191. The Wortley Poisoner

They sit shoulder to shoulder in the Ford Fiesta police car, sipping cold coffee, staring through a windscreen that is slowly turning opaque from the settling dust that blows across the fence from the adjacent quarry.
The sergeant grunts, “Turn your squirters on, Geoff.”
The younger officer presses a button and soapy water shoots over the windscreen. The wipers smear it around, eventually revealing the huge blank wall of a factory. A deep, ominous rumbling sound can be heard within.
“What is this place?” mutters the constable, checking notes on his clipboard.
“Print works,” replies the sergeant. “It’s the report about a poisoning. Could be a mistake, could be attempted murder. You’ll want to go careful in there, Geoff. Trust me. I’ve been here before.”
The constable looks up. “What job was that?”
“Remember that bloke who was cycling home when a workmate decided to run him over with his Mitsubishi Shogun, then try to beat him to death with a crook lock?”
The constable shudders. “Yeah. Horrible. Is this the place?”
The sergeant nods, unbuckling his seat belt and checking his pepper spray and tazer. “Yep. He only got a suspended sentence. Fuck knows how. Had to pay the lad thousands though.”
“At least we won’t have to face that horrible bastard then.”
The sergeant opens the car door. Quarry dust blows in, settling on their black uniforms, turning them grey. “Don’t be too sure, Geoff. They both still work here.”
The constable looks incredulous. “You mean… you mean one bloke tried to murder another bloke but he kept his job?? How does that work?”
“I’ve no idea. Apparently that’s how it works here. You never leave. Don’t matter what you do, you don’t get sacked. They call it ‘Care In The Community’ round these parts. They reckon it’s an easy way of keeping all the wrong ‘uns in one place.”
The constable looks worried. “So what are we going to find in there then, Sarge?”
The sergeant sighs. “Cunts, Geoff. Lots and lots of cunts. Ignore them, if you can. Let’s just sort the job, find out what the fuck has gone on, then get the fuck out.”

They walk through the factory, Cardboard Supervisor nervously leading the way. All around them, hidden behind deafeningly chattering machines, men are screaming. Animal noises, random gibbering, howls and bellows.
The constable mutters, “If any cunt makes a fucking pig noise I’ll break their fucking…”
“Easy now, Geoff,” says the sergeant. “Remember, these people are cunts. All of them. Twatting one of them would get you nowhere. They’re not worth it.”
Cardboard Supervisor leads them to an office with a hand drawn sign on the door that says, ‘KNOBHED’. He grins sheepishly at the police officers and rips the sign off the door.
They go inside.
Close the door, shut out the worst of the screaming.
“Sorry about the… the noise,” says Cardboard Supervisor, fussing around with a kettle and some chipped mugs. “These men are basically…”
“Cunts?” offers the constable. The sergeant shoots him a warning glance.
Cardboard Supervisor smiles brightly. “Exactly! Tea?”
The two police officers look at the grimy, chipped mugs and remember why they’re here.
“About this alleged poisoning,” says the sergeant.
Cardboard Supervisor’s smile evaporates. He blushes, put the mugs away. “Yes, well, this is all a bit embarrassing. It seems that some… chemical… has found it’s way into a milk bottle in the communal fridge. It was discovered when one of the lads poured it onto his cereal.”
The constable is taking notes. He asks, “What was it?”
“Sugar Puffs, I think,” replies Cardboard Supervisor.
The constable stops writing, looks up. “I meant, what chemical was it.”
Cardboard Supervisor blinks stupidly. “Oh. Right. Well, we think the chemical was Varn. A roller wash. Commonly used in the factory but it’s a bit… aggressive.”
He nudges a bottle on the desk towards the two officers. They snap on rubber gloves, open the bottle.
The constable takes a sniff and recoils, eyes watering. “Fucking Hell…”
The sergeant says, “And how much of this chemical was consumed by the victim?”
“Hard to say,” shrugs Cardboard Supervisor. “He’d necked half the bowl before it started to… burn… but we can’t say how much was put into his milk.”
The sergeant nodded. “Do you know how the victim is doing? Which hospital did he go to? is he stable?”
Cardboard supervisor laughs. “Stable? Christ, he’s not stable! Never has been. He’s a fucking head case! I’ll find out how he’s doing though.”
He gets up, walks to the door and opens it. “Mickey! Oi, Mickey? How are you doing?”
Someone shouts something. Cardboard nods, gives him a thumbs up, closes the door.
“He says he’s fine.”
The two officers look at each other, mouths open.
The sergeant finally speaks. “You mean… you mean he hasn’t gone to hospital?? He’s not under observation?”
Cardboard Supervisor says, “He didn’t want to go to hospital. Says he’s scared of them.  Besides, he didn’t want to lose any pay. We’ve got him under observation though. Scorcher is keeping a close eye on him.”
“Is this Scorcher bloke in any way qualified? Is he a first aider?”
“No,” admits Cardboard supervisor. “He’s just got nothing to do at the moment, so I told him to watch Mickey and to let me know if he collapses or anything.”
“Wait a minute,” interrupts the constable. “The victim didn’t want to lose pay? How would he have lost pay when he’s been poisoned at work?”
Cardboard Supervisor shrugs. “He’d have had to clock out. It’s the rules. You’re not here, you have to clock out. If you’re clocked out you don’t get paid. It’s the rules.”
Again, the police officers look at each other.
The sergeant says, “Well, as the victim is here, we’d better have a word.”
Cardboard Supervisor calls Mickey into the office.
He comes in, grinning inanely, red blisters all around his mouth, wheezing.
The police officers check him over.
The sergeant shakes his head. “You’re going to hospital, Mickey, wether you want to or not. Constable, call an ambulance.”
The sergeant talks to Mickey while the younger officer makes the call. He tries to find out if Mickey has any enemies at work who might do such a thing – he comes up with a dozen names.
The ambulance arrives and carts Mickey off to A&E.
The sergeant asks Cardboard Supervisor if he has any idea who might be capable of doing something like this.
Cardboard Supervisor takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Honestly? All of ‘em. Everybody hates someone else here. Proper hates them. Dance-on-their-grave hate. It’s for petty shit too, like over-time allocations or which shift they’re on. Fuck me, we’ve almost had stabbings over nicked yoghurts and mental breakdowns over too many spoons. I’ll tell you something – I’m worried that one day we will have a murder, a proper killing. Know why? Because you’d never find the culprit ‘cause every fucker is a suspect! It’s like an Agatha bastard Christie book here, but instead of a posh house on the French fucking Riviera it’s this shit hole, a knackered factory in the arse end of Leeds, and no fucker wants to read about that. If they did, they wouldn’t believe it.”
“What about CCTV?”
The sergeant and Cardboard Supervisor look at the constable, who is scribbling notes diligently onto his clipboard.
The sergeant says, “What was that, Geoff, I mean, constable?”
The police officer looks up, points at a camera with his pen. “CCTV. There’s cameras everywhere in this place, I notice. Maybe they picked up the culprit going about his dastardly business?”
The sergeant glowers at Cardboard Supervisor. “Did you think to check the CCTV? Didn’t it occur to you to point them out to us?”
Cardboard Supervisor grins weakly. “Sorry. I forgot.”

The three of them crowd around a little black and white monitor whilst Speccy Malc from I.T. spools through hours of grainy VHS tapes. Jerky factory workers hurtle across the screen under a fog of fuzzy static. A digital clock in the corner turns minutes into seconds.
“Stop there!” says the sergeant, gripping Speccy Malc’s shoulder. Speccy Malc screams and has a small nosebleed. He stumbles to the toilets and Cardboard Supervisor takes over the controls.
He rewinds the tape, hits the PLAY button.
The time says 5.07am. The camera is focused on an area in front of the store rooms. Nothing moves.
They watch, hardly blinking.
“There!” The constable points at a figure slowly lurching into view.
“Oh Christ…” says the sergeant.
“F..f…fucking Hell!!” says the constable.
A long shadow slides across the wall, followed by a hunched, shuffling figure that creeps twitchily across the screen. It’s bald head gleams in the darkness. Huge, bulging eyes blink owlishly in a wizened, gaunt skull and it’s mouth hangs open in a monstrous, idiot gape.
“What the fuck is that thing??” whispers the constable. He has gone white and sweat springs out across his brow.
“It’s… hideous,” says the sergeant.
Cardboard Supervisor leans closer. “It’s… Pete Crippen. He works nights as a machine setter. He’s been here for thirty years or so. He’s fairly normal, for a night shift.”
The police officers exchange yet another glance.
They watch as the figure unlocks the stores and slides inside. He emerges a moment later with a bottle.
They switch tapes to the one from the camera in the locker room where the fridge is stored.
They whizz through to 5.10am.
Crippen appears, glancing nervously about. He creeps into the room, opens the fridge, pours something into one of the milk cartons. He appears to laugh crazily, rubbing his hands and hunching his shoulders, before leaving the room and switching off the lights.
They stop the tape.
They exchange yet another glance.
“You’d better give this here Pete Crippen a bell, Mr Cardboard Supervisor,” says the sergeant gravely. “Tell him to hop out of his coffin and return to work – we’d like a word with him.”
Cardboard Supervisor picks up the phone, then pauses. “Pete doesn’t really like to be disturbed during the day. He says that waking during daylight hours fucks up his sleep pattern.”
“Probably turns him to dust too,” mutters the constable.
The sergeant pretends not to hear. “Pass on my apologies to Mr Crippen for interrupting his beauty sleep, but we are investigating what might be an attempted murder here.”
Cardboard Supervisor blinks furiously. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
He makes the call.

