Archive Page 2

Soft Focus

10Jul08

A horror story: Sarah’s idea of doctoring her cheating lover’s contact lenses so he can see her rival as she really is doesn’t go to plan.  Originally published in Unhinged.

 

Soft Focus

Sarah put the radio on so that she didn’t have to focus on her own thoughts.  She cursed, regreting telling Nick about ‘Project Fun’.  She wasn’t even sure why she’d bothered.  Nick didn’t understand the science, even though it seemed baby-ish simple to her: a form of hallucinogen was smeared over the lens to recreate hallucinogenic visions without the user taking drugs.  It was just one facet of a multifaceted approach of some government initiative to look into the drugs problem as statistics he’d been gathering showed that in 2005 drug taking amongst the middle classes had soared and drug users wanted every more sophisticated ways of getting high without the negative side effects of increasing doses.
        But the fact she’d used one of her formula-rich monologues and had lost him somewhere in her opening sentence might save her yet.
        Sarah wondered what excuse Nick would give this time for being late, for not cooking her the dinner he’d promised.  She knew he was with that slag opposite, the one who only wore low cut dresses that clung to her generous figure, who was always in make-up at 7:30 am even though she didn’t work.  Sarah looked down at her fraying lab coat over her tee shirt and jeans that hung on her bones.  Her dishwater blonde hair was still scraped back in the careless pony-tail.  Sarah’s make-up only came out on those scarce special occasions.
        Nick described her as having a ballerina figure once: not a piece of excess fat anywhere.  But her long hours were taking their toll: she could look in a mirror and count her ribs.  Perhaps it was no great mystery as to why Nick preferred to spend time with voluptous Laura.
        The sound of a key in the flat door lock interrupted Sarah’s thoughts.  The key was being wriggled as if the person trying to open the door had already had one too many.
        “Sarah!  You’re early!” he sounded a little too pleased to see her as she switched off the radio.  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t phone.  I got hauled in for a meeting at a moment’s notice and I couldn’t get away.”
        Her cold blue eyes looked him over as if trying to detect a flaw in his story.
        “I’ll go and get a take out,” he suggested.  “Your usual vegetarian curry?”
        Sarah nodded and turned towards the kitchen.
        Nick scurried out.
        By the time he returned Sarah had laid out plates and cutlery on the kitchen table.  Nick shared out the contents from the foil cartons on to the plates.  They ate in silence.  Sarah spooning forkfuls of curry and rice into her mouth and nibbling rodent-like until she’d created enough space for the next forkful.  Nick gathered up bite-sized piles of food and chewed slowly.
        “I think I’ll turn in,” began Sarah, when she’d finished eating.  “We’ve a new project to work on and, as usual, haven’t the resources to research or develop it properly within the time scale given.  Sometimes I think we need a PR consultant to explain to the accountants what exactly R and D is for in the optics industry.”
        Nick nodded.  Absent-mindedly he rubbed his eye.  His contact lenses irritated when he felt tired.  They were new self-cleaning lenses Sarah had worked on for her company.
        Two hours later, Sarah was disturbed by Nick’s weight falling into bed.  As usual he lay with his back to her, his breathing as relaxed as a baby’s.
        Sarah got up and wandered through into their lounge, intending to go to the kitchen for a glass of water.  However, she couldn’t resist looking across to the house opposite.
        Laura’s lights were on but curtains were open, despite the net lining the windows, Sarah had a perfect view.  Laura was in a lavender-coloured dress.  Not that the lavender dress was about to stay on her for long.  A tall dark haired man kissed her and ran his fingers through her rich, chestnut-coloured hair.  Laura loosened his tie and begun unbuttoning his shirt.  Her dress dropped to the floor, revealing her lightly tanned skin, her softly curved hips and generous breasts, their nipples already erect.  Her visitor pushed her down onto the deep pile rug.
        Sarah sighed and went to the kitchen.  She decided to have a calming herbal tea instead of water.  As she crossed the lounge to return to the bedroom, Laura and her visitor were still coupling.  And Nick wanted to be with this slag.
        Sarah looked down at her empty hands as if expecting to see something she could throw, something to hurl against Laura’s windows and tell her the game was up.  She was not going to walk off with Nick.  Sarah would make sure of that.

 Nick heard the thud of mug on bedside table before realising Sarah was in the room.
        “You needn’t think I don’t know you’re awake,” he heard her saying in her sharp, squeaking voice.  “I’ll be off in a minute.  What time are you leaving?”
        Sarah watched him find some tissue to mop up the spilt tea while he thought of an answer.  She glanced at the alarm clock.  Seven-thirty already.  She folded her arms across her chest and resisted the temptation to tap her foot.  “Well?  I’ve not got all day, like some people seem to.”
        “I’m working at home today.  Result of last night’s meeting.  I’ve got to pull together some figures and produce a credible report to prove my boss’s theory.”
        “I might be late again,” was Sarah’s departing comment.

