Take Note

I wrote this flash in a writers’ group possibly a decade ago, based on a prompt we did for a warm- up exercise. I rewrite it, brought it back into the group as a potential piece for publication, got some feedback, tweaked it again and found a publication called Open Road Review, which – like many publications that took my work – doesn’t seem to exist any more. Their format included both the text of the flash fiction piece plus the audio of the author reading it out, which I was happy to perform. 

I’m planning to read this one out somewhere in Manchester soon. 

 --- 

Fucking lists, man. D'you think I'd get into a job like this if I liked reading? Still, a favour for a favour. 

I've just walked in and there's no-one home, like I thought, but at least there's a note telling me where he's gone. Some remote part of Yorkshire while everything cools down. There’s a task list scrawled at the bottom of the sheet. He wants me to house-sit, but he's keeping me busy.  

Take the wood home and burn it.  

I look out through the window, the view dimmed by the one-way glass and wire mesh, to the large garden. There's a pile of timber on the lawn. I'll have to lump it through the house as the side gate is always padlocked and barb-wired. It's gonna take a while to drag it from one end to the other.  

Also burn all the documents on the table, including this one. 

Clean the kitchen thoroughly. 

The deep red stains on the linoleum make me shudder. Look at that marble work surface, splattered in gore. 

I don’t even know what happened here. I read on, trying to focus. 

The doorbell rings. My heart pounds. I walk to the door, reading on, shutting the kitchen door behind me. Frosted glass is tacky, but it has its benefits. I could do without salesmen or whoever glimpsing a murder scene. Our guys have got enough on their hands. 

I walk past a computer in the hallway. 

Wipe the PC hard drive.  

Wipe the hard drive? How do I get into- Oh, delete the data. Right. Might have to Google that one. 

I've gotta follow these instructions word for word. When you work for a man like him you do what he says, you know? ‘Specially in the middle of the biggest gang war Manchester has ever seen. I didn't do what I was told, and that's how I got this shit job. I've got some making up to do if I don’t want to end up in a hole. 

I wonder if he actually gives a shit about me any more.  

Hoover up the dust on the lounge carpet. 

If I do all this, no-one would ever suspect that any of our men had been here. Once it's clean, it's just a regular rich guy’s house. 

I open the door. There's a man dressed in black with his hand in his pocket.  

DON'T ANSWER THE DOOR. 

The man pulls out a silenced Glock 9. I wish I could read faster.

For the Love of SciFi 2018

On arriving at Bowlers Manchester it emerged that one of the three booked actors from the iconic 80s movie Predator, had to cancel. Bill Duke (Mack) couldn't make it, but Jesse Ventura (Blain) and Carl Weathers (Dillon) were ready for the photoshoot. It was planned for later in the afternoon, so when I bumped into my mate Paddy we had plenty of time to wander the stalls and set builds.

Last weekend we dropped into Bowlers Exhibition Centre for For the Love of Sci Fi, a huge science fiction convention with immense film sculptures and props, and headlining movie and TV stars from past and present. Typically, I forgot to go to a cash machine, the nearest one being miles away. But I could buy tokens on card and exchange them for signings and photos. I planned to look around and make a few purchasing decisions. I then forgot this, and didn't go back for them.

Standard.

We found the stage where the interviews were taking place- Ventura and Weathers were discussing the Predator shoot in 1987, and taking questions from the audience.

“If Bill could have been here,” said Ventura, the only white man of the three actors booked, “we could have been an Oreo cookie.”

We had a wander into a side room, where traders were selling comics, toys and other SF paraphernalia. There was plenty on offer, but traders were complaining that, due to lack of signage, they'd had bad sales.

I tried to get some shots of the Stranger Things cast (Gaten Matarazzo and Caleb McLaughlin, who play Dustin and Lucas) uniting with the ET cast (Henry Thomas - Elliott, Dee Wallace – Mary, and Robert MacNaughton - Michael) in a forest-themed photo set, but the stewards were on it like hawks. They want you to pay for the professional photos, so fly-by camera shots are discouraged.

Sly shot of the ET cast

ET Cast

Here's Paul Blake, AKA Greedo from Star Wars. We both thought Scarface lifted from his 'I don't have it right here' scene, when they go to the flat to do the drug deal. Turns out his son, also called Paul, is a Paralympic athlete.

A stall or so down we find Mike Quinn, who played Nein Nunb in Star Wars. He was Lando Calrissian's copilot. Great bloke.

Paddy and I got talking to Nick Maley, affectionately known as 'The Yoda Guy.' Nick, special effects puppeteer, has worked on over 50 films including Superman and Highlander, but is best known for controlling the Yoda puppet in The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi.

