Authors: Matthew Formby
What was life if not an opportunity to live? Most people merely existed, that was all. They married someone they worked with or someone they went to school with. If they were raised in a snooty rich family, they socialised with wealthy and snobbish people. If they were the offspring of a poor family, they drank - beer, naturally - with other working class people. So many folk cheated and stabbed each other in the back as they scrabbled for the world's riches. They had it all worked out. Even in school a mental image was already built of the qualifications they would hold, the voluntary jobs they would list on their CV and the kind of scheme they would play - be it intimidation, flirtation or deceit - to manipulate their way up the hierarchy of the workplace.
They looked at the houses they dreamed of owning on websites. Mortgages were paid in monthly instalments in the dim hopes of achieving a security. Cars and kids followed. The best school was chosen. If others were to be trampled to get their kid their place, so be it. They wanted their kid to have the best job, the best school place, whether or not the talent was present. So it went. Most people would never know the taste of freedom. Most people would tow the line and be boring and consistent. Their brains and their bodies would rot slowly from their cancerous cowardice.
Governments, schools, hospitals and businesses are beset with a common problem. A group of people, often - though not always - old white men, take control of running things and do not take kindly to outsiders or different points of view. In universities and colleges, aged professors mock young students with alternative theories. Yet if the ancient, established orders were so wonderful, then why so often did someone like an old professor or member of parliament get ridiculed for saying something stupid? Even Einstein, a certain genius, was branded stupid for arguing with the eminent physicists of his time; and he had not even performed as well as an average student in his high school diploma.
This desire to preserve the status quo, what was already there reached new lows as governments attempted to censor the internet. It was a source of vibrant ideas from young minds, something the establishment did not want. Behind closed doors, sneaky laws were planned and dressed up as existing to protect people. It was a lie. Anyone with any discernment could see governments wanted to monitor everyone; yet proving it was no easy task when all politicians now employed public relations officers. All was twisted until the public was confused.
Luke was uncomfortable with the notion of censorship. He accepted there was horrible content on the internet. From his point of view, though, at the very least there would need to be a jury of independent citizens who were unaffiliated with the government to vote in approval of any individual censorship. Without such a safeguard, the powers that be would misuse it to politically censor campaigners they disagreed with. Power power has always been abused; which begged the question in Luke's mind: how could anyone give people in positions of power the benefit of the doubts? To accept whatever they said was to easily swallow lies. Twenty or thirty years later, the truth would be outed. And then people said, "Oh! If only we'd known."
Luke's ruminations came to an end and he noticed the shop assistant staring bemusedly at him. "Do you need any help?" she asked. Luke shook his head and walked out.
There was Jimmy! Behind a bus stop. His face beamed. "Eh, it's you! Blue eyes!"
Luke's jaw dropped and he smiled. Jimmy, looking squat, was dressed all in denim and had a bob hat on his head. He was soaked through and Luke noticed - it was raining.
"I haven't seen you in a long time. You couldn't buy us a sandwich could you?"
"Well, I don't know if I can afford that. But, here, have a pound."
"Thanks pal. Thanks. I'll see you later," replied Jimmy.
The rain poured relentlessly. Luke darted off. Then Jimmy turned back.
"Here, you couldn't do us a favour could ya?" he pleaded. "You couldn't let me stay at yours tonight? Just for one night, like? I can't be out in this. Not tonight - please!"
His dog, Trixie, a little sausage dog, wagged her tail.
"Well... I... yeah, OK then."
"Oh, thanks John. You're such a handsome lad." He had a habit of getting Luke's name wrong and Luke had never had the nerve to correct him.
Luke bought Jimmy a bus ticket and they returned to Furchurch. In the evening, they watched football and drank together; Jimmy had cans of John Smith ale while Luke had some organic wine. "Wine? You drink that stuff? Bloody hell! You don't want that stuff! That'll make you sick!" They watched the game in silence for some minutes.
"That accent you have. Where is it from?" asked Luke.
"Newcastle, of course," said Jimmy. "I grew up there but I've ended up here now. I used to have a great life. A wife. Linda, she was called. See, this tattoo on my neck- it says Linda. I was beaten my by father."