Nick watched her leave then lay back in bed.  He had no intention of drinking the tea Sarah had made him.  She’d never made a decent cup in the five years they’d been together.  Five years and he still couldn’t bring himself to tell her it was over.  Their relationship was like an old suit you wore as it looked good on you once and still wore as the new suit wasn’t comfortable yet.
        He swung himself out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt and slipped on a pair of shoes.  Nick carried the mug of now cold tea out to the kitchen and emptied it down the sink, leaving the tap running for a few seconds to rinse away any trace of the tea.
        Then he went to the bathroom and stretched the neck of his tee shirt to roll deodorant under his armpits.  He shaved, then ran his fingers over his jawline to check he wouldn’t give Laura stubble-burn when she kissed him.  Generously he splashed aftershave on and washed his hands while the sting from the scent subsided.
        Nick looked for his contact lens case.  He was sure he’d put it next to his razor, but found it further along the shelf near the bottle of perfume he’d bought Sarah, although she’d never used it.  He shrugged.  Maybe his memory wasn’t what it used to be.  Nick put his lenses in.
        He looked at the bottle of perfume.  If Sarah had never used it, perhaps she wouldn’t miss it.  Nick picked it up and went back to the bedroom.  He used a piece of tissue to wipe the dust off the bottle.  Then opened the drawer in Sarah’s wardrobe.  She always lined the drawers with tissue paper.  It was a waste of time him trying to use wrapping paper to wrap the bottle.  Nick was in luck: Sarah had used pink tissue paper and pink was Laura’s favourite colour.
        Carefully carrying the perfume, Nick made his way to Laura’s.
        “For me?” her delight seemed as broad as her smile when she opened the door and saw the present Nick gave her.  “You’re spoiling me.”
        “Beautiful women deserve to be spoilt,” he responded.
        Nick rubbed his eye.  Laura looked as if she were in a soft focus photograph.  In fact her flat was taking on that appearance: edges of objects were blurring and fading into each other.  The white deep pile rug looked like a melting ice cube in a whisky-and-soda drink of amber carpet.
        “Perfume!  Nick, it’s lovely!”
        He could just about hear the enthusiasm in Laura’s voice.
        “Nick?”
        He tried to look towards her.  She held the perfume bottle in front of her.
        “Nick, are you OK?”
        Experimentally he slowly shut one eye, “Shifted contact lens,” he commented.
        He opened his eye and stifled a scream by clamping his hand across his mouth.
        A two-headed Laura moved towards him.
        “Nick?”
        Two mouths opened.  The tops of her heads bent back as if hinged at her ears.  Her lower jaws dropped and continued dropping until they reached the deep pile melted ice cube.  And her flesh seemed to expand, ballooning out beyond the perfume bottle that had shrunk to the size of a contact lens.
        “Nick?”

“What’s that stupid sod done now?” Sarah demanded as she reached Laura’s house.
        “Can’t you see?” even though she sounded as if she’d been crying, her eye-make up was still perfect.
        “Oh, my God!”  Sarah fell back against the entrance hall wall, but didn’t completely lose her balance.  Nick was lying face down at the bottom of the stairs, his neck horribly twisted and one leg clearly broken.  “Oh, my God!” Sarah echoed.
        “He said there was something in his lens, then fell.”
        Sarah heard Laura’s comment from somewhere behind her as she tried to steer herself outside although her legs didn’t want to cooperate.  With a hand against a street lamp for balance, Sarah leant over and vomited into the gutter.  “But, they’re self-cleaning,” she quietly told herself.
        “There’s an ambulance on its way, but I thought you’d like to know.”
        Sarah leant against the lamp post, turning her back on her vomit, but not turning to face Laura’s open front door and Nick’s body.  Vaguely she was aware of sirens in the background.  She looked at Laura who was checking her lipstick in a hall mirror.
        “I don’t feel too good,” Sarah uttered faintly.

Emma Lee

 


Restoration

10Jul08

A regal ghost haunts Sudeley Castle as narrated by a Victorian teenager.  Won runner-up Prize in Writing Magazine’s Annual Ghost Story Competition.  Originally published in The Book of the Dead.

Restoration

I wish Katherine Parr had been buried with her first husband in the Royal Vault at Windsor, instead of at Sudeley Castle, where my aunt is in the process of overseeing restoration.  The most tedious thing ever is to be sixteen, have a mother anxious to marry you to advantage and a well-connected aunt who would be only too pleased to show off her niece to her dinner guests.
Moreover I will be spending most of my week with my aunt making polite conversation about Queen Victoria.  My aunt loves a title.  When she came to stay with us at Broadway, she made me walk about with a heavy book on my head, to stop me running around after my brothers all the time.
         The first person to greet me as I step down from the coach is dear Mrs Bayliss, the housekeeper.  She gives me a quick hug before telling me off for being so indecorous, “Well, Miss Mary Brocklehurst, you’ll have to become a lady one day!”
Fortunately I didn’t get saddled with my aunt’s name.
         “You’ll meet your aunt,” Mrs Bayliss explains in her West Country burr as she shows me to my room.
        “The red chamber?  Mrs Bayliss this is an honour!”  The red bedchamber has a view over the gardens and a bathroom next door, making it my favourite room.  Big fan of plumbing, my Aunt Emma.  An unladylike topic if you ask me, but adults like making up the rules as they go along.
     Mrs Bayliss smiles and leaves.
     I unpin my hat, untie my hair and throw open the windows.  Not much has changed out there: the yews are a bit taller.  The only major difference is the huge marquee on the spot where the ruins of St Mary’s Church are.  I know Katherine Parr’s tomb is under there.

Dinner talk is of restoration.  My uncle, John Dent, is quiet, his wife does the talking for him.  Aunt Emma talks about her nervousness over whether St Mary’s Church should be restored as Mr William Morris, a recent guest, has advised her.  I say that any restoration would have to create a church worthy of a queen’s resting place.  This wins approval from Aunt Emma.
However, she is clearly flustered by her dilemma, which is completely out of character.  If anyone can turn a vision into reality, it’s my aunt.

I toss and turn but can’t sleep.  When the rest of the household seems settled I get up and cross to the window.  In the dark, the white marquee seems to stand out.  I wonder what Katherine Parr would think of Aunt Emma’s problem.  Or even if she would understand the fuss.  After all, in arranging to be buried here, she defied a King’s wishes.  That took a lot of courage.  Particularly to defy a King as strident and determined to get his way as Henry VIII.  He had two queens beheaded.  Then to support Lady Jane Grey against Mary after Queen Elizabeth’s death, that took courage too.  Katherine Parr seems as strong-headed as my aunt sometimes accuses me of being.
        Something catches my eye.  I think a barn owl at first: a ghost in flight.  But then see it’s a figure dressed in white.  The figure’s Aunt Emma-shaped, but it must be one of the servants.  I watch while the figure pulls away a side of the marquee.  I have to move to the far corner of my window so I can peer down and see whatever the figure’s seeing.
        I gasp.  On top of Katherine Parr’s tomb is the white marble likeness of her.  She lies in the death pose with her arms across her chest in prayer and eyes closed.
 The figure glances towards the castle.  It is Aunt Emma.  But with no candle lit, she won’t see me watching.
         She’s leaning over the tomb, like a mother leaning over the bed of a sick child.  Aunt Emma’s lips move, but I can’t make out the words.  But why talk to a marble statue?  Katherine Parr can’t assist her now.
         Several minutes seem to go by before Aunt Emma leaves the tomb and replaces the marquee.  I go back to bed.  There’s nothing else to look at.