He described making a second Yoda model some decades later. “I found the original sculpt in order to make a new model. You can be fluid the first time, but the second time you've got something to work to. (George) Lucas only handed over the outside of the mould, so there was no puppetry. I gave Yoda a lip extension. When I took it out of the mould it didn't look the same. I eventually tracked 6 lip moulds.”

A cool guy. Hope to bump into him again.

Later, we find him in the main hall 'conducting' the Piccadilly Symphony Orchestra, with Yoda on his arm.

Amazing to hear the themes to some favourite films being blasted out perfectly, right in front of me.

When Paddy and I grabbed some food in the canteen we realise we're sat a table or so down from Ray Parker Jr, of the Ghostbusters theme fame. Bustin' may make him feel good, but I didn't feel so good when he busted me selfie-bombing him.

One criticism I think all the males shared: the toilets needed an attendant. They quickly got out of hand.

At the other end of the enjoyment scale, the pièce de résistance: The photoshoot with Weathers and Ventura. On set is one of a number of Predators attending the event, tall people who dress up as the movie franchise's intergalactic hunters. A quick handshake with the two stars, a snap, and we're done. £67 for 10 seconds with 2 legends. And worth it.

Next year's FTLOSF is already in the works.

 

Johnny 5 from Short Circuit

Brigitte Neilsen

 

Gaming room

Trader stalls

Blade impersonator

Mechanical walking Hulk

 

Lou Ferrigno, the actual Incredible Hulk

Kylo Ren impersonator

Selfie-bombing the kid off E.T.

 

Ghostbusters set

Paddy with Ray Parker Jr. Wish I'd paid for this opp!

How Imperial Stormtroopers celebrate Christmas

Me, Paddy, and 2 imperial stormtroopers.

Pulling A Late One

A short erotic office-based story. If that's not your thing, don't read on.

Yeah, I thought you would.

-

Oh, you've been bad. You shouldn't have done that. Not on a weeknight. Especially not when you've got a meeting the next day.

But, fuck, it's tempting. A whole bar. Mostly students. The manager and the DJ know exactly what they're doing. Cheap alcopops. The birds love 'em, and after the first few bottles they'll do anything to get more for free.

Anything.

Or, at least, you like to think. They're easy, but you still didn't get anywhere for some reason (possibly because you drank a few alcopops yourself bringing out the leering pervert in you), and you woke up alone five hours later, to both radio and phone alarms blaring. You're now sat in this mind-numbing meeting trying to prop your eyes open, oozing last night's excesses.

Focus. Look at your manager. Oh God, why does she have to be fit too?

“Just a few jobs to dish out today,” she says, sifting through stapled sheets. She says something about a park and a poster.

Wait. No, don't look at her. That blouse is making you think things again.

You take an assignment sheet, making your contribution now, to show people you're with it. Don't let your eyes drop. Loosen your collar and cool off. Straighten your tie to hide it. Listen to the conversation; don't think about those girls. Don't picture them on the podium, in their little denim skirts, bending over and-

A handful of paper passes in front of your eyes and you try not to flinch. You look up at your manager from across the table. Strike one. She's noticed you're half asleep, but she's pretending she hasn't.

Fuck, you think. You wouldn't be in this shit now if it wasn't for that DJ. You'd have just gone home if he hadn't have made them do it, made them kiss and touch each other, made them glance out to the audience where you were standing.

They even looked right at you. Like your manager is doing right now, only without the scorn. Strike two.

Your colleague is speaking, the middle-class marketing bloke with a long commute every day and a fiance waiting for him at home in the evenings. You glance at him, like you've been paying attention all along.

“We're still waiting to hear back from them on that,” he says. You hear him say “leaflets”.

Stay tuned for now. When you get home, you can think about this all you want and you can crack one out, get it of the system and catch up on sleep. You can imagine you're the DJ. Oh. You want this champagne? You're going to have to show me a little more.

The girls lift up each other's tiny denim skirts, looking at you, and French kiss. They spank each other, hard, a smack that you can hear the over your music, piercing the fast-paced, tuneless track. They show off their thongs, grope each other's breasts, push their cleavages against each other.

Please, Mr. DJ. Give us your sweet champagne.

You show them the bottle as one girl buries her face in between the other girl's breasts.

Keep trying, you think.

But something isn't right: the bass has dropped out on your sound system. You don't understand the audio deck, which isn't actually there- all you can see is three squat coffee tables pushed together. All you can hear is the snare of- of-

Of fabric being stretched.

