Steering With Your Knees

PART ONE

It was 2:05am and I was sat in an orange tube as it wound its way
through the streets of Nice, towards the southern French coast. It was
a Sunday evening, or should I say, Monday morning, and we had just
managed to switch from ferry to coach in a matter of seconds the
previous day. My luck had been very thin yesterday, which, when
combined with the worrying pace at which the driver had decided to
journey, troubled me slightly. We were nearly there, I told myself,
however many tragic things always tend to happen when you are nearly
there. A classic crash on the last corner of the last lap. I shuddered
my head to shake off these thoughts. Sleep was impossible, for numerous
reasons. One being this is a coach, they are cramped, and I never could
sleep on the bastards. I never admired anyone who could sleep on them,
I was always very envious - and that would turn to annoyance when the
journey ended the following morning, and they were always the brightest
people, commenting on the lovely morning weather and such like, whilst
I fell out of the coach like a drunk ostrich. Another is the sheer pace
of the thing as it hurtled down the motorway. I never had a want for
dying in my sleep, or for that matter at such a young age - so I was
content with resting my head on the grubby window and watching the
white line at the edge of the motorway, just to make sure it stayed
straight and didn't start to bend, or disappear. But hell, I've
survived this long, and at least this guy knows the way to Hyeres. It's
pretty definite I'm going to end up there - maybe in more than one
piece, but, after all, that's conceivably better than being English,
with no recollection of school French lessons, and getting lost in some
obscure suburb prowled by large hairy men eating toothpicks.
It was in the middle of that perturbing thought that I heard thunder,
and grinned. A huge weight fell on my right shoulder then just as fast
jerked back up again.
"What the fuck are we doing on a train? I didn't pay for no damn
train!"
"Quiet," I said, "This is a reputable company we are riding with. They
don't take kindly to they or their customers being disturbed by someone
who looks like they were brought up by a pack of crazed
wolverines."
"That's democracy for you." the thunder said, and went back to its
castle in the air.
"Thank god it doesn't snore." I said. Or thought. He was too dazed for
me to explain that we were actually travelling by road, and, besides,
it's not always the best idea to correct someone who was literally
twice your size, and still very inebriated. To tell him he was wrong
was like racially abusing Mike Tyson in a deserted tool house. The two
principles being exactly the same - you just don't do it. The Ekin
Principle perhaps. Ekin (reverse it and think for a moment). Yes,
that's pretty clever for a weary traveller jotting down random thoughts
whilst being thrown through the calm French countryside in the early
hours of the morning. I reached up above me to try and switch on the
air conditioning - this is where the lights should be, I thought. As
usual, the soft blow of air didn't reach me, and I shook my head.

We were on a single week, mid-term university "Education Vacation" to a
French sea town called Hyeres. I had been allowed to travel by virtue
of my linguistic achievements in my First Year&;#8230;my accomplice
Harry had claimed a place by putting faith in Fate. In other words, he
had turned up on the day of the ferry journey and demanded he be let
aboard. "What do you mean I'm not registered?" he had said, "I've been
a volunteer for three years now! Is this how you treat the loyal
minority?"
The registrars face had accumulated several different expressions
throughout the encounter. Now he resembled a Greek statue, although not
looking nearly as smugly accomplished. "Well, er, we still have a spare
three seats at the back of our scheduled coach, yes, of course, we can
fit you on I think..."
"Good. I knew you were an intelligent man."
The man's face remained lifeless as Harry smiled and handed him a
cocktail umbrella as he walked onto the ferry. I too smiled, nodded and
hopped across. It was the first time I had ever seen anyone mentally
outbox the Vice Chancellor.

The yellow grin on Harry's face had widened as we got inside the ferry.
It was basically a well-carpeted floating casino, rows of slot machines
along each wall, interspersed with various tables for sitting, and
drinking. Possibly also for sleeping and invariably fighting. The
carpet choices were very simple - a misleadingly genteel royal red
sweeping round the room, almost up the walls too. At the left hand side
of the room sat a grey sofa, totally out of place with the rest of the
rooms d?cor, with accompanying golden silk cushions. At the far end
were two hollowed out doorways either side of a wall that ran
perpendicular across the room. Reaching behind there we found various
children's arcade-esque game areas, all designed at raking in as much
cash from the short trip across the Channel as they could. On the right
hand side of these attractions was a stairway which wound up to the
left as you ascended, and took you too to a more reserved, post-fifties
caf?. On the left hand side a long corridor took you to places of
relief, and, if you really wanted, outdoors on to the deck for a gaze
out at the murky grey waters that pushed us on our voyage. Glancing
down I could see only about four lonely souls, one of which was
leaning. This was probably in account of the atrocious weather in which
we had set sail. It was raining so fast I could almost see my own
reflection in the speeding accumulation of falling droplets, and I felt
a kind of admiration for the wanderers outside. True sea-faring people,
surely, I thought.
I felt a shovel fall on my left shoulder. Harry grabbed me and dragged
me into the children's arcade. He was two years older than me, and
being nineteen and twenty-one did not faze us. Whilst when we were
twelve or thirteen the bikes were far too big, now they were the ideal
size. I also found myself to be a much more comfortable, and to my
disappointment, a much steadier driver. But some things never change,
and I still had the knack for finishing fifth when the lowest
requirement to qualify was fourth. A half hour on and Harry had not
moved from the bike area where we had started, and after beating me
convincingly twice in the desert, I had retired to match myself against
artificial intelligence. He sat there grinning as a troupe of kids came
and went, all vowing that he must surely have in some way cheated. This
didn't change his expression, he remained in high spirits, because,
after all, winning is winning and he liked the sense of
superiority.
It was after the conclusion of this thought I had noticed the sign on
the arcade wall, and the security guard. The sign read "Under-16's Area
Only" and "No-Smoking" was capitalized in black letters underneath. The
security guard read "Get out". Luckily he hadn't yet spotted us, or at
least, Harry. I guessed I could try and pass as a fifteen year old, I
had shaved cleanly that morning, and I wasn't too tall, a mere six
foot, which, I recalled, I had actually been when I was fifteen. So, no
worries there. Concern drifted rapidly towards Harry. Not many fifteen
year olds can claim to have a wrought five-inch goatee and are able to
carry a man in each arm. There are not many human tanks as it is, let
alone that many in the middle of puberty.
I took a few long strides over to the bike area and mentioned this
notion to Harry, and connected it to the image of the security guard.
To my surprise he didn't pose much of a struggle.
"Best not to anger anyone, yet." he said.
"My sentiments exactly," I agreed, "We'll slowly get up out of here,
and walk over to the bar, and hope nobody of authority watches us from
start to finish. But I need a drink -"
"Auch."
"- And I only have so much cash, and, with my luck, this journey will
get very long. And damnit, don't talk German, that'll get us into even
more trouble!"
"Fair enough then."
Up until this point Harry had remaining quite placid and undisturbing.
Maybe it was the beating of many poor kids on the bikes a few moments
earlier - maybe it was something else... As we approached the door out
the security guard seemed to take one stride and suddenly he was in a
confronting position to the left just in front of us. Harry put his
hand in his right pocket.
"You boys enjoying yourselves today?" he asked.
Oh great, I thought - sardonic guard who likes to play the game. He
knows we are obviously over sixteen. He'll know a lot more if he spots
Harry's quick grab for his pocket, and asks him to empty it. Unlikely,
I thought, he just wants to exert a little bit of power and control for
a few minutes. It's a miserable job anyway, I thought; let him have a
little Fun.
Harry's response was unconvincing.
"And you are?" he said.
The guard stopped in the middle of his opening breath, and leaned
toward Harry.
"Son, I am a member of authority, and you will speak with respect to
me, and the proper attitude".
The "proper attitude". Ho ho, heard that many times before. From bosses
at work to the common PE Teacher, you must always have the proper
attitude to succeed. I always wanted to find out what it might be, as I
never considered myself to have any attitude at all, and yet have
succeeded through writing at all ages. Harry had various attitudes, and
he always got his own way, too. I did everything the way I intended to,
and so did Harry - with the addition of a technique he called
"impressing" - and here we were about to spend a long week away in the
sunny climes of southern France.
"It's the adrenaline," I said to the guard, then quickly followed it up
with "from playing the games - he must've beaten about twenty different
kids there - including myself - wouldn't that kind of assumed
superiority pump you up-"
I glanced at his badge.
"- Alan?" I finished.
The guards face remained taught. He resembled an irate, snatched otter,
cruelly plucked from the wild and being taken in to a Sealife Centre
located callously beside a beach. His frown relaxed. The dawn of the
total pointlessness of apprehending us in this manner had finally risen
in his mind.
"Of course," he said, "You boys just make sure you have a good time on
your trip."
"Oh we will." I shouted back as we neared the bar.
He knew we were over age, because he watched us order two free mixes
and sit back down again. The first drink was free here, which was fair
enough, and the rest took on some bizarre inclining scale of prices. It
was best not to order too much today, then a thought struck me.
"Was that your pipe?" I asked.
Harry didn't look up, he was drinking from his rainbow straw. You
always have to be patient, replies can take a while in these
situations.
After a while he replied.
"Phles".
My nose was covered in a slushy liquid.
"Well I suggest we put it to some good use, have you seen the prices in
this place?" I said, wiping my shirtsleeve across my face.
"Not yet, we haven't ordered enough drinks. But I do see what you're
getting at."
The mechanisms in his mind seemed to be considering something, albeit
at a grindingly slow pace. A cog fell.
"That bastard will follow us everywhere," he said, and then seemed to
alter his viewpoint, "But so be it." He relaxed back with arms clasped
behind his head. "Outside is out of the question, we shall have to
chance our luck in the toilets, and hope that everyone is too addicted
out here to take a piss."
The slot machines jangled appropriately.
"What if that guard does follow us in?" I asked, and then leaned back,
thinking this could be a dodgy thing to ask a volatile tank that was
loading on vodka.
"There's two of us&;#8230;one of him. It's straight Mathematics," he
said.
"I was never any good at Maths."
He nodded. I invariably wouldn't be needed, if the situation were to
arise. I would just stand in the corner and admire the fighting
technique. One thing about Harry is he is totally aware of the power
and "impressiveness" he possesses. He knows he wouldn't need me to help
him knock out a humble guard. That's why he said "there's two of us".
Indeed, he was right. He was a simultaneous physical Jekyll and Hyde
character - definitely two men for the rather extortionate price of
one. And he knew it.

It turned out that there was no trouble in the toilet area, we were out
in a quarter of an hour, albeit half of that time was spent trying to
open the bathroom door. We eventually exited when a small messy-looking
boy heaved the door open. Harry gave him an exaggerated smile whilst I
nodded politely. The main room where we had earlier drunk near the bar
was filling up now, although only a few drinks were dotted about the
many tables. The people occupying the seats were invariably recent
ex-slot machine gamblers, flat small change broke, and discussing with
other people in similar situations the "bastard unfairness of that
American technology". Just one of the excuses that tapped at my left
ear as we approached an empty table near a window and sat down.
Harry started laughing uncontrollably. There was nothing to do to
silence this great husky animal, his sheer bulk stopped anyone from
adequately restraining him. This, I considered at this delicate moment,
was one of the few drawbacks from carrying such a trunk. I sat back
watching this scene in front of me and listening intently to the
raindrops hitting the tinted windows. They had started to take on an
altogether more singular sound, all individual dropping sounds merging
together to create a kind of smothering endless wave effect. That wave
itself started jangling around my head, seemingly in tune with the
people who walked by and stopped, and the gestures they made outside to
the ever-antagonising conditions. I spotted one lonely woman sat at the
table down from us, staring wishfully out of her window.
"Just be thankful we aren't over Indian Oceans." I shouted to her,
purposefully bringing myself out of the daze.
"I'm sorry fella, what was that?"
"It's a good job we are just crossing the Channel. In the Indian, when
it's like this, it swallows up simple ferries like ours in a matter of
seconds. Hell, they can't keep track of them&;#8230;they go so
violently that no one survives to report the damn things. If they don't
turn up at the other harbour, it's just said to be 'bad
luck'&;#8230;"
"That's horrible," she said.
Harry's laughter was propelled on by this.
"I know, but I guess its just a question of whether its your time or
not." I said, whilst looking at her right in her pinhole pupils.
"Do you believe in Fate, son?" she asked, slightly quivering.
I got up, nearly tripping over a leg of that damned sofa, and walked to
her table window. The waves were crashing against the ferry at about
the height of a basketball rim. I cupped my hand on my forehead as if
staring out, but more accurately to cover my eyes, which were lacking
their natural whiteness.
"I don't know about that," I said "But what I do know, is that we could
be in some kind of wet shit if the waves start reaching about ten foot
- once they get to there, then, well, the progression is so fast you
don't know it&;#8230;at least, that's what the Indians say."
The old woman had another glance out of the window, and watched as
another basketball rim wave rolled up and dashed itself towards the
stern area. You could almost hear the sound of the penny jar smashing
in her head. She quickly turned to look at me, but I was beyond
coherence, and my eyes drifted sideways. A few seconds later I decided
to smile at her, but when I turned she had gone.

