Chasing The Unknown

It reads strange but I think we sort of all are to a certain extent. I certainly am chasing something I don’t know what it is, what it looks like or even smells like. One of my first thoughts about it concludes it must be like I’m in the pursuit of happiness. We all are. Are we? Of course happiness is the ultimate objective. It’s getting to the point to be happy and how we judge it. Money seems to bring a degree of happiness. I know if I had a lot of it I’d be happy. The main reasons being my financial future was secure, I would have the confidence to experiment with things knowing the end of the day I can pay for most things within reason and not worry about anything else. Also I could share this financial security with family and friends. That would make me happy. So I take it that is what happiness is, striving for loads of money as much as I can get. Yet, would I be happy to get money if I’d have to do a job I hate. For example, being chief programmer on C++. The thought of staring at Microsoft Notepad on the computer all day writing code that’s about as interesting as the number of socks I own (I have 23 pairs by the way). I couldn’t handle working like that for the prime hours of the day – of my life! Even for £1,000,000 per annum. So this must mean I’m looking for something that I can do with my day that will earn me copious amounts of money. Isn’t that the crux of this entry and probably the thoughts that have fluttered in and out of our minds at least once in the last 6 months? Speaking from my point of view and experience I don’t think I’m really doing anything stunningly interesting or earning a vast amount of money. It’s not boring or ill paid it’s just, it’s just that I think there’s something out there in life that’s better. I’m a believer that some where out there is something better, like some sort of sequence of enlightenments on my life that will open up ideas and ways of living this thing that’s called ‘life’. Like I wrote earlier, I haven’t got a clue what or where it is. This is when I get frustrated because I can’t sniff out the trail, not even get a whiff of the scent but it’s there. It’s almost like how Sam Beckett must have felt in Quantum leap, “…always hoping that his next leap, was the leap home.” Yet I don’t want to finally find it when I’m 58 years old, I want it now but I know realistically I could find it tomorrow or never find it at all so life in ‘present’ must be lived and therefore I’ll carry on doing my thing. I won’t though give up on my thoughts and perhaps more importantly turn these thoughts into actions and perhaps maybe carve my own way. Hmm, now that sounds a good idea. I think I’ll sleep on that though.


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Laying on his bed Yannish tries to sleep but can’t. Keith had gone, he gave his advice and thought it best to flee. It was unlike Yannish to act like this, even Yannish thought the same thing. Keith’s words had sobered him and decided to take advice but getting to sleep wasn’t easy. He wonders where the stranger is right now, is he counting his money thinking it was a job well done or was he thinking it should have been a more successful plundering. He wanted to know badly, and it was probably the anxiety to find out that was keeping him awake. That and the fact he considered him self split in two, one half crying out for help, not complex psychological evaluation but an ear that will listen to him spill it all out. Blurting bits out to Keith was a surprising start but he wanted to speak to Karen. She was always very considerate of his fears. Of course she would tease him about his fear for sharks, the likelihood of him encountering one in an urban built up area was as likely as Jeffrey Archer receiving a knighthood. It was with the more immediate less solid fears that she helped him with. When studying for his exams, he would read and work and read then work more. Time would disappear between them but she understood his intentions, even when Yannish didn’t. He would ask her why he was doing all this studying, all this reading. What for? He could be spending his time with a beautiful young woman instead of turning the pages of smudged library books. And for what? Yet she knew that his questions on the future were just his way of telling her how scared he is of it. The fact it is an area no one knows about, the tramp, the politician, even the aristocrat have no say on what is going to happen. She would a reassure him that no one knows the future but by studying, by contributing to bettering yourself you’ll increase your chances of making it prosperous. Yannish accepted this, he would look at her in utter amazement how someone so beautiful physically can only be overshadowed by the inner beauty and wisdom she possessed within. He couldn’t comprehend it and decided not to try to understand but kiss her instead.

The only thing stopping Yannish calling her now was that the other half of him, the brooding side was determined to investigate this robbery further. Any chance to find something about this cretin is something worth looking for. The fear of death still burns within him and he doesn’t know what to do. He picks up his phone and brings up Karen’s number again and pushes dial.

…

“Hello”

“Hi Karen, it’s me.”

“Yannish you alright?”

“I want to speak to you. Can I do that?”

“uh, yeah sure. Is everything all right.”

“Yeah, it is. I just need to talk to you. When can you be free?”

“I can be free at 12:30. Where do you want to meet?”

“Where we always do, used to, I mean See you then.”

He struggled not to start talking about it, he didn’t want to get her worried or hear what she had to say over the phone. He wasn’t going to sleep and to appease his ever growing feeling to find the stranger he decided to visit the garage again and see what Conrad and the others were up to. They might know something, then after he’d meet Karen at the park. He got up to take a shower.

The garage was unsurprisingly closed. Police tape had cornered off the vicinity and two police cars were parked on the forecourt. There were a few members of the public taking interest of what was going on, all behind the tape barrier. A policeman appeared from the bushes with a sniffer dog that had its nose all over the floor moving along from side to side. The people talking amongst themselves had decided that it was a fatal unsuccessful robbery and that the robber had fled in his car long ago. Yannish appeared amongst the crowd, he felt a lot better since a hot shower and a shave, he still hadn’t eaten but he was never a big eater. He listened intently to the people bouncing ideas off each other, then gradually building up their own hysteria and finally climaxing with the doom this part of town was soon to experience.

“Do you know what, I can’t believe someone was murdered in the garage, can it be true? This town has fallen down in standards the last fifteen years.” A weather-beaten looking man in a gruff voice says.

“I agree, there’s robbery, mugging and it’s escalating to murder in a garage.” Concurred a woman standing next to the man.

Yannish, satisfied that the accurate news hadn’t been made public yet set off round the back of the garage to see if he could find anything. He walked back towards the houses and up into the bushes so that he’d be able to get closer and within the police tape. He walked through the trees, bushes crunching his feet on the twigs until he pushed them aside to find himself in his old smoking oasis. He looked around to see it was still the same, nothing had changed since he was banned to go there for a smoke last month. He wanted to sit down and roll a cigarette for nostalgic purposes but he knew this would attract attention. It looked like the police hadn’t discovered this place yet from the fact that his old butts hadn’t been picked up. He thought he’d help them out and collected them all and placing them in his pocket. He made his way to the garage from the back. There was another police car round the back which meant immediately that they were close by. There was no point him trying to enter the garage from the back, if they caught him he’d only be taken to the station again and he’d probably have to endure another interview too. No, as an alternative he would try and find the trail of the thief from when he got away. He turned around and pushed himself through a cluster of bushes heading upwards.

