JONAH’S TRIAL
What are photographs? Stolen images of a moment gone a silhouette ghost of an event lost in space, time and memory. Captured on light inside a mechanical eye and frozen by process of time over chemical substance; drenched in animal fats and developed into what is perceived caught for the nostalgia of the viewer’s eternity.
Nothing lasts forever, Jonah, knew that as he stared at the old photos. Their fashion small, little more than passport prints in size, yet in dimensions they were larger in length, they were black and white photos some of vehicles, others of buildings, and yet others showing people in front of houses that seemed to be their homes. There were pictures of couples, and singulars, or young woman with their children the commonality in thread with all these black and white photos was that they all appeared to be several decades old. The vehicles were of outmoded design as were the garb and fashion of the clothes the people wore. Even the buildings which were featured in the background seemed fresh, having the air of one or two occupations, would appear much more tired in the present tense.
Why had he taken these photographs from the gutter? He had after all only intended to go for a walk get a few groceries. He hoped to motivate himself out of the flat in which he dwelled most of the morning in a mood of disinterest. He had taken an unusual route through the back alley. When he took that route he usually wished to avoid contact with other people. He had become progressively if outwardly aggressive in the pursuit of his own company in the last few years, but he had grown accustomed to the comfort that solitude offered. Still why had he taken the photographs from the refuse? He had happened to glance down and where the black bag had been ripped and saw them spilling out as if they were some bizarre intestines. At first, he was ready to move on, but he did not, the glance had become a stare and before he thought again he had bent down and scooped them-up as though they were ill-disguised treasures. He felt self-conscious in his act of theft, though unwanted they were or had been someone’s cherished past, had he a right to designate their fate? Although there was no one present in alley he still felt self-conscious of having been caught in the act of treasure hunting in other people’s garbage.
After that he returned the short distance to his flat and deposited his find on the table, made some tea and sat for a while in his chair to scrutinize them closer. Studying their length and size, which was peculiar to the snapshots that he had grown-up with and accustomed to seeing. Looking at them he speculated that they were between the late nineteen forties early fifties maybe. After the pandemonium of the last Great War the people who were subjects and some of the angles the vehicles and landscapes were caught had a calculated indifference that hinted at defiance and an attitude that succinctly lacked today’s apathy.
Innocent times considering nihilistic approach applied to the world in the present area. Today’s world was fraught with an undisclosed amount of unseen yet present danger. The enemies no longer had faces, identities or motives to mask: serial killers all the way through to terrorism with the agenda of a holy jihad.
If he were to view his own situation and wonder: Why did they ever bother? The pictures looked back in blank compliance muted over the decades. Everyone knew that the only assurance in life was your own demise of it. He didn’t feel bitterness as he had once done only tired. He was in many ways shown the parody of each illusion in the photographs of the couples, families, cars and houses that made him ache for such things himself. A car went passed disturbing his thoughts and rattling the pane of the window.
He was becoming aware that his leg ached just behind the knee he had two days before his Giro exhausted and could be replenished. He had just enough food but wanted to get drunk tonight. Nights were always the worst without some form of inebriation. They dragged on until all hope seemed consumed by the early hours of the morning. His sleeping pattern was ropey without alcohol to induce sleep.
The afternoon light drifted through the bay window cutting and highlighting a swathe through the dust that seemed to be following him these days. He hated the flat, one-bed roomed confined coffins. There was the cheapness of it; the finality in it too, especially from the residences of those beleaguered enough to live there. If there was a time in his life that he had not been afraid, he could not recall it now, it was as though he had a dream of childhood and safety but for the present there was fear. Fear made flesh by a thousand anxieties. Cheap blue carpet that was frayed in some places spanned the floor of the front and bedroom. The ceiling was a stained white, cracked and peeling molding ran the gauntlet around the living- room. The walls painted magnolia hideous in its banality. He of course, had a choice in decorating the place for his undecided and indefinite stay but like most of his affairs these days he wavered in his convictions and lacked enthusiasm at core. And anyway, this was a Housing Association property once in, your name filed, you were like a rat in cage, well fed but trapped.
Jonathon Reece, though those that knew him always called him Jonah, and he introduced himself as such. Regarded even his name alien to him these days, when he signed anything, confirmation of identity, back of credit cards etc. especially when he signed-on, as he did yesterday, he would look at the signatures of himself and they would seemingly stretch into eternity, his declaration before death would be when there was no more paper or plastic, even ink to inscribe his testimony to existence as one Jonathon Reece. He was twenty-nine, short fair haired and slightly receding, just shy of six foot, making him tall, his build over the years had fleshed itself out leaving the gainliness of youth to memory. He even remembered how he acquired the nickname ‘Jonah’ as a child listening to the story of Jonah and Job at the Methodist Sunday school that he attended. At that time he had a large boil on his nose when the rest of his mates heard about how Satan had unleashed the boils on Job in the bible the connection was made and he was bullied and teased for a while even though kids being kids mixed Jonah and Job up. The name like Jonah ‘s curse stuck; the boil was lanced leaving an unnoticeable scar, but the name stayed. And perhaps some of Jonah’s curse too. Something’s always sticks with you like your shadow or loneliness.
He rose to standing a bit too eagerly the room suddenly took on a surreal view as if his eyes had been bleached in a golden hue, his head spun as chemical exchanges within his brain compensated for his action of standing. His hand at once moved out to the arm of the chair as a reflex. Then his perception adjusted itself to normality. He’d have to watch these little episodes he kept spinning-out when he tried to move too fast and he had noticed that his breath was a bit shorter than it had been once been.
Anyway, might as well get some booze, he thought to himself. He’d get it cheaper going to the Co-Op he’d better do it now he didn’t want to go out after dark the cold wind bit at him too much; and apart from that he was running low on tobacco and the thought in his head was telling him he needed to get it, to shut the voice in his head up that insisted, that he wouldn’t feel safe until he had it. So next stop the shop.
He reached inside of his right jean pocket his fingers groping for a twenty that he was sure was there, his fingers contacting with note manipulated it out. He looked down at it satisfied with his find and returning it to his pocket.
He crossed the room and entered the small passage which in turn led to three doors in front of him, the door just to his left was the entrance to the bedroom, the door directly in front to the kitchen, the last and heaviest set door complete with a heavy lock and spy hole was the front door of the flat, which was housed in a block of three flights converted from a grander house of a more prosperous time. His neighbors he didn’t know and cared even less to know, perhaps for the odd music, and runting noises during summer. The main door with spy hole and bolt had a small hook from which a light green army jacket hung. He had bought with a social loan along with a bed and washing machine and carpet. In quick movements he slipped the jacket on petting his pockets for keys after making sure of the quick jangle he opened the main door to the passage. His being the ground floor flat he had only a small stroll to the main entrance and the world outside.
