Journey

Fear is the reason why Law abiding citizens are prisoners inside
their own homes at night. Living on a council estate can be an ordeal.
It's plagued with vandals, and muggers. Mischievous urchins,
street-wise since they could walk. Parents have drilled selfishness
into them. Take shit from no one. These guardians of the next
generation, don't know where their kids are of an evening; don't care
so long as their peace and quite is not disrupted. Andy and Polly are
watching footie in the sanctity of their own living room. (Their sea of
tranquillity on the moon, away from the realities on Earth?) Tonight,
these beer swilling, drug taking louts know where their tearaway son,
Darren is at.

Darren's moron parents wore T-shirts in support of the home team.
During the game ripped pull rings off lager cans; crushed the 'dead
soldiers' and lobbed them into a waste bin. The more lager they
guzzled, the more off target they were. Snacks overloaded their fat
bellies; bloated with wind and fit to burst
A home defender lunged at an away striker. The felled player rolled
about in agony on the pitch, clutching his ankle. The referee whipped
out a yellow card and hoisted it high, amid protests from the offending
'sportsman.'
Thunderous cheering rang out from the home fans when stretcher-bearers
carried off the injured player. Deafening boos filled the terraces when
a substitute trotted on. Yob fans bombarded the supposedly injured
player with abusive chants each time he touched the ball.
Outside, brakes screeched around corners. Police, sirens belted out a
monotonous wail in pursuit of joy riders; recalcitrant kids taunted the
law, knowing they are underage to be arrested and took to court. Andy
turned the TV volume up, drowning out skidding tyres on tarmac. "Doing
my head in, that frigging racket."
That's better, now they enjoyed the game in peace. Really, nothing
else in the world mattered, but their team winning tonight. They were
already playing the opposition off the park. Andy and Polly settled
down, getting high, crashing their minds.
The crowd cheered as the home team steamrolled for goal. Andy and
Polly, absorbed in the excitement, swigged hard and long on their cans.
Usually, if a game got boring, they finished up bonking on the carpet.
That's how Polly got knocked up with their only son, Darren, now a
teenager.
Polly thought she recognised Darren in the crowd. "Look Andy - our
Darren's at the match," she laughed in a weird way.

"Get your frigging head right, girl," said Andy, burping disgustingly
loud. "Your brain's fried. Our Darren's upstairs, playing frigging
computer footie. Remember?" Polly heaved on a joint, puffing out thick
smoke. "Yeah, babe, keeps our Darren off the streets, that does."
Andy and Polly had splashed out on a computer for the lad's fourteenth
birthday, recently. Darren had bought (Or so he said) a football game
out of his spending money. With it he could manipulate players and
stratagem of match play. Darren even created players, a super
footballer modelled on him.
Could even put in special effects such as rain or snow, freezing or
heat wave conditions. Definitely the real thing, deliberately making
players aggressive and getting them sent off. He just loved football
violence - on or off the field.

"Yeah," Andy added, poaching the joint from Polly, almost choking on
it. "Until the novelty wears off. This some new gear, Pol?"

"Yeah, Andy," she said snatching it back. "Our Darren got this shit for
us. Way out, eh?"
Like all modern day parents, Andy and Polly believed in kids growing
up freely. No smacking when doing things wrong or throwing tantrums.
After all, it's only letting off steam, burning off excess energy.
Getting aggression out of the system. Just like Andy and Polly had done
in their day. (And look how they finished up, not knowing right from
wrong). Being adult is not as much fun as growing up.
Yes. Andy and Polly were modern (Not model) parents all right. Life's
too short to let the old fogies up on the estate bother them. Who do
they think they are, anyway? Just because they won two frigging world
wars, they think they own it. No thought for the freedom of today's
youngsters.
They glued themselves to the telly, as the home team were awarded a
penalty. The captain set the ball on the penalty spot. You could hear a
fag paper drop around the ground. You could hear drags on fags in the
living room. Suddenly, the TV screen blacked out at the most crucial
moment.

"Oh no," Polly yelled in disarray. "A frigging power cut."

"Naw - a bloody short circuit more like, Pol." Andy saw light sneaking
through a crack in the curtain window. "Streetlight still on outside.
Bloody telly's packed up, that's all."
He jumped up and whacked the set. The picture faded up. The home team
were one goal up. Andy and Polly were both triumphant and disappointed.
(Didn't want to miss any more goals. Action replays are not the real
thing.)
Andy pulled another can ring. Polly snorted something stronger. Her
eyes fixed on Darren waving at the TV camera in the crowd. "Hmm, sure
looks like our Daren, Andy" she said, squinting her eyes at the screen.
"Yeah, it's his flaming double."