Finding the trail wasn’t too difficult as he’d walked through here many times before. Once he got to the bottom of the heath he wondered whether he should visit his three chums first or venture into the woods where he got knocked out. The whole event in him being knocked out seemed strange, he had only just entered the woods when it happened. He tried to recall if what had hit him was flat or had texture, whether it felt cold or warm, yet nothing really sprung to mind other the that it felt heavy crashing against the back of his head. He decided he wanted to try and find out what it was that hit him so going to the woods was going to be his first stop. Trudging his way through the long grass he looks at the ground swaying his head from side to side so that his eyes might pick up on something. He notices his foot print. He’s able to identify it by the pattern of the imprint, he bends down to touch it. The dirt is cold and crumbly but he can’t help but allow the imprint to relive part of last night when he flew down the heath, charging forward to catch him. He wasn’t scared then, he wanted to get this man so much that he forgot just how fast he ran, how much the adrenaline must have been pumping through him. He flicks the dirt back to the ground. Yannish stands back up and looks around, hoping to see some police officers but also hoping they don’t see him. Yet there is no one here, it’s almost like they’ve forgotten about this place. An armed robbery is a serious crime and therefore a proper investigation needs to be carried out, not just strap a bit of police tape around a few trees. He carries on walking towards the wood until he notices more of his footsteps. This must have been where he entered.

Even though it was morning the wood still managed to encapsulate Yannish in almost utter darkness. He used his mobile phone as a light by pressing the keypad frequently to illuminate the screen. There was no chance of finding a path way now, everything was covered in leaves, twigs and mud. His only chance was to locate the dying tree he stood by before getting knocked out. He walks forward but more cautiously examining every tree he passes. The phone is unable to brighten up a vast area so to check each tree he needs to be extremely close to it. His chin scrapes the bark while he checks. After looking around ten trees he realises how stupid this feels and futile it is. He might as well go and come back with a torch. Agreeing with this he slumps himself on the last tree he checked and slides himself down, pulls out his rolling tobacco and begins to roll a cigarette. Sprinkling the tobacco on the rolling paper he hears a cracking sound. He quickly turns round to where the noise is coming from but he can’t see anything past a few metres. Another cracking sound reverberates around and Yannish gets up now leaving his packet of tobacco on the floor. He starts to think who it is. If it’s the stranger, then now matter what happens he’ll get to see his face. Even if he’s wearing the clown mask again it’ll be the first thing he’ll lunge at just so he can catch even a glimpse of the face. If it’s the police then, well, he’s going to look very suspicious. It could be Conrad, George or Peter though. It’s likely they would have moved to the wood knowing the likely hood of the police conducting a search of the area. Yannish clasps his cheeks with his hands and rubs them up and down so his stumble can tickle his palms. He walks from behind the tree.

“Hello?”

All the background noises seem to have been removed.

“Hello?”
He repeats but this time with a bit more force so it sounds like it was coming from someone who was confident in themselves. Yet this wasn’t the case, Yannish, didn’t like the stillness and calmness, from this breeds terror. Not there yet but aware of the path it leads too he cries out even more forcefully.

“Hello, is anyone there?”

“Yes.” Says a voice in a whisper.

Silence.

Another cracking sound of breaking twigs can be heard only a few meters behind Yannish so he turns round. He pulls put his mobile press the keypads and raises it to the air. He doesn’t know who is there but if it is the thief he’ll charge at him and go straight for the larynx. Allowing such dark thoughts to invade his mind gives him a boost of confidence as he takes a step forward so he can see who is there. Waving the phone above him so he can see a wider rang he sees Conrad and Peter walking cautiously towards him lowering the phone, slightly disappointed it wasn’t the clown man.

“What are you doing here Yannish? We thought you would be at the police station locked up in one of their cells” Said a rather surprised looking Conrad.

Once again Yannish could see Peter evaluating the situation, thinking of reasons why he wasn’t there but here. Before he could open his mouth to answer Conrad’s question Yannish beats him to it.

“Looking for clues. The police are a joke. An absolute pack of jokers…they completely let me down..”

Noticing Yannish about to erupt in anger Conrad gestures they sit down on a large fallen branch beside them. Yannish agrees while running his fingers through his hair.

“They took me down asked me about six questions then let me go. I even had to help prompt the interviewer. They don’t give a shit.” Says Yannish about to carry on when Conrad interrupts him.

“Yannish, haven’t I told you this governmental tool doesn’t care for people like us. They care only for the rich and to convince them to support them. What can we give them?”

“Votes!” Cried Yannish noticing Conrad was about to divulge about his opinions on the government again.

“They don’t care about us. We give them a paltry vote and let me ask you this how many times have any of us exercised this vote when asked to?”

“I haven’t yet had the chance too.” Retorted Yannish quickly becoming irate with Conrad’s attempt to politicise the situation.

“Ok, ok, you have a valid reason but neither myself, Peter or George have exercised the right for over fifteen years. And it’s because of reasons like this. I’ve told you umpteen times how we got in this situation and now you’re experiencing it first hand.”

Yannish looked at Conrad, he disliked the talk of politics yet something was beginning to annoy him that he might have a point.

“Yannish, we’ve been here for over ten hours and no one has come by other than two men walking their dogs. An armed robbery is a really serious act yet no one from the police have seemed it fit to check beyond the garage, not even to the heath. And if they are coming it’ll take them at least till tomorrow to even get to the woods and by then key pieces of evidence may have disappeared. Evidence like hair from this guy which has now blown away with the wind and landed somewhere of no use to you and them. You’re on your own Yannish. They will look but it’ll only be due to an obligation on procedures.

“Shut the fuck up. If you really thought they didn’t care about the robbery and wouldn’t bother searching any further than the garage then why did you leave your den? Why did you come into the wood?” Shouts Yannish.

“We haven’t left out den, as you call it. George is their now. Both Conrad and I decided to do some investigating of our own. We wanted to see if we could find anything that could help trace this person. We’ve been looking around the area for a few hours and all we’ve found are foot prints.” Replies Peter who is calmly staring at him.

Yannish looks to the floor and then back up to meet Peter and Conrad’s stare.

“Look, I’m sorry for shouting. I just came here to do the same thing myself. It’s just so dark around these parts that I can’t find the dead tree where I remember being last.” Yannish explains rather remorsefully.

“When we found you Yannish it was a over there.” Said Conrad who points over to his left.

Yannish flies up from his position he runs over to the place they found him. First he looks around on the ground seeing if he can see anything. Then he gets on his hands and knees and begins inspecting the ground carefully, half hoping to see a hair, a piece of clothing a bullet. Anything, anything to work on. Yet the ground looks as hegemonic and plain as it should be. Finally admitting nothing is there, he starts to feel the anger boil inside him again from his lack of discovery. He turns to the two vagabonds.

“You mentioned footprints. Where?”

