Working in social care by day (and evening depending on hours!) I work at poetry/ prose at other times and hope to write a lot more in the future.

A recent poem is this (based on a real event):


Between the bookshelves


Between the bookshelves
your first plastic stretcher
is rushed to you;
your blood coagulates
as unseen hands
goad your heart back to action;

nearby your wife stands
twisting her shoulders;
years ago she carried herself
well at your wedding,
took the pain of your child,
sweetened your anger with joy
but at this. . .


A new short story is this:

ONE OF THE LADS


The afternoon light pours into a first floor bedroom of a quiet, Victorian house in Chester. There is no bed. Instead, a sofa and a soft chair face each other. A table divides them, supporting a box of tissues. White walls give an impression of stillness. A clock ticks incessantly from a hook.
The doorbell sounds downstairs. A curvaceous woman moves from a back room stuffed with office equipment and pulls the latch on the door.
A young man stands on the mat outside.
‘Hello Ian’, she says.
‘Hi,’ he says, diffidently. As he steps in, she glances at his pierced ear and brow, and notices a large bruise on his left cheek.
‘Go on up,’ she says, gesturing at the stairs.
Ian climbs quickly up to the first floor, past the photo gallery on the wall to the left. He shakes his coat as he thinks how quickly the photos change. How often people leave. But Janet is his today. She will understand straight away what the problem is.

The bedroom is at the end of a short, light corridor. He pushes the door and squints at the window. The floorboards creak underneath his boots as he sits down on the sofa. Nerves flicker in the pit of his stomach.
He has 45 minutes to confess to a lie.
He doesn’t take off his coat. Stroking his shaved head he hears Janet come out of the back room and begin to climb the stairs. She seems to stop to look at the photos, then continues.
Ian fingers the bruise on his cheek. How to tell the truth when it’s the last thing you want to do. Janet will be the first person. A thin curtain to his left moves in the air coming through the half-opened window. He settles into the sofa, uneasily.
Footsteps approach outside in the corridor, and Janet moves into the room, smiling. Her eyes glint, framed by blonde hair and a high forehead. Ian looks down. The stripes on his jumper seem to blur. Just talk normally.
His therapist sits in the soft chair and waits a moment.

45 minutes later the clock says quarter to 12. Ian gets up from the sofa and looks relieved. Janet is still smiling but there is a concerned edge to her voice as she tells him she’s going to get the bill.
‘Thanks,’ he says.
He sits back down on the edge of the sofa and curves his shoulders. His thick neck throws his chin forward at a sharp angle. A bird sings outside. There. It’s done. Someone in the world knows what I am. I got into a fight. I am tough. But someone in the world knows what I am.
Janet comes back up the stairs and he gets up for the door. They meet on the threshold and she touches his arm a minute.
‘Here are next month’s sessions,’ she says, handing him a piece of paper.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe I told you.’
‘It’s about time,’ she says. ‘We can carry on next week.’
They both walk down the stairs and Ian seems to hasten as he makes for the door. Janet holds it open and he turns and looks over his shoulder.
‘Thanks,’ he says, before heading out into the sunshine.

That night Chester is alive with people. The Queen’s Head, at the bottom of Watergate Street, is known for its fights and the bouncers stand outside. They let in a man in a red t-shirt and black denim jeans.
Ian appears through the door.
He went straight home after his midday session with Janet. Sat for a while in a chair. Ignored his mobile phone.
A face in a group of men sitting across the wooden floor turns towards him as he walks to the bar.
‘Hey! Ian! Over here!’
Ian smiles a chipmonk grin and his eyes light up. He turns and motions to the bar where a barman stands waiting.
The pub swirls with noise and laughter. The room is panelled in a Tudor style and there are tall fireplaces at each end. A fruit machine stands blinking against a banister. Lead latticed windows slowly steam up.
Ian seizes his pint and edges towards the group of men. He sees the tattoes on their forearms. The way their fists clench and teeth grimace as the satellite TV plays the football. Friends. But not tonight.
‘You alright, Ian?’ says Danny, who called to him.
A stool is dragged from somewhere.
‘Er, yeah,’ says Ian, sitting down. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Dunno,’ says Danny, shrugging. ‘I texted you earlier on. You get it?’
Ian thought back to sitting in the chair at home, mobile phone going off. It had been ages. But he had made up his mind.
‘No I didn’t. Was it about tonight?’
‘Yeah’, says Danny. ‘We’re going over to Brannigan’s later. You up for it?’
‘Nah. Can’t be arsed. Had enough last week.’
Hot, sweaty nightclub with a low ceiling. Girls onto you. Danny will never, ever understand. You couldn’t tell him.
‘Well, suit yerself,’ he replies. The others sit transfixed by the screen. Ian retreats into himself for a few moments. A group of girls stagger through the pub doors and make for the bar. Danny eyes Ian.
‘You sure you’re alright mate?’
‘Yeah yeah – just tired.’
‘So where you going after this?’
‘Home probably,’ says Ian. ‘Haven’t eaten yet.’
‘OK,’ says Danny. ‘Well, get yerself another pint. On me.’
‘Cheers mate,’ says Ian, hunching his shoulders. He mouths the rest of the sentence. ‘Cheers.’