        At breakfast, Aunt Emma announces restoration of St Mary’s will go ahead.  My uncle looks relieved.  Building can begin today as the plans have already been drawn up.  My aunt insists on overseeing the work.
         Firstly I go to the library to look at the plans.  The church is to be restored to its original design.  It all looks very straightforward.  Hardly worthy of midnight conferences with a dead queen.
         My aunt looks tired at dinner and announces she will retire early.  I keep awake.  If my aunt is that tired, she is unlikely to go abroad tonight so perhaps I can go and see what it was that made her go to the marquee.  I pull on a black mourning dress and shove my hair roughly under a black cap and steadily creep outside.  I go to the marquee, but stay a little way off, just in case.
         Then cautiously walk towards the marquee.  The builders have been digging foundations, but have left a bridge of wooden plank so I can cross and let myself into the marquee.  I stop for my eyes to get used to the dimmer light.  It’s darker inside the marquee than outside, but eventually I pick out the white silhouette of Katherine Parr’s tomb.  My heart starts beating hammer-loud, but I determine to find out what Aunt Emma saw.
         I look down at the white statue of the former queen.  Nothing happens.  I approach from the side my aunt approached.  Slowly I lean over as my aunt did.  My heart’s still hammering, so I ask myself quietly what I expected to see.
         Her eyes flicker.
         For a moment my heart turns to ice.  I remind myself I can’t faint as I don’t have my stays on.  I look again, but her eyes are shut as before.  I stroke a white cheek: cold as marble.
        I hurry back to the welcoming red warmth of bed.

My stay at Sudeley is extended by a letter telling of my brother’s illness.  While the building work continues, I spend most of my time with my needlework and Mrs Bayliss.  I watch her organise the whole household, spending more time awake than I do, without complaint.  Nothing can happen at the castle without Mrs Bayliss’ knowledge.
        I ask her about ghosts.
         She laughs and tells me my brothers have been putting silly ideas into my head again.

The restoration is unveiled.  After the gathered crowds have drifted away I find myself left in the church with Aunt Emma.  She appears tired and slightly flustered.  I go over to her and praise the restoration.
        She smiles at me indulgently, “Promise me you’ll look after Sudeley.”
        I catch an uncharacteristic sharpness in her tone, “I promise.”
        Aunt Emma smiles again, “I’m still not sure it was the right thing to do.”
        “Why?” curiosity makes me lose my manners.
        “You’ll see.”

There were no further nocturnal wanderings while the church was being restored, but now I resolve to keep watch.
        Sure enough, I see Aunt Emma walk towards the church again.  I can’t see into the church from my window so I go down.  As before I wear a black dress and a black cap.  I hope Aunt Emma’s left the church door open as the stained glass windows are too high for me to see through.  Aunt Emma’s balancing a heavy book on my head seemed to work: I’m much shorter than my brothers but can just about see eye to eye with my aunt.
        The church seems silent.  I approach cautiously and peer in.  Again I have to wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness within.  As I wait I can’t hear anything.
        But I see Aunt Emma as she stands near Katherine Parr’s tomb.  Aunt Emma’s in white.  As my eyes adjust I make out her wedding dress.
        I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop the gasp that nearly gives me away.
        The marble likeness of Katherine Parr raises itself to a sitting position.  My aunt assists her to her feet.
        “We have a visitor,” Katherine Parr’s lips move.
        My aunt stops and listens.
        All I can hear is my heartbeat.
        “You better come in,” demands my aunt.
        I decide not to defy her.
        I expect anger, not, “Allow me to introduce my niece.  She’s also a real Brocklehurst,” and certainly not the trace of pride I hear in my aunt’s voice.
        I drop into a curtsey, “Your former majesty,” I stutter: how do you address the former Queen Katherine Parr who died as Lady Thomas Seymour of Sudeley?  She has an expression like the unamused smirk Queen Victoria so often has in photographs.
        “Shall we dance?” Katherine Parr raises her hand as if to signal for music to start.   I realise that her dress is as flexible as my rough cotton, that her dark eyes are alive and her hair is white with age not marble.
        Now I understand Aunt Emma’s promise and her concern about the restoration of St Mary’s being fit for a queen.
        Dimly, as if the harpsichord was way off in the heavens, music starts, a tinkly, silvery sound.  Katherine Parr permits herself a laugh at the strains of “Greensleeves”.
        Katherine, Emma, Mary we link hands and improvise a country reel in the nave of the church Aunt Emma didn’t want to restore: the mossy ruins would have left more space for dancing.

Emma Lee

 


Chaff

08Jul08

A horror story, originally published in The Dream Zone #8.  

