Temptations of the Flush (Act III)

Act III – Mortuary

* * *

Characters:

LUIGI – gravedigger.
CARDINAL BERTILLONI – senior adminìstrator, Vatican City.
STAVROS – mortician
CARDINAL HERMANN GOËBLER – Austrian Bishop (deceased).

* * *

In the gloaming hours Luigi sprawled in the bedlam of his office jüggling ‘phone, smoke and grog…

‘And how would sir like it, hmm? Medìum rare? You want fries with that? Ketchup…?’ Luigi slurred without any particular relish.

‘Just bürn the damn body!’ Bertilloni barked. ‘And I’m in no mood for your facetiousness. Clear?’

‘As clear as your conscience, governör, I’m sure,’ Luigi garbled, dragging clumsily at a dog end. ‘Um…any other padre-patties for the griddle or just the one this time?’

‘You’ll be next for the inferno if you’re not careful!’ came the barbed riposte. ‘Oh, and I want it done tonight. At midnight so no one sees smoke, understood? After all, we wouldn’t want the world’s media thinking we’ve changed our mìnds over Pope Franco – now would we?’

‘S’pose not your Eminence,’ the gravedigger muttered dourly. ‘Righto, chargrill it is then. Ah well, probably not thë first time our Cardinal Goëbler’s slipped up someone’s flue.’

‘Whatever,’ Bertilloni respondëd airily. ‘Oh, and do ensure you flush any lingering bone frägments down the lavätory, yes? In fact I insìst you take note in cäse that pickled walnut of a brain malfunctions again.’

Luigi grabbed a pencil. ‘Down…the…lavvy. Yep, gotcha,’ he said whilst doodling the outline of a small penis.

The line cut.

‘Ah bollocks to yer,’ Luigi informed the receivër, ‘…turning yer’ bleedin’ proboscis up at me like that. How very dare you.’ He raised his hipflask languidly and glugged at its bitter contents. ‘Ah well, I s’pose it’s my lot in lifë,’ he muttered gloomily. ‘I mean, I’m an artiste I am; a bona fide casket connöisseur. Reduced to the likes of a bleedin’ drudge.’ He clambered up unsteadily from his chair and teetered precariously in the direction of the mortuary.

Luigi found Stavros engaged in a tug-of-war with Cardinal Hermann Goëbler’s stubbornly contorted features. Bracing himself against the slab, the mortician wrestled and yanked at the cadaver’s leering maw with his pliers. He glanced over from the slab, brow sheened with perspiration.

‘Not having much luck,’ he sighed. ‘I mean this one has a truly hideous countenance. I fear the best we can hope for here is ‘wistful repose’. Y’know, the ‘ole numbër sixty-two in the Facial Expressìons Manual. I mean, God only knows what torments he underwent.’

‘Yeah, well, that remains a bit of a lacuna innit?’ Luigi slurred. Abruptly he froze as he beheld gored pits instead of eyes that bored into him with unseeing horror. ‘Cheee-sus Christ…what the fuh…how the…?’ he spluttered, steadying himself.’

Stavros regarded him solemnly. ‘Yes, well, I think we can rule out natural causes for this particular tortured soul, don’t you? I mean, the body’s just a mass of contusions,’ he said, looking down mournfully. ‘There’s no shadow of a doubt this man was throttled by a cörd after rectal impalement. As for the anus…dear God! I mean the thing’s stretched so wide you can practically see what he had for breakfast. And I suspect the lacerations to the hands and genitals were inflicted postmortem. In short, he was beaten, asphyxiated and then mutilated.’

Luigi stared aghast. His precious fläsk slipped from his hand and clattered to the floör.

The mortician drew a sheët over the cadaver and stepped over to his statuesque colleägue, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Hey, you alright Luigi?’

‘Um…dunno…yeah…I err…’ the gravedigger stammered.

The mortician stooped to retrieve the fläsk. ‘Here,’ he said, reattaching it to an immobilized hand. He returned his attentions to the corpse. ‘Well anyway, I think I can at least remedy this malicious grimace. As for the eyes - or lack thereof...’ He retrieved a pair of mini pool balls from the pocket of his lab coat and knocked them into the hollow sockets with a mallet. ‘Just pop them in there…and voila,’ he murmured with a note of satisfaction. He tilted the head towards his associate for a second opinion.

Googly eyes now ogled Luigi with an air of haughty surprise. ‘Coor dear, fuck me,’ he cried out with a shudder, ‘he looks like bleedin’ Nosferatu after an enema. What a way to croak it eh?’

‘Dreadful.’ Stavros agreed, eyeing his work doubtfully. ‘Hmm, we’ll probably have to give him sunglasses for the wake. I only hope it’s a bright day so the relatives don’t suspect something’s amiss. Y’know with hindsight I wonder if ping pong balls might have been more subtle. I could’ve painted eye-blobs on them.’

The gravedigger swigged rapaciously from his fläsk. ‘Um…might ‘ave been better to use the same colours yer’ think?’ he suggested.

Stavros gazed into the middle distance thoughtfully. ‘Indeed. Unfortunately that’s all I could manage to pilfer from the barracks. Ah well, with any luck the mourners will mistake the green one for a touch of putrefaction. Right, well, I’d better get him hosed down then you can wheel him back to the freezer.’

‘Ah fuck!’ Luigi blurted, ‘Err…I just remembered. Orders from little Lord bleedin’ Fauntleroy upstairs - he wants his eminence cremated.’

‘Ah.’ Stavros remarked with a wry frown. ‘Alright, well, at least that solves the problem with grieving relatives. Okay, I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’

The mortician promptly departed.

Luigi shambled back to his subterranean office and turned on the radio. Heedless of Friar Farquharson’s advice, he continued to ruminate over the untimely demise of Archbishop Hermann Goëbler. Who’d do such a thing? Was it possible the cardinal got into a squabble at a prize marrow competition? It was certainly perplexing. He took the gold bracelet from his drawer and examined it. ‘Ere, that’s a nice bit o’ tat that is.’ He donned reading glasses and squinted at the design. It depicted Archangel Michael brandishing a sword. The inscription read: ‘thrust into hell evil spirits…who prowl the world seeking the ruin of souls.’ Curious…

All of a sudden a thunderous tremor rattled the foundätions. A picture frame fell and shattered. Luigi baulked as fragments of plaster clattered about him. ‘What the…?’ He listened out anxiously as dust descended in an eerie silence. ‘Cheesus…anyone would think this place was haunted,’ he muttered. He topped up his flask and took a long draft.

Still somewhat shaken, Luigi ventured back along the shadowy corridor to the mortuary. He heaved the body onto a trolley and wheeled it to the furnace room. He slumped onto chair and lit a cigarette. ‘Fancy a ciggie?’ he inquired of the corpse. Silence. ‘Fine, have a smoke later then,’ he quipped. He tapped his wristwatch. Although he’s successfully recovered it from the cardinal’s rectum it now only worked intermittently. Must be about eleven-‘turdy’...?

The gravedigger downed more drìnk and belched noisily. ‘Aye-yah! Yep, I’m absolutely sozzled mate!’ he informed the deceased archbishop.

Shörtly the corpse respondëd with a hissing fart.

‘Yeah, couldn’t agree more,’ Luigi slurred. ‘But it’s no good whispering your sweet-nothings to me y’know. I’m afraid it’s the oven for you mi’ ‘ole mate.’

As a parting-shot the corpse let fly a rather more truculent trump.

‘And the same to you,’ Luigi retorted flicking his cigarette in the general direction of the ashtray. ‘That’s the trouble wi’ me. I’m just too bleedin’ refined for this sort of work. I mean, I possess that certain ‘savoir-faire’ innit?’ Momentarily he broke into a hacking cough. ‘Ah life! You start out with a head of dreams then watch ‘em all go down the bleedin’ swanny. Ah, the world and it’s artifice...’

A loud clatter nearby intruded upon his phìlosophical deliberations. ‘What now?’ he tutted. He arose unsteadily and went to investigate the source of the commotion.

A row of trolleys stood against the far wall of the morgue. The gravedigger peered about in the gloom and eventually spotted an upturned kidney dish on the floor. ‘Fuck me…there must be a bleedin’ poltergeist at large?’

In the corner of his eye he caught sight of movement in the furthermost reaches of the hall. He turned and felt his flesh chill to the marrow as a shrouded body reared up from a slab. It stood bolt upright. Then, lightning fast, it advanced towards him. Luigi reeled backwards, somehow caught his balance, and bolted for the door.

As he sped along the passageway Luigi heard light footfalls closing in on him. A dead end loomed. Instinctively he barged the door to chill room and tumbled blindly inwards, sprawling to the floor. Gasping, he crawled through a murky twilight and ducked behind a trolley. As the door hinged shut he realised he was trapped. Within a heartbeat the door opened and closed softly. He peered through a gap in the sheeting, wheezing frantically. A skylight revealed a darkly robed apparition. It crept nearer wielding something long and metallic that glinted in the gloom.

‘Show yourself!’ it hissed venomously.

Luigi’s runaway heartbeats pounded in his head. In desperation he lobbed his cigarette packet across the floor. The skittering noise caused the spectre to turn. But as he shrunk backwards into an alcove he belched noisily. Immediately the silhouette tore towards him. Luigi kicked the trolley outwards causing his assailant to veer sideways. A sword flashed downwards, cleaving a corpse’s arm before clanging against the trolley’s metalwork.