The afternoon was cold but still bright, the wind froze the breath, numbing fingers painfully. He hunched forward his walk hurried, his head forward scrutinizing the world. Alextion street with its trees that stood naked long since stripped bare of foliage, their branches skinny arms pleading fingers against the backdrop of harsh sunlight. There were children venturing past in excitement after their drudgery of school, two woman came toward him one armed with a pushchair the occupant asleep, both woman in their early twenties wore their blonde hair long, glaring make-up badly applied on their faces, their clothes screamed single-parent and soon to be. Their chattering stopped as he passed feeling the hostility in their gaze and the acidic burn of their perfume in his nostrils. As he walked, he took notice of the cars that straddled to the pavement in rows as if put there by an anal-retentive child. Cars he had often pondered were more than transport they were uniforms and homes of those that possessed them if indeed they did own the car and not the other way around. People travelled, raced, fucked and were conceived in cars; it was their privilege, ambition and to quite a few their coffin.
He turned right at the corner to a sharp incline into Maval road at the top of the short hill was Sleaze’s store he stared at the pavement as he progressed, vaguely aware of a passing car and the stem of lampposts, his leg muscles laboring the ache behind his knee flared up. He had a convulsive fit a few months ago due to alcohol withdraw. He had been walking along staring at the pavement, when he had the strangest thought, what if the pavement was looking at him, this was followed by the pavement suddenly looming into view as his legs gave out, followed by his body. Then he became aware of blackness and movement, and nothing until he came around to an ambulance waiting and a crowd spectating.
Lost in recollection he nearly missed the shop. The shop with ‘local store’ written in blue letters on the window and a placard declaring fresh and tasty pasties inside. He entered the shop there a woman in her fifties with short cropped grey hair and a floral dress who watched him with a stale air of disinterest, as he headed toward the wine, spirit section. Homing in on and ignoring the rest of the rest of the beverages, like a shark he went straight for three hammers: a strong, cheap, white cider, that had never been distilled with an apple in mind but had a chemical composition not unlike Mogadon. Drunk only by the underaged, the overaged and the general desperate. It was cheap nasty gung but above all it was effective. The rotting of the stomach and mind was an art that Jonah was more than conversant with. Taking the bottle like a cat with a bastard kitten by the neck, he headed quickly for the fridge at the end of the wine counter. Opening the fridge he searched the bottom shelf for the blue cans of Tennense extra strong, having found one he scooped his hoard towards the till area glancing at the top shelf issues of the porn magazines though why was a mystery to him now; the naked flesh with pretend smiles or hardcore coupling with only a stable to divide the pages made a ridicule of his dying libido.
The shop deserted he quickly handed the merchandise to the grey-haired thin woman who seemed to be suffering with permanently perched lips.
‘Oh, this and 30 grams of Cutters Choice, please.’ Jonah mind raced with his urge, to buy more drink ‘And a quarter bottle of vodka.’
‘Smirnoff or Red Label?’ She enquired simultaneously her body and left-hand gesturing toward the two bottles with the rest of the spirits and cigarettes that were shelved behind her.
‘Red Label.’ He replied.
She took the bottle and placed on the counter at the same time she tilled up the other merchandise. He gave her a crumbled twenty waiting for her to till it up, bagging it. Excepting his change, he pocketed it quickly with his hand depositing in the pocket of his jacket listening the coins jangle against his keys. His right arm and held the full weight of his prize exiting the store to the cold outside.
Turning down the hill his legs seemed lighter; going down hills were always considerably better than going-up them. Still the bottom muscles of his legs ached and his breathing short and raggedy, his hands numbing from the cold.
His outside appearance maybe for the world that of a young man but his insides well that was another matter. Christ, it was cold, despite the sun high in the sky, soon it would be dark and nighttime in January had a stillness to it. The atmosphere gave the illusion of freezing, walking at night was like walking through invisible glass panes. As he turned the corner for Alextion street he spied coming toward him Acid. Acid was a rare breed a talking, kind of functioning, acid casualty. He had done far too much of everything and had quite few prescriptions to prove it.
They recognized one another as they advanced. Acid had his dark-brown hair shaved into a crew-cut, which made his ears stand-out against his head like Mr. Potatoes ears, his eyes blue sunken into his skull cavity, his broad lips thin and smiling, if somewhat manically, showed nicotine stained teeth. He hadn’t shaved for a month or so as his beard patchy to the sides nestled his face like an undergrowth. He had not seen or heard from Acid for a couple months.
‘How, you doin’ ?’ Jonah asked with as much enthusiasm as he could, when they were within earshot. Because he was of small stature he somehow reminded Jonah of a garden gnome.
‘Jonah!’ He gave a sudden high-five that came across as a Hitler salute. ‘You know spent some time in London been begging, got my sick giro today, looking to score.’ ‘NEED TO SCORE!’ he suddenly rapped.
‘Want to come back got some beer.’ Jonah blurted, Acid brought enthusiasm out in him but the thought of sharing booze brought him no comfort.
‘Still living here?’
‘Still living here.’ Jonah mused, ‘And you, I haven’t seen you for an age, living with your mum.’
‘Yeah, got my script, been in prison.’ Acid stated flatly.
They walked back quietly their breathes solidifying like snakes around their faces. They entered the main door to the flats and the passage which contained other doors and numbers each containing silent worlds of neighbors who knew nothing of one another’s existence and for a moment Jonah suddenly realized the gap of the world that the photos possessed and despair the present one owned – ‘It would be dark soon.’ he thought to himself.
Once inside they quickly removed their jackets and entered the living room. It was sparingly decorated with not much in the way of furniture. He had a settee and two chairs that he got on the cheap from a couple who were selling-up most of the furniture to move to live with their daughter in Japan. Jonah had placed the settee to the side of the wall, the two chairs opposed one another, the closest to the window faced the room the furthest the window. There was a wooden coffee table dividing the chairs containing a mug and two ashtrays he had stolen from pubs, and the old photos. Acid took the chair closest to the window, Jonah took the bottle of cider from the carrier leaving the rest of the bag and contents on the floor lifting the bottle on the table, he made his way to the kitchen. The kitchen was small and square in design a washing machine and an old fridge at one end, a stand-up cupboard with storage for food at the top and cooking utensils at the bottom the electric hob and oven in the center. The kitchen sink and side were empty of dishes which he had done earlier to his left was a row of three mugs he took two and left the kitchen. When he entered the living room Acid was sitting in the chair the heat from the fire welcoming him. He sat down putting the two mugs both a non-descript white on the table before him opening the cider he filled the fizzy urine-color liquid in the two mugs. Acid leaned forward his posture urgent as he grabbed the mug, he leaned back taking a sip. ‘Cheers.’ he said.
Jonah taking his own reclined, taking a sip, the stuff really looked and tasted like fizzy piss.
‘Do you mind if I skin-up?’ Acid asked as he moved forward searching his pockets of his jeans.
‘Yeah, sure you don’t have to ask permission, I mean does a bear shit in the woods?’ Jonah replied with a smirk and he always wondered who had witness such an act from a bear and who had survived.
