The Big Thread

Preamble: Behold! The final three installments and conclusion to Buried Deep.

VI

It was five pm. Zoë was on her way home. It had been a terrible day at work. Her hangover had made her job agonising and her boss had been particularly unforgiving about her absurdly late arrival.

She still felt cold. It was an odd coldness that sat just under the skin. She had done all she could to stifle it. She had adorned clothes more fit for winter than the mild autumn.

But it didn’t work.

The coldness just retreated further, deeper into the flesh.

She felt dead.

Numb.

Like leftovers in the freezer. The hungry mouths of lust, guilt and despair had been and gone and eaten their fill of her. What was this feeling? She had felt it before. That incredible stab of sadness. The wound was now septic it seemed. But instead of tears it just brought pain and the cold.

She arrived at her house. The key wouldn’t open the door. She knocked. Then she banged. Then she banged again. Then she shouted.

“Derek!” Derek’s head poked out of the bedroom window. “Derek let me in. What’s going on?”

“Um…I’ve had the locks changed.”

“Why?”

“Are you sure you want to know the reason?”

“Yes!”

“Well I don’t really want to share my house with you and Tim anymore.”

“Your house!”

“Yes, well technically it’s still Joe’s at the moment but we’re sorting it all out next week.”

“Joe wouldn’t just kick us out. We’ve been friends of his for years. Now cut this crap out and let me in.”

“Well of course. You were friends of his. So that’s why I um…had to make up some lies.”

“What sort of lies?”

“Oh, that you hit me and called me names and stuff. People have done that to me quite a lot in my life so it was easy for him to believe.”

“Why should I think he would take your word over mine? You’re in a fucking bear suit it’s not precisely a badge of mental stability!”

“Look. Fuck You!” Derek growled. “You may have known Joe for years but I’ve known him since I was eight! Fucking! Years! Old! Joe and my dad were childhood friends. We go way back. He would take my word over yours any day of the week. Grow up. Just because you live this cosy little suburban wonder land dream doesn’t mean everyone’s going to believe you all the time and think you’re all respectable and lovely!”

Derek stopped. He breathed in deeply like the school psychologist had always told him to do. Derek had that horrible awkward feeling of embarrassment which had plagued and tormented him his entire life. He stifled it and stuffed it into the back of his mind like he always did.

“I wanted to do this nicely but you’ve really pissed me off,” he roared. “I’m not good at dealing with my emotions. You’re lucky you know. Joe wanted to press charges but I managed to talk him out of it.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel a great debt of gratitude,” Zoë retorted.

“Look don’t take this the wrong way,” he began dryly, business like. “This is nothing personal. I planned to do this before I even met you and Tim. Bears are solitary creatures. We’re meant to live alone.”

“You’re not! A fucking! Bear!” She looked up despairingly into those eyes; the eyes of the bear suit. She dug around in them; searching for compassion, sanity, logic. Something she could reason with. Something she could control, order and neaten.

Nothing.

His eyes were the eyes of a cold and heartless animal. The eyes of a grizzly before it mauls an elk.

“I’m sorry Zoë but this is just the way things have to be. I’ll arrange for your stuff to be delivered to you.” He shut the windows. She ran up to the door and hammered on it futilely like prey scrabbling away from the inevitable jaws of death.

“Fuck you! You fucking loony! I’ll fucking kill you! Cut this shit out. It isn’t funny no more.” She kicked the door one last time in frustration. “Well you were a fucking crap lay! Didn’t know what you were doing half the time. Aw fuck it!” Zoë walked away. Zoë walked next door to Roger’s house. Zoë knocked on the door.

VII

Tim answered the door.

“Hi,” Zoë said. “Can I come in?” He nodded. She came in. Roger’s living room was a stomach turning mish mash of beige and brown patterned carpet, cheap overly complicated light fixtures and lamp shades that bathed the room in dull greasy golden yellow light. It was like the inside of a microwave. Zoë sat down on the stained dirty couch. She involuntarily shivered. She was still cold. Tim sat down next to her.

An awkward silence.

“Look I’m sorry. You were right. Derek is insane. He’s stolen our house from us. He’s had the locks changed. Joe’s on his side and everything.” Silence. “I’ve done terrible things that are difficult to forgive. But I don’t suppose there is anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“What?”