My roving mind was locked into place by banging from the table behind
me. Harry was, probably in his judgment, tapping - due to the laid-back
physical method in which he was doing it - but it had produced a loud
timber shattering noise that was drawing looks. His attention had been
magnetized to two girls who had sat down close by. He was entering what
looked like some kind of Neolithic mating ritual, which involved a show
of strength and eager eyes that were highlighting his intent. I walked
casually over to him, not wanting to attract more unwanted gazes. On my
way over I'd selected a golden cushion from the forlorn sofa. He was
still banging. I slipped the cushion onto the table under his fists'
target to mask the sound. The loss of volume caused a complete change
in his behaviour. It was like someone watching a hamster rotate a wheel
for a few minutes, then suddenly reaching in and grabbing the wheel to
halt the perpetual motion. He looked up and gave me a confused "Why did
you do that?" expression.
"Quiet you pig!" I whispered forcefully.
This seemed to deeply shock him, his face appearing to retreat inside
his skull. For a moment he sat quietly and looked at the cushion, and
started flicking the frills.
"What are we gonna do?" he half-whispered to me.
"What do you mean?" I asked back.
He flicked his head back in the vague direction of the two girls who
had previously sat down, about three tables from us. They appeared to
be of a university age too, possibly early twenties, certainly not
freshmen. The one on the right was sipping a coke, probably vodka
included, and was a clone of the once drug-addled now "reformed"
actress Drew Barrymore. The other one looked very reserved and someone
who you'd guess, purely from the way she looked, was quite softly
spoken. She had very straight light brown hair that fell to rest on the
front of either shoulder, and a plain face that stood still and only
flitted fleetingly to observe any passer by. Drew stared into her coke
as if it were a crystal ball showing the future in separate scenes to
her. The outlook seemed bleak from where I sat, but Harry decided he
needed a closer look.
"I'm going over there," he said
"What? No! You can't go over there, not now." I again whispered as
forcefully as I could, but it was too late. I followed him over, not
that there was too much point, because if he started doing something
that would draw looks - and guards - then I wouldn't be able to stop
him. I just wondered what he had in mind, and I was on hand to explain
to these poor girls that it had been a very long trip for him.
They glanced up as he stood to attention above them and seemed to
command their vision. He grinned, formed the start of a "c" word on his
lips, then stopped to think about it. This puzzled me, Harry is not
normally a man for delay.
"Can we help you?" Drew asked.
He thought about this. I had a fairly good idea about what was
coming.
"Quid a go?" he offered.
"Pardon?"
"You heard me, take it or leave it, it's a good offer in this climate
of greed and skanking".
Greed and skanking? What the bloody blazers was he talking about? The
thoughts of him punning quickly washed over me as I reminded myself of
his mental state at this time, there was no room for quick clever
thought processes here - he was casting his intentions down on these
helpless frames like an anvil on a fishing line. I found myself
suddenly entering the great arena. "Er, I think you ladies ought to
understand that this man doesn't travel well." Ok, I can develop
this.
"What do you mean?" the plain faced one said. Both girls were leaning
as far back as their bodies, the chairs and gravity could collectively
allow.
Softly spoken, I thought.
"I mean, he has come all the way down from Scotland in a day to be
here."
Would they buy it? He had no accent, no inherently Scottish features or
mannerisms; he was quite possibly the most un-Scottish individual I
knew of. Apart from his meticulously lewd drunkenness, but then that's
the same for any nationality these days, probably more so for the
English actually when I think about it.
"Doesn't look it does he?" Drew ventured.
"Ah, no, well see, he goes to a university up there&;#8230;Aberdeen
I think. He, er, he's a student of Social Studies."
I was amazed Harry had been so quiet through all of this. He had
maintained the grin of a prime poker player before winning a big pot -
a look that says he knows he's going to win, you will lose your money,
you most certainly are fucked, mister.
"So who are you then?"
"Erm -" I was about to explain our predicament and ask which university
they were from, when a sharp tap on my shoulder halted my progress. The
look on Harry's face had changed too. He looked like a hedgehog on the
first corner of the opening lap at Silverstone. I turned around to see
someone in a white uniform with the name badge "Helen" standing next to
me, brandishing a gold cushion.
"You are not supposed to remove the cushions," she said plainly.
"What? The fucking cushion?" I found myself getting agitated at this
ludicrous woman.
"I'm having a goddamn conversation here, can't you see? Do you know who
we are? We paid for this trip," I stopped momentarily. This wasn't
technically accurate. I had got on free of charge (and with spending
money) due to special honours gained this year what with organising the
university newspaper and suchlike, and, combined with this, from doing
a course being very helpful to disabled children for a week just before
this trip was scheduled. Harry, of course, had just turned up and
walked on this morning. I fixed my eyes on the woman and continued to
try and rant.
"Look lady, earlier we got hassled by a guard for enjoying arcade
machines too much, now we are being threatened
with&;#8230;with&;#8230;what exactly are you saying here?"
"You shouldn't pick up the cushions," she said.
"Well why the hell not? My friend was sat over there, and I was over by
the sofa. I wanted to go and talk to him but I wanted to maintain the
comfort only experienced with top quality sofas, so I took a cushion
over. What the hell is a matter with this place?"
I felt it would be relatively easy to commit murder here, as no one
would notice because they'd be too tied up reprimanding someone for
sucking through their straw too loudly. The woman looked at me for a
minute and then walked over to the sofa, gently replacing the cushion.
She shook her head as she walked off.
"Anyway -" I begun, turning to face the girls - but they were gone.
More worryingly, so was Harry. My eyes darted around the room like
butterflies. This had totally sobered me up now, which wasn't exactly
necessary because he wouldn't be too hard to find, given the nature of
the beast. I really hoped he wasn't in the process of chasing the
girls, because I knew instinctively where they would run too - their
lavatory, slamming the door behind them. And breaking down locked doors
was to Harry what snapping matchsticks is to the average human.
Post-door breaking thoughts filled my mind with terror, I must find the
brute. I turned to face the other end of the room, and a few seconds
later, as I started ambling forward I felt a sharp tap on my head. I
looked up, everything seemed in order there. I let my head drop to look
behind me and saw my rotten friend holding his black Brickers shoe
above my face. He hit me twice more. I grabbed it off him and
stared.
"How the hell did you do that? I turn my back for a second and you
disappear out of sight, I turn back round for another second and here
you are again. It was like you didn't even fucking go! I was looking
for you."
He grabbed his shoe back off me.
"You weren't looking very hard," his voice was like gravel, "I need
something to eat. Badly. We need to eat now, we don't have a
choice."
"They don't serve food on this ferry." I replied.
"Then perhaps we should go outside and try and catch some fish. I'm
sure the waves are bringing plenty on board."
I remembered the old woman and wondered what she was thinking now. She
was probably haranguing the staff to either turn back or give her a
couple of lifejackets and a dingy of her own just in case, babbling
about the perils of the Indian Ocean to try and prove her point. Of
course she'd just be dismissed as some mad old woman telling strange
stories about capsizing Indian fleets, which made me wonder whether all
old women with stories to tell collect them on long journeys across
sea, from strange young men with dangerous eyes and a powerful knack
for accurate foresight.
"We can't go out fishing," I muttered after a while, "And besides, we
are only about a half hour from Calais, we'll pick something up from a
roadside service station."
This caused my friend to screw his face up so he resembled a brown
paper bag. It looked for a moment like he was going to throw up.
"Good job you got that fucking spending money." he said.

2 .Confusion in The Real World

It was beginning to get light now, and I had seen this football stadium
before. It was a fairly grassy, run down affair, but then, Nice were a
Second Division French team. It could hold about thirteen thousand, I
estimated. My thoughts turned to where we were. I had noticed this
stadium and had considered potential capacities about twenty minutes
ago, and now we were about to come up to a graveyard of palm trees.
Jason Lee - Nottingham Forest, the mid 90's - I thought to myself. This
was a trip I had anticipated for quite a while now. We were supposed to
travel down to the sunny bottom end of France, to generally aid the
locals with their everyday lives, and try a bit of water sports whilst
we were at it. It had been boasted that this excursion, which was an
annual event for the our university, always guarantees that
participating students will return with vital life experience, and will
feel they have gone a long way to bettering themselves in the
community. It will give them confidence which can stretch to other
areas, like their coursework, or social life. A moral boosting trip for
all, evidently more than capable of preparing us for the toil and
corruption of The Real World.
We were lost.
The driver had stopped the coach and was perusing a map, which, from
where I was sitting, could be said to be "inverted".
I have always never been content with staying put and "consistency". I
am about as resistant to change as Magnesium is to water, and liked the
idea of leading a variety of greatly diverse lifestyles. Possibly
decade by decade. More wild and exciting things when I am in my younger
decades, getting more relaxed and slothful as I age, natsch. This
"vacation" was going to involve a variety of different takes on life,
and I looked forward to what I and my friend have labelled "True
Alternativeness" - that is Alternative Surfing, Alternative
Banana-Boating and Alternative Knot-Tying, and various other actions
performed whilst under a different kind of influence, not of the cruel
whip of the bossman, or the beach official who presides over us night
and day (until we hide - they are lazy - if you hide they will not try
and find you, merely wait for your inevitable return to your cabin
which, after all, he has designated for you, and therein the
questioning shalt begin). No, nothing like this, but a natural
influence designed by black men with dreadlocks on small islands with
Nothing Better To Do. The sea town we are venturing to, Hyeres, is a
small town near Marseille, I think, and, of course, Nice. I can just
see the sea from where I sit, but that says nothing, Hyeres could be
another fifty miles up the coast for all I or the driver knew. It was a
quaint town, so I was told, with a fairly strong English contingent,
the "strongest on the southern coast" we were assured - about "a ratio
of sixty to forty" in favour of the French, and apparently, they spoke
fluently in English too, so we would have no problems communicating
with them, if we liked.
A small piece of paper landed in my lap, followed by a sweetly spoken
"d'oh!". I stood up and looked behind me. About four rows further back
was my friend Anne frantically waving at me in the way that only Anne
could manage. Where her hand should have been was a pink blur.
"Hi Stan!" she shouted over at me.
I duly nodded in her direction. Anne was one of those colourfully loud
intellectual types. She wrote poems and listened to Beethoven. Angular
thin glasses, messy light brown hair and friendly eyes which made her
look constantly happy with life. Her personality seemed like a
prototype of how we all should be, this I have thought many times
before. But she was someone you could never have an argument with, or,
at least, you could argue but you sure as hell weren't going to win.
Convincing Anne that she was wrong was like trying to convince the Pope
he wasn't going to heaven. But she had a clever way of captivating
confliction - she didn't actually argue her point, she would merely
convince you that you were wrong - it was a talent I often admired in
her. I had many a pleasure of writing with her for the paper, but her
take on things was very different to mine. She was a staunch
vegetarian, something which I never took up. I believe animals should
obviously be treated fairly and not killed etc - but hell, I eat meat,
its not like I kill the poor bastards is it? They are served up to me -
it's too late for me to do anything about it. If I felt I could
actually make a difference by becoming a vegetarian, then invariably I
would - but I can't. They won't kill one less sheep because I quit
meat. It's what Economists call a "Merit Good", I think, the ultimate
of its kind too. Anne also opposed most grey hairs that span the social
wing, the usual things like alcohol and drugs, and slightly different
things like driving and general polluting acts, which, I guess, is
another fairly admirable trait. She also doesn't impose her views on
you without warning like so many others of a similar ilk do, and this
works in her favour and gains her friends, like me. Harry thought she
was basically cute, which was very true, and she had the unrivalled
knack for keeping him quiet and on his best behaviour. In reality Harry
was a Writer too, but he wasn't very committed to it, and preferred to
hand his tuition fees and suchlike over to his many friends in the
Narcotics Investigation Circle, to aid them with their ongoing research
and development program.
She sat there with a big grin on her face and scored a hit with another
airborne paper plane. Harry awoke all of a sudden, and stood up to
confront his invisible waker. He gave me a "Who did it?" look, shaking
his fist, and I pointed at Anne. He put his hands down by his side and
turned to her, smiling sarcastically. "I was having a bad dream anyway,
'cos you were in it." he mused.
Ho ho, touch?. I pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and
forefinger, I was sweating like a spit-bound pig. Ironic applause
reared its head from the front area of the coach, which started to move
again. The football stadium passed by a third time, but instantly we
turned left down a street that looked very unfamiliar to me, and at
last I felt confidently relieved. Harry was surreptitiously filling a
pipe by my knee, and I knew where that rotten chalice was going if
anyone looked over. Luckily, he was very apt at this kind of thing,
after years of rigorous training, and filled it quickly. He cupped his
huge paws and lit the end. I watched him throughout this highly illegal
process, and motioned that the cylinder should assume a leftward
direction, and he duly passed it over. We were safe, and, after all, in
the company of students who were all used to this kind of brazen
bashing of the rulebook. The important people remained, heads forward,
at the very front end of the coach.
After some careful thought, Harry suggested something worryingly
perceptive, or well, what seemed so at the time.
"This coach is very much like the world you and I now reside, my
friend."
"Explain." I sharply replied, admiring the exterior design of his
pipe.
"Well, here we all are, being propelled forward, we cant influence our
pathway 'cos, yanno, the driver, i.e God, controls our destiny-"
"Shouldn't he represent Fate then, surely, or perhaps Destiny?"
He considered this.
"No, 'cos God embodies all those things. Fate, and Destiny are those
two teacher bastards at the front. We are the people of the world, sat
in our chairs, like our houses and shit and we also smoke..."
He was losing the grasp of his point. He would always try these things,
but after a while be succumbed to silence by the bolted gates of his
own imagination.
The rest of the journey was straightforward with no stops, and we
wearily pulled into Hyeres at around eight o'clock in the
morning.

