Laura’s prompt

The Neighbours

He had a secret. Or was it a lie?

Whatever the case he knew something that nobody else knew. He knew that he was not a good person.

The lie itself was proof enough of it. The deceit. The unwavering pretence.

He pretended to be good.

And he did so with such rehearsed precision that he was beginning to believe that even God was being fooled. And if not God then certainly the neighbours.

He hated the neighbours. Without exception. They had come from nowhere and robbed him of his angry isolation. But even during the invasion he had smiled at each and every one of them. They knew nothing of his alcohol induced nocturnal plans for revenge, of course.

And the children. The children were the worst of them. As they walked or ran or skipped past his front gate every morning chattering about games and dreams and birthday parties and other things that no longer had meaning to him. Their every waking moment transformed into careless joy and exhaled at full volume.

He despised them for their naïve happiness.

Today was the day. Today he had had enough. Today they had kicked a ball into his garden and flattened a tomato plant. And they had laughed about it. And so he had retrieved the ball and marched purposefully with it across the lawn to confront them.

“Who kicked this?” he had demanded.

The look in his eyes must have shocked them. The laughter had suddenly dissolved and they had fallen silent. Their little hands clung obediently to their sides and they shifted their weight nervously from one foot to another awaiting retribution. His menacing gaze remained fixed on them as he waited and tapped the evidence under his arm with his index finger.

“Who kicked this?” he repeated.

Eventually one of them could bare it no longer and had raised a hand to confess.

***

But he could not do it. He could not betray the secret. The broad smile of his pretended self invaded him and suddenly he found himself cheerfully handing back the ball and placing an arm around the offending child’s shoulders.

“Hey! I was kidding you,” he announced, “And wow! What a great kick!”

And off they went again skipping down the street throwing the ball to one another.

“You know,” he added, addressing no-one in particular, “I used to be able to kick a ball like that once.”

#1minFiction

Simon looked at the phone as it rang and waited for the debate within his head to conclude. Should I answer it? Should I not answer it? In the end it was a question that he could not satisfactorily resolve with the incessant ringing in his ears so he picked it up and pushed a button with the intention of silencing it rather than communicating with it in any way. He was disappointed to discover that the action only partially solved the problem. Whilst there was a decrease in the higher frequency noise he quickly became aware of another of a lower frequency. It was the rhythmic thumping of his own heartbeat telegraphing to him the clear message that he was in the formative stages of a potentially life changing hangover.

And there were other questions to be answered. Where am I? was one that seemed important. He was in bed, he could tell, but he could see nothing familiar about the room. Clearly, he concluded, he was not in his own bed. And he was not alone. The naked woman sleeping beside him had her head buried in pillows and there were no obvious features visible to him that might identify her as having any particular significance. He had awoken in similar circumstances before and already the familiar chant was creeping into his subconscious. Never again. Never again.

Meanwhile the phone was still demanding his attention. “Hello? Hello?” it screamed, “Simon? Answer me you prick.”

He quietly slipped from beneath the covers and moved to the side of the room in order not to disturb the body beside him. Leaving the scene of the crime undetected was an option of increasing appeal. Though he suddenly felt vulnerable and slightly ridiculous in his own nakedness as he padded across the carpet like a thief.

He looked at the phone in his search for answers and eventually put it to his ear. “Huh?” he mumbled.

“Simon? Jesus, Simon ….. where the fuck are you?”

More questions. He looked around the room again searching for clues. “Can you give me a hint?” he asked the phone hopefully.

But the phone was clearly losing patience. “Listen to me, Simon,” it yelled, “I’m in trouble. We’re in trouble. I’m with Rebecca.”

Simon now recognised the voice of his flat-mate from within the phone. And the name of his landlady. He was having difficulty tying the two things together. “Oh,” he said, “lucky you.”

“She’s a dangerous woman, Simon.”

Simon looked over at the motionless nude on the other side of the room. “Aren’t they all?” he murmured.

The phone’s voice went quiet and assumed a secretive air. “Simon,” it asked, “do you have any money?”

It seemed, under the circumstances, unlikely. If he had money it would be in his wallet. If he had his wallet it would be in his pants. His pants were nowhere to be seen. “Not on my person,” he answered honestly.

“Simon,” the phone continued, “Listen carefully. When I say ‘trouble’ I mean big trouble. And when I say ‘dangerous woman’ I mean psychotic woman. And when I say ‘money’ I mean now. Rebecca has a gun to my head.”

The nude was stirring and soon enough he would have trouble of his own to deal with. He moved behind a cupboard and whispered to the phone. “And when you say ‘gun to your head’ …. in what sense do you mean ‘gun’?” he asked.

“I mean a loaded gun. To my temple. I mean that the landlady is about to blow my head off.”

“Oh,” said Simon, “not in a nice way, I take it. What are you expecting me to do?”

“I think that paying your fucking rent might be a good start.”

He heard a vaguely familiar female voice from behind him. “Simon?” the voice asked.

This was all too much. He could cope with only one thing at a time. So he extended his index finger and hung up the phone.

Being almost ‘that time of year’ I have tried to create something festive, or at least appropriate, to write down to mark the season. So far …. nothing
So instead I thought I might share something that was sent to me this week by my understated hero, Graham. It has not that much to do with Christmas as such – but one must remember that Graham has thoughts of Peace, Joy and Goodwill for thirteen months every year.
So ….

So much heartache and confusion comes because we listen with our ears instead of our eyes. Predatory people have a way of using language, not to communicate but to paralyse. When I was a chaplain at Parramatta prison, I was struck by how often I heard the phrase, “Now see what you made me do!” I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve met kids and adults who were carrying crippling burdens of guilt for dreadful acts that they never committed. Predatory behaviour usually comes with its own propaganda and if you hear it often enough, it can restrict the ability to see. Last night a young fellow told me how his life had collapsed into a dark hole from which there seemed to be no escape. Several times he mentioned that he’d come from good circumstances and that his recent behaviour was unintelligible even to himself. I was interested to hear of the “good circumstances” from which he came and to my surprise the young man began describing a life of unspeakable abuse. It became clearer that his abuse always came with the kind of lectures that said, “Nobody cares for you except me” or “everyone is out to destroy you and all you have is me”.

An abuser can disguise themselves in many ways but one of the most effective ways is as a “crusader”. If you know history you’ll know that term was used to cover murder and robbery on a grand scale, all in the name of God. If I had my way I’d wire up every home, every church and every workplace so that a siren sounded whenever “crusader speech” began. There would be some homes, churches and workplaces where my siren would render people into blessed deafness. I’m sure many abusers believe their own propaganda. There was a time when the church controlled people by threatening fear of hell and while most today don’t buy it, they’re happy for politicians to remind them of the dangers – from which only they can offer protection. My sirens would drown out most political speeches. I’ve met so many who speak for the “downtrodden” who are just building reputations and in some cases, fortunes, while caring nothing about the downtrodden. Beware of crusaders everywhere. When my daughter was young and wondering which boys she could trust, I would say to her, “Turn off the volume switch. Don’t tell me what he says, tell me what he does.” The young man I spent time with last night has a long and rough road ahead, but for the first time, he’s seeing rather than hearing.

I wanted to sing the praises of Steve Toltz and his first novel (and his second – Quicksand, for that matter) but so many other people have done so already that the idea seemed a bit pointless. Here’s one of those other people. https://musingsofaliterarydilettante.wordpress.com/2010/12/24/a-fraction-of-the-whole-by-steve-toltz/