An hour later Pete Crippen sits at the desk, blinking painfully under the fluorescent lights. Cardboard supervisor fidgets by the door. The sergeant is seated on the other side of the desk, staring hard at the suspect. The constable waits, pen poised, glancing uneasily at the hunched man in front of them.
“I didn’t do nowt,” hisses Pete Crippen defensively.
“Who says you did?” asks the sergeant.
The suspect licks his thin, blue lips. The constable stares with grim curiosity at his grey, papery complexion.
“Fuckers, ‘ere always try say you done summat when you’ve not done nowt!” Pete snaps in reply.
The sergeant sighs. “What do you know about someone putting Varn in Mickey’s milk, Pete? You have anything to do with it?”
Pete Crippen’s long nails scratch nervously at the desk. “AS I say, I didn’t do nowt. I’ve never done nuffink an’ you got no proof that says otherwise!!”
The sergeant reaches across to the tape machine they’ve set up on the desk and hits PLAY. Pete Crippen appears on the monitor, takes the Varn, pours it into the milk, cackles maniacally…
The sergeant presses pause.
Pete Crippen grins guiltily, showing little teeth like a child’s teeth, only deeply stained.
“I were only messin’, ‘onest! I didn’t mean no ‘arm!”
The sergeant smiles humorlessly. “Let’s start from the beginning, Mr Crippen…”

The factory door bangs open and the sergeant storms out, face like thunder, with the constable on his heels. He pulls open the door of the Fiesta and crams himself inside, slamming the door hard. The constable climbs behind the wheel and they sit in silence for a moment.
Dust settles on the windscreen. The rumble of heavy machinery permeates the little car.
The constable says, “You can’t win ‘em all, sarge.”
The sergeant says nothing.
The constable says, “I suppose it saves paperwork, Mickey deciding not to press charges and all that. I mean, attempted murder is a lot of paperwork. An awful lot.”
The constable says, “Funny thing though, what Cardboard Supervisor said. ‘You can’t blame ‘em for being a bit strange’, he said. ‘The job is them and they are the job. The job gets strange, they get stranger’ he said. What you reckon he meant by that?”
The sergeant sighs and finally speaks. “It means they’re fucked up. All of ‘em. Institutionalized. I mean, why would Mickey come back to work like that? He never went to A&E, he just climbed out of that ambulance and got straight on a bus back to work. And that soft headed cunt Cardboard Supervisor – as soon as Mickey dropped the charges he’s offering him over time! The daft sod should have been in a hospital bed but instead he’s doing a twelve hour shift bagging up junk mail at the end of a machine!! And did you hear Cardboard Supervisor talking to that creepy bastard Crippen? He says that they got a rush job on, can he put a few hours in to help out while he’s there! The fucker tried to murder a workmate and they put him on time and a half with call-in pay!!”
The sergeant punches the steering wheel.
They sit in silence for a while.
Then the constable slowly says, “It’s funny though… Cardboard Supervisor talking about murder. It got me thinking.”
The sergeant looks at him. “In what way, Geoff?”
“Well, remember that bloke in the Shogun twatting the other bloke on the bike? It seems like they’d prefer to settle scores themselves, in house, so to speak.”
The sergeant frowns. “What are you getting at?”
The constable presses a button. Soapy water squirts across the glass.
“What I mean is, if there ever was a murder in this place, a proper murder, would we hear about it? Would they involve us, the law, or would they sort shit out themselves? I mean, there’s a couple of hundred blokes here, together they’d be able to hide something like that, dispose of a body, that kind of thing. They got a big incinerator out back. It wouldn’t be too difficult…”
The sergeant says, “Someone would talk. You can’t keep that sort of thing quiet.”
“Care in the Community,” says the constable. “That’s what they call it. It’s a community in there, albeit a fucked up, inbred sort of community. They keep to themselves, they have their own ways and methods of dealing with things. That Crippen, he’ll end up getting done over in one way or another. He’ll be punished, just like prison. They don’t grass, they sort it out… internally.”
They sit in silence, listen to the deep rumblings.
Eventually the sergeant says, “You reckon they’ve done it then? Actually… you know?”
The constable shrugs. “If they have, well, there’s no way of finding out, is there?”
Through the grimy windscreen they see the factory door open. A huge man steps out. He is around six feet ten, nearly thirty stone. He is holding a pint mug that says SEX MACHINE on the side. He stares at the policemen. He takes a big drink from the SEX MACHINE mug. He leaves a wide ring of bright red around his mouth that drips onto his shirt.
The sergeant says, “Reckon that’s a tomato Cuppa Soup?”
The constable starts the car. “That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
They drive away, fast.
The huge man finishes empties his SEX MACHINE mug.
Goes back inside.
Slams the door.
The rumbling gets louder.


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190. Fisherman’s Friend.

Cycling along the canal tow path in the drizzle, wet leaves plastered on the path and drifting on the oily black water – a bleak and mournful sight.
Crows heave themselves reluctantly into the damp air as I go by, croaking in protest, before landing heavily on the black arms of the lock gates, beaks dripping, feathers gleaming.
There are the train tracks, the factory backs, the crumbling remnants of long dead industry, and there are the fishermen.
Sitting on the sodden grass, hunched under huge olive drab umbrellas that remind me of the shells of enormous tortoises, staring into the chilly depths as if contemplating suicide.
None of the fishermen look happy.
They squat on tackle boxes like portable naughty steps, peering mournfully at the still water, waiting for someone to tell them Not To Do It Again and allow them to go home.
They must have been very, very naughty boys, is all I can think.
No-one gets a bite.
Little orange floats sit still in the water.
None of them bob.
I want to ask them why they do it. Do they hate their partners so much that they’d rather sit outside in the cold and wet for six hours, just doing nothing? Is there a deep seated spirituality to the pursuit that I’m just not getting?
I think not. The nearest thing to spirit in these blokes is the tins of Kestrel Super Strength that lurk near at hand.
I’ve seen these sportsmen necking Special Brew at eight in the morning. They all smoke roll ups. There’s more in their dark depths than perch and bream, I can tell you. Look into the black heart of an angler and you’ll see scenes that would make a Hieronymus Bosch painting look like an episode of The Tellytubbies.
I think of stopping, asking one of these sad men why they do it, but I fear he’ll just look deep into my soul before toppling slowly forward into the inky water without a sound, the canal sucking him down into it’s reeking, rotting belly.
I cycle on, past the derelict buildings and the mills converted to student accommodation, up through the council estate where the fishermen live, past the car lot that sells nothing but fucked motors, on and on until my own factory looms large.
I wheel my bike inside, still thinking about those fishermen. My work is incredibly dull but I have to come here – if I don’t work I don’t get paid. The fishermen… it’s their choice.
I push my bike past clattering machines and howling idiots and I wonder which is more intelligent here, man or machine.
Probably machine.
I kick open a door and wrestle my bike in, down a corridor, through another door, getting quieter, the tick tick tick of the freewheel now the only noise apart from a distant rumble of the huge machines, more felt in the gut than actually heard.
I stash my bike in the quiet dark under a stairwell. I’m a bit early so I sit on the steps for a minute, catch my breath.
Christ, think of all the other things you could be doing with your time instead of sitting on your arse, staring into a canal, staring at the end of a fucking stick and drinking tins?
I start to peel off my cycling things, lay them over a radiator, then start to pull on my work uniform.
“Now then Luci.”
“Fucking Hell!!!” I topple over whilst trying to pull my trousers on.
“Scare you did I?”
I look up. Scorcher is fettling with a light switch, a tool belt slung at his hip. Scorcher is the work’s resident bullshit artist, a liar of professional quality.
I struggle to my feet, say, “Yes, you scared me. Why the fuck did you wait until I’d got my fucking trollies round my ankles before saying anything?”
He shrugs. “I thought watching you with your pants down were a bit weird. Thought I’d better make me presence felt.”
“But you’d already just watched me with fuck all on! You could have spoke up before I got my cock out!”
“Yeah, there is that. Hindsight’s a wonderful thing.” He pulls a screwdriver from his tool belt and starts to work.
Then he says, “Any road, what were you thinkin’ ‘bout, sat there? You looked all… ponderous, like.”
I sit back down on the steps and watch him work. “Fishermen,” I say. “Or more specifically, anglers. Why the fuck do they do it, Scorcher? What makes a grown man park his saggy arse by the side of a canal and just vegetate there? Of all the activities a bloke with time on his hands could be doing, angling seems to me the most pointless.”
Scorcher drops a couple of screws into his pocket and wags the screwdriver at me. “That’s where yer wrong, Luci. Yer angler, well, ‘e’s an ‘unter, yeah? Fishin’ is one o’ the few legal ways yer average bloke can pit ‘is wits against nature these days. It’s the thrill o’ the chase, the element o’ chance, it’s delvin’ into the natural element of a creature an’ seein’ if you can master it. It’s what us ‘umans bin doin’ since time immemorial, like.”
I open and close my mouth a bit. Philosophy isn’t usually Scorchers strong point so he’s caught me off guard.
“My best mate were an angler,” he continues, jabbing idly with his screwdriver at some loose wires. “Stumpy Stan. He were the one who explained what it were to be a fisherman, a stealthy ‘unter of pool ‘n’ pond, river ‘n’ stream. It weren’t enough to just drop a line in an’ wait. No, Stan knew you had to think like a fish, put yersen in it’s mindset, like. Yeah, he lived for fishin’, did Stan, until that day…”
Scorcher fiddles around with the light switch a bit more, pretending to be preoccupied. I roll my eyes.
I say, “Come on then, Scorcher. Let’s have it.”
He turns back to me and scratches himself behind the ear with his screwdriver.
“Yeah, poor old Stumpy Stan. Best fisherman in West Yorkshire, until that day. He just went too far an’ ended up payin’ the price. He got one ‘ell of a nasty shock I can tell you!”
I try not to grin. “What was the price, Scorcher? Did he lose his tackle?”
“Aye! How did yer know that? Not just that though – he lost his fucking leg ‘n’ all!”
I pretend to cough, hiding a laugh. “His leg?? Go on then. What happened?”
“He were out all weathers, were old Stan, droppin’ a line into every body o’ water from Barnsley to Bridlington. Keen, he were. Mad keen. But there were this one fish, famed it were, a great pike that lived in t’ Leeds Liverpool canal. It were known as The Tiger, coz o’ the stripes cross it’s back an’ that it were a vicious bastard ‘n’all. Reckon it were two yards long an’ some ‘undred pound in weight. You wouldn’t ‘ave thought a pike could get s’ big, but it ate owt that cem ‘is way, from other fish to frogs to ducks an’ geese. Some reckon they even saw it drag a fuckin’ swan down once! Any road, Stan got it in ‘is ‘ead that he were gonna catch this ‘ere Tiger, so every day fer a month you’d find ‘im down t’ canal, pole in ‘and, watchin’ the ripples for any sign o’ that monster fish. He were a pole fisherman, were old Stumpy Stan. Didn’t believe in no fangled reels. He said they were cheatin’, did Stan. It were just ‘is pole an’ ‘is line an’ ‘is wits, that’s all Stan needed. So anyways, one day he were out there, line in’ t’ water, when there was this great disturbance, o’ summat massive pushin’ through the water, right towards his line! Well, Stan were ready. Poised. He watched that float bob once, twice, then a third time. An’ it were on that third bob that he struck, pullin’ wi’ all his might, an ‘e ‘ad it ‘ooked! But gettin’ is ‘ook in that fish, well, it almost proved the last thing old Stan ever did.”
Scorcher managed to get the light switch off the wall. He blew into the back of it, checking it over with a critical eye.
I throw my hands in the air. “Fuck me, Scorcher! Come on! What happened then? What the fuck did The Tiger do to old Stan to make him lose a fucking leg??”
Scorchers shrugs. “Well, when old Stan pulled back wi’ his fishin’ pole he pulled it straight up in t’ air. Hit a fuckin’ over’ead power line, didn’t ‘e? Them carbon fishin’ poles don’t ‘alf conduct ‘lektricity good. About a million volts went down that pole, right through Stan an’ out through his fucking shoe. Blew his fuckin’ leg to bits. Daft old cunt.”
Scorcher tucks the light switch into his pocket and puts his screwdriver back in his tool belt.
I say, “So… so a giant pike didn’t eat his leg?”
Scorcher blinks at me. “Course not, y’daft twat. A pike couldn’t eat a bloke’s fuckin’ leg.”
“But… but did he have the Tiger on his line then? Did he catch it?”
“How the fuck should I know? It weren’t like he were gonna try land a fish with his fuckin’ leg on fire, were it? Besides, his fishin’ pole were blown to fuckin’ atoms! You don’t fuck wi’ ‘lektricity, Luci. It’s a fuckin’ killer.”
I nod my head thoughtfully. “Aye, you’re not wrong, Scorcher. You’d know all about electricity, what with your job… Hang about! You’re a fucking machine assistant! How come you’re helping the maintenance department out?”
He shrugs. “I’m not. One o’ me light switches at ‘ome is fucked, so I needed a new one.” He winks at me. “It’s not what you come wi’ that counts, but what you go ‘ome wi’.”
Scorcher wanders off, leaving a hole in the wall full of fizzing wires.
I wonder if I put my hand in there, would it blow my leg off too?
I don’t risk it.
Instead I go to my desk, sit down, stare at a dull, grey screen for eight hours…