“Hold still.” His fist slammed into her nose. A moment of shock. Her nose began to bleed. It ran all over her shirt staining it from pristine white to amber. Her jeans were soon painted with little dollops of blood.

“Ow,” she exclaimed. “Fucking hell!”

“Now we’re even.”

“You can’t hit me I’m a girl,” Zoë complained.

“Empirical evidence suggests otherwise: you were clearly struck. Here’s an ice pack.” He handed her an ice pack which he had clearly prepared. “Should I ever I have a passionate fling with a loon in a bear costume I invite you to exact the same vengeance upon me.” Zoë held the ice pack to her nose. The two swiftly fell back into the same silence. Save for a few incoherent mutterings of pain from Zoë. After a while the bleeding stopped.

“Now that that’s out of the way could you please explain to me why you are in a Nazi storm trooper outfit?”

Tim had forgotten about the outfit. It was like most fascist garments: clean, rigid and orderly. Surprisingly realistic as well from what his dim historical knowledge could tell. He felt empowered while wearing it. He felt he could do bad things while wearing it. A pity the outfit looked rather out of place draped over his lanky web designer frame.

“I needed a shower and I didn’t have a change of clothes so I popped on this. It’s a replica. He’s got a whole cupboard of them. Still in the plastic. Untouched.”

“Why didn’t you just grab something out his normal wardrobe?”

“Which would you rather have? Clothes that looked like they were worn by a Nazi or clothes that were actually worn by a Nazi?”

“Fair point, but why did you even need a shower? It’s not like you were dancing about with the mud fairies. Why didn’t you just wear some of the clothes you packed with you?”

“They felt dirty,” he snapped, “I felt dirty. A man’s entitled to feel dirty when he walks in on his wife to be wrapped in the arms of a masked nutter. Oh please tell me he at least took the mask off.”

“Yes. He did. Well,” she admitted, “for most, um, some of it.”

“I don’t want to know. Look do you want to have a shower or something?”

“Well no ah not really, why?”

“Oh. I just thought you might want to get out of those clothes. I thought you might feel a little dirty, you know, wearing clothes covered in a mixture of your own blood and the dried sweat from a sordid sexual encounter with a man who manipulated you and filched your home.” She thought about it for a moment.

“I think I’ll go have a shower.”

A shower later she emerged in an oddly fitting storm trooper outfit. It made her look rather awkwardly androgynous.

“Cup of tea?” she enquired.

They had a cup of tea. Afterwards Tim walked upstairs briefly. He emerged shortly afterwards with two cricket bats. “Good thing Roger was a cricketing man.”

“Indeed,” Zoë concluded examining the bat. “Fascism and Cricket. Well, let it never be said that he was a man without diversity. But pray tell what are we going to do with these things?”

“Kill Derek.”

“But…but what do we do afterwards?” she stammered.

“I don’t care. I couldn’t give the smallest wank whether we’re carted off to prison or given a medal by the town council for ridding Britain of an insufferable nuisance. But first…”

“But first?”

“A cup of tea.”

VIII

It was one am when Zoë and Tim broke into the abode they once called home. They managed to get into the kitchen by clumsily smashing through a window at the back of the house. They slinked past the adjacent downstairs bathroom, slipped through the living room and snuck up the creaking stairs of the house to the second floor. A hallway stretched out before them. Derek’s room squatted at the end of it. “Shh,” Tim whispered. They slowly tip toed towards the room, bats in hand.

Tip.

Tip.

Tip.

Toe.

Then a blast of light.

It was Derek. He was behind them, standing at the top of the stairs. He had a flash light in one hand and a gun in the other. While he could’ve never been certain, his mind had entertained the possibility that Tim and Zoe might wish harm upon him and he had prepared for the eventuality.

The couple stood there trembling, unable to move. Somehow throughout all their dealings with Derek it had never really sunk in that he was a man who could kill, a man who would kill. He had been in the downstairs bathroom doing as nature intended when he had heard them rustling around outside. He had made sure to flick the light switch off before they noticed. While they snuck up the stairs he grabbed the gun from the cabinet in the pantry.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t how I wanted things to go,” Derek said.

Then he felt a slight slipping sensation. You know the kind of which I speak. Your head suddenly feels heavier than normal. You find yourself leaning backwards involuntarily.

“Oh shit,” he exclaimed.