Chaff

I saw St John the Baptist again today.  Can in hand, he was weaving down Grafton Street, a pocket of silence in the Babel of languages around him.  As he walked, the tourists parted to left and right, their glances looking through him, or skittering off his face to rest on nothing.
           His shirt was candy-striped cheesecloth, the sort I used to wear in the mid-70s, not the camels’ hair he’d favoured two thousand years ago.  Likewise, his belt was string, not leather.
        Drink had seized his tongue, but there was more than that in his face to explain his silence.  The ancient British monks knew it as agenbite of inwit.  We know it as the dark night of the soul.
        An angel of the Lord had appeared to John’s parents.  He foretold John’s birth, and warned them he was never to take wine or other fermented drink.  Degradation follows disobedience to the word of God.  Then death.  Then the burning pit.  Lord, you are indeed just.
        I turned and resumed tacking my way to St Stephen’s Green through the dense mass of shoppers, trying not to feel their voracity, to see the greed in their eyes.  As I walked, I recalled the insolence on John’s face when I’d seen him the night before, the aggressive way he’d whistled Colonel Bogey at the crowds trying to avoid him as he lurched through Temple Bar.
        His patch is the Ha’penny Bridge.  A narrow, arched footbridge vaguely reminiscent of Venice, it’s one of the tourist sights of the city.  I see them hastily step round him, as though unused to begging where they come from.  Each time I pass, there’s little enough money in the plastic cup he thrusts out.  I give generously.  He sits completely still, his mordant stare ruffling the brown waters of the Liffey.  His physical self-control is fantastic.  One morning I watched him for an hour; the only part of him to move was his hair, stirred by the breeze off the river.
        He’s always where the crowds are.  Yet why this silence?  He has his desert.  Let him cry out HE IS COMING!  Of course, of course, people mean money.

Late one night, three days before I am due to leave this city, walking back to my lodgings I accidentally discover where he sleeps.  He’s found a dark and private corner, where the city centre street cleaners pile plastic bags of rubbish overnight. He sleeps peacefully, undisturbed by the rats and cockroaches, or the noise of the busy main street only a few yards away.
        Next day, I visit a hardware shop in Talbot Street, then an off-licence.

It’s either very late, or very early, depending on your habits.  This is the one hour when this city sleeps properly.
        It takes some time for me to rouse him.  His clothes are cold and greasy to my hand.  The six-pack I pull from my bag brings him fully to.  As he drains each can, I ask him repeatedly where he’s been all these years, what has happened to him.  In reply, he says….nothing, merely sucks at the cans, gulps the beer.  As he finishes the last, he turns his face to me.  I watch his eyelids droop, then close.  He’s soon snoring. It’s what I expected.  Poor John

You sang a dirge
    and they did not cry.
     You played the flute for them
   and they did not dance.

Would you know the Lamb of God now, if He walked by you?

I reach into my bag, then clamp my left hand over his mouth, thrust the knife in to the hilt with my right, and hold it there.  His body briefly bucks and heaves, then surrenders his soul with the blood that trickles from his nostrils, the last breath that sighs out through them.
Removing the knife, I reach back into the bag for the hacksaw.

As I knew him, so I know her.  Even that late, she’s still working the lorries parked on Benburb Street.  Her habit must drive her hard.

Salomé!

I’ve fulfilled the prophecy, Lord.  The path is straightened.  First you’ll wield the winnowing fork.  Then bring unquenchable fire.

Paul Lee

 


The Red Chair

08Jul08

A horror story: a woman becomes intrigued by a man who pushes round an empty, red-framed wheelchair.  Published in Terror Tales (UK) and Storyglossia (USA, online).

 

The Red Chair

As I push my dark brown fringe out of my eyes, I notice him push a red-framed wheelchair with a cushion in the seat along the street past cramped bedsits.  The chair is empty.  It doesn’t squeak as he pushes and fallen autumn leaves don’t appear to hinder the movement of the chair.  The man stoops as he pushes with shuffling, hesitant steps.  In contrast to the wheelchair, his clothes, an old grey suit and worn boots, look as if they would disintegrate on contact with a washing machine: the dirt seems to be holding them together.  His hair is beginning to turn into dreadlocks and his beard is turning brown with dirt.  Despite his glasses, he screws up his eyes to look at me as I walk past.
        As I pass him, I can hear him mumbling apparently to himself.  I can’t make out his words, but the tone is tender, loving.  And I realise he is talking to an imagined occupant of the chair.  Or perhaps a previous occupant.
         I slowly shake my head as I fumble for keys to the place I live.  I can’t really call it home.  Home seems too friendly a name for somewhere with a black mildew-speckled bathroom with dingy beige woodchip wallpaper just about still clinging to the walls, a threadbare carpet and that many draughts counting them provides an alternative way of getting to sleep.  However, it’s as far as my shop assistant’s wage goes.
         As I make a cup of tea, I begin to think about the old man and his wheelchair.  I know it’s not worth contacting the authorities.  As soon as I mention the area, they’ll log the call as low priority.  This being the red light district, peopled by low or no income households and the combination of low rents and its proximity to the railway station seems to make it a magnet for those down on their luck.
        And besides, what could I tell them exactly?  There’s an old man wandering around talking to a wheelchair, who doesn’t appear to have had a bath for a long time?  He’s not dangerous, not a threat and this is the first time I’ve seen him.  Besides, wasn’t I almost caught the other day talking to a photocopier in exasperation because a customer wouldn’t understand that if you have a crap original, you get crap copies.  So who am I to judge an old guy talking to a wheelchair?

I find myself looking out for him as I trudge back from the copy shop.  On those occasions when I don’t see him, I worry something has happened, then remind myself I’m not his neighbour.  I don’t even know where he lives, so I couldn’t check up on him even if I wanted to.
        As autumn gives way to winter and I bury myself under two quilts with a hot water bottle, I notice the old man’s acquired a woolly hat.  A hat as grey as his suit.  But the wheelchair’s been re-painted.  He must have really cared for whoever the chair belonged to.
        Gradually I conclude that he’s probably better off walking the winter streets with his wheelchair than stuck at home.  Given his general air of neglect, I imagine his home to be reduced to the use of one room with a decrepit, stuffingless chair, a dodgy ill-maintained gas fire and layers of dust with a smell so bad that, if he passed away in front of the fire, it would be weeks before any neighbours would notice.  At least outside someone could see him.
        He never appears to get mugged.  Residents and the homeless seem to walk past him as if he’s invisible.  Even the kids will ignore him, maybe taking in the suit and deciding he’s not worth mugging.  Either way he’s become untouchable, like there’s a protective bubble around him.