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189. Dog.

I am lying in the half light of an Autumn Sunday morning, still half submerged in the last weak waves of sleep that are only just beginning to recede, exposing the flotsam and jetsam of a new day for my inspection.
She says, “I’m thinking of getting her some sort of small animal for Christmas.”
I groan inwardly.
I remember I am forty three and a parent to two children, girl and boy.
How did that happen?
I pull the quilt up over my face and breathe the musty air.
Muffled, I say, “What do you mean, ‘small animal’? What sort of ‘small animal’ are we talking about here? There’s an awful lot of animals that fall into the ‘small animal’ category, you know.”
She sighs, rolls towards me, lifts the quilt a bit, says, “Gerbils.”
I emerge from the quilt with a groan of protest. “Gerbils? No no no. I’m not having gerbils in the house. They smell all, gerbilly. Piss and wood shavings. They sleep all day and then go batshit at night in their wheels and they fuck all the time and then they have babies, lots of babies, and just as the kids squeal about how adorable the little babies are the mum goes and eats them. Eats the babies. Right there, in front of the kids. Nom nom. No. No gerbils.”
She says, “A hamster then?”
I grimace. “Hamsters are just fat blonde gerbils really. Bit cuter, but they still stink. I remember my brother had one. He’d thought he’d got it’s leg trapped in it’s plastic ball thing and he came to me all panicked that he’d broke it’s leg, that it was all swollen and horrible. I went and took a look and the hamster was hunched over this massive swollen pink thing and I thought ‘we’ll have to have it put down’ but then it rolled over and the pink swollen thing was it’s massive knackers. It was grinning up at us with yellow teeth, showing us it’s massive knackers. I get flashbacks sometimes. No, no hamsters either.”
She’s quiet for a bit. Then she says, “Rat?”
I say, “Plague. Actually, no. If a rat crawled up out of the bog whilst you were sitting on it, would you want to feed it? Of course not. Then why bring one through the front door, give him a cage and a bed and call him ‘Mister Frisky? That seems mental to me. I’ve shot rats. I don’t think I could entertain a pet in the house of a species that I’ve shot.”
I close my eyes and watch weird fractals explode silently behind my eyelids.
Another sigh. Then she says, “Guinea pigs?”
“Donald Trump. No? Is it just me? They do remind me of Donald Trump though. Don’t the Peruvians eat them? I quite fancy trying that. Actually, no. I wish the Peruvians would eat Donald Trump. Guinea pigs a bit like transvestite rats, aren’t they? It’s rodents again. I think I have an aversion to rodents. Pest controllers control rodents. It’s like keeping pet cockroaches. Madness. How about a tortoise?”
She says, “You can’t pet a tortoise. It’s like having a pet brick. She likes… fluffy things. She wants something to cuddle and pet and love.”
I go back under the covers again. I lay on my side and I close one eye and in the half dark I imagine I am in an enormous cave going deep underground.
From the cave mouth I hear the word, “Rabbit?”
“Vicious little fuckers, rabbits. Kill you as soon as look at you. Remember Watership Down? Exactly. And those white ones withe the pink eyes? Ugh. Hideous. Imagine waking up in the night with that sat on your chest, ready to chew your face off…”
She says, “Love, no-one has had their face eaten of by an albino rabbit.”
“Always a first time. I don’t want to be that Sun headline.”
She sits up a bit and thumps a pillow, possibly pretending it’s my face. “What then? We can’t have a bloody cat!”
I shiver. “Don’t mention the devil’s name! Bird killers, tar shitters, tetanus-taloned hate mongers. Cats are psychopaths and plot your demise…”
“… and you’re allergic to them.”
“Yes. That too. I once copped off with a hairdresser from Alwoodley and woke in the night to find her three kittens had nested on my neck in the night. I nearly died. She had to call a fucking ambulance. No cats.”
There is silence for a while, a silence filled with one word, a small word that I won’t say.
Why can’t I say it? It’s a word that I usually follow with ‘NO’, but why?
I can honestly say that every time the word ‘dog’ is used I have a solid list of reasons why ‘NO’.
Barking at random shit.
Holding warm dog shit in my hand. (I honestly just sicked in my mouth a bit.)
A right fucking burden.
Cruel to leave them alone all day.
A pretty fucking good list, I reckon, a list to dampen the fires of any pet ownership ambitions, but is it the actual reason?
Something stirs in my mind.
A memory.
I stare into the deep cavern of my bed cave, breathe stale air, pick the lock of something in my mind…
I remember.
I’m twelve.
It’s winter, proper winter, not like the shit winters of nowadays. This is a winter of three foot icicles hanging from fucked gutters, ice on the inside of your bedroom window, milk bottles sprouting frozen milk like a long, yellow-white worm, snow deeper than your knees.
My brothers and I are making snowmen in the garden, lobbing snowballs at each other, taking it in turns to make one of us cry by going too far.
Our dog is bouncing through the snow on her short Jack Russell legs, snapping at snowballs, ice clinging to her fur.
Ou breath hangs in the air like smoke, our cries and laughter are instantly smothered by the silent snow, thick flakes start to fall and we catch them in our mouths where they crackle on out tongues.
I hear screaming.
A yelping, horrible screaming.
I run through the snow, past the garage, down the drive, look past the gate that should have been shut, past the high walls of snow shoveled against the paths by the snow plow.
A car is in the middle of the road, exhaust fumes lingering in the dead air, the driver’s door open.
In front of the car our little dog is lying in the road, it’s back legs shattered, face pouring blood, and she is screaming, looking at me and screaming.
I join her.
I scream too.
My huge, capable father thunders past me, tearing the padded jacket from his back, my mother hustles after him calling for me to go inside, go inside, my father scoops the broken dog from the frozen road, wraps her in his jacket and they get into the car, a maroon Austin 1800 with registration SWL 661J.
They are gone.
I stumble inside and go up to my room, freezing tears covering my face, thin chest heaving  with huge sobs that will not stop, and I kneel by my bed and pray harder than I’ve ever prayed before, pray to a God I am terrified of, a God so real to me then, and I know there’s a fucking good chance my prayers will be answered, and I pray…
Let her die. Let our dog just die.
I had never seen anything in that much pain before, never seen such terror and pain in the eyes of a living thing, and I didn’t want her to suffer, I just wanted it to stop, snuffed like a candle, better to be gone than to endure such agony.
Kill her, God. Kill our dog.
Hours later my parents returned.
My mother carried my father’s jacket.
There was something in it.
Our dog.
My mother explained that there was nothing the vet could do, they’d given her powerful painkillers but my mother couldn’t bare to have her put down.
They’d brought her home to die.
They made her bed up in the dining room, by the radiator where it was warm. It was dark outside by now so they kept a little lamp on, so she didn’t have to die in the dark.
She had water, and her toys with her, and we all said goodbye.
we left her to rest and sat in the other room with the telly on, not watching it, waiting for our little dog to die.
Hours past.
My mother kept checking, we all kept waiting.
It snowed again.
No-one sent us to bed.
We waited.
And then the door creaked.
It opened, so slowly.
And our little dog crawled slowly in.
My mother rushed over and gently scooped her up and the dog pushed her tongue between her broken teeth and licked my mother’s face.
The dog recovered, and lived for another ten years.
I never stopped feeling guilty for praying for her death.
And that’s the real reason for not wanting a dog.
Would I be able to scoop a dog in my jacket from a frozen road? Could I bare to see terror in their eyes and pray for them to live, rather than pray for them to die?
Then I remember I’d seen all these things in my children’s eyes, I’d been the huge father lifting the terrified little one from the ground when it needed me most. I’d been calm when I needed to be calm, strong when I needed to be strong.
I imagine striding along the moors on a morning, the cold on my face and the sun just rising over the reservoir, feet finding paths in the heather and ahead of me the little dog bounds, nosing the path for rabbits, fur ruffled in the wind, sniffing the air, grinning a dog grin with it’s pink tongue lolling like a slice of stolen ham.
I imagine warm fires and soft snoring from the rug. I imagine the pulling on a lead, I imagine talking out loud when we are alone knowing I won’t get an answer, no answer other than love.
I push myself up from the covers and lay back against the pillows.
She lies next to me with an expression of mild exasperation, and I say to her,
“Let’s get a dog.”
And so we are getting a dog.
Don’t tell my daughter.
It’s a surprise.