"You're imagining things, Pol," he laughed.
Light from the pitch floodlights intensified. Sweat oozing from their
brows, impaired their vision. To offset the blinding glare, Polly
fished out two pairs of sunglasses from a drawer.
The room got brighter, hotter, a microwave oven, ready to cook their
bodies. They ripped off their clothes. Andy fumbled for the remote
control, but dropped it when it glowed and burned his hand.
Throats parched, they dived for a cool lager. Boiling liquid exploded
out of cans. Polly's bare breast and potbelly wobbled when she made a
mad dash for the kitchen. The cold-water tap radiated heat, too hot to
handle, leaving her high and dry.
She darted back into the living room in hysterics. Andy, eyebrows
singed, poked around at the back of the telly. Polly looked like she'd
fell asleep under a sunlamp. The brilliance of the floodlights started
to abate.
Normal TV service was resumed. They flopped down on the sofa,
oblivious to the scorched remains of the furniture around them. Eyes
unable to focus properly on the screen images.

"This frigging telly's crazy, Pol," Andy said, engrossed in the game
again. His team charged up the pitch towards a towering defence.
The cheers echoed across the terraces, firecrackers went off in a
cascade of colourful spectrums. Polly's eyes lit up when she saw Darren
on screen again. "It is our Darren," she shouted. She gave a little
wave. "Hi Darren.... Hi baby."

"He's upstairs, I keep telling you woman," said Andy, slurring his
words. "I'll bloody prove it?"
He made a beeline for the stairs door. The doorknob came off in his
hand. Pissed off, he threw it at the telly screen. It bounced back and
he flicked it off his head. (It would have been a brilliant goal). They
both fell about laughing.
Slobbering each other with sloppy kisses, they slid off the sofa onto
the charred carpet. Andy was about to score. Then the landline phone
rang.
Andy grimaced and uncoupled. Snatched up the phone. 'Yeah?" he
growled. Silence. "Who is this?" Silence. "Hey, Buddy, you on cloud
nine, or something, punk? Get a brain."
Polly ogled Darren on screen, mobile phone pressed to his ear,
smirking. (Kids get a kick out of not answering a caller on the other
end of a phone. Just for devilment). She tugged at Andy's bare buttocks
and pointed.

"Andy - look," she said, words slurred, eyes heavy. Her mouth curled
in a grin. "My little baby is at the match." She talked down to the
image. "Enjoying the trip, baby?"

Andy was still unconvinced. "Hey, Buddy - butt out - we don't need
this kind of shit." He cancelled the call. Darren, grinning, put the
mobile in his pocket.
Polly frowned. She pushed her face up to the screen. "Oh, my poor
baby," she said, sniffing back her tears. "How could you do that to
your own flesh and blood, Andy?"

"It's not him," bawled Andy, punching digits into the phone hand
piece. "I'll prove it - I'll ring his frigging mobile - upstairs.
"
He pressed the dial button and listened for the dialling tone. Darren
retrieved his mobile and jabbed a button and the roar of the crowd,
came over the earpiece. Off! Off! Off!
Gormless, he stared at the screen. A home player lay squirming on the
park. The ref, cautioned an away player. Andy shook his head to regain
his senses. Then, before his very eyes, the mobile, Darren was holding,
turned into a small disc. Darren slung the disc onto the pitch at the
away player.
The player clutched the back of his neck, blood trickled though his
fingers. The away player plucked the disc off the grass and flung it
back into the crowd. It flew right out of the screen, similar to 3D
film effects. Polly flinched and fell back on her haunches.
Something whizzed past Andy's head. Then another. He snatched an
object in midair. He opened his fist. The coin in the palm of his hand
was no hallucination. Rival fans flared up, slinging coins across the
pitch. The police, spread out around the ground's perimeter, facing the
crowd in anticipation of a pitch invasion.
The coins twanged as they hit objects in the living room, too many to
ward off. Tangling with a shoal of marauding Piranhas would have been
easier. Less biting. To escape the heat seeking missiles, they lay face
down on the sofa, buried their heads under cushions. Coins slashed
their 'shields' to shreds.
They heard the whistle blow for half time. The crowd cheered. Glancing
up, they saw the players heading for the tunnel. The squadron of coins
formed a line and slotted back into the telly in hot pursuit down the
hole. The two louts staggered to their feet, specks of blood dotted
over their bodies.