“They’re over there about a five minute walk. We’ll take you there.” Says Conrad already starting to get up. He helps pull up Peter and all three start to walk deeper into the wood.

“Yannish can I ask what you are planning to do?” Said Peter.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, yesterday you finished your last exam. You are a free person now, free from the bondage of education should you choose it.”

“I chose that bondage Peter, after sixteen you can leave education. I didn’t. I just didn’t know what I wanted to do but knew leaving was too early.”

“So you are leaving for university?”

“No, no, no. I’m not. I decided not to apply. I don’t want to go. I guess I’m on your side here, I think the government has got it wrong with further education. Allowing us to take out huge loans to live and pay for our time at university. I will be spending the rest of my life paying it off. Yet I wonder how they managed to pay for those students in the 70’s and 80’ even most of the 90’s. The only conclusion is that not as many people carried on in education and the places were more competitive. I know they’ve reintroduced grants to a certain extent but I feel there could be better ways in qualifying for a grant.”

“You don’t think you’ll qualify?”

“I probably would but it wouldn’t be enough. And besides I chose not to go because I wanted to go straight into work. I had been applying for jobs since last month but no one had got back to me. I was going to spend today looking for jobs and visiting companies to see what they had on offer. However, things change. I think I’m changing and all I want now is to find the fucker who robbed the garage. The rest can wait.”

“You can’t let that event change your outlook on life.” Said Conrad in a rather sympathetic tone.

Yannish shot him a look, a weary yet menacing one. Conrad felt Yannish was letting him know that he too had a scar of life, be it his first, but he can talk about robberies now with a certain conviction that only someone else who had experienced them can empathise with.

“It has. I didn’t want it too but it has. That person didn’t just steal from the bank he stole from me. I don’t feel the same and I hate the person who has done this to me. I want to catch him so bad.”

Conrad looks to Peter who is looking straight back at him, worried at what seems to be brewing in the young man.

“Yes, but what would you do if you meet him? You cannot tackle someone with a gun.”

“I don’t care I will run at him, I will go straight for the throat. Besides I don’t want to kill him, I want answers. I know I need to beat him down a bit first. I’ve seen him first hand, he’s not that much bigger than me. I little fuller maybe...”

“There are other ways to inflict pain other than violence Yannish. If you do get him, let me know as I’d like to speak to him also.”

“Why do you want to speak to him?”

“Because I want to help you if I can, I can see what this person is doing to you. I don’t like it.”

Yannish opens his mouth to retaliate but nothing comes out. His mind acknowledges Peter’s observation and thinks him correct. He isn’t the same Yannish 24 hours ago. Instead he morphs his open mouth into a smile at Peter. All three walk on in silence.

“They’re over there.” Says Conrad nodding his head.

Yannish scrambles a few feet and sees a set of foot prints in the mud. He looks down to check the pattern, he turns his sole and notices they are different. In fact the size of the print is larger. Maybe he is a size ten even 11 where he is only 9.

“These aren’t mine.” He says gleefully.

He carefully walks around the prints to see where they lead but after these prints are twigs and leaves and no sign of another. He goes back to the prints and thinks could these be the robber’s. It must be him, no one else really goes in the woods, not even people wanting to walk their dogs. Only Conrad and Peter.

“Show me the soles of your shoes?”

Conrad and Peter lift up a leg each and bend it round so that it’s pointing in Yannish’s direction. They lock arms and lean against each other so that they both don’t fall over. He walks up to them and checks the pattern on each one/ None one them match.

“I didn’t doubt you. I just wanted to check that you hadn’t made the mistake of finding your own footprints.” Says Yannish rather unconvincingly to the two men.

“It’s ok.” Replies Peter.

“So we’ve found where these footprints seem to be heading further in to the wood. This person didn’t really know where he was going if he headed that way. The quickest way out of here is probably to turn left.” Says Conrad.

Phillip

Don't you think it's strange when your mind drifts off into an absent abyss only to return with a poignant message that stays in your mind for the rest of the day?

I was eating my Cheerios this morning reading the Grauniad newspaper when I came across an article about the England team’s rugby success. This led me to think about when I played rugby at middle school, where we couldn’t even afford the posts so we couldn’t ever convert tries or penalties. At the time I was a winger and was considered quite a good player. However I did face stiff competition from Philip. He was a really nice guy, and even though my memories of him are hazy I remember him being someone of integrity which was something most 12 year olds didn’t even know was a word let alone have it.

Phillip’s father was an English teacher at our school who would strike terror amongst us with his large glaring eyes and Neanderthal style beard. He was a teacher that told you if you were good but had no problem telling you if you were bad with school work and I liked that style of teaching. However, there were rumours going round at the time that he was having an affair with another teacher. Every body talked about it and the gossip was rife through class to class and year to year. We all were mesmerised with the idea that the two teachers were at it, either in the store cupboard, class room or even the headmaster’s desk. The rumours just got wilder and stupid but it was lapped up by us all. But none of us thought about Phillip.

He must have been aware of these rumours as they were soon becoming playground lore. Not once did he shout at anyone for spreading them. Not once did he break down in public over them. He didn’t even leave the school. This is something I find quite admirable, that a boy of 12 could deal with such an emotional issue so well. I don’t think many others could. I certainly couldn’t and even though I don’t know him anymore I respect him so much now.

I realised that I had my spoon dangling in the air when my mind decided to return to its head. I quickly finished up and set off to work thinking about what Phillip had to put up with and what on earth is he doing now.

I’ve managed to bash out some prose for you to dabble with if you wish.


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Charles Kennedy, stood looking at the mirror. He stared at his reflection, seeing his hair line growing perilously higher every time he saw himself. His blue eyes looked back at himself seeing his lips curling downwards. He hated himself. Not purely for the fact he had entered middle age and what he saw before him wouldn’t stir the loins of a nymphomaniac who had consumed a nets catch of oysters. He hated what was within, his angry temper, his devious mind that had been nurtured well over the years by performing a plethora of crimes ranging from stealing the hub caps of a Ford Cortina to armed robbery at various small shops and garages. He once tried to rob a bank. He was younger then, even greedier than he was today and a lot less experienced. They followed the bank manager for weeks finding out his journey home his, the route he took, how long it took and what alternative ones he used. Then one day when they were ready to rob the bank they followed him in a car and over took him and once they were on a one lane road stopped the car forcing the bank manager to stop his. Three of them put on balaclavas got out advanced on the car with shot guns pointing in his direction. They thought that was the hard part, capturing the bank manager. From there they could get the right details, force him to make the right calls and the money would be there’s. However, they didn’t consider the wiliness of this particular bank manager. Although to them he looked terrified and the urination stains on his trousers only made them think he will comply with anything. He let them easily pull him out of the car, threaten him of the consequences while shoving a gun in his mouth so far back that he started to gag. He nodded to their every demand eagerly. What they didn’t anticipate was that while they approached the car the bank manager dialled 999 on his mobile and popped it in his suit jacket pocket. They set off in their car towards the bank. The bank manager started to wail “I can’t believe you’re robbing the bank, my bank on Chester Street. Why not another, and why do you four have to bring guns with you. I just can’t believe it.”

