And each of us had a place in that old yellow streetlamp light, and the days of aimless rain

At dinner recently a man started talking about how he had lost his faith in God. He’d been quiet for the whole meal and started telling people about it right in the middle of desert.

We put our spoons down and listened to him. He had a strange way of talking like he was explaining the whole thing to himself. He looked down at his desert the whole time he spoke.

When he had done we picked up our spoons and finished desert in silence. No one said anything to the man about him losing his faith in God. It was a sad story and not one I really wanted to talk about more.

I wondered why the desert had made him decide to talk about it.

After dinner we said our goodbyes and I shook the man’s hand for a good while. Looking back it seems a pointless thing to have done but I couldn’t think of anything better at the time.

Outside the house it was dark and a fine rain was blowing aimlessly about the front yard. There was that old yellow streetlamp light.

As we walked away I looked at the cars parked on the driveway. The man had arrived last and his small car was squeezed in right at the end. I noticed on the back of his car the place where a chromed fish emblem had recently been. It’s the sort of thing you see everywhere.

The man had pried the fish away but the glue was stubborn and had set hard. I scratched at it with my fingernail to check; it was as much apart of the car as the paintwork.

We both stood there in the near rain and old yellow light looking down at the shadow of that fish on the man’s car. I imagined him uselessly scraping away at it and it seemed the saddest thing in the world right then. My wife squeezed my hand and said that maybe God wasn’t ready to let the man go quite yet.

The Somnambulist and the Song

It starts with a man sitting up in bed. He’s dreaming but has done like this for a long time. The woman lying beside him used to wake up, years ago.

In the dream the man is looking out of the eyes of someone else. He can’t see himself in the dream, but he feels convincingly old. His breath is heavy and sounds like a far away carpenter’s workshop.

The old man in the dream is looking down at the tracks of a railway from the edge of the platform. He looks down for a good while, studying the lustrous surface of the steel. Eventually he looks up, turning his head in unison with the man in the bedroom and staring down the tunnel where the train will go. The old man considers its quiet, calm blackness.

Then there is the sound of a train coming from the opposite direction. Both men turn their head to look. The man sitting in bed feels his pulse begin to rise. On his left hand, his thumb starts to twitch. The men look down at it and frown. It’s got a lot worse recently and the old man knows what it means. He brings his hands to his open mouth to try to calm the tremor. All the man in the bedroom can think is that his hands feel so cold. Then the man in the bedroom starts to pull at something at the side of his finger. The old man is pulling his tatty fingerless gloves over his second knuckle. Both of them shiver.

The train comes into the platform and once again the man in the bedroom feels his pulse begin to race. He can feel his heart beat at the tips of his fingers. Just as the train is about to pass, both men can hear and see nothing else and the man in the bedroom feels the legs of the old man twitch. The man’s heart stops momentarily as he looks up to see the train pass. He feels the cold again, creeping through the old man’s anxious state.

The old man turns around and walks back to a blanket on the floor by the wall of the platform. He sits down like a rusty box of tools.

They both sit still for a while, catching their breath.

At this point, the man in the bedroom becomes aware of something in the old mans’ arms. He can’t see it because the old man has his own eyes closed. Instead the man in the bedroom just feels and hears the object. First the old man runs a fingertip along a wire. It gives a distant squeal. Then the old man runs his finger along a thin piece of something, counting small hard protrusions. Both men count nineteen and the man in the bedroom is suddenly aware of how warm the object feels in his arms. There is a pleasing wooden grain to its surface. Finally the old man looks down and it is a small guitar that the man in the bedroom does not know the name for.

Just before the old man starts to play, the man in the room notices how much calmer he feels. His breath is soft and relaxed. Then the old man starts to play and the quiet beauty of the song surprises him.

There is no one around of course; it is winter and late and there is never anyone here. Nobody walks past to hear the song. The only person who hears it is the man in the bedroom from somewhere inside, as it travels down and across his spine. A part of the song briefly makes him tingle as it becomes ever so slightly faster. Like the dream, the song is a minor lament and the sound of it is beautiful in their arms. The song is played so quietly by the old man it would be completely drowned out, were it not for the place being so utterly deserted.