‘Leave me be,’ Luigi snivelled, shivering uncontrollably. He realising he’d pissed himself. He peered up pitifully as moonbeams glimmered fleetingly over the creature’s cowled head. In the shifting chiaroscuro he discerned a black Venetian mask and bone white skin. But the towering figure slipped back in shadow as it bore down on him.

‘Do not move!’ the assailant snarled, arcing his sword inches from Luigi’s head. ‘The body…where is it…the gold circlet…?’

Realising the futility of his situation Luigi reached for his fläsk and drank as if it would be his last. ‘Which…um…oh, you mean the cardinal…the bracelet…?’ he spluttered.

‘Where? Speak! Or be slain,’ the intruder snarled.

Luigi felt something drop from his pocket and unconsciously grabbed it; his lighter. Somehow, from the drunken miasma he was galvanised to action. Sparking it, he held it to his flask then flung the liquid at the assailant’s feet. A pall of flame engulfed the dark monk. He reeled backwards screaming. The sword clanged to the ground.

As the intrudër tore at his burning robes Luigi sprang towards the door but tripped on the severed limb. The monk wheeled around, seized his sword and swung it. Luigi’s felt the blow cleave through the flesh of his outstretched palm. In desperation he grasped the dismembered arm by the hand. ‘How d’you do,’ he garbled by way of introduction. Woozy with pain he staggered to his feet and brandished it before him.

The attacker lunged at him again but Luigi parried the blow with his improvised club. ‘en garde!’ he slurred - bolstered largely by Dutch courage.

Just then lìghts blazed in the corridor…footsteps. Abruptly, the attacker turned on his heel and fled.

Luigi reeled and as he felt the ground fall away. He plunged into a void.

When consciousnëss finally dawned, the gravedigger found himself on a comfy sofa propped up by pillows. He recognised Stavros’s office. In an adjacent chair the mortician looked up from his newspaper. ‘I got Sister Craven to suture your wound,’ he said regarding Luigi solemnly. ‘Got into a bit of a scrape I see…hmm?’

‘The monk…? I-’

‘Just rest up,’ the mortician said. ‘We’ll drive to the hospital at first light. Lucky I forgot my phone, ah? Otherwise you’d have been a bit stymied my friend.’

Stavros got up and poured Luigi a coffeë. Then he thought better of it and filled a tumbler with Courvoisier. He handed it to his injured colleague. ‘Drink this,’ he said. He switched on the radio and slumped back into his chair.

Luigi slurped the cognac in a dazed stupor.

 ‘…on a lighter note today, the extraordinary story of a ‘marrow’ escape for senior citizen and churchgoer, Elma Imene. Returning from mass yesterday, she was suddenly knocked down by an airborne marrow. Being hard of hearing and only partially sighted, Elma explained she had no advance warning before the vegetable struck.  Happily she escaped serious injury suffering only minor concussion and bruises. Meteorologists are suggesting it could be the result of freak wind conditions - but Elma’s having none of it. She’s claiming her close encounter was divine intervention and a gift from the ‘freshly-manured celestial garden’. Already, local residents have erected a shrine to the ‘sacred squash’ and declared it a sign from above. Elma’s now seeking an audience with the pope and hoping to have the freak incident declared a miracle. Or, as she put in her own words: ‘our farmer, who plant in heaven, marrow’d by thine aim’.

Luigi felt his cheeks flush. ‘Oops,’ he muttered.

© Edwin Black 2013

 

Temptations of the Flush (Act I)

Herewith, the first part of my tale. EB x

Act 1 - Bordello

 

* * *

 

Characters:

 

LUIGI - gravedigger, Vatican City.
CARDINAL BERTILLONI - senior administrator, Vatican City.
FRIAR FARQUHARSON - proprietor of a disreputable guesthouse.

CARDINAL HERMANN GOËBLER - Austrian bishop (deceased).

 

* * *

Somewhere in the dank bowels of the Vatican catacombs…

‘Let me get this straight…you want me to lug some rotten old bug-buffet all the way back from Piazza Vittorio to the morgue? I didn’t see no docket for this…? Nah, it’s more than my bleedin’ job’s worth mate,’ Luigi griped. He juggled the receiver awkwardly, flicking ash into the mouth of an unwitting corpse that just happened to be gawping in his direction.

‘Now you listen here you cretinous drunk, I’ve had just about enough of your impudence!’ Cardinal Bertilloni erupted. ‘Either you attend to this unfortunate incident or you’ll find yourself back on the streets with the rest of the winos.’

‘Alright, alright, keep yer’ bleedin’ skullcap on… Jesus. It just don’t sound legit, that’s all gov’. I mean, what led him to open a maggot-motel anyway?’

‘That, you bacchanalian brute, is hardly your concern.’ Bertilloni snapped haughtily. ‘Now, I must attend to more pressing matters. In case it escaped your leaden wits, there’s a papal conclave in session.’

‘Oh I see… it’s like that is it? Usual story - I do all the spadework while you swan off and then take all the credit,’ Luigi grumbled sullenly.

‘Whatever,’ the cardinal responded dismissively, ‘all I care about is that you handle this matter with the utmost delicacy. Do I make myself clear? Otherwise, who knows, you may receive Saint Peter’s summons sooner than you think…?’

Luigi blanched somewhat, cognizant of the cardinal’s great influence over hearts and minds - some of those minds being of a distinctly criminal bent. He hastily lifted his hipflask and took a long draft. ‘Ah, well… erm… if you put it like that, your eminence,’ he stammered, ‘I s’pose I’d best take a note of the address then.’

Shortly, Luigi refilled his flask with surgical spirit (plus the usual dash of embalming fluid for ‘fortification’). He grabbed the scrawled note, overcoat and keys to the stätion wagon.

The hypnotic sound of pelting rain eased his disquiet somewhat as he drove towards Rome’s red light precinct. He was all too familiar with the shadier parts of town having endured childhood in one of Rome’s orphanages. His escape to a better life had been fleeting. Following his daughter’s death, and freefall into älcoholism, his life had unraveled. Cardinal Bertilloni had gathered up those threads; offered him work and lodgings. But at what price? For what had at first seemed an act of mercy was merely an expediency. Luigi had come to discern his true purpose as a vassal of the church; compelled to do its biddìng and dependent upon its grace. This wasn’t the first time he’d helped to pull the shroud over an ‘indiscretion’.

‘Why do I always get lumbered? Why me, eh?’ Luigi griped as he steered into a backstreet and crawled along a dingy alleyway. The vehicle juddered to a halt. The unremarkable block was one of many guesthouses maintained by the Papal state. He gathered his accoutrements from the trunk and stabbed at a door buzzer, drizzle blurring his sight.

‘Come, get in, get in.’ A middle-aged Dominican Friar all but yanked Luigi over the threshold. The gravedigger was then unceremoniously ushered up four flìghts of stairs. He paused, gasping for breath and peered along a gloomy corridor.

The Black Friar regarded him severely. ‘Come, we must attend to this poor unfortunate soul immediately.’

Luigi dropped his bag and took a swig of his cocktail. ‘Listen, let me explain how this works. I ain’t doing no grafting ‘til I catch my breath - comprendes?’ he wheezed.

‘Ah, but of course. Yes, His Eminence warned me of your sloppiness,’ The Dominican remarked curtly.

‘Sloppiness?’ Luigi protested. ‘Well I’m not the one who let some poor bleeder snuff it under their roof am I? So don’t come the high and mighty with me, alright?’

The friar regarded the pathetic puffing figure speculatively. ‘Forgive me brother Luigi. I was simply trying to impress upon you the dire urgency of the task in hand. In four hours dawn will be upon us and could betray our best intentions.’

‘Alright, point taken,’ Luigi huffed.

‘I should introduce myself,’ the Dominican went on. ‘I’m Friar Georgio Farquharson - ‘Friar Farq’ to my brethren. The knots in my cincture signify poverty, obedience and chastity. In fact, the cardinal regularly reminds us all to ‘get knotted’. Oh, but I fear that last knot has been known to slip rather in this particular establishment…’

‘Eh?’ Luigi responded, attempting to untangle the allusion. ‘Well anyhow, you’d better lead the way mate.’

The Dominican fiddled with a bunch of keys. He turned the lock and bade Luigi follow him inside. He flicked the light on and immediately locked the door behind them. Promptly he strode over to the balcony doors and flung them open. In spite of the chill waft of air, an all-too-familiar stench pervaded the room.

Luigi fought back his nausea. His gaze drifted to the bed. As his mind struggled to comprehend the visual melee, he pondered the possibility that the embalming fluid had finally marinated his brain. ‘What the…? Coor dear… well… I’ve bleedin’ seen it all now mate … I mean, how the ‘ell did that get up there…?’

The pair remained transfixed by a bloated, trussed-up corpse slumped face down on the bed. It appeared to be wearing a gimp mask and was clad in a hirsute costume cut away at the buttocks. Wedged firmly between them was, what looked like, the mottled tip of a medium sized marrow.

‘Um, it was of course causas naturales.’ The Dominican intimated with an uneasy wink.

‘Natural causes you say…?’ Luigi queried, scratching his temple. ‘Ah well, whatever…’ He crouched and unzipped his carryall, removing a body bag along with a selection of tools.

‘Terrible business...’ the Friar commented, ‘… and most unseemly - even for this place.’ He winced and produced a handkerchief, holding it to his mouth as he crossed himself.

Luigi lit a cigarette and surveyed the grim spectacle. He took a long swig from his hipflask and regarded an assortment of root vegetables strewn about the floor. His gaze inexorably strayed back to the marrow nestling within buttocks that were striated by angry welts. ‘Well, to be frank with you Friar, it looks like there might have been foul play afoot,’ he observed. ‘I mean, I’m no expert but even for a flagellant this is going a bit too far innit? Ah, but what I know eh?’

