My latest little bit of writing. Tried to make it real, as they say.
Does Your Mother Know What You Do For A Living?
‘Does your mother know what you do for a living?’
It was the first thing he’d said in nearly half an hour, apart from the occasional utterance of ‘no comment’, prompted by almost imperceptible shakes of the head from his brief.
That kind of remark shouldn’t get under my skin any more. But for some reason, it did. I was mildly irritated.
Obviously, I’ve had far worse than that over the years. I’ve learned to blank it all out. I usually just pull down the invisible mask that defends against all verbals. All those nasty shards of vitriol bounce off it like hailstones off a windscreen. And I calmly go on with my questioning, come what may, Besides, all that aggressive, confrontational stuff, it just isn’t our style any more. Being interviewed about a serious crime is more like going to see your bank manager nowadays. ‘Cept it isn’t ‘cos I haven’t seen a bank manager round here in years.
I stared at him for a moment.
‘She does. And she’s proud. Does yours?’
He sneered. Not like I’d got one over on him. It was hardly the most cutting of responses. His look was more one of mild contempt. He didn’t come back at me though.
The natural course of the interview was interrupted. The choice was mine now. Should I continue with the sequence of questions I’d planned to ask him, or take a leap into the unknown? I got a memory flash of those Choose Your Own Adventure books I used to love when I was eleven or so. ‘Turn to page 34 if you think this or page 36 if you think that’. What did I think now? This, or that?
Where had we got to? I should be asking him next about the mobile phone calls we have him making regularly to another suspect who is right now waiting and sweating in the interview room on the other side of the wall behind me. But I know the answer to that will be the same as I’ve heard at least a dozen times so far.
Sod it. Let’s follow our noses for a change.
‘So does she then? Does she know what you get up to when you’re out of her sight?’
Bit of a daft question really. He was at least in his mid-forties. Hardly likely to care what his mother thought of what he did. But we’re all a bit strange about our mothers aren’t we? It’s all that unconditional love that does it. All those memories of sacrifices made. Always likely to make the lip go a bit quivery or bring a lump to the throat, even those of the hardest of criminals, perhaps.
‘What my mother thinks or does is none of your business.’
This was progress. Anything other than ‘no comment’ had to be considered as such. The lawyer knew it too. A momentary shift in the chair signified that. Replies other than ‘no comment’ were always likely to bring unexpected problems for the old brief. He coughed nervously.
Me-laddo adjusted himself too. He’d adopted the slouch position favoured by most TV suspects throughout the interview so far, but now he rose in his chair, held either side of the seat and pushed his ample buttocks towards its back. The techtonic plates were shifting. Now his body was no longer relaxed. Its language suggested he was preparing to defend a position.
‘I bet she’d prefer you to be doing something a bit more respectable. You know, something she could tell her friends about. Bet she’s not enjoyed having to tell lies about you for all these years.’
He was steaming. A nerve had most definitely been touched.
‘I mean, we all know what mums are like. If you’re doing well, they love to embarrass you by telling everyone about it. Trouble is, with you that’s never been possible. Must have hurt her a lot …you know … deep down.’
‘You don’t know my mum,’ he spluttered. ‘You know nothing about her. You are not …’ he was shouting now, ‘… you … are not fit to mention her name! My mum … loves …’
Get in there fast now. Still didn’t know what was really happening here but I had to keep it going.
‘… oh yes, well of course, she loves you! No question. I mean, all mums do, don’t they? I’m not doubting that she loves you. Not at all. What I’m saying is … she probably doesn’t … well, she probably doesn’t … like you very much. Doesn’t much like the things you do. That’s all.’
So what does he say now? No comment? That’s what his lawyer wants him to say. ‘No comment’ would have been a very good repost.
‘She’s dying.’
Bingo. Don’t say a word. Nothing to react on. Nothing to stop his flow.
‘She’s got that motor neurone disease. It’s only taken a year. One day she fell over and almost thought nothing of it. Now she can’t move. Can’t talk. Can’t even swallow her own food. She’s not got long left now.’
He was bent over now. Forehead resting on fat fingers, a thumb occasionally reaching round to wipe beneath his eyes. No longer the tough man, he now adopted the pose of the little boy lost and alone in the crowded supermarket. Only this time, it would be permanent.
I knew I had him now. But what I said next was crucial. One wrong word, and he’d recover. Regain composure. Move on.
‘I know all about MND. I know how bad it gets. I know that the last thing to go is the mind. She might not be able to talk to you, but she still understands everything. That’s the best thing. It’s the worst thing too. If you want to put things right with her, make her proud, there’s still time.’
He nodded slowly, dripping snot and tears.
‘Now. Let’s start with these mobile phone calls.’
I’m now back doing a short writing course at the National Media Museum in Bradford. I need that sort of thing to get me going. This first piece was intended as a very short story – only a page. However, it needed more details adding and now it reads more like a synopsis for something longer. Anyway, I’m leaving it for the time being now.
