One thing about Frank was that he needed a wingman. Alongside his almost constant smoking, other thing that Frank enjoyed most was screwing. Not for him the slow, patient subtleties of online dating or newspaper lonely hearts. Nope it was out for the night, line one up, bang, gone in the morning.
Naturally, the people Frank saw the most of were his co-workers. But they nearly all had taken it in their heads to have stable, steady relationships which was ludicrous in Frank's eyes. That only left the singleton Ryan as a dependable and regular wingman for Frank's needs and he usually had to be. If he had put his mind to it, Frank could probably have cajoled his way into Fort Knox. It didn't matter if at all if Ryan enjoyed himself as long as Frank got laid. On the occasions Frank didn't it was a troubled, black-tempered walk home laced with expletives and poisonous, hateful rants against all womankind. That was motivation enough for Ryan to do what he could for Frank on the nights out, not that he would be out in the first place if he could help it.
Sometimes, very occasionally, Ryan left Frank yammering away at his door and did not answer. But usually he followed his natural reflex and answered without thinking. Big mistake. Tonight was no exception.
'Ryan! You coming out tonight?'
Too late.
'Aw, not tonight, Frank. I've got to be up early tomorrow.'
'What the fuck you on about? It's the day off tomorrow!'
Actually Ryan had forgotten about that. And he and Frank knew he had no other reason to be up early.
'Well, yeah, but...'
'Well yeah but bollocks! Come out for a few jars!'
Frank always dressed up 'The Hunt' as a couple of mates just heading out for some pints.
'Frank, I'm terrible tired!'
'So what? You'll sleep tomorrow no probs!'
The conversation progressed, but it was hopeless. Within half an hour Ryan found himself standing outside City Hall.
They went to the nearest pub for two to three of what Frank called 'looseners'. And the talk was all from Frank and was all about women and the many ways he liked to have intercourse with them.
Ryan just wasn't 'into' it. Not that he wasn't attracted to women and not that he'd never had sex; he'd just once had a one night stand to see what the experience was like but, that aside, sex and women were just too far removed from his life as he never thought about them. Frank could think about little else, apart from nicotine.
With Frank suitably loosened and Ryan feeling a bit dizzy and sick, they stumbled through another couple of pubs before heading to the nearest nightclub. That was a ramshackle place with about four floors, narrow wooden staircases and stale seats beneath flickering, coloured lights.
Each floor had its own theme and style of music. They'd ended up at the top where hardcore drum 'n' bass was played. Frank was soon jigging about on the dance floor, scoping out the women about him. Ryan sat in the corner with one hand over his ear and the other lifting the latest in as succession of flat lagers in plastic cups.
He was exhausted, so Frank had made him down a double vodka/Red Bull. That woke him up but now he was just miserable and very drunk. He made his way uneasily over to Frank to say something about needing to go home. Frank, totally preoccupied with a couple of women, just nodded. Ryan somehow headed down the stairs.
But he didn't get to the front door. He somehow was on the next floor where he somehow got talking to a girl which somehow led to them kissing.
Next he somehow was in a taxi with the girl and her mates which was going to Lisburn. Frank was somehow in the cab with them, eyeing up a pretty blonde. Soon they were in the house owned by the girl Ryan had met.
Her name was Karen, she was a redhead about Ryan's age and seemed quite taken with him. She worked in the health service. These would be the entire details that Ryan would remember.
It came back to somehow, as Ryan somehow ended up upstairs with Karen and they went to her bed. They somehow didn't have sex...but they didn't not have any fun either. The next morning Ryan got up to go to the bathroom. He heard loud snoring coming from the spare room and looked in to see Frank stretched out on the bed, alone and fully clothed, passed out.
Gingerly and with a head full of stimulant and feeling sick, Ryan got dressed and told Karen he had to go but he would get her number from her phone. She smiled and went back to sleep.
Two hours later Ryan and Frank got back into Belfast on the bus, broke and both on the verge of puking.
But Ryan didn't have Karen's number. To his knowledge he never saw her again.
His head was back to his main preoccupations in life and within a few weeks he would give them his total attention. Excluding everything else.
Wednesday 4 May 2011
Wednesday 27 April 2011
Chapter Three
Scarlet and apricot hues stained the sky as the transit rumbled back down to the city. Looking to be a decent day tomorrow as the incipient moon hovered overhead.