After the song is finished they both look down and see an upside-down hat on the floor. It is as empty as ever. Both men reach out and pick it up, placing it carefully on their heads.

From somewhere far away, there is the sound of another train. The old man says, “I think this is mine.” He says it with a grainy lilt to his voice. The man in the bedroom speaks the words silently.

The old man stands up painfully; but both men expect this by now. The sound of the train comes in louder than the previous one, because of the quietness of the song.

Suddenly the old man breaks into an uneven run. This hurts both of them right down their spine and into their knees but by now it is too late and both men have smiles on their faces now. The train meets the men with its sudden light and noise and just as sudden blackness. The only thing the driver saw was a man in a dark coat, and the head of what looked like a guitar poking up over his shoulder.

The man in the bedroom wakes. He lets out a small shout.

The woman sits up and reaches around him. His body is cold and damp. She has seen this so many times before.

“Bad dream?” She says, softly into his ear.

“No.”

The Train

I witnessed something recently on an overnight train; it was a small thing that happened quietly in the middle of the night whilst other people were somehow managing to sleep. It wasn’t a thing to wake the others for, just a moment of humanity to sit and watch from the silent darkness of my own bed.

I’d woken gradually to a full bladder and one of those slow-formed questions about holding out until morning. Realising that the answer was of course no, I sat up and looked around in the gloom of the carriage, at the dark-coloured limbs hanging over the edges of the other bunks. I wondered at their effortless sleep. Meanwhile my bladder truly needed emptying but the silence and unfamiliarity pinned me hard to the bed, and I could feel sleep-inertia wrapping itself warmly around my shoulders. So I ended up sitting there, dumb and foreign and inert and needing-to-piss, for quite some time.

Then from up at the end of the carriage I heard the cough of a child. I looked over. In the lighted section by the carriage doors, a man with a moustache was sat leaning against a partition wall. Next to him, curled into a ball comprised mostly of limbs, a young boy was trying to sleep on the metal floor of the train. He was restless and clearly unwell. His cough was frequent and the sound of it rattled through the body of the carriage and blended with a metallic noise that was the background to all other things. The man by the boy’s side looked down at him with love, occasionally running a hand across his back or through his hair. The man’s other arm was around the boy like the walls of a castle.

I don’t know how long I watched the two of them for, but at some point another man appeared from the doorway to the adjoining carriage. He was carrying a huge pile of cardboard and other things that I couldn’t make out. He stopped and looked down at the man and said something to him too quietly for me to hear. This new man had a moustache too. Eventually a bright smile came over the face of the seated man; he gathered the young boy in his arms and stood up, holding him closely. It was then that I realised what was happening. The other man laid down the material he had brought from the cargo carriage; plastic sheeting, bubble wrap, layers of cardboard, until he had a single plastic sheet in his hands. I wondered how long it had taken him to collect it, to carry it through the umpteen carriages of sleeping bodies, and to convince the man guarding the cargo to hand it all over. I wondered if the guard had taken any money.

The man laid his boy down gently, then took the final plastic sheet and laid it over his small frame. Slowly, slowly, the boy’s head disappeared under the cover as he curled himself away into a warm and comfortable place. Then the two men, they were strangers I believe, shook each other's hand for a very, very long time.

I finally came to my senses and wandered to the toilet, nodding to the men as I passed. I emptied my bladder whilst smiling to myself and wondering if things like that happened all the time when hardly anyone else was watching.

Sunday, Raining, Chinatown

Sunday,
Raining,
Chinatown:
the lady in
Ho’s bakery
tells me
there are no
sweet melon cakes left
but she offers me
a beautiful smile instead
(the best of the day)
and three roast pork buns
the whole lot
for a celestial bargain
of a pound and
twenty-pence
so I take all four
and sit under some
pagoda arrangement
amongst the hurried
Chinese voices
and the sound of rain
on the red lacquered roof
and in the warmth there
I’m glad that
the thousand things you want
are not always
the things you really need
and it's all the same as it was before
(Sunday, Raining, Chinatown)
but for now
at least
it's a great deal better

[O: Go there]