The Small Boys Came Early To The Hanging
Stepping through the school gates into the deserted playground, Roger could already feel the heat of the morning sun bouncing off the expanse of tarmac. Although he enjoyed his job and his time spent with a class full of eleven year olds, he had to admit he preferred this time of the morning, before they or anyone else arrived. Especially now, the height of summer.
Each morning, his journey to work began with a stroll through the park, followed by a bus ride across the awakening city, Another short walk from the stop, a couple of fags along the way, and there he was, striding onto the school grounds.
For the next forty minutes or so, he would be alone. He’d mark a few books, pin up some art or poems, drink his tea and have at least one more smoke before the noise of the day began.
Not so long ago, National Service had forced him into a routine of enforced early morning activity, usually of a futile nature. Since coming home he’d resolved that, even though life would involve rising each morning to earn a living, he’d do it in his own good time. There’d be no rushing at the call of bugle or barking order. Ironically, this luxury of a slow start to the day would mean being out of bed just as early.
As he expected, the school’s main door was already unlocked. Bill the caretaker would have opened up, mopped floors, cleaned the rooms he’d left the night before and then gone off for his breakfast. Another Capstan lit, Roger’s tall figure swirled in and across the hall with its squeaking wooden floor and high vaulted ceiling. As many schools built during the Victorian era, the classrooms were arranged around it. His was at the far end.
Once inside, he removed his raincoat and hat and hung them on the back of his store cupboard door. A quick look round, grab the half dozen exercise books he’d not had time to finish marking yesterday and off back to the staff room for a tea. Bill always left him enough in the pot for his first cup.
The staff room chairs were not the most comfortable items of furniture but they were softer than the one behind his desk in the classroom. He lowered himself into one, stubbed his cig into the communal ashtray, provided courtesy of Hammond’s ales, from some long forgotten lunchtime session, took a gulp of tea and opened the first exercise book. Having already dealt with thirty or so covering exactly the same exercise the day before, he was able to get through these last few in the time it took him to drain his cup.
The second pot was his responsibility to make. He’d already set the electric kettle on to boil and now it was on the point of whistling, he dropped several spoonfuls of tea into the huge pot before filling it with the frothing hot water. Leaving it to mash, he lit another cig and set off back to his classroom. He knew it wouldn’t be too long before others would be arriving and he wasn’t ready for conversation yet.
His class had been copying their poems onto paper the previous afternoon ‘for best’. He’d cleared the walls at either side of the blackboard while they’d all sat, concentrating in the summer heat, copying neatly like their lives depended on it. Now he was ready to pin them up.
He smiled to himself while he worked. He still couldn’t believe how life had changed so much in barely three months. As late as last Spring he’d been sweating out in Malaya, counting the days, ticking off the hours before he’d be home. They’d always said the most dangerous time would be the last week or two, and they were right. He’d concentrated so hard when out on patrol, determined not to get shot or blown to bits.
He’d made it all the way back to Catterick, with less than a fortnight to go before he’d be back in civvy street.
Then the nightmares had begun. The things he’d seen and done back in Malaya had suddenly become the main feature each night right inside his head. While out there, he’d shrugged off all the events that now haunted him, almost as soon as his eyes closed.
It was difficult to believe now how rapid his decline had been. Lack of sleep had led to being late out of bed, failed inspections, punishments, further resentment, more nightmares, more punishments …
Within a week he’d left. Just walked out.
Then there’d been a blank spell that even now he struggled to remember. A time of wandering; living rough, casual work. He’d even begged at one point. He’d had enough sense and guile to keep ahead of the authorities. He’d stayed away from the family home. Telephoned his sister though. Reassured, and persuaded her not to reveal the contact.
It took time, but he eventually began to feel better. Began to assume the M.P. s had either given up or had other priorities. His route back to permanent employment and respectability had been surprisingly simple.
He’d got lucky at this, the second school he’d visited. Told enough of the truth to be convincing. Got his sister to send them his teaching certificate, and he was in. Young, fit male teachers were in short supply.
And now here he was, pinning kids’ poems on a wall. Not the most dramatic of jobs, but he was content. He’d had enough drama. It was the quiet life for him from now on.
He never saw the door open. He heard the footsteps though. He turned, to see the headmaster, flanked by the two military policemen. He stood, smiling sheepishly, resting his hand casually in his trouser pockets, glancing past the men to the high windows at the back of the room.
There were two tiny faces, struggling to see inside, noses flattened against the glass.
The small boys came early to the hanging.
The first line of a book he’d once read, when? Almost thirty-five years later? Of all that could’ve triggered the memory, that had done it. It had made him smile.
He’d remembered those two lads. They had come early and it had been a kind of hanging. They’d often done it before – peered into the room to see what changes he’d made overnight. They might even have been there then to discover whether their poems had gained a place on the wall.
They got more than they’d ever expected on that summer morning. A military vehicle and a police car in the playground. The headmaster with other huge uniformed men. And Mr Carter being brought of the school between them and bundled away, never to be seen again.