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188. Mix Tapes.

She is out of my league.
I know it, but that’s ok, I’m seventeen and awkward and geeky and everything and everyone is out of my league.
I’d had a hard time of it at school. I’d been bullied at school for years and this hasn’t done my self esteem much good.
Actually, I don’t have any self esteem. That’s ok – I’ll get some of that later, when I’m an artist, I know I will, but for now I’m focussing on just getting by.
At the moment I’m working in a factory. They print junk mail. I work in the reprographics department.
It’s not what I want to do, pretty far from it, but it’s only a short term thing until I get my art together and when I do get it together everything will be fine, I can leave this shitty factory and paint and draw and…
Her hair is red, long, wavy. She is slim, willowy, and she is beautiful.
Out of my league.
her name is Mariah and she is the daughter of one of my mother’s friends. Our parents are religious, Catholic. I used to be religious, which is to say I was fucking terrified by my mother’s warnings that we’d see the Devil in the mirror or I’d go to Hell for wanking, but I’m not religious any more. Several years of being treated like shit makes a person doubt the existence of a loving God in white robes gazing down from a cloud, totting up a teenage boy’s petty misdemeanors and preparing a cosy spot in the bowels of Hades for him to burn for all eternity because he nicked an Iron Maiden cassette from Woolworths.
Our mothers have been talking about us, talking about the music coming from our bedrooms and whether or not it will send us to Hell. The matter still remains undecided, but Mariah’s mother happens to tell her that her friend has a son who likes similar music to her.
A few days later a mix tape arrives. The sleeve in the little clear plastic case is decorated with glitter pen and all the track names are meticulously listed.
There is the slightest scent of perfume on it.
I nearly die.
I don’t know what Mariah looks like yet, but that doesn’t matter. This is human contact. It is like flashing a torch into the night sky and seeing a little light flash back, bright in the darkness.
I put the cassette into my stereo and my life changes forever.
The Melvins.
Steel Pole Bathtub.
Naked Raygun.
The Dickies.
Alice Donut.
Jello Biafra.
Strange jittery rock, rough and unpolished. Powerful. Exciting.
This isn’t the sort of music you can nick from Woolworths, this is music from another planet. I play the cassette again and again, drinking it in.
I look at my own pitiful music collection and realise I can’t make her a mix tape in return.
I have nothing to give.
So I write her a letter.
She writes back.
I write again.
She sends me another tape.
I am in heaven.
Was I wrong about God?
Was he only just getting around to me? Is it now my turn to be happy?
Some friends I know are going to the pub on Friday and I write to Mariah, ask her if she wants to come along, not on a date you understand, ha ha, but you know, to talk about music and books and stuff, things we have in common.
She says yes.
We meet in the pub and she is beautiful, and yes, her hair is long and red and wavy. She is slim, willowy, and yes, she is beautiful.
She is out of my league.
But we talk and I make her laugh. I have money, money from the factory job, and for the first time I’m glad of the shitty job because it puts money in my pocket, money I can buy drinks with. Mariah has very little money. She works weekends in a record shop but that doesn’t pay much. She’s doing her A levels, hoping for high scores so she can go to Oxford.
I can’t think about her being anywhere else but with me, in a pub, talking, just talking.
We talk about music and books, about art. She has soft brown eyes, a wide, smiling mouth. Her wrists are so thin inside the sleeve of her beat-up leather jacket. She wears a short dress, black tights, Doc Martens.
I love her.
I fall in love with her.
When last orders are called I walk her and her friend home. We walk through the empty silent streets of the town where we have lived all our lives and Mariah says goodnight to her friend, and then it is just her and me, walking under the orange lights on streets I know like my own reflection in the mirror, but there is no Devil in the reflection, instead there is red hair and brown eyes and beauty.
We say goodbye and grin. We arrange to meet up again in a few days.
Her front door closes softly and I float home, my cold breath heavier than my body.
It is Winter but I have never felt so warm.
We meet again, and again.
Just friends.
Snow falls as it used to fall, deep and perfect, the fat flakes hitting the pub window and sliding down, gathering on the sills, inch after inch, and we drink our beers and I look into those soft brown eyes and fall deeper and deeper.
We walk home through the deep snow, say goodnight to her friend, and then it’s just her and me again, walking under the orange lights on streets that are suddenly unfamiliar, carpeted in thick white, muffled and magical.
Snow has drifted thick in the ginnels, two feet deep, way over the tops of her Doc Marten boots and her tights might get wet, she is feeling the cold, so I pick her up easily, carry her through the drifting snow. Her red hair spills over me, perfumed, and her slim hands clasp around my neck. She is light as my cold breath and I am lighter, floating over the snow, and she turns her face to me and kisses me, the first time I have ever been kissed, and there is a God and it is my turn, and it is incredible.
We say goodnight, we kiss again. We arrange to meet soon.
We meet again, and again.
I listen to her music again and again, as if she is singing to me, and nothing will ever be the same again.
We meet on a Sunday evening, just the two of us. We hold hands under the pub table and she tells me about her A levels and I try to think of something interesting to tell her about my job, but I can’t think of anything.
I walk her home, holding hands under the same orange lights on streets I thought were so familiar but now I’m not so sure, and when we get to her house I don’t say goodnight, we don’t kiss, because she invites me in.
Her parents are there.
They’re nice people and I try to show that I’m a nice person too. Her dad asks me about my job like all dads do while her mum fetches me a glass of their home made elderflower wine.
It’s powerful stuff, cold and crisp, sparkling. I say please and thank you.
After polite conversation her parents go up to bed, leaving the two of us on the couch.
I’m suddenly out of my depth, in uncharted waters. I feel mild terror.
Mariah skips across the room and switches on the television.
She flicks through the channels and finds a programme about church renovation.
I’m mildly confused to say the least.
She returns to the couch, smiling, leans forward, kisses me.
On the television they are restoring a church to it’s former glory and I feel glad, glad because God is good, and if he can make this beautiful girl kiss me like this then he definitely deserves a really, really nice church to hang out in.
Mariah kisses me and pushes me gently back onto the couch, then she straddles me. I slide my hands across her dress, over her firm buttocks, pulling up her dress, sliding my hands across her thighs.
She moans softly into my mouth, bites my lip gently. Her moans are hidden from the straining ears of her parents by a sprightly gentleman called Crispin Midgley on the television explaining excitedly how the pipe organ in the church is being refitted at a cost of several thousand pounds.
My cock is aching, straining against my jeans like a dog at a leash. She can feel it, and gently presses her pussy against it, grinding her slim hips as she slips her tongue into my mouth.
I tremble.  A drip of pre-cum oozes from my cock tip, dampening my underwear.
It’s my turn to moan now but good old Crispin Midgley covers for me as he chatters excitedly about pews, lecterns and altars.
I move my hands across Mariah’s body, over her small, firm breasts, feeling her nipples stiffen under my fingers. My cock feels immense, her cunt pressing against it making me panic that I might blow my load right into my pants.
Steady boy. Steady.
Mariah’s red hair covers us, hides our faces, her perfume making my head spin and the blood rush in my veins. I’ve never felt more alive. She sits up, flings her hair back and climbs off me.
She smiles wickedly at me.
Her fingers find the buttons of my jeans.
Oh yes.
Ooh yes!
Here we go.
Thank you, God. Thank you thank you thank you.
She undoes my belt and opens my fly. My stomach muscles spasm slightly with excitement, every molecule in my body screaming in anticipation.
It is the best feeling in the world. I have never, ever felt this good in my entire life.
I moan again and my wingman Crispin Midgley enthuses loudly about the ten ranks of pipes and the wonderful notes they will make.
I owe you one, Crispin.
Mariah slides her hand into my pants and grips my cock. This is the first time a girl has touched my cock and it is simply fantastic, way better than I had imagined. She pulls it free of my trousers and I almost give it the thumbs up.
He’s done me proud.
My cock has never looked so alert, so ready for action. Thick and gleaming, it looks so big in her small, slim hand. She gives it a long squeeze and another clear bead of pre-cum appears at the tip. Mariah is smiling at it, eyes wide, lips wet, her breath coming in small gasps.
And then Crispin Midgley’s face looms large on the television screen.
The volume seems to have increased dramatically.
Mariah gasps. She looks at me.
She bursts out laughing.
She lets go of my cock and rolls around on the couch, howling with laughter.
I laugh too, but I feel a bit sick.
Ha ha, very funny, but where were we?
Tears are streaming down Mariah’s face.
Oh please, just fuck off Crispin!
More laughter.
I look down at my cock.
My majestic middle pipe is starting to wilt slightly.
Mariah can’t breathe, she’s laughing so much.
I don’t know what to do. I know the moment has passed but can’t we just… maybe if…
She sits up on the couch and adjusts her dress. She dries her eyes. She takes a sip of elderflower wine.
I feel stupid, sitting there with my cock hanging out.
I tuck it quietly back into my trousers.
We say goodnight and we kiss in the doorway but it isn’t the same, it will never be the same.
I know that soon I will find out she’s been seeing someone else all along, that she gets straight ‘A’s in her A levels and goes to Oxford to study Politics, Philosophy and Economics, that she never touches my cock again, that I never see her again.
I walk home alone under the orange lights on streets I know like my own reflection in the mirror, the streets where I grew up, streets where I will still live in another twenty five years time doing the same job, as familiar as my old, tired, defeated face in the mirror.
My balls ache like they’ve never ached before and I know there is a God and he is looking down at me. I know he’s looking down and pissing himself laughing, calling over all the angels and ark angels, the cherubim and seraphim to look down and laugh, have a fucking good laugh at the poor twat stumbling home with sticky underpants from his first car crash sexual encounter, going home to listen to mix tapes long into the night, and into the morning, until it’s time to go to work in a grim factory in grim Leeds.
There is a God.
And he’s a right cunt.


