A Collection of Dystopian Tales

  ‘With a big fucking T.’ His back straightened as he exhaled with a loud sigh.

  I tried to ignore his presence and focus on the stupid clock and its irregular chimes. I didn’t need trouble, neither capital T nor little t, complicating my life. Marvin scratched and fidgeted, his elbow poking and bumping me to spark my interest. I remained resolute because the man was a mongrel, because the man fucked with my happy ever after and that was just wrong. He married my girl and I could never forgive him such a heinous act.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask,’ he said grabbing at my arm. ‘But I don’t know where to turn. I don’t know who to ask for help.’

  He jumped up from the seat and paced in front of me. On his second turn he knocked against a vendor setting up his stall for the evening trade.

  ‘Sit down,’ I hissed.

  Two lads in summer coats, shivering in the winter chill, caused eyebrows to rise. I didn’t want to cause alarm. Two lads supping on a generic brand of vodka caused voices to gossip. I couldn’t afford the gossip. I didn’t need my presence in the square becoming an issue as issues spiked the interest of the army. If the army became involved, guns, handcuffs and bouts of torture and detention followed.

  Detention could be bad. Detention could be forever as folk often went missing since the Man won government. For two years I’d fought such an outcome and I didn’t need Marvin popping his ugly head above the parapet.

  ‘Stuff’s going down,’ he said as he flopped beside me.

  What did he mean? What stuff? The army—a rag, tag bunch of conscripts—ruled our streets. And the Man—desperate to stop the rioting and looting—had issued orders for the Scarlet Scum to be shot on sight. Or maybe he referred to the Projects—the urban guerrillas pissing on our lives by taking out the electric four nights running.

  Was that the stuff he thought was going down?

  ‘What do you want?’ I said.

  Marvin’s presence made me nervous. He'd stuffed a bag, contents undisclosed, beneath my seat and not explained its worth. Bags made us nervous in Ostere. We did bombs big time. It’s not that long ago the Christian Clan set off the first of the back pack bombings in a bus heading to Old London Town.

  But I couldn’t see Marvin as a bomber. You needed to be political and passionate and revolutionary with a sparkle of zeal in your eyes. I’d known Marvin from wee and he didn’t do altercations, no way. He ran from a fight and pissed his pants when confronted.

  My shekels sat on Linda having thrown the boy out of their family home and packed the bag to the gunnels with his crap life. And that suggested Linda might be lonely and be looking for company.

  Could I forgive the girl for marrying the mongrel invading my space with his bag of trouble?

  We sat in silence. The town square had transformed into an open-air restaurant. Street performers decorated the periphery. Part-cooked carcasses rotated on metal poles as herbs sprinkled on crisping skin. Musicians tuned instruments. Jugglers stretched and beggars searched for a profitable patch of turf.

  A group of old boys huddled by the betting shack to my immediate left. They wanted to lay a bet and shelter from the chill wind, but the sign said closed. I’d never known Bob the Bookie to close.

  ‘Who are those blokes?’ Marvin pulled at his tie, rolling the end up and letting it fall. ‘Why are they standing there?’ He pointed, jabbing his finger at the men.

  I slapped his hand before the old boys took offense.

  ‘What’d you do that for?’ He rubbed at the red welt on the back of his hand.

  ‘Because you’re pissing me off and I’m not in the mood for answering every damn fool question you think up. I sit here because it’s safe and I keep my head down, nice and quiet, eh? Do you get it?’

  He nodded, but I wasn’t sure he heard a word.

  ‘What is it with that wreck of a shop?’ he said. ‘It’s obviously closed, so why they keep trying to get in?’

  I sighed and smiled at his hundredth question. ‘They’re gamblers,’ I said. ‘They want to lay a bet. Or play the machines. Or just get out of the cold.’

  ‘But it’s closed.’

  ‘What are the odds on that, eh?’

  Marvin stood and paced and scratched. The scratching alarmed me. There were many diseases blighting the planet that medicine didn’t touch. People stepped around him, desperate not to touch his sorry, scabby arse. At least he’d stopped pointing.

  ‘So why don’t they move on?’ He stopped in front of me and stared at the men.

