F***ed By STD / (A Dream)

"Stan, I beg you ' if you ever felt any love for either of us then please let him go.

The situation is bleak. My arms are held behind my back by two men, flanking me on either side. In front of me, in the distance, is a huge window looking out on to a sumptuous garden. Lollipop shaped trees and plants and flowers of the most vibrant reds, yellows, purples and greens fill the frame. On a different day, under different circumstances, it would be the perfect setting for a picnic. Long, flowing, gold-thread curtains drape the full length and spill on to the marble floor. I have no doubt that they are expensive and were designed to showcase the owner's wealth but in reality they just look tasteless. Stood proudly on the marble floor is a desk. An old fashioned desk, its top bound in green leather. Some of the wood is a touch gnarled but it's a desk with character nonetheless. If it could, I bet it would be able to tell a few interesting stories and here in front of it another strange chapter is being played out.

Two men stand between me and the desk ' one stood and the other on his knees. I know both of them, as I do my two guards. The latter are two of my Uncles. My left arm is being held by a man so hated that even his own family call him "Bastard. Even in childhood Bastard was evil ' the only Gooner in a family full of Lilywhites. The grip on my right arm is less firm and without even looking at his face I know the man will be wearing that same demented grin he always does. When I was a kid I couldn't pronounce his name properly and it kind of stuck, so I call him Nosh. He's the youngest of the brothers and arguably the nicest but we have unfinished business together. Back when all of the troubles kicked off I bumped into him coming out of the toilets at a wedding. It was the only time that I have seen that grin disappear. I was 8 years old, 19 years his junior , and he stood for a while blocking my way, giving me a death stare, trying to intimidate me. What sort of a man sends daggers to a child? I am several feet and several stone bigger and he knows, given the chance, I will fuck him up. Now is not the most opportune time for me but he better have eyes in the back of his head because some day, soon¦

Stanley Thomas Dickinson towers in front of me. I know it's him and yet his face seems so distorted the only thing I can make out below his grey, wispy side-parting is an eye patch. I don't remember him having this but time will do this to your memory ' you forget or worse still, make things up. He's family but in name only. This man has never done anything for me. My Grandfather's suit is well tailored but the material draws comparison with his curtains. Falling like a waterfall from his left hand is long, dark hair. The plunge pool, unfortunately, is my Father's head. He has not yet let me see into his eyes, which isn't a good sign. His face is already badly bruised and he looks broken. If only he would look at me if for no other good than to realise that he is not alone in this, his time of need.

Suddenly I'm blinded. It takes me by surprise and in that instant I'm scared. My Grandfather's namesake blade hangs by his right waist. I had not noticed it but the light from the chandelier above my head had caught the metal and the reflection had played havoc with my retinas. Knife touches skin and my Father's face painter has now added red to the black and blue on his pallet. Still the man on his knees says nothing but the sadistic laughing of Stan ricochets off the marble surroundings¦

***

It's pitch black. I can see nothing. I have no idea where I am, only that wherever it is it's not the most spacious of places. A sixth sense has been urging me to keep still and make no noise. It is not so much the indentation on my skin that its point makes but rather the coldness of the steel that shocks me. A curtain is drawn and I am all at once exposed to the room. Below me stands Mike Tyson, or at least his long lost twin, brandishing the biggest sword I have ever seen - the type of weapon that would have appeared ridiculous even in the hands of Conan. I am in an envelope sized cabinet above a clothes locker. He beckons me down and as my feet touch the floor I remember where I am ' the changing rooms of my junior school. The lockers are all the same as they were although they seem so much tinier now and the smell is exactly how I remember it. If I had more time I would go and find my old one and see if the sticker I left in the top right corner is still there. I don't think this would fit in with Mike's agenda though.

He looks at me, not with pity, but rather in a way that lets me know that I am expendable. If I'm going to survive then I have to be compliant. At his feet appear two big black bin liners. Nothing is said but I just know. I have never seen or smelt a dead body and I am grateful that I can't now but I still know what the bags contain. I just pray I am not right about who's in them. Staying silent Mike picks up one of the makeshift plastic coffins and motions me to do the same. We walk between the toilet cubicles on our left and the basins on our right. I think back to using these to wash my muddy knees rather than take a shower after games of football when I was a pupil here. It seems an alien concept now but life was a lot simpler back then. My memory tells me that we should be confronted by a small door which leads outside to the playground but something's changed.