He slipped. He fell. He clattered down the stairs inelegantly. Everything was a blur. His head took a sharp blow at some point. He lay there crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Derek felt the emotions he had strived all his life to repress bleeding out of the jar into which he had so angrily stuffed them. Surprisingly however he failed to care. He failed to care that people looked down on him. He failed to care that people had hurt him so in the past. He failed to care about anything much at all. Funny, he thought. For this is what he had sought all his life. The capacity to not care. To really just not give a shit. He thought only animals could feel this way. Doesn’t matter. None of it does. Not really.

He was meat now.

Tim checked Derek’s pulse. “He’s dead,” he dryly stated. “Weird I thought I would be so much happier than this.”

“What do we do?” Zoë said.

“Well we better get rid of this body.”

“I’ll fire up the oven.”

Preamble: Only 3 more parts to go. Will post the rest on friday.

III

It was three in afternoon later that Saturday. Tim and Zoë had just come back from their routine big shop at Mickey’s Mall. They opened the front door of the apartment and were greeted with the smell of death. Derek quickly jumped up to greet them.

“Oh hey, you’re back already, uh how was the shop?” he stammered.

“Fine thank you,” Zoë replied.

“What’s that smell?” Tim enquired.

“Oh that it’s nothing.” Derek said.

“It’s coming from the kitchen,” Tim said walking towards the kitchen door.

“Oh um don’t.” Tim now stood in the kitchen doorway. He dropped the laden shopping bags he was carrying. Lying slumped in the corner like some discarded sack of groceries was Roger’s fresh corpse.

“Shit,” he exclaimed. Zoë slipped into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong honey? Oh my god!” Derek brushed past the pair and stood in front of them; shielding the body from their horrified stares.

“Look guys I’m really sorry about the oil stain on the door mat,” he confessed gesturing to a small yellowish stain on the pristine brownish mat which sat just before the back door. “You know what it’s like you’re frying up a veggie burger, the cooker flares up, it burns your hands.”

“What the fuck is that!” Tim said pointing wildly at the corpse.

“Oh that. That’s Roger. I mauled him earlier,” Derek replied casually.

“I can see that. What I want to know. Is what the fuck! It is doing! In my house!”

“Honey you’re shouting,” Zoë whined.

“I’m a bear. I maul things. It’s what I do.”

“Oh yes I forgot you’re a bear,” Tim declared, sarcastically. “For a moment there I thought you were just some fucking loon in a bear suit. Well if you’re a bear then why don’t you chow down already? Look I’ll even get you a spoon,” Tim rummaged around in a nearby draw before pulling out a spoon. He grabbed Derek’s paw and shoved the spoon into it. “There you go. Now eat up you don’t want it to get cold.”

“But I’m a vegetarian,” Derek mewed pathetically. Tim ignored him. Tim faced the wall.

“Now honey,” Zoë began, “I know you’re upset about Roger but we have…” her words fizzled out. Tim turned and gave her an enraged stare.

“I!” He shouted while gleefully booting a bag of groceries across the floor, “couldn’t give a flying fuck about Roger! All I care about is that there’s a dead body in our kitchen.”

The room fell deathly silent.

“Anyone like a cup of tea?” Zoë asked.

They all had a cup of tea.

“Right, now we have to get rid of this body. Roger didn’t precisely have a lot of friends but someone’s going to notice he’s not around soon enough. Any suggestions?” Zoë continued.

“We could bury him somewhere?” Derek humbly suggested.

“That ain’t going to work. Too obvious,” Tim said. “Murderers always try that and it always back fires. Logistically it presents a problem too: just where the hell are we meant to bury it? I think our neighbours would get suspicious if they saw us digging up our garden for no apparent reason.”

“Well how about we dump it in the river?”

“Bound to wash up at some point.”

“How about we eat it?” Tim and Derek turned and gave Zoë bewildered, awkward looks. “Oh come on you two you know it makes sense. Obviously Derek can’t cause he’s veggie so it would just have to be me and Tim, but think about it: no evidence. They’re hardly going to go scrabbling around in our bellies now are they?”

“So you expect us to get through a whole body tonight?” Tim asked.

“Of course not silly we’ll spread it out through the week and I’m sure if we dress it up right you know, mix it in with some other stuff, a little bacon, a little cheese, maybe even that pork we were saving for Sunday lunch it’ll just slide right on down.” Tim let out a long sigh.

