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[speedilyloudpaper]

Turkey in the freezers

Shelves of mince pies

Tinsel at the checkout

A tear in my eye

. 

Reminders come earlier every year

And it still don’t seem right

That Christmas day of all days

Was the day she had to die

[speedilyloudpaper]

You boarded the train at Manchester Piccadilly at 4.47pm, starting your journey to Sheffield via Stockport at approximately 120mph. You are going meeting Dom in his new house. You’ve never been to Sheffield but you’ve heard it’s a pretty nice city, according to Dom, anyway. The Trainline.com app said that the journey takes around 50 minutes. It has been 45. The last two of which have been spent in darkness.

Since boarding the train, you read a chapter of the book that Chris lended to you that you promised you’d read, you got bored and wished you’d brought some fiction, then decided to take your earphones from your bag and listen to some music and scroll through Reddit. In the last 10 minutes you assumed you were approaching Sheffield and, for the first time, acknowledged what was zooming past the window. You didn’t expect much, but even so you were slightly disappointed that there wasn’t anything to see from which you could begin to get a feel for what kind of place the city is. Sheffield had seemed like a bit of a strange place for Dom to choose to live in, and you were slightly eager to form some kind of opinion on the place, see what it was that had attracted your best friend to cross the peak district to a new life in Yorkshire. So far you’d only seen the normal trackside stuff; trees, backs of houses, litter, an industrial park. Nothing interesting. Then you’d entered a tunnel you didn’t see coming. That had been 3 whole minutes ago and you are still inside the tunnel; still the windows only show the reflection of the inside of the carriage. You think about taking a picture on Snapchat, with the caption ‘What a view!’, or something similarly witty.

It’s been 5 minutes since you entered the tunnel now. Getting a bit ridiculous, and also a bit weird. You look around at everyone else on the train. Nobody seems at all phased by how long the train has been travelling through darkness. You drop Dom a message: ‘How long is this fucking tunnel lmao’. He isn’t online so you don’t expect an instant reply and put your phone back in your pocket. You take a sip of your Sprite and realise Blue Monday by New Order is playing towards the end, so you start it again because you don’t feel like you’ve appreciated it enough while you were distracted. You lean your head back on the seat and close your eyes, not only to focus on the music but because you’re tired. Admittedly, it isn’t even 6pm and you haven’t done much all day, but your suitcase was kind of heavy, and travelling is tiring.

The song ends before you know it. You had started drifting into a light sleep, which is a little bit annoying because it is a bloody good song and, again, you didn’t listen to it fully enough to appreciate it. You look at the window. Still black. Wait. Still black? That song is like 8 minutes long, how the fuck are we still in this tunnel?  You check your phone. It is 5.55. Dom has messaged you back.

‘What tunnel?’ Ok that panics you a bit. Dom makes the Manchester to Sheffield train journey fairly regularly, surely he would have noticed a tunnel that takes over 15 minutes to get through. Where the fuck is this train going?

You start messaging back Dom: ‘the giAnt fUcKing tunnel on the way to Sheffield, been in it f-’ Your phone dies. Black screen. You press and hold the power button in an attempt to turn it back on. Nope. Unresponsive. (Perfect)

Maