Reluctantly Howard said goodbye to Gallie, opened the front
door and stepped out into the darkness. Moving away from the house, he glanced
back upon the terrace and saw the girl he had seen earlier leaning out of
the neighbour's window. In the dim yellow glow of the streetlamp it was hard
to see her expression, but a sense of sadness haunted her. Her cigarette glowed.
She was peering down at him. He smiled heartily at her. She looked up as if
startled. Feeling embarrassed he eased into his Maxi. Tank-like and
endowed with a 1750 cc engine, the Maxi's velocity belied its inertia. He
loved it: even if it did break down now and then. Recently he had passed
his driving test in a Metro, but the Maxi had more
grit. He flicked
the dial to Radio One. Feeling diffused from fatigue, he welcomed the cheery
banality of both DJ and music, and listened out the inertia of a childhood
habit.
He steered out of Napoleon Terrace into the main Chillington
Road, towards the University. His mind fixated on Gallie. In his reverie
he did not notice until the last moment, a red light at a pedestrian crossing.
He slammed down the brake pedal. The momentum of the heavily built car was
not easily killed. Out of the darkness the figure of a man emerged. The
man lurched to one side to avoid his screeching car. Synchronously Howard
took avoidance action by steering to the same direction taken by the man.
The man lashed down onto the bonnet with a bang. The car
shuddered to a halt. Howard covered his eyes with his hands in distress.
Peering through quivering fingers he saw the man on his bonnet moving his
arm. Leaving the engine running, Howard opened his door and stood behind
it, oblivious of the traffic that began to accumulate behind him.
'What the hell are you doing?'
'Erm,
very sorry,' gasped Howard fretfully.
'Look here! Next time read the Highway Code?
Red
indicates
stop!' barked the middle-aged man aggressively.
Howard apologised effusively, adding that the traffic signals
were hard to see. Behind him the traffic fired horns. His fear combined with
a sense of indignation, metamorphosed into wrath at this verbal assault against
him.
'Next time you should get a lollipop lady to escort you!'
The man lurched towards him. Ducking into his car, Howard
slammed the door and stamped on the accelerator pedal. His adversary thumped
the side window. Incredibly the pane withstood the thunderous blow. Howard
flicked a defiant V sign and accelerated away. The engine roared. Glancing
in his rear view mirror he saw the receding image of the man shaking his fist.
Fired by this terrible encounter, Howard drove tempestuously
through Redater, and out of the town into the moors.
Three hours later he arrived at Exfield. Relieved to find
himself back in the familiar streets of his hometown, he sped recklessly through
a mundane, middleclass housing estate. In the darkness a small swarm of children
were kicking a football in the road. They scattered from the beams of his
headlights like squirrels. Tutting, he pulled onto the concrete drive of his
parent's abode: the nest he was now eager to flee.
A football bounced off the wing of the car with a ringing
thud, like a clapper striking a bell. It ricocheted into a flowerbed. In the
warm light cast from the porch, Howard surveyed the wing of the car and the
decimated plants. With a maddened eye he surveyed the shadowy gang of children:
they stood in the road with their hands placed petulantly on their hips.
'You want the ball back you little bastards?' he shouted
querulously.
He received a few impatient nods.
'Then hand over your pocket money for repairs to the car.'
'If you won't give my ball back, Mister,' threatened the
largest child of the bunch, 'I will tell my Dad and my Dad's a kick boxer!
In the SAS! And he's a
million times harder than you!'
I
know your Dad,' said Howard, 'he's a desk-sucking
Civil Servant and he's a raging poof. Now naff off!'
He hoofed the football at the children who closed on it
like a venus flytrap. Turning his back to them he stepped into the porch.
'He's
not a Civil Servant,
wank-face,' protested
the largest child.
His mother was at home.
'Hello Howard!' she enthused, returning his smile thrice
amplified. 'I didn't expect to see you so soon. Are you alright?'
'I forgot some things that's all. Where's Dad?'
'He's in the
Dog and Ferret. Oh I'm
glad
everything's been sorted out. You've got a lot of work to catch up on you
know. Did you put your grant in the bank?'
'Not yet.'
'Are you sure you'll pack everything you need this time?'
'Look, Mum, I'm a bit knackered. I can look after myself,
OK?'
'I know you can, Love. Your dinner's in the microwave.
I'll put it on full power for one minute to heat it up for you.'
Howard wandered into the kitchen. It was spotless; everything
was in its place. The faint fumes of disinfectant blended with the scent
of air freshener to create a synthetic, slightly toxic whiff. He pulled the
plate from the microwave and entered the lounge.
'So
come on Howie, tell us all about Redater then,'
pressed his mother.
He thought of Gallie but the pleasant sensation was jolted
by his distressing encounter with Greg and his near manslaughter of the middle-aged
pedestrian.
'Not much to say. Pretty uneventful.'
***
*****
***
That night Howard's sleep was patchy. Greg's awesome presence
dominated his dreams; his roaring voice echoed madly. So did gunshots. Greg
was attempting to shoot him with a .44 Magnum. Greg was doing this because
it was his way of being friendly. He was trying to reach out to Howard by
blowing him away.
The alarm clock saved him from certain death.
'
Bugger it!' he panted. He silenced the alarm and
slept erratically until midday.
Having loaded the Maxi with gear, he started out to Redater
with the feelings paranoia that he had forgotten something or other. DJ Steve
Wright of Radio One was halfway through his daily show. '
Its Another True
Story!' burbled the jingle. The DJ read out a tale featuring a tulip
that could talk. The comical sound of screaming women cued the end of the
'
true story'. A subsequent travel update advised to 'steer well clear'
of a traffic jam caused by an 'jack-knifed lorry' on the 'south-bound carriageway'
of the very motorway he was heading south on. The traffic jam materialised
a few hundred yards ahead, with no nearby junction to provide an escape route.
The DJ pointed out that the queue was already two miles long and not moving.
'Severe delays' were expected. Once again 'motorists' were advised to 'steer
well clear'. The merry tune
Guilty by Bananarama filled the airwaves.
The bubbly pop trio failed to lighten his mood.
Severely delays meant it was already early evening by the
time Howard arrived at his new digs in Napoleon Terrace. Wearily, he lugged
a bag with one hand, fished a Yale key from his pocket with the other and
let himself in through the blue front door. The musty aromas of stale beer
and food filled his nostrils. As he shut the door behind him the downstairs
bathroom door opened.
A naked woman, a stranger, stepped out into the hallway.
She slung a crimson towel over a pale shoulder; wet red hair cloaked the other.
Upon seeing him, she made no attempt to conceal her pale body from his stunned
eyes. To his great shame, he denied himself the pose of gentlemanly courtesy:
so rather than avert his eyes, he ogled her blatantly. With quizzical, contemptuous
amusement she noted his ill composure and fixed her gaze towards his crotch.
He hastily dropped his bag and covered the stimulated region with his hands.
Smiling, she brushed past him, stepped over his bag and climbed the stairs.
After a discreet delay, he too ascended the stairs and hauled
his bag to his room. He had forgotten just how tiny it was. He fetched the
rest of his gear from the car and set about decorating the walls with posters.
Half an hour later, having exhausted the contents of a tube
of superglue he crept down the stairs and tiptoed down the hall. . He noticed
that the lock on Marlon's door was unfastened. Placing a clandestine ear
to the door he heard sounds of something being subjected to a rapid pounding,
like ceaseless musket fire.
Shrugging, he sneaked up to the living room door. Crouching,
he placed his ear to it. Without warning the door opened inwards.
Time decelerated to chronological treacle. In this state
of temporal drag, he first noted that his face was embedded in soft and snug
cushions.
Two soft and snug cushions. A leap of cognitive insight let
him to deduct that those soft and snug cushions were
breasts. But this
was
not a time for pleasant contemplation. Anxiety conquered his mind.
His eyeballs lifted upwards. Red hair; a strong face with assertive features;
an angry expression. Familiar. Confusion. Resolution. Recognition! It was
the girl he had seen naked, albeit now she was togged up in fancy, extrovert
garments. His eyes fine-tuned to meet hers. Alarm and quizzical displeasure
were powerfully communicated to him.
'Howard!' boomed an unmistakeable, intimidating voice from
within the lounge. 'Good man! Nuzzling yer snout in Karen's titties, ya perv!'
Howard pulled away from Karen's breasts.
'Right, yes, erm,
sorry.' He contemplated collapsing
to the floor and playing dead.
'Cut the crap Greg,' snapped Karen. 'I mean, actually, you're
a total dick cheese basically!!'
Greg reacted to this assessment of his character by roaring
with laughter.
'Howard, what do ya say? Karen's a real looker, a doll,
top draw tottie! Well, OK, she's not exactly Helen of Troy, but she's bleeding
dynamite below the sheets!'
Karen glared. 'Huh! Do me a favour and go and suck yourself
off, Greg, for Christ's sake! You're a total bastard, quite frankly!'
As he tugged the ring pull off a fresh can of Termite's
Extra, Greg winked at her and grinned broadly.
'Wish I
could, baby, that's for frigging sure!'
'Hi Karen, I didn't recognise you with your clothes on,'
ventured Howard.
He knew the line was cheesy. He also knew that, as the introductory
speech to a housemate, his words should have been more diplomatically selected,
but his stressed judgement was such that he felt he had to say
something.
For better or for worse, he had taken the chance of a lifetime to utter such
a corny phrase - and mean it
literally.
Obviously not one to keep her emotions bottled up, Karen
turned and faced the hapless Howard.