“Shut it.” Said Charles.

“I just don’t want to die. Not like this, not here on a country road off Toddsbury.”

Charles sitting next to him grabbed him by the chin and pulled his face close to his.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll shoot your testicles off. Got it.”

It appeared to silence the bank manager who only nodded solemnly, Charles let him go and he turned his head forward, his body rigid.

Within five minutes the police siren sounds could be heard near by. All of them looked at each other for some sort of explanation as to why they were now being chased by the police.

Charles looked at Gregor.

“Don’t look at me for an answer. Did you frisk him? Did you check his pockets?”

Immediately Charles realised his bumbling error. How could he forget to check his pockets, even ask if he was carrying anything. Feeling embarrassed and angry with himself he lunged at the bank manager smacking him on the face with his right fist while his left hand grabbed his jacket. The mobile popped out from the pocket and landed on Charles’s lap. The 999 number illuminated in blue on the screen.

Exhaustion

I haven’t really done myself any favours recently. As the seasonal cold bug starts to infect the office it is only a matter of time before you are next on its list. So on Sunday I woke up with a bit of a sore throat and the sniffles. This didn’t stop me from deciding to go for a 3 mile run which upon my return only intensified my ever growing cold. On Monday I woke up still feeling under the weather when I remembered I promised one of my work colleagues I'd play him at squash so I packed my kit begrudgingly and set off to work.

The squash game was rather intense with me prevailing 2-1 in games but not without playing so hard that when I looked at the wall I thought I saw stars. The next morning my cold was still lurking within me waiting to strike me down when I realised that I had a touch-rugby game. Once again I packed my kit thinking maybe I should take a rest. We lost the game 3-1 and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to keep my eyes open as I looked at the computer. As I am writing this my body is completely stiff and I feel run down and it is all my fault so I’m not going to do anything else until next Tuesday when I have another touch-rugby game.

Being unable to move due to sore muscles has enabled me to write some more prose. Check it out at your leisure.

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“Yannish?”

“Yannish?”

Yannish’s opened his left eye wearily to see a dark silhouette of a man leaning over him. He could feel his head swaying from within.

“Give me that can.” Said the voice of the silhouette.

He could hear a slight struggle going on above him but finding himself unable to move he lay there. Suddenly he heard a squeal and then a can being opened and all of a sudden gushes of cold beer landing in his mouth, his eyes and up his nostrils. His immediate reaction was to lean forward so that no more beer would its way into anymore vulnerable orifices. Coughing up beer that managed to tickle his throat on his way down he squinted his eyes to see Peter standing in front of him.

“There, I knew that would rouse you. Harsh, I know, but I needed to know whether you were severely injured. Trust me, it was debated whether to waste such favoured liquid on waking you up but then Conrad pointed out that a dead body would only attract unwanted attention. And so if that was the case we’d of had to move you somewhere. With gloves of course.”

Yannish, saw Conrad and George walk into his focus. His head was rattling and the swaying in the head was still there but the sudden jolt of action had stimulated his mind again and he was beginning to gain his senses.

“Where did you find me?”

“Here stupid.” Retorted George.

“Yes, we found you laying here. In fact we believed you to be dead, it was only until I checked your pulse that I realised that you had just been knocked unconscious. So are you going to tell us what happened?” Said Conrad as he started to walk around Yannish.
What happened…what happened? Were the words rolling through Yannish’s mind. As they continued to flash past pictures of the night’s events popped into his head.

“I was running after someone. I wanted to see where they were going. I knew that if they got to the wood I wouldn’t be able to keep up with them anymore. But he turned round and I got scared so ducked. I got scared because he had a gun. Why did he have a gun?”

“I don’t know, but why were you chasing someone that had a gun?” Asked Peter, in an inquisitive tone.

“Shit. The garage. It was robbed.”

“Pardon?” said Peter.

The adrenaline flowed through his body once again as if it were a prize for remembering what had happened. Yannish started to stand up, his legs shaking but he was able to get up.

“The man, I was chasing, he robbed the garage. I’ve got to get back and see how Clarence is doing.”

The moment he thought he had died was now clear in his head. He wanted to see Clarence, see she was alright and also because he didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t like seeing that moment in his head, replaying in slow motion.

“You can’t go back there you’ve barely enough strength to walk back.” Said Conrad looking at him with some concern.

“I need to go.” And as he said that Yannish pushed himself to start walking. Very slowly he managed a few steps before his knees buckled and finds himself crumpled on the floor.

Admitting defeat, he lies back on the ground and begins to touch the source of pain. The bruise is bubbling nicely on his forehead and when touched sends an excruciating jolt of anguish through him.

“Did you guys, hear a gun shot? There was a shot from the garage. He didn’t want to kill us, he wanted to terrify us. Make sure we were broken humans, our spirits snapped or at least stretched to breaking point. The fucker.”

“Look what you need is to go to the hospital.” We can help you get you there.

“No, I want to go back to the garage, I want to see Clarence.” He wanted to see the garage, to see exactly what state it was in when he left. He wanted to go to the office and see the remaining bits of the safe and the table which he crashed on.

“Please, help me get back to the garage.”

“There will be police there. You know how we all feel about the law.”

“Look just help me up to the top of the heath and I’ll make me own way down there. You don’t need to worry about the police. It’s the fucking police who are likely to find this stranger, who could easily still be out there watching us all. It’s them who have the skills to catch him, catch him before he tries anything like this again.”

There was a silence.

“Ok, George help him up.”

Yannish felt weary now, it was only a ten minute walk but it seemed so very long. George was a ruthless carrier and flung him from side to side. Peter and Conrad walked behind him, he could see in both their eyes that they wanted to talk to him but respected the fact he wanted to return to the garage. Yannish himself thought it strange he craved so much to go back, he’d rather go there first than seek medical help or go home. He knew that the feeling of terror was still within him, he’d never felt so scared for his life, his life was snatched from him by this masked stranger and it was up to the clown to decide if he was to die tonight.

“That’s far enough George.” Said Yannish.

George put him back down and walked back over to Conrad and Peter.

“I’ll come back to see you three. I don’t know when as you can see I’m a bit of a state both in appearance and in mind. But we’ll chat. Thank you George for carrying my down.”

“Ok Yannish.” Said Conrad.