Jonah bent forward searching the carrier-bag he had left on the floor for the tobacco taking the yellow pouch and scanning the chair arm rolling papers, finding them he started to break the seal of the pouch. Acid was now constructing from a bundle of cigarette papers the joint. Jonah rarely smoked dope these days. Acid began taking a Marlboro light cigarette apart, gently dropping the tobacco into the joins of the connected papers, filing it into a single line.
‘You got a lighter?’ Acid asked.
Jonah looked around then rose and went to the passage searching his pockets of his jacket for a lighter, nothing in the outer pockets he turned the coat around searching the inner his finger locating it slipping it into grip, returning he shut the door and handed it to Acid. Acid unrolled the small bundle containing the ball of dope, brown, hard and looking conspicuously like a rat turd. He suddenly wondered what it would be like to own a rat that could crap eighths of blow on demand.
‘Seen Lucian, at prison,’ Acid stated searching for conversation.
Lucian was a dick as far as he could remembered pinned too much and believed himself to be a hard bastard. But he had to admit he had good style and a good fusion of dreads not messy either quite well groomed, plus rock star looks – but that made him no less of a cunt, in fact it made him worse.
‘While out in the yard.’ Acid continued burning the dope and crumbling it into the mixture of Marlboro tobacco. The smell of the scorching resin filled the air with its distinctive pungent odor.
‘Acid you couldn’t get hold of any whiz?’ Jonah asked settling down with the cider.
‘Na, can get some brown.’ Acid replied his eyes never leaving his work.
‘No, just want some speed.’ Jonah replied his voice sounding more distant than ever.
Acid had now constructed the joint finished rolling licking the papers together. He proceeded to smooth the papers and secure the roach. Once done he lit the end smoke billowed around his face as he inhaled loudly oddly, he seemed to be chattering to himself as he did so. After a while he leaned over offering the spiff to Jonah, Jonah accepted it, relaxing back, taking time to gulp of cider, wishing now that he had cooled it first in the fridge, warm cider always made him urge and once the feeling of vomiting was there it hung inside the pit of your stomach obnoxiously until you did. However, once he had a vomit session, he always felt much better. He inhaled the nicotine and cannabis mixture relaxing him into his chair as he thought about the secret hidden in a box under the kitchen sink. Acid was now leaning forward looking at the photographs his index finger running through them.
‘Where did you get em?’ Acid inquired.
‘Nowhere, just found them, thrown out in the back.’ Jonah replied a little irritably, dope always had the effect of toying with his paranoia. He preferred weed to solid whenever he partook in smoke, but he hadn’t really smoked for a couple of years, only when offered and it always seemed to hit his paranoia; but solid always made him feel edgy as well as a little sick. Jonah took a few more puffs his head swelling with the intoxication of alcohol and cannabis. He offered the joint back Acid was still chirping to himself. Acid took the joint as he was searching his pockets. Jonah relaxed back thinking about the box under the kitchen sink. He had acquired it really by accident and sudden rush of mischief. His actions had been what the Greeks would refer to as his ‘Ate’ which meant: a rash act of demonic lunacy, it certainly could be if the owner of the box found him or if he decided ever to use the contents of the box.
Acid had found what was left of a wrap of smack most of it gone now not really enough to pin-up with and at a scratch probably enough to smoke but not really enough for two to get high. He bundled into his fist and replaced it in his pocket with tissues. He finished the mug off.
‘Why were you in prison?’ Johan inquired his eyes red and snake-like.
‘Oh, don’t know smashing glass, shouting and bang.’ Acids face screwed itself-up parodying his confusion.
‘Got to go, get some gear.’ Acid stated to himself while rising, Jonah rose himself.
Acid was moving toward the door what was left of the joint in hand. Jonah led him through the passage to the door, Acid removed his coat putting it on, Jonah opened the door and looked at Acid and one for one moment, he saw the mirror of his own disillusionment in Acid’s face: his beard, sunken eyes, fallowed skin and stench was written the appalling joke of mortality and the grind of living expressed in a glimpse of Acid’s composure. It was written as clearly as print on paper, in small movements of lines that held the geometry of age, the juxtaposition of the mouth eyes and nose and it was only there for a second.
‘See you, Acid, come back sometime?’ Jonah said opening the door his composure restored.
He shut the door listening to the hollowed sound of Acid’s receding footfalls and the main hallway door opening and closing. Truth be known he was happy of Acid’s departure it meant more drink for himself. He entered the room switching the light on as he did, so the bulb illuminated the room as the sun outside dissipated into shadow.
He sat down and leaned forward pouring himself some more cider. Once the cup was full, he sat in crouch like fashion to examine the photos. One showed a bus that looked more like a tram with wheels, it’s entrance at the back the days when there were such things as conductors, you only saw this vehicle in Pinewood films made in the fifties. It sat outside what would might have been a theatre entrance of some kind. He put it to one side and relaxed back allowing the effect of the cannabis and the drink to muddle his mind. Perhaps he should try and masturbate. Dope use to make him horny, but he doubted that it would now. As with most forms of sex, after the act an emptiness was left inside of him that created despair – unfortunately like most of his forays with the opposite sex he found them not to be simply different but a different species.
He had tried gay sex but the partner was rough and the male body repulsed him as well as the fact that too much alcohol had left him unable to rise to the occasion. No, his libido was severely damaged leaving him angry and depressed more than vigorous with passion.
He thought for a moment about the box. He had gotten it when he went to get some tobacco off a dealer he sometime used when he was going through an amphetamine phase, the dealer ran a small pub that was raided a few months back – so the end of cheap tobacco. He had sat down ordered a pint and discretely purchased the contraband as he sat there, a man in his thirties wearing a worn expression and shaved head with a tired brown suit sat just opposite him leaving a fairly sized sports bag open. He had caught only the merest sight of the box and what was in it, but it was enough to inflame him. At the time he was wearing a long black overcoat that he had purchased from a charity shop. The man had been ushered away by the landlord and as there was no music coming from the duke box, he could hear their heated exchange though not their muted words. As it was the afternoon there were no pissheads in the pub, the bar woman didn’t start her shift until the evening, so for now he had a deserted bar and a window of opportunity. There was a rashness in him that day though what he would do with the prize was beyond him. He took the risk stepping over his coat hung over his arm he went to the bag throwing the coat over it and scooping the box, which was slightly larger than a shoe box, into the folds of the coat. The voices silenced for a minute and he heard footsteps coming towards him; he froze if discovered he could throw the coat down feigning an accident hamming himself up to be more drunk than he was. A minute he waited to see what would happen if he were discovered, steeling himself to act but then the footsteps retreated, and the argument started again. He needed no further hesitation quickly he put the prize in the folds of the like wrapping a present and was gone.
