Diary of a Somebody

by Brian Bilston

  How it pierces me so!

  Careful! There is blood on your running vest!

  You may find yourself disqualified!

  The judges are harsh here.

  And now for one final time

  I must launch myself into the sky.

  Oh, do not cry, my little athlete.

  I hear them calling you.

  It is time for your shot put.

  Leave me now and let me jump.

  After I’d taken Dylan back home, I met up with Darren. He’d entered a competition and won VIP tickets for a modern opera, entitled The Pole Vaulter of Turin. We watched it from one of the balcony boxes. Our tickets meant we avoided the crowds and the queues and got served first at half-time. Darren pointed to his ticket and said the phrase ‘access all arias’ ten times in the course of the evening.

  Neither of us had a clue what was going on. It was like This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave with added wigs, make-up and mezzo-sopranos. The only scenes I vaguely understood were the death ones, of which there were six, although I had no understanding of who was dying, or for what reason.

  Everywhere I go, it seems, death is never far behind. It never used to be like this. Perhaps Mrs McNulty is right after all.

  Sunday October 28th

  I know I should be doing all I can to establish my innocence with DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck but it feels like I’ve reached a dead end. I left messages with Mary, Chandrima and Kaylee to see if they might have any theories about what may have happened to him but unsurprisingly none of them have called me back.

  I reached for the crossword instead. There were still seven clues I had yet to solve. I looked at the most recent words I’d written into the grid from a few weeks ago – APANTHROPY, LOGANAMNOSIS, CLEPSYDRA. I could no longer remember what any of these words meant. I stared at it for ten minutes until the black and white squares began to swirl in front of me like a revolving chessboard and I threw it on the floor in disgust.

  Why did I bother with it?

  Monday October 29th

  Haiku Horrorscopes

  Aries Virgo

  That decision not

  to believe in poltergeists

  comes back to haunt you. You let a vampire

  into work. Boss furious.

  Get it in the neck.

  Taurus

  Libra

  You are invited

  to a skeleton party

  but meet nobody. Your day is awful.

  Chased by flesh-eating zombies.

  Leave brolly on bus.

  Gemini

  Scorpio

  Please be aware of

  the whereabouts of werewolves.

  Treat with wariness. Trick or treaters call.

  You choose trick. Oh the horror!

  It’s Mrs Brown’s Boys.

  Cancer

  Sagittarius

  Murderer at large.

  Eat your cornflakes with caution.

  Cereal Killer. Good news! Islanders

  want you as their special guest

  at wicker craft show.

  Leo

  Capricorn

  Is the world a blur?

  Curse the day that you were Bourne?

  Possessed by Damons. You’re buried alive

  with your phone. Get top score on

  Candy Crush Saga.

  Aquarius

  Pisces

  Evil ghostwriter

  forces you to read his book:

  Life of Michael Gove Morrissey’s ghost calls.

  His one concern: some ghouls are

  bigger than others.

  Mrs McNulty has posted her customary Halloween horoscopes through the door. She has highlighted Cancer with a green marker pen. It reads:

  At this time, the Moon–Jupiter opposition straddles your natal Ascendant–Descendant and your Vertex lies forebodingly conjunct with Venus. Meanwhile Neptune is conjunct the 9th house cusp and opposing the 3rd house cusp. It may be an idea to start saying your goodbyes to the loved ones around you while you still have the chance.

  On a brighter note, Pluto and its associated penumbra is conjunct your antiVertex and you may find yourself being paid an unexpected compliment.

  This is the most positive forecast that I’ve received from Mrs McNulty for some time.

  Tuesday October 30th

  On Tender Hooks

  Let me cut to the cheese:

  every time you open your mouth,

  I’m on tender hooks.

  You charge at the English language

  like a bowl in a china shop.

  Please nip it in the butt.

  On the spurt of the moment,

  the phrases tumble out.

  It’s time you gave up the goat.

  Curve your enthusiasm.

  Don’t give them free range.

  The chickens will come home to roast.

  Now you are in high dungeon.

  You think me a damp squid:

  on your phrases I shouldn’t impose.

  But they spread like wildflowers

  in a doggy-dog world,

  and your spear of influence grows.

  To my surprise, Kaylee answered my call.

  ‘What you been up to, Bri? You been robbin’ the British Legion of their poppy fund?’

  I could sense some hostility in her tone.

  ‘You got our money yet?’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘Anyway, you got anything important to say or is this just a curtsey call?’

  I asked her about Toby Salt and whether she had any ideas what had happened to him.

  ‘Dead as a doorknob, I reckon.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’ I asked.

  ‘Far gone conclusion. His book’s only just published. People want to talk to him about it. He loves himself too much to stay away from all that voluntarily.’

  ‘What do you think happened to him?’

  ‘Murdered, I s’pose. Half a million people get murdered every year. That’s one a minute. I know these things. I wrote a poem about it once.’

  I remembered. ‘But who could have done such a thing?’