Yannish turned round and started to hobble his way down the heath, past the bushes until he could see blue flashing emanating from below. He followed the light, letting gravity pull him further down until he was at standing at the garage forecourt. He looked at the garage, the lights were back on and the place seemed alive full of policemen. Seeing the building like this settled him down inside again.

Wednesday Evening

Nothing much has happened this evening for me to write about. I met with Coldbrain for a few beverages and ended up being half cut. We managed to win £2.10 playing the quiz machine and he assures that he will update his blog more thoroughly soon. Other than that I went back and wrote some more prose. I don’t know what it will read like tomorrow when I read it with a clear head.


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Yannish looked at the three of them. Conrad looking at him waiting for his reaction, Peter now peering at him through his steamed glasses, Yannish couldn’t help but think he had the mannerisms of a goose, with a long neck on top of his thin coiled body. And there was Peter who looked straight through him like he was staring at something beyond.

“What are you on about?” replied Yannish, finally.

“We are all homeless people, people who have no income people who walk around the streets all day, asking, begging for money to buy stuff. And it’s all our Labours fault.”

“What do you mean it’s their fault? You are here because you’re losers.”

“Losers? Of what game have we lost from? The only game I know of is the race for capital. And we didn’t lose we decided not to partake anymore. We can’t be losers if we never play.”

Yannish realised that Conrad was an articulate man who perhaps should be listened to. It unnerved him a bit. His preconception had dismantled in a matter of sentences. He could feel a slight shame pass over him knowing that he thought they were all pathetic beings with no ability to hold conversation in the slightest but instead were focussed on the best way to alter their state of consciousness.

“Loads of people blame the government for failing. ‘They didn’t help me?’ ‘They took my money away from me’. You’re all the same.” Came Yannish’s reply.

“Look.” Said Peter this time. “Don’t you think we want to be here? We don’t but we have fallen into a dark pit and people have forgotten about us because of it and now we can’t get out with out their help. Conrad here used to have a wife, a job and a car. He used to sell retina scanning machines to companies all over the world. That’s right isn’t it Conrad?

“Yes, that is correct.” Said Conrad looking to the ground as he spoke his lip starting to quiver slightly.

“But while on a trip abroad Conrad’s wife left him for another man. Cleared their joint bank account and contacted the police about domestic abuse suffered by him. After that she hired a solicitor to start proceedings of their divorce. When he got back to his house he saw a letter from his wife explaining that she was no longer going to stand up to his abuse and that she was leaving him. I bet that confused you didn’t it?”

“It did.” Said Conrad. “I had never hit her or even threw anything at her. I was utterly confused. I tried to call her but the phone went straight to answer machine. I called her parents but as soon as they heard my voice they put the phone down I called again but they must of unplugged the phone. Everything was quiet in the house and bare, things had been taken, things I thought were mine. But my thoughts were interrupted when the police called round and asked me to come down the station to discuss this domestic abuse. Within 3 months I had lost my house to my wife, I became depressed and work were not interested in helping me so found an excuse to get rid of me. Never was I charged for abusing my wife and I don’t think that is what she intended. The stigma attached with being associated with domestic abuse was reward enough as my reputation plundered. I wasn’t granted legal aid for a representative in my divorce case and used all my savings to hire a solicitor. I wrote to my MP about the decision about legal aid and received no reply, I squandered all my savings on my solicitor and in the end I received nothing from the divorce, she won it and I had nothing. No wife, no job, no house nothing. I had no where to go so started to bunk up at the YMCA. It’s there when I met Peter.

“This sounds a really sad tale but how has the government let you down, what could they have done to stop your wife from doing what she did?” As soon as Yannish said this he saw the imminent eruption about to come from Conrad. He took a deep breath in preparation of the onslaught.

“That labour government never supported me in my divorce and hasn’t since. I have slipped away from society because of their actions, well lack of them. I used to earn £60,000 a year but when I lost everything I could only claim dole money which is just enough to live on not to build on. I was suffering from depression so wasn’t considered employable and besides in that state I didn’t even want a job I just wanted to fester in my own despair hoping I’d slowly decay away. It was Peter who realised what was happening to me so persuaded me to go to the hospital. They diagnosed me with depression and kept me with them for a few days to run some tests but then I was sharply jolted from there when someone with a higher priority needed my bed. Why cannot there not be enough beds for everyone that is unwell? Why only those with a higher priority? So I decided never to look for a job and so the dole money was cut intermittently. I resorted to stealing and asking for money, I should have been embarrassed but I wasn’t, I felt unshackled. Now that I decided to let be free from trying to play with Labours game of how to live a Labour life I felt I was living.

Yannish looked at him. He stared thinking some answer would pop into his head as to why Conrad never tried to get back to his job, tried to regain that success he once had. But noting materialised.

“ It isn’t just me boy, Peter too lost everything because he was a gambler and George, well George is loves to drink and once that addiction seeps into your system then everything else falls away into insignificance.

When A Colleague Leaves

It’s a bit annoying when a work colleague you get along with leaves work which is what happened to me. Neil, who has moved to pastures new was quite an entertaining chap with his care free attitude that you used to have me in stitches My manager would spend an hour telling him how things work and what the procedures were and I could see on his face that although his body was there his mind checked out a long time ago. However, this wasn’t to say that he some unintelligent being he just realised or was resisting the fact that procedures are generally extremely boring. Instead what brought him to life was comedy. Especially finding radio shows on the Listen Again function the BBC has. He introduced me to the Mitchell and Webb and also 8 Out Of 10 Cat’s radio shows which I salute him for. He was also a massive fan of Dilbert who I had never heard of until I met him. He thought I was a sheltered boy but when he showed me some Dilbert strips I thought they was rubbish and instead found it more amusing calling him Dilbert for a bit. But this place of work wasn’t really for him and claimed he found something else in Coventry in a publishing house. I reckon he’s just sitting at home waiting for his dole check to come through. Unfortunately for me they aren’t replacing him straight away so I’m having to do some extra work, we don’t even get a temp which I was hoping as the temp conveyor belt brings in some interesting characters. There was one temp who I worked with who resembled Richmond from the IT Crowd. He dressed in black, had long black hair and rarely spoke and when he did he sounded like Will Self, deep, slow and rather convoluted. It was hard to get a conversation out of him but when you did because of the pace he set about divulging his story I was able to work out what he was going to say next and try to beat him to it to move the tale on. He was a really nice guy and again another who either realised or refused to conform to procedures easily and one day went for lunch and never returned.

When I got back from work I decided to write out some more prose as I needed to empty my head of stuff, so here it is.