"When you were a kid?" enquired Luke.
"Yeah. He used to buckle me with his belt," and Jimmy demonstrated how he been punished. "Me mam, she was scared silent. We just had to live with it. I ended up on the streets, drinking. I never recovered. I had Linda for a while, but no, I'm fine these days. All I need's a beer or two, some cigs, some scrambled eggs. Eh? Ha ha!"
"Can't you get anywhere to live?" Luke asked, growing concerned. Jimmy was only small and he coughed too much for Luke's liking. He was not sure he was safe.
"No one'll 'ave me. They won't take Trixie. None of the councils allow dogs. You can't get a house with a dog."
"Couldn't you give her to someone? An animal centre?"
"No! No way! I love her. She's part of me." To confirm this fact Trixie jumped at his knees and licked his hand.
Luke had a sleepless night. Jimmy asked to sleep on the living room floor. He did not want any bedding when it was offered, regarding a carpet alone as a luxurious bed to lie on. It made Luke see how spoiled and gentrified he was really. He had been grateful for a mere carpet. Though he felt uneasy with Jimmy in the neighbouring room, Luke wanted to trust him. He was afraid, though. He wondered if he might get robbed or assaulted in hi sleep. People in poverty could be desperate. And so Luke did not get much sleep.
Luke would prefer not to live his life in fear - that was no life at all. Come morning, he asked Jimmy to stay a while and watch Lawson's Creek with him. As they watched an episode, Jimmy laughed gleefully and interjected with funny observations. A song by The Pretenders played and Jimmy's face electrified with awe. He sang along. Luke felt he had spent one of the best days of his life with someone. How curious for it to have been with someone he barely knew; someone he would have least expected such fortune from. Later, they caught the bus back to Woecaster together and Luke and Jimmy said goodbye at the Lilly Green.
XXXIV
How often Luke thought of phoning Jolly up! To speak of his love for her was the most natural inclination to him. When he barely had the strength to continue, she was a shutter against the storm of the outside world. He wanted to tell her how he felt but he was afraid. It was not accepted generally for professionals and their clients to form relationships. He counter-balanced this argument: plenty of cases were regularly reported in the news and not all of them tragic nor terrible. Life without variety would lack spice.
Time tore away at Luke. He felt the moment of his existence disappearing like in quicksand. Jolly's support was necessary to him. By her side, he could do anything. She was capable and pure. By admitting his love he might lose her. If that were to happen, he would be abandoned, lost. There was no solution visible to him so he poured his sorrow into his art.
Never having used Twitter except to post the odd witty remark, he began to advertise by means of photographs his paintings on it. Every few days he would paint a different celebrity: one day Wayne Rooney; another Sylvester Stallone; another R.L. Stine. He would tweet about the paintings to those he portrayed and wait excitedly for a response. He never got one. That was, until he painted the producer of a comedy TV series called Josh Frankson. The one who responded had the same name as him! Was synchronicity at work again?
Amazed at receiving a response, he began to exchange messages with the man. The producer asked for his portrait to be sent to his London apartment and Luke speedily posted it. The producer's agent, a few days subsequently, e-mailed Luke to write it was to be hanged on the Mr Frankson's wall. For a few days Luke puffed his chest out and walked tall. Wherever he walked, he wore a broad smile. It was not to last; no other interest was forthcoming. After a few months of creative output, the well ran dry. Jolly was all he had left. He could not distract himself anymore. Though it ruined him, he drank through the day, almost every day. He had to blot out thoughts of her. If he did not, he could not function. They were heading for a collision. It was out of his control.
He wandered the streets of Woecaster with a bottle of wine or an alcopop in his hand; but a few near misses where police patrol cars almost spotted him made him cautious. He began to crane his head back and forth, always on the look out. Getting fined or arrested was certainly not what he wanted. Though he managed it, it still concerned him that undercover officers might intercept him: but he reasoned they would be interested in frying bigger fish. Having lived in Woecaster for long enough, he was aware of plain clothes officers that loitered on the high street and who would descend in mass on any shoplifters trying to flee. He had seen officers dressed in their uniforms travelling in unmarked black cars too and had witnessed people being stopped and searched by these officers on occasions.