Your trousers. Your hand in your pocket. Your own tugging. You stop, and start to shrink, in more ways than one.

Your colleagues- your married manager, the recently-graduated pretty assistant with the meathead boyfriend you hear of- the pregnant girl who has to slouch a little- they are all silent, looking at the floor, scarlet faced.

Strike three. Oh, you've been bad.

The Evolutionary Void

I've been reading The Void Trilogy since the start of January, expecting the three Science Fiction books to take me all year. Peter F Hamilton's books chronicle the life of Edeard, a young officer in a distant-future world who has strong mind-reading capabilities and is at first intent on wiping out corruption in his home city, but soon becomes an almost Jesus-like figure that people follow. Edeard's world exists inside The Void, an artificial galaxy. Inigo, a young man who lives in The Commonwealth- a star system outside of The Void, also develops a bit of a cult following when he realises his dreams are being transmitted through the 'giafield'- think intergalactic broadband- and these dreams convince their followers, known as The Living Dream, to plan a pilgrimage into The Void. This pilgrimage, it is expected, will create a hyper-massive expansion, which will cause The Void to devour planets in order to receive energy to sustain itself. The inhabitants of the nearby galaxy, the Raiel, have sworn to stop the expansion by any means necessary- they must go to war with The Living Dream.

By the third book, a young divorcee named Araminta has accepted that she is the second dreamer, and now her visions will encourage more people to make the pilgrimage. This means various factions want her dead.

Breathe in... breathe out. Still with me? Okay. As I started to read this third book, around the start of April, the weather was horrific. It snowed some time in that month, so I stayed in reading, but as summer belatedly meandered into northern England I found less time for books. When I did, I couldn't keep up with the plot and the science infused into the story was going over my head. But, to the book's credit, at least the science was there. The Temporal Void was more fantasy than sci-fi, and was hoping The Dreaming Void would realign to the genre it purports to be. It did.

To start, the people of Makkathran- the pre-industrial-revolution-style town inside The Void- start to latch on that banishing bandits into the wilderness outside their town only shifts the problem on, and Edeard finally introduces community service. Bravo. So the mentality of the characters in Makkathran start to develop themselves.

Hamilton's language, however, has remained static. Throughout the trilogy there's lengthy and largely unnecessary details about Edeard's fantasy-like sex life, and over-descriptive action sequences that abate the story's pace at times when it needs to move the quickest. 'Raw excitement accelerated his heart, sending hot blood pounding through his body.' Surely it was his heart rate, not his actual pulmonary muscle? Unless someone was flinging it across the room (which they weren't). And surely hot blood would have been pumping through his body already, otherwise there'd be a slight problem with the continuation of the plot: he'd be dead. Hamilton has a habit of describing something in one way, then depicting the same thing with other words. The extraneous descriptions do nothing to further illustrate the scene or move along the plot.

Another example: 'Marius had been fascinated by The Heart and the notions it sang of. There was really no other way of describing it.' Well, that isn't a description in the first place. But Hamilton then disproves his own suggestion on the same page, by describing it as 'vast' and 'aloof.' No wonder The Evolutionary Void is 700 pages. The credit crunch must really have been hammering Pan Macmillan in 2010, as nobody seemed to do any editing.

During yet ANOTHER sex scene, or at least leading up to one, a female character says, 'I learned about reflexes. Particularly the involuntary ones.' As opposed to what? Voluntary reflexes? Biotopics seem to suggest that voluntary and involuntary responses are separate, and that reflexes fall under 'involuntary,' which falls in line with what I remember from secondary school biology. Aviva health site backs this up: 'A reflex is an involuntary response to a stimulus.'

How can Britain's leading Science Fiction writer not know that distinction?

So, yeah, wads of science, if you can grasp that kind of thing, in and amongst the inaccuracies. A thoroughly ridiculous story but somewhat enjoyable, although hard work. I appear to have been reading this ridiculous book for SEVEN MONTHS. I'm all Sci-Fi'd out now. As the Monty Python team would say...

Double Entry

This is a short story I wrote back in 2011. It was turned down by 9 magazines and accepted by one, an online pubication called Oysters and Chocolate which then shut down. It's a pretty graphic tale, so be warned.

-

Double Entry

Richard stands in all-black, his back against the unlit street wall, his breath misty in the night air, and watches her.

She's across the adjoining street, walking on the footpath on the other side of the junction, the clip-clop of her stilettos reverberating off the houses. When she walks past him, a few metres away, Richard's lust overwhelms him.

Who wears a denim skirt that short, he thinks, on a night like this? Are you serious, woman?