3. Starting Work

The students dispersed to their various establishments along the coast.
As far as I could see, there was a row of detached houses stretching
down the road in front of the beach, about eight in total. A wealthy
number of students stayed on board the coach to be carried off to the
nearby town of Chante, where they would be involved in various digs and
such. Anne was amongst them, being the environmentally minded
individual that she was, and I laughed at the image of her holding up
her band of walkers by tending to every poor, stricken animal they
found during the course of their long walks. It was here that Harry
would meet his next obstacle.
"I don't have you down," said the old house lady, quite firmly. Harry
looked disconcerted and undecided on a following course of action. He
flashed his passport in her face with his right hand, believing for
some bizarre reason that this would cause her to reverse her mindset.
He kept flashing it, from side to side and begun to make "tick-tock"
noises with his tongue. Then, to my horror, he started tapping on the
top of her head with his clenched left fist. It was the soft, polite
manner in which he was doing it that was most shocking to me.
"Hello?" he was saying, "Is there anybody there? I can't hear you, we
must have a bad connection&;#8230;"
He started muttering something about travel expenses into his little
finger. I felt it was necessary to cut in.
"This man is an actor, he's a playwright, in fact. He has unusual
methods. He likes to&;#8230;experience&;#8230;his surroundings.
This sometimes leads him to various tests, like he is doing right
now."
"Really?"
"Oh yes, I mean, that first one was a simple eye reaction test, and the
head tapping, well, that was, er, testing reactions too. Anger."
"How extraordina-"
"So you see, he came through at the last minute, he has a sleeping bag,
erm, somewhere, we'll be fine, no need to check up on us, we won't be
spending too much time here anyway. Storage purposes, things like
that&;#8230;"
She nodded as we dragged our bags upstairs. The incident must have
affected her in some way, because I only heard the slight tap of the
door closing just before we threw our bags into our room. Well, fuck
it. She didn't offer us any help with our bags, and this after all
wasn't a bed and breakfast situation either. We were basically "paying"
for a roof, and a small, unmade single bed. The house itself resembled
one that small children drew with worn down crayons - your basic four
square windows and a front door. There was also a seven-foot opening at
the back of the house, for easy access to the beach. I had been used
to, in past years, long, stretching, green fields - and had become
familiar, when I moved, to the bustle and ignorance of civilization in
London. Now, as we stood at the top of the beach, I had visions of a
majestic moonlit sea at night. The day today was a typically bright and
sun drenched French morning and the beach was fairly empty, a few early
joggers fumbled wearily past us in the sand. We had both changed for
the occasion, I in white tee shirt and shorts, and Harry in a red
shirt, half buttoned, and long, baggy cream cargo trousers. I noticed
out of the corner of my right eye a small man approaching, smiling, and
flashing a golden fang at us. His face, bar the tooth, looked like a
small bronze caricature of a young Marlon Brando, messy golden hair
matching the shine of the incisor lodged inside his mouth.
"You two are here to work, yes?" he started, continuing to smile. He
had a typically low and gritty French accent, and a toothpick elevated
itself as he closed his sentences. Harry laughed at him, and knocked
back a foamy down of a beer can he had carefully selected from his
black bag before we ventured down to the beach. I nodded quickly and
pointed out to the sea.
"She's, er, very blue."
Jesus Christ what was I saying?! I stared at the man as he cracked a
smug grin at us, which seemed to perturb Harry slightly.
"You think we are just here to fuck about?" he screamed, "We are your
allies. This is our new home now, everything is under control." He
threw the beer can to the ground and tugged his white cargo pants up
above his waist. Lathered alcoholic fluid fell into a respectful stream
through the sand grains.
"Well," begun the French man, undisturbed by this frantic response,
"They call me Albert," he said, pronouncing the last three letters of
his name with the naturally French "bear" sound.
"You both shall have to start work in one hours time," he continued.
"Until then you may find somewhere to eat."
I asked him if he had any suggestions.
"The Trader's Room," was the reply, "they're quality." he finished, and
gave me the look of a man who has been paid or possibly forced to say
this, maybe even both. Forced payment, like that bastard coach driver
of ours.
"Where is this room?" I asked him.
"It's right around the corner of the road just there," he pointed past
our house of residence and down towards a clump of trees which guarded
the bend, "It opens at eight-thirty and shuts nine hours later.
Just-"
"We'll find it, shiteyes" Harry quipped, and grabbed me by the arm to
haul me up to the restaurant.

On reflection a bit of politeness would not have gone amiss in such a
situation, I felt, seeing as this man seemed to be our employer - he
certainly knew what was happening, an ominous enough sign in itself.
After fumbling aimfully in the bedroom we set off for The Trader's
Room, and to our surprise found it to be a quaint little area,
resembling an English laundrette in its simplicity. Harry pulled the
door inwards and, realising this was an incorrect process, sprung it
out like a catapult. This was the kind of place that said "That's not
on the menu today", and if you asked what kind of whisky they served
they'd undoubtedly reply "aqueous". We sat down near the window, and I
observed the ever wryly smiling face of Bill Clinton defining the word
"innocence" on a worn-out television set in the corner. Five years
later and no one cared, or could probably even recollect the events of
that fateful term - was this place really that far behind the rest of
civilisation? A young boy waiter, no more than sixteen, walked over
politely to take our order. He didn't speak, just smiled, and held his
grubby grey pencil poised to note our selections. We both just ordered
some French toast, and requested several slabs of butter, which we
continued to demand throughout the remainder of our meal. Not that we
were compulsive ghee junkies, it would just no doubt serve to brighten
this boys day, it was invariably not often he observed customers
buttering large crooked pyramids on top of their toast. It was quite an
art form, and required preternatural concentration at all times, like
shearing a bear, or dancing with wolves. Once we had satisfied our want
for ghee the boy scuttled over to inquire about our method of payment.
Harry seemed to confidently handle this.
"I shall be the bearer of the golden coin." he mused.
Suddenly he screamed and fell sideways, ripping and clawing at the top
pocket of his shirt. "Bastard!" he wailed, "I've lost my wallet! The
fiend is no more. The root of my life has been sorely pruned by some
croaking shit eater!"
"It doesn't matter," I said, patting his head, "I have spending money.
But you will pay me back, later."
"I owe you one, big chief." he said, and started giggling like a
tickled girl.
The waiter looked perplexed by these common mood swings and didn't seem
to want to move when I offered him my francs. Harry abruptly stood up
and glared at him.
"Take the money off the kind man, son. Or you will have me to deal
with!"
The boy looked at him as an ant does to an avalanche. He held his right
hand out gingerly and I slapped a couple of notes in his clammy
palms.

"What the hell are we supposed to be doing today?" Harry asked me as we
sat on the windowsill outside of the Room. I unfolded a shabby piece of
A4 paper out of my right pocket, inadvertently letting my phone crash
to the pavement at the same time.
"It says here that we begin by putting out all the boats and shit." I
said as I picked up the phone.
"Boats?"
"Canoes, you know, for the kids."
"Ah. I thought we were the kids?" he grinned at me.
"Maybe so, but not in the eyes of these people. To them we are merely
the chains that turn the many wheels of the water sports world. Or,
more accurately, the canoeing and surfing section of the water sports
world just down the beach there."
"How can we handle a thing like this?" he asked me.
"Alternatively." I replied.

We had ten minutes to reach the beach, or we would get our first of
what would undoubtedly be many showdowns with the bossman Albert. We
were on time, but still the last two participants to arrive. Our first
task was to blow up the canoes, as was stated on my paper. I never
quite understood the physics of this task, my tiny breath of air
inflating a plastic eight-foot canoe, but Harry appeared to have
grasped the
oxy-methodology much easier than most. I watched the faces of the
others as they stared in bewilderment as he, with literally four
breaths from those huge vacuum bags he called lungs, inflated his canoe
and started hauling it toward the shoreline.
"What, what are you doing?" Albert had come over to investigate the
situation.
"I'm just taking it for a test drive," he said. "I won't be long. Hell,
give me a spear, I'll go catch us some lunch. All of us. Even you. I'll
take a right at those rocks and see what I can find round the
cor-"
"You're not going anywhere. Don't mess with me or I'll kick your
shitter."
Damn these humourless times, I thought. I knew Harry was obviously
joking with the man, there was no way his attention span could last a
slow canoe journey in a hunt for an unsuspecting bite size haddock for
later. Albert motioned him back to the line of waiting canoes, where he
came up to me to complain.
"If that bastard gets ugly again I'm not gonna be held responsible for
my actions." Harry said.
"Now now, its our first day. We are here for a full seven days, we
won't be doing this shit all day, just the mornings, I think."
"That man is a grim criminal sandsnake. I know about these things
because I've been through them." he added solemnly.
"I don't doubt that at all."
And I didn't. Harry was like a hurricane in Chinatown. No one could
avoid his suspicious gaze or the judgement that blew with it. With
Harry, if you cross the line you will be crossed out, and I deeply
suspect he has many potential X's to his name even at the tender age of
twenty-one. He smiled at me and reached for a second canoe. This one
was an alarming pink colour, and again was dispatched with frightening
ease. The rest of the group, despite the manic outburst a few seconds
ago, seemed fairly in awe of him, and his ability to blow up canoes.
One smaller student, who had a face I'm certain I had seen before but
couldn't quite remember, motioned up to him after completing one of
his. I, incidentally, was still struggling with my initial starter
canoe.
"Hey man, you're pretty decent at that canoe business, how do you do it
sir?"
The manner in which the boy addressed him was worrying. By calling him
"sir" he was already handing him a title of power, Harry was in a
supreme position of confidence to jabber aimlessly at the boy and stab
his nerve ends with a prickly unease.
"This art is dear to my heart," he said with an almost loving smile, "I
have all I need at home to practice."
"Do you live by the sea?" the boy asked
"No, not really. I live in a big city, son. And there-" he hesitated
for a moment, "-there I have my plastic statuettes that aid me in the
development of respiration."
This cleverly masked idea seemed to pass right through the boy.
"I'm not quite su-"
"It doesn't matter," I cut in, "Can't you see this man has work to do?
He seems to be the only one around here doing any work. He is on his
third canoe now, where are you my boy?"
The boy shrugged and retreated back to his own place of labour. He
continued his inflation, one eye forever on the impressive heaving mass
that was coming into its own a few metres away.

4. Treacherous Squall, Lazy Dayz

The rest of the early afternoon was spent rounding up surf boards and
setting them all down for prospective rich teens to come and cosset
themselves in the sea and claim to be "gnarly" yet still gracious. The
group in question were a bunch of board school types who came ambling
down the beach pathway from their tent site located up a hill to the
right side of the beach. The pathway basically started at our house,
met a shop, and then rolled up the incline where it forked out like a
lizard's slimy licker into two separate tent sites, the other one of
which was occupied by an all-girls school. From there the pathway
continued up to a wood that overlooked the whole beach from the very
top of the hill, and which too had various tents camped in the open,
grassy spaces. Fair enough, I thought, the seclusion is preferable and
the view can't be too bad. Harry had smiled when I mentioned the girls'
school.
"Perhaps we ought to check it out," he said, "To see that everything is
in order, of course."
At these moments you are compelled to give in.
"Well, you can, but I think I'll give it a miss."
It was wiser, I thought, to humour him and not to deny him an
opportunity for investigation. Hell, I couldn't stop him anyway. If he
wanted to land himself in shit then he could just go ahead and march in
there, half naked, flapping about like some crazed stork carrying a
portable stereo playing "Three Times A Lady". I would just deny I'd
ever even seen him before, and, after all, we don't have him
down.
"I must have some relief." he smirked.
"What? No, hell you can't go up there in broad daylight. At least leave
your rotten rebellion to the fall of the dark sheet."
He looked confused for a moment. "Hell no." he said.
This alarmed me. Was he really gonna go up there? I thought he had
calmed down. My thoughts turned to finding some kind of
noose&;#8230;
"I don't mean that sick shit you keep harping on about. I mean I need
help - assistance. From J'ah, and all the other God's who care to open
their eyes and smile down to the good people."
"Ah, right."
We reached a critical balance of understanding, and walked furtively
back in the direction of our holiday house. A voice came from behind
us.
"Hey! You! You two haven't finished here, and we haven't finished with
you! There's still some boards that need stacking, and we haven't even
started with the jackets yet&;#8230;"
Albert was bellowing at us and mimicking a posh English accent, which I
guess every foreigner must think all English people talk like. It was
quite ironic considering we are both originally from Yorkshire, a
county highly notable for the stone-like quality of the accents of the
broadest speaking inhabitants. I jogged back down to him as Harry
continued up to the house.
"We are just going to get some relief." I said calmly.
To my surprise Albert seemed to understand this intended euphemism,
although, not in its totally truthful capacity. He nodded and held up
five fingers. I nodded back and raced up to the accommodation, where I
guessed Harry was already up there indulging himself and gibbering
about how things were and still should be.
When I reached the top of the stairs I bolted for the old pine door. To
my horror it was locked, and no sound came from inside. Maybe it had
been searched, the contents within found, and they had been lying in
wait for one of us to return&;#8230;then BANG&;#8230;cuffed and
feeling the abrasive end of a long fist. Up the stairs with a head full
of hope, and down again with a mouthful of blood and a heart in torn
pieces on the top stair. I fiddled with the doorknob once more and
shouted to my friend who I hoped was on the other side.
"Hey, we've got five minutes or Marlon will be on to us! And you know
what he's like with a temper&;#8230;where the hell are you? Unlock
this fucking door!"
The door swung open and Harry was stood there holding a plate of white
bread sandwiches.
"May I offer you a slice of my finest?" he asked.
"What in God's name are you talking about? And why did you lock the
door?"
"Preparatory precautions," he said coolly, "Now, would you like a
slice? I won't ask again dude."
Something told me these weren't your average post-Christmas sandwich
delicacies. There were four small triangular slices, stacked in two
piles. Harry was chewing intensely.
"Ok," I said, "But what's the secret ingredient&;#8230;and where the
fuck did you get the bread?"
He pealed back the top of one of the sandwiches. There was a distinctly
reddy purpleness to the inside.
"I stole them from that place we ate at, with that bastard
child."
"The Room? Fuck, you just shoved slices of bread in your pockets?
Why?"
"The only place I could get it so I could make some of my patented
'Hazy Dayz' sarnies, you know how much I like to be creative."
Indeed, spanning soup to various yoghurt pot serve-ups, this man was a
master chef.
"I already had them half prepared. I did yours just now you ungrateful
bastard, here."
He shoved me the plate, stopped for a second, muttered, and picked up
his wallet that had been lying on top of his bags.
"Our five minutes is up! You'll have to take them down to the beach
with you." he said.
"Well, as long as Fate doesn't blow a cruel wind, and I manage to
maintain a firm grip on these brutes then yeh, why not? Eating out is
always good for the heart, so I'm told. Keep on the move, burn these
nasty facets off." We moved quickly down the beach side to stack the
remaining surfboards and gather together a group of lifeless
lifejackets. I stood for a while and stared out at the lapping sea
waves, eating the last of my triangles. Harry's tendency to look over
and laugh, whilst trying to point in an almost incognito fashion so I
would surely not notice, greatly concerned me. It occurred to me that
there may be more than red-purple leaves in these sandwiches. That damn
fiend had set me up! Undoubtedly he had set himself up too, but
hopefully it wasn't for a fall, as such, and it would be simply an
endurance test. I hoped come the afternoon we weren't asked to do
anything too practical. But at least we had eaten, and maybe we could
wangle some time in the afternoon break to go for a swim, or a canoe,
or something. Or maybe we would get a spear and go out fishing. I'd
like to see the look on Albert's face if we came back with a plump
former member of the Pisces Club.