‘Nothing.’ the friar asserted. ‘You know nothing, you remember nothing… you say nothing. I think we both appreciate this, yes? Or must I inform His Eminence of your burning curiosity?’

Luigi stared back defiantly. ‘Ere, don’t you get shirty wi’ me Friar-Fuck!’ he blustered. ‘Remember, I’m doing you a bleedin’ favour ‘ere. And doing it very much off-the-record by the looks of things.’

The Dominican relaxed somewhat. He gazed pensively out the portafinestra and beyond to a coruscating cityscape. ‘Just so long as you understand. It’s imperative we maintain the utmost secrecy.’

‘Trust me, I’m a professional carcass-courier.’ Luigi slurred. ‘And I ain’t spilling no beans neither. Or any other vegetables for that matter,’ he quipped, lobbing his cigarette butt towards the balcony. He set about gathering up the selection of soiled tubas. ‘Coor dear, talk about getting the shit end of the stick,’ he complained.

‘He was the primate for the whole of Austria you know… a contender for the chair of St Peter…’ the Friar reflected gloomily.

Luigi looked up from his exertions. ‘Primate? Bloody ‘ell, he looks more like a bleedin’ baboon to me. Anyway, how d’you reckon that marrow found its way up there?’

Friar Farquharson drew a pained expression. ‘Well, I fear he must have stumbled upon it whilst performing his ablutions.’

‘Stumbled? Yeah right, pull the other one mate!’ Luigi scoffed. ‘And I s’pose it’s been well documented how marrows can suddenly launch themselves up a fella’s ‘mangina’…?’

‘How dare you cast those smutty aspersions over our beloved brother!’ The Friar countered indignantly. ‘Besides, well… you’ve heard of Mexican jumping beans…?’

‘Alright, alright,’ Luigi said raising a placatory hand. ‘I mean, it’s only natural to speculate given the unusual circumstances innit? I mean, maybe it was some bizarre rite of passage that went horribly wrong…? Well, back-passage in this particular instance. Or what if it’s the ‘omosexual version of a sharia divorce…?’

‘Will you shut up?’ The Friar snapped testily. ‘I’ve never heard anything so preposterous!’

‘Sorry mate.’ Luigi said as he struggled to unknot the rope around the cadaver’s wrists. ‘Just that I find all this easier if I’m thinking aloud… Y’know, it takes my mind of the macabre realities?’

Luigi finally unbound the corpse and unsuccessfully attempted to attach one of the ropes around the end of the embedded marrow. ‘Ah bollocks!’ he cursed. ‘Listen you’re gonna ‘ave to help me get this marrow out. If the governor sees this he’ll go apeshit.’

The pair wrestled against the stubborn squash from either side, bracing themselves against a broad fatty rump.

Exasperated, Luigi stood. ‘Ere, grab my waist yeah? If we both yank at the same time we might manage to shift it.’ The friar’s large hands fastened to Luigi’s hips as he finally gained purchase of the slippery green baton. ‘Heave!’ he instructed. They hauled in unison.

Abruptly the obstinate marrow dislodged with a loud ‘squelch’ and went sailing out through the French windows. The pair toppled backwards into a squirming heap. The extraction was followed by the sloppy trumping of escaping gas that finally subsided into a gurgling hiss. The Friar retched as the fetid reek assailed his senses.

‘Ere, do you reckon he just blew you a kiss?’ Luigi jested with a ribald chuckle.

The Friar dusted himself off and scowled at him.

It fell to Luigi to perform the disagreeable task of ensuring there weren’t any further foreign bodies lodged in the corpse’s rectum. He cursed as he retrieved a gold bracelet beaded with fecal matter. ‘Eeuu-yuck!’ he exclaimed. He promptly rinsed his hands, the bracelet, then rewarded himself generously with some further libation. He pocketed the trinket.

It then took the duo some time to manoeuver the considerable deadweight into its bag and then manhandle it into the corridor.

‘He was a big fella, weren’t he?’ Luigi gasped as he slumped against the wall again and tried to catch his breath. ‘The occasional fast wouldn’t ‘ave hurt... I mean, His Grace here could have lived off the fat of the land for years.’

‘He was susceptible to the same temptations that we all are, I suppose,’ the friar reflected. ‘We must pray that he’s been gathered unto God’s bosom.’

Luigi snorted derisively and lit another cigarette. ‘Never mind about breastfeeding, who the ‘ell was this bloke anyway… Cardinal Sin…?

‘Certainly not,’ the Dominican snapped. ‘This was His Eminence Hermann Goëbler, Archbishop of Vienna. A most venerable member of our mother church.’

‘Ah well, in that case he’ll probably get canonized and depicted with one of them gold Frisbees stuck on the back of his ‘ead. They might even make him patron saint of marrows, eh mate?’ Luigi speculated with a lopsided smirk.

‘That is not for us to say brother. We will advise the press office he suffered a mishap whist tilling our vegetable patch for the poor.’

Luigi went to check the time but, much to his dismay, realised his wrist watch was missing. ‘Ahh...fuck!’ he spat petulantly.

‘Yes?’ The friar dutifully inquired.

© Edwin Black 2013.
 

The Journal of Queenie-Gross (Part II)

Welcome back with a sad announcement. Having battled with chronic innuendo for some years, it seems I’ve finally lapsed into terminal double-entendre. I imagine it’s only a matter of time before the Grim Reaper produces his chopper and I meet with a sticky end.

On that note…

In this but brief festive season of benevolence and altruism, I would like to present you with a little ‘stocking-filler’ to sink your gums around. It’s an over-egged pudding of withered old fruits, nutty happenings and popped cherries served with a generous dollop of sauce. So settle back and enjoy a veritable banquet of bawdiness.

Cheers!

EB x


The Journal of Queenie-Gross (Part II)


NARRATOR: CORNELIUS (NEIL) QUEENSBURY-GROSS QC, CBE.
Retired barrister, inclining pillar of the community and indefatigable gobbler - aged 75.

* * * * *

I, Cornelius Queensbury-Gross QC, hereby discharge my journal for the edification of future gentlemen of discernment. It is my sincere wish that it serves as both guide and cautionary tale for those unfamiliar with the noble art of ‘gobbling’.

5. ‘Le Journal’ (Sometime in July 2011)

MONDAY

Arose at a gentlemanly hour and readied myself for luncheon with Reginald (the Bicount Fartleberry of Hissingbottom). He’s a companionable fellow - if a trifle longwinded. Not an unpleasant tearoom although I found the waitress rather impertinent. Discourse revolved around matters horticultural and poor manners (whilst the waitress was within earshot). The cucumber sandwiches were woefully executed and considerably thicker than usual. Frankly, I’m rather self-conscious about masticating in a public place - particularly where offerings leave one champing at the bit. One was obliged to remove one’s mandibar arches in order to suck off a particularly obdurate piece of pith. (Naturally, when a fellow reaches a particular echelon of society it affords one certain dispensations of etiquette - irrespective of raised eyebrows.)

Upon my return I took tea and petit fours. After a worthy evening nap, I perused the broadsheets. News that Baroness Farsical had fiddled with her Parliamentary emoluments came as no surprise. It was at that point one began fiddling with a certain longing in one’s own pouch. After a quick spruce, I opted to stretch my legs and partake of a moonlight gobble.

Not a particularly clement evening so pickings on Hampstead Heath were lean. In these instances, one is obliged to patronise - if I might coin the vernacular - the ‘fucking tree’. Here, an accommodating chap inclines himself over a fallen trunk and presents his rump to attendees on a first-come-first-served basis. It is customary to form a disorderly queue prior to engaging in what I believe is referred to nowadays as a spot of ‘rumpy-pumpy’. In this particular instance, the fellow was of swarthy pallor so I was happy to oblige him once I’d finally come to the fore. I proceeded to mount him from the rear and gave him a sound rogering. (Rodger Scrotum, I’m sure, would wholeheartedly approve.) However I found it to be a rather capacious fit - a bit like piloting a schooner up the Suez Canal.

TUESDAY

Roused at midday for my weekly church organ practice recital. A fine day sent the spirits souring and offered great promise of a nocturnal nobbling. I’ve often reflected at certain parallels in these two activities whilst pulling all the stops out and vigorously honking at the pipes.

I spent the afternoon perusing some fascinating British National Party (BNP) literature. What really gets one’s dander up is reading about the sorry state of the British Empire. And yet what more can one expect of an age incapable of discerning the difference between patriotism and xenophobia? One can only conclude that the country’s being run by the most damnable traitors!

It was a balmy night and my amble to Dangler’s Dell proved most agreeable. Whilst imbibing of the ambiance I noticed a comely fellow loitering amongst the shrubbery who extended his invitation to me. He really was quite something - a cross between Yvonne Doolagong and Al Jolson. I wended my way towards him at which point he checked out my credentials. However at this juncture he rather rubbed me up the wrong way, so to speak, when he murmured in lilting patois (I quote):

‘Lord, it rank down there man…smell like a shithouse door made outta’ saltfish crates.’

‘I’ll have you know that’s good old fashioned manly musk,’ I proclaimed most stridently.

‘Bumbaclot,’ he opined, ‘it killin’ off me brain cells faster than the poppers - you get me? Anyway, me’s not into cheese – me got lactose intolerance.’