But something did happen.  One night I shivered my way back from work.  As I rounded the corner, I see him lying on the pavement as if he’d just collapsed, like he’d had a heart attack or something.  I rushed over.  Momentarily I hesitated as his smell hit me, then I reached down to find a pulse.  There was one, although it was very faint.
        I dashed to the phone box, picking my way over shattered glass as I went.  Thankfully the phone was actually working.  I asked for an ambulance and described where he’d fallen.
        Slowly I ambled back to the old man.  Underneath the ingrained grime, his skin seemed very pale, bloodless almost.  Though he still seemed to be breathing, laboured, but breathing.  A good thing really as I didn’t know any first aid.  I blew on my fingertips as they were growing numb.  My breath was as cold as the night air.
        All of a sudden he croaked: a strangled noise came from his throat.  I tried to ignore the smell as I crouched near him.
        “Ambulance is on its way,” I said, trying to sound cheerful, although I really wanted to be tucked under my quilts.
        “You… look… like… her,” he managed.
        I had to strain to catch his voice.  Once glance at his face told me not to ask who he was on about.  His eyes had misted over and he was staring past me.
        “She was a real beauty.  So gentle, so beautiful…”
        I began looking round for the ambulance, just in case I’d missed the siren and it was crawling up the road.  I hunched further into my coat.  Lying on the pavement must be freezing, but I thought it best not to move him in case he’d injured himself falling.
        “She had dark hair too,” a smile creased at the corners of his lips.
        Then silence.  He seemed to have drifted off into some reminiscence.
        I had to reach for his pulse again as I began thinking he’d died on me.  Granted I didn’t think he’d much time left, but I’d rather he hung on until the ambulance got here.
        “She have brown eyes, too?” I asked, hoping he’d start talking again.  I shifted my weight from hip to hip, trying to keep some warmth in them.  My feet had already gone numb.
        “A dancer,” he said, “a time to dance.”
        A siren sounded.  I heard a screech of brakes behind me.  Gradually I stood up.  My knees complained.
        “We’ll take over,” said an authoritative voice.  “Know his name?”
        I shrugged and shook my head.
        Two uniformed men asked the old man questions I didn’t hear him answer as they rolled him onto a stretcher and carried him to the ambulance.
        Meanwhile I tried to rub some life back into my knees.
        The ambulance drove off.
        I felt as if I’d been dismissed.  As soon as I’d confessed to not knowing the old man’s name, I’d made myself redundant.  His smell lingered, but the pavement suddenly looked empty.
        I took a step in the direction of my bedsit.  Then nearly screamed in agony.  The cold had really got to my legs.
        I saw the wheelchair.
        Swallowing my cries, I hobbled towards it.  Tentatively I pushed it.  The chair moved easily.  I pulled it back towards me.  Gingerly I sat in the chair.  The flowery cushion seemed lumpy, until I realised there was a seat belt and I was sitting on it.  I reached down to the handles on the wheels and pushed myself forward.  It took less effort than I anticipated.
        I wheeled myself back to my bedsit and dragged it in with me.  As I waited for the kettle to boil so I could do a hot water bottle, I wiped a duster over the chair and shook the cushion.

The chair’s still here now.  I’ve never used it since.  Although I do occasionally wheel it round the room to check the wheels still work and have re-sprayed it a couple of times.  It’s virtually part of the furniture.  I keep telling myself I’ll be able to return it one day.

Emma Lee


Danielle Steel wrote His Bright Light in tribute to her son and as an attempt to understand his bipolar affective disorder (manic depression).  Nick loved music: he wrote lyrics and became a vocalist.  Despite being hit by a serious depression when his first band split, he found the impulse to set up a second.  After a “brilliant gig”, at the age of 19, he overdosed on morphine, knowing that he had an adverse reaction to the drug.  Nick left no note so Danielle Steel can only speculate about why he took his life. 

Although His Bright Light briefly acknowledges that Nick had one variant of bipolar affective disorder, Danielle Steel does not mention other variants.  She comments “His illness killed him as surely as if it had been a cancer… I’m not sure that in the minds of the public it is clear that bipolar disease… is potentially fatal.” and quotes the figure that one third of people with a bipolar affective disorder commit suicide.  This means that two thirds of those with the disorder do not commit suicide, which suggests that the disorder is not a direct factor for the third of people who do take their lives, but an indirect or contributory factor and other considerations, such as living standards or perceived inability to cope, play a more significant role.  Danielle Steel does not explore this, which casts doubts on her assertion that “his illness killed him”.  Her comments are understandable, but this is a mother’s panic rather than reasoned analysis. 

She also berates doctors for failing to diagnose Nick sooner, even though a psychiatrist explained the difficulty of diagnosing children with any certainty.  While Nick is still a young child, she criticises her psychiatrist for telling her not to worry because she has a very gifted son.  Once Nick is diagnosed, Danielle Steel pressurises his doctor to prescribe lithium, despite the doctor’s reluctance to give the drug to a teenager.  Danielle Steel considers lithium’s side effects of kidney damage negligible.  She does not list the other side effects of lithium, which includes possible liver damage.  There is no attempt to consider alternatives. 

The book was written in the 19 months immediately after Nick’s death. Danielle Steel states that she hopes the book will be of help to others facing a similar situation.  However, there are no useful contact numbers or organisations listed, even though these exist.  Her emotionally charged prose makes His Bright Light difficult to read.  Danielle Steel writes about what she acknowledges as Nick’s “atypical manic depression”, the negative effects of this and her urgency to find a treatment at any cost.  She does not consider the affect on Nick of constantly being reminded that he is ill. 

His Bright Light would have benefited from a rethink before publication.  With more focus this could have been a powerful story of an intelligent man who lived his short life to the full.