We were designated a two hour break and decided we should chance our
luck and have a sail part way out into the sea. There was a small kiosk
just along the beach from where we were staying, occupied by a
stereotypical old man in a fishnet top.
"Are these for hire?" I asked, pointing at the worn yellow boats
dancing with each other on the shore. The man nodded and flashed both
sets of fingers at me twice. It was clear he didn't understand my
English, but understood what I meant, as you do after working in a
place like this for as long as he looked like he had. I paid him twenty
francs and we ambled down to select a banana. Harry had remained
markedly placid, and as he now looked out to the sea, started to
tremble with excitement, orange eyes wide open at the prospect of our
nautical jaunt. The boats themselves were very small, with an emergency
oar laid casually inside, and a boom mast that needed to be ducked
every time a change of direction was required. Harry was inspecting it
carefully.
"Seems like a stellar piece of machinery to me. Fucking A, those
icebergs had better watch out, we'll plough a hole right through
them."
He laughed and lit a roll up. If there were any icebergs out there
today we probably would plough right through them, I seem to recall
this morning when I walked past the beach temperature gauge it was at
around thirty-seven degrees. I was wearing a cricket sunhat I'd stolen
from my flatmate at university before we left, barely covering my face
from the intense glare of the Sun God. Harry was wearing a dark blue NY
baseball cap, and you could see a long smother of lotion on his collar,
which was even now turning scarlet. He scrambled in and immediately
capsized the boat, falling into the water like a wild buffalo,
splashing his waving arms in an attempt to gain some kind of physical
and mental balance. He reached for the near side of the boat with his
left hand, shifting one huge leg over the side, and pulled the boat
over himself so he was trapped directly under it. Muffled screams and
wails of sheer terror dashed the top of the boat, bubbles bursting
around the sides as the crazed figure beneath tried to push to the
surface. I spotted the roll up lying smoking in the sand, so I picked
it up and climbed aboard a boat next to the jabbering wreck. I plunged
my arm below the vessel and a claw clasped my hand and pulled itself
from under the mess. Looking very wet and very confused, Harry hauled
himself aboard, muttering something about "grinding twists of
Fate".
"We can't sail today," he said, "The conditions are all wrong - the
instruments aren't working properly. Impossible to navigate this
treacherous squall."
He sat next to me, shuddering like a winded humming bird. His cap
floated up to the side of the boat, and I stabbed at it with the
emergency oar. Lifting it up on the end, I tossed it to him like a
sodden pancake. With an unexpected dexterity for someone who'd just
been ruthlessly attacked by gravity, he leaned his head forward and let
the cap land perfectly on the top of his skull. I kept quiet, and
paddled us out. The correct manner in which to do things is to walk out
pushing the boat, I think, but I didn't want to risk another similar
incident to the folly I had witnessed a few seconds earlier.

"Lazy days." I said, as we lay quietly bobbing out at sea. The whole
area was filling up now, a banana boat skimmed like a pebble off into
the distance on its first round of the day, and stopped every now and
again when some poor terrified youngster slipped uncontrollably off the
reigns, and got a couple of lungs full of liquid salt for their
ignorance to gravity. Harry was sympathetic for their plight, but
slightly bemused by it all.
"They actually don't mind falling off, do they? They pay for that shit!
What is the world coming to when you start having to pay to take a
fall?"
Indeed, he was right. It was a total reversal of what we know and love
in the world today. Names like Lewis and Rahman flashed briefly across
my mind&;#8230;.
"Damn it, I need a roll up." he said, and picked up a drying tube from
the set that had been bathing on the side of the boat. He had removed
these as soon as his shudders had subsided, and put them out to dry. I
tossed him my lighter to see if this drying theory would pass the acid
test. Incredibly it actually lit, and he sat there splurting like a
puffing locomotive. There were numerous speedboats out too, I
noticed.
"We shall have to try one of those big bastards." I said, pointing in
the vague direction of the nearest one, a gleaming white boat by the
name of "Matilda". It skipped past, far too close for Harry's
predilection.
"That thing's like a cruise missile," he observed, "The pearl of the
water!" he added, in the way that people who believe they've thought of
clever suffixes add. It arrowed off to the far shore. Suddenly
something caught Harry's eye.
"Give me the 'nocs man." he pleaded, flapping his right hand at
me.
I had earlier swiped a pair of binoculars from the desk of Albert,
hoping that these weren't for some kind of lifeguard work, and, if they
were, so be it, the rich kids will have to drown today. I handed them
to Harry, automatically believing this to be some kind of nudist area
he had spotted.
"We must go there!" he shouted, and pointed toward a hill. I grabbed
the lenses off him, and followed the angle of his arm.
"We will have to arrange some Time Off from our schedule." he
continued.
I agreed. What I saw before me was a mass of blue chutes and slides.
Toward the front I could just make out the sign "AQUALAND". It was some
kind of twisted - literally - waterslide theme park. And it was
massive. The perfect place for us to go crazy for an afternoon, and I
knew we had one free, sometime, but arranging transport would be
difficult, seeing as neither of us could drive, and we weren't about to
sail over there in much of a hurry. I put the binoculars back round my
neck and sat thoughtfully for a moment.
"Perhaps we could try and get a lift off someone? Or maybe bunk off the
morning early and walk there?" I said.
"No way. I demand to be taken there by banana boat only, or possibly
one of those pearls."
He was right, they were the best options, but the most totally
implausible. They would provide the most entertainment, and would
undoubtedly get us there very fast indeed, without having to check for
traffic, merely the occasional shark - but it was out of the question -
they were too busy doing tours and throwing the kids repeatedly into
the drink.
I explained this to Harry.
"Well then," he said, "There's only one option left then. We have no
say in the matter - it has been decreed by Fate himself."
"What's that then?" I asked gruffly.
"We must rise at the crack of dawn and steal one of those pearls. Crash
on over to Aqualand in the morning, and return just in time for the
afternoon tours to start. No-one will ever know the difference."
"Quit jabbering you fool."
I glanced at my watch.
"Listen, we've got to get back now, your going to be able to behave
yourself aren't you?"
"Of course," he steadied himself, "I'm the consummate
professional."
Which was true enough.

5. Rain Of God, Attack Of An Invisible Golfer

We finished our afternoon work around five pm, simply maintaining boats
- painting, scrubbing, and, thankfully, a bit of testing too - however
Albert had banned Harry from being allowed on to the excursions to
trial the boats, which had caused him to babble frantically about the
non-existent of a democracy. He was totally right, of course, and he
always believed in the theory of democracy as a means to an end, but a
first-rate means at that. I carefully explained to him afterwards, when
he was sat on the beach blubbering as I trod cautiously ashore from my
"test", that democracy would never exist, ever.
"That can't be true!" he had pleaded.
"Oh hell yes. As long as someone is dark, or someone is red headed, or
someone has only one eye&;#8230;it will never exist. The answer is
simply to clone all humans to look exactly the same - then there would
be no scope for any kind of discrimination. For as long as someone is
different there will forever be envy - and envy leads to cruelty and
suchlike, and of course prejudice. I think some people get the idea of
'why should we treat them all the same if they don't all look the same
and act the same?' into their heads, and let it run away with them.
They miss the boat entirely, shit, they miss the entire fleet."
He nodded sombrely.
"What can we do about it?" he said.
"We just have to make sure we reach the harbour in time." I
replied.
Our group passed us by on the way to their various abodes for the
evening, and we decided too that we should retire for a couple of
hours, perhaps get something to eat. Harry said he didn't feel up to
any kind of "investigating" tonight, which threw my thoughts back to
the all-girls school camped out part way up the hill.
"They are only fifteen you know, possibly sixteen maximum."
In hindsight, saying this was a mistake. My own personal Hindenburg.
Harry's face seemed to jump and take on new life. Then, to my surprise,
sank back down again.
He groaned.
"I can't do it." he said.
From the look on his face it appeared he was locked in some kind of
internal mental struggle between two battling thoughts, one -
invariably - of rest, the other undoubtedly of conquest.
We sat up in our bedroom contemplating our next actions for the day, or
night, as it was starting to darken already out there. It was now about
a quarter past six, and since returning to the dorm Harry had been
connected permanently to the neck of a huge brown bottle of Gr?lsch,
which was now on its last legs. He, however was just getting started it
seemed. I suggested we stay in our room, and subsist on a few more
illicit sandwiches. On the face of it, this seemed like it could lead
to much more interest than anything outside our room, when you really
stood up and looked around the place there was only really the beach,
and an eerie chill had cast its presence outside&;#8230;

It was about nine pm when Harry started raving about the "Rain of God".
A sudden light pitter-patter on the window frame outside had prompted
this comment.
"We're doomed now," he said, "You know what it means when it starts to
rain like that. The Rain Of God&;#8230;"
"I think you should explain yourself." I said.
His hypothesis was considered and relatively simple.
"You remember that day, or rather, those forty days, when it rained a
lot?"
"Oh yeh," I said, "That was a few weeks back. We were in Brighton on
the beach and it just fell on us like nails. Shit, I don't want to go
through that again."
He stood up, and walked over to the window like one who was watching
everything he worked for drip away down the pipes. Which, in a
roundabout metaphorical sense, was true.
"You aren't listening to me," he said, "This is important goddamn
it!"
He was trembling with rage now, and threw open the window. I was happy
knowing that, as I have learned in the past, when he gets into one of
these ludicrously riotous frames of mind, about the only thing that is
safe is his best friend - Harry had a great want to convey his assorted
views and thoughts, his theories and ideas of what kind of oil greased
the many chains of the world - so he always had a love for the fellow
companion. Inanimate objects weren't so lucky, especially if they were
small and throwable, or big and hollow. He started to lean out of the
window now, trying to clasp each individual raindrop in his hand. He
emerged a few second later with a small pool of water in his cupped
paws, and came and kneeled next to me.
"You see," he explained, "On that day many years ago - when the Good
Lord our God flooded the world with H?O, he was washing away all the
bad people to make the world a better place. So, from then on, every
time it rains, it is God trying to wash away the sins created by all
the so called "bad" people in the world today."
"So&;#8230;why are you so angry?" I asked - I couldn't quite
understand his point. The idea itself was sound, possibly even what you
could call insightful.
"I have been called a bad person many times before," he said "I take
rainfall very personally." he explained. I nodded.
Tipping the holy water so it rested in the ample mug of his right palm,
he reached into his top pocket and pulled back out clenching his
lighter, flicked it and proceeded to set light to his water bearing
hand. He cracked a gruesome grin as he lay the flame down to the water,
but all this was short lived as the prick from the pain of the flame
sent him falling backwards into a half open wardrobe, sending the open
door crashing gallantly off its hinges in slow motion like a sinking
galleon. He himself ended sitting straight up right in the actual
interior of the wardrobe, a pair of green khaki Refined trousers half
hanging off his right shoulder. Still outstretching his arm, he gave me
a look of concerned bewilderment.
"I think that's what they call 'an act of God'," I said, pointing at
his wavering hand. "You tried to burn the very essence of repent.
There'll be no nude women and pots of gold where you're going."
He seemed to understand this, and started to cry.
"Perhaps we should get some sleep now," I suggested, "It's been a long
first day, a lot of travelling has been done. And hell, they didn't
even let us sleep before we started to work, they just assumed we got
it on the coach."
My thoughts drifted back to my innate ability to stay awake on coach
journeys&;#8230;
Resentful musings were interrupted by the harsh crack of splintered
wood. Harry had stood up suddenly, smashing his head through the top of
the wardrobe. He was staring intensely at the doorway. I turned my neck
to follow his gaze, but the door was locked shut, just as we had left
it a few hours ago.
"It's a good job that old French woman left to visit&;#8230;who was
it? Her son? I don't understand that language&;#8230;did it for six
whole years and the only thing I can remember is 'je voudrais une
ananas'."
Harry remained deadly focused, as a lion does before the closing killer
jump into the gut of the grazing wildebeest.
Then he spoke in a delicate, foreboding tone of the figure who, in his
eyes, was standing behind me.
"Don't move," he said, "That guy's got a golf club. He's on to us, he
knows you by the look of it - he's going to kill you! He'll bash your
ear right through to the other side of your skull! I told you! Move
it!"
I darted up, not through fear and belief that there was a crazed
psychotic waving a 7-iron behind my back, but basically obeying Harry's
order through the demanding pitch of his thunderclap voice.
"This is a situation, Stan," he was saying, stroking his goatee.
"Desperate times call for desperate measures. And these are especially
desperate times."
He reached above him and grabbed a long, thick brown splint of wood
from the shattered wardrobe apex. Holding it in his unfavoured yet
still markedly dangerous left hand (his right one was still an obscure
crimson colour), he strode mercilessly towards the door, and thrust the
stake toward the top panel. It snapped in half and he dropped it in
panic, and turned to face me. Then he spotted the open window.
"Oh no you don't!" I said and swiftly pulled it shut, latching the lock
before he could stride across to stop me.
"What the hell did you do that for?" he said grabbing my collar, "Now
we are trapped with this maniac!"
I pointed to the door in a hope that the imaginary golfer would have,
to Harry, disappeared by now. He looked slowly behind him, still
frowning and clasping the top of my shirt in his bleeding palms. After
a few seconds he relaxed.
"I think we need some sleep. Gotta work tomorrow. Yes sir." he
said.
He eventually settled, tugging at a thick white blanket that had been
bundled in on top of his clothes when he had packed his bag the
previous morning, and sidled down gently, resting his head on the side
of his headbag. I remained, static, by the window, staring out at the
last of the rainfall. The tapping of the drops had ceased now, and I
decided that I might as well try and rest easy too, because, as he
said, there was a lot of work to be done the following day, and we had
to be prepared.