It was at this point that the ruffian proceeded to give me a ‘backhander’. (I imagine he mistook me for Lord Truscott.) Judging by those calloused hands on my privates it was obvious to me he was of artisan class and angling to be taken up the tradesman’s entrance. Notwithstanding his uncouth demeanour, I gladly obliged him. Obviously, as soon as matters were concluded we hastily parted.

I might say it’s unfortunate of late that the Heath has attracted these surly types. Personally, I blame narcoleptic eighties pop-chart singers who, unable to bridle their libidinous urges, have dragged this garden of earthly delights into disrepute. (Wham, bam, thank you juggernaut if you ask me.)

WEDNESDAY

Luncheon with Amelia – the florist from church. Being middle class, I’m somewhat sniffy and moderately condescending toward her. I always insist we take tea since wine induces an unpleasant coquettishness about her which is most unbecoming. Evidently, she’s cocking a beady eye to procuring another husband. I, on the other hand, have never been acquainted with a woman of sufficient refinement or fridgidity to warrant such drastic measures as marriage.

She launched into her customary monologue about the decline of moral standards which, though meritorious, is a most distasteful subject matter. (But then she is inclined to peruse The Daily Muckraker.) I was obliged to steer conversation towards architecture. Naturally one must always comment on her ‘delightful bijou residence’. (I simply abhor semi-detached houses but one must endeavour to encourage the nouveau pauvre). It was only unfortunate that she opted to take gin and began weeping uncontrollably again over the demise of her first husband. Most embarrassing and unsightly! (Ah…I recall with great fondness how I was once nobbled by the very same Barbadian spouse during a full moon.)

An evening stroll led to a very agreeable liaison with a Nigerian pastor who I recalled from my days at the Pentecostal church in Tooting. Not a regular Heath-goer, true, but I soon had him licked into shape. It brought to mind Baudelaire: ‘Surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose, Salt with the memory of the bitter flood’. Ah…that troubadour could toss off a ditty for any occasion. Of course I drove home grinning like the cat that got the cream fondant.

THURSDAY

After rising at noon, I chanced upon a fascinating genealogical discovery. It appears a ninth cousin (twice removed) was a Marquis presiding over Château du Paon and its environs in Provence. It’s an impressive edifice and confirms my long-held suspicion of an aristocratic pedigree. It’s unfortunate that I never quite honed my command of French - though I remain fluent in both legalise and euphemism.

The lingering daylight hours are barely worth a mention and consisted of those usual routines for which I’m a stickler.

By nightfall, one experienced that certain restiveness in one’s loins. As a matter of fact, I’ve often wondered why gobbling hasn’t been introduced as a field event in the Olympic Games. The spectacle of world-class athletes trying to out-gobble each other would really be quite something to behold. Perhaps it might even be combined with the shot put?

It was a clement summer night on the Heath. (Activity tends to bottom out, as it were, during winter months.) A profusion of shadowy figures stalked murky byways. As I loped along a trail and picked through foliage, I noticed an interesting gentleman of ethnic persuasion with trousers at half-mast. I nimbly advanced towards him, whereupon I knelt and was, like a fine vintage port, soundly stoppered. After some further manoeuvring, however, it became apparent that he preferred conducting proceedings in an arse-about-face fashion. Following on, he stripped and angled his rump enticingly. (It was an open-ended offer that I could hardly refuse.) So I reversed a way then drove in there at full kilter. He promptly produced the most extraordinary startled squawk – rather like a guinea foul being buggered by a rhino.

Following the cut and thrust of it all, he requested help with the bus fare home. I was obliged to pull my customary befuddled expression one employs when asked for money. However, he was a persistent and garrulous sort - though I had no intention of being sucked in by it all. Quite fortuitously I managed to fob him off with an old ten bob note, insisting upon a shilling in change (which wasn’t forthcoming).

Feeling somewhat short-changed by the encounter, I was initially unaware of impending calamity. Presently, and much to my chagrin, I discovered my dentures were no longer about my person. A widespread grope around the undergrowth yielded nothing. In short, it was a bally disaster! It called to mind a similar ill-fated visit to the Heath some years ago when I mislayed an antique gentleman’s walking cane. I later discovered the said perambulatory aid being employed for the most unspeakable purposes.

My search was further hampered by a particularly insolent wretch loitering in a nearby grove. When I enquired of him if he’d stumbled across my itinerant mandibles he piped up (and I quote):

‘They’re probably still wrapped around someone’s cock dearie.’

‘It appears that somebody has forgotten their manners!’ I sneered. (I recoil from the repugnant sight of men with an effeminate affectation.)

‘Ooh, hark at her!’ he exclaimed. ‘Watch out girls, the gummy goblin’s on the prowl.’

Oh how it made my blood boil! One would have hoped such a sad loss would have garnered sympathy amongst fellow Heath-goers. ‘Do you know who I am?’ I bellowed, ‘I should have you bloody horsewhipped man!’

‘Promises, promises darling,’ he simpered impiously.

As you might expect, one drove home in a tumult of anguish and fury bemoaning my tragic denture misadventure. Doubtless, they were purloined by some damnable swine from the chattering classes. Needless to say, one is expecting a very generous cheque from the tooth fairy by way of compensation.

FRIDAY

I arose tardily and was obliged to postpone afternoon tea with the vicar. Conveying one’s apologies proved awkward given one’s inability to enunciate consonants. A telephone call to the emergency dentist proved equally troublesome. My spirits were further dampened by an enforced diet of soupe à l’oignon and slurping one’s tea through a straw. Adding to my woes was a particularly niggling itch below the water line necessitating another visit to the potting shed.

I opted to revive my flagging spirits with a dose of Baudelaire. It was not until dusk that I dared venture to the Heath. In the half-light I spent time attempting to retrace my steps and discover the whereabouts of my dentures.

It was while I was groping about the shrubbery that I found myself head to head with a Somali personage. (In all likelihood a pirate on vacation.). Doubtless, he gloated at the prospect of an Englishman being cajoled along his gangplank and taking the plunge. And although I took it on the chin (as it were) I’ll still vote BNP in the next election. Nonetheless, the fellow certainly had a taste of his own medicine after we came to blows, shots were fired and I emptied his vessel of seamen.

Events took an unexpected turn when he explained that his clothing had been stolen. (Why on earth would someone pilfer a buccaneer’s attire?) It certainly left one flummoxed! In some inexplicable clouding of judgement I offered to drive him home. After I’d finally managed to be understood he eagerly accepted. It transpired that he lived in Kentish Town - but a short detour. As we journeyed he explained that he preferred gentlemen of my vintage and wished to provide me with his telephone number. Of course I politely declined - although he insisted on leaving it in the glove compartment. We pulled up at his abode and he scurried to a doorway. A woman of similar years cradling a child answered the door and appeared most aggrieved. Naturally, I made a rapid departure.

6. ‘Le Dénouement’

My experience with the Somalian left me overwhelmed by a peculiar reverie. I contemplated my years on the Heath and wondered at the impossibility of spiriting away one of those gods…To take him home, regale him with sonnets…perchance slumber in some entanglement of limbs until the first blush of dawn. In truth I fear my icon might petrify should I steal him from Aphrodite’s dusky grace…become but an effigy of frozen beauty and unrequited longing. What Pygmalion beguilement is this…? I demand of myself. So I relinquish the balm of a caress, the nocturne of a whisper and the ambrosial musk of passion spent. Better that he remain a paragon of god-like beauty in half-forgotten myth.

Indeed, I have become resolute in the belief that solitude is best. What earthly use is companionship? Besides, sentiment is a cruel mistress: deliverer and despot. She is intoxicating as a rose yet barbed with the thorns of sacrifice and regret. Furthermore, need I remind you that I am not homosexual. Carnality of that nature is an abomination against God and man.

I digress.

Come a time I bid my fond farewells to this world, it is on my beloved Hampstead Heath that I shall be entombed. There may very well be ‘some foreign field that is forever England’…But the Heath, to me, epitomises all that is best in our green and pleasant land. It offers the Englishman outdoor recreation that is both stimulating and wholesome. (It is surely what the Great British stiff upper lip was made for?) So until that fateful day, one must continue in one’s gobbling endeavours with a sense of duty. Moreover, I, Cornelius Queensbury-Gross QC, foresee a mention on the New Year’s Honours List for so tirelessly striving to improve race relations.

I would like to take this opportunity to wish all you discerning chaps seasons cheer and, as I would vocalise it, a ‘feffy mwerry Kwiffmuff and a fwappy Yew Fwear.’

© Edwin Black

The Journal of Queenie-Gross (Part I)

Greetings and welcome from the salacious submariner of subversion. I would like to submit something different for your amusement in this next short comedy skit.

One of the challenges for any writer is to channel a narrative voice through a protagonist who represents the antithesis of the self. I decided to try this out in the form of a journal. It was an enjoyable exercise and a relief after the arduous efforts with the recent trilogy.

As you can likely tell, I’m still honing my skill as a writer. I juggle bouts of creativity with part-time dipsomania and full-time work. Consequently, the postings aren’t as frequent as I might wish. However, I would like to point out that you can follow the blog (click the link), or subscribe by email (scroll right down) to be alerted to any new stuff. Or you might wish to check out older postings should the whimsy take you.

Meanwhile…

I should mention that the following character, ‘Queenie-Gross’, is another ghastly chimera from Edwin’s customary house of horrors. Queenie holds some pretty unsavoury opinions that I certainly don’t share. I devised him to parody old-guard arch-conservatives who remain oblivious to concepts of pomposity, sanctimony and absurdity. It’ll be in two parts. Enjoy…

EB x

The Journal of Queenie-Gross (Part I)

NARRATOR: CORNELIUS (NEIL) QUEENSBURY-GROSS QC, CBE.