“I can’t believe I’m about to agree to this,” he said shaking his head. “Ok go ahead.”

“So yeah I was thinking I might try making a lasagne out of his arm?”

“Yeah ok,” he said wearily. “I’ll be in the living room.” Tim left the kitchen. He resignedly plonked himself down in the arm chair in front of the television set and begrudgingly attempted to go about the evening as normal. Derek followed him into the living room and sat down on the couch next to him.

An awkward silence.

“I’m sorry if I kind of fucked things up for you guys today,” Derek began.

“Fuck off and die bear freak!” Tim snapped.

They sat in silence from then on. Eventually the harsh rhythms of bones snapping and breaking could be heard from the kitchen. Followed by the sounds of limbs ripping, wrenching and twisting. The waft of cooked flesh ebbed into the living room. Tim went to the bathroom briefly to throw up. Eventually he and Derek were summoned into the kitchen. Tim and Zoë each took a slice of the lasagne. Derek had a vegetarian quiche. Tim slowly and cheerlessly ate what his fiancé had in poor taste dubbed ‘Lasagne ala Roger’. He was surprised how edible it actually was. The mince beef, the cheese and the dollop of ketchup competently managed to bury the tang of what Tim deduced to be man flesh. Showing that if you bury unpleasant things deeply enough you can almost disguise the fact they exist at all.

Almost.

But not quite.

IV

For the next week they ate nothing but Roger. Roger for breakfast, lunch and dinner. They had beef and Roger pies, bacon, cheese and Roger omelettes and of course yet more Lasagne ala Roger. The trick was to cut the meat so thin and bury it so deeply that the flavour wasn’t noticeable. As the week went by they got more inventive. They crushed old Roger’s gangly bones into a fine powder and mixed it in with a variety of drinks. Ice tea and milkshakes worked the best. The blood went quite well in a Sheppards pie. I wouldn’t say that they necessarily came to like the taste of human flesh but they became used to its presence. Like the cups of tea they so frequently drank the tang of human flesh became a part of their daily routine.

The amount of Roger eaten seemed to directly correlate to the amount of domestic spats that took place between Tim and Zoë. They always started with small things. Disputes about what channel to watch. Arguments about who should do the dishes. Confusion about the current placement of minor household objects. They tended to end in accusations, swearing and sulking.

Tim also increasingly vented unprovoked abuse at Derek. Well, depending on whether you consider the murdering of ones neighbour to be a provocation or not. But if this was what was bothering Tim he certainly didn’t say so. No it was more the general presence of Derek he disliked. Interloper, he called him. Invader, he accused. Usurper, he snapped.

The tension in the house was at its most unbearable when Tim announced he was going on a business trip. Some clients wanted him to come up and brain storm some design features for their new website. He would be gone for about a day leaving early morning on Sunday and arriving early afternoon on Monday. Normally Zoë would hate these business trips, but times being what they were she thought it might be a good thing. A day away from each other’s throats was maybe what they needed to clear the house of all this animosity.

Later that evening she was sitting, slightly inebriated on the couch watching TV and eating the last cold slice of ‘Lasagne ala Roger’. Derek came in from the kitchen with a bowl of vegetable soup. He sat on the end of the couch. As far away from her as he could.

“Thanks for sticking up for me this week,” Derek said.

“Oh it’s nothing Derek. I don’t know what’s got into Tim this week.” She paused briefly and ate up the last mouthful of Roger. “I’m sure things are going to work out fine. He’ll come around. Would you like a drink?”

“Um yeah sure,” he replied. She went into the kitchen and came out brandishing a bottle of whisky and two glasses. She pulled a small table, which had been sitting equidistant between them, a little closer to her self and plonked the items down on it.

“Drink up,” she said. “Don’t be shy.” Derek nervously shuffled closer until he could just about reach the bottle and pour himself a glass of whisky which he sipped conservatively. Zoë gleefully glugged her drink. It was her fourth so far this evening.

“There’s a wildlife documentary about bears on BBC2 tonight. Is it okay if I watch it?”

“Sure. We can watch it together. I like animals.” She flicked over the channel. Time went by. At first they just watched it in silence. They were three quarters through the documentary and about three quarters through the whiskey bottle.

