Martin's Day Out

MARTIN'S DAY OUT

Physical closeness brings a vigorous warmth unparalleled by any
technical artifice. Martin could sense it flowing through him. The heat
of flesh to flesh stirred a vitality all to often entombed within a
crypt of social pretension. Rapid breaths in ragged gasps blazed across
skin melting into the sea of perception. Each bucking jolt of the
ribcage honed the immediacy of nowness. The intertwined bodies writhed
taut against one another. This tension paled before their emotional
strain. Martin's pulse crashed in torrid waves at the back of his ears.
Sweat ran in burning rivers, each drop a searing pinprick to his
memory. He struggled desperately to control the tempo of his movement.
The moist pungency of the others body floated into awareness but
retreated behind the crackling luminescence that assailed his briefly
unfettered mind.
The alternation of his thoughts of the other as a creature like
himself or an object of bone and sinew drew both fascination and
revulsion. He marvelled at his ability to be detached and intimately
involved at the same instant. His inchoate awakening came to an abrupt
halt as always with a brusque command.
"Yame," barked the Sensei, indicating the end of the sparring
session.
Martin disentangled himself from his opponent and they terminated
their engagement with a synchronised bow.
The judo lesson had taken place in the dojo, or as those of a less
martial bent might term it, the village hall. Martin endured the
ritualised ending of the lesson and joined in with clearing away the
mats, as tradition dictated. As Martin's body began to return to its
resting state his thoughts scuffled uncomfortably back to the mundane.
The hall lost the mystique of a warrior's chamber. Paint was chipping
from the walls in places and the floor creaked as if to protest its
dotage. Posters and cards fought for

MARTIN'S DAY OUT

dominance, advertising a preposterously dull variety of services from
aquarobics to dog clipping. Martin felt only scorn for the purveyors of
such nonsense.
Making his excuses as swiftly as etiquette would tolerate, Martin
strode out into the car park. The hall was adjacent to the village's
playing fields. Martin gazed across the grass towards the horizon. The
unremitting greenery, he felt, held their secret to some calming balm.
Whatever the truth, looking at nature even in its restrained docile
form, always worked to soothe him.
After a short reverie, which Martin supposed lasted for only a few
minutes, restlessness settled heavily upon him and movement became
inescapable.
Trudging through the village, Martin glared with a smouldering
contempt at the tidy cottages with their white faces and regimental
chocolate box gardens. Well-tended flower banks spewed colour noxiously
against the periphery of his vision. He knew these people. Vigorously
ordering their world, oblivious to its continued contraction. Their
lives started small and faded into nothingness with the passage of
time. His contempt was cold. Though he had no respect for these
nobodies nor did his vehemence leak passion. As he passed the pub he
pondered why people would waste their lives in the pursuit of
oblivion.
Martin was ill at ease and he knew it. His misdirected antipathy
troubled him; it needed appeasement in the proper fashion. Perhaps some
amelioration would be possible if he busied himself with the minutiae
of his daily business. He turned sharply, remonstrating himself gently
as he chewed the inside of his cheek. Such a display collided violently
with his self-image and he swore he would not betray his heart
again.
MARTIN'S DAY OUT

He wasn't comfortable in the pub but it would suffice to give him
time. He ordered a pint of lemonade at the bar from a ruddied-faced
woman with a dead smile. Tension pooled in his musculature stretching
the skin about his face into a mask of frustration. Feelings pleaded
for release and Martin could no longer resist their inexorable
egress.
Linda, the red faced woman had been concerned. She had a feel for
people and after years in the business could hear the whispering threat
of trouble. The tea-totaler was a cacophony. Glancing over to check on
this unsettling influence, Linda was relieved to note an empty chair.
Martin had moved on.
The thud resounded across the bar room as face met wood with jarring
impact. Yellowy white splinters mixed with sputum and blood forming
noisome rivulets along the pitted teak of the table.
The man's body lay prone and motionless. Martin stood exultant,
revelling in the victory, the power over others. He could feel the heat
of his body, his pulse across his face and chest. Fingers shook
uncontrollably under the influence of altered body chemistry. In the
background of his attention was a slight nausea and the faint awareness
of energy flowing through his limbs.
The reverie was short lived as another opponent rushed Martin. He was
of quite large build. His face was flushed and his eyes were hard. A
muscle T-shirt showed off his admittedly impressive physique and the
dangerous image was completed with a skinhead haircut.
Martin pirouetted on the ball of his left foot; spinning quickly he
then extended his right heel forcefully into the pit of the skinheads
stomach. This halted
MARTIN'S DAY OUT