He finds himself following her, a few paces behind on the other side of the road. He clenches his fists. He can't make himself stop what he's going to do. There were times when he couldn't stop himself before. Tonight is no different. Hands shaking, he rolls down his balaclava.

And that's when she turns and looks right at him.

His heart leaps. Decision time. Walk away now? She's not got much to tell the police. Act on instinct?

She looks nervous, which excites him more. He has made up his mind. She trots on a few more paces, quicker now, her wrists out for balance, and stops at a door. She fumbles in a handbag, shakily drawing out a key. Then she bends forward, checking the lock with a strange intensity, and pushes the key in slowly, her butt stuck out.

When she's got the door open, Richard is already running at her.

She walks in and doesn't even put her hand on the door to close it. Richard has already darted across the road and slammed his way into her corridor, breathing heavily. She has turned to face him, waiting, standing very still, her chin down, her breath shaky.

Then Richard dives at her. He drops to one knee and grips the back of her ankles, taking her legs out towards him. It's a move he'd planned beforehand. She lands on her arse and Richard scrabbles forward, panting, out of control.

“No,” she whimpers, terrified. “No.” Then, in a strangely authoritarian voice, like a mother disciplining an infant, “No. You've got to do it from behind.”

He takes his hands off her skirt, fingers twitching. What? he thinks.

“Look,” she says, gripping his hands and impatiently pressing them on her hips. “Turn me over. I don't want to see you.”

Richard still doesn't move.

Bang.

Richard turns himself- they are both facing the door, and the figure in the corridor.

Hey, thinks Richard. His balaclava's just like mine.

“What the fuck is this?” asks The Figure. To the woman, he says, “The dating agency said it would just be me and you!”

There's a second-long silence in the room, but in Richard's brain there's a whirring sound, as if an old projector and its audio have just been kicked back into life.

Think.

“That's what they told me too,” Richard says, although he has no idea what he's talking about himself.

“For fuck's sake,” says the woman. “All right. Shut the door. We'll talk this through.”

Richard's lust has drastically ebbed. She sounds bored, like most women did when he could be bothered to actually date them.

“Listen,” she says, rolling her skirt back down. “You're gonna have to tell me your names, so I can straighten this out with the agency.”

“No!” barks The Figure. He's nervous. “I'm not telling you my name; I'm not taking my balaclava off.”

“Why not?” She asks.

He sighs, looks at the bottom of the room, as if he'll find the answer there. “I run an accounts business in town,” he says. “I've got adverts all over the place with my face on. No way.”

“Fair enough,” Richard says quickly, feeling claustrophobia kick in. He just wants to get out of there. He thinks of an advert he saw in a bar above a urinal:

RAPE: SHORT WORD, LONG SENTENCE.

“Just... so we don't cross paths”, the woman says, turning to Richard, “you go out the back door.” Turning to the figure, she says, “You, out the front.”

The Figure stands, staring at them both.

Richard guesses that The Figure is thinking he's being ripped off, that Richard is getting more out of this than him. Well, he thinks, Maybe I kind of already have. Under his balaclava, he smiles to himself.

“Fuck!” The Figure turns marches out of the front door and slams it, hard, behind him.

The woman steps to Richard. “Stay for a drink,” she says, a hand on his chest.

He smiles. What a dumb bitch, he thinks, and starts to wonder when's the best moment to pounce.

She walks him back to the couch. He steps back until his heels hit the seat and he falls back into it.

“SoCo and Coke?” She turns, looks at him over her shoulder, smiling, flirting.

“Yeah,” he says, thinking it's weird that she actually wants him here.

She walks into the kitchen, out of sight.

Play along, Richard thinks to himself. “Gonna have to have words with that agency,” he says. I didn't even know there were places that set up deals like this, what, rape fantasy? I wish I could ask her. I'd love it.

“I bet you are,” she says, and because she's raising her voice there's something that sounds like sarcasm in her tone.

He doesn't question it, though, as he realises he wants to play along, to consent. He can't remember the last time a woman did.

She steps back into the lounge and hands him the fizzing, black drink.

He takes a big gulp as she sits down next to him. This is going to be easy, he thinks.

“It's been kind of a strange night, hasn't it?” she asks, stroking his thigh.

His skin tingles, and he can't figure out if it feels good or not. One thing he has figured out: bad people get what they want. He's proved it before with women, and he's proving it again.

“You could say that,” he says, smiling to himself. You have no idea, woman.

He takes another sip as her hand slides up to his crotch. Something is wrong, though. He can't get hard, and his stomach has started to hurt.

“Come here,” she says, and starts to peel back his balaclava.