6. Escape From Cold Titz

I awoke to confusing blackness and reached hastily for the quaint
bedside lamp. A quick glance around the room, and to my wrist,
confirmed all my worst fears. It was around two am and Harry was gone.
I hoped the smashing sound that awoke me was that of the front door
being slammed shut, because then he wouldn't be far off. The smell of
burnt poppyblock clung in the air and I knew where that bastard was
heading right this minute - and it certainly wasn't up through the
fields to tell mother about her fallen son - no, the situation was far
more grave than that - a two hundred and fifty pound drug-addled,
sex-depraved husky bear brandishing a Gr?lsch bottle in amongst some
troupe of poor, defenceless mid-teen school leavers. It was like
sending an elephant out to fight a battle against an army of ants. All
the girls would be trampled on - metaphorically speaking - all at once,
and, if they were lucky, they would be left there to dry and rise like
bread in the morning.

I leapt out the front door and to the left, heading for the bottom of
the hill. It was a kind of lopsided crossroads. To my right was the
route that our coach had turned in, behind me went the road back to our
house and numerous others, to my left was a path that deepened with
sand until it reached the actual beach, and in front of me was the
worn, broad footway leading up to the various campsites and to the wood
overlooking everything at the very top. At the bottom of the hill and
to my right was a shop selling a variety of cooling French drinks, and
a run-down bar area further down. As you ascended the hill there was a
dining area to the left, and random tents scattered about further up
behind that. These tents cropped up on the right, too, as I progressed
slowly along the footway. All of a sudden a small stone hit me on the
neck, its impact and my reaction signalling cheap laughter concealed
poorly behind a group of wilting Mahonia plants. I realised the object
that struck me was in fact the blue berry of the plant, and I had a
greasy blue cream etched across my neck, hence the vocal amusement. Had
I been in a less observant, or, shall we say, less concentrated state
of mind, I could've sworn the plant was laughing at me and heaving as
it chuckled. But then, I recognised the growling, Neolithic tones that
were hiding behind the pale green foliage. Harry stood up, half naked,
wearing the pair of green khaki trousers that had earlier fallen on him
as he slumped in the wardrobe. He looked like a bronze phantom as he
emerged, and ripped a number of the more yellow leaves off their stems
as he strove for help balancing. His laugh faded as he strolled up to
me.
"Thank god you're here," he said. "What's wrong with the cops around
here? They are the ones that want locking up."
"What cops?" I asked him.
He begun to point frantically.
"The ones that cornered me at that run down bar at the bottom of the
hill. Goddamn it, they accused me of being a snoop and a sex offender,
they even had my name - they came up to me and told me my own damn
name."
"Oh yeh, haven't you heard? That kind of thing is all the rage now.
Shit, a few weeks ago my friend was wandering aimlessly down Bolton
Road, when he was sent crashing to the ground like a bowling
pin."
"What happened?" Harry asked - he was starting get a cautiously
intrigued look about him.
"It was three pot bellied pigs wrestling with him next to a phone
booth. They cuffed him and started a frenzied rant accusing him of
illegally harbouring Korean eight year olds in his flat, travelling
down to Dover every third Saturday to pick them up."
"Boys or girls?" Harry asked.
"Both." I said.
"Jesus, that's a sobering thought."
"You need plenty more-"
"I mean that's horrifying. What happened to him?" Harry cut in,
frantically demanding some kind of mind-resting happy ending.
"I have no idea," I continued "No one has seen him or heard from him
since. Rumour has it they cut both his arms off and shipped him to some
high security prison in Pyongyang."
There was an uncomfortable silence as I finished the sentence.
Somewhere, within the fragile colliery that was Harry's mind, some
vital worker slammed a door shut and was running down a long flight of
stairs, in a desperate attempt to locate his external auditory canal.
He stood there like a frozen mammoth.
"Say, er," I started "How did you lose your pigs anyway?"
He came to life again.
"I told them I worked for the DST, that scared the hell out of
them."
"Ah, good thinking. They won't be coming round here anymore."
We stood silently again for a few seconds, admiring the foliage of the
Mahonia plant. The air had started to develop a chipped chill to it
again, and Harry was eyeing further up the hill.
"I have to go put those girls to bed now&;#8230;" he said, and
started up the hill. I staggered behind.
"What? No! You can't do that, your not authorized!" I shouted.
"I wasn't authorized to come on this trip, but here I am anyway."
True enough, there was no way of stopping this cannonball from reaching
its target, no hope at all. In any case, I was desperately trying to
focus on near eye objects, as the cruel hug of semi-blindness that is
symbolic of the immediate post-waking period was still maintaining a
firm hold. Hope hadn't just gone out of the window, it had landed on
the floor below and was proceeding to round the corner at the end of
the street.
The pathway swerved round a bend and opened up like a flower to reveal
a gravelled volleyball court and some dreary outhouses at the far end,
behind the court. Light shone eerily from a tall, motorway streetlight
construction that was sitting in the ground over on the far side.
Directly opposite the net was another pathway on the left leading
further up the hill to a crossroads, with a campsite either side to the
left and right, and the path continuing straight up to the woods. Harry
stood with his hands on his hips as he surveyed the area.
"Seems pretty clean to me." he said, and staggered over to the
volleyball net. He clawed at the squared netting holes.
I watched the metal poles that the net was tied to sway gently as he
tugged.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you-" I started.
Suddenly there was a sound like a huge steel band all striking their
drums at once, and very very hard. The whole volleyball set up had
collapsed, both poles falling sideways one in front and one behind
Harry as he stood in the middle with his hand in the net, narrowly
avoiding the metal cylinders as they crashed around him. I tensed badly
- my senses were heightened - I felt like a human dog, and my eyes were
scouring the tent site for the inevitable woken movement. For a few
seconds there was nothing, and Harry still stood in the middle
whimpering, twisted in mesh. The net had taken revenge in the name of
all the inanimate objects he had fouled many times before, and he was
trapped. My eyes widened and I started to wander over to him.
"No Stan," he started, "Save yourself! They got me - it's a set up! I
knew it, I could sense it&;#8230;that's why I had to investigate!"
he fumbled.
"And you fell into their trap, didn't you?" I shouted, waving my arms
at him.
Well, fuck it. Leave him here until morning, this is nothing to do with
me, hell, I tried to stop him, and now look what has happened.
I shook my head glumly and started off back down the path.
"Wait! Where the hell are you going?" he shouted, "You gotta get me out
of here!"
As I reluctantly turned to help the frozen fiend a jolting figure
started to hobble into the corner of my eye, walking gawkily down the
hill from one of the campsites. Small yelps of pain indicated the
figure was barefooted as it crossed the gravel to confront us. I
quickly untangled Harry from what turned out to be a relatively
undemanding tight spot, and as the figure approached we turned round
and stood to attention like a pair of military kangaroos. The figure
bared an unlikely resemblance to the fragile frame of Vivien Leigh, and
kept staring at us with Bambi eyes as she endeavoured to uncover what
we were up to.
"Excuse me," she said, eyes darting side to side like abacus balls as
she spoke, "What seems to be the matter here? Why are you disturbing
the peace of these sleeping kids?"
"Excuse me," Harry answered, "But why aren't your kids in bed?"
He nodded in the direction of the campsites. A pool of eight or nine
girls had assembled on the corner of the right hand side of the
crossroads, and was beginning to slowly dribble down the hill. Harry
started towards them as an awkward bear does as it stumbles along on
its hind legs.
"We must put these children to sleep." he could be heard
muttering.
The effect of him approaching them was greater than any tear gas or
nitrous oxide that could've been employed to get the girls to return to
their tents. They scurried up round the corner like rocket-powered rats
through a maze. Viewing this incident from the third person was all the
more entertaining, and I swung my arm around the poor teacher woman and
started laughing.
"Don't worry," I said, speaking through my laughs "This kind of thing
happens all the time with him. You know he's never even caught
one?"
Harry was returning now, head down with his hands in his pockets,
resembling a man who'd just been fired from a job painting nude
portraits of Anna Kournikova five minutes before the first session was
due to start.
"He thinks he's some kind of Bogart man." I continued.
"More like a bogeyman." the woman said with abhorrence.
My eyes darted apprehensively to Harry's face, whilst I remained clung
lovingly to this woman. She seemed to show no signs of lurching back,
but then, this was probably due to some kind of fear paralysis at her
encounter with two men who looked as if they'd just eaten a
three-course meal inside a washing machine. Harry just shrugged his
shoulders, then suddenly twisted his neck round like an irate owl to
face the outhouse area behind him. A small figure was emerging from the
doorway, working its way up towards the path and invariably back to its
tent, completely unaware of the horseplay that had been taking place a
few seconds earlier, and which was threatening to rear its ugly head
once more.
"Er no please&;#8230;" the woman started as Harry approached the
girl, but I restrained her, there was nothing she could do. I could
just about overhear his muttering.
"Hey there," he said slyly, "Its pretty cold tonight isn't it?" he
asked, whilst staring continually at her chest. She nodded slowly, and
had stopped walking. She risked a worried glance over to her teacher,
who was still stationary in my right arm. I smiled and made a gun
firing gesture with my other hand, whilst winking a couple of times for
extra measure. She was pretty enough but very small, about five feet,
with short brown hair and mint-pea green eyes. She folded her arms over
a sea blue silk dressing gown.
"Are you one of the instructors?" she asked, keeping calm for someone
being confronted by a half naked beast in the middle of the night, and
adding one of those forced conversation tones to her voice.
"Yes," replied Harry after a few seconds of cogitation, "I was just
inspecting your net over here." He rested his right hand on the flat of
her back and turned her to face the crumpled mesh mess in the middle of
the court of gravel, and started to wave his finger at the toppled
poles. The girl shouted to her teacher.
"Mrs Charleston! Who are they?"
Mrs Charleston gave me an awkward upward glance.
"Gravel court night patrol." I told her.
She replied in a convincingly supportive manner.
"They are workers from the campsite company," she smiled, "They sat
with the driver at the front of the coach Kimberley, don't you
remember?"
Kimberley shook her head.
"Not surprising for you, you never pay attention anyway."
She finished her sentence with an odd double blinking action. I drew my
arm away from her and stood back a little.
"Kimberley then," Harry was saying, "Can I call you Kimmy?"
"Call me Kim, I don't like 'Kimmy'."
"Why not?" he was taken slightly aback by this, "It's a beautiful name.
Foxy!"
I skipped over to them, feeling the time was right to be on our way,
before this went too far.
"Er, how about we just scoot on out of here eh Haz? We gotta long day
tomorrow, gotta get up and go to work."
I gave him a look I was somewhat used to giving, a look that said "God,
please, lets get the hell out of here you evil bastard" whilst also
saying "if you don't your on your own, in the middle of the night,
totally helpless and disorientated - fucked, basically". I found the
need to slip into this kind of suggestive half frown pretty much on a
daily basis. He turned to face the girl and breathed a large sigh. She
flinched.
"Maybe I'll see you around," he said, as I tugged at his arm and pulled
him toward the bend and descending path. The teacher woman rushed back
up the hill, and the girl shook as she jogged up behind her, arms still
clenched in a folded position around her chest.

"Oh shit oh shit, do you know what you've done?" I asked him as we ran
back down the hill.
"They'll ship us back home for sure now - the candle is burning." I
said.
We pressed on in a zigzag motion down the hill.
"We'd better get back before we are seen or heard by that Albert Marlon
fuck." said Harry.
"Hey Stella!" I shouted and laughed into the night.
"He'll tie us to some damn rope and strap lifejackets round our necks
and throw us off a pier or summat."
"Hey Stella!"
He fumbled the door handle as we got back to the house, throwing the
wooden frame open and pulling me inside by my shirtsleeve as we rallied
a final push of energy to reach our place of rest.
"You better keep quiet now or the cops'll find you and rip your throat
out you twisted bastard."
"Stella!"
He shook his head.
We had a quick smoke and soon settled to sleep for the next day.