Where this old wooden door once stood now appears a metal garage door. The type of garage that you found on all the new-build estates that engulfed London's satellite towns in the 80s ' the door opened inwards and then upwards. I knew these only too well having been one of the middle class lads moved out to these new and exciting dwellings where cul-de-sacs were given names such as "Knollmead to satisfy the delusions of grandeur of those who lived there, designed to make the address sound more prestigious to those not aware of the reality. Mike pulls the wire on the back of the door and the cold air from outside rushes in. The garage is now half open and the easiest way out would be to drag the bags but Mike has other ideas. Like a professional weightlifter he bends down before hoisting the whole bag above his head and throwing it through the gap at the top of the garage door. The bag bounces down the metal door causing such a racket that for a second I worry it might be term time and the headmaster will come out of his house and catch us. The bag hits the floor with a chilling thud and brings with it the realisation that I'm in a little more trouble at present than just receiving a detention. Bag 2 follows shortly afterwards and then, to my surprise, I too am airborne following the same route. On landing I get to my feet as quickly as I can, not just because the thought of lying on whoever's in the bags disgusts me, but also because I don't want Mike using me as a soft landing.

The playground, like my hiding place not long ago discovered, is painted black. Mike stands motionless ' perhaps waiting for someone to arrive? Barring who may or may not be in the bags, there doesn't appear to be any family members here. And yet something tells me that others are present. BANG! An explosion of light hits us as a jeep directly in front turns on the four floodlights on its roll-bar. A Mexican wave of clicks goes around and I realise that we are surrounded by some 40 hunters with freshly loaded rifles trained on our heads¦

***

There is not a cloud in the sky and the sun is beating down on me. I look at myself and see my skin is grubby and my clothes torn. I imagine I look like a castaway which is fitting as I'm walking through sand dunes. The difference being that there appears to be no beach for me. I am very conscious of the fact that I have to find some shade and some running water or I won't be around for too much longer. My body is weary and the sand is making my progress slow to non-existent. There is no sign of Mike, the bags, my family or the men with guns. Not even my Father, just the sun and me soon to be a ghost.

I give up. Hours pass which I spend laying stationary on the sand. I'm either too exhausted or too dehydrated but I don't cry. I have no idea what my next move will be or if indeed I even have one when the sound of a car engine in the distance starts to fill the air. With every last bit of strength I can muster I rush to the top of the nearest dune and start waving frantically. After a while a jeep appears at another summit, still a way off. Without thinking I continue jumping, waving and shouting until I can see that they've seen me. And that's when it hits me ' I've seen that jeep before. Adrenalin fuels me and I'm running with a speed unimaginable just 15 minutes before. It's useless though as the vehicle is gaining and fast. The noise from the engine is getting louder and is now being convoluted with demonic laughter.

I daren't look behind me because I don't want to see the reality of who or what is chasing me but it's too late. The jeep pulls ahead and the men on the back are throwing objects at me. Grenades? I run as fast as I can at a 90 degree angle left from the jeep but it just keeps going. Further and further away it goes until I can no longer hear anything and it appears only as a small dot on the horizon. Realising that there have been no explosions yet I head back towards the area where I had encountered the men on the jeep. Big gold coloured blocks are scattered everywhere. I run to get a closer look and to my surprise find that they are giant Toblerone bars - the type you always see in Duty Free. I gather them all up and for the first time I realise that I am going to make it ' I am going to survive. Birds fill the air above me occasionally giving me a second of shelter and respite from the scorching sun. But these are not just birds, these are gulls ' seagulls. And yes, yes that's the sound of waves gently crashing on to shore. I chase the sound and run in to the surf in celebration. The feel of the water on my body cleanses my spirit as well as my skin. I float on my back, eyes closed, without a care in the world when something flickers in front of my eyelids. I open them and far away in the sky I can see a kite. A beautiful, multicoloured kite as though it had been designed by the same person who had created His garden. Walking along the edge of the water I trace down from the kite's tail and all the way along its string until I find a small boy. He's probably about 8 years old and he is being watched over by his proud Father. The latter has long, dark hair and the two smile and hug one another. They both look familiar but that's impossible¦ surely that can't be me?