He lifts his hand up to stop her, but it feels heavy. He realises he can taste something dusty on his tongue. His face feels moist and cold, exposed to the room's air, as she throws the balaclava on the carpet. He's slumped, exhaling shallowly through his nose.

“I know you're not from the agency, boy,” she says, still flirting.

Richard recognises something sinister. This isn't just a come-on.

“I asked for a man in black. Those trainers aren't black.”

He looks down, cursing his white Nikes, then looks up to his glass. Dusty residue has gathered on the surface where his lips were. That's what I can taste, he thinks. “Bitch,” he mumbles, and lifts his arm to throw the glass at her. It bounces off her bare legs, soaking the carpet.

“Correct,” she states, turning, and unzips her denim skirt and pulls it down. She walks away.

Still leaning forward after the throw, his balance is off and he lands on his hands and knees, panting. He can see her at the back of the room, bent forward like when she unlocked the door. She's looking in a cupboard, reaching right to the back of it. She pulls out something purple and long, with straps hanging off it. She lays it on the linoleum, the dildo pointed at Richard's grounded face, and steps into it. His lips, squashed between the floor and his teeth, look like they are puckering up for a kiss.

As she fixes the straps around her waist, he growls in frustration and tries to lift himself up.

“You've brought this on yourself, boy,” she says, and he recognises lust in her voice.

I couldn't stop myself, he thinks, balancing on his knees.

She walks past him, the dildo eye-level to him, her heels clip-clopping on the linoleum, sounding like when he first saw her. Then he feels one of those stilettos dig into his spine, forcing him face-down again, and her firm hands grip his hips.

What Kind of Man?

I've dug out this story I wrote in 2009 about a young learning-disabled man who gets in trouble with the law after he meets a woman. It's undergone numerous drafts, it's been read by people in the police and in social services, it's been critiqued by two face-to-face groups and one online group and, even so, it's been rejected from ten publications. I can tell you why.

I came up with the idea after working in Social Services in an admin position. I'd dealt with a lot of social workers face-to-face and had worked with their paperwork. There's two sides to the average social worker- the side they show to their colleague and the side they show to their clients. Those personas are hugely different. One is a lot more empathetic, the other much more corporate. It seems obvious now I write it down. In this story, the social worker mainly speaks to her client like he's a colleague, as I didn't really grasp the nature of social work. I also had a hard time keeping my writer voice yet still verbalising the protagonist's thoughts.

The story is around 3000 words long, but don't let all of this put you off.

-

The only true wisdom consists of knowing you know nothing.    -Socrates

Eric Sole sat in the small room listening for key words.

“We’ve managed to get you on the higher rate of DLA, Eric,” said Jean. “So you’ll be getting a little extra money.”

Eric understood “extra money”.

“Your support plan’s up-to-date,” Jean said, distracted, flipping through a printed document. “Don’t worry about that.” She glanced up at the clock.

Eric understood “Don’t worry.” He recognised his name at the top of the sheet.

“How do I decorate?” he asked.

“That’s for Housing Support to organise, I’m afraid. I don’t… I can’t help you with that. That’s Rebecca you need to speak to. You know Rebecca?”

He nodded, unsure.

“We’re out of time for today,” Jean said. “Sorry we didn’t get much done, but I’ve got four other people to see this afternoon.”

Eric stepped out of the Resource Centre and into the blinding light of the afternoon. His social worker had sorted out long-term accommodation at last- a life away from his parents. But this came around ten years after his few friends had made the move.

He knew he should be relieved- this was a step forward he had wanted to take for as long as he could remember. But he had another massive anxiety: his friends all had girlfriends; he never had.

Eric knew he was different- a great guy, Jean kept saying. Maybe if he just… tried harder, he thought, he might meet a woman who would agree with Jean. He knew he deserved it. He had waited. Jean had said the right girl would come along when he least expected it. He was thoroughly, thoroughly sick of hearing people say it, and it added to his anger and self-disappointment. But he knew Jean meant well.

The bus stop was right outside the centre. Only one other person was waiting.

Take this girl, Eric thought. Pretty. Isn’t it a bit cold to be wearing a skirt that short, though? Don’t look.

“Hi,” she said.

Eric smothered the panic, just like Jean had taught him. Interact, he imagined her as saying.

“Hi.” It’s just a conversation, he thought. We’ve practised this.

She talked, and talked. Most people- young women, particularly- kept conversation with him short. She didn’t. Most avoided eye contact. This woman wouldn’t stop looking at him and smiling. He listened to her talk.

What has her useless boyfriend got to do with me? He thought. Why is she telling me all this?

Before Eric could begin to guess, she reached out and squeezed his nearest bicep.