Jonah got-up from his chair and headed for the kitchen, switching the light on in the kitchen he quickly swung around to the cupboard spacing under the sink opening the door bending down he reached into the spacing and took out the box. Removing the lid, he let his eyes wonder over the object. His hand went down and he carefully gripped and removed the gun.
The Smith and Wesson, six-cylinder handgun, lay in his hand like an exotic black spider. The barrel, cylinder and hammer, stainless steel finished in black its surface reflecting the light from above. The grip was a brown finish to resemble wood, but it appeared to be some form of heavy plastic, the center of the grip was gridded helping to bite into the flesh for a steadier hold. Whatever nastiness the gun was heading for they had been successful at removing the serial numbers as the acid marks and filings at the bottom of the barrel attested to making it easier to sell Jonah guessed. The barrel was smaller than he had anticipated – and though a novice with guns he gathered this was for concealment, it was purpose built for firing at close range – it weighed approximately five to six kilograms. It seemed heavier than he’d expected then again, the last time he had a gun he was a kid and it was a cap gun. The safety had been tampered with making it ineffective, the hammer and release was easy and quite smooth to pull back requiring little effort in releasing the barrel which cocked out to the right for quick reloading, the bullets might have come in circles of six like reloading a magazine but they were separate at the bottom of the box, eighteen in all, three reloads. Cocking back the hammer and pulling out the barrel he brought the gun up to his face, his tired stoned eyes glaring down the chambers for the bullets the emptiness of the chambers. It was stolen or smuggled for the sole purpose of putting competitors or whoever displeased the owner into the ground. It seemed ironic to be stolen by an idiot out of the mouth of babes he thought. The question is had he an interest in putting holes in other people? Not really, he had a shit-shit-list that numbered most of the people who he had met, but that wasn’t the same thing as wanting them dead. Clicking the barrel back with his left hand, his right thumb easing the hammer allowing for the loading pin to drop.
Reverentially he put the gun back, replacing it in the box like a holy relic to a sanctified vessel. He wondered if that was what the gun was or at least representative of in the twenty first century. Everything in a nice linear line: sticks and giving way to bows and arrows, giving way to gun powder and barrel, until we have guns and rifles, bombs full of chemicals and eventually the A-bomb bowing to the H-bomb. The handgun the higher power of the powerless as the American Society for Guns would advocate: ‘A armed society is a polite society’. Perhaps, they were right, then… it gave power to the weak and the weak are not the meek and it is the weak that have inherited the Earth.
Replacing the lid, he hid the box once more in a small shelf under the sink. He left the kitchen, the flat except for the living-room, was getting a too cold. Quickly he entered the living-room the warmth of the fire and the aftermath of the cannabis sent a shiver of needles across his forehead and spine. He sat down in a hunch, pouring himself some more cider, he relaxed down into the chair, he could put the radio on but the incessant adverts and the sameness of the play list at times was infuriating – plus the fact he could only pick-up one radio station didn’t help.
After finishing the cup then more or less half the cider the helped himself to a can of Tennense. The cannabis buzz had worn off almost unnoticed but there was a lethargy about his neck, arms and legs, as if his body and mind were being directed toward the earth. Gravity or his ability to deal with it was taking on extra weight. He no longer wanted the consciousness that inhabited him, laying back on the chair he allowed himself to fall into a bleak dark nothingness for a few hours.
He woke slowly and without too much reaction to the stiffness of his neck or the sharp pain that coincided with him straightening it or any myriad of aches that ran through his body when he tried to move. He had fallen into a comatose slumber his down a small amount of dribble and spit on his chin. There were times when he slept like this that he found the crushing of the trachea made it hard to breathe even when his neck had been straightened out. As he was about to rise when he suddenly felt the pain in knee scream at him. He waited for about ten seconds and then straightened it after a moment it quietened. He rose timidly he crossed the room to close the curtains. He could see that now night had descended the streetlights were on polluting the world with their sodium glare. He could see his reflection in the window from the backdrop of darkness outside he looked even by his standard dreadful, more wraith than human. Quickly he pulled the tan brown curtains across. He left the warmth of the room to the kitchen with a slight limb, the knee a dull ache. Automatically he felt the ice in the atmosphere as he entered the kitchen quickly, he put the kettle on. He’d have to watch it carefully while it boiled the automatic shutdown had long since been a feature that did not work. That’s when he heard the doorbell ring. Did Acid forget something? Maybe, he had managed to get some Whizz Afterall. Taking the kettle of the boil he turned exiting the kitchen into the passage and opening the main door leading to the hallway, groping on the side of the wall of his left for the hallway light, finding it he pushed the timer switch on the hallway immediately filling the darkness was flooded with iridescent of a sixty watt bulb. Sighing to himself he made his way to the front door of the building. Opening the door, the fresh cold air stealing over him, expecting to see Acid or a stranger who had rung the wrong bell, was confronted with neither. Instead two there stood two policemen.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ the silhouette of the tallest policeman on Jonah’s right enquired, ‘we are interviewing this area as part of a task force set-up about the murder of Ellis Manning a few streets from here.’ Jonah listened his mind at ease, he remembered something, maybe it was ease dropping in on a stolen conversation, or perhaps he had seen the local papers advertise the story, when he gone to get some shopping, he rarely followed the news. A vague recognition of something about an old woman who was burgled and then murdered.
‘Perhaps we could discuss this, we need to fill a few forms out won’t take long.’ The policeman continued his genial manner.
‘Sure, come in.’ Jonah replied opening the door wider and starting towards his own door listening to the clomp of the policemen behind him, as he was about to enter his door when the timer switch deactivated the passage light, throwing them into darkness, he quickly opened the door to his flat the light from the kitchen left on leaving enough for them to see. His mind still foggy, he certainly wasn’t expecting this but cooperate and get it over and done with. He showed the two policemen to the living room where they both seated themselves on the settee, Jonah himself sat down in the chair he had fallen into an alcohol daze earlier. He noticed their twin uniforms of black coats with the police insignia emblazed on the side pocket, white shirts and black trousers, complete with the peek caps and boots seemed to blend into the sparseness of his flat. ‘Christ,’ Jonah thought he might as well live in a Police cell.
The largest of the two started shifting through some paperwork that was clipped to a black leather clipboard, resting the board on his knees he took out a black biro from the top of the board and resumed shifting the notes he looked over at Jonah.
‘Sir if you could just state your name,’ he said pleasantly, ‘we need to fill this form in so we’ve interviewed you and that we can eliminate you from our enquires. He continued breathing heavily through his nose: ‘Lived at this address for the last year?’
‘Yeah, lived here for about two years, now.’ He was now becoming nervous, Jonah with his addled memory could recall Acid taking out some brown but what did he do with it? Did he leave it discarded on the table or floor? Stifling down a panic he quickly scanned the table he couldn’t see it, or if it was on the floor directly below the table. He felt his tenseness relax for a minute. That’s when he noticed the dope Acid had accidentally left, it wasn’t much, just under half a tenth, but it was there next to the ashtray shadowed by the photographs.