Emma Lee

The above review won first prize in Leicester Writers’ Club Review Competition


This wonderful collection is infused with and sustained by an ebullience that, at times, is almost exhausting.  Too grounded to be surreal, too substantial to be conceits, dense in content but light in touch, many of these poems are written in the style of comic magic realism.  The sense of delight they carry, their wit, inventiveness and warmth, are overwhelming (from “Cold Storage”):

We are currently seeking a Writer-in-Residence to spend six months
in Antarctica with the British Antarctic Survey,
…You will be able to rhyme
‘crevasse’ with ‘ice age’ and make it sound convincing.
…Poets must know at least seven words for white.
You shall not quote from Captain Oates for the duration of your stay
and may only imitate Frankie Howerd on birthdays and feast days.
…Short-listed candidates will be invited to attend a selection centre
north-east of Kilbride, to test the effect of low temperature on rhyme.”

At first sight, this is a satire on poets, but it’s actually a satire on the circumstances poets are forced into in order to make a living.

Christopher James’s range is impressively wide, the breadth of his knowledge and interests equally impressive.  Refreshingly, he clearly prefers the tongue-in-cheek and good-natured satire rather than irony, that dead hand that mars so much poetry, and so many poets, which is all too easy a mode to write in, and a trap.  Take this, for example.  “The Barn Conversion Owl”:

prefers to perch
on the roof racks of red Suzuki jeeps,
makes its nest in cast-off Prada
and flaps its wings
when the underfloor heating
is set too high.
…It is known to have developed a taste
for Feta cheese, water biscuits
and Pinot Noir.

There is some ‘cleverness’ of the sort produced by whippersnappers, that grizzled veterans get sniffy about, but I’d defy anyone not to be as beguiled as I was.  From “Fire at the Ice House”:

It was started, they said, on the Regent’s canal
on a barge laden with bottled Guinness,
by a child tied to the roof to stop her falling in.
Like a chill, it crept up the wooden spine
of the brewery, before making the leap next door.
At the Ice House, the ice well brimmed with water
like the world’s largest Scotch on the rocks

That’s the sort of cleverness I like.

Occasionally, he is a tad obvious, but being Christopher James, obvious with style, from “Doppelganger”, “I…was sipping  / a quart of plum juice when he showed up. / I was told my heart stopped for two minutes / during which time my left eye / turned slowly from green to blue: / the only thing that told us apart”.  The collection also contains some duds.  But then, I’ve yet to read a collection, by anybody, that didn’t.  “Iceland”, for example, failed to excite his gift, which lapsed into travelogue-ese:  ‘There is Old Icelandic to master / and sagas to digest in chilly bedrooms, / like the Voyage of Snedda, who / fathered a child in every village / in the country and could eat a whole / musk-ox without ruining his appetite.  Ah yes, Snedda.  Thank you.

Where he achieves brilliance, which he does in a number of these poems, is when he attempts to get inside another persona, and ventriloquize.  In this mode, he rises to small miracles of empathy, his language stripping itself down to stringent necessity.  From “The Travelling Player”:

Now that I am a man,
I must walk beside the cart
checking the road for potholes and wolves
and avoid the temptation
to fill my pockets with pine-cones.
A sunflower is slotted in my belt.
There  are days
when I do not recognise my own voice.
When I speak, my father speaks.”

I wanted to quote from nearly every poem in this collection.  Whilst other poets only catch fire in single lines, single images, or single poems, Christopher James gives you the full blaze.