“You’ve got big arms,” she said, smiling.

The way she behaved started to remind him of a video he watched once, one he borrowed off an older man. The story was about people who took their clothes off, and pretended to have sex.

“Thanks.” He gazed down, flattered but nervous. “I go to the gym with my s-” He faltered. Don’t mention the social worker. Don’t want to put her off. “My mate.”

“I bet you do. What’s your name?”

“Eric.” I shouldn’t be telling her, he thought. We talk about safety all the time. But she’s just a girl…

  

Most people know my name before they even meet me. Jean must sort that out. I never even noticed, ‘til now.

“I’ve got a confession to make, Eric. I’m not really waiting for a bus. I just like you.”

Eric felt his heart start to punch its way through his rib cage. Don’t panic. Especially, don’t let her see that you’re panicking.

All the safety advice started to ebb away from his mind as he looked at her. “I like you too,” he said, quietly.

She looked over her shoulder briefly, back at the resource centre. “Why don’t you come back to my flat round the corner?” Then, leaning in closer, practically forcing him to look down the lapels of her low-cut coat, “I’ve got some hot chocolate at mine.” Her voice had dropped to a low, husky tone, just more than a whisper, barely audible over the traffic.

*

An hour later Eric stood outside her house, exactly where she had left him, tentatively touching his crotch.

So that’s what sex feels like. Don’t people normally sleep afterwards? It’s a bit early I suppose. The warden at the accommodation will want to know where I am. I’m in trouble.

He walked, feeling different somehow.

They haven’t rang me, though…

Shit. That reminds me. I didn’t get her number. That’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it?

Well, that’s tomorrow’s job.

The seconds dripped by as he waited for the bus.

I couldn’t think properly when I was around her, Eric thought. It was like I became someone else. I wonder if regular people feel that way, ever.

Eric pushed self-pity out of his mind. He wanted her back already.

*

The following day, Eric had another meeting with Jean. He couldn’t focus on the issue of housing. He had to cut Jean off mid-sentence.

“What happens if you don’t use a condom?”

Jean looked up from her papers, without tilting her head, like she would with any of his questions. “You mean if you have sex with someone?”

Eric nodded, nervous.

“Well, you might get a girl pregnant. Or you could catch a sexually transmitted infection. I don’t think you want either of those, Eric.” She rolled her eyes. “Believe me.”

Eric always believed Jean. What a strange thing for her to say.

She looked back down at her papers, rifling through them, then paused, glancing over her reading glasses. “Why?”

Eric didn’t say anything. Nobody talks about that kind of thing.

“What’s wrong, Eric? You seem nervous.”

Eric felt himself blush. “No, I was just… wondering.”

* 

Going to the woman’s house was going to be one of those things he thought about repeatedly for years, like the video he borrowed, the events playing in his head on a loop. Eric tried to think as he walked to the bus stop.

Got to stay focussed. There’s the new flat to look forward to. Jean said Rebecca would help me decorate, which is cool as I wouldn’t have a clue how to start-

The sight of that unmistakeable cream coat and dark hair shocked him hard, and he gasped loudly. The girl was on the other side of the road. He wanted to shout her. But he knew his voice sounded unusual- he never shouted for fear of insults, even though there was no one else on the street but him and her. He realised at that moment that he didn’t even know her name. This fact hit him hard, in the chest.

Why didn’t I ask her?

He waved to the girl tentatively. He noticed the eye contact- another thing Jean had taught him about- so there was no doubt she’d seen him. But she had turned away!

Why?

He walked quickly, following her. She was heading to the exact same house.

How can I do this without looking like I’m chasing her?

She looked over her shoulder, looking into his eyes again. Her smile was absent. She didn’t look nervous, but she did seem agitated- pestered- like the shopkeepers did when Eric fumbled for change.

The girl shut the door behind her and Eric was close enough to hear the click of the lock.

Am I doing something wrong? He thought. This is the right girl. And the right house. What have I done?

He knocked.

No answer.

There was something different inside of him now: a type of aggression, something he would never have felt before going into that bedroom- the room just above his head. He hammered on the door with the underside of his fist. His fear was changing again, now into anger; disgust. He started to groan in frustration.

If I am a great guy, like Jean says, nobody should do this to me.

He paced back and forth on the footpath, right outside her house. There was something different about the sound he was making; normally when he was wound up he’d recognise his own noise. He held his breath for a second. There was another sound.

It was a siren. The Police Vauxhall Vectra, a car he usually admired, pulled up in front of him. Eric looked at the car and the silhouettes of the people inside. The loudness of the siren cut out, leaving a ring in his ears.