  ‘Dunno. Maybe someone had taken a dislike to him. Jealous, maybe. Couldn’t stand the thought of him being so successful. Decided to extract his revenge on him. Can you think of anyone like that, Bri?’

  She put the phone down on me and I was left alone with the silence.

  It was a mute point.

  Wednesday October 31st

  I opened the door to a vampire, a werewolf and Donald Trump. Dave, Martin and Marvin shouted ‘TRICK OR TREAT!’, holding out their sack, but reared back a little when they saw me.

  ‘Cool outfit, Brian,’ said Marvin.

  I looked down at myself. I was wearing nothing out of the ordinary, although I had slipped a tank top on, as the cold weather had begun to bite.

  ‘Norman Bates!’ said Martin. ‘Brilliant.’

  I was about to correct them but thought better of it.

  ‘Oh, you know. Halloween,’ I muttered.

  I could hear Mrs McNulty cackling next door. I gave them each a small sandwich bag containing a solitary custard cream and was pleased to see their disappointment as I did so.

  November

  Thursday November 1st

  Next door’s Halloween party was still raging on even as the morning sun was bravely daring to peek its head above its rooftop duvet. In honour of All Saints’ Day, I tried to have the patience of one but there are only so many times it’s possible to hear ‘Monster Mash’ before murderous thoughts emerge.

  I said a prayer in the hope that the saints might intervene:

  O holy saints, I thank you.

  St Eadfast and St Alwart, for always being there for me.

  St Urdy and St Able, for making me stand on my own two feet.

  St Agger and St Umble, for helping me to keep going even when the journey was hard.

  St Ubborn, for teaching me to stick to my principles.

  St A
lactite, for giving me something to look up to.

  St Alagmite, for keeping me grounded.

  St Artle for your endless surprises.

  St Atistics for showing me that deviation can sometimes be normal.

  St Ockholm-Syndrome, for holding me in thrall.

  St Raddle, for always letting me see both sides.

  St Upendous, for just being terrific.

  And St Anza, for introducing me to poetry.

  Whether it was my prayer or not, the music died down next door shortly afterwards and the final St Ragglers left. I went out to the shed to continue the unsaintly task I had begun.

  Friday November 2nd

  The money arrived in my bank account today. There’s enough in there to settle my Poets on the Western Front debts although whether I will now be accepted back into Poetry Club, I don’t know.

  Mr Bloomer and Cora Nesmith from the Mongolian Yurt Company will have to wait for future instalments.

  Saturday November 3rd

  Villainelle

  A hero is fine but boring as hell.

  Where is the fun if there isn’t a foe?

  A good story needs a villain as well.

  Heroes win out and they then get the girl.

  The end of the tale we already know.

  A hero is fine but boring as hell.

  Luke without Darth is a difficult sell.

  The Lion and the Wardrobe’s plot is too slow.

  A good story needs a villain as well.

  Sherlock’s OK but Moriarty’s a swell.

  A Joker-less Batman, I’d gladly forgo.

  A hero is fine but boring as hell.

  Every Beowulf needs their Grendel.

  Borg sans McEnroe? I’d have to say no.

  A good story needs a villain as well.

  Harry’s less dull under Voldemort’s spell

  And Jekyll is best when Hyde’s in full flow.

  A hero is fine but boring as hell.

  A good story needs a villain as well.

  No Dylan today. He was going to see Stuart compete in an iron man triathlon. Ugandan cleft-lip and palate sufferers. I confess to feeling rather let down by this: we have so very few Saturdays left. For him to spend one of them in the company of that serial overachiever rather than me (a cereal over-eater) is hard to stomach. He had been doing so well, too.

  I buried myself in the Saturday newspaper as distraction. I was reading yet another article about This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave and how well it was selling when I was struck by a sudden notion: perhaps, in a similar fashion to how he felt threatened by my verse, Toby Salt in turn had his own rival in the poetry world, someone upset by his own rise to prominence.

  A faint memory stirred of Sefton Warbrick’s recent review. I quickly found the section I wanted:

  “And it may be time for Bramwell Price to step down – as gracefully as he can – from the stage. For we have a new Il Divo waiting in its wing, and his name is Toby Salt.”

  Bramwell Price. For many years considered the enfant terrible of British poetry. A man famed as much for his violent temper and petty feuding as for his verse. Just the kind of poet to take umbrage at Toby Salt’s inexorable rise. I checked online. He was giving a reading next Thursday. There were plenty of tickets still available.

  Sunday November 4th

  I continued with my research. It seems that there had been literary fireworks between Bramwell Price and Toby Salt. Toby Salt had reviewed Price’s latest collection Spunk in one of the broadsheets and absolutely panned it:

  Price’s continued efforts to shock us – while entertaining enough, perhaps, back in the early 90s – now seem nothing more than a puerile cry for attention, a desperate plea of relevance to an audience, who have long since moved on. It seems the enfant terrible grew up to be nothing but an enfant ennui.