Retired barrister, inclining pillar of the community and indefatigable gobbler - aged 75.

1. ‘Préambule’

Upon the advent of my seventy-fifth birthday, I, Cornelius Queensbury-Gross QC, feel it judicious to scribe my thoughts for the perusal and erudition of future gentlemen of refinement. It is to that end that I wish to impart a modicum of sagacity in matters of certain outdoor pursuits.

On the face of it, you might regard me as a pretty traditional Englishman; I reside in a traditional house with suitably staid décor and pursue traditional forms of recreation. In time-honoured tradition, I partake of afternoon tea (with cup and saucer), nibble gingerly at tarte au citron and smoke a pipe. And though the posing braggard is presently considered à la mode, my sartorial dowdiness reflects that understated conservatism borne of classical aestheticism and charity boutiques. In short, I’m ‘old school’.

I cultivate a variety of interests that one might expect of a fellow with my education and social class. Since retirement, I’ve fostered a keen interest in philately, genealogy and I’m a keen antiquarian. My eclectic reading interests vary from Mrs Beeton to Baudelaire - tastes which could hardly be described as conservative. I also enjoy a spot of light intercourse. (Perhaps I might point out that inconsequential conversation is considered the epitome of good etiquette to an Englishman of sound pedigree. Acceptable topics include the: the weather, horticulture, the New Year’s Honours List and so on and so forth. Excessive gravitas conveys that lack of deportment more favoured amongst those hysterical types from continental Europe.)

I am a keen churchgoer and organist. One’s staunchly Presbyterian forebears regarded public displays of piety to be the bulwark of civic decency and personal morality. I have held steadfastly to those upright principals in aspects of both public and clandestine engagement. Furthermore, I firmly subscribe to the supreme laws of our omnipotent God (expediency dictates that the barrister must hold to the principle of salvation).

I confess that I have no compunction about being ‘sniffy’ towards those whom I regard as not being quite from the ‘top drawer’. I can adroitly affect a nuance of condescension towards those hailing from the petty bourgeois classes and, by-the-by, muster mild distain whilst dealing with lowly tradespersons. Naturally, I reserve the full might of my supercilious sneer for those preening liberal popinjays of the nouveau riche with ideas above their station. In fact, it’s the blithe impertinence of these latter social upstarts that so rankles. Obviously, they’ve yet to realise that snootiness coupled with the feudal system served to forge our great nation. Indeed, finely incremented levels of sneer were the very bedrock upon which an Empire was founded.

I digress; though my bugbear concerning the decay of social and moral order is by no means one’s only frustration that demands satisfaction. Throughout my illustrious career, I’ve led something of a parallel existence. By day I’m known to my peers as ‘Neil’ - upstanding member of the community…but by night, I kneel to assorted upstanding members of the community. To wit: I’m a greedy gobbler who loves getting nobbled…

2. ‘Les Préparatifs’

Peers occasionally enquire why I’m seldom in residence of an evening. My rather oblique reply is that I’m attending to a ‘gentleman’s excuse-me’. Should they pry further, I steer conversation towards the vagaries of the British weather and so on and so forth. If really pressed on the point, I might disclose that my constitution requires me to take a stroll on Hampstead Heath in order to contemplate Baudelaire and the right-wing political theories of Rodger Scrotum. This serves to allay concerns and isn’t (strictly speaking) fallacious.

My evening forays onto the Heath require scrupulous preparation if I’m to entice my favoured quarry. As you may well be aware, gentlemen of my superior years sometimes experience difficulties in achieving a ‘standing ovation’. But fear not – the pharmaceutical industry has devised the most marvellous pills that ensure prolonged turgidity as and when one is called upon to rise to the occasion. Another essential is quick-release pantaloons (or ‘track-suit bottoms’?) to assist in the rapid deployment of one’s weaponry. Sturdy brogues, too, will help prevent one slipping headlong into the mire during coupling manoeuvres. Gardener’s knee pads are next on the inventory for obvious reasons. Lastly, the baseball (or ‘George Bush Jnr.’) cap is essential apparel. It not only serves to conceal one’s identity but it also provides the casual the observer with the impression of a substandard IQ. This is a tremendous advantage should one bump into the Lord Chief Justice (again) since it averts those awkward situations of having to discuss the New Year’s Honours List and so on and so forth.

My next stipulation concerns the delicate matter of personal cleanliness. I must say, I’ve never been overly enamoured with that new-fangled craze of fastidious ablution. However, I do make a point of flannelling my testicles prior to an evening’s sortie. That said, I consider a quick spruce under the carapace to be optional since, in my experience, human physiology lends itself to a degree of fermentation just as the brain requires time to ruminate. I might even go so far as to extend the metaphor to allowing a vintage wine to breathe or Camembert time to air itself in order to achieve full potency. In short, I permit my nooks and crannies a good deal of regional autonomy. (I remain convinced that Rodger Scrotum would heartily approve!)

3. ‘Mode Opératoire’

Before I furnish you with further details of my jaunts to the Heath, I wish to make one thing abundantly clear - I do not consider myself homosexual. Gentlemen of my refinement would never engage in such gross or despicable acts. I’m merely a public school educated fellow who, as one might expect, poured over Plato’s Symposium. Hence, I recognise the finer subtlety of éros and that virtuous, noble appreciation of beauty. Unnatural and unholy acts must, surely, remain the preserve of philistines; those limp-wristed, mincing, perfumed creatures sporting handbags and coiffured curls. Let me assure you that I do not mince my gait anymore than I mince my words. Nor do I entertain bestial lusts - I have no desire to stoop to such things.

Once suitably attired, I slip out to the Bentley and pootle up to a quiet lay-by situated near the theatre of operations. (You may have heard of it - traditionally, it’s where Honourable Members of Parliament mislay secret dossiers whilst indulging in a spot of ‘uphill gardening’.) En route, I invariably warm up the old pharynx with a little cantata: ‘If one goes down to the woods today one’s in for a big surprise…’ and so on and so forth.

A brief stroll downhill along a meandering footpath will, by-the-by, take a fellow to entrance of ‘Danglers’ Dell’. At this point, the route dips and the rambler can shoot off in multiple directions. Here, beneath a starry panacea and amongst shrubbery, loiter the furtive silhouettes of those eager to share in that incomparable solace of manly affection. What anodyne to the restive soul!

Having patronised the Heath and its denizens for decades, I’m familiar with the lay of the land, so to speak. Therefore, after a quick scout of my surroundings, I ensconce myself at a suitable vantage point. I consider myself pretty spritely and surefooted for my years so I’m capable of making a rapid beeline towards my favoured quarry.

At this juncture, I should explain that I am, what those Bolshevik liberals would call, ‘ethnocentric’. I discovered these exotic delights during National Service in the Colonies. On the face of it, sucking up to gentlemen of colour may appear incongruous given my vehement opposition to immigration. However thanks to this predilection I’ve often found myself coming across those very same irascible delinquents that I helped to convict during my years at the bar. So it’s extremely gratifying to offer a further duty of care towards their full rehabilitation back into the ranks of mainstream society. (I’m sure the poet John Dryden and his Noble Savage would approve).

Once the quarry is pinpointed, it’s sometimes necessary to circle nonchalantly before veering in and offering one’s expertise ‘pro boner’, as it were. If there’s a rival greedy gobbler already dining, etiquette dictates that one must play second fiddle to him. However, I posses a notable advantage over my competitors: I’m the proud owner of an upper and lower mandibar arch (or false teeth to the layman). This provides great advantage in both the accommodation of girth and the attainment of suction. They can be removed prior to the gobble under the guise of a hacking cough into the handkerchief, to wit: ‘Baar-hum! Baaaaar-hum-hum-hum!’ Thus, with the teeth deposited and stowed in one’s pantaloons, proceedings can commence in earnest.

Initially, I actually bemoaned the sad exodus of my last few teeth. However, having struggled with a dilapidated bridge over very troubled waters, I realised it was finally time to bite the bullet and opt for full prostheses. I suspect this chronic dental decay was brought on by high oral levels of foreign DNA (which is acidic) and humbugs. But at least one’s consumption of spermatozoa has saved money on high-protein food supplements over the years.

Once active engagement has run its course, a quick dab of one’s parts with a hanky remedies any excess dribbles.

4. ‘Le Peste’

Perhaps you imagine gobbling is confined merely to the plebeian classes? Not so! In fact in my experience, the Heath is so well frequented by educated types that it often resembles a cross between a turkey farm and alma mater. However, there are a number of drawbacks for the regular Heath-goer. For instance, a dose of ‘the clap’ may rear its ugly head.  I have no wish to labour the point about one’s own incessant itching around the undercarriage. (After all, even the finest ships in Her Majesty’s Navy have a few barnacles on their bottom). However I would like to impart a medical breakthrough that I chanced upon.

After a particularly distasteful session of poking and prodding at the hands of my sadistic (foreign) Harley Street practitioner, I opted for alternative medicine. So, I resolved to set about finding my own remedy for life’s irksome ailments or ‘streptococcus’ (stripped-to-cock-us?) in the potting shed. Over the years, I’ve experimented with a variety of astringent cleaning products to alleviate rashes and discharge. However, my breakthrough eventually came after dangling my penis in a bucket of creosote* which proved most efficacious. It also had the added advantage of giving one’s external plumbing the impression of a gentle autumnal glow. (Baudelaire would have been most approving.)

* * * *

In part two, the remarkably well-preserved Queenie-Gross will publish further details of his cavorting on the Heath...

* Please do not try this at home dear reader.

© Edwin Black

Prison Drama…

Greetings - and apologies for a belated reappearance. Oh, the bane of writers block! Liber Gomorrhianus Lima (Act II) remains half-written since one of my characters, a vicious sadist, has had me rather hogtied (creatively speaking).

In the meantime, I would like to offer you a chapter from a novel that I’m working on, Touching Base. It finds the central character, Winston Grub in a dire predicament.

I confess to being fascinated by prison and have often considered petty crime to facilitate an insider’s view of one of these most marvellous institutions. Jean Genet, after all, composed many of his finest works behind bars (when he wasn’t jerking off, that is). Truly, he blossomed as narrator and poet in the ‘luxury’ of isolation; languishing as he did with his fellow outcasts and pariahs.

I digress. I hope that you find the following tract amusing.

EB

* * *

Touching Base - Chapter 7

Winston gazed at his cell wall confused, perplexed and deconstructed. The world had chewed him up and spat him out.

Winston’s cellmate was known as ‘Masher’. He was a convicted rapist with a sadistic predilection for mauling women. The chances of him being reformed by the penal system seemed, at best, pretty remote. Winston managed a simple form of communication with him by means of monosyllables, grunts and gesticulation. Since he’d frequented many of Rheadon’s bars, it was a language that was more than familiar to him. During the night he had the dubious honour of being kept awake with Masher’s incessant masturbation on the bunk above. It was usually so vigorous that it caused poor Winston’s head to knock against the bedrail. In the latter stages of Masher’s crescendo, the whole bunk would lurch towards the opposite wall. The sole object of Masher’s passion appeared to be a soiled newspaper clipping of one of his victims.

Masher’s other defining quality was his chronic flatulence. His exchanges with Winston were invariably punctuated by trumps and hisses that rendered normal conversation quite impossible. The stench emitted brought a burning sensation to the eyes and frequently left Winston gasping for breath. However, he thought it best not to mention this delicate problem to the muscle-bound pugilist since Masher was not someone who took kindly to criticism.

As Winston faced the bleak prospect of two years of incarceration, he pondered Oscar Wilde’s imprisonment and how he’d survived his ordeal. The answer became apparent. Hadn’t writing set him free? Winston decided that he would emulate his literary hero and compose some poetry. Yes, that was it, he’d write The Ballad of Blackhurst Gaol. That night, he grabbed a few sheets of toilet tissue and a copy of the Bourgeois Herald to rest it on. With his trusty pencil in hand, he proceeded to pen his very own classic:

Prison life is quite a gas, in much more ways than one,

Thieves and brigands, pimps and killers fill the institution.

Though walls are high and bars are thick, the screws attempt to train us,

And bandits plot their fellow’s escape then slip one up the ladder.

‘I’m not exactly sure about the last line,’ Winston grumbled moodily. Just then, Masher began his nightly ritual and Winston found himself at the epicentre of a localised tremor. There were grunts above as the bed began to wobble and creak during the course of its inexorable migration to the other side of the cell.

‘I’ll never get this finished,’ Winston said despondently as he heard a rasping fart explode overhead. A particularly damp squib followed hot on its heels.

Shortly after a guttural growl, Masher’s sweating face came into view. He extended a clammy hand and promptly grabbed Winston’s literary endeavours. ‘Cheers mate! I just spilt something.’ He cackled hoarsely.

‘That’s okay,’ Winston mumbled, ‘It was only a first draft anyway. I’m glad somebody’s creative juices are coming thick and fast.’

Prison life was all about routine. Oh, how repetition could so easily deaden a man’s wits! Winston decided to occupy himself some of the time with a graphic design course. He had already attended a creative writing class but the tutor expelled him for composing ‘obscenities’. Feeling hard done by, Winston had finally plucked up the courage to speak his mind. It had to be said, however, that any pleasure derived from calling the tutor a philistine, was somewhat undermined by the loss of all privileges for a whole week. A week is a long time in prison life. Even so, he muddled through and tried to get along with the eclectic mix of characters.

Winston often pondered disturbing paradoxes within the prison community. Not content with being judged by society, the inmates seemed intent upon judging eachother. Without exception, they felt compelled to define the relative wickedness of their fellow inmates’ various felonies. It was like some bizarre horse-trading ritual.

Comparing the relative immorality of a crime seemed, to Winston at any rate, a manifestly subjective exercise. Moreover, it struck him as an idle indulgence in hypocrisy. Nor was his particular crime against humanity (or at least the animal kingdom) easily categorised within this pecking order of villainy. Eventually, consensus placed him above habitual gross indecency but below serial rape. He was also instructed to respond to the name of ‘birdman’ and perform the Birdie Song when told to do so by convicted rapists and murderers. (Oh, the indignity, that his love for Angelo [an obliging ostrich] should occupy such a monstrous and base perception!) It was precious little more than an exercise in absurdity, of course, but then Winston was no stranger to the absurd.

Despite the fact that prison did not prove to be the great leveller that Winston had expected, he bided his time. He tried to unravel the machinations of fate and understand how he had found himself in such a place. He attempted to keep his spirits high and his mind free, especially while performing the Birdie Song. Sometimes, he would read his poems to other inmates. This caused much hilarity. True, this was hardly the reaction an aspiring bard might have wished for but it served, in part, to lift the spirits. Besides, who can deny there are advantages in having a captive audience? Whatever, it helped restore, in part at least, his natural humanity, flagging as it was within those imposing grey walls.

By now, Winston had been obliged to fend off certain dishonourable intentions proposed by several other inmates. It dawned on him that the term ‘doing a stretch’ might be less of a euphemism than an anatomical reality. In order to avoid creating a precedent in the showers, he’d purchased a soup-on-a-rope. However, prevention is rarely perfect and, despite his avant-garde airs, Winston was not unappealing to the sex-starved prison population. Moreover, word got around that he was a little ‘ephemeral.’ Consequently, the less savoury elements began to regard him with avarice.

After his experiences at the hands of Genéral Delaguerra, poor Winston realised that he was likely being sized up for a fitting. It was an unnerving notion, one that unseated him from the complacency of maverick prison poet. He was therefore relieved to discover a friendly face in this tumult of uncertainty. It happened one morning when he stumbled from his cell, gasping for oxygen as usual.

‘Awite babes?’ a catcall purred along the balcony.

‘God, am I that obvious?’ Winston replied listlessly.

‘You’re sweet bruv. ‘Low it. Relax yeah?’

Winston looked towards his would-be suitor. Before him was a tall, wiry black guy with glittering tigerstone eyes alive with mischief. He wore a broad confident smile and had a gaunt, pockmarked, forty-something face. Dextrous hands rolled a cigarette as he leant casually against the railing. His relaxed demeanour suggested he was no stranger to institutions. The overall effect was disarming, even quite beguiling.

‘What’s yer name bruv?’ The man smiled.

‘Erm, Winston.’

‘First time?’ The guy inquired.

Winston was uncertain whether he was referring to his stay in prison or whether he meant being importuned. Maybe the question was intended to be ambiguous? ‘Yes.’ Winston smiled back, imagining that it was the right reply.

‘Cool bruv. The name’s Jerome.’ He said gazing over intently.

‘Nice to meet you Jerome.’ From behind him, there was a fart like a thunderclap that reverberated around the ironclad heart of the prison.

‘Oh mate, you sharing with that?’ Jerome said, gesturing towards Winston’s cell.

‘Yes, its reeking havoc with my sinuses but I’ve been in worse places.’ Winston said pensively. ‘Life really stinks sometimes.’

‘Life really sucks sometimes ‘n’ all.’ Jerome smirked, adjusting his crotch suggestively.

‘Hmm, I see,’ Winston floundered, ‘well, erm, it was lovely to chat, but I’m attending a class in half an hour and I…’

‘I get you bruv,’ Jerome interjected. ‘I’ll see you around though, yeah? Take care, man. Good to meet yer.’

‘Likewise,’ said Winston, nervously flashing a smile.

Jerome drew closer. ‘Listen, you ought to do something about that cellmate of yours. I heard somewhere there’s laws about air pollution. You should check it out yeah?’

‘I will. Thanks Jerome.’ Winston made his excuses and left Jerome to his cigarette.

* * *

Time dragged ever onward for Winston. His daily regime of scrubbing porcelain, designing prison leaflets and strolling around the tall concrete enclosure of the courtyard continued. Sometimes, he would stop and chat to Jerome. The latter seemed very much at ease with his often haphazard musings. It became obvious that Jerome had developed quite a fondness for him. Sometimes he would even give Winston cigarettes or offer advice about coping with captivity.

Winston had begun to investigate European laws on air quality. One day, in the prison library, he unearthed an obscure ruling intended for agricultural labourers. It stated that, should methane release exceed a certain level, a clause could be invoked that forced organisations to fit ventilation systems or supply breathing apparatus. He wasted no time in writing to the European Court of Human Rights seeking their advice about his noxious dilemma, copying the letter to various other human rights organisations for good measure.

In the course of his epistolary pursuits, Winston also wrote to Detective Inspector Walton, care of Rheadon Police Station. As well as continuing with his assertion that he thought Walton was gay, he suggested several organisations that might help him come to terms with his sexuality. Winston considered this something of a magnanimous gesture, given that the man had been instrumental in his loss of liberty. Reiterating his sense of injustice at being imprisoned, he asked Walton him how his conscience allowed him to sleep at night. Who knows? By appealing to Walton’s better nature, they might yet share a laugh about events over a Superpilsner one day.