Another pint drains from the glass into Ian’s mouth. The room begins to swim. It is 10 o clock. Time to go. The door to the pub bangs with more and more people streaming in. Danny comes back from the toilet tucking in his Liverpool shirt.
‘OK lads,’ he says. ‘Shall we go over?’
People nod their heads and begin to stand up. Belts are straightened. Someone laughs about the nil nil result on the football. The group begins to file towards the door but Ian hangs back. Danny catches him.
‘So, er, see you again mate?’
‘Yeah yeah, course,’ replies Ian.
‘Don’t go getting into any trouble on your way home. No fights with bouncers like last week.’
Ian laughs. The bruise on his cheek. Janet didn’t say anything but you could tell she noticed it. ‘I’ll be a good boy,’ he says back. He smiles. ‘Be in bed by 11, Danny.’
Danny gives him an incredulous look as they walk out into the street. The sun has only gone down an hour ago. Girls pass, their heeled shoes clicking on the pavement. Danny’s group of lads cross the road. A queue is forming outside the old art deco cinema that is Brannigan’s.
Ian heads up Watergate Street. Tudor buildings jut out into the street. He moves quickly. His heart is racing and his hands are in the pockets of his jeans. Turning right into Frodsham Street, shops pass on the left and right in an increasing blur. Over the canal bridge. Past the Slowboat Chinese restaurant. Tall flats loom ahead in the Gorsestacks. He turns left past a car-park and walks up the road to the Bull and Stirrup at the traffic lights.
There are only a few people around this part of town. He looks around him. If anybody saw. . . As he turns at the lights the 18th century Blue Coat hospital stands in darkness opposite. Ian walks straight over the road and stops on the pavement. No. The black and white sign of The Liverpool Arms hangs outside. No. Not tonight.
But his legs begin to move towards the entrance.

A man stands on the threshold. ‘Alright,’ he says, as Ian approaches. The noise of live music comes from inside. The man shifts and Ian passes him, head down. The pub is small. The walls are pink and textured and a gold moon is fixed to a silver painted ceiling. Large square mirrors reflect photos of Marilyn Monroe and Marlene Dietrich in a sailor outfit hanging from the walls.
Ian edges to the bar and stands nervously. Men are stood around, watching the music coming from a small stage at one end. A group of girls laughs around a table of drinks. The barman comes up to him.
‘What can I get you?’
Ian fumbles for his wallet. ‘Er, pint of Fosters please.’
He stands waiting. A man nearby in a black leather jacket and blue jeans turns and notices him. Ian knows but can’t look up. The man turns back to the music. The barman hands Ian his pint. The music seems louder.
There he is, helpless at the bar of one of the gay pubs in Chester. The man in the jacket turns round again, and this time moves over to him.
‘You alright, mate?’
‘Yes,’ says Ian.
‘First time?’
‘Yes,’ says Ian.
‘You’ll be OK,’ says the man. ‘I’m Eddie.’
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Ian.’
Eddie smiles and shows a gold capped tooth. ‘You interested in getting to know people, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Ian is silent.
‘Need a bit of time to get used to things?’
‘Yes,’ says Ian.
‘Well you know me now. I can introduce you to a lot more people. It you want, I can give you my number at the end of the night.’
Ian smiled. ‘I usually say that to girls.’
Eddie laughs. ‘Only girls in here are interested in the darts.’
‘Then I won’t get hassled then.’
‘Nope. Something tells me you want a different kind of customer on your case.’
Ian looks relieved. ‘Early days Eddie. I told my counsellor today.’
Eddie put down his drink. ‘What they say?’
‘She knew. Sensed it. Was just waiting for me to tell it to her myself.’
Eddie whistles. ‘They always do Ian. Paid thousands for superior intuition. But it got you here, didn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ says Ian. ‘I want a good night.’
‘You’ve come to the right place,’ says Eddie. ‘Come and sit with us lot over there. I’ll introduce you.’
Ian looks at a group of men sitting near the stage, causally dressed. He stops.
‘I look like a tough guy, Eddie.’
Eddie thinks for a moment. ‘We’re all tough guys, Ian. All fighting our corner.’ He moves towards them. ‘Come on over.’
Ian holds his drink and walks over to the group of men. The stage is decorated with pots of sunflowers and gold cherubs watch from the ceiling. He stands with Eddie’s arm around him as he is introduced. The names don’t quite go in, and Eddie shouts above the noise. The men smile and nod. Just a bunch of lads. Tough guys to be with, but just a bunch of lads.


I lived in Brighton in 1995 and shared some of Paul's ideas during what was the beginning period of Healthy Concerts. Occasional concerts and events in Brighton and in Flintshire followed, together with my continued interest and support for artists who come up this way and perform where people can create opportunities. . .

Blog: www.blogstoday.co.uk/eyecatcher.blog

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