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187. The Little Book of Big Penis

I’m looking for magazines for thirteen year old girls.
Yes, you read that right. If you didn’t, here it is again.
I’m looking for magazines for thirteen year old girls.
Possibly not the wisest combination of words to tap into Google on a company computer when I’m supposed to be working, but fuck it. I do things my own way.
The reason I’m looking for magazines for thirteen year old girls is that I’ve recently read about a new magazine for girls who like climbing trees, are interested in science, who don’t particularly want every last item of clothing in their wardrobe to be pink.
Unfortunately, this magazine is aimed at the six to ten year old market, but I don’t have a six to ten year old daughter, I have a thirteen year old daughter.
In case you might not know, thirteen year old girls are interested in a lot of other different things that six to ten year old girls aren’t yet aware of.
But at the same time, there are plenty of thirteen year old girls who are into climbing trees, studying the sciences, and other areas of the colour spectrum that are not wholly devoted to pink.
As a dad you’ve got to keep up, or at least try to. If you don’t try, you’ll soon find yourself affectionately trying to hide a treat packet of Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons in your daughter’s hoody pocket only to find it already occupied by a packet of rubber johnnies and ten Marlboro lights. That can come as a nasty surprise for a dad who has failed to keep up.
So I try to keep up.
There are magazines for thirteen year old girls out there, but they are aimed at girls who want a pony, who have a funny feeling in their tummy when they see a boy band, who are interested in make-up.
My thirteen year old daughter isn’t like that.
My thirteen year old daughter is interested in Manga comics, YouTube comedy shows, science, art, nature. She can hardly be arsed to brush her hair before she leaves the house, never mind daube on a load of make up. She wears beat-up Converse pumps because you can’t climb trees in heels.
This might change soon – I’m well aware of that. But for now I’m happy to research magazines that are aimed at girls like her.
So I hit Google.
I type in ‘Magazines For Thirteen Year Old Girls’ and click ‘Search’.
thirteenI scroll down.
All the usual crap.
And then I glance to a little picture at the top right of the screen.
thirteen-circledI rub my eyes.
I look again.
What the fuck?
As you can see, Google seems to think that ‘The Little Book of Big Penis’ is appropriate reading material for your average thirteen year old girl.
Personally, I beg to differ.
I can’t see ‘The Little Book of Big Penis’ blending in well with the other books on her shelf, especially as she is rather squeamish about the various workings of the human anatomy and this particular book could well be the stuff of nightmares for a sensitive type.
What the fuck is Google thinking? On what level did it’s creepy algorithms decide that what my daughter really needed in her delicate, adolescent life is a book solely devoted to huge meaty wangers?
I mutter, ‘Fucking Hell…”
A voice behind me says, “Something wrong, Luci?”
It’s Monica the account handler. Monica is unusual in The Factory in that she is normal, funny and intelligent. She looks about nineteen and has done for twenty years or so. She sometimes comes to the studio to swear about colleagues she hates and she can swear almost as well as I can.
Monica likes romance books, but not the Mills & Boon type. She likes a good fuck scene in a book, something a bit steamy. She downloads them onto her Kindle so people think she’s reading Harry Potter or The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, when really she’s deep into the third book in the ‘Throb’ series about a muscular bloke seducing bored women and banging them in various unusual and exciting ways, written by a bored woman who writes under a pseudonym and basically wants a muscular man to bang her in unusual and exciting ways.
Monica hates the Fifty Shades’ books. She call them ‘fucking bullshit’.
In a factory full of ‘fucking bullshit’, talking to Monica is like putting your face in a bunch of flowers. It’s refreshing.
I say to Monica, “Look at this.”
She scans the web page, nodding, then glances up to the right.
“Oh my!” she says, and leans forward for a closer look.
She mutters, “Oh my God…” then adjusts her glasses.
She says, “Can you, can you just enlarge that a bit?”
I sigh and increase the image size. thirteen-enlargeThe cover of the book is easier to see now. You can see the thick cock filling the tiny white pants much more easily.
Monica mutters, “Oh my oh my.”
I glance at her. Her eyes are wide and she has a half smile on her little face.
I say, “Erm… In your opinion, Monica, is this appropriate reading material for a thirteen year old girl?”
She shakes her head. “No, Luci, but it’s bang on for a girl my age.”
She drinks in the picture of bulging manhood.
I’m leaning sideways at an awkward angle so that she can get closer, really get an eyeful.
“Oh my…” She breathes.
I say, “Steady on.”
Monica stands up. “Do me a favour, Luci – send me that on an email, will you?”
I sigh. “Yeah, alright.”
Monica smiles a winning smile and hurries away.
Intense Ginger Bloke leans over the partition.
“What was she gettin’ all giddy about?”
“A big cock,” I reply.
Intense Ginger Bloke looks alarmed. I explain about my Google search and what it’s thrown up. He has a good chuckle.
He says, “Bloody Hell, if she’s that giddy about the cover, imagine what she’d be like with the book!”
I have a small lightbulb moment.
I say, “Indeed,” and click the keyboard.
A moment later I say, “I’ve bought it.”
Intense Ginger Bloke looks up. “Bought what?”
“The book,” I say.
“What, The cock book?” asks Intense Ginger Bloke incredulously.
“Yup,” I say.
Intense Ginger Bloke goes bright red and pisses himself laughing. When he calms down he asks, “What are you going to do with it?”
I stare at him. “I’m going to put it under my pillow at night and wank over big cocks before I go to sleep.”
Intense Ginger Bloke goes pale and stares at me. “Whaaa…?”
“I’m kidding,” I say. “I’m going to give it to Monica. If a lass gets that fizzy over a little picture, I reckon the whole book will do her good.”
Intense Ginger Bloke likes that. “Ha! I can’t wait to see her face! What you reckon the book’s like then? Is it… you know… just knobs and that?”
I shrug. “Dunno. I suppose so. I reckon it’s just bit of fun. Something lasses might buy for each other for a laugh. Comedy stuff. I’ve not really thought that far ahead, if I’m honest.”
Intense Ginger Bloke is chuckling to himself as he taps on his keyboard. “That’s well funny, that is. Cock book! Ha! Mind you, I wouldn’t want that landing on my doormat.”
I look up. “What was that?”
He says, “I said that I wouldn’t fancy a book of cocks landing up on my doormat. Our lass wouldn’t be best pleased. I wouldn’t know what to say to her! Ha ha!”
I frown. “Well… I hadn’t really thought that far ahead…”
Intense Ginger Bloke continues, “And once I’d convinced our lass that the cock book wasn’t for me, I’d then have to explain how I’d bought it as a present for a lass at work! Ha ha!”
He continues to work, chuckling to himself.
I’m not laughing though.
I begin to realise that I might have made a mistake.
I hadn’t thought how a present like that might be misconstrued on many levels. All I’d thought about was the shock factor, the look on her face when she saw the book, but I realise I’ll have to be bloody careful or the cock book might explode in my face.
It isn’t that funny anymore.