“I like animals,” Derek suddenly said. “In many ways they’re better than people. Animals don’t lie to you or manipulate you or call you names. They don’t take your land, or your home, or those you love away from you. And if they kill you it’s only in self defence or for food.” Zoë felt a strong pressure in her skull. For some reason which she could not articulate she felt an overwhelming stab of sadness the like of which she had never felt before. Tears bled from under the bone white of her eyes, and sliced down her milky face leaving greasy trails which shimmered faintly in the dull oven yellow of the lamp light. “Zoë?” Derek quietly mumbled.

“I don’t know,” she sobbed; an answer to a question no one asked. “I just don’t fucking know. And that’s the worst thing about it.” She fell into his nervous arms where she lay weeping into his breast for a minute or so. She stopped crying. She rose out of his embrace. She looked at him with a mixture of anger, self loathing and animalistic lust. She threw herself at him ripping off his bear mask and revealing the human face beneath. He had long straight black hair, a strong muscular jaw line, gentle blue eyes and was in all respects surprisingly handsome. She plunged her tongue into his mouth. Derek thought briefly about resisting her advance. For about ten seconds.

V

Tim let himself into the apartment. He looked around.

No one here.

He went up the stairs to his and Zoë’s bedroom to unpack his stuff.

He opened the door.

Sprawling across the bed was a horrid thing. Zoë was wrapped, naked and sound asleep, in the arms of the bear man. He only wore the head of the bear costume. That smiling look of security, comfort and happiness he had imagined only he could evoke was draped across her face; evidence more hurtful than the most scandalous of lingerie. Tim dropped his bags. They fell on the floor. A dull thud. The grinder of his brain set in motion.

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

This isn’t happening.

She did.

How could she?

How did this happen?

Zoë and Derek groggily awoke from their slumber. The little hammers of dawn: those groaning, aching hangover pains seeped into their senses. Faint recollections of the night before soon swam through their minds flood barriers. Then the angry leviathan of realisation came exploding through, followed by rushing waves of panic and confusion.

“Tim?” Zoë stuttered.

“You slept with the bear man,” Tim said.

Shock.

“Tim this isn’t what it looks like! We were drunk.” Zoë pleaded.

“You slept with the bear man,” Tim said.

Anger.

“It’s all the stress Tim. It’s just got a little on top of us that’s all. It’s nothing.” Tim picked up his bags and moved towards the door.

“You slept with the bear man,” Tim said.

Sadness.

“We can work this out.” She moved to stop him. She grabbed his arm. He pulled it away. Tim repeated his mantra. Each full stop a hammering staple on the damned document of her actions. Each clause a howling camera shot of her weakness stripped bare.

“You!”

Bang.

“Slept!”

Bang.

“With!”

Bang.

“The bear man!”

Bang.

Tim left the room. Tim left the house. Tim walked next door to Roger’s house. Zoë stood there naked, frozen, unable to move. Like a passing observer to a drive by shooting she stood there staring in horror, unable to shift her gaze from the scene of the horrible crime.

“That could’ve gone a bit better,” Derek observed. Zoë ignored him. Her hair stirred a little. There was a breeze. She slowly walked over to the open window. She shut it.

It was cold.

Preamble: Hey all. This is a piece that I wrote in the first year for Writing Media. Most of the stuff I wrote then was trash but out of all the trash I wrote this was probably the best. It’s fairly long for a short story so I thought I would post it in bite-sized chunks. Heres chunk number one.

I

It was five in the afternoon, on a Friday in the quaint suburb of Cherrypickle Lane. Zoë had just got back from the nursery where she worked. Her fiancé Tim, a web designer who worked from home for the most part popped on the kettle. At precisely ten past five they drank their tea. Like they always did.

Tim was twenty five. He had short mud brown hair and a well kept medium length beard. He wore a plaid shirt, corduroy trousers and was of unremarkable height. Zoë was twenty three. She had straight dark hair which was cut into a Beatles style soup bowl shape. Her fringe dangled fashionably just below her eyes. Today she wore a white shirt and blue jeans.

Zoë drank her tea. Tim drank his. It was as things had been for five serene and blissful years.

At that point a seven foot tall man dressed in a bear suit knocked on their door. Zoë opened it. The bear man stared at her. She stared at the bear man. The bear man stared at her staring at him.