Keeping his composure, he sat upright like an errant schoolboy attentively trying to look at the policemen while his eyes darted towards the cannabis on the table.
The policeman filling in the form didn’t look up his features hid under the peek of the cap. The other who was younger and the least wordy of the two having said nothing during the interview looked at him passively all the way through the discourse, he was smaller in stature but his wiry frame was heavy-set his shoulders full suggesting he used a gym a couple times a week, which matched his thin, handsome face and strong features off set with dark blue eyes. Both were pale skinned both had dark eyebrows making the light above throw harsh shadows over their face. The older and more dominant who was scribbling through forms was taller and much more built he also used the gym but did a lot of lifting, he wore thin glasses that matched the symmetry of his complex face.
‘About other people living here,’ the policeman looked up his composure amiable and business-like, the glasses caught the light.
‘I think there’s a couple above me, sometimes I see a kid I think his father lives up on the top floor, but I’m not sure you know I keep myself to myself.’ He knew the couple upstairs from brief meetings in the hallway and the fact that they screwed loudly, the boy he had seen on weekends mostly.
‘Probably a good idea.’ The quieter and the younger policeman said a small smile appeared and vanished just as quickly.
‘So, you don’t really know anyone, O.k.’ His left hand came and brusquely pushed the glasses up on the bridge of his nose.
‘You haven’t seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, have you?’ The policeman looked up his face unreadable.
‘What, huh, no.’ Jonah couldn’t suppress the sarcastic note in the ‘huh’.
‘I’m going to make some tea, want any?’ Jonah asked the same time he moved forward, as casually as he could both hands reaching out to push the photographs over the dope while simultaneously picking his cup up. He then stood and started to maneuver himself to the kitchen. The whole move had been shabby and contrived, the ‘want any’ in his question had been blurted-out rather than requested. Both the policemen looked up at each other for a moment in puzzlement the resumed their inquiry.
‘No thank you, sir.’ The older of the two said, the other shaking his head to stress the negative.
Jonah entered the kitchen the coldness reviving him somewhat. His mind needing to relax, thank God Acid took the heroin, even if it wasn’t much, they could have arrested him, and searched the flat, if they did that then they would have found the gun. How could he explain its presence? As it stood it was dope, if they should spy it in its concealment, he would get a fine, nothing more than a trip to the magistrates. It wasn’t enough to really bother with the paperwork he hoped. After all they were part of a task force set-up for a different case. It would be too much paperwork to fine him with.
Fluidly he switched the kettle on rinsing his cup under the cold water tap, placing it on the side he opened the fridge and took out the milk, pouring a small amount of the milk from the two pint carton into the cup he took the Tetley’s tea bag bought from Co-op from the opened box and placed it into the cup.
He listened to the water in the kettle and closed his eyes thinking. There was another reason he didn’t want them to find the gun. It was his like providence of fate. He no way other to explain why he had the gun other than it was his. It was his by right and what good was anything if you never use it. He opened his eyes experiencing a vivid daydream in his mind’s eye:
He opened the kitchen sink his hands finding the shelf where the gun was removing the box he put it on the side. Taking the lid off he took hold of the gun putting on the draining board and then he took hold of a handful of bullets, taking-up the pistol he cocked it releasing the firing pin his right hand maneuvering the bullets into the tip if the chamber his thumb pressing it in, he did this four times, his hand reaching for two more once done he placed the barrel into firing position. Cocking back the hammer in his right hand he let the gun fall naturally behind the leg gripping the gun his index finger slicking the trigger with his sweat.
He didn’t hesitate he strolled from the kitchen into the living room, at the entrance he lifted his right-hand level with the sitting officer’s chest and fired point blank into the elder of the two. The policeman automatically dropped back like a doll whose strings had become entangled, two red holes appeared through his white shirt, his glasses askew, he coughed once blood almost black escaped his mouth from the hemorrhaged lung. The other try to rise, was in the act of doing so, when he fired at him catching him perfectly in the center of his forehead a small hole like a cigar burn appeared and grew to about the size of fifty-pence coin then blood started to pour down his features that were now slackening as his eyes register nothing then he too fell face forward at the feet of his dead compatriot.
The kettle nearly boiled over before he registered that it was real; for one whole minute he believed that he had shot both the officers. The vivid daydream was too real; and he hated to admit it but the act of killing them, even if it was only imaginary, it had excited him.
How long had this been dead inside? The violent fantasy had revived something of an epiphany in him. There was nothing in the criteria of his life that suited him that did not in some way marinize him in society. In every sense he was dead except physical. All the people he associated with were as dead as he: he had no friends that were not fucked out of their heads, carrier, social life; he was distanced from family, and like is flat-lined libido incapable of only narcistic self-love which was nothing more than loathing made pretty. Pouring the boiling water into the cup he swirled it around until the liquid became a dark tree bark color then he removed the teabag disposing of it into the sink. Then taking the he left the confines of the kitchen, steadying himself in the small passage and entered the living-room to resume his interrogation.
He noticed the policemen hadn’t moved from their paperwork, the younger only gave him the briefest of looks almost a nod to his existence. He sat down in his chair putting the cup on the table with the photographs and the concealed dope. Then relaxing himself back into the chair.
‘O.k. nearly finished now sir.’ Stated the elder of the two looking from his paperwork.
‘One more question sir. Where were you between 9.30 p.m. and 11.00 p.m. last Saturday?’ Bothe then looked at him their eyes resting on him like judgement. He began to panic as her tried in vain to press through the days of his past to recall where he had been at the time in question. Only to find nothing as an answer. All days were alike to him they faded into incidents without any meaning. He might have been scoring or pissed, he couldn’t with any clarity say.
‘Uhmm,’ Jonah’s lips pursed and a look of guilt which he could hardly control stained his features. ‘Here, probably I can’t think of anywhere else.’
‘Do you have any witnesses to that effect?’ The policeman asked both their expressions of subtle accusation. Christ what were the two talking about, feeling the paranoid thoughts drive around his head, they must be taking the piss. Jonah thought and very nearly voiced, perhaps it would have been better if he had shot them.
‘As far as I’m aware no…’ Jonah responded, nowhere lost to no, his paranoia kept from boiling point by the alcohol that he had imbibed. But the guilt, even though innocent, shone like a beacon. Maybe they were taking the piss both enjoying the spectacle of his guilt knowing he couldn’t remember for sure.
‘O.K. Sir that’s all we’ll be on our way.’ The officer rose in unison. ‘If you do remember anything you should see a police van around the area in the next couple days, if you could report it to one of the officers it would be appreciated and thank you for your co-operation.’
Jonah stood and showed both the officers to the door slamming on the outer hall light they went directly further into the next door and knocked, Jonah shut the door allowing the pair to carry out further interviews.