Over the next few days I watch the post like a hawk. If the book arrives in a clear plastic bag I’ll have to leave the country and set up shop in Brazil or somewhere like that. Luckily Amazon are more sensitive than that. On the Thursday afternoon I find a brown cardboard envelope sitting on the kitchen sideboard at home.
“Parcel for you, love,” says my wife.
I’d thought this through. I pick it up and walk off with it.
“What is it?” She asks.
“Book,” I reply.
That was that.
I buy a lot of books, you see. I don’t read all of them, I just like buying books. The Japanese have a word for the act of buying books you never read. It’s called ‘Tsundoku’.
I’m not sure cock books come under this category.
Basically, my wife has come to tolerate a steady stream of slender parcels containing books I should read but never do.
I hide the parcel in my work bag under all the crap I regularly cart from home to work and back again without ever using. I don’t open the parcel. I don’t want to be caught furtively thumbing the pages of a cock book by the dim light of the hallway lamp by my wife. I don’t want to explain that I’ve been buying pictures of penises for a girl at work. I feel guilty and ashamed, even though I’ve technically done nothing wrong and my intentions were sort-of innocent.
I hide the cock book like the piece of filthy contraband that it is.
Next morning I get up in the dark and ride my bike to work, the bag containing the book tucked in my pannier.
The office is deserted, but it’s still too big a risk. I slide the parcel into the pocket of my navy blue work issue cargo pants and go to the toilets.
Locked in the safety of a cubicle, I open the parcel.
img_1544I’m prepared to stare at a lot of dick pics, not the ideal way to start a Friday morning at 6.10am, I’ll grant you, but I know it has to be done. Still, nothing could prepare me for what is actually between the covers of this cheeky looking volume.
“Fucking Hell,” I mutter.
It’s pretty strong stuff. Lots and lots of pretty impressive lengths. Tight balls, sagging balls, shaven, thick thatches of pubes, black, white, erect, flaccid, you name the cock, the cock was there.
Like these two players:
img_1547And check out the pair of cheeky sportsmen in this spread:
img_1545And I wonder what was going through the minds of these fine gents when they posed for this pair of images:
img_1546Obviously I’ve edited the images subtly to avoid offending the more gentle sensibilities of some of my readers, but you get the general feel of the book.
But now I have a real problem on my hands.
This is surely too spicy to be giving to a female work colleague in jest. I can’t just shove a book cram full of cocks into the hands of a woman and, with a flat, dead gaze, say to her, ‘Got you this. Hope you like it.’
It’s the sort of behavior that gets a bloke arrested, gets him a restraining order, get’s him put on the Sex Offenders Register for life.
I don’t want to be put on the Sex Offenders Register for life.
My C.V. looks shit enough as it is.
So what the fuck do I do with The Little Book of Big Penis?
I can’t just sling it in a hedge. A young lad hoping to find some bramble porn might find it and be left with an inferiority complex for the rest of his days.
I can’t bin it – it’s against all my principles to bin any book. I ca’t really donate it to a charity shop. Not exactly appropriate material for the shelves of Scope or Oxfam.
I can’t take it home. We’ve already discussed how my wife might react if The Little Book of Big Penis found it’s way onto the coffee table, and we’ve ascertained that it’s not ideal reading material for a thirteen year old girl.
I suddenly worry that there’s security cameras in the bathroom.
I can imagine being sat in a meeting room with all the managers looking serious while grainy footage of me sitting on a shitter thumbing through a book of massive cocks during work hours is played on an overhead projector.
I fumble the book back into the cardboard sleeve, ram it back into my pocket and go back to my desk.
I put the book in my drawer and lock it.
Intense Ginger Bloke is there. He slurps his tea, belches, says, “You get that cock book then?”
I nod.
He says, “You gonna give it to her then?”
I say, “Dunno.”
He says, “You should. It’ll be funny.”
I say, “I’m not sure it will.”
He says, “It will be for me.”
I say, “Yeah, I bet it will.”
We both start to work.
The day goes on and I forget about the book for a while. It’s a busy day and for once I’m glad of a heavy workload. Soulless Boss is off today so that’s at least something to be thankful for.
Then Monica turns up.
She briefs a job in to Intense Ginger Bloke and I keep my head down.
When they’re finished, Intense Ginger Bloke looks at me and says, “Oh, yeah, Monica – Luci has got something for you.”
You Intense Ginger Bastard.
My heart sinks.
Monica comes round to my side of the desk and smiles brightly, looking slightly puzzled. “Something for me? Cool! What is it?”
There’s no escaping it.
It’s going to happen.
On autopilot I unlock the drawer.
I take out the parcel.
I hold it for a moment and look at Monica and say, “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m so, so sorry.”
I hand her the parcel.
She opens it, peeks inside. Opens the book.
“OH MY GOD!” She squeaks, almost dropping the parcel.
Intense Ginger Bloke is pissing himself.
I hiss, “Keep it down!! I don’t want every fucker in the office to know about it!!”
Monica’s eyes are bulging. Her mouth hangs open. She looks at me like I’m a violent sex offender.
I say, “I’m sorry it’s just that I showed you that little picture and you found it funny so I thought it would be funny to buy it but I thought it would be just a bit cheeky and I didn’t think there’d be so many cocks and such big ones and all so very ANGRY looking cocks too so please don’t report it to the relevant authorities because I didn’t intend it as something…. sexy?”
She stares at me. Then stares at the parcel. She peeks inside again and gasps again, slamming it shut.
She whispers, “I… I can’t accept this.”
I say, “I realise that now.”
She hands it back to me and bursts out laughing.
She says, “You daft twat, Luci!”
She walks away, shaking her head.
I look at Intense Ginger Bloke. He is bright red and tears are streaming down his face.
“I say, You cunt. You fucking cunt.”
He doesn’t care a bit.
I try to get back to work.
Half an hour later another lass from the offices comes over. It’s Katy. She’s Monica’s friend. She says, “Hi Luci. Monica says I’ve got to ask if I can see your book.”
I look at Intense Ginger Bloke. His face is a picture. It’s like Christmas morning for him.
“Show her,” he giggles. “Show her your book.”
I sigh and take it out of my drawer.
Katy takes it out of the parcel, opens the book…
“Oh my! Oh… My!” She goggles at what she sees.
I rapidly explain my mistake, assure her that I’m not a sex pest.
She hands me back the book and walks away, shaking her head.
I die a little bit inside.
As the day goes on a steady stream of female employees approach me and ask to look at the book.
Monica comes back and asks for another look.
Katy comes back for seconds too.
Certain pages get folded over and other women turn up to look at page thirty seven, eighty four, sixteen.
Throughout the afternoon dozens of female office workers drop by to peruse the selection of massive penises I have to offer.
Occasionally the book is borrowed for twenty minutes and comes back to me in a slightly shabbier state than when it left. Post It Note bookmarks appear.
I have become the office pornographer.
I am providing the women of The Factory with the one things their work day has been lacking, that little something that spices up their day.
I’m giving them cock.

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186. Candyman.