Jerome had seemed pleased that Winston followed his advice and was inclined to put an encouraging arm around him. Despite his rough edges, Winston considered Jerome to be a kleptomaniac prince among thieves. Jerome, in turn, enjoyed Winston’s docile, unassuming nature. He felt he had nothing to prove with Winston and could lower his guard. It was not long before they would eat together and banter endlessly about their mutual conquests. Jerome appeared a little concerned by Winston’s relationship with an ostrich-like creature but admitted he would probably have ‘slipped one in there’ if he were sufficiently stoned. Jerome’s female conquests would have read like a guest list at royal banquet. Winston was amazed that he had found the time to shoplift and smoke crack cocaine, given his obvious way with the ladies. Jerome often spoke wistfully of his miscreant days spent womanising and getting high.

Jerome also defended Winston from the harsher elements of the institution. When someone called Winston ‘birdman’ he had launched into the guy with fists flying. Winston didn’t really sanction violence but felt strangely moved by the gesture all the same. Jerome also appeared to have useful connections within the prison and other inmates began to leave him alone. Inevitably, Winton’s feelings towards his friend grew in scope and magnitude. It seemed that, even within the austere stone walls and cobbled courtyards, there were cracks and crannies where life and beauty took root and strived for sunlight.

* * *

Winston was awoken one morning by something of a commotion. He was unaccustomed to this since he was normally roused by the rather bracing alarm clock above him (or ‘smellarm’ clock, as he referred to it). Suddenly, he found himself surrounded by what appeared to be astronauts in white suits and breathing apparatus. All six crowded into the cell. It took four of them to roll Masher over and pin him to the bed.

‘What the ‘ells going on? Ere, get yer filthy ’ands off me!’ Masher yelled.

A fifth member of the group applied a muzzle to Masher’s face then proceeded to pull down his soiled underpants. The sixth member of the team came forward armed with an electronic box with a tube protruding from it that he shoved unceremoniously between Masher’s buttocks. This was accompanied by muffled squeals and a stifled fart from their captive. Winston watched dumbfounded as buttons were pressed on the device and readings were fastidiously noted down on a clipboard. A smaller hand held a funnel device, which was then held up to the window and the dimensions of the cell were measured. Winston noticed that their identity tags read ‘Environmental Emissions Testing’. Within a matter of minutes, they nodded to each other and somewhat hastily evacuated the cell.

Winston decided it was best to leave Masher while he ranted in the cell but was promptly greeted by the Governor and a host of guards.

‘Grub!’ the Governor bellowed, ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain why I’ve just been served a writ for human rights violations?’

Winston noticed that the entire level of inmates were staring at him and began to feel more than a trifle self-conscious. ‘Erm, can I talk to you in your office, sir? I can explain everything but it’s a little delicate…’ He glanced apprehensively at Masher who’d begun to eye him with suspicion.

Winston was frogmarched to the Governor’s office and the guards were promptly dismissed.

‘I knew you were a troublemaker as soon as I laid eyes on you!’ Governor Frank Tollman growled menacingly from behind his desk. His patience had already been tested to its limit by three remand prisoners being ‘mislaid’ due to a wildly incompetent electronic tagging contractor. Furthermore, the debacle had been filmed by an undercover reporter. Now he would have to explain yet another fiasco to his director.

‘Oh…erm. It was just a couple of letters, that’s all,’ Winston squeaked.

‘Siddown Grub! Just a couple of letters eh? Listen you little toe rag, I’ve just been handed a five figure fine from the Environmental Health Department and now they tell me they plan to carry out further spot checks. I’ve also got Amnesty International chewing on my arse and threatening to declare my prison a torture zone! That’s not to mention my own director telling me I should consider a change of career and prison reform groups calling upon trade unions to have us blacklisted! To cap it all, the Home Secretary is visiting next week as part of her ongoing review!’

Not for the first time, Winston wondered if he might exist in purgatory. At any moment, an irate Lucifer would make a theatrical entrance and prod him with his trident like an overcooked vegetarian sausage on a barbeque.

The Governor snatched up a piece of paper and thrust it under Winston’s nose. ‘Furthermore I’ve been issued with the results from the emission tests. They’re claiming that the toxicity levels of your cell exceed Health and Safety Laws by two hundred and thirty five percent. I’ve been told that if I don’t fit a powerful extractor fan immediately, I’ll be fucking closed down!’ Tollman snarled.

‘Oops,’ Winston mumbled shrinking even lower into his chair.

‘Listen, you little prick, I am ordering you to retract your statement in full to the ECHR. I’ve also drafted a press release that you will sign right now or, so help me God, I won’t be answerable for the consequences…’ Tollman bawled.

In his panic, the muse struck Winston like the poke of an electric cattle prod. ‘I’ll do all that you ask of me. I’ll tell the world what a reforming environment this prison is and retract all my other complaints. I’ll even give you my word as a gentleman not to write any more letters. But I need one thing in return. I want to be transferred to Jerome Baptiste’s cell. That’s all I ask.’

Tollman eyed Winston speculatively. ‘Why him? He’s that useless druggie isn’t he, the one who’s been banged up more times than a cucumber in a nunnery?’

‘Yes, that’s him. But he’s a good guy,’ Winston said indignantly.

‘Okay, I’ll authorise your bloody transfer. But if I get anymore shit from you, Grub, I’ll have you transferred to ‘C’ wing. We’ll see how long you last there.’ Tollman growled menacingly.

As Winston was dismissed from the Governor’s office, he felt elated. To be with Jerome was more than he could have dared hope for.

* * *

It was their first night together. Winston lay on his bunk staring at a space where he imagined the stars might exist. Already, he’d begun to plan a future with Jerome. Aspirations soared into the air, nebulous as the sentiments that gave them wings. He tried to articulate the yearning that dwelt within him but was pre-empted by Jerome.

‘You gonna get yer lips around this or what?’ He called up to his dreaming cellmate. In the murky half-light Winston looked down into the lower bunk and noticed Jerome toying with himself. His breath caught as he marvelled at the dark, lithe body that greeted his eyes.

‘How did you guess I was familiar with the penal system?’ Winston joked.

‘Whatever babes. Just give me some sugar, yeah?’ Jerome intoned gruffly.

Without another word, Winston clambered to the floor and indulged his lusty friend. However, after relieving Jerome of his frustrations, he wasn’t offered any assistance with his own outstanding dilemma. That didn’t seem to matter to Winston as he was offered the sanctuary of Jerome’s embrace. His universe finally became complete and it seemed that nothing could intrude upon the sacrament of their union. He sensed a blazing firmament of stars stirring his poetic soul. He had always found sonnets a little difficult, so instead he tried to compose a limerick in his head:

There was a young fellow in prison,

whose life was in some kind of schism

‘Till he met a nice scamp who liked a good champ

Then drenched his friend’s lips with his kisses.

‘Always the last line. Why is it always the last line that’s the tricky part?’ Winston asked of himself. Jerome didn’t really kiss much either, but he thought he’d afford himself some artistic licence. Feeling cosseted, he drifted off into the hallowed realms of sleep.

Some evenings, encircled in the arms of his paramour, Winston’s mind’s eye would drift the gauze veils of sunset. Walls and bars became as insubstantial as mists and eddies swirled about the breath of lovers. The sweet rapture of togetherness wove enchantments through the oceanic majesty of night. Months passed, but Winston had stopped counting the transitions of day into night. It seemed strange that time spent under the punitive regimes of prison restored a form of contentment. Maybe the lack of change was, in itself, comforting in a world constantly attempting to reinvent itself. Winston’s brave new hopes soared, unencumbered, into the great blue yonder.

Ah, but fate had other ideas...

One morning, Winston was trying to make sense of the Daily Muckraker in his cell when he heard a coarse shout. ‘Oi Grub. The governor wants to see you. Yer parole’s come though.’

‘What?’ Winston said distractedly as he glanced over the semi-coherent rants and images of silicon-enhanced starlets. A warder appeared at his door.

‘Listen Grub, You’ll address me as sir. Is that clear?’ The young guard growled at him.

‘Sorry sir, I was distracted. I didn’t hear you properly.’ Winston confessed nervously.

‘We’re chucking you out, birdman. The parole board reckon you’ve done enough. It’s high time you clucked off.’ The guard sniggered humourlessly.

As Winston was lead into Tollman’s office, his stomach performed a succession of somersaults. The ensuing conversation was a one-sided, perfunctory affair punctuated by telephone calls about staffing problems. Winston was informed he would shortly regain his liberty and return to mainstream society. Indeed, he had but a day to prepare. The Governor, grateful for Winston’s restraint from letter writing, had pulled a few strings with a golfing partner who worked in Human Resources for a marketing corporation. His associate had secured a job for Winston (without too many questions asked) in a place called Grot-on-Knuckle. Winston shook Tollman’s hand with genuine gratitude.

‘Well Grub, can’t say I’ll miss you much, but I wish you well. You’re not a bad sort so long as you’re not stirring up trouble. I hope you feel rehabilitated by your time here?’ The governor enquired (with about as much enthusiasm as a politically correct automaton) upon releasing a crushing grip on Winston’s hand.

‘Oh yes, I do sir.’ Winston winced. ‘It’s been…illuminating.’

‘Glad to hear it. Just keep you’re head down while you’re on the job.’

‘Yes sir, I’ll do that. In fact my cell mate often tells me much the same thing.’ Winston said, trying to suppress a smirk.

‘Yes, well. I’m not sure Baptiste is a good influence. Quite honestly, I don’t know what you see in him. I suggest you steer well clear of him once you get out. The guy’s nothing but trouble. I can promise you that.’ Tollman warned sternly.