An awkward silence.

“Excuse me can I help you?” she enquired nervously.

“I’m here about the room. Um Derek’s the name,” he said shyly. His voice was low, deep and warm and he walked about on two legs as opposed to four. He held out a paw which Zoë cautiously shook.

“Oh yes Derek. Joe didn’t say you were going to be this um.”

“Beary?”

“Yes uh beary. Well come inside. No reason for you to be standing out in the cold.” Derek picked up his bags (a single suitcase and a backpack) and followed Zoë into the living room where Tim tried his best to look nonchalant and casual.

“So you’re the new tenant?” Tim asked.

“Yes um the land lord’s an old friend of my fathers and he had a room to let. Lovely place this.”

“Well it will be great to have someone else around. We’ve been really struggling with the rent as of late. I don’t suppose you want a drink or anything?”

“Oh no I’m fine.”

An awkward silence.

“So Derek I couldn’t help noticing you’re in a bear costume,” said Tim. Derek gave him a befuddled look as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was referring to. Then he realised.

“Oh yes. Um well I’ve been a bear for nearly a year now.”

“Indeed any particular reason?” Tim persisted.

“No I just really like being a bear,” replied Derek apathetically.

“That’s great. You know what I like? Whisky. I’m going to get a whisky.”

Tim stormed into the adjacent kitchen and rummaged around in the drinks cabinet. Zoë followed.

“Hey!” she said in a whispered shout. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

“I don’t know,” Tim replied his voice dripping with sarcasm, his head still buried in the drinks cabinet. “Maybe because Joe’s rented out part of our apartment to a raving loon.”

“Give him a chance. He’s just a bit eccentric.”

“He’s wearing a fucking bear suit!”

An awkward silence.

“Sorry. I’m just so pissed off with Joe. He knows we’re looking to buy this place.”

“Oh honey,” she chimed in an affectionate soothing tone. “Don’t worry about that. I’m sure Joe will come around to the idea in time. And besides we can’t afford it now anyway.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “I don’t know what I’m getting so worked up about it.”

She kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

“Come on you old lug. I’m sure this Derek fellow will be fine. Joe’s always been a good judge of character.”

II

It was one in the afternoon, Saturday. Roger Niles, as usual, was sitting scowling at the TV. Well into his seventies Roger had long since retired and had settled comfortably into a life of sloth, bigotry and self righteous moaning. He rarely came out the house. When he did it was a rather unpleasant occasion for both him and the rest of the world. He had never married although rumour had it he had sired several bastard children in his youth. He had no living relatives. Well at least none that he knew of or cared to keep or get in touch with.

He also collected a variety of Nazi paraphernalia and had a rather disturbing world view. His neighbours were happy enough to let it slide however as old age had left Roger Niles rather incapable of acting upon his twisted ideology. And besides if they ganged up and got him evicted, heaven forbid, students might move in and instantaneously make their house values plummet. They lived a mile or two from the local university. It was always a possibility.

Roger lived in the house next to Zoë and Tim. Like Zoë and Tim’s it was semi-detached and had a small garden around it. But while Zoë and Tim’s was immaculately well kept, Roger’s house was a dilapidated hovel surrounded by brambles and weeds which were in turn filled with shattered glass, empty bottles and broken furniture. The bright baby blue of Zoë and Tim’s abode contrasted rather sharply with the sickly yellow of Roger’s.

There was a knock at the door. Roger Niles begrudgingly got up. He opened the door to see a seven foot tall man in a bear suit. The bear man loomed over the fragile old Roger. If Roger was fazed he certainly didn’t show it.

“Yeah what do you want?” Roger grunted.

“Hello um,” Derek began nervously. “I’m here to maul you. No hard feelings or anything.” Roger spat at him.

“Fuck off!” Roger tried to close the door. Derek’s paw stopped it.

“Growl,” Derek said. Roger stepped back from the door and gave him a puzzled look.

“Wait. What the hell are you doing?”

“Am I doing something wrong?”

“Bears don’t say ‘growl’ they just growl.”

“But growling can damage your throat,” Derek protested.

“I can’t believe this just what are you trying to impersonate here a bear or a mouse?”