Paul Lee


This album is spookier than sitting in a graveyard on Hallowe’en while listening to gutwrenching vocals by someone who cleans their tonsils in acid is an apt description of the review that appeared in “Sounds” on 17 April 1982.  April may not be a kind month, but in his review muso Ralph Traitor made it sound exactly like the kind of music I wanted to listen to.  Ralph Traitor’s review was of “Only Theatre of Pain” recorded by Rozz Williams with James McGearty (bass), George Belanger (drums), Rikk Agnew (guitar).  Rozz drew the picture on the album cover, apparently loosely based on Hamlet holding Yorick’s skull, done in gold on black.  The album was released in Europe by the French L’invitation au Suicide label.  Shortly afterwards, this line-up split up.  Rozz was actually 18 when “Only Theatre of Pain” was recorded, although it would seem that Christian Death probably started two years previously because newspaper interviews claimed Rozz was 16 at this time.
        Originally Rozz described the name as a “bringing together of opposites.  Christianity is so life-reinforcing, live by these rules you’ll go onto eternal life, and death is the complete opposite of that”.  Quickly realising this opened the band to accusations of being pretentious or pseudo-intellectuals, Rozz began to refuse to discuss the band’s name.  Later he said some band members had been throwing names into the air.  One person had been wearing a Christian Dior tee shirt.  The suggestion Christian Death came up.  It suited Rozz’s dislike of organised religion.  In interviews he often stated that any belief in God should come from the individual and be explored internally without automatic acceptance of churches’ creeds, “Learn to accept yourself for who you are and screw other people’s expectations of who you should be.”  Rozz’s two spoken word albums and his collaboration with Gitane Demone had God on their thanks list. So Rozz personally did have a faith.
        Rozz listed his influences as David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Velvet Underground Charles Manson, Throbbing Gristle, Current 93.  He frequently read Rimbaud, Baudelaire and William Burroughs.  Particularly in the nineties when the British label goth was taken up by the US music press and made a straitjacket, Rozz complained about being compared to The Sisters of Mercy when he wanted to be compared to bands that had influenced him and wanted musos to consider the whole range of his song-writing – rock, noise/ industrial, spoken word, pop and death rock.  Death rock was a term Rozz coined to separate him from the more theatrical or vampire-influenced goth bands whose members claimed to be blood-drinkers.  “I want to branch out and do other things.  People should not limit their minds to one thing,” commented Rozz.
 After “Only Theatre of Pain”, L’invitation au Suicide also released a series of outtakes, without consent, titled “Deathwish”.  Although rejected for “Only Theatre of Pain”, the song “Desperate Hell”, was later revisited by Rozz.  Valor Kand, Gitane Demone and David Glass, members of the band Pompeii 99, met Rozz at a party.  “Catastrophe Ballet” followed.  Initially Constance joined on bass, however, whilst on tour, Dave Roberts of Sex Gang Children replaced her.  It was decided to continue using the Christian Death name.
        At this time in the UK the Sisters of Mercy were trying to be Suicide after reading “The Waste Land” and ‘goth’ was a word coined in a review of Bauhaus, but hadn’t yet been exported.  So, despite Christian Death’s traditional rock band line-up of drums, bass, guitar, keyboards, male vocal and female backing vocal, California couldn’t categorise them.  “Catastrophe Ballet” dealt with states of depression, the story of “Electra” and queried faith.  It highlighted a dark side to California’s climate of AOR and sunny, synthesised pop which generally didn’t go down too well although fans of post-punks 45 Grave and Community FK lapped it up.
        For “Ashes”, Christian Death set up their own label, Nostradamus, which basically licenced the band’s recordings to other labels.  After negative reactions in the US, mainly from religious groups, Valor, Gitane and David Glass settled in Europe, although David Glass soon returned to the US.  Rozz didn’t want to leave California, so by staying put, effectively left the band.  No formal agreement appeared to have been reached as to who owned the rights to pre-1984 Christian Death songs although Rozz held copyright and publishing rights to the lyrics he’d written.  Rozz’s friends have suggested that Rozz asked Valor not to use the Christian Death name.
        There was much speculation about what happened to Rozz at this time: that he’d got AIDS, that he’d dropped out with a bunch of addicts, that he’d OD’d.  The only rumours that seem to have any basis in truth was that Rozz worked briefly as a washer-up in a San Franciscan restaurant.
        In 1987 Rozz resurfaced in LA having teamed up with long-standing friend Chuck Collison to form Premature Ejaculations, a band that used samples of literally anything: TV/Film clips, sound effects, from crying babies to chainsaws.  This was before the term ‘industrial’ was used and while Ministry were still trying to sound like Shriekback.  Premature Ejaculations’ vocals were spliced together samples and all instruments were also sampled.  The result could be disconcerting to listen to but was certainly original.  It paved the way for RevCo’s “Union Carbide” track about the Union Carbide chemical plant disaster in Bhopal which used Premature Ejaculations’ method of grinding, heavy, machine-like rhythms with repetitive sampled soundbites or slogans.
        Rozz’s lack of business skills meant that Chuck set up the Happiest Tapes on Earth which used the slogan “we just want you to see things as clearly as possible”.  Chuck also dealt with the mailing lists and shipping orders.  Rozz’s later attempts to set up a mailing list and newsletter for Shadow Project often got put on hold as the money was required to tour or for the next studio recording.
        In addition to Premature Ejaculations, Rozz worked on a side project, also noise-based, Heltir.  Through the Happiest Tapes on Earth Rozz released “Heaven and Hells” a compilation of remixes of Christian Death songs that he’d written and a couple of demo tracks, “Haloes” and “Spectre (Love’s Dead)”.  By 1988, Chuck was talking about Rozz working on some material for another band, Shadow Project.  Eventually Chuck licenced Premature Ejaculations and Heltir recordings to Cleopatra.
        Between 1989 and 1990, Rozz and his wife Eva O worked on remixes of Christian Death songs that Rozz had the publishing rights to.  “The Iron Mask”, “The Path of Sorrows”, “Rage of Angels” were released through Cleopatra and credited to Christian Death.  Rozz and Eva also played gigs in California under the name “the original Christian Death”.  Valor complained that he couldn’t sue Rozz for using the Christian Death name because Rozz “never had any money”.
        Shadow Project probably represented the direction Rozz had wanted to take Christian Death in.  It gave him the chance to write and play with experienced lyric-writers and musicians, who were allowed the freedom to take their own leads.  Rozz became more open in interviews and happy to talk about what he was reading or listening too.  In early Christian Death interviews, he used to leave the talking to Valor.  Rozz also spoke of the childhood trauma of watching his mother have a nervous breakdown.  Since his parents are listed in the thanks lists in his albums, Rozz did have a good relationship with them but it does seem that he cared for his mother during her illness.  This was probably another reason for him staying in LA while Valor and the rest of Christian Death had moved to Europe.
        Shadow Project’s original line-up was Rozz, David Glass, Johann Schuman.  This soon changed to Rozz, his Eva, Thomas Morgan and Jill Emery with Paris joining to play keyboards.  Eva and Jill had played together as punk rock band The Superheroines.  For Shadow Project’s second album, “Dreams for the Dying” in 1992, the line-up changed again to Rozz, Eva and Paris plus William Faith (guitar) and Steven Gary (drums).   After the “Dreams for the Dying” tour, Eva began to focus on Superheroines material and the other members took up side projects.
        Rozz commented that after gigs he felt, “exhausted sometimes.  It’s a nice feeling.  It’s a nice feeling when people actually appreciate what you’ve done.”  Before it became a cliché he’d occasionally come onstage in a coffin.  For one show he and Eva wore hooded cloaks, for another he wore a straitjacket.  It wasn’t unusual for Rozz to wear a vampish dress at one show then a suit and tie for the next.  Both outfits complimented his slender body.  Rozz took care of his appearance.  He knew what clothes and cosmetics suited him: often emphasising his pale skin by using kohl and dark lipstick.  Early Christian Death gigs saw him with the left side of his hair cut short and bleached while the right side was long and naturally dark brown or dyed ebony.  Obviously temporary work in San Fransisco  forced Rozz into having a reasonably sensible haircut.  He grew out the left side of his hair to the same shoulder-length as his right side and left it dark brown or added blond streaks.  He had toyed with the idea of having his Christian Death support Shadow Project but dismissed it as too exhausting.
        In collaboration with Ryan Gaumer, Rozz made two recordings of spoken-word material, “Every King a Bastard’s Son” (1992) and “The Whorse’s Mouth” (1996), the latter containing the renowned “HEROnlysIN”.  At this time Rozz became more open about his heroin use, that is, he didn’t deny it but didn’t openly talk about it, and made attempts to come off the drug.
        James McGearty got in touch again asking if Rozz was interested in forming another rock band.  Rozz initially expressed cautious interest then became convinced James was “involved in bullshit” and instead focused on Daucus Karota with Mark Barone (bass), Roxy (guitarist) and Christian Omar Madrigal Izzo (drums) instead.  Daucus Karota only recorded one EP, “Shine”, with tracks “The Stranger”, “Angel”, “Love Lies”, “Father of Temptation” as well as featuring a cover of Iggy Pop’s “Raw Power”, which Rozz managed to persuade the Stooges’ producer, Hunt Sales, to produce for him.  Rumour had it this particular track was recorded with the band on heroin, the song’s theme.  This was dream come true territory for Rozz.
        In 1995 Rozz got the chance to work with Gitane Demone again.  Gitane had since left Valor’s band and had settled in Amsterdam.  The result was “Dream Home Heartache”, with covers of Bryan Ferry’s “In Every Dream Home a Heartache” and Jimi Hendrix’ “Manic Depression” along with original tracks written by Rozz and Gitane.  A brief European tour followed in 1996, where Rozz and Gitane sang tracks from “Dream Home Heartache”, then Gitane sang from her Demonix album, after which Rozz would perform from his spoken word material and the gigs ended with songs from Christian Death’s “Ashes”, such as “Lament, “When I was Bed” and a blistering version of “The Luxury of Tears”.
        April was still to prove a cruel month.  On April 1, 1998 Rozz’s body was found by his roommate Ryan Gaumer in their West Hollywood apartment.  With hindsight it’s easy to trawl through lyrics for sections such as, “In willing suffocation / neck twisted, new cadence/…/ There is no season of birth / I am out on a limb which is broken, hanging / abundance of nightmares, my last words” (from “Zaned People”).  Without a suicide note, no one can ever say for sure why Rozz decided to take his life.
        His widow Eva released “From the Heart” a compilation of studio recordings that Rozz had completed with her before his death.  These are mostly remixes of Shadow Project songs.
 Cleopatra released remixes of Rozz’s cover of Bowie’s “Panic in Detroit” plus remixes of a few Christian Death songs, provided by bands such as Rosetta Stone, Numb, Die Krupps (Juergen Engler), Spahn Ranch (Matt Green), Leather Strip (Claus Larsen), Noise Box (Josh Helm) and Zero Gravity (Len Del Rio).  Bands such as Wreakage, Bis Ende, Switchblade Symphony, The Shroud, Bloodflag and EXP have all claimed Rozz Williams as an influence on their music.  Commentators often use Rozz’s Christian Death as a comparator or reference in music reviews.
 Former band members Rikk Agnew, James McGearty, Gitane Demone have had varying degrees of solo success.  David Glass now plays with Dave Roberts’ Carcrash International.  Jill Emery played bass on Hole’s first album, “Pretty on the Inside”, after which she left to give more time to the Shadow Project then joined Eva O when the Superheroines reformed.  William Faith formed Faith and the Muse.  Paris now models and still occasionally plays keyboards.
        Rozz’s own recording career had spanned 16 years.  An output of some 20 albums with a variety of styles from extreme noise to spoken word.
        I met Rozz backstage at the Hellfire Club in Leicester in April 1996.  Here was a man who used and developed his talents by being open to new influences.  This had earnt him a great deal of respect.  Rozz could select any of a number of accomplished musicians and talented songwriters to suit whichever project he wanted to work on.  He had a record company willing to back him.  Yet, after an initial wariness, I found him friendly, open and unaffected by sychophancy and pretension.  Rozz enthusiasically talked of meeting one of his own heroes, Hunt Sales, barely allowing me to get a word in edgeways.  Although I wouldn’t have wanted to interrupt as I was more than content to just listen.  When news of his death reached me, I felt as if I’d lost a friend.  This is probably the best tribute I can give him.