  ‘Move on where?’

  I threw my hands in the air in exasperation. Street life offered few options unless you could magic shekels from dirt. His body flopped back on the seat, pushing his hands beneath his thighs for warmth.

  ‘What’s going on with today?’ A petulant whine over-emphasized each word. ‘Everything’s wrong. It’s all bloody wrong.’

  The big screen projected images of Ostere’s missing children. The tearful pleas from their desperate parents followed. They pleaded with the kidnappers to show mercy. I pulled my thin coat tight and crossed my leg away from Marvin’s neurotic behavior. My attention turned to a musical combo to our left and the growing crowd.

  A man walking with a limp joined the huddle of men standing outside the betting shop. Lots of blokes suffered limps, walking with sticks or worse. The war took the piss out of our able-bodied conscripts. The man swung his right leg with each step, his polished boots stepping heavy in the dirt. Light ginger hair, buzz-cut short, complimented a red beret. He wore an old, mid-length, black leather jacket and faded combat trousers. He accepted a cigarette from the group and pointed at the betting shop. The men shook their heads and huddled closer with a chimney of smoke puffing from the heart of their group.

  Marvin pushed his hand through his thin brown hair before he turned back to the men by the shed. ‘Do you remember that time when you were in trouble at school?’

  ‘Which time?’

  I had struggled with school big time, so Marvin needed to narrow his point of reference.

  His brow furrowed and he shook his head. ‘Yeah, you were in trouble a lot, weren’t you?’

  ‘Compared to you,’ I said and shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess I was.’

  I pulled the vodka from my bag and a large serrated knife clattered to the ground.

  ‘Jesus, Ben, that’s one serious knife.’

  I pulled two switchblades from my right leg pocket, a rusty cutthroat and a hunting knife from my left. I smiled at Marvin as he leaned away from the threat. ‘Well-armed, eh?’

  I shoved the serrated knife into the bottom of my backpack and the other knives into my calf pockets.

  ‘Against what?’

  I showed him the half loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper and the pack of ham. ‘Folk are hungry down here and you live in the posh clouds of Lower Ostere. You’ve also spent time away fighting the good fight, haven’t you? Times aren’t good and if you haven’t got the coins, then you have to fight for the crumbs and if you don’t fight, you die.’

  Marvin squirmed on his seat and wrapped his jacket tight to his body. The big screen went local, transmitting images of vendors prepping their food. Cameras focused on citizens walking the worn tracks between each stall. They nursed drinks as they waited for a feed.

  ‘You’ve changed,’ he said. ‘You’re all cynical and bitter.’

  ‘Piss off I’ve changed. I’ve spent the past two bloody years living rough. How’s your life been?’

  ‘Not good really. As I said—’

  ‘Not good? You married Linda, who was my girlfriend if I remember correctly, eh?’

  ‘You left, didn’t you?’ Marvin said. He reached forward to touch my jacket, stroking my lapel. He’d always been a tactile chap. ‘You abandoned Linda and you left your parents to be arrested just because you didn’t want to get conscripted. We didn’t think you were coming back.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  My loud, sulky tone threatened to draw attention. I still didn??
?t know why Marvin sat with me in the square. His pale face needed a shave and his hair, already thin on top, hadn’t seen a comb in an age. The dark woolen trousers wore a split across the knees and mud caked the toes and heels of his shoes. The dusty jacket hung loose on his body. His breast pocket was ripped and the frayed collar of his white shirt needed a wash. He appeared to have lost weight, but he’d always been a skinny runt.

  He bumped me and smiled. When I didn’t respond he bumped me again, his smile accompanied by a nod. Marvin owned a good smile and I remembered struggling to stay mad with him when we were younger. He dropped this catch once, a high ball anyone’s granny could’ve caught. As I ran at him to give him a right thump he picked the ball up, gives me the big smile and says ‘oops.’

  Oops. I mean, who says oops.

  But his presence in the square didn’t qualify as a ball game, eh?

  ‘You still haven’t explained why you’re here,’ I said. ‘It’s been two years. You don’t turn up with a bag full of trouble and talk a load of shite without explaining yourself. You need to start talking or I’m gone. I don’t need to be here. I don’t need your big bag of fucking trouble in my life. So start talking or fuck off.’