“Don’t make fun of me!” Derek shouted swiping his paw across Roger’s chest. Roger fell unto the ground like a rag doll. He noticed he was bleeding. Derek loomed over him menacingly. The cold stillness of the eyes of the bear suit was never more apparent. “I don’t like it when people make fun of me,” Roger laughed mockingly.

“I can’t believe it. I’m about to get mauled by a complete pussy,” he rasped. He let out a violent cough like the grinding of gears. Derek raised his paw high up in the air. “Mein Furher protect me!” Roger whispered. Derek’s paw came down.

“Well… we got another hour till Cardiff. Then we’ll get a taxi, take about ten minutes.”

My son is ten. Wants to know how long till we get home. How long it is till we get to my home, at any rate. He doesn’t live with me. I used to drink.

We’re on a train because I don’t have a car anymore. It’s late summer, the evenings are cooling. The sky is a boxer’s eye. Purples, mauves and lilacs all swelling with that cut that just won’t close – the red sun.

“Are you hungry?”

“Dad, you just asked me that. I’m fine.”

My son returns to his gizmo. Some little electronic game thing that I’ll still be paying for in six months. He’s a good kid, he’s worth it. Of course, he never asked me directly for it, this birthday present was a direct order from his mother. Same thing, every year. She’ll think of the most expensive thing he wants. Tell me he has to have it. She knows what I earn. It’s a test. If I don’t buy it, its cos I’m drinking. That’s what she thinks. That’s how she thinks.

I drain the last of my can and instinctively crush it in my hand.

We’re pulling into Swindon. I used to date a girl from here. Every time I make this journey I think I’m going to see her at the station. I always wonder what I’d do if I did. Would I get off, tell her I loved her and ask her to marry me? Like in some soppy old movie like my mum used to make me watch with her when I was a kid and she was ill.

The girl isn’t at the station of course. I don’t know why I’m looking. Must be all of eight years ago now.

We pull away and it’s getting darker. Saturday night and even the city is getting ready to go out. Putting on their streetlights, little bit of neon. Hoping to meet hundreds of Mr. Rights. Hoping to meet a mug like me, someone who’ll throw a lot of money their way, someone who’ll call back.

The city fades into the distance; the train begins to pick up speed. I want another beer. We’re only two carriages away from the buffet. I can be there and back within two minutes – he won’t even know I’ve been. I can bring him some sweets or something.

I can’t help but look at him and wonder when he got so tall. I tell myself that I don’t need a drink, I’m not thirsty and that I’ll reconsider my position when we pull into Bristol.

“I’ll drop your stuff off at the flat and then we can go out, grab some dinner. Or I can phone in a pizza if you’re tired.”

“Yeah sure, I don’t mind. Whatever.”

Someone’s left a copy of today’s Sun on the table opposite. I reach for it and start absent mindedly flicking through the pages. I’ve noticed recently how so many of my actions are self-conscious. I can’t shave in the mornings without thinking of how much I look like every other guy who’s had a shave ever. I wonder if I’m unique after all. I hate that feeling.

There’s an article about some fuck-up single mum from the North of England who’s just buggered off to Spain for a week on the piss. She left forty quid and a few pizzas in the freezer for her two kids to fend for themselves. One of the kids nearly burnt the place down and the game was up. Turned out she’d done it the previous two years as well.

The article’s to the side of the day’s Page 3 girl. She’s 17 and holding a pair of coconuts in front of her breasts. Coconut Shy is the headline.

“Jenny. 17, knows a thing or two about Bristols. She’s from the West Country herself. “I can’t believe these mums who leave their kids behind when they go abroad. I hope the judge passes her as stiff a sentence as he can”.

I throw the rag back on to the table opposite. We’re pulling into Bristol ourselves and I laugh at the thought of suddenly seeing Jenny, 17, at the station. It’s much darker now. The sun’s behind the horizon and its last yawns of colour are all that remains of the day.

I notice him immediately. A tall man in a long, tweed coat. You read about people looking haunted or spooked and never really pay it much attention because it’s a cliché. Well, it was cliché time, the guy looked haunted alright. Shivering despite his coat and continually turning his head as the train finally came to rest.

Don’t come into our carriage. Please don’t sit next to us.

He gets on and quickly makes his way towards us, I know he’s going to sit opposite us and I know there’s something up here. Something’s wrong with this picture.