A policeman stepped out, painful looking instruments strapped onto his belt and a yellow luminous jacket puffing out around his upper body.

Can he help me talk to her?

As the ringing subsided and the man stepped uncomfortably close to him, Eric could make out his words.

“…not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

This meant nothing to him.

Perhaps if I walk back to the door, he’ll see the trouble I’m having.

As soon as Eric turned he felt a grip on his wrist, and his knuckles reached his shoulder blade. The pain shocked him and he screamed, disgusted.

How could a policeman do this?

Eric wanted to force himself away from the car, but every defiant movement he made hurt even more. The policeman spun him around and pinned him over the boot of the Vectra. Over his shoulder he could see the woman watching him, no longer showing nervousness but apparently devoid of any other emotion. His head was pressed low and he fell onto the back seat face-first. Eric, for some reason, thought of the woman’s bed. The door was closed and all he could see was the dull, tinted sky.

*

Eric was confused. This is a police station? It’s clean, like the Resource Centre. Plain. It looks like an office, only everyone’s in Police uniform. Where are the dangling lamps, Eric thought, like in the movies? Why are there no men in suits, smoking cigarettes all the time? And why did they take my bus pass? They all drive cars; they drove one to get me here. The picture doesn’t even look like any of them.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clip-clop of Jean’s shoes approaching the interview room. He started to sob when she entered, familiar in her business suit. She was flanked by a policeman.

“Eric.” She held one of his chubby hands in both of her slender palms. “Jesus. What happened?”

Eric stuttered. “I…”

“Eric, You’re going to be interviewed. They think you raped someone.” She paused. “Did you?”

He couldn’t speak.

“Why did you do it, Eric?”

“I thought she wanted me to.”

Jean let go of his hand. Pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingertips. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

Eric choked on his tears.

Blurry-eyed, he recognised the officer as the man who’d arrested him.

“We’re just going to ask you some questions, Eric,” he said, slower than necessary.

“You don’t have to speak so loud,” said Jean. “His hearing’s fine.”

*

The policeman sat next to him, fingers steepled. “I’m Officer Barnes,” he said. “Do you know Helen Hay?”

“No,” Eric said, confused.

Officer Barnes held up a photo of a woman. She was wearing a cream coat.

Eric covered his mouth in shock and recognition.

Almost out of habit he thought of his sessions with Jean. Breathing hard, he thought of himself sat in the chair. He tried to let his shoulders droop relaxed as he exhaled, eyes closed to aid concentration and to get the photograph out of his mind. He thought of his chest, but his body wasn’t responding to his efforts.

  

Eric stared hard at the floor. He remembered the house, the girl, the way he pressed his body weight on her to keep her under him. People always filled in the gaps for him- what he didn’t understand, or didn’t know about, Jean or Dr. Maloney would explain. Now Officer Barnes was filling in the gaps in his memory.

Officer Barnes held up a rectangular plastic bag, like the one Eric’s dad had used for maps when they’d gone fell walking when Eric was a boy. The memory of those walks seemed strangely distant.

The bag didn’t have a map in it. Instead, it contained a stained pair of purple knickers.

A memory came to Eric so clearly, like turning the television on for a second and watching a fleeting moment from a programme: the woman- Helen- on the bed, and her look of concentration that Eric realised now could have been distress. On a mattress strewn with clothes, Eric has his weight on top of her, kneeling up between her legs, and Helen brings her knee up, trying to force it in front of his stomach. Her movement spurs Eric on harder, not consciously controlling his hips. She levers out with her knee, pushing her torso backwards, and Eric falls out of her. Falling face-first into her stomach, he comes over the clothing beneath them.

“Do you recognise this?”

He looked again at the garment. “Yes.” He felt sick with guilt.

Jean interjected. “Why are you showing him this? Shouldn’t you have sent it off for, what, DNA testing?”

“He says he recognises it.” Officer Barnes turned to Eric. ”Here’s what we think happened. You pushed your way in when you saw her unlock the door. You chased her up the stairs…”

The officer’s voice faded as the facts overwhelmed him.

Why did I do it? Why didn’t I know what I was doing was wrong? What kind of man am I?

Jean’s voice brought him back.

“That’s just what they think, Eric. Do you think Officer Barnes is right, or did something else happen?”

How am I supposed to know? Eric thought. He decided not to speak.

Jean turned to Officer Barnes. “He should really have a lawyer before we go into this.”

“That’s up to you,” said Officer Barnes. “I’m going to give you a few moments. Maybe you can… get him to open up.” He left the room.