As last in, Ryan was first off. But that just left him with more time than he really knew what to do with. He stood for a moment, then walked over to the chippy. The guy who owned it had an interest in crocodiles from an early age which is why he only had one arm now. He was given to serving difficult customers with his hook. Ryan got cod and a chip and went home. He walked past the shops, whose wall acted like a community notice board.
There was still the same announcement there that had been up for the last four months: 'IAN BEALE CLYMIDA'. Exactly how it was written.
Ryan got to his front door and went in. He got the plate out and sat in the living room and ate while watching TV. He had a TV as he had nothing else to do until bed just before 9. Evening after evening was the same. He pushed his tea aside when finished, belched and then settled into viewing for the next five hours.
Weirdly, he enjoyed the stability. He got up each day before dawn, worked and then came home, watched TV and went to bed. If he had a day off he just watched TV. He never went out unless he was cajoled into doing so by Frank or one of the others.
He was 25 years old and had calmly spent the last five years of his life in this way.
But there was a reason for this stable nothingness and it was a good one.
Aged just four days old, Ryan had been abandoned in a break room at Euston station in London where he was found by the staff. The only identifying feature had been an arm-band with the name 'Ryan' written on it. Though it wasn't clear if this was the family name or his first name. It was how he was known anyway. His parents were never traced. He was put in a children's home in Southwark during the search period. Adoption was delayed and after that didn't happen for various daft reasons. He became institutionalised. When he started fighting with other boys, he was put into fostering.
His first home was with the Harris family in Essex. Coming towards his teens, he fancied their daughter something rotten which only lead to a fight with her older brother and Ryan being moved on.
By age 14 he'd been with no fewer than eight different foster families until he was moved in with the Sinclairs, a retired couple living in Lisburn, Northern Ireland. They, at least, tried to be parents to him though it was really a stopgap until he would be leaving school at 16. He lived with them for a further year after that and they gave him a proper first name, 'George' and let him use their surname to get his National Insurance number.
Despite signs of having a quick mind, George Sinclair, who still was known as Ryan left school with no qualifications and went to work in a succession of call centres. He got his own place through the Housing Executive on the Cregagh Road in Belfast and seemed settled at long last.
When he was 20 though, he got into a fight with a couple of guys who had just started working at the call centre he'd been transferred to. Bored shitless, they'd started making prank calls on the machines. Ryan who, after four years, hadn't a notion how to call out, got blamed as they used his phone when he went on a break. That was just the way things were. So he in turn reported the real culprits and the whole atmosphere froze from then on.
As they were walking past him the next day to the smoke room, one of them said to the other:
'Coming out for a smoke?'
'Aye...'
Then pointedly at Ryan said:
'Coming out for a lynching? Ya fuckin' tout.'
That did it. Ryan had enough and left the job that day. He didn't leave the house then for four weeks until he was offered the grave-digging job by social services. He took it, even more determined now that his life would settle down to being stable, whether he enjoyed it or not.
About ten minutes before bed, Ryan switched off the power and sat silently in the dark. Then he got up and went upstairs. That morning he was up at half 3 as ever.
As last in, Ryan was first off. But that just left him with more time than he really knew what to do with. He stood for a moment, then walked over to the chippy. The guy who owned it had an interest in crocodiles from an early age which is why he only had one arm now. He was given to serving difficult customers with his hook. Ryan got cod and a chip and went home. He walked past the shops, whose wall acted like a community notice board.
There was still the same announcement there that had been up for the last four months: 'IAN BEALE CLYMIDA'. Exactly how it was written.
Ryan got to his front door and went in. He got the plate out and sat in the living room and ate while watching TV. He had a TV as he had nothing else to do until bed just before 9. Evening after evening was the same. He pushed his tea aside when finished, belched and then settled into viewing for the next five hours.
Weirdly, he enjoyed the stability. He got up each day before dawn, worked and then came home, watched TV and went to bed. If he had a day off he just watched TV. He never went out unless he was cajoled into doing so by Frank or one of the others.
He was 25 years old and had calmly spent the last five years of his life in this way.
But there was a reason for this stable nothingness and it was a good one.