Emma Lee


The Light Forecast

” Here is the light forecast at 0600 BST.

Patchy light in the West
more general in the South and East,
some of it prolonged and heavy
l
eading to localised floodlighting.
(light shines in the darkness
even if the darkness cannot understand it).
Scattered darkness over Northern Ireland
and the West of Scotland
will give way to brilliance
gusting from the Southwest
at up to 50 lumens an hour in places.
This will flare to splendour later
and settle to a steady glow
just before a large belt of darkness
sweeps in from the East.
This should last for some eight hours.

We expect darkness at noon
in Northeast England and East Scotland
w
ith comets, shooting stars, radiant angels
and fiery visitations to relieve the gloom.

Here ends the light forecast.”

Paul Lee

 


Yellow Torchlight and the Blues
(Bristol)

 

The Old Duke stands
between the Llandogger Trow and the harbour.
Inside Saturday night shines dull
on yellowed walls
t
hrough beer-fumed tobacco-fog.

 Cramped in a corner
 the drummer’s invisible
 but the beat’s real
 driving below
 the pit of conversation.
 Musicians appear as blind watchers
 sensing their way through songs
 viperous eyes all but closed.

 She’s torchlit blonde
 in a slimming widow-black.
 Blue eyeshadow creeps into folds
 it was carefully brushed over.
 Lipstick bleeds into fine lines.
 Only the sax would know her age.

 Her cigarette-scarred voice
 packs emotion into facile rhymes
 as she sings
 achingly
 alone.

 Suddenly time’s gained an hour
 she’s faded from view
 the bar shuts
 walls sweat condensation.

 Outside autumn lights a flare
 and through the dark empty backstreets
 The Floating Harbour
 ripples blue accompaniments
 to Billie Holiday’s Gloomy Sunday.

 Emma Lee