7. Politics of Success, The Pins Revolt

We sat early the next morning smoking roll ups and staring out at the
bristled beach prior to starting work.
"This reminds me of an old Simpsons episode." Harry remarked, throwing
a small withered twig toward the ebbing water's edge.
"What's that then?" I asked.
"'The politics of failure have failed'." he quoted in a solemn
tone.
"No way," I interrupted, "It's more the case that the politics of
success are riding high."
"Yeh, but think about all the shit that comes out these days. There's
nowhere to hide anymore." he said.
In a profound setting like this, and with the simple additives we were
taking on board throughout the scene, it was too easy to slip into
slanderous banter.
"Our own politicians don't seem to be as scruffy as the Yank bastards,"
Harry started, "They are like the true stereotypically polite
Brits."
"Nonsense," I replied, "It's because we are good at hiding all the
dodgy stuff. The Americans couldn't hide a needle in a life brimmed
African jungle. It all leaks out like droplets from an eternal lake of
false honesty - 'Lake' being an appropriate metaphor, because I guess
there's still a glut of shit that goes on that we don't know about. I'm
willing to bet large sums that the world is a very different place to
what we imagine or see as factual reality. I guess British politicians
aren't as lax as their American counterparts but, being politicians,
they naturally make mistakes. Whilst America has leaked a proverbial
river from the lake, I think our requisitioned leakage is forming a
small puddle, splashed in like brainless children by the media and
paparazzi. 'False prophets shall lay the bane'." I finished.
Indeed. A lyric invariably scorned through its lack of a syntactical
cutting edge that most memorable one line wisdom pearls are scored
with. Simplicity is an underrated method of preaching ideas -
philosophy too, and, in my book, probably a much superior one to
babbling incoherently for a few seconds. That kind of jabbering defeats
the point, think about it - simplicity is always the primary key to
understanding what the hell goes on around you - not only to be applied
to everyday life, but much larger things too. Not just casting the net
further but buying a whole new net and casting it completely. If I walk
off a cliff I will die. It's like that but shone on a larger
screen.
"That's equality again for you," said Harry, "Another fine mess is made
of democracy. The only places that's damn well practiced is in the
countries where everyone is treated in as bad a way as the
other."
"In a brutal sense that's technically accurate, I suppose. When you get
to the heart of it though, for every white human there is a black one.
For every man there is a woman. Again, its simple, and when viewed from
that angle it points a severely grazed finger in the face of
inequality."
"It's all set up for failure."
"Everything's set up to point towards failure at the end of the line,
everything that seems like the light at the end of the tunnel to
millions of people could well turn out to be the light of the steaming
express train hurtling towards them. It will all inevitably lead to
torrid times of doom and failure."
He gave me a confused look.
"Examples being sport and television." I said.
"Buh?"
"I mean, I saw a programme on television not so long ago showing a
young girl of ten years or so and a mother trying to cope with having a
father in prison. I don't mean to be cruel at all when I say I think it
was all crudely elaborated purely for 'entertainment purposes' and to
heighten emotive responses. No, I am on the side of the girl and the
mother - they are being exploited by the producers to sell the
programme and indeed the channel itself. Scenes like chips for tea from
a bag on the lounge floor of an obviously well kept house. Little girl
maturely comforts her crying mother with words of wisdom. She is fast
becoming a parent to her mother, stereotypical role reversal et cetera
et cetera. It's all for entertainment and these people were being
cruelly fucked like hounds. The television execs and producers are as
bad as the overpaid, over-hyped so-called stars that appear on their
beloved channel."
We sat staring out at the gentle waves that seemed to ebb our thoughts
onwards.
"Like fucking NASA man. I bet aliens actually work for them man. Shit I
certainly couldn't do all that 'rocket science'."
The coherence of the conversation was getting understandably strained
at this point.
"Maybe rocket science doesn't exist at all," I said, "Maybe it's a
cover up and aliens in fact do run NASA and space exploration projects,
being the only ones to understand it all."
"We'll know if there's a sudden advancement in technology or something.
A leap forward. A huge one!" he started laughing.
"In other words another crash you mean?"
"Exactly!" he shouted, throwing small handfuls of sand into the
air.
"Yeh. Shit, even our much-loved football game at home is no longer
sport at all, and run exclusively by television executives and chiefs.
The fix will be in there sooner or later if the television bosses think
they require an exciting season run-in to boost flagging ratings, and
they'll get it."
"God nooo?"
"Oh yeh. With enough swings of the pendulum along the way to signify
that time is fast ticking away."
"That's sick man." Harry was shaking his head at pace.
"The worlds turning into one big theatre play. The hand of God has been
replaced by the handshake of the shameless suits to seal another
cynical deal, and plunge us further toward the darkest depths of what
we think of as reality. They are our choreographers, but we are
blind."
I turned to him smiling.
"Buy a new net and get ready."

8. Too Much Vitamin B

At around 12:40pm we were told we had worked hard and deserved a break.
After breakfast it had been a non-stop Canoe Stacking exercise,
interspersed with Canoe Recovery, Canoe Tying, and Canoe Maintaining.
There appeared to be many more canoes that willing canoeists, and that
morning a small group had been led up to a pier that emerged from
amongst a collection of rocks part way along the beachside. Then, one
by one, they had been taken to the end of the pier and heaved off into
the water below, where they spun upright, back to life and blessed air,
spluttering with shock yet still full of interminable joy.

We were given a dissection of the break designated to us - and it
sounded surprisingly worthy of anticipation. Thirty minutes or so of
hysterical fear and fun aboard a paled yellow banana boat. Harry looked
upon this excursion with utmost confidence.
"All my life," he was announcing, "I have waited for a chance to take a
ride on one of these beasts. It seems perfect that now - as I have just
reached twenty-one - and become a man - now is the time for my dream to
come true."
A circle of bemused freshman had formed around him as he spoke. He was
puffing his chest out like a male peacock in some kind of Playpeacock
mansion.
"Well," I started, "Just make sure you hang on tight. You know what
happened to the boy who let himself go&;#8230;"
"What?" he snapped, jerking his head round, "I must be informed of all
dangers and necessary precautions. Tell me Stan," he was waving, "you
always keep secrets hidden away from me. It's not
natural&;#8230;"
"He decided to enjoy it too much. He let go, fell off, and got his foot
caught in one of those sharknets-"
"Sharknets?"
"Yeh - like that one out there."
I pointed to a group of bobbing red buoys that were floating indicators
of the sharknet line. I didn't need to relay the end of the story to
the brute, he had already read my eyes. He moaned and fell to his
knees, repeatedly punching his hands into the sand and smothering each
palm with the golden brown grains.
"What are you doing man?" I asked, as two yellow vessels pulled up
beside us.
He plunged a clenched fist into the air and bellowed like a superhero
with a naff coined phrase after victory.
"The grip of the grain!" he shouted.
"Jesus, not in front of the others," I warned him, "Stay calm. You're
about to face the treacherous squall once more. The sea is choppy
today, and it'll hack you up too if your not careful. Do you think you
can handle it?"
He gave two suspicious sideways glances and quickly nodded. The circle
that had surrounded him prior had now dispersed, taking various places
aboard the two bateau de bananes. There were six places on each boat,
and all we had to prevent a forced swimming lesson was a thin black
strap made of seatbelt material in front of each seating position. At
the front of the boat was a long red cone with a black dot on the end,
with a lot of white paint splattered untidily underneath. It was meant
to be a face - but there were no eyes. In reflection the implied
blindness - and with that, naturally, the perilous uncontrolled journey
that comes with a blind driver whatever the mode of transport - was
indeed very apt and a clever subtle hint by the designer of this
particular banana boat variety. We snatched the final two places at the
rear of the one on the right hand side, with Harry perched worryingly
at the very end.

The take-off was fair enough, this was going to be a pleasant ride I
thought. It was when we got further out that tensions and problems
arose. The banana boat at full speed was similar to riding a buckaroo
over a sea of marbles. There was the feeling that this thing would be
propelled up so far as to flip entirely over like a slinky and send us
helplessly into the salty brine. And that was just it - you were
totally powerless - all there was to do was to hang on and hope
desperately that the hand of Fate wouldn't push you callously over the
side. I could hear various low-pitched squeals coming from behind me,
and I tried to imagine what my own facial expression must be. Trapped,
terrorised in some kind of invisible tunnel, searching for the light.
But it was Fun - of course, the adrenaline was flowing and intertwined
with the terrifying grimaces I would laugh frenziedly - although
usually when we slowed down for temporary respite. Later on I reflected
that it was all very akin to life itself - the fast and the slow times,
the wild ride it all is if you choose to board the right kind of boats.
And the slow times help you to reflect on everything else and allow you
to laugh and point with a sodden, accusing finger at The Truth.

The low-pitched squeals had gathered pace, as if somewhere behind me a
tense pig was having an asthma attack. Then suddenly it all ceased,
followed shortly by a half shout - one half air, the other half sea.
All I can recall, as I turned to look behind me, is a vision of a
petrified - in a kind of child with the dark sense - and wailing Harry
being discarded effortlessly into the sea, arms flailing manically and
red eyes wide with dread, as he fruitlessly sought for a part of my
body or that of the boat to cease his plummet.
"Hold up!" I shouted, waving my arms and pointing my foot at a large
accumulation of bubbles a few metres to the right hand side. The driver
of the glossy white speedboat pulling us circled round as Harry emerged
from beneath the surface, shaking violently.
"Let me on!" he was shouting repeatedly, acting as if he thought we
would just leave him there, and that this was all a survival of the
fittest, last man standing drill.
I grabbed his hand but on this occasion couldn't find the pull to
rescue him from the drink a second time.
"Sorry, looks like we'll have to leave you in the middle of this watery
desert."
"You useless bastard," he muttered, spraying water as he shook his head
in disgust at me.
Cleverly using the end of the boat to push his body up, he clawed back
onto the rear, using the advantage of having all the weight in front of
him to ensure a safe mounting.
"This is what it must be like on re-entry," he was saying as we pulled
away.
I was the next to go, I don't know how it happened to be quite honest -
my grip was fine and wholly steadfast. But somehow the forces that be
managed to lurch all my body below my arms off the body of the boat and
this - combined with my legs hitting the water at such a frightening
velocity - forced me off the thing in a comic spinning motion, like on
a cartoon when a character is sent into an exaggerated rolling blur
down a steep hillside. I immediately understood that fear of the banana
boat just skimming off and leaving me - after all it does take a while
to slow down - an alarming and lonely few seconds before the thing
comes to a halt to turn round and come back for you. I recalled that
distressing look Harry had worn when he fell. I think it is a case of
you being so scared of it actually happening that you begin to believe
it just might. Hence you curse powerfully for the guy in the speedboat
to take pity and come to collect you. He did so, of course, and Harry
heaved me into my place.

I don't know about him - but it definitely improved my grip and
concentration - neither of us fell off again, but a couple of the
others were left momentarily behind further on in the trip. In a
strange kind of way it was all very scenic, we took a triangular course
up to a nearby beach, out into the wider part of the sea, and back down
to our starting point again. After a while it would hurt the
undercarriage too, and as we approached our regular beach and with it
the end of what had undoubtedly been an interesting voyage, I could
hear Harry complaining at this particular unfairness and pain of being
a man.

It was rather appropriate that there were six places on the banana
itself. Fate would take time out from his more significant calls of
duty - unfortunate falling bricks or rocks, sudden engine failures,
planes appearing all of a sudden from behind a cloud to suck in the
unfortunate gull - to have a bit of fun with a dice and six innocent
exchange students. I guess he rolled a six, then a five, and later on a
one and a two as well. We were lucky he only had four goes. He must've
got bored.