The shadows thrown by the shiny cars that nobody owns begin to lengthen in the car park and the long seconds tick by, each second becoming, like the shadows, longer and longer, as the people in the office fidget and watch the seconds, watch the shadows, until the shadows melt into one another, becoming one shadow, and the seconds melt into one another and become five o’clock.
The people of the office stop being people of the office and become people of the shadows, then they become people of the cars, then the cars leave, taking the people and the shadows with them, and that’s when I stop looking out of the window and look at my computer screen and try to do some work.
At ten past five o’clock I stop trying, stop pretending. I surf the net a little, a term I hate almost as much as I imagine actual surfers hate it. A past-time that requires skill, patience and prowess suddenly hijacked to describe an activity that requires none of these things, and even calling it an ‘activity’ is something of a stretch.
The reality is that I monged the net. That’s more fitting.
We mong it.
Or pehaps Belm it. Maybe we are all belming the net.
I’m certainly no surfer.
I’m much more of a monger or a belmer.
We are all mostly mongers and belmers. Let’s just accept it and leave the surfers to surf in the piss and shit and panty pads of the mongers and the belmers.
It seems to make them happy.
It is now twenty past five.
The cleaners will be round soon and so will Christmas.
The man who runs the cleaning crew – the weird man with the chip on his shoulder and the built up shoe on his foot – he seems to have bought a shipping container full of festive scented cleaning products from a car boot or somewhere godawful like that, because every time the cleaners come round and start to spray and polish and dust it smells like they are spraying and polishing and dusting with fistfuls of mince pies, mulled wine and Christmas cake. This is barely tolerable throughout the month of December, but you try getting a snoutful of cinnamon and mixed peel in the heart of a muggy, overcast, late Summer evening and you’ll know the true bleakness that a misplaced seasonal scent can bring.
Unfortunately this also has the effect of making Christmas feel like a shiny desk or freshly vacuumed carpet tiles, thus ruining two things for the price of one.
The one good thing about the cleaning crew is the girl who comes around and cleans our desks. She’s what I suppose people describe as ‘kooky’. Mid twenties or something, shy, good looking but not too good looking, not the kind of good looking that knows it’s good looking and blasts those good looks into your face like a cheap can of Yuletide furniture polish. No, I just like the look of her. She has a nice face and a lop sided grin. She’s Russian, I think, or something like that. I haven’t asked her where she’s from because in this post Brexit day and age it feels like you’re asking where in the world she’s going to be shipped back to in the uncomfortably near future.
And in a weird way I feel racist when I ask people where they’re from, like I know they’re not from here, even though they’re here now. Kooky girl is here and English is only a label, a label I feel very neutral towards, so if she’s not English then that’s fine, let’s leave it at that.
I look at the computer screen full of icons. Screen icons, but none of them are Faye Dunaway or Charlton Heston or James Dean. They’re little pictures of folders, printers, disks and drives.
The stuff of dreams.
Electric dreams.
I want to smoke.
I don’t consider myself a smoker but I smoke. I know I do. I can go weeks without smoking but then I’ll be walking, walking, and I’ll walk into a petrol station and buy a blue tin of small, thin, tight packed cheap cigarillos and I’ll smoke them all, loving them and hating them in equal measure.
That’s what I want to smoke now.
I want to push back from the desk, lift the ankle of one leg up to rest across the knee of the other leg, tip back in my chair and smoke a cheap fucking cigarillo.
I don’t.
I take a mouthful of very cold coffee look at the screen some more.
Got. To. Work.
I’m focussing, concentrating…
Something lands on my desk with a clatter. It bounces, rolls, comes to rest against the keyboard.
It is a sweet of some kind. Oblong, dark purple, gold twists at either end. There is writing on the sweet but I can’t understand it.
A foreign sweet.
I stare at the sweet for a second, slightly dumbfounded, and then I hear breathing.
I look up.
I press back in my chair.
An enormous man is standing next to me, grinning.
He seems to be as wide as he is tall. Fat, but in a solid, enormously powerful way. He is bristly, somehow bristly all over, like how a hibernating bear might look if you’d gone at it with a pair of beard clippers for a midwinter prank.
He is panting.
He wears a tatty grey t-shirt and tatty grey shorts, tatty grey socks and brown sandals. He has a great sheaf of bin bags tucked into the waste band of his shorts, cheap bin bags, gossamer thin, wafting in the slightest breeze like a dead girl’s hair underwater.
He is grinning and panting.
He says “Party.”
His accent is thick, Eastern European.
I pick up the sweet and hand it back to the enormous man, presuming he has dropped it, but he shakes his huge head, waves his hands.
He says, “Pliz.”
Then he says, “Party.”
I look at the enormous man, then I look at the sweet again.
I hear him say, “Pliz.”
He wants me to eat the sweet.
I don’t want to.
My training kicks in. I call it training, but in reality it is just that drilled-in warning that my mother used to say whenever I left the house.
Don’t Take Sweets From Strangers.
To be fair, I was never offered sweets by anyone as a kid. Maybe I wasn’t attractive enough. Maybe I’ve matured into a more appealing target.
So this was it. This was the moment she had warned me about, all those years ago.
The Stranger was here, offering me his sweets.
My stomach clamped shut. My mouth went dry.
I shook my head. I said, “I can’t eat this. Sorry.”
I slid the sweet across the desk towards him.
The enormous man looks shocked. He says, “Pliz!”
I try to think of something, so I say, “If I eat this… I’ll… I’ll die.”
This is what my subconscious was really telling me. If you eat the sweet you will end up bummed and murdered and dumped in a ditch on the moors.
Thanks, mum.
The enormous man is confused so I perform an elaborate pantomime of eating the sweet and dying and the enormous man looks shocked.
He says, “Ah! Dia… diabeets?”
Fuck it. In for a penny. “Yes! I have diabeets. If I eat this sweet I will die of diabeets. Sorry.”
The enormous man looks saddened. He shrugs, picks up the unwanted sweet and puts it back in the pocket of his tatty grey shorts, where it will nestle in the dark with all the other sweets, warmed by the heat of his thick, bristly genitalia that hangs heavily just millimeters away, jostling the sweets for space within the crowded confines of his shorts.
I’m staring at his shorts so I look away.
I say “Sorry” again.
And then he lunges at me.
It looks like he’s going for his gun.
I let out a small scream and twitch convulsively.
He sprays Christmas spray across my desk and starts to wipe it vigorously, pinning me against the desk.
“Sorreee…” he breathes.
I don’t move.
He changes the liner of my bin, removing one cobweb thin bin liner, replacing it with another.
“Sorreee….” he whispers.
I don’t move.
He lumbers across to a Henry vacuum, fires it up, then slowly hoovers around my work space.
“Sorreee…” he pants.
I don’t move.
He switches off Henry. He says, “Thankyoubye.”
He lumbers away, whistling very quietly through his teeth.
I don’t move.
I want a trained counsellor to say, ‘show me on the doll where he touched you’.

Over the next few days I hear from other people who are terrified of the enormous man, or ‘The Candyman’ as he has come to be known.
He apparently likes to tell people that they can go home, as though he is giving them permission. Or he’ll say ‘party’ and start to do this weird little dance. Then he’ll laugh hugely and slap their back or squeeze their arm like it is his little joke. This is fine, maybe it’s just his way of being friendly, but it really does feel more sinister than this.
I talk to Mike TV.
Mike TV is an American who works on my shift sometimes. He’s fairly new but he’s catching on quick, he’s realised that he’s accidentally taken a job in a freak show.
Mike TV is shaking his head. “Dude, The Candyman is freaking me out! I mean, there’s some freaky dudes in this place but The Candyman is something else. Does he give you candy?”
I say, “He tried, once, but I told him it would kill me. I said I had diabetes.”
Mike TV looks impressed. “Wow. I wish I’d thought of that.”
He opens a desk drawer. It is full of sweets.
I say, “Shit! There must be… 200 sweets in there! What do they taste like?”
Mike TV shrugs. “Search me. I’m not gonna eat one. Some of the other guys call ‘em ‘Rape Sweets’. You eat one of those and you’ll wake up naked in a dumpster. Office Brian ate one. He says they’re full of some kind of booze. He felt spaced out for the rest of his shift. Drunk or something. Nah, man, I ain’t eatin’ these Mickey Finns.”
I feel a bit bad. Here’s this bloke, cleaning offices on minimum wage, trying to be friendly by handing out sweets to the people he works with. He only wants to fit in. And how do we thank him?
By insinuating he’s a bit rapey.
Not good.
I decide I’m going to try and make an effort with The Candyman.
This plan goes out of the window the very next day. I’m working and Mike TV comes into the office looking shaken.
He stumbles over to my desk.
He says, “Jesus, Luci. The Candyman just cornered me.”
“What did he do?”
He says, “Well, I was in the bathroom, takin’ a piss, and suddenly he’s standing there, grinning at me, watchin’ me, an’ I say to him, ‘Erm, like, dude, I’m tryin’ to take a piss here’, so he offers me a fuckin’ piece of candy, so I say, ‘Thanks an’ all, but I kinda got my hands full here’ so he just smiles a creepy smile, walks over, AND SLIPS THE CANDY INTO MY FUCKIN’ POCKET!”
I shudder. “What, your… your shirt pocket?”
Mike TV shakes his head. “Nah, dude. My fuckin’… trouser… pocket.”
I whisper, “He… he put sweets… into your pocket… in the toilet… while you were… pissing?”
Mike TV nods.
I say, “That’s pretty fucked up.”
Mike TV says, “I know. That’s it, man. I’m done with that guy. You just don’t invade personal space like that, y’know? You just don’t do it!”
I say, “Damn right. Wait. Maybe… maybe he knows it creeps us out? Maybe it’s, like, his thing, you know? Maybe it’s how he gets his kicks?”
Mike TV shudders. “Dude, you ain’t makin’ me feel any better.”

The cleaning becomes more intimate.
The Candyman reaches around me like he’s giving me a reachround, and when I try to move he says, “NO SORRY NO! IS NO TROUBLE!” and sprays Christmas over the desk and over my screen and over my hands and then he wipes, wipes, wipes. He whistles through his teeth, quietly, hiss hiss hiss, then he will vacuum the carpet beneath me, the bottom of my chair, my shoes, my ankles, my shins, the long probing nose of Henry sucking where The Candyman tells him to suck.
It is horrible.
I start to realise that The Candyman’s jokes and actions are little set pieces – I hear him doing the same thing to other people in the office when they happen to be on my shift. The squeezings, the sucking, the wiping, all are practiced, all are part of a repertoire. I imagine The Candyman in the quiet hours of the afternoon, shirt off, practicing his moves in a full length mirror like Robert DeNiro in Taxi Driver:
“You can go home.” (produces bottle of glass cleaner, squirts.)
“Party.” (Does the creepy little dance.)
“Diabeet?” (Hurls strange foreign sweet with deadly force)
“Pliz.” (forces people to eat his rape candy.”
I am now frightened of The Candyman.

