward and dipped the end of his finger into one of the pools, like an inkwell, and painted the Star of David in blood on a box of Double Deckers next to her. ‘They’ll call it race-related now,’ he said. ‘And the press love a race-hate story.’
The next thing I knew there was a panicked hyperventilation going off behind me. I turned around.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You must be Mother.’
First she saw the hammer in my hand, all bloody and black–sticky with clods of brain and hair, ripped and matted–and then she saw her daughter, upside down, broken in a bloody mess on the floor, dead. Our eyes met for only an instance. She was about to pop. There was no time for pleasantries or absurd dramatic dialogue. I swung the hammer and caught her full toss on her right temple. She went down quiet but it wasn’t over. She was wriggling, holding her hands to her head and moaning. I stepped over her, raised the hammer high, clasping it tight with both hands and then brought it smashing down into the back of her head with an absolute crushing and murderous fury. I think I might have roared. The hammer smashed through the top of her skull, ripped through her brains, and embedded itself into the top of her spine. Her head was in two, torn apart like a hacked-in-half coconut. It was done. And she was dead. And that was that. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I wrenched the hammer back out of her and placed it on the counter on top of a pile of unsold Daily Mails…Job done.