  ‘My life’s gone to hell,’ he said, but again his attention turned to the blokes outside Bob the Bookie’s. He pulled at the sleeve of my coat until I followed his gaze. ‘Do you know that man with the limp?’

  ‘No, I don’t. They’re gamblers. Old boys.’

  ‘He keeps staring at me. That one with the beret isn’t an old boy. I think I know him.’

  ‘So go and say hello, eh?’

  He shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. There are bad, evil men after me and I think he’s one of them.’ Marvin turned to face me, touching me on the arm, petting an invisible wrinkle. ‘I need you to look after the bag.’

  I leant forward and peered at the large, black canvas bag beneath the seat. Chains and padlocks secured its contents. ‘What’s in it?’

  He shot off the seat and crouched in front of me with his back to the square. ‘They’re here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Behind me. I knew they’d follow me.’

  ‘Who?’

  I turned to the crowd of folk gathered around Paella Pete’s counter. Two men in black coats and wide brimmed hats hogged the service.

  ‘I need you to get the bag to my mother.’

  Both hands petted my knees and I wasn’t comfortable with the intimacy. ‘Why can’t you get the damn bag to your mother? I don’t like your mother and I know she don’t like me.’

  ‘They’re surrounding me,’ he whispered.

  ‘Who?’ I pushed his hands off my knees.

  ‘The Black Hats. Ben, I can’t talk now, but they’ve got my father. Jesus Ben, they took me bloody father and I fear he’s dead.’

  ‘Slow down.’ I held my hands in a placating gesture, hoping he might soften his tone. The two men in the black suits and wide brimmed black hats had jumped the queue. They argued with all and sundry about rights and the price. Their tone bordered on aggressive and loud. ‘Why do you think your father’s dead?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but we haven’t heard from him since we got his finger in the post.’

  I closed my mouth, aware it gaped as I no longer recognized my childhood mate. ‘You got a finger in the post.’ He nodded holding up his right index finger. ‘And it was your dad’s?’

  He nodded again. ‘These men are bad and they threatened to chop him up into little pieces. They threatened me too, so please remember the cane. Remember that time in primary school when I helped you out when you was in trouble.’

  I didn’t get what he meant. I had no memory of a cane or Marvin ever helping me out. I remembered his picture in the society pages when he married Linda, but never him saving my sorry arse.

  ‘The cane Principal Fletcher used for punishment. I was there for you. Please, Ben. Do this for me.’

  He grabbed my arm and squeezed hard, his eyes glistening. I smiled and nodded and he embraced me with a sob. I returned his embrace.

  Without another word he stood and strode toward the crowd waiting for the snake charming. They parted as he approached and grumbled as he pushed a path out of the square. The lid of the large basket opened and the head of a nasty looking black snake appeared. It swayed left and right, its tongue tasting the air.

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  Chapter One

  Cops with noose seek Neck

  The spidery script of his mother’s damning words had long blurred in Ben Jackman’s gaze. Confess, Guilt and Honor conspired behind a curl of cigarette smoke. The letter had fallen on top of a large glass ashtray, the red tip of the cigarette coloring the thin parchment. Ben focused his attention on the two police officers standing at the front door of the Old Poet public house. The first copper’s utility belt sat high and jingled as he approached the bar. His boots reflected the yellow flames crackling in the hearth to his left. A police cap covered a head of ginger hair, buzz cut short. A stale aroma of beer and cigarettes caused his pointed nose to twitch.

  Coincidence or what?

  A note from his mother not seen in two years, and coppers never before seen in the Old Poet. A plea from his mother, urging him to perform his Christian duty by confessing his sins to the law, and the law stood in his pub, manacles jangling, waiting for his surrender.

  Ben turned to the back door, measuring the distance, accepting he might have to run.

  Again.

  ‘But not yet,’ he muttered.

  Ben’s gaze returned to his mother’s letter, Admit and Duty and Father slapping his face. The signature sat crooked at the bottom, the final flourish slipping off the page. He dropped the letter to the bleached table and pulled his hood over his head, hunkering low in the gloom.