My son looks across at the man and turns instantly back to his game. He tried to explain it to me earlier. I feigned interest. I wish I cared more about these things that matter to him but I don’t. Better to be honest. He’ll thank me for it one day. Besides, you aren’t ten forever.

The guy opposite is looking out of the window, I snatch a glance as the train’s aisle lights are on now and my reflection is visible in his window. I look down to his side and see that his arm is dripping with blood from somewhere deep within his sleeve. I’m no doctor but it’s bad.

“Dad,” whispers my son.

“What”

“Why is he talking to himself?”

The guy opposite is really agitated now. He’s arguing with himself quietly, banging the table with his other hand. The floor by his foot is beginning to stain. He pulls out a half bottle of Smirnoff and quickly drains a good few measures. I wince at the memory of such moments in my own life now hurtling through my mind. Under the desk at my old job or in the stationery cupboard. Out in the back garden at our old place pretending to try and get a signal on my mobile or calling the cat.

I got to do something. This guy needs help.

“Jack.” I whisper.

“What?”

“We’re going to the buffet to grab something to eat. Both of us now.”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

“Come on.” I grab his arm.

“Dad. No, I’m playing.”

I know I can’t leave him here but I do. And I promise to hate myself forever for doing so as I stumble down towards the buffet car. There’s nobody else waiting. The guy behind the bar is filling the little fridge behind him with cans of strong lager. I tell the guy the situation. He asks me where we’re sitting. There’s a man bleeding and shaking and he needs help. I don’t want him arrested. I don’t care what he’s done. The buffet man thanks me and phones the driver.

I buy four cans of lager and a bottle of gin and tonic. I’m shaking as I make my way back to our seat, the cans in my hand and the g and t in my coat pocket. We’re in a tunnel and it’s all I can do not to cry out as the lights flicker and send us into the darkness for a second or two.

My son’s smiling as I walk up to him as casually as I can. Which isn’t casual at all, more of the same self-conscious stuff that keeps me up at night.

“I finished the game, Dad. I did it. Look.”

I look at the screen and it’s filling with little pixel fireworks spelling out the name Jack in capitals. I wonder what it must be like to be convinced by them like Jack is right now. These fireworks are real.

The man opposite is shaking now. He has begun to stare at us now. We’re out of the tunnel and have begun to slow down.

I don’t know exactly why but I give him a can because somehow we are in this together now. He looks at me then at the boy and opens the can with his bad hand. Blood falls on the table next to the empty vodka bottle.

“Dad” he whispers.

“Ssshhhhh”

The train is stopping at the little station just after the tunnel. It’s not a scheduled stop. There’s a police van and an ambulance by the tracks. The bleeding man looks at me and then to my boy and then back out of the window. We stop and I am shaking more than I ever have in my entire life. Cops get on the train. A policewoman makes her way up the carriage. I can see her. The man knows she is coming but is in denial. He is looking out of the window and drinking.

“Sir, you’ve got a nasty looking cut there. We’re going to need to have a look at it. Can you come with us?” the policewoman begins.

The man starts to cry and I feel sick to the bottom of my heart. There’s a moment of struggle and the train fills with bigger guys who pull him away from the seat. More blood spills on the table. They lead him back past my window and I look to try to make eye contact but he’s crying with his head down as they take him to the ambulance.

The conductor apologises for the delay over the tannoy as we move away. The three cans on the table in front of me seem as real as pixel fireworks. I look to the table opposite and to the little flickers of blood upon it. I stare at my reflection in the window and turn my head to gaze at my son, now lost in some comic. My fingers are slowly drumming on the cans of lager, my nail slowly teasing a golden ring pull.

Outside it grows darker as the train speeds on.

This is a piece I wrote back in January as a timed assignment for Writing for Children. We were given a list of stimuli, and told to write either a short children’s story or a children’s poem in three days using only three of the stimuli we were presented. If I could remember what they were then I’d tell you, but I don’t. Either way, enjoy. I had quite fun writing it, and as far as coursework goes I had a decent grade back! Read more…

Welcome to The Big Thread - a website for the writing of students from the University of Glamorgan. We may soon be open to taking submissions from people who don’t have accounts, but for now you can enjoy the content we’ll be drip feeding you over the summer.

The first pieces of writing should be coming out in the next week or so, and I’m hoping we continue adding more and more after that!