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The BP garage where Yannish worked was exactly was no different to the ones you pass on the motor way or stop for petrol. His one was actually just on the motorway and getting to it was a bit of a nightmare. As he didn’t drive he couldn’t go the most straightforward route and instead had to take a convoluted way he managed to gauge out for himself after many experimental walks. Getting quite close to the garage was easy as there was a path that ran all along above it but to get down it you had to walk down a steep slope of bushes and hedges, underneath a bridge where a gathering of vagabonds usually congregated drinking beer or injecting themselves with what ever mind altering fluid they could get hold of. On more than one occasion Yannish was heckled by them as he walked past with the occasional half eaten Jaffa Cake or crisp packet with an orange in it would hit the back of his head. Cackles of laughter could be heard from behind him as he would rub his head rather forlornly at where he’d been hit. He wanted to go over there and smack them but them being all outside the society circle he wondered what they would do to him should he swing and miss and find him self tumbling to the floor looking up at them. He thought it best to just ignore them. One day, he walked past them ignoring them when one of them called out his name.

“Yannish.”

Yannish, carried on walking ignoring the sound he thought was his name.

“Yannish, Oi Yannish, come over here.”
The gruffly sounding voice definitely said his name.

“What do you want?” replied Yannish turning round. He could see the three of them sitting but leaning against the slope of the bridge. The one who called out was in the middle. He had a thick beard that terrorised the bottom half of his face with its wild strands. And where the strands ended on the bottom half of his face his long greasy ginger hair would touch and entwine with them from above forming some sort of barrier all around him. His face looked hard with wrinkles visible on his forehead encrusted with the white colour of dryness or cold. His small but focused eyes stared intently at Yannish and relaxed a little when Yannish met his stare and exposed his brown tarnished teeth. Yannish took this as an attempt to smile at him. The other two men were sitting either side of him their bodies slightly turned towards him to almost form a semi circle. The man on the right had long straight but also greasy brown hair. He had glasses with lenses that seemed to be steamed up and was perched at the end of his nose. He too was staring at Yannish but not through the glasses but with his own eyes. He had an inquisitive look about him. The last person on the left was younger looking than the other two men, maybe a couple of years older than Yannish. His head was quite melon shaped but that was mostly down to the skin head hair cut he had. He had sad looking face and was staring at the fire in front of the three.

“We need a favour, come here…please?” spoke the large ginger man.

“How do you know my name?”

“Look, we know Tommy. He sometimes comes to see us for favours and one day we got talking, well yesterday, and he told us about you. We didn’t know it was you at first but as soon as we realised it was the guy we throw food at. Well, in a way I was a bit embarrassed. We won’t throw food at you anymore and in fact as you’re a friend of Tommy’s you must be of good character.”

“I never knew Tommy comes down here. Why don’t you ask him to help you I’ve got to go to work? And Besides why should I do a favour for people that throw stuff at me and scare me shitless every time I walk past them.”

“As I mentioned before we won’t be throwing things at you any longer. It was George who did it anyway but we all apologise.” The ginger man coiled his fingers to point at the younger guy who was still staring at the fire like a boy day dreaming his life through school. Tommy never comes down here, he doesn’t know we reside in these parts. And we would appreciate it if you didn’t tell him as well.

Yannish thinking that they were entrusting him with a secret decided to trust them slightly in return and made a few steps towards their direction. “What do you want?”

“We only want you to buy us beer from your garage and bring it to us.”
“Why can’t you buy it yourselves?”

“Please Yannish come sit with us, I don’t like asking favours without you getting to know who is asking them.”

Yannish made his way over to them.

“I’m Conrad” said the ginger man. “And this is Peter” indicating to the man with the glasses.

“Hello, Yannish. Nice to see you again.” Said Peter.

“And this young man is George.” Said Conrad.

“Umm, yeah hi. So when are you going to get us some beer?” rasped George.

“Quiet! You can’t expect him to do things at the click of your fingers. Not your fingers for sure, have you been trying to scoop things out of the public toilet again?” Retorted Conrad looking disdainfully at George.

Having heard Conrad’s comment Yannish glanced at George’s dirty mud covered hands. He was wearing fingerless gloves with the seams spiralling everywhere. Month old dirt must have been entrenched in those long fingernails. George saw Yannish looking and quickly retracted his hands from view and coiled slightly signalling his embarrassment.

“George, before we set Yannish off he is probably wondering who we are and where we come from. So let’s enlighten him a little. We are Blair’s rejects.”

Forgetfulness

I hate being forgetful, it really vexes me when I forget something relatively important. I feel a little embarrassed of my actions and then that feeling is quickly followed with one of being pissed off as to why I forgot in the first place.

Today at work I had just sat down with my coffee and was just checking my mails when my mobile buzzed in my pocket. “Hello Sir, I would just like to inform you that you have forgotten your dental appointment with Dr Ambrose at 9am. Can you be here in 15 minutes? He can just about fit you in.” Said the receptionist, or words to that effect. So I take a huge gulp of coffee and let it burn my throat as it goes down and dash over to my boss, tell her I’ve got dentist and won’t be back for half an hour and make my way down to the dental clinic.

I get there all hot and bothered, no one is impressed with me getting there super fast, especially not reception. I sit down in the waiting area and stare at all the other people who just look like they’re preparing for their auditions as manic depressives for the remake of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. At least Dr Ambrose is more joyful, in fact he always is, as he calls my name after a twenty minute wait. I always wonder why he can be so happy when he has to stick his hand in people’s mouths exposing himself to the threat of being nibbled at by an uncooperative patient. I conclude that he’s happy because he gets sadistic revenge by injecting people with needles the size of my hand, letting the local atheistic pump slowly. I’ve been his victim 4 times now and don’t fancy going there a fifth time. Luckily for me, I escape this as I’ve been brushing my teeth regularly so I get a pat on the shoulder instead for not getting any fillings.

On the way back I see Salmon (you may remember him from a previous entry). Turns out he’s quit that Internet game, World of Warcraft. I didn’t know whether to hug him or tell him I’m glad he’s re-plugged himself back to the real world. I ask him where he’s going and to my horror but not my surprise he’s going to the computer game shop to buy another online game called Guild Wars. Soon after this, I wish him luck on his quest with knights and head off to work thinking, shit I’m going to have to stay back late tonight.

I’ve written a bit more progressive prose to keep my mind on an active vibe.

************************************************


Two young women in their twenties are laughing and talking on the other side of the door. One has brown hair and is dressed in a red top with dark blue jeans, she’s talking rapidly and seems to be giggling at every other sentence she speaks, her head bouncing back and forth like Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout. She’s talking to a blond haired girl with a bobbed haircut who keeps playing with the strap on her black top by twirling it and then letting it go. She’s seems completely entranced at what the brown haired girl is saying, nodding her head every time there is a pause for a breath and laughs when a sentence finishes on an enthusiastic note. Even though, Yannish can’t hear what they are talking about he can tell just by his observation that the blond girl is faking her interest in the topic of conversation. In fact, it isn’t even a conversation, how can it be? The brown haired girl is just talking at the other girl while she politely responds accordingly at every cue given to her, nudging her along the conversation like a school teacher does to help the pupil get the answer in the end.