9. Cooling Down, An Unfortunate Meeting With a Former
Acquaintance

We stood shaking our sodden sandy feet with the others, as our former
two boats scythed the sea once more, this time with another group of
campers. Albert approached us, noticing our inherently more aqueous
demeanour compared with the majority of the others, and was beaming
with satisfaction.
"Yes, we fell. So the fuck what?" I was understandably irritated.
"It is unfortunate consequences to meet with my young friends." Albert
said, and turned to face the sea beginning to look a little distant.
Harry folded his log-like arms and with eyebrows raised he stared
intently at him.
"Cool off," Albert continued, still with his back to us. "There are
some water hoses near the shop. You can wash all the grub off you there
over there. Then you might like to take in the pleasures of the local
bar-"
"There's a fucking bar and we were not informed?" I interrupted as he
cracked a smirk.
I turned to face my friend but he appeared too paralysed with rage at
this injustice to speak.
"Well thank you, thank you indeed man. We will see to it straight
away." I finished.
Albert half smiled again whilst nodding and went away to talk to some
of the others. I stomped off, tugging at Harry to follow on behind me,
but he kept shuddering and coming to a halt.
"No goddamn democracy. I bet he told the others on arrival." he
snarled.
"Yeh well, better now than the end of the week anyway."
He reluctantly agreed and shrugged. It seemed that we had just been
shoved out on our own, like cats with a lust for expensive
furniture&;#8230;all alone, none of this encouragement at all,
certainly no one appeared willing help us. When we had walked up from
the beach, I stood waiting outside the shop as Harry terrorised the
little man inside for directions to this new bar apparition.
"Just around the corner past the Room," he said as he came bustling
out, "We should've noticed it before. Whatta bastard."
"I suppose we had enough drink with us anyway," I said, "Well, for that
one night at any rate. Marlon's news is a good twist for us, now I can
send my spending money to a worthy cause."
I had in region of about 1400 Francs (about ?140) which, due to us only
being there a single week, was only a little below what the university
had allowed me to grab in my last minute dash to catch the coach.
"This is all we can allow you to take." the girl there had said.
I had grimaced at her whilst ripping the fresh clump of Francs out of
her hand after a few hard minutes of deliberation, frantically
screeching about awards and loyal service to put the university "back
on the map". It was all a play at getting as much as was physically
possible in the remaining time, albeit a not so sophisticated play at
that - just hollering with mad eyes at the money girl - but, like the
give and go, simplicity won through. Or maybe it was her desperacy to
end our raucous encounter, who knows&;#8230;

Our legs were covered in grub and seaweed was stretched like stripes
down each one, so we began to saunter up towards the hoses which were
lying naked just up from the shop, against a wall that seemed to
indicate this was meant to be an improvisation on a shower. Harry
stopped as we neared, his ears pricking up like a prize Collie. A
wealthy group of high toned voices were approaching from the beach,
growing louder as they travelled nearer. The notion of what time it was
struck me - lunch break! Oh god, I thought, the girls were coming to
change and munch their lunch! Ridiculous thoughts of hiding Harry
somehow passed hastily over me - it was too late - the mutt had the
scent.
"Holy fuck, look - we should get back now - really, find that bar,
forget about all this." I briskly suggested.
"What's the rush? We need to wash remember."
There was no use, no way would he comply. He was just going to sit his
ground and I would have to ride this one out with him,
again&;#8230;but on the bright side, we weren't nearly as insecure
as last night, and, after all, I do have what could be described as a
"very strong background" in dealing with situations like these.
The hoard of girls rushed by with that kind of loud, disorganised,
shuffling elegance that only young female humans can manage to perform.
To my terrible dismay they headed for the water hoses. I had originally
thought they were just going to herd on by - and the worst I would have
to deal with is maybe Harry grabbing one and me having to prise her off
him like tape - but concentrated, direct contact with the entire group
was an unexpected roll of the dice by my fastidious friend Fate. For a
few moments I was unwillingly caught in the terrifying merge of reality
and Harry's dreams. He hooked my arm and dragged me up the hill, as we
neared the water hoses that were now enjoying heavy usage.
"Hi there," I quickly begun, everyone turning to face me with
contemptuous eyes, "Me and my friend here have just been chucked off a
big yellow balloon, and we need this water so if we could just
quickly-"
"Don't be so impolite Stanley," Harry cut in, "Where is your sense of
decency? Wait for these ladies to finish up here."
It seemed incredible and highly implausible at the time, but their
faces actually seemed to warm and relax as he spoke. I'd known him for
two years and his voice still had the ability to put the fear of God
into me. If the giant heads at Easter Island could talk they would
sound like him. Harry stood watching them with a wide grin, casting
that eager eye look of his over the group of seaweed removers.
"Do any of you need any help?" he politely asked.
They all laughed. Viewing this unlikely scene made me shake my head in
disbelief - then I realised that this was the best possible thing that
could happen. Before I had been scared and eager to escape - now I
relaxed, and was almost impressed with the way that Harry was handling
the position and himself. The situation was diffused, and my anxious
looks of before had sunk unnoticeably to my feet. Now I too developed
my own broad grin.
Suddenly there was a screeching behind us.
"Hey! Get away-" a shrill voice was shouting, "Get away right
now!"
It was Mrs Charleston, the teacher woman from the night before, but now
she was full of poise being in the numbered company of her class, and
of course couldn't show weakness in front of the group. Even more
worryingly was the sight of the spectre-like Kim stood tentatively
beside her. Shit, had we shook her up that much? We had to leave - no
trouble here thank you very much - I don't give two shits what this
cynical teacher bitch has to say as long as we can just go back now.
Hell, there's a shower in the damn house - we didn't even need to be
here. That instinct to almost half-subconsciously follow the orders of
elected leaders had pushed us down the beanstalk into the prickly vines
below.
"Shit," Harry exclaimed "It's you isn't it? I should've known you'd
come looking for us."
He walked up to her shaking his finger.
"We are important people," he mused, "If it wasn't for us, you wouldn't
be having fun here." He pointed all around him and started turning on
the spot, getting faster and faster, and came to a wet halt facing her,
finger still pointed toward her forehead. It was a surprisingly
well-executed move, but wasn't welcomed with the acclaim it
deserved.
"It's all true," I said, walking in front of him as he relaxed his
pose, "We set all this shit up for you. God forbid you have to do it
for yourselves. We slave whilst you eat. For us this is also supposed
to be a vacation, but no siree it is not - and I'm getting tired of
this lack of recognition from the evil ferrets who we are actually
helping."
The lady remained stone faced throughout the exchange, and the girl had
since swanned off to rest in the security of a group of friends, armed
with a semi-powerful water jet.
What followed was undoubtedly a precedent.
"You fucking slime balls-" she began, vaguely directing the flame of
the words at Harry.
"Why say 'fucking' yet say 'slime balls'?" he interrupted.
"Shut up! You will stay the fucking hell away from this group. Do you
fucking hear me? Stay the hell away! Or you'll be fucked off back to
the shit hole where you were shit out from."
Jesus, I thought, this is a teacher - neither Harry or I string
together that many expletives in one sentence. For a moment we stood
facing the teacher woman as if in one of those shootout showdowns in an
old western movie - I was watching Harry breathe heavily at her - but
he slowly relaxed. Feigning a halfhearted grab for a random girl, he
scurried off a little, breaking into a regular walking pace further
down the path. He didn't like to show it, but had clearly been rattled,
as had I. Perhaps it was the total unexpectancy of having a fragile
woman, who looked like someone out of The Golden Girls, vehemently
curse repeatedly in our faces when we were basically doing nothing
wrong for once. We were waiting politely, enjoying the calm air and
pleasing view&;#8230;it was like being a small kid in a headmaster's
office again - psychologically we had been whipped, dazed and
compounded to humiliation. I never thought it possible, certainly not
in this quiet village beachside.
"She had no right to say those things." Harry said firmly as we neared
our temporary home.
"I know I know, what's happening eh?"
"I'll get her. I'll smash a bottle over her head and make her eat it.
Shit, she really should not say those things&;#8230;"
"No way, that's out of the question. Forget her and the rest of those
female fiends. Leave the past in a cradle on the doorstep of
forgetfulness. You'll be fine man."
"We must find that bar," he said.
"Oh we will, that's right around the corner."

10. Waves Of Shock, The End Of The Glass

Today was the day of the afternoon off, this I had not realised until
the roster I looked at earlier had fallen out of my trouser pocket as I
reached to check what small change I had remaining. We had found
ourselves a cheap lunch at the Room, and afterwards got drunk and went
for a run and a swim. At about five thirty, after a large caffeine
intake, we ventured out to locate the bar.
The general expectancy I had for the bar was for it to be a quiet
place, half empty, with gritty laughs being passed around by stocky
French fishermen types. To many people a quiet and relatively calm,
relaxed atmosphere would seem favourable, but not to me - in places of
alcohol, there is a great precautionary need to hide Harry amongst
similar nobles. Especially, on this occasion, with the head start to
craziness that comes with a long roll up and a small piece of special
squared paper each.

Instead, it was full of every conceivable person of every conceivable
age, and, appropriately, every conceivable colour. It was like walking
into a Robert Delauney art exhibition - colours thrown in every
direction, one huge warped rainbow painted into the eye. We entered,
flinging the door open, and waving wildly at each face that glanced our
way. I felt we were welcome here - safe and free of hassle. Certainly
no teacher woman is going to bring her class for a learning spree here.
Although, in a roundabout sense, the kids could probably learn a lot of
truths about life after a half hour or so in this tavern.
The bar itself was akin to any regular English pub fair - a variety of
dark mahogany tables scattered in a background of cigarette smoke. I
recall looking down to admire the carpet variety and seeing numerous
colours in circles around my feet, all recoiling then straightening to
signal a pathway. It led to an empty round table which I began to
motion to - but Harry had already taken up a tall stool and was
chatting intently to the bartender. He doesn't know French I
thought&;#8230;were we back in England? I wasn't quite convinced
anymore&;#8230;I couldn't be sure - all curtains were drawn - no way
to see outside. We could be anywhere. Maybe we were being towed by some
hugely powerful truck - oh shit, look at us all - these people all look
like holidaymakers to me, every one of them&;#8230;perhaps the
French are sick of our constant invasions and want out&;#8230;and
let this be a warning to ye all&;#8230;
"Remember what happened to those guys in the bar on the
coast&;#8230;"
I stood swaying for a brief moment, trying to shake off these
progressively stranger thoughts of induced paranoia. I pulled a stool
up next to Harry and ordered a Latin Bacardi. We sat in silence,
surveying our surroundings. I noticed a television set hung in the
corner, beaming a discoloured picture of a football game - no way to
make it out, not in this state - anyway I'm short sighted, and tonight
lacked the lucidity of vision that comes with my light brown Dakota
Smith glasses. Hell, the way things are going, it probably isn't even a
football game up there&;#8230;I kept staring and squinting intensely
at the screen - yes, maybe it's sailing, or even surfing - and my mind
is just&;#8230;away. Ah, to hell with it, I can't see the damn box
anyway. Besides, confusion in this place beats the definite reality of
Bill Clinton in the Room any day.
A gangly unshaven man who'd since sat down next to me confirmed it was
indeed eleven men kicking around a bag of air on that screen up there.
I can remember shaking my head with dislike, I mean, getting to the
heart of it that does seem pretty fucked up when you consider the money
aspect too - so much for normality, eh?
"Boring as hell." The man said, evidently English, with a notably broad
Birmingham tone.
I smiled and swung back my Bacardi bottle.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"Shit yeh," I replied, still smiling.
"Who are your boys?" he continued.
"The Gunners of course." I said, nodding my head.
I'd been an addict since '93 I guess. It really started as an ulterior
motive - to annoy my friends who supported a certain team which, for
lack of a want to re-incur wrath, shall remain nameless. My boys had
beaten them late in two cup finals that particular
year&;#8230;
I was trying to explain this to the man but normal clarity was becoming
increasingly hazy again. His eyes were like withered grapes and his
head kept juddering like some giant trapped nerve was striving to burst
out from underneath his skin.
"Your head," I began "It's er, taking on a life of its own. You'd
better put a lock on it or something, wear a hat at least, or maybe a
helmet&;#8230;"
"What - sorry?"
He looked at me, and then had another quick glance over at the
television set.
"I think it's Ajax, those Dutch geezers," he said, letting my curious
mumbling pass over him. "Man," he went on, "Ajax are so good that not
even Ajax could beat 'em!".
He gave a chuckle of assumed cleverness - I hated this kind of
talk.
"Surely it'd be the case that if they were that good only Ajax could
beat them," I said, "They're so good the only way they could possibly
lose is to play themselves."
He thought about this.
"Surely they'd draw." Harry said.
The man looked at me for a moment, and we both sat silently, stunned
with approval at the shrewd yet simplistic truth of his utterance. He
still sat slouching, wearily covering his drink.
"That bastards right you know," I said after a few thoughtful seconds,
nodding. "So who are your boys then? Your crew, your&;#8230;army,
eh?"
"Liverpool." he beamed.
There was a movement to my right - it smacked of worried
apprehension.
"Do you remember eh?" he continued, winking at me, "Owen? A brilliant
brace!" the man was now laughing.
"God!" yelled Harry, "Don't get him started on the fucking cup
final!"
But it was far too late.
"There are many kinds of tidal wave that deliver blow after shocking
blow to waterfront Korean towns and, in some cases, Japanese
cities&;#8230;" I begun.
Long groans seethed on my right, and the man was listening now, yet
still grinning proudly.
"They're punch varies with their size," I continued "A mere high tide
will flood coastal roads, a storm surge will reach the shops on the
other side, and a tsunami will reach the other side of town." I was
gesticulating randomly with the bottle like a weatherman as I spoke. It
was actually a relay of, as best as my memory would allow, a short
column I wrote not so long ago about that fateful 2001 cup final. By
now my talk had gathered pace, and my memory was running strong.
"This must be a huge blow you may say, and I too experience these
deadly sucker punches. They say that tsunamis 'strike coastal regions
with devastating force'-" now I was pointing the neck of the bottle
right between his eyes, causing them to widen and dart side to side,
looking for methods of escape. He reminded me a bit of the teacher
woman. Quell that thought - if it got a chance to emanate further it
could do horrible things to my fragile psyche at this
moment&;#8230;and the man was still nervy. I patted Harry on the
back, and whilst he remained leaning over his drink groaning, I shook
my hand at the man in an easing "calm down" motion and began to speak
again. His ears seemed to enlarge&;#8230;waiting&;#8230;wanting
more waves of sound to come flooding in&;#8230;
"So anyway, the incidents that occurred in the final two minutes of
that game arrived with such force as to take three years off my life
and permanently obliterate my thread-dangling faith in humanity. People
all over the country-"
I stopped briefly to study my bottle as it begun to change colour from
white to a comforting lilac blue hue.
"- People all over the country were in shock, Salvation hotlines were
jammed for three hours and the Aston PD's vandalism department will
never be the same again."
The man smirked again as I turned to sink away into remembrance.
Imagine the shock upon witnessing this criminality. In two minutes I
ploughed a huge field of emotions from confidently content to sickly
terrorised. I felt like a trout suddenly caught in a whirlpool - it
isn't my fault this is happening - but I can't escape it. Fate had been
bribed that day and I was worse off for it. I sulked for hours by
myself. Friendships were temporarily disconnected, and I entered a
state of hibernation that only a squirrel who chooses a beehive as a
resting place can understand.
"As soon as we scored I knew we'd lose, in retrospect." I said to
him.
"That surely isn't true?" the man asked, genuinely baffled by this
peculiar notion.
"Oh yeh sure. It was then set up for an obvious Liverpool fight-back -
clearly palpable to even the most hardened of Gooners. Pangs of fear
for the inevitable jabbed me like boiling needles, leaves fell off the
wilting houseplant and even the lights started to dim - in stark
contrast to the lightning shock that caused the lights to go out on
Arsenal's season. 'That's football', they say. Indeed, it is."
"Now you know how we felt like in '89 with the league title
game."
"Ah yes, and since then some great, lingering Karma descends upon our
side of the grass whenever Liverpool come out to play. I think it took
us a good decade to beat you after that. Shitting crikey."
The man laughed on and seemed far more at ease now.
"I guess you owe us one eh?" he was starting to get up.
"See you around mate." he said, striding off.
"Er, yeh." was all I could manage.
I sat there staring straight ahead at the array of drinks on display
behind the bar.
"That was good," Harry said sincerely after a while. "You usually take
up a good half hour berating those people."
He held up an empty glass and peered inside, with one eye clenched
shut, through the glass bottom.
"This is what I can see. Now." he said, and handed it to me.
"Look through the bottom. See the distortion? That's fucked man. Your
left eye is about three times the size of your right one." He came in
closer as I stared at the beaker. "Shit, you should find a doctor -
stuff like that can seriously affect your co-ordination."
Looking through the end of the glass was a very worrying sight. People
appeared far off into the distance, inwardly crushed, or their heads
were split in two down the middle&;#8230;in some cases it was a
terrible amalgamation of all of these things. How does he continue
through like this? You can only stare and admire something you know is
so crazed - as you would if the Prime Minister was suddenly caught in a
freak hail of plastic milkcartons.
All of a sudden there were distant gunshots being fired outside. Harry
jerked upright and began fidgeting nervously, whilst I cocked my head
to listen carefully.
"God, that sound!" Harry was saying, clawing at his ears. "What the
hell is happening? We must get out of here at once!" He got up and ran
for the door, and in a second there was silence again. The stern mass
flying sullenly past, swearing horrendously, had gone completely
unnoticed. What was stranger was the stares I got as I slowly stood up
and walked to the door, in an effort to try and retrieve him. Maybe
they considered me to be an impostor, or a spy who was totally shocked
at his subjects as to leave as quietly as possible. Luckily I didn't
have to walk far, because as I went through the door I could easily see
Harry panting at the roadside, staring up at the embankment leading to
a clump of trees on the other side.
"It's all coming from in there." he spoke through his various intakes
for air, and was pointing up to the trees. "I'm gonna go drown whoever
it is up there."
This temporarily confused me.
"How? There's no water?" I said.
"What? What the fuck do you think that big blue thing behind us is
eh?"
"Oh yeh." I said. "But why?"
"You don't understand. Every shot is in my head, rattling around like
marbles being spun inside a washing machine&;#8230;if I kill their
master, surely they will all die and leave me alone?"
"Like a Queen bee?"
"What?"
"Never mind. I think we should actually make our way-"
"NO! You don't understand how important this is."
He looked at me, waving a clenched fist all around him, and scuttled
off to the other side. I watched, unmoving, as he disappeared amongst
the auburn tree trunks.