He leaned back against the door and grinned, his mind relaxed and his thoughts slowed, he could hear them march down the corridor, knocking on the door. He went back to the sanctuary of the living-room. Sitting down he leaned forward, he could examine the examine the photographs or get himself drunk and stoned. He chose the latter. He finished the cider and drank some of the vodka. It didn’t take long before the intoxication clouded his mind numbing, throwing him into the peaceful sea of unconsciousness, where no thoughts or anxieties could disturb him. He woke again at three in the morning slumped in his chair. The lack of noise and the feeling of emptiness told him it was the early hours. He drank the what was left of the vodka, his next memory was waking-up in bed the gun unloaded in his hand.
He jolted into sitting position. His jeans were gone he still wore his t-shirt and boxer shorts, his heart pounded as he tried to recollect the last hours before he passed out. But all that came to him after the police had left was that he had smoked some of Acid’s dope and getting started on the vodka. That had been some time this morning the recollection swayed in his mind and then was gone, after that blackness. This was not the first time he had blacked out, but it was time he had woke-up with the gun. At his age he thought reflectively, shouldn’t he be waking up with a woman not a gun! Then he noticed how cold it was, the door of the bedroom was shut and the morning light was showing through the curtained windows. He knew from the muddy quality of the faded blue curtains, that the daylight shone through, the day unlike the winter sunshine of yesterday was hidden in concrete shaded sky. He felt that his throat and tongue were coated in sandpaper, but there was no headache – he very rarely got them these days, hangovers were a past event now he suffered from varying degrees of T.D.s, personally he would have preferred the hangovers – however, the thirst from dehydration was raging in him. His head was dull and his thoughts slow. His senses were dimmed as if they were surrounded by cotton wool. But he knew this was only an after effect of the poison he had drunk and dumped into his system. All too soon as his senses returned, they would do so with vengeance and pain.
Paranoia returned as his mind tried to maneuver around the missing hours and where the gun fitted into it. Quickly he pushed the magenta duvet off of him leaving the gun in the bed. Looking around he found the jeans folded at the bottom of the bed. The cold started to bite into his bare legs quickly he unrolled the jeans putting them over each leg as quickly as possible. Then he searched for his trainers finding the right next to the bed and the left trainer by the door. Once he had both on he went to investigate the kitchen. As he got through the small passage he noticed the door to the kitchen open and the box the gun had been in laying discarded on the floor on its side. The bullets were strewn across the kitchen floor on its side. The bullets were strewn across the kitchen table – a cheap plastic design with marble finish – the bullets looked oddly out of place against the backdrop of the kitchen top. He went through to the living room everything seemed in place, the vodka bottle lay on its side at some point he mush have thrown the cider bottle away. He hadn’t done anything as far as he knew just blacked-out and went to bed, fair enough. Breathing in he could smell stale smoke and his own sweat which carried the distinctive odour of alcohol with it.
The living room wasn’t as cold as the rest of the flat, but it wasn’t warm either he made for the fire, his movements sluggish, his body dull. He lit the fire after two tries at the pilot, listening to the gas hiss through, he went to the chair and sat. Once sat he tried again to recollect what had happened nothing came to him. He couldn’t remember getting the gun or undressing and crashing, nothing, blank. His mood was despondent.
He didn’t have any money for drink for the next three days until his giro was paid into the bank. It was about time he went without, let his body get use to solid food. He sat in his chair his thoughts racing and slowing. He couldn’t focus not yet it would be a few hours before he could even attempt to. He closed his eyes a swarm of lights cascaded like pins before his closed eyelids. These days he wasn’t just tired but exhausted. Tired at life with its dramas and crisis that went in a circle. He could hear the world outside busying itself. People off to work, love or like him consigned to emptiness. He felt the numbness of alcohol mingled with apathy that usually haunted him. He slipped gently into a doze that became a sleep that lasted most of the day
He awoke in the late afternoon. He moved and cleaned the flat-up putting the gun and the shells away neatly. He quickly washed but didn’t bother shaving the economy heater bubbled as he did so a background noise that soothed him. Now was the waiting game. He had about just over a tenner in change and pound coins until the Giro arrived, it would be enough for cigs, but no drink. At the moment all was fine, he was still numbed from last night but by this evening. This would be tough but not impossible it wasn’t the first time he’d withdrawn. As the afternoon bowed to evening, he began to feel the sweat just above his forehead, it never poured but it glistened. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve of his jumper he had salvaged from the clean laundry. He paced now not being able to sit or relax the pain running up and down his spine. He was running low tobacco. He’d have to get some more a journey he really didn’t want to make. The craving for nicotine was already clawing at his throat.
Sighing to himself he left the flat. The cold wind hit him instantly like a painful slap, the streetlights were on as the cloud covered sky gave way to a dark impenetrable hue. He wanted to avoid Sleaze’s store, so he decided to walk on a little further to a row of shops that comprised like a mini shopping center. It would put him out a bit but might sober him up some. Halfway there he was beginning to regret his decision. He stopped leaning on a fence he felt awkward and suddenly dizzy; paranoia started to rear itself at the back of his thoughts. What if he should have another fit here, now? No, concentrate on walking, he willed the effort of picking himself back-up, he started to stumble forward. The coldness of the air played a symphony on his nerves. He willed his head taking nothing of the avenue he walked. Night in its infancy had fallen and there would be the evening shoppers returning from work heading for the Tesco store at the top of the row of shops. He was surprised as he came over the small bridge, into where a selection of shops and small businesses were to find it quite busy it was after it was after all January and most were feeling the bite after Christmas. And with surprise came not a little horror. His anxiety grew into fear. He continued forward afraid to stare at the ground in case of a fit should take him but not wanting to notice anyone’s face or draw attention to himself. As he walked, he took notice of the bright lights from the shops most closing at the end of a day’s trading. The harshness burned into his eyes causing him to squint. The orange sodium from the streetlamps making him feel nauseous. A woman who was pretty, dressed smartly in a suite and long black raincoat. Her ash blonde hair tided tightly, as she looked at the ground, and saw only her own internal turmoil. He guessed her age to be late twenties, and her eyes looked so dark and tired like blasted pieces of clay. He stopped everything started to take on the reality of a painting, something he’d seem by Munch. A scene where his oblique oval headed characters were walking past him down a street all with top hats. There was a distinct edge of paranoia with each brush stroke, every ham-fisted color produced a feeling that was sickening.
He tried to shake the illusion, but it gained on him the sky seemed to set, the woman froze, the other people still and became indistinct figures on canvas. The hallucination seemed just as real as when he shot the policemen. Then it was over the woman went on her way and the others moved becoming part of the ongoing reality. He felt ill and realized he was shaking. He turned and walked in the opposite direction and made back for the flat, the thought of the tobacco ignored for now. He had made his mind up of that at least he was sure. His mind was singular in his pursuit even back over the bridge not looking over as vertigo and nausea held him for a moment. Back along the railings and fencing away from people who he felt nothing for other than loathing. He nearly missed his flat so engrossed in what he would do next.