the charge but the skinhead was not yet ready to concede. A wild
haymaker hurtled towards Martin's head. Martin tried to lean out and
away from the blow, but his timing was off. The punch caught him clear
in the mouth. He could taste his own blood and instantly felt the numb
swelling forming. Martin allowed himself a small smile.
He unleashed a viciously fast combination and fists, elbows and knees
flew at the skinhead in precise practised patterns. The skinhead
shifted his weight to his rear leg and tried to cover himself with his
arms. Blow after blow rained on him and he fell backwards onto the cold
tiled floor.
The skinhead was conscious but stunned. He raised his arms and tried
to speak but could only whisper his surrender. Martin's foot collided
with the skinhead's nose, snapping it like a pencil and sending the
head slamming against the floor with a nauseating crack. Martin looked
down at his victim. The eyes had rolled back into their sockets and
blood was spurting energetically from the broken nose. Martin wondered
how much cold water would be needed to get the stain out of that
poser's T-shirt.
"Next," shouted Martin, an open invitation and challenge to the world
at large.
It was a dingy rough bar located in a basement in the seamy side of
town. Poor lighting left pools of dark shadow in every corner and
crevice. A cynic would say a purposeful decision to hide the dire
standard of hygiene and repair. The motley ragbag collection of
furniture was old and worn. The black walls were originally avant garde
two decades ago when it had been a student watering hole.

MARTIN'S DAY OUT

If the bar was rough the clientele was worse - a group that p.c.
commentators would describe as a subculture within the underclass.
Martin knew them in a different way. The emaciated heroin addicts with
faces of ghouls passing from one fix to another, sickened him with
their pathetic lack of control and their self-denial. Then there were
the career criminals sponging off others or the state when their
pursuers finally caught up with them. How Martin hated them, with their
tattooed faces proclaiming to the world their intention to remain
apart.
Despite the alleged toughness of the bar's customers, there was no
response to the challenge. In the still silence that followed the
melee, Martin glanced aggressively around the room. No one was willing
to meet his gaze.
His spirits buoyant, Martin strode up the stairs to leave. He felt
godlike, his body light and his superiority proved once again.
There was a series of mirrors, some cracked, lining the stairwell and
Martin paused to look at himself.
His ebon hair contrasted markedly with his light hazel eyes. A strong
jaw was the best feature in an otherwise undistinguished face. The lack
of any deep lines scoring his skin concealed his thirty-seven years.
Flecks of grey in his hair were the only concession his physiognomy
would allow the ageing process. At six foot two he was tall by nature,
hours in the gym had provided the taut muscular frame that armoured
body and mind with equal efficacy.
Reviewing his dress, Martin was quite pleased with his choice. An old
leather jacket over a grimy labatt's navy T-shirt combined well with
the distressed jeans.

MARTIN'S DAY OUT

Martin was satisfied that he blended well into the backdrop of the
territory he stalked in.
Buses were the only way to travel home. Using his car or hiring a taxi
was conspicuous and too easy to chase up. He took three. It was a
meandering trip; a verisimilitude of safety.
Martin arrived at his apartment. It was well appointed if somewhat
minimalist. Mock designer furniture mingled incongruously with blandly
popularist ethnic d?cor.
Sitting on the leather-upholstered sofa, Martin felt his lip. It stung
somewhat but was a small price for the emotional satisfaction he had
achieved. He knew the need would come again but not for some time,
perhaps as much as a month.
Martin marinated in his post-violence satori for a full hour before he
felt reassociated enough with the mundane world to prepare for work. He
could not help but wonder what his colleagues would make of his leisure
activities. Everyone, he thought, should have a hobby and his
eccentricity was nobody else's concern.
After showering he quickly dressed in his work clothes. He strode
contentedly from the apartment, keys to his car circling his index
finger in rhythm with his steps. Moments later he was rushing back
home, cursing his memory. He had forgotten something.
His warrant card.