11. Tense Woodland, Ancient Warnings

There was no sound at all, deadly hush outside at this serene French
beachside. Caged laughter rose and fell behind me but straight ahead
seemed almost out of touch - unreal. With absolutely no need at all to
check for traffic, I dashed across and begun to covertly climb the
embankment. This was indeed a very unwelcome time for events of this
nature to unfold, considering the small hill appeared to be breathing
as I scrambled to the top of it.
"Where did he go&;#8230;where did he go&;#8230;?" I could hear
myself muttering, whilst glancing sharply from side to side. At this
particular minute in time I considered it would be very useful to be
some kind of half owl half lion creature, able to shrewdly prowl whilst
looking all around for my prize. From the outside, the trees appeared
to form a small wood, but with further exploration they were no more
than a cluster. Shots were still being fired, preceded each time by a
barely audible metallic snap, similar to a release mechanism of some
sort.

I spotted Harry leaning and trembling behind one of the thicker trees,
earnestly snatching at the leaves and clumps of grass around him. He
was emitting a tense moan of helpless fright - a drawn out, shivering
whine through tightly gritted teeth. He sounded like a fearful and
gruesome St Bernard, being goaded over the edge of a plank above some
huge soapy bathtub. Another shot fired, causing him to flinch violently
and his whine to temporarily sharpen, then drop back down to a
simmering level again. What could be so awful as to cause this grizzly
to cower and hide in this manner?
"What's wrong?" I asked, but no reply came. He simply pointed out to
the opening with a couple of dot leaves clenched between his fingers.
Dot leaves? Nettles - I hate nettles, the throbbing sting really gets
to me - the last thing I need right now.
I cleared the tree cluster and came out in the corner of a huge field.
To my right, a rocky hilltop stretched onwards and upwards into the
darkness, possibly infinitely, and to my left - and indeed everywhere
else - was pure green grassland. Then it struck me that the whole back
end of the field was illuminated, like I'd walked into someone's
massive private backyard and triggered the security light. It also
occurred to me that the shots had seemingly come to an end now, and
this propelled my curiosity. I was thinking about moving further down
when suddenly there was a snap and a whisp in front of me. I looked up,
and to my inexpressible terror saw a round and very heavy looking
boulder falling from a great height like a huge round dumbbell - almost
certainly having been dislodged from higher up the hilltop on my right
side - and it was plummeting straight at me. Roots dug into the ground
from my shoes and held me tightly to the spot. For the first time in my
life I knew exactly what was going to happen next, and that there was
no way of stopping it. In those few moments, there was a consummate
understanding of how the dinosaurs must have felt when they first
looked up and saw the meteor.
Then there was a harsh crack and the thing shattered into pieces right
above my skull. I watched my right hand reach very slowly for the top
of my head, to make sure it was still there.
"Mother of God!" a voice was shrieking, "It's you! What the hell are
you doing here? Why didn't you move?".
A deep thud of running footsteps somewhere in the dark had kept my
roots fixed and me with them, and it was made all the more eerie by a
synchronized increase in pace and volume. The gangly man I had briefly
spoken to before in the bar was now coming into my vision, slowing to a
walking pace and brandishing a shotgun. Lines of shock creased his
face.
"Are you alright?" he kept saying through heavy pants.
"Jesus Christ," my voice was breathing thankful relief, "What was
that?"
"Clay pigeon." he said.
"Christ they look bigger in real life don't they?"
"Uh-huh. Don't you shoot then, I thought that was why you were up
here?"
It all made sense now. Bright light shone distinctly over the back end
of the field, presumably the area where the flying rocks were shot into
by their... release mechanism.
"No not really&;#8230;" I begun, "I was just&;#8230;" No point
even trying to fabricate anything, the block from shock hath clogged my
mind.
"My friend," I said, "He wandered up here, I came to try and find him.
I think he might be a little bit drunk&;#8230;"
"Ah, does he shoot?"
"Well, no not exactly."
If only he could understand how dangerous that would be.
"Anyway," I said, "I was drawn by the noise. No worries now, nobody's
hurt. Er, thanks I should say&;#8230;good shot&;#8230;I'll be
going now."
"My name's Fender." he said, picking up my hand and shaking it for
me.
"Stan - I'm with the university people." I replied.
"Oh yeh, the annual hired labour boys." he said.
"Something like that, but we get spending money too. We're different,
this is an interactive cultural expedition."
"I came here as a young boy once&;#8230;" he started, looking off at
some invisible screen of memories. God, I thought, please - I just want
to go.
"But I cant remember it," he went on, "No idea what happened at all.
Probably a good thing&;#8230;"
Ah, wonderful.
"Well anyway I'm definitely gonna run along now, I must go." I
said.
"Oh you were looking for your friend," he turned to me as I walked off,
"Kinda stocky?"
"Stocky? Yeh&;#8230;that's right."
"Well, he's just there." he said, pointing at the trees. I stopped to
look. Harry had dared himself out and was stood silhouetted like Mother
Bates between two trees. In its own strange way it was a very scenic
and poignant sight. The man seemed uncertain though.
"Is he alright?" he ventured.
Harry had started ripping up grass again and was clapping his hands
frantically trying to knock off all the sticky blades.
"Frankly, he's insane," I said. "But living in an insane world - so I
guess that makes him pretty normal, eh?"
Fender stood still in thought and I grasped the opportunity to dance my
way back towards my shadowy friend.
"What the hell are you doing?" I asked him, "We must leave
immediately."
He seemed hesitant at first, but then sighed and nodded twice in
agreement. I motioned down the embankment and we sprinted as best we
could through the tall plant life and grassy vines. As we reached the
top of the bank Harry lost his footing and tumbled incoherently like a
fat goat down a mountainside. I made a half reach for him as he begun
his descent but quickly pulled back, knowing that I'd only be dragged
hopelessly down with him. Nimbly tip-toeing down I joined him at the
roadside as he staggered to his feet, grasping his right thigh.
"That was a sign," he said in a muttered wince. "The carpet has been
pulled out from under our whole operation."
"All the more need to get back, before that fuck that simultaneously
almost halted then saved my life goes barraging some pig and shouting
about how two young trespassers were breaking up his favourite shooting
session, and that one was even ripping the cherished and well kept
grassland apart whilst cursing 'Destiny's foul gargoyles'. I feel we
would be frowned upon."
"All I wanted to do was just&;#8230;get him out of my
head&;#8230;".
He grabbed a small pebble and hurled it silently into the trees behind
us, waving his fist at its trajectory as if proving a winning point of
some kind.
"You fucking albatross," I said, "Can't you compose yourself for one
second? It's all I ask sometimes man."
I looked him up and down. Comparing Harry to an Albatross was like
comparing a mine to a waterbomb.
"Fuck you Stan, you've never had someone play pinball inside your head.
I sure as hell don't wanna go through that again. But I had to confront
him."
I had sympathy, I always did.
"And obviously we'd be faced with oppression. It's a natural trait for
any human to be vindictive to something it does not understand, or wish
to understand." I said.
"All true," he replied, "But we don't need words. We need brutal
physical actions to stomp these bastards."
Harry wasn't averse to pushing boundaries. Indeed, he usually ran
steaming in and cleared them with great height, and continued running
beyond. People would shout, but he would shout louder. It all came down
to a simple grasp of deep rooted human principles of domination, based
solely around apprehensive fear and superiority - both concepts he had
firmly grasped in his claws like some warped gearstick - only allowing
for regulation of the speed, never halting and certainly no reverse or
retreat to look back and pause for thought, but instead carrying
inexorably on like a relentless super engine. Life was his fuel, and
the spartan adherence to this unique operandi was what coaxed respect
and admiration from me and a select group of like-minded individuals
back home.

I was just turning the corner when I realised I was walking solo. I
swivelled my head to see Harry staring closely at a tree stump about
twenty metres behind me. Nearing him I could see his eyes floating from
left to right, very slowly, like those of a late-for-work pedestrian
stood at a crossing watching a parade of elephants slowly ambling tail
in trunk past.
"What's wrong now?" I asked him.
"I can't quite make it out," he replied, peering.
"What?"
"The writing - I think the Aztecs have been here. This could be another
warning."
He risked a few glances around him then fixed his gaze once more on the
top of the stump. I too stared at the light brown surface, but all I
could see was a lot of circles.
"That's just the rings of age, man." I said.
"No, there's something else&;#8230;"
"What does it say?"
"I'm not sure..."
All this talk about pseudo-hieroglyphic messaging amplified a need to
find a lockable room for rest/respite.
"It doesn't matter what it is, you'll be condemned anyway." I
said.
He wasn't willing to move until he had fathomed the meaning of the
carved message apparition. His mind was totally lost in thought now,
trying desperately to figure out what all the strange symbols and lines
he saw before him meant, and what he should do about them.
"If they bother you that much just get a saw and cut it all up." I said
to him.
You could almost hear the computer inside his head bleeping and
humming&;#8230;in fact, yes, there it is - that unmistakable
mechanized calculation sound effect - the processing of a thousand
thoughts a second through a maze of nerves. Where did it all go? I
remember one night in a small flat in London, discussing philosophies -
alternatively of course, and Harry cutting the theory of dreams being
every independent thought of that particular day mashed up like a big
ball of string and unravelled in your head all at once. Maybe, and
maybe not. But I always find it all much more interesting than real
life. Ah, strange musings derived from that strangest of looks he was
giving the chopped tree on this still cool night. Was it morning yet? I
couldn't be sure - when we set off to find the bar a few hours earlier
I'd absent-mindedly left my watch back in our room. Right now I needed
an excuse to get us both safely back there.
"Look, we both have to get up early tomorrow, as always, right?" I
tried.
Feeble, and no use. He was stroking his chin in wistful thought and
muttering quietly. Then finally he sprung defiantly to life.
"Your right," he said, "This doesn't scare me. It's all meaningless
banter." he smiled, shaking his head. "If they wanna fight then I'll
most certainly be ready for them, yes sir."
"But what if they have spears and weird spiky balls and chains, could
you cope with that?" I said.
"I won't need to," he replied. "Your forgetting that these people are a
very primitive civilisation. Do you expect them to be able to cope with
a lock on a door?"
No, of course not. Simplicity gives us another nod of approval.