"Oh, he's gone," frowned Polly. Darren had disappeared off screen.
"Hope my little baby's safe."

"Will you be said, woman?"
An electronic scoreboard on screen had the home team now leading 2- 0.
Andy and Polly had missed another goal in the confusion.

"We ought to tidy ourselves up a bit, Andy."

"Forget it, Pol. We're two up at halftime, Pol. On top of the
world."
Blue lights flashed past the window, emergency services summoned to
their nightly disturbances on the estate; smashed windows or vandalised
cars etc.
Cops had their hands tied. All they could do was take kids home to see
their parents, who can't do a thing with them. Thank God Polly's little
darling wasn't amongst that lot.
Andy threw Polly a can of lager to celebrate. A brass band emerged
from the players' tunnel. Cold stream guards paraded up and down the
pitch. Andy stomped around the sofa in time with a military march.
Trampling the debris on the floor.
Soothing music lured Polly into joining in Andy's frolics, mimicked
each instrument with hypnotic effect. They licked blood, trickling from
wounds on each other's naked flesh, turning each other on.

"Andy," she said in between uncontrollable giggles. "It's quite
upstairs."

"What - and miss the second half?"

"Naw - I don't mean that - Darren usually makes a din up there."

"So?"

"Can't hear anything."

"Stupid bitch. How - with the telly blasting out down here?"
The volume on the set suddenly went mute. Polly looked up at the
ceiling. Dead Silence. "Andy, don't let anything bad happen to my
baby."

"This frigging set's going out the window," he yelled and kicked it,
hurting his bare toes. He hopped about until the pain subsided.

The volume came back and the brass band played on. "Oh, my baby," said
Polly. Delight spread across her face. "Look, Andy. I'm so proud of
him."

Darren now led the brass band, conducting it with a mace. The music
got louder. Andy grabbed the remote control to turn it down. A bolt of
electricity shot to it from the television, and through their bodies.
They clung to each other in fear of their lives. Hair, now bleached
white, stuck up on end. Darren and the crowd cheered when the
scoreboard on screen changed its display to:
OLDUNS - LOSERS.
YOUNGUNS - WINNERS.
The brass band reached a crescendo. Darren led the parade down the
tunnel. A police siren, in the distance, came nearer. Their mouths
opened and shut in a frenzied attempt to shout for help. All hell let
loose when the noises they had heard singularly, mingled together in
deafening decibels. The room started to vibrate, turning it into a
torture chamber. Unbearable
Now, at the end of their tether, they covered their ears to offset the
high-pitched din. Eardrums burst. Blood ran through fingers. Eyes
bulged out of sockets, noses bled. Then in one mighty release of
energy, their bloated bodies exploded in a force of internal
combustion.
Windows, lights ornaments, anything fragile, shattered under intense
pressure. Flesh and blood splattered in all directions. What remained
of Andy and Polly had been flung onto the sofa in sitting positions,
side-by-side, smouldering. The crowd suddenly cheered as the players
ran out of the tunnel for the start of the second half. The scoreboard
was back to normal at 2-0. Play commenced.
***

The TV commentator announced that five minutes of injury time had been
added to the full ninety minutes. The scoreboard displayed 2-2. Crowd
tension mounted. All in the living room was as before, nothing broken
or bloodstained. Andy and Polly, now in their T Shirts. Though things
were normal, an eerie atmosphere filled the room. Andy and Polly stared
at the box. Not reacting with the crowd, or run of play. Lifeless. In
fact, reduced to zombies.
They didn't flinch a muscle when the front door burst open. Darren
entered, looking dishevelled and scruffy. The copper, who followed him
in, felt quite at home once inside.

"Evening Andy, Polly," said the copper, matter of fact. He sniffed the
air. "Smells like an opium den in here. Against the law, you know,
that. Run you in for it. "
He nudged Darren into a seat and sat opposite to watch the dying
seconds of the game. "Thought you and your mates would've been watching
the match tonight, Darren, 'stead of terrorising old age pensioners up
on the estate. Have a word with the lad, Andy - will you? Chief's been
on at me about the trouble up there." He checked his wristwatch. "Half
a minute left. Well, Andy looks like it's going to finish up a
draw."

The football crowd cheered. Darren and the copper jumped up and
cheered, punching fresh air. Not Andy and Polly, though. They had
missed the winning goal.