  The blue of the law clashed with the nicotine-stained walls and low, black-beamed ceiling. Remnants from the night before sat draped in corners and hugged flat pints. Drams of whisky nuzzled unsteady hands. Stomachs roiled and hangovers weighed heavy.

  An old bird danced with a mop. She wore an apron over a hooded top and joggers. A dirty cloth hung from her pocket and a cigarette clung to her lip, a croak-like hum accompanying the sad tune playing on the juke box.

  The second officer paced the length of the bar, kicking at the loose muddy slates. The scuffed boots trailed a broken lace through the puddle outside the men’s toilet. Her cap sat askew on a thick head of hair tied back in a ponytail. The cluttered utility belt hung low and the truncheon tangled with the handcuffs. She stopped at the entrance to the Ladies’ Lounge, surveying the dark interior, her attention centered on the hooded figure bunkered in the gloom.

  ‘Ben Jackman,’ the first officer called. His nasal voice rasped and folk roused from their ethereal state. ‘I’m looking for a lad by the name of Ben Jackman.’ He slapped his truncheon against the palm of his hand. ‘Aka Ben the Butcher, aka Street Boy, aka his arse is mine.’

  ‘Time at the bar.’

  The call came from Ivan the Landlord. His head rose from the table situated right of the front door, and focused on the intrusion to his slumber. ‘Let’s be having your mugs.’ And his head rested back on the table, exhausted and in need of rest.

  Ivan called the front table his office. He shared the table with two dear companions: Whisky and Cigar. On a good day he invited Glass Tumbler and Ashtray. Ivan filled the Old Poet with drunks, deadbeats and oafs, and offered an old fashioned attitude in his role as the Publican. ‘Service is for the birds,’ Ivan used to say. He had a big, flat face slapped ugly often, and a massive frame drowning in flabby flesh. Ivan drank a lot and felt no compunction to graft: Not ever.

  His best friend Charlie sat slumped at the bar. A crown of thick black hair rested against the pillar separating the front room from the La
dies’ Lounge. Bloodshot eyes hung half open and stared at the slumbering landlord. ‘I wasn’t there,’ he called out. ‘It wasn’t me.’

  The policeman rapped on the bar with his truncheon. Ivan grunted and turned his head towards the noise. Charlie coughed and spluttered, but settled with his toothless mouth agape. Loubie, the girl tending bar, turned from the copper and found a glass to polish.

  The policeman cleared his throat and leant across the bar, slapping her arse with his truncheon.

  She scowled, snarled and scratched at her dirty blonde dreadlocks. She untied the ribbon, shook the braids before tying them back in a thick tail. Leaning against the back bar Loubie rammed her hands deep in the front pockets of khaki combats and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘What?’ she spat.

  ‘Looking for Ben Jackman,’ the copper said. ‘So can you help, or do I need to arrest you?’

  She pulled her loose singlet straight then crossed her stick thin arms over her breasts. The copper noted the anime tattoos on the underside of her arms and the mesh of small white scars. She crossed her purple boots and pouted, waiting for him to lift his gaze.

  ‘No. Don’t know him. I’ve got a Charlie.’ She looked at the drunk leaning against the post. ‘You can have him, for sure, but be careful coz I think he’s wet himself.’

  Deep in the gloom Ben took a sip of his whisky, raising the glass to Loubie’s loyalty.

  The copper’s partner entered the Ladies’ Lounge. The scuffed boots kicked at the uneven tiles and patches of earth. Ben watched her approach, puffing a vibrant cloud of smoke into the narrow space above his head. Not so long ago, the copper and Ben had shared a moment. It was a single kiss, a peck on the cheek, but the memory still made him smile. And they’d embraced, holding each other tight, watching flakes of snow flutter on the chill wind. She’d smelt good – a curious mixture of moss and burnt ash – and she’d been hot to hold.

  ‘Hello, PSO Webster,’ he said. He kept his voice low, the deep tone whispered. ‘How’s Wolf?’

  She removed her cap and pointed at the wall between the two frosted windows. ‘Wolf is well, now get up.’