Waterfall

I came across
a waterfall
in a forest
that surprised me
because there
had only ever been
dry earth there,
but now it was a
long, flowing
waterfall
that ran in
gentle curves and
almost silence
down between the trees,
creating
little clear pools
that played
so fragilely
with the first
fallen leaves of autumn
that I wondered
whether they had
even the slightest
idea

The Interesting Death of Daniel Price (Pt. 1)

It was the change of wind I noticed first, and then the old man walking down the beach toward me as if he was ordinary and had simply been brought here on a day trip. He was wearing the same dark grey coat as all the other times I’d seen him, and had that long crooked stick that he obviously didn’t need for walking. I’d never seen his face close up before. Somehow he had always kept just far enough away; stood at the back of a crowd or turning just as I’d realised he was there. I’d never even been brave enough to talk to him.

But here he was walking past me now, giving me a brief and empty glance that dried my throat up instantly. He carried on past and worked his way to the high tide line. He had arrived with the returning tide and the change of wind made the waves crash heavily on the sand. He stood appropriately silhouetted against the finest sunset of the year.

I knew I had to talk to him this time, but for a short while I let him be there by himself. There was no one left on the beach for him to bother anyway, except me. My breath became shallow and quick as I climbed down from my lookout chair. I took as deep a breath as possible and walked down to where he stood.

He didn’t notice me, or seemed not to, for quite a while. I turned to look at his face and saw for the first time the wrinkles and folds of his skin. He had a much kinder look about him than I had expected, and his eyes were lost behind bushy white eyebrows as he stared out at the sky painted sea. It was still a full minute before I could bring myself to speak.

“Excuse me,” I said, in a predictably dry voice. “Can I have a word please?”

He didn’t react. Could he even hear me?

A few seconds later however his posture grew slightly tense and he turned slowly to his side. His eyebrows rose up over his eyes and his mouth hung slightly ajar. He stared at me like a bewildering work of art.

“You can… see me?” he said, carefully surveying my face. He spoke very slowly.

“Yes.” I replied. “I can see you. And I know what you’re here for.”

His eyebrows descended in a concentrated frown. He dug a small notebook out of his coat pocket and flicked to a recent page. He seemed to read for a moment and then looked back into my eyes.

“Joanna… Cox,” he said, with the slightest of smiles. “Interesting.”

His manner, just as I had expected, was of complete calm. He seemed to consider carefully the words he spoke, and the sounds that came from his mouth were deep and smooth. He spoke impeccably like someone who had been doing a very formal job for many years.

“It is not yet your time,” he said, continuing his search through the pages of his notebook. Eventually, he gave up looking for clues. “This… has never happened before.” He put the notebook back in his pocket, sighed and looked back out over the sea. “I suppose you have questions for me? It seems that you should have them answered.”

I nodded.

“I shall give you six,” he said. “Six is a good number.”

“Who-“

“After,” he interrupted, holding up a bony hand, “you have answered one question for me.”

“Fine,” I said.

“How does Joanna Cox know who I am?”

He asked the question word by word, as if it contained many sentences. As he spoke wind became noticeably cooler. He waited, looking out at the sea with eyebrows raised, for a reply. I took a deep breath.

“I’ve seen you before,” I told him. “Several times. The first was the day my father died. I was nine. I remember being sent to my room while the family went crazy downstairs. Anyway, I saw you, from my bedroom window, leading him away down the street.

“I shouted down at him, but he… ignored me. My mum heard me shouting eventually and came into my room. She didn’t believe me of course. Eventually I didn’t believe me either.

The man stood silently for a while. The ocean churned in the strong wind. He nodded slightly. “And the rest?”

“I’m a lifeguard. I’ve seen you three times on this beach in five years. Last year-“

“Melissa… Cook,” the old man interrupted. He said her name slowly with his eyes closed.

“Melissa. Yeah. When I brought her body out of the water, there was a big crowd, and behind them, you were there, holding her hand. She was watching me.”

“Sometimes,” the old man said, “the young ones have to watch for a while. To understand.”

I took some time to calm the memories that had been brought back to the front of my mind. The man seemed satisfied with my answers and said no more. I watched some gulls for a while circling gracefully above the bay, and then remembered about the questions.