‘Okay.’ Winston mumbled. But, he knew the impossibility of turning his back on a dawning truth, a truth that now blazed like a supernova and flooded his lonely planet with sunshine. Jerome was everything to him. It was as if he’d never truly lived before they’d met. Even the pain over Angelo seemed somehow distant. How could he abandon that? As he gazed abstractedly at a waxing sun, he realised there was a quiet, indelible truth emblazoned across his heart like a badly daubed tag-line.

That evening, Winston returned to his cell lost in deliberation. Jerome said nothing as he scrambled up to the top bunk. Still, Winston felt tentatively confident that his lover would consent to sharing a new life together once they were both free. Eventually, the cell was locked and the lights dimmed. Winston slipped furtively from his bed and sat by Jerome who appeared strangely distant. ‘You okay?’ Winston smiled, brushing a hand tenderly over his Jerome’s soft, fleecy hair.

Jerome made no response. He began to flick distractedly through an old newspaper.

Winston swallowed nervously, ‘Jerome I…’

‘What?’ Jerome cut in with a sidelong glance.

‘I wanted to explain something. It’s knowing where to begin that’s…’ Winston’s words trailed off.

‘Begin? Begin what? It’s simple isn’t it? You’re leaving. End of.’

‘But…’

‘Nah, it’s cool bruv. You don’t need to explain anything.’ Jerome sniffed with an air of casual indifference.

Winston fought back a growing unease. ‘Jerome, listen, please. Let me finish. What I’m trying to say is, things don’t have to change. When we’re both out of here, that is.’

Jerome eyed him with irritation ‘I’m not getting you. What’s that s’posed to mean?’ he said in a fractious tone.

Winston was a shade taken aback. ‘What I mean is…’ he gulped nervously, ‘I’ve become quite…I mean…really fond of you. In fact, you’ve become…erm…indispensable and…’ But the words just seemed to catch in his throat, fluttering there helplessly like caged doves. Jerome returned his attentions to the newspaper, pretending to scrutinise an article about colonic irrigation.

‘Jerome, you know I…couldn’t imagine losing you…’ Winston faltered, ‘I mean, when you get parole we could…you know?’

Jerome threw the newspaper petulantly to the far side of the cell, staring with contempt at the barred window.

‘What’s wrong?’ Winston said placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Jerome shrugged it off. ‘It’s you. You’re wrong. You’re so totally wrong, get me? You really think we’re still gonna be rolling together on the outside? Shit. You don’t get it do you?’ he said in a cold mocking tone.

‘Get what? What do you mean?’ Winston implored. His mind began to reel. Dread and hope spiralled into a dizzying pall of confusion. ‘We’re happy…aren’t we? And you’ll be out of here next year. Then, who knows, we could have a future together…couldn’t we?’ Winston faltered as he tried to fathom the mysteries of his lover’s intent. Suddenly, the air seemed more stifling; the dusky half-light acquired menace as doubt cast its lengthening shadow. ‘What are you saying to me, Jerome?’ He whispered, half-choked.

Jerome glared at him. ‘Listen yeah, it just ain’t happening. I’m sorry bruv but I can’t be with you on the outside. Never, you get me? Anyway I ain’t into that crazy shit. I thought you knew all that bruv?’

Winston began to cry. A dream was haemorrhaging, bleeding from downcast eyes.

‘Rarse!’ Jerome exclaimed, looking exasperated.

‘Crazy shit?’ Winston wailed, ‘How can you even say that? After…after everything…?’

Jerome extended an arm and tried to gather Winston to his chest. However, Winston recoiled. He got up, stumbled. After almost collapsing over the hand basin, he gazed searchingly into the mirror, hating what he saw. It was an ugly, stupid, tear-streaked face; the face of an idiot, a fool, a clown. Desolation swept over him like Arctic winds. He glanced pitifully at Jerome through blurring sight. ‘I thought you cared about me?’ he wept bitterly, ‘I thought…?’

Some minutes passed as Winston sobbed uncontrollably. Jerome gazed down at the floor with a remote sadness in his eyes.

‘Christ, Jerome, if there was ever one human being in the world I could have…’ What was the word he sought…‘loved’? He lifted his gaze to the vile, contorted face reflected at him. He slapped himself, then again, sending his glasses skittering across the floor. ‘Jesus! I’m such an idiot…why? Why do I always end up in this same tired old tragedy?’ His shoulders slumped. He felt faint, nauseous. He sank to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Jerome stared at Winston worriedly. ‘You okay, blood?’

Reeling with a dizzying confusion, Winston turned on him. ‘No I’m not okay!’ he yelled.

‘Low it man, yeah? You’ll bring the feds in here for fuck’s sake.’

Winston looked up, eying him resentfully. ‘Yeah? Well, I don’t give a damn okay? Fuck you Jerome! You’re full of it. I hate you…’ But for all his rage, the aching inside was greater. ‘Just don’t talk to me okay? Don’t say another word…don’t…’ his protests trailed off to a whimper. He buried his head in his hands attempting to shut out a dull, sickly sensation that threatened to engulf him.

Jerome got up and went over to him, ignoring, as was his habit, a hurt that remained trapped behind the impregnable fortress a life on the streets had provided. His arms encircled the shaking, sobbing form that now lay sprawled in the gloom. But a steely resolve hardened in his eyes. As he knelt on the chill floor, Winston’s weight seemed to slump against him like a lifeless manikin. ‘Listen bruv, I never promised you nothing. It’s not like I don’t care, though.’ Even so, the soothing tone belied an emphatic determination to put an end to things once and for all…or else…what, exactly? Face up to all the taunts, the ridicule…the utter disgrace? Or worse even? No way. And if he couldn't simply rip out his shameful desires, he’d bury them beneath the onerous weight of denial. ‘I never said we’d be together after all this, Win. I never lied to you neither…did I? Everything changes...it has to…that’s just the way it goes.’

‘Not everything,’ Winston whimpered, clutching at his chest, ‘needs to change. Some things run too deeply for that. We could have been happy…?’

‘But, you’re not hearing me, Win. You never listen. You imagine all this shit and it’s like…’ Jerome grasped for the right words, ‘it’s like you’re high or something, dreaming things up all the time. But that stuff ain’t real, bruv. Shit, I’ve got family on the outside. Mates too…and bitches yeah? I’m not like you, man. I ain’t no battyman. Get me?’

The brutal frankness of Jerome’s words cut Winston to the quick. The most unbearable sting in the tail was that Jerome was right. It was true he led a fictitious life. He was a lover of impossible idylls, a dreamer and poet (of sorts). Guided by these phantoms, he’d built his fairytale castles, without foundation or reason. Now it was his turn to retreat behind a wall of denial. He felt a renewed surge of tears, angry tears, tainted with betrayal and self-recrimination. ‘You’re just weak Jerome, that’s what you are, weak. But worst of all, you’re a coward!’ he blurted.

‘Whatever bruv,’ Jerome murmured.

‘And how can you criticise my fantasies when you can’t even face up to your own sham of a life? Winston hurled spitefully. ‘Oh yes, we have so much in common, you and I. It seems we’re both exiles from the truth. And no, you didn’t lie. You are a lie. One big, fucking lie! Oh, I wish I’d never met you.’ He wanted to say more but he was cut short by a glimpse of something he’d never witnessed before.

For one defining moment, Jerome’s mask slipped. Winston caught sight of an expression that was at once vulnerable, hurt and immeasurably sad.

Jerome flinched as the home truths tore at him. It was true that the endless procession of drugs, women and petty theft were simply a refuge. They veiled his shameful secret. But how could he ever expose that truth? Better, surely, to let it slowly gnaw away at his insides? For all the guilt, sin and regret that he’d imprisoned, there could be neither liberation nor healing. It wasn’t enough, the sweet, beautiful feeling that flourished yet tortured him as he held Winston close. It would never be enough. His heart sank as he felt his lover struggling free. ‘Win, it just has to be this way. I’m sorry okay? Alright, so I’m a cunt. Is that what you want to hear? But it’s my peeps, bruv. Shit. You know what they’d do to me? Bruv, they’d fucking shoot me if they knew about our shit! It’s the truth, blood…I swear.’

Winston finally broke free of Jerome’s hold and stood up unsteadily. ‘Well go back to your old life then!’ he said petulantly ‘Go and make the same mistakes. That’s your choice. See if I bloody care. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have the rest of my life to get back to.’ With that, he clambered back up to his bunk and drew himself up into a tight knot against the wall.

‘I could still see you sometimes, yeah?’ Jerome said softly ‘Like when I’m in your manor and that? Nobody needs to know our business. You don’t have to hate me, bruv.’

Winston gave a hollow laugh. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Jerome,’ he said cruelly, ‘you’re just as much a fake as I am. We both know that. How can I possibly hate something that isn’t even real? Maybe I’ll post you my address if I feel like it. It’s up to you what you do with it.’

‘Sure,’ Jerome mumbled dejectedly.

‘You can stick it up yer jacksy for all I care,’ Winston mumbled as an afterthought, cradling his head in his hands.

* * *

The following morning, Winston’s moment of freedom finally arrived. After a last desperate night of intractable silence, Jerome’s farewell was painfully curt. Winston too remained impassive, barely speaking. Perhaps there were no words to bridge the troubled waters of their separation. Clutching a small bundle of possessions, Winston chose not to linger at the prison gates or look back at his place of confinement with sentimentality. A chill breeze buffeted him as he trod anonymous streets, still feeling the oppressiveness of high walls.

© Edwin Black, 2011.