Aged just four days old, Ryan had been abandoned in a break room at Euston station in London where he was found by the staff. The only identifying feature had been an arm-band with the name 'Ryan' written on it. Though it wasn't clear if this was the family name or his first name. It was how he was known anyway. His parents were never traced. He was put in a children's home in Southwark during the search period. Adoption was delayed and after that didn't happen for various daft reasons. He became institutionalised. When he started fighting with other boys, he was put into fostering.
His first home was with the Harris family in Essex. Coming towards his teens, he fancied their daughter something rotten which only lead to a fight with her older brother and Ryan being moved on.
By age 14 he'd been with no fewer than eight different foster families until he was moved in with the Sinclairs, a retired couple living in Lisburn, Northern Ireland. They, at least, tried to be parents to him though it was really a stopgap until he would be leaving school at 16. He lived with them for a further year after that and they gave him a proper first name, 'George' and let him use their surname to get his National Insurance number.
Despite signs of having a quick mind, George Sinclair, who still was known as Ryan left school with no qualifications and went to work in a succession of call centres. He got his own place through the Housing Executive on the Cregagh Road in Belfast and seemed settled at long last.
When he was 20 though, he got into a fight with a couple of guys who had just started working at the call centre he'd been transferred to. Bored shitless, they'd started making prank calls on the machines. Ryan who, after four years, hadn't a notion how to call out, got blamed as they used his phone when he went on a break. That was just the way things were. So he in turn reported the real culprits and the whole atmosphere froze from then on.
As they were walking past him the next day to the smoke room, one of them said to the other:
'Coming out for a smoke?'
'Aye...'
Then pointedly at Ryan said:
'Coming out for a lynching? Ya fuckin' tout.'
That did it. Ryan had enough and left the job that day. He didn't leave the house then for four weeks until he was offered the grave-digging job by social services. He took it, even more determined now that his life would settle down to being stable, whether he enjoyed it or not.
About ten minutes before bed, Ryan switched off the power and sat silently in the dark. Then he got up and went upstairs. That morning he was up at half 3 as ever.
Monday 18 April 2011
Chapter Two
The van halted in a car-park near the crematorium.
After a fashion the men slowly clambered out and huddled around in the freezing air. Wordlessly the driver handed them scraps of paper and they began to drag shovels and tools from the back of the van.
Ryan and Frank had already headed up the rise of a hill and got to the co-ordinates on their paper. There was still no daylight. With torches they surveyed the ground.
The grass was caked in frost. The blades shattering as Ryan marked out the lines with his shovel. He then lifted it and tried to sink it into the ground. It felt like he was trying to carve his way into granite. His hands ached from the impact.
'Gonna need a fuckin' pick-axe to get anywhere with that.' Stated Frank, who was more concerned with lighting up a fresh tab.
'Well, get one then! I wanna be done and this cut out before daylight.' Ryan spat back.
Frank grumbled as he went back towards the van.
'Fuckin ' useless piece o'...no time even for a decent gasper in this arsehole shit job...'
Finally there were signs of the sun. The lightened sky was striped with the heavy grey clouds that had remained all night. Frank chipped away at the outline with the pick-axe while Ryan followed him, shovelling to deepen the cut.
By dawn, the whole area was overcast and shrouded in fog. Ryan and Frank had dug a rectangle about eight feet long but it was barely an inch deep. There was over five feet still to go. Plus they had another three to dig out that day. It had been a desperate couple of weeks all told.
Roselawn was a Victorian invention, more or less. Overcrowding in the churchyards of city parishes by the 1800s had meant that for fresh burials to take place, occupants of an existing grave had to be dug up and would be simply thrown away. Given the strong belief that the body needed to be intact and properly buried in consecrated ground in readiness for its resurrection on the Day of Judgement, this practice was unacceptable.
And so came the idea for the cemetery. A large area of land which could hold a vast number of burials, usually outside the city, which was itself the focal point with its own church, rather than the other way around.
It worked brilliantly, although the arrival of cremation did strip it of its original purpose.
There was no future in it. Ryan and Frank knew that, being members of one of the last 'manual' grave-digging crews. The JCBs were coming in and did the work in a quarter of the time. Change, as ever, inevitable.
By mid-morning the ground had softened some and pace could quicken to the point where they had two graves dug at lunch. Frank alternated between cigarettes and bites out of a ham sandwich. Ryan just sipped thermos coffee as he read one of his favourite books while sitting on the dug out earth.