 “Listen,” Jean said. “Your parents are still on holiday. I can’t get in touch with them. I don’t know what’s going to happen... to you. But I can tell you that I will help you as much as I can. You’re going to have to go to court, Eric. But I will be there with you. You won’t even have to say anything.”

Eric looked up, hopeful. “Can you take me home?”

“No,” said Jean. “Not tonight. A lady from the newspaper wants to ask me about you, Eric. But I’m only going to tell her what she already knows- you’re being held in custody- this building- and that you’re they are asking you about a rape.”

Jean unzipped her coat and pulled her chair closer. “Eric,” she said, looking at the linoleum floor. “I know you told me about how lonely you are.”

Eric covered his face.

“But this wasn’t the right thing to do, Eric. Sex should be fair. You’ve got to both agree to do it.”

You’ve got to say that you’re going to do it, he thought, before you do it?

Eric lifted his tear-streaked face. Jean was worried.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’ve got lots of work to do, but I’ll tell you what’s going to happen as soon as I can.”

She left. Eric stared at the empty chair where the woman who held his life together had been sitting.

Eric thought back to his school days, when he first found out about sex. It seemed something so far away. He remembered the classroom- the desks held together with chewing gum and Mr. Sykes’ voice droning, sending him to sleep. He remembered little of the lessons, but the rumours of how sex happens had never left his mind. Now he’d experienced it.

Maybe if you wait too long, something just makes you do it, he thought. Maybe if you just feel too bad about things, this is what happens to make you feel good again, no matter what happens after. But now I feel worse than ever.

*

Behind his eyelids, an orange glow shocked him. The blanket was heavy and coarse, the pillow battered and shallow. I feel like this pillow, thought Eric.

Waking in a strange place is like being on holiday. Only, holidays are fun. Maybe this is like an inside-out holiday. Eric pinched himself. It certainly isn’t a dream.

They’re going to keep telling me off today, thought Eric. That’s probably all that today is about.

Officer Barnes opened the cell and put a tray on the table. “You can have toast, can’t you, Eric?”

He nodded.

“Good. Eat up, son.” Officer Barnes stepped out and locked the cell.

Eric ate.

Strange how people can be hard and kind of mean to you one day, and nice to you the next. Is it because I’m different? If I weren’t, would people make more sense?

*

Later, Officer Barnes unlocked the cell.

“Eric,” he asked, “can you follow me please?”

He took Eric to a different room- not outside, like he expected. Not to a courtroom where people in strange wigs would bully him. Just a regular police room like the one Officer Barnes interviewed him in. Behind a table, looking concernedly through a large file of papers, sat Jean. She looked shattered. She smiled when she saw him.

“Eric. I think we both had a hard night last night!”

“Yes.”

“Okay folks,” said Officer Barnes. “You’re both free to go.”

Eric looked at Officer Barnes, confused. Then looked at Jean.

“Thanks, officer,” she said, “and I’ll be in touch.” Then to Eric, “I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Let’s get you home.”

*

Eric had never been in Jean’s car before. It occurred to Eric that Jean was a woman like any other, with a life outside of the resource centre- she drove this car to work, from her house, probably.

Jean explained a little more of the world and its workings on the way to his accommodation. “The bad news is: you’re still going to have to go to court. The good news is: you’re not the one in trouble, Eric. Helen is. Bear with me here. I’ve been speaking to some social workers who work on the other side of the city. They’ve told me all about her. A few years ago, in a different town, Helen was raped. The rapist was a man with learning disabilities.”

“Like me?”

“No, Eric, very different to you. He went to prison, and Helen got Criminal Injuries Compensation- basically she got money off the court. Then she had this idiotic idea,” Jean said, angry, “that she could make more money that way. So she moved out of that town, to here. She found out about the resource centre, and that’s when she found you.”

“But I didn’t do anything to her.”

“I know, Eric. You’ll find people will be mean and horrible, like Helen was, the world over. And everyone has to deal with them at some point. You had to deal with a much worse situation than most people do, though. People like me try to stop them.” A pause. “Eric, I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you. It’s just such an unusual thing to happen. Helen is a very sick woman, to do something like that- not just to you, but to put herself through it... Well. She's in a lot of trouble. I would never have thought this would happen. This must have been really hard on you.”

“Well… Yeah. It has. I thought I was imagining things. But, y’know… it wasn’t that bad, the main part.”

Jean looked confused. “The cells?”

“The, uh, sex. At least, erm, that happened,” he said, looking at his lap. “I suppose I'm kind of bad for thinking that.”

Jean smiled. “No, I'd say that's a pretty normal for a man your age, Eric.”