'Actually, don't
snoop around like that!' she bawled.
'You totally scared the crap out of me, frankly, you stupid, limp-dicked,
sad, male fucking
son of a bitch!'
Slapping him meatily across his face then pushing him aside,
she stamped down the hall and up the stairs. Howard trembled in the doorway.
The slap was not the only reason his face reddened. Greg threw his head back
and roared with laughter.
'Come in! Come in!
Sodom and Gomorrah! What you doing,
standing there like a bleeding lemon? Grab a pew! Don't worry about
her.
She's on the rag as usual. Feminists eh? Blimey! Here, get your laughing gear
around this.'
Howard failed to catch a can of strong lager Greg chucked
at him with much force. It struck him painfully in the ribs.
'Hey,' said Greg cheerfully, 'any dude that gets a slap
from Karen is a mate of mine. I'll show you around this lovely palace we call
home sweet fucking home!'
Greg beamed with tidal friendliness, put his arm around
Howard's shoulder and squeezed slightly too hard for comfort.
'You and me'll hit a club! Go on the pull! Sniff out the
talent! Cop off with the chicks! No bleeding lass will be safe with us on
the prowl!'
Perking up, Howard said that he found Greg's plan of persuading
women to have sex was indeed most agreeable. He was extremely sincere on this
point.
Greg commenced his house tour. After he had stopped laughing
at Howard's '
broom cupboard' of a room, he showed Howard his own living
quarters, a spacious and extremely cluttered attic room. Greg lived in a
feminist's nightmare. The large man proudly pointed out the posters on the
sloping walls, posters that featured semi-clad beauties in subservient poses.
Enormous potted plants added a rainforest feel to the room. Strewn around
the floor and shelves were open books; pads of paper; folders and models of
aircraft, cars and bikes, some of which dangled on threads attached to the
ceiling. Endless quantities of paraphernalia demanded the wary footing of
a minesweeper. The middle of the room featured a double mattress with motorbiking
and hardcore magazines lying open on it. In one corner a primitive record
player was connected to two large Marshall guitar amplifiers. Vinyl was scattered
like confetti about the place. A Musicman bass guitar lay in a coffin-like
case. Stale cigarette and pot fumes hung cloyingly in the air.
Greg lit a rollup and exhaled smoke towards the floor.
'Look Howard, I'm running late. Me and some mates are going
down the Tav. Grab your coat!'
Shy at the prospect of a whole evening with this manic stranger,
Howard declined the offer, and felt cowardly for doing so.
Greg slapped him on the back.
'Tomorrow night me and you go
seal clubbing, yeah?'
'
Seal clubbing?'
'Yeah.
Seal clubbing! Club a few chicks, y'know,
bonk the bleeding pelts off them!'
Howard smiled uneasily.
'Frigging tomorrow it is then.
Tomorrow me and you
go out on the pull!'
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| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2001-04-09 11:25:24 |
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| From: |
MadPole | Subject: | 2001-04-09 18:18:53 |
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| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2001-04-10 04:29:12 |
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| From: |
MadPole | Subject: | 2001-04-10 17:46:50 |
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| From: |
MadPole | Subject: | 2001-04-10 17:48:13 |
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| From: |
Mr. Knorr | Subject: | 2001-04-11 03:44:22 |
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| From: |
FumingPole | Subject: | 2001-04-11 18:23:27 |
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| From: |
FrothingPole | Subject: | 2001-04-11 18:25:27 |
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| From: |
Knoiner | Subject: | 2001-04-12 05:30:48 |
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| From: |
Knor | Subject: | 2001-04-12 05:32:44 |
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| From: |
Isolani | Subject: | 2001-04-12 08:55:01 |
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| From: |
Ti Shan | Subject: | 2001-04-12 08:56:56 |
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| From: |
Knor | Subject: | 2001-04-12 12:24:41 |
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| From: |
Madpole | Subject: | 2001-04-25 02:21:57 |
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| From: |
dlh | Subject: | 2001-04-29 07:09:39 |
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| From: |
Hsingi | Subject: | 2001-09-21 12:03:19 |
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| From: |
MadPole | Subject: | 2001-09-21 18:05:43 |
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| From: |
MadPole | Subject: | 2001-09-21 18:06:48 |
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| From: |
Charlotte | Subject: | 2001-09-29 19:14:41 |
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| From: |
OldPhoenix | Subject: | 2002-08-17 10:13:03 |
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help: how to add your comment Page hits: 3665Do you or did you ever live in a student house?
Add your comment
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Jim
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My
own worthless opinion (as the humble
author) is that analysis, ANY analysis,
ALL analysis, is great! The more analysis
the merrier, because your comments and
the novel itself, will always exist
together as a single entity.
People
can read your analysis on each chapter
and those comments in turn feed back
into how people interpret the next chapters.
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