It was a biography of Vincent Van Gogh and was his third run through it. The bit that really got his attention was about why Van Gogh had killed himself. The book's theory stated that Van Gogh had got to the point where he was overwhelmed by the abundance of infinity. He could look at a cob of corn and not just perceive every piece of corn but the cells that made up each piece and then the atoms that made up each cell and on to the molecules. And it wasn't just this awareness of abundance becoming infinitely smaller; it was how the cob was just one of a great number on a planet that, compared to the size of the infinite universe, didn't even register any size at all.
So unable to deal with this awareness and, more importantly, feeling unable to paint it, his mind went and he committed suicide. Only that wasn't instant. He lingered on for a few days and to a dying man that would have been infinity itself.
Ryan was fascinated at how this concept of the 'infinite abundance' of things had destroyed man such as Van Gogh when he was quite aware of it and could handle it. This was the only thing which fired up any interest in him.
Frank finished his sandwich. It was time to go back to work and dig more graves.
After a fashion the men slowly clambered out and huddled around in the freezing air. Wordlessly the driver handed them scraps of paper and they began to drag shovels and tools from the back of the van.
Ryan and Frank had already headed up the rise of a hill and got to the co-ordinates on their paper. There was still no daylight. With torches they surveyed the ground.
The grass was caked in frost. The blades shattering as Ryan marked out the lines with his shovel. He then lifted it and tried to sink it into the ground. It felt like he was trying to carve his way into granite. His hands ached from the impact.
'Gonna need a fuckin' pick-axe to get anywhere with that.' Stated Frank, who was more concerned with lighting up a fresh tab.
'Well, get one then! I wanna be done and this cut out before daylight.' Ryan spat back.
Frank grumbled as he went back towards the van.
'Fuckin ' useless piece o'...no time even for a decent gasper in this arsehole shit job...'
Finally there were signs of the sun. The lightened sky was striped with the heavy grey clouds that had remained all night. Frank chipped away at the outline with the pick-axe while Ryan followed him, shovelling to deepen the cut.
By dawn, the whole area was overcast and shrouded in fog. Ryan and Frank had dug a rectangle about eight feet long but it was barely an inch deep. There was over five feet still to go. Plus they had another three to dig out that day. It had been a desperate couple of weeks all told.
Roselawn was a Victorian invention, more or less. Overcrowding in the churchyards of city parishes by the 1800s had meant that for fresh burials to take place, occupants of an existing grave had to be dug up and would be simply thrown away. Given the strong belief that the body needed to be intact and properly buried in consecrated ground in readiness for its resurrection on the Day of Judgement, this practice was unacceptable.
And so came the idea for the cemetery. A large area of land which could hold a vast number of burials, usually outside the city, which was itself the focal point with its own church, rather than the other way around.
It worked brilliantly, although the arrival of cremation did strip it of its original purpose.
There was no future in it. Ryan and Frank knew that, being members of one of the last 'manual' grave-digging crews. The JCBs were coming in and did the work in a quarter of the time. Change, as ever, inevitable.
By mid-morning the ground had softened some and pace could quicken to the point where they had two graves dug at lunch. Frank alternated between cigarettes and bites out of a ham sandwich. Ryan just sipped thermos coffee as he read one of his favourite books while sitting on the dug out earth.
It was a biography of Vincent Van Gogh and was his third run through it. The bit that really got his attention was about why Van Gogh had killed himself. The book's theory stated that Van Gogh had got to the point where he was overwhelmed by the abundance of infinity. He could look at a cob of corn and not just perceive every piece of corn but the cells that made up each piece and then the atoms that made up each cell and on to the molecules. And it wasn't just this awareness of abundance becoming infinitely smaller; it was how the cob was just one of a great number on a planet that, compared to the size of the infinite universe, didn't even register any size at all.
So unable to deal with this awareness and, more importantly, feeling unable to paint it, his mind went and he committed suicide. Only that wasn't instant. He lingered on for a few days and to a dying man that would have been infinity itself.
Ryan was fascinated at how this concept of the 'infinite abundance' of things had destroyed man such as Van Gogh when he was quite aware of it and could handle it. This was the only thing which fired up any interest in him.
Frank finished his sandwich. It was time to go back to work and dig more graves.
Friday 15 April 2011
Chapter One
He was dead already. No way around it and not much to be done about it. There was just that hollow acceptance for Ryan.