“So,” I said, taking another deep breath. “Who have you come for this time?”

“A boy,” the old man said. “He is called Daniel Price. He is twelve years old.”

I didn’t recognise the name. He would be one of the nameless thousands that visit this beach with their families every summer.

“Does he drown?” I almost didn’t need to ask.

“Yes,” the old man said. Just as he answered the wind picked up more strongly. The waves crashed a little louder.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“You should… console his parents.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No,” he said. “It cannot be stopped.”

The sun was almost down and we watched it blend with the water for a while. It was a fine sunset.

“But, stopping people from drowning is what I do. I’m good at my job, you know.”

“Indeed,” the old man said. “That is… precisely why Daniel Price drowns.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It is best for you that it stays that way.”

The gulls decided to stop circling and headed back to the cliffs on the western side of the bay. They left their inane chorus trailing back toward us.

“Can you not take someone else?” I asked. “An old person?”

“No. It does not work that way. Tomorrow… here… is Daniel’s day.”

A family appeared on the beach further down from us. They had two dogs that ran in and out of the surf, barking loudly. The sight of a young boy with them made my stomach churn. Tomorrow?

“You said tomorrow? What are you doing here now if he dies tomorrow?”

The man pointed slowly out to the horizon. “The sunset.”

I gave an accidental laugh. This old man was really not what I had expected. “The sunset?” I asked. “What do you care about the sunset?”

The old man gave a small but kind smile. “Do you not think it is beautiful?”

“Of course I do. But…“ I really had no idea what to say.

“I have been doing this job for… a very long time, Joanna” the old man said, sounding slightly weary now. ”I have spent a great deal of time in the company of your kind. I have… learned to appreciate some things as you do.”

“So now you enjoy sunsets?”

“Amongst other things.” He gazed out at the sea again, which had become momentarily calm. There was only a small sliver of sun remaining over the ocean. He looked to be thinking about something.

“Joanna, I want you to know something. That is, I do not enjoy causing so much sadness. To begin with, the weight of the will of the universe felt good on my shoulders. But I am… tired of it now. Now that I understand you more completely.”

“Then choose,” I said. “Choose not to take Daniel Price tomorrow.”

“I cannot.”

“You’re choosing to talk with me now. You’re choosing to watch the sunset. Choose.”

He sighed.

“You must remember that we are different, Joanna. For you, existence begets function, and therefore choice. For me, function begets existence. If I chose to ignore my responsibility tomorrow, my existence will cease. It may come as a surprise to you but I do not wish to die.”

“Neither does Daniel Price.” I felt guilty saying this, and then confused.

The man said nothing for a while. His breathing had become noticeably heavier and he held his walking stick tightly. His knuckles were white.

“The job would be completed by another,” he said, eventually.

“At least it wouldn’t be you.”

He paused momentarily. The final words he spoke that evening were, “You have already had seven questions, Joanna Cox.”

Mermahuataur

The fisherman looked down at it, half wrapped in net on the deck of their boat, it flapped and slipped around uselessly. A tail and cloven hooves were never a winning combination on a wet wooden floor.

“What is it?” Said one of the men.

“It’s the devil,” said another. He took hold of his crucifix and pressed it to his sunburned mouth.

“Let’s put it back before something bad happens,” said a third.

The creature had given up trying to escape and was lying exasperated on the deck. It looked at the men through large, black, sad eyes. Its tail was a stunning iridescent green and made the men recall their time in beautiful, far away places. It was making a strange sound.

Just then the captain appeared amongst them and looked down at the sorry creature. He had no idea what it was, but part of being a captain is to say things like the following.

“Whoo! We’ll eat a good supper tonight, lads!”

Some of the men started to retch, but the captain was in mid-flow. “Don’t worry, we won’t go near it until it’s stopped mooing from its gills. Now, do you suppose it'd go better with mustard or lemon?”

The captain wandered off in search of just the right condiment.

Without a word the men rolled the creature back over the edge of the boat and into the sea. It looked immediately happy. They watched it enjoy the water, diving down and swimming past them far more gracefully than they had expected. Before it disappeared, it popped its head up out of the water and looked back at them contentedly. It was slowly chewing an enormous clump of seaweed.