He entered the flat and looked around at the sparse surroundings. Illuminated under the harsh 100-watt bulb which hung from the ceiling like a medieval torture device. Taking off his coat he hung it up. He went to the kitchen and removed the gun taking one bullet loading into the barrel which he then with his left hand spun then replaced the firing pin. He walked and sat down putting the gun down on the table to the side of the photographs. He took them hold with his left hand and sorted through them with his right as though he were dealing a set of cards. Again, he viewed the snapshots looking at the out of date world set in black and white: some focused a few tinged with too much light or focusing on nothing but smudged grass missing the subject person, vehicle or house to the far right or left of the pictures. But most were good catching their intended subjects the best one was of a woman in smiling her hair and skirt fashioned to the period of the fifties. There was an innocence in that picture. He placed it down. The took hold of another which showed an old delivery van next to what was now a carpark but then a cinema. The third photograph was a fuzzy picture of a baby sitting on a chair, the head a ghostly two headed affair as it had moved leaving and ethereal afterimage as it was taken. He looked at the three thinking them as tarot cards: the woman represented a domesticity of that time; the van gave the illusion of work, movement. And the child because of the ghostly mistake of focus, heralded sadness. A ghost child lost in time.
Why had he taken the photographs? The same reason he had took the gun. He had tried bullshitting himself about fate but really it came to the fact they were there, and he could. The photos attracted him because they represented a time that never existed other than as an ideal. A brave new world that after the war was to rebuild itself. The ideal was good but the reality was worse. There was no utopia rising from the ashes of the old just the same as it ever was. The future was the now only older. And the gun because well that was there too and represented the human condition and folly better than any other achievement. Taking one of the phots at random, searching his pocket for the lighter he held, the snapshot of a non-descript house with an out of focus family over the ashtray and caught it on fire watching the flames lick at the house, blistering it into heat and unrecognizable ash. That’s what people were really: our existence was nothing more than negatives burning a hole in existence.
He stared at three photos sweat scintillated under the harsh light. Excitement and fear building in alternative sway, he picked-up the gun in his right hand that trembled as he did so, clicking the trigger back with his thumb. His eyes never leaving the photographs or seeing any of the three that he chose. He put the revolver to his right temple listening to the whoosh in the darkness of his thoughts. Fear first, then he thought about jumping into a void, then ‘FUCK IT.’ He said in a whisper and pulled the trigger.
He could hear the gun’s hammer release and hit on an empty chamber then clarity. As though his brain had found it’s perception after years of being dubbed by boredom. In the instant of the click against a possible bullet he had grasped something almost mystical which shattered apathy away like a careless shroud. He realised that it didn’t matter whether he lived or died, but only the moment, grasping the infinite was simply a state of mind. After years he felt like he was able to breathe again, years, decades trapped in his own mind, a room suffocating without a view. He felt euphoria like a child who was innocent of the restraints of adulthood. He stood-up and walked around the room, briskly he sat himself back down. He examined the three photos once more. The young woman dressed in fifties wardrobe, the van, the infant. And he felt as if he could crawl through the window of time where these snapshots led: play with the infant; drive the van; maybe even screw the woman. A revelation after months, perhaps years, of a failing libido. Lounging back, he allowed the euphoria of what he had almost grasped flow through him.
He closed his eyes watching the Chinese shadows flicker before his lids. He nearly dosed but didn’t. He smelt the sourness of himself and the room. And somewhere distant inside he felt the anger like a thunder cloud erupting toward him. Closer, closer, until the illness engulfed him. He felt a bile rise in his stomach. He urged but swallowed it down. The vision he had when playing Russian Roulette resided. The world seemed empty again. Listlessly he leaned forward and out of the ashtray constructed a rolley from the remains of those he had already smoked. What was the world anyway? What was he supposed to with life? Fuck some cunt, who more fucked than himself; drop another piece of shit into the world. Why? So, they could consume in some battery farm estate get a nice semi-detached carboard house and die on the N.H.S a senile wreck. He looked at the child’s photograph and remembered when he was at school, he might have been about seven he had an idea that we were all being battery reared. And why not, as far as he could see it worked.
He took the gun, removed the firing pin let the barrel click out and spun it again reloading the barrel and pin into firing position, he then placed it to the side of his head and fired as before. But unlike before, the hammer hit the bullet, not clanged on an empty chamber; first he heard the retort scream like thunder, and he could almost feel himself as the bullet as it moved with speed through the tunnel of the barrel and buried itself in skin and skull. He felt as if someone hit him in the side of the head with a steel baseball bat and then nothing.
He gained consciousness slowly as though he were going up some eternal lift. He opened his eyes and was vaguely aware that one was slightly bleared. He was lying on his left side on the floor as he moved to sitting, he became all too aware that his right wrist and socket ached, perhaps he had sprained them? How? Getting to his feet was a disorientating affair he moved like one whose muscles had fused with bone and the bone like wise with its marrow. His face was numb on his right side, but his right arm complained more with pain and his right ear was mute. He sat down he must have had a fit or passed out or something. What was his name? If he could just recall his… name was Jonathon Reece, yes that’s right most of the time he preferred to be called Jonah. This was his flat looking around his right eye hazy, then he spied the gun. And the puzzle fell into place. He had played Russian Roulette and had shot himself. He smiled then laughed. HOW THE FUCK WAS HE STILL HERE? Jesus, he couldn’t even shoot himself right. He looked at the gun lying at a twisted angle its barrel aimed at the wall. He must have flung the gun when it first went off and involuntary action that caused him to sprain his wrist and pull the socket of his right arm. But at least the pain in his leg was cured. This time he was laughing insanely like a hyena.
Unsteadily he tried to rise to full height and tried walking though dizziness and disorientation made this a ludicrous dance-walk. He headed towards the bathroom. Once there he switched the bathroom light on and looked at himself in the small shaving mirror opposite above the sink. ‘You fuck-up,’ he muttered to himself. His face was ashen, his lips slightly blue but the side of his was covered in congealed blood and the wound still bled. He ran the hot water putting the plug into the sink. He filled it slowly, he found a flannel and soaked it, squeezing excess water he cleaned around the right side of his face trying to slowly remove the congealed blood. The sink’s water turning dark crimson has he did so. When removed most of the blood that had dried and trying to some of the blood that oozed out so he could get a picture of what damage had been done. His right eye was swollen and from the direction of the wound a cloud of hemorrhaged blood covered most of the white and some of the pupil. Hence, he had a slight mist over his peripheral vision. The wound was a neat hole that wept more than bled the sides and the entrance of the bullet was burned with gun powder despite. So, where the fuck was the bullet? Had it entered lodged somewhere? Had it bounced around his skull? Was he already dead? If the latter be true, the afterlife was a disappointment. No, he wasn’t dead he knew that, but the bullet was inside his skull somewhere and he had suffered hell of a lot of damage of that he was sure. And if he didn’t get help very quickly it would almost certainly be the end. He looked at the wreck of the face that stared back at him and was not concerned. Whatever conflict had dominated his mind for God knows how long was over now. Vanished in quite literally a bang. He needed help but at this precise moment he had a few things to do.