The area is brightly lit with huge halogen lights pouring down making them look like they are in a theatre performing on stage. They are on stage, Yannish’s stage in Yannish’s theatre. The room itself was full of clothes hanging on shelves at every level and in no apparent order, these must be the returns. On the left is the kitchen area with a sink, a table, three chairs and a microwave with the door swung open revealing various remnants of readymade meals splattered all over the inside and hanging from it’s ceiling. The right shows shelves upon shelves of shoe boxes, all neatly stacked up at the bottom but as the eye follows upwards the boxes become more ragged in appearance, until you get near the top and it becomes obvious someone just throws the boxes up in the air and if it manages to land on the shelf it is considered neatly stacked away. Just beyond the rows of shelves, Yannish spots a green light, it’s a familiar light that illuminates the word ‘Fire…’. He peers forward looking for the “…Exit” to confirm exactly what it is. Even though he knows what it is, it surely can’t be “Fire Hazard” or “Fire, Fire”. He gets the anxious feeling you get when you’re late and waiting for a train and you look at the Departures screen to see what time your train is and then you look 30 seconds later to see if it’s coming earlier. And then 1 minute later, even though you know the screen hasn’t changed you still look up and check. He can’t resist, he needs this confirmation so moves forward towards the crack opening the door a bit more so that the front part his hair flops out over on to the other side. He arcs his neck so that his eyes can see the “Exit” which settles any doubts he has. He quickly moves back into his space with a gleeful look spreading across his face. He knows now, his escape route. All that is left is to estimate how many people are in the building and how is he going to handle the two women on the other side of the door. They had now split from their conversation and moved to other ends of the room with one over by the kitchen looking into the cupboard. She pulls out a green mug and loosely places it on the table. The mug lands at an awkward angle and sways to the left, raising the right and then rocks back onto the right leaning so far forward it tips over the ledge heading towards the floor. The brown haired girl notices and dives forward cupping the mug with her hands as she crashes to the floor. She raises her head with a look of pleasure and looks around the room to see if anyone else had seen her catch. Her expression drops slightly as no one else had seen it, except of course for Yannish who dips his eyes to the ground just in case they catch hers.

Eventually, after a few seconds, he looks up to see the other woman on the right of the room, she isn’t in complete view because of the grey metal shelving interweaving with one another. Through the shelves and joints he makes out her head and a right arm and hand which is writing something down on a clip-board. “This could be a problem,” Yannish tells himself as he recoils his head from the door. He carefully shuts it and slides down the back of its wooden frame to fester in his own thoughts. If he had made his move just minutes earlier, he could have charged through that door made his way through the middle of the two women and be in between them and fire escape exit. He’d have both of them in his clear sight and be able to watch their every movement, twinge and expression. Behind them was only the wall so they’d have no where to turn making the situation all the more claustrophobic for them. He could have got them to barricade the door he came through earlier by pushing one of the shelves over the entrance. Then it would be just those three and he could get what he wanted and be out before they could sound any kind of alarm. But that was minutes ago. “Should I wait for a change, or just accept what I’ve been dealt with?” Thinks Yannish, whilst tapping the gun just above his temple to help ease the pressure that seems be concentrating there. Waiting for a change, was a gamble. If the women decided to stand close to each other and near the utility cupboard that would be an ideal occurrence for him and he could revert back to the way he had just imagined he’d do it. This of course was a definite possibility. However, by waiting might mean someone else from outside might enter the room. Ruining the plan, but also the dynamics of the group, the three of them, meaning the situation would need to be re-thought. This makes Yannish irate, his way was flawless, if only the two women would come closer again. Now if another or others enter the room, there will be more people to handle, more minds thinking how to undo him. Could he be undone? Yannish gets angry, angry enough to pull the trigger a little less guiltily?

Carrying On

Today, I'm actually feeling a lot better. The cold is evaporating now even though I am still really weak. In fact I'm sure Ian Hislop could swing a haymaker at me now and I'll crumble on the floor screaming for no more pain. After work I went into town and bought Kanye West's first album as I stumbled across Late Registration the other month and surprisingly thought it was excellent. He's definitely a lyricist who considers his words carefully and someone that has an ego but is fortunate and able enough to have talent to back up his bravura. College Dropout seems to be just as good even though I haven't heard it in it's entirety, it's actually playing as I'm scribbling this gibberish down. Any how, "We don't care" definitely stands out with its comedic theme and serious lyrics… Shit, I'm starting to sound like a critic so I'll stop.

Anyhow, I need to go get me some sleep as I've got to, like many tomorrow, hurdle the last day of the working week before I can rest up for two days at the finishing line. Here's a bit more progressive prose, although this contribution is a bit shorter because I'm knackered and towards the end what I was writing wasn't even legible.


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It’s the guilt that would gnaw away at his mind. Eating slowly at his thoughts, bit by bit seeping the remembrance of murder more and more into what he’s thinking and eventually taking over his head. He can’t comprehend killing someone, not like this, only if it was fully justified and Yannish couldn’t justify it to himself what he was considering doing. But he needs the pistol. It’s so powerful, visually, obviously for its ability to maim or end life but perhaps more because of its connotations. People who would see it cowl in terror knowing that a gun could mean death unless utter compliance was given. He wouldn’t have choose words to convey that he was serious, the gun would do it for him, no one was going to mess with him while he held it in his hands or at least showed it to people. He could really only choose this weapon because of the power, a baseball bat, although dangerous can still be over powered by more than one person. The thought of carrying a knife and stabbing someone made him queasy as he imaged the squelching sound as he pierced through skin. No, a pistol, was the best choice, he could show everyone what he’s carrying, wave it above his head or hold it out straight and his intentions will be obeyed. No one would dare try and stop him. No one. Or would they? It would be someone filled with the virtues of integrity and pride that might tackle him. They would see this man waving a gun in the air harshly as if it controlled him, not the other way round. He would gage the possibilities of any sign of weakness and measure them up with the risk of his own safety. And being someone so virtuous they would rather risk their own life to try and save someone else’s than stay still and watch someone get shot. Yannish didn’t want to kill anyone, let alone the person he imagined with integrity and pride, they would be the last type of person he would want to shoot. He didn’t want to murder someone he wanted to be himself. Killing someone who Yannish wanted to be, and briefly was in his early pre-pubescent years, would be like shooting the shadow he was chasing. How could he be possibly be a virtuous person after he’s just committed murder, a pointless murder and not some serial killer or rapist, no, someone who had enough guts to tackle the psychotic fool waving a gun over his head shouting at anyone within eye sight.