As if Jolly and his drunkenness were not enough to occupy Luke he was also worried about his health. He was developing headaches, feeling tired a lot and his muscles were weak. Three visits were made to his doctor about it but each time they only asked him about his diet, insinuating he was junk food addict; and then told him to make sure he was getting his five fruit and vegetables a day; and that meals conformed to the food pyramid's recommended ratio of protein to simple carbohydrate to complex carbohydrate. They evidently took his physical concerns with a pinch of salt as they would segue the conversation onto his mental health shortly, as though his problems existed only in his head. He would have to find his own solutions he concluded, which begged to him question what they earned their high salaries
for
.
Today he was more drunk than necessary, large to his loss of orientation and three young men spotting him saw a target for fun.
"Oi! You alright, pal?" shouted the first.
"Yeah, how you doin', man!" added the second.
"Give us a bit of your drink," put in the third.
Luke unconsciously recoiled from the three, guessing soon enough they had cruel intentions. Seeing fear in him they rejoiced and they picked up speed in approaching him. Not knowing how to handle this unlikely scene, Luke began to ran. "I've got to catch a train," he shouted back to them, hoping the lie would dissuade them. But they had their prey in their sights and ran after him, quickly gaining due to their athletic physiques. As he rushed, Luke weaved in between unconcerned commuters dawdling on their way home and at last, through a mistake allowed by the fast speed he was moving at, bumped into the shoulders of a ticket inspector. Continuing onward, to Luke's horror he heard the man tumble to the ground. Luke looked backwards and considered stopping: he should apologize and help the man; but the three were still after him and now playing innocent.
"Quick! Get him!" one cried. "He just knocked him over."
Now their chase for Luke appeared totally innocent and they would have an excuse to get heavy handed with him. Putting on an extra burst of speed, Luke pushed himself too hard and tripped over his own jeans. Falling to the floor, he chipped a tooth and inflicted upon himself a black eye. The three young men caught up and Luke felt one twist his arm behind his back fiercely. "Ow!" Luke cried in pain. He saw from the corners of his eyes the other two standing over him and he felt the one restraining him press his weight down. Luke decided to play dead; who knew what they would do if they thought he was resisting them? They seemed the kind who would be only too happy to get more violent - so long as it appeared Luke deserved it.
People around Luke were gathering and talking. "He pushed that man over," one said.
"Why was he running?" asked a woman.
"He's drunk," said the young man restraining him.
"Is he unconscious?" asked another voice.
"I don't know. He fell over his own trousers and hit himself on his head."
A few minutes later the police and paramedics arrived and he was lifted into the back of an ambulance. The paramedics asked Luke how he was and he opened his eyes.
"Ah! I knew he'd do that. See, he's fine."
"He was putting it on," said the other.
"He's all yours," said one of them to the police. Luke was roughly grabbed by a large male officer and turned around to be handcuffed. A lady officer accompanying him stared balefully. As the man put the cuff on he dug his nails into the palms of Luke's hand and shut it forcibly, leaving a cut in Luke's wrist. Then Luke was taken to a police station a mile from Woecaster's centre, in a crime-ridden area of high rise apartments called Hardock Precinct. The van in which he had been placed in a cage in its back now gained admittance through a gate into a large red brick building surrounded by high fences. It entered through a raised garage door that Luke saw lower and he was greeted with the sight of a concrete interior with large metal doors that lead to the station's facilities.
Luke was taken to the custody suite and read his rights at the desk. Gathering his information, the police then accompanied him to a cell that had a solitary gym mat on the floor and a toilet and washbasin. Two officers stripped Luke of his all his clothes bus his underpants, one saying to the other, "He could be a suicide risk. Best make sure." A light overhead beamed in the claustrophobic space and all of a sudden one of the officers slammed the door loudly shut. Luke heard the turn of a key and footsteps walking away. He wanted to ask questions. How long would he be held here? He had never been in this situation. He did not even know if he was being charged or with what. Hammering the door with his hands, he hoped to speak again.