In a cabinet under the sink he had some bandages and plasters. He had kept them handy because he had pinned badly a couple of times, it had been a bastard to stop the tapped vein from bleeding, so he always kept a supply of them. Taking a bandage, he carefully folded one end over itself and applied it to the wound and wrapped the rest around his head as comfortable and tightly as he could securing the finished work with tow safety pins. Not ideal but it would do for now. He left the bathroom and stumbling through the passage entered the bedroom, maneuvering himself around the bed he opened a set of draws, looking for a brown Nike cap. Hands shifting through shirts he found the cap at the bottom of the drawer. Easing it on over the makeshift bandage tucking it as best he could into the cap’s side. Then he left the bedroom and re-entered the living-room.
The gun was where he had flung it, he picked it up quickly and put it on the table. He looked at the clock and found it was about ten past eight he had been out cold for around two and half hours. Why had no one phoned the police? It was a built-up area, he reasoned, people could have mistaken it for a loud backfire from a car or a miscellaneous firework left over from New Years Eve. He wasn’t even sure there was anyone in the house where his flat was. And today if anyone suspected a gun going off who would want to get involved even if it was only to report it? It didn’t matter as far as he knew no one had reported it. As quickly as his stumbling feet would allow him, he went to the kitchen, removed the box with the shells, found a black refuse bag and put the box in it. Then he returned to the living-room took the gun and the photographs from the table and put them also into the bag. Once done he tied the bag up. He took his army surplus jacket off the peg and put it on. Then taking the bag, his keys and the tenner, turning all the lights off left the flat.
He didn’t feel the cold as the wind hit him. The right side of his face was numb and so was his arm, the ache had been replaced by a deadness around the wrist and upper joint. His eye was hazier, and he was aware that he felt sick. The cap helped hide the bandage a bit but only from a distance. He walked as fast as he could without wobbling, it was at the bottom of St Clements street, just behind the railway track that he needed to go and drop off the bag he now carried slung over his shoulder like a sack. There were now relatively few people around which was lucky he supposed, he turned out of his road and came to the entrance of St Clements he walked forward finding ahead the small derelict area which was used for dumping bric a brac. Its bank was at enough gradient for him to rid himself of the burden. Once at the end of the street, he looked for the gap in the fence. Taking the bag from his shoulders he threw it form his chest, heaving with strain, as he did so. The bag launched into the darkness, he could hear it falling down the bank, he sank to his knees exhausted.
In that position he passed out for a while. He awoke startled and disorientated. The canvas of the sky was too big for him to comprehend, then everything came back to him and he threw-up.
The vomit was liquid and clear like water. Picking himself up shakily he started forward away from St Clements’s makeshift dump. He didn’t really care if the police found the gun with his fingerprints. After all he’d have to at some point go to the hospital either has a patient of a corpse. He’d tell the truth it was a bit hard to lie when you had a bullet in your head. In a drunken, stoned malaise he had lost his mobile a few months back which was a shame as he could have called an ambulance. But there was a phone box around here somewhere. It was so hard to get a fix on where he was when his right eye was fag and his ear kept mutely tingling to itself. He walked his head bowed nearly all the right side of his face was numb and so now was his arm; he was unaware that fresh blood was seeping through his bandage to stain his cheek and jaw. He moved forward his hands in his pockets sometimes aware the he was looking for a phone box to call an ambulance and at other times unaware of who he was, other than he was moving forward.
He moved through streets where people passed as ghosts or was it, he who was the ghost? Until he came to somewhere that was familiar to him. The little turn in gave way to a small road as he walked through, he recognized a barn type structure to his left. It was a small cinema that only opened a few times a month it played independent releases and world movies – most were arty shit but he had done quite a few good deals there to Art crowd. Also, he liked films, some of the art stuff was crap but it was financed by the art council so what could you expect, and it was cheap catering to students and after the degree, the unemployable. There was light coming out from the small reception of the minimalist theatre building, so it was open. What was it playing? He looked at the advertisement schedule and read a strange double bill they had ‘Wonderful life’ played next to a showing of the original ‘Nosferatu’. Both black and white like the photographs he couldn’t help smiling at the irony. He felt in his pocket for the ten pound there it was crinkling away. ‘Why not’? he thought.
He entered the reception area clumsily his right hand numb, as was his face, his mind no longer controlled these parts of his body. He walked unevenly to the reception. A till was placed to the side, a pretty young woman with auburn hair tied into a ponytail, dressed in a blue shirt and jeans was busying herself over what looked like a schedule. When she looked up her face registered shock as her mouth opened then abruptly closed.
‘Ticket for the eature’, Jonah said. He was unaware that his speech was slurred or that his lips were now blue and drooping, or there was blood covering his face from the head wound.
‘Christ.’ She muttered.
‘Nuh, Jonuuh’. Jonah slurred a reply.
‘Sir, can I…, you need an ambulance, your bleeding…’ Her voice was shrill on the verge of hysteria.
‘Your talk, talking, to fomeone’, he paused even now he could feel the anger in him, he moved forward threateningly. ‘Wif a bullet inn their heaad, now fi….give me the fucking tickut.’ He threw the ten pound note on to the desk.
The young woman looked as if she would cry, fear and revulsion was in her every movement, as she tore a ticket off and left it on the desk for Jonah to snatch it.
‘Keep thee change’. He left the ten-pound note with her. The ringing had subsided now, he was almost certainly deaf in one ear. He walked through a small passage, painted red, that led to the auditorium. The woman he guessed had moved from behind the desk and was heading opposite to where the managers office would be situated. It wasn’t every day you meet someone who looked like the walking dead, who was bleeding form the head and stinking of vomit and piss. There was no one at the door taking tickets, it was too small a cinema to worry too much about protocol.
He walked into the cool womb of the theatre, there were a few people sate talking or watching the adverts before the main event. All they would see of him was a stumbling shadow a little too worst for wear from drink. The adverts blazed light and confusion at him he found himself at the front row; there wasn’t anyone there most choosing the back rows for better viewing. He sat more like fell, his good ear could detect above the whispers of people, footsteps outside – they were hurried and urgent. He felt sorrow for the woman, he had frightened at the reception. More than that he felt sorrow for humanity, the way it was bent out of true. He could hear the footsteps enter the theatre, making their way down the aisle. Then the adverts stopped and for a moment everything was thrown into darkness that was so profound that Jonah could call it home. Before the film was about to start or anyone could find him, Jonah felt absolute peace, and in the darkness, he closed his eyes…
(Apology for the paragraphs I tried everything but nothing works. For some reason the single line then double line half way through. I hope you enjoyed the story nonetheless and sorry I really don’t know why it did that).
stephenjgrantham 