Yannish backs away from the door and scrunches his eyes. “I can’t kill. It’s too much.” The pistol slides along the floor as he tosses it away like an empty cigarette packet. In fact a fag was the exact thing he lusted for now, to help calm those twitching nerves from snapping but all he has is his thoughts to help or torment him. He kneels down and starts to think of what could happen. “No shots need to be fired, I can just stick it in peoples faces, get what I want and get out. No shots, nothing.” Thinks Yannish as he looks at the floor following the trail of where the gun slid. “Ok, ok, if someone does try it I’ll just shoot it in the air or above their heads.” But as soon as he thinks that, he considers the alternatives that could happen. He could miss and end up shooting someone in the head or the heart. “Fuck” whispers Yannish. He knows the risks and if it came down to it he’d consider killing himself if he was boxed into a choice of ending another’s life. He gets up and walks over and picks up then gun. He wipes the floor dust from his jacket and places the side of his head to the door, pushes the handle down and pushes the door forward very slowly so that if it began to creak he could immediately begin to retract it before anyone knew what was going on. He briefly feels like a boy creeping down the stairs at Christmas eve, opening the lounge door ever so slowly until a gap large enough appears to spy through. A small gap opens up now and Yannish brings his eyes towards it and looks through.

Difference Between Fatigue and Tiredness

This morning, I finally concluded to myself the difference between fatigue and tiredness. I've spent the last week going to bed late and falling asleep later. This is mainly due to having a cold that seems to block my nose only when my head hits the pillow forcing me to breath with my mouth open which means it gets dry and I wake up thirsty every other hour. However, even though I was falling asleep late I would wake up at 7am without fail for no apparent reason. I'm sure if I hit the sack at 6:49am I'd wake up at 7am like a switched on robot. So last night I decided that sleep had caught up with me, like a mobile phone bill forgotten underneath the bed. You think you can get away but it always gets you in the end. So I forced myself to go to bed at 8pm and was asleep by 9 I believe. When I woke up at 7am I was still tired, at first I thought it was because I slept for 10 hours but I didn't get that groggy feeling in my head that reminds me of an ever so slight hangover. I felt achy and still tired. At work I couldn't hold a conversation let alone lash out witty anecdotes that usually gain me kudos over by the water cooler. By 3pm today, I decided that I could only be suffering from fatigue and needed to rest up for a few days and not a few hours here and there. So I'm going to take it easy for a few days and chill out and hope I can get some zest back into my system. However, with the morsels of energy I have left I have written some more progressive prose. To be honest it wasn't tiring to write.

************************************************************

His eyes notice what he’s holding. His neck cranes down as his interest is drawn to the pistol. The sight of the scratched weapon is the symbolic reminder that this is definitely reality and no dream. Yannish knows exactly where he is. He draws his head back quickly whacking the left side of it against the wall. His index finger runs along the gun feeling the cross stitch texture of the top leading all the way to the tip where curiosity overcomes him and sticks one of his digits into the hole of the gun just to make sure it feels real and to investigate the barrel that could quite easily end life. He feels the rush of anxiety pulsate through his body now like a roller coaster ride going along in his veins, making him question why he’s here. Is there an escape? Can I run now and all will be forgotten?

The room is dark with the light bulb in pieces on the floor with a broken vacuum cleaner lying over the metal railing, it hangs over like an unconscious drunk flopped over a park fence rail on a Saturday night. There are shelves to the right with bottles containing cleaning products. His body is still utterly still but inside the messages to his brain have doubled since he noticed what’s in his hands, the awareness of the situation only becoming more significant to him now. His breathing doubles in its heaviness and intensity panting like he’s just run a couple of miles and is taking some time to recuperate. He starts to walk up to the wall then turn around again, each time he exhales he puts a foot down, thinking what to do next. “Should I move out?” “Is it the right time?” He thinks to himself, running the pistol along the wall so a slight scraping sound could be heard by only the occupant of the utility cupboard. “I can’t run now, I’ve come too far. I’ll have to go through with it” comes the justification from his lips. But the thought of going through with it terrifies him, sure, the consequences of getting caught would ruin his life in a social sense.

Prison would be definite as he’d never plead innocent because he wasn’t and there would be no point trying to tell them the reasons why. They wouldn’t listen, even if they did there wouldn’t be enough time because time in court is precious as it tries to uphold the creaking social laws that are spread through out the country. He could start to explain his reasons, but someone would usher him along considering his point too time consuming and insignificant for the context of the case. In prison, he’d be treated badly, he’s not a fighter, even though he’s fought, he’d much rather live an anonymous life. Inmates would see this, not in the lack of battle scares on his body but by the lack of primal fighting instinct that floats around in the eyes of every brawler. The ones that look for fights, who don’t care who they fight as long as their craving is quenched, by impact or by the spill of blood. They’d see he didn’t have it and would go for him. Constant barrage of beatings and whippings from bars of soap put in pillow cases, his time there would be bloody and strenuous. Should he survive the physicality of what prison would bring he was sure he could endure the mental marathon as well, there was no way he’d accept any invitations from insanity’s open hand that seems to run frivolously through the corridors of her majesty’s many hotels. If he got bored, he’d try and remember the books he read during his lifetime and if he couldn’t remember all of them, then he’d splice another passage from another book to form his own tome made from all the different books that had passed under his nose during time. If he found his head submerged in the toilet water where he’d be forced to suck up the putrid brown liquid through his nostrils be the wing’s hard bastards. He wouldn’t spend the evening curled tightly together and sobbing profusely into his palms thinking why he hadn’t the fighter’s look. Why couldn’t he fight back? Why was he being bullied? No, his capacity for mental torture could endure this, he could survive this sort of mental aggression and come out of it with a slight smirk and a whimsical step in his walk.

Even as he whimsically walks out of prison with a defiant cock of the leg, as he lands he’ll be landing back into society, a society where now he was a criminal. Or by most of the consensus still a criminal. He’d never be able to get a job. He’d try, of course, but no one would employ him. He wouldn’t even be able to get a job in retail with the teenagers as no one would trust him behind a till. Could they be blamed with their suspicious minds about the young man who has just been released from prison? “We’ve got to protect the company’s image”, would be the diplomatic but hollow justification from the proprietors. Pressed a little harder the sympathetic theme would be adapted to justify their decision. “Come on, I’ve got a mortgage, a wife and children, I can’t afford money to go missing. I could get sacked!” So, Yannish wouldn’t be able to get a job and would have to revert to signing-on, receiving government income support. By some it is considered more criminal to stand in a queue and wait the cheque to be handed over to you, than actually walking into a bank and robbing it. Abuse would be hurled as he walked along the path as he held his cheque. “Why don’t you get a fucking job?” would come the bellows from the houses. But all this doesn’t bother him.