  Bramwell Price responded in typical fashion in the following week’s letters column:

  ‘Toby Salt is a twat,’ he wrote laconically.

  I must admit I rather like the sound of this Bramwell Price.

  Monday November 5th

  The Bonfire

  As I warmed myself by its fire,

  I noticed on that burning pyre

  a poem of mine, long since penned,

  now in flame from end to end

  and next to it, another one,

  the words alight and quickly gone,

  its rhymes and rhythms up in flame,

  just like the letters of my name.

  Only then did it dawn on me,

  the whole thing was my poetry,

  a blazing bonfire of bon mots,

  all my writing up in smoke.

  More and more got thrown upon it:

  haiku, villanelles and sonnets.

  The people’s faces overjoyed

  to see my work at last destroyed.

  They hoisted up an effigy,

  which turned out to be really me,

  lighting up the evening sky.

  Brian Bilston: what a guy.

  Dave, Martin and Marvin invited me to join them at the local bonfire night celebrations but I turned them down, on the pretence I had a poem to write. What I didn’t tell them was that I’ve been terrified of organised firework events ever since I was a child. Even the smell of candyfloss sends me into a flap.

  Instead, I settled in to watch Prime Suspect but dropped off to sleep on the sofa, beneath the cat. I had a dreadful dream in which all my poems were set on fire and everyone cheered. I looked this up in my Dream Dictionary but the book is clearly faulty and I have put it in my bag for Oxfam.

  Tuesday November 6th

  ‘Oh, look. The black sheep has returned,’ said Mary as I walked in through the door.

  I wore a cowed, hangdog expression as I silently returned the money to each of them.

  ‘You’re a dark horse,’ said Kaylee. ‘Where did that come from?’

  I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘I thought we’d have to wait donkey’s years for it,’ said Chandrima.

  ‘Can’t have been easy,’ said Liz to the rest of the group, ‘being ostrichised like that.’

  They laughed but stopped when I tried to join in.

  I asked whether I might sit and hear a few poems but Mary said that perhaps under the circumstances, it might be better if I left; it should not be forgotten that I was responsible for the cancellation of the club’s Poets on the Western Front trip. They would discuss whether any re-enrolment might be possible in my absence. Besides, she said, there was only one free chair and they had a new member joining them later.

  I glanced back as I reached the door. Liz was smiling at me. I walked home, with a spring in my step, and unread poems in my duffel-coat pocket. Somewhere, amidst the hurt and anger, I detected the faint traces of forgiveness and the beginning of my rehabilitation.

  Wednesday November 7th

  I had just settled down to watch Countdown when the phone rang. It was DI Lansbury.

  ‘You are the salt of the earth,’ he said. ‘But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Matthew. Chapter 5, Verse 13,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t quite follow.’ The consonants and vowels were being doled out.

  He sighed. ‘You mention it in your poem “Bloodshed”.’

  ‘Do I?’ I said, looking at my letters and writing down ‘splat’ on my piece of paper.

  ‘You do, indeed.’

  One of the contestants had got a seven-letter word, the other a six.

  ‘Any reason for that particular choice of Bible quotation, sir?’

  The contestant with six letters said the word ‘pistol’.

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘He says he can’t remember,’ said DI Lansbury. I could hear Sergeant Tuck in the background.

  The contestant with seven letters said the word ‘spatula’.


  ‘Anyway, sir, we just wanted to let you know that we’ve not forgotten about either you or your poems. In fact, you might say that you are our “rhyme” suspect.’

  He was still chuckling as he put the phone down.

  Susie Dent had got the word ‘autopsia’. I wrote the letters into 18 down of the crossword. ‘An alternative word to “autopsy”,’ she told us, ‘a post-mortem examination of a corpse.’

  I went back out to the shed to review where things had got to.

  Thursday November 8th

  My meeting over-ran. By the time I got there, Bramwell Price was climaxing with a piece from his seminal collection, Emanations. The room was half-empty and it was clear that this was a poet whose star was on the wane, no matter how forceful and arresting his ejaculations were.

  The audience dissipated quickly at the end of his performance and I seized my chance.

  ‘That was quite something,’ I said.

  ‘Was it really?’ he replied disinterestedly. ‘That’s a deeply unfashionable view to hold these days, you know.’

  ‘Yes. After what Toby Salt had said about you, my expectations were low. But . . . wow! That was . . . terrific!’

  I knew it hadn’t come out quite right. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A new fan?’ I tried.

  ‘Well, whoever you are, understand this. Toby Salt is someone of absolute inconsequence to me. And before you ask: no, I don’t have any idea where he is. He could have disappeared up his own arse for all I care. One more thing, if you don’t leave right now, I’ll call security.’

  I wasn’t in the mood to be scuffled so I made myself scarce. But I left the building with the knowledge that Toby Salt’s disappearance had left Bramwell Price a very worried man.