He tore back one of the curtains. Looking out the window there was not much to see. Frost was creeping silently up the side of the sill, his breath misted out the inside. All that could be seen was the faint orange of the street lights and black, indistinct shapes.
Thursday. He got dressed, not much point in washing now, the evening was more the time to savour that. He brushed his teeth and then went downstairs. In the darkness of the living room he eased his way towards the kitchen. There he fixed some stale wheat cereal in cold milk and sat down on an armchair in the living room to munch away at it. Once finished, he just sat and waited.
Half an hour later, there was a horn beep outside. Ryan got his coat on an pulled the front door behind him. Outside the world seemed as if it had been cast in iron. The pavement glinted with each movement towards it. Each breath was painful as the air caught in his lungs. Gingerly he walked down the path and out on the road. The only light to see came from the stars; the street lights were useless.
In the middle of the road was a dirty white Ford transit van idling away. Ryan went to the back, got in and then banged on the side. The van moved away. Someone lit up. In the flash of the lighter there were the faces. To him they looked like they'd been carved from rotten wood. Balaclavas, scarves and caps bundled around them. No-one spoke or even wanted to look at each other. The only life signs came from the smoker, puffing calmly away.
Van motions told him they were leaving the city as the jerking screech of the brakes came less regular.
They were in the countryside now.
He tried to see through the dirt covering the back window. What he could was absolutely pitch black. Not even the farmers were up at this time. The tiny orbs of council lighting could be seen as they passed the estate, stuck in the middle of nowhere and not a since amenity to its name. If you didn't own a car, you were screwed, it was that simple. The van jolted on the poorly surfaced road but nobody seemed to notice. The smoker lit up again. Ryan didn't even need to look around to know it was Frank. He always carried a good supply of cigarettes, to keep him going and that was all he needed.
There was a simplicity to Frank, a straight ahead, wanting for little that Ryan envied.
Frank lifted his cap so the smoke went in his eyes less and concentrated all his attention on enjoying the cigarette. Ryan could only stare at the mud-covered floor as if one of the jolts from the road would reveal some great answer to him underneath the filth.
They slowed down and the van was turning right. Ryan knew exactly where. Same place every day, Roselawn Cemetary.
He tore back one of the curtains. Looking out the window there was not much to see. Frost was creeping silently up the side of the sill, his breath misted out the inside. All that could be seen was the faint orange of the street lights and black, indistinct shapes.
Thursday. He got dressed, not much point in washing now, the evening was more the time to savour that. He brushed his teeth and then went downstairs. In the darkness of the living room he eased his way towards the kitchen. There he fixed some stale wheat cereal in cold milk and sat down on an armchair in the living room to munch away at it. Once finished, he just sat and waited.
Half an hour later, there was a horn beep outside. Ryan got his coat on an pulled the front door behind him. Outside the world seemed as if it had been cast in iron. The pavement glinted with each movement towards it. Each breath was painful as the air caught in his lungs. Gingerly he walked down the path and out on the road. The only light to see came from the stars; the street lights were useless.
In the middle of the road was a dirty white Ford transit van idling away. Ryan went to the back, got in and then banged on the side. The van moved away. Someone lit up. In the flash of the lighter there were the faces. To him they looked like they'd been carved from rotten wood. Balaclavas, scarves and caps bundled around them. No-one spoke or even wanted to look at each other. The only life signs came from the smoker, puffing calmly away.
Van motions told him they were leaving the city as the jerking screech of the brakes came less regular.
They were in the countryside now.
He tried to see through the dirt covering the back window. What he could was absolutely pitch black. Not even the farmers were up at this time. The tiny orbs of council lighting could be seen as they passed the estate, stuck in the middle of nowhere and not a since amenity to its name. If you didn't own a car, you were screwed, it was that simple. The van jolted on the poorly surfaced road but nobody seemed to notice. The smoker lit up again. Ryan didn't even need to look around to know it was Frank. He always carried a good supply of cigarettes, to keep him going and that was all he needed.
There was a simplicity to Frank, a straight ahead, wanting for little that Ryan envied.
Frank lifted his cap so the smoke went in his eyes less and concentrated all his attention on enjoying the cigarette. Ryan could only stare at the mud-covered floor as if one of the jolts from the road would reveal some great answer to him underneath the filth.
They slowed down and the van was turning right. Ryan knew exactly where. Same place every day, Roselawn Cemetary.
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