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You’re no listening!

I am

You’re not.

I am! It’s just the way things are. You take the way I live my life just as an ordinary man; this is an average day and I’ve committed awful sins. Just like wanton brutality. And I feel so awful. . just so bad just so awful bad.

God Edward what’s wrong with you?

Nothing. He stared at her. She had leaned to gaze into his face and she had placed each hand on his shoulders.

You’ve not been eating and now your stomach’s in knots because of the work you’ve been doing for tomorrow morning’s test.

Yeh, he smiled and laid his right hand on top of her left hand while it still lay on his shoulder. Aw Deborah, he said, aw Deborah.

Cronies

For three long days and three long nights we drank together, me being there simply because I had nowhere else to go, nobody else to be with, not a soul, not in the whole world; and the other strictly because it was business, and the business lay in the undermining of the other, his crony, me. And not that he was going anywhere either as it happens, although this information is irrelevant, him being a sort of a businessman first but a human being second, and the business in hand was in being here with me, his crony, so-called.

The rest of the company found the thing a spectacle, an incident worthy of the greatest attention. On the one hand it was amusing but on the other there was this sordid undercurrent, them being in the know about the nature of the business. But me and him, as far as ordinary onlookers were concerned, we were the greatest of pals, even if it now seems likely we neither of us understood one word the other was saying.

There was something about it all made the rest of the company wax lyrical, a bad sweet kind of thing. You would have thought the one was not being undermined by the other, that this other was not in the business of undermining me. But the real reason for this false lyricism lay in the rest of the company wanting to consolidate their own fraternity. And meanwhile this barely disguised actual assault on fraternity was continuing right in front of their very eyes, it was quite disgusting, it just deserved contempt, the strong one seeking out the intimacy of the weaker, i.e. me. Plus over their bottles of beer and tumblers of whisky or vodka.

Then it became noticeable he was drawing in for the final assault, his friendliness was gradually being thrown off for the disguise it was, not so much in any outward display of violence but in an absentmindedness that accompanied each one of his actions. It was almost as though he who was to be undermined, and I mean by that myself, that I had become a habit, one more habit, of a tired businessman, if you could call him that; speaking personally I would say he was just an inveterate snob, and that was how he adopted such a nomenclature; the truth is he wasnt a real businessman. He was playing a double game. In the first place he wanted not to be seen as a businessman since most of his associates and acquaintances were socialists or if not socialists as such as least were all in hostile positions toward reactionaries or toryness or whatever, shade or hue. But then again in the second place he wanted everybody to secretly think of him as a businessman, maybe subconsciously; and that because to be a businessman was to be in a position of power.

And above all this was his real goal, power, as witness his assault on myself, someone the world presumed to be an old and trusted crony.

The day the company finally shattered began from him entering the room and the victim, myself, already seated at the table, rising to not so much greet him as wave him into the empty seat facing me. But he just stared at me and he grinned, and when he grinned it was a horror because it was so internalised. I read the signs and I was greatly taken aback, I gaped up at the ceiling as if I was looking for a religious emblem but the rest of the company, they were staring really hostilely at me and I couldnt fathom it out. You have to remember that until the businessman’s strong interest they had been more than willing to abuse me for a scapegoat, more than willing, and at this moment there was nothing quite so obvious. I wanted to shout to them about how it had all happened only this short span of time, how three long days and nights were so short. It was a mortifying experience and it was me that was the martyr.

Fr Fitzmichael

Outwith the Palace Grounds the sudden reversals were being met by widely differing though often violent retorts. But the worthy Fr Fitzmichael continued to perform his duties in a no less perfunctory manner: at 3.24 a.m. he was awake and set for his first of the day; the second was followed by the third and the fourth. When that time for the sixth had arrived he was to be seen sheltering beneath the large tree near to the Boundary. November is a dismal month. A month of the Spirit. A dismal month requires Spirit. In order that we may progress into the next, more than usual attention is to be given over to entities whose design is Spiritual. Fr Fitzmichael then stretched his arms, he was reclining with his back against the gnarled trunk of the tree; a trio of ants had appeared on the tips of his toes. With a smile he leaned to cuff at them with a flick of his over-garment. Such things are we brought to. The condition being a Triumvirate of Hymenopterous Insects on the tips of one’s toes. Hello. His call to a passing Brother was greeted with an astonished raising of the eyebrows. He waved. November. A month of the Spirit. Spirit and Dismality are equidistant. The Brother hurried off in the direction of the Palace. So, it would seem the Game is to be up. Fr Fitzmichael’s smile was benign. The attention of the Superiors shall be brought to bear heavily. So it must be. The tree contains ants. One enters the Palace Library to peruse the books of one’s pleasure. One enters the Palace Grounds to be confronted by unimaginable entities whence from pleasure is to be derived in the month of the Spirit. Take an acorn. Place it in the palm of one’s hand. Squeeze. Squeeze. Examine the acorn before throwing it onto a heap of soggy leaves. See it bounce. Upon soggy leaves an acorn can bounce in November.

Street-sweeper

The sky was at the blueyblack pre-heavygrey stage of the morning and the gaffer was somewhere around. This is one bastard that was always around; he was always hiding. But he was somewhere close right now and Peter could sense his presence and he paused. It wasnt a footstep but he turned to see over his shoulder anyway, walked a few more paces then quickly sidled into a shop doorway, holding the brush vertical, making sure the top of his book wasnt showing out his pocket. This was no longer fun. At one time in his life it mightve been but no now, fuck, it was just bloody silly. And it wisni funny. It just wisni fucking funny at all. These things were beginning to happen to him more and more and he was still having to cope. What else was there. In this life you get presented with your choices and that’s that, if you canni choose the right ones you choose the wrong ones and you get fucked some of the time; most of the time some people would say. He closed his eyes, rubbed at his brow, smoothing the hair of his eyebrows. What was he to do now, he couldni make it back to the place he was supposed to be at, no without being spotted. Aw god. But it gave him a nice sense of liberty as well, it was an elation, quite fucking heady. Although he would have to move, he would — how long can you stay in a doorway! Hey, there was a big cat watching him, it was crouched in beside a motor-car wheel. Ha, christ. Peter chuckled. He was seen by a cat your honour. There he was in a doorway, having skived off because he had heard about a forced entry to a newsagent shop and thought there mightve been some goods lying available to pilfer.