Next evening he is not there.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
I am on my own so I pop my earphones in and try to get some work done.
But then I feel a hand on my arm.
A huge hand.
It is The Candyman.
He is grinning. He says something.
I pull out my earphones and say, “Sorry, what?”
He says, You go home. It ok. I say so.”
He is grinning that idiot grin, standing over me, his large belly brushing my shoulder. I am trapped against my desk.
I say, “Ha. Ha ha. Yeah…”
His big hand is massaging my upper arm. I can feel the huge strength of the man. He reminds me of a Turkish wrestler, or one of those formidable masseurs who look like they could easily pull every single muscle in your body from the bone, like a roast chicken, and serve it to you on a plate.
He says, “You go home.”
He is still smiling, but… is it a threat? Is this a Brexit thing? Does he think that I voted to send him home, and this is his subtle way of saying, ‘Fuck you. YOU go home, I’m staying.’
I suddenly want to know where he is from. I want to know where home is, where he is sending me. In five years time will I be cleaning an office in Budapest, handing out Mini Mars bars to startled office workers and asking them to ‘Party’?
I feel unusual.
The Candyman suddenly laughs heartily and releases me. He slaps my back and walks away, wiping and cleaning and dusting.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with a hand that reeks of Christmas.
The next evening I wait until half past five comes around, then I flee.
I tip toe down the corridor to a fire escape, creep down the stairs, and see a figure lurking in the shadows…
“Fucking Hell!!!”
He says, “Jesus, dude! You scared the livin’ crap out of me!”
It’s Mike TV.
I say, “What the fuck are you doing down here??”
He says, “What do you think I’m doing? I’m hidin’ from that big freaky bastard. What are YOU doin’ down here?”
I say, “Me too.”
We sit on a dusty step and get out our phones.
We scroll through news channels, read about Immigration and ISIS.
We are an American and an Englishman cowering in the gloom while a powerful foreign invader prowls the office, armed with dubious chemicals, taking pride in the domain where he rules for an hour very night, dragging Henry by the nose like a squire, his pockets bulging with offerings that say to those he crushes, “I Come In Peace.”
We have tasted our own medicine and it tastes of Christmas.


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185. Excess Baggage

The hot, Tuscan wind whips across the cracked concrete of the runway, mixing with the heat of the jet engines, the heat from the sun, the stored heat from the baked ground.
We are going home.
The tired Ryanair plane crouches in front of us, scoured by hundreds of thousands of miles in the air and I know just how it feels. I’ve been awake for over thirty hours, my eyes are gritty and grainy. The previous day I’d raced our car along the drag-strip roads of Italy to Pisa, from the potholes and gravel of the backroads to the sagging skid-marked tarmac of their dubious motorways, avoiding hurtling Alpha Romeos and murderous construction trucks.
Driving in Italy is like Mad Max in a nice suit, listening to opera on the stereo whilst trying to smash your enemy into the nearest field of bellissimo sunflowers. Not for the faint hearted.
The night was spent in a sixties tenement block in an apartment that had sold itself as a delightful ‘B&B’, but was in fact a sterile apartment with beds but no breakfast, in essence a ‘B’ without the ‘&B’. We laid in the stifling heat of our family room with the windows open in the vain hope of a cool draught, listening to the sports cars hurtling, the superbikes racing, and the ambulances screaming with their all too regular payloads of smashed meat, on their way to the hospital across the road.
As the traffic died – literally – we began to settle, only to be awoken by what sounded like a traveling German Oom-pah band who barged into the apartment. They would be our neighbours for the night, occupying the next room and ensuring that there would no more  sleep until dawn.
Their deep Teutonic voices rumbled like tubas and trombones throughout the apartment as they went about their thorough ablutions, and when they slept they maintained a steady triple-time rhythm of snores, farts and whistles that made me wish for cold litres of Bavarian lager to drown in.
My family lay awake like polite zombies, blinking greasily in the darkness until our phone alarms quietly chimed at 4am to tell us to get up, get dressed silently and make our way to the airport for our 7am flight.
We should have stamped our feet and chanted drinking songs of our own as we packed but we didn’t, because we are English, and we will probably die of a miserable little tumor made entirely of suppressed rage and impotent frustration.
And now, after shuffling with the yawning herd for two hours, we are here, walking towards a plane that might-or-might-not fall out of the sky through a mixture of metal fatigue, pilot error or just from a lack of will to remain airborne any longer.
Up the steps, past the grinning clown of an air hostess, jostling towards our sagging leatherette seats whilst holding our bags aloft like strange body armour, fending off the Samsonite wielded by the passengers coming from the opposite end of the plane.
My son and I are on one row, my wife and daughter behind us, to ensure both children get a window seat. We don’t fly very often so this quite the thrill for them. It is for me too, if I’m honest. There’s something I find very relaxing about flying, about hurtling into the sky, hurtling out of the sky, a brush with death that terrifies others but soothes me somehow. It’s a very strong feeling of ‘FUCK IT’.
In the aisle seat of our row I can see dark hair, balding at the crown to expose dark skin. A smallish man in a pale brown shirt. I’m not a smallish man, I’m well over six foot, and I don’t like looming over people. It somehow feels rude.
I politely say, ‘Erm…’ but the man is already out of his seat, smiling. He’s a similar age to me, I’d say, in his forties. Asian, trim moustache, dazzling smile, soft brown smiling eyes.
He looks at me, looks at my son, then quickly helps my son load his bag into the overhead compartment.
We thank him and he smiles, smiles,
We shuffle past, take our seats, slump into seats still slightly warm from the previous occupants. The dawn sun glitters into the cabin, reflected from the polished aluminium of the plane’s wing. The window glass is ice scoured, the interior cabin is sun faded yellow, like the photos in a barbers shop window.
I make sure the family phones are on airplane mode and I adopt an airplane mode of my own, preparing for a few hours in a seat that is too small for my freakishly long legs, of not pissing because I hate little toilets, of not eating because I hate eating tiny meals off a tiny tray, of not drinking because I don’t want to spill a scalding beverage on myself, on my son, on the smiling man next to me.
I go into a sort of torpor.
I shut down.
“Hello. my name is Faisal.”
I blink.
I say, “Sorry?”
The smiling man is smiling at me. He is leaning forward slightly, his hand is held towards me.
He says again, “Hello, my name is Faisal.”
I take his hand, shake it. I say, “Hello Faisal. I’m Luci, this is my son.”
He shakes both of our hands.
He says, “It is a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
I think, ‘Oh shit. I’ve got a talker.’
I say, “Yes, yes it is. Beautiful.”
In a soft, unidentifiable accent Faisal starts to tell me where he has been in Italy, what he saw, how incredible Venice was. I agree, replying vaguely, hoping my shorter responses might discourage his disconcerting friendliness.
I just want to look out of the window. I just want to slurp on a Fox’s Glacier Fruit and watch the airplane taxi along the runway before thrusting from the earth’s surface, blasting through cloud towards space and the aquatic blue of Heaven. I don’t want to talk to Faisal about his trip to Venice.
He says, “I’m going to England to visit my relatives in Pendle. Do you know Pendle?”
I say that I do, that Pendle is famous for it’s witches but that witches don’t live there anymore, not that I know of, but I realise that I am babbling slightly as I often do in these situations.
Faisal nods politely, smiling. “Some of my family live in Pendle but I live in Canada. Toronto.”
I say, “Oh? I’d love to go to Canada. Is Toronto nice?”
Faisal’s smile widens. “Oh, yes! It’s perfect. The nicest place on Earth. I cannot tell you just how beautiful it is. It isn’t hot, not like Italy is hot, but the air… It is the cleanest air on Earth. You can almost drink it. And the trees, the mountains, the rivers… It is a wonderful place. So much space, so much greenery. I love it.”
“I hear it snows a lot though.”
Faisal shrugs. “Not so much in the city, but yes, in the mountains. And when it snows, well, we ski!” He laughs a small, polite laugh.
It is nice that Faisal is talking to me, but I want it to stop. I know I sound like a miserable shit for wanting him to stop, but I do. I don’t know why he feels the need to talk to me. Why he wants to tell me about his life. His life sounds great but in two hours I’ll get off the plane and never see him again so what’s the point?
I look out of the window for a minute as the plane begins to move along the runway and Faisal fiddles with his phone.
Then he says, “This is where I live.”
I look back.
Pictures on his phone.
Pictures of him walking in the forest with other Asian men. Selfies of himself and an Asian man by a waterfall. Trees. A mountain. Blue skies. The Asian men stood by a brilliant blue river.
All very nice. Faisal’s life.
Then he says, “And this is my daughter. She is eleven.”
A picture of a girl, the same age as my son. She is at the dinner table and she is smiling the same smile as her father, a beautiful smile.
And all of a sudden I realise why Faisal is talking to me.
Faisal is an Asian man, travelling alone on a passenger jet.
He is used to being treated with suspicion and fear when he flies alone and he has learned ways to reassure people that he is not about to scream “ALLAHU AKBAR!!” and blow his shoes up, or his underpants up, or pull out a wicked looking knife and stab me up in my budget leatherette seat at thirty thousand feet.
Faisal is showing me that I have nothing to fear, that I’m not about to die a horrible death and that I’m not about to become a newspaper headline.
He is showing me that he has family to go to, that he has family waiting for him in beautiful Canada, that he has a life that he doesn’t want to end violently.
I know this sounds pretty fucking presumptuous but it isn’t. I know this. I know it from Faisal’s smile, from the way he talks quietly to me and shows me his photographs. He is saying, “I mean you no harm.”
I suddenly feel glad that I’m sat next to him.
Then the plane thrusts from the earth’s surface, blasting through cloud towards space and the aquatic blue of Heaven. I talk to Faisal about his trip to Venice, about his family and what he will do in Pendle when he arrives. We talk about hiking in the hills, he tells me about walking on glaciers and I offer him a Fox’s Glacier Fruit which he politely refuses.
Then we are quiet for a while, and we look out of the window, and we can see the earth below us, and the light goes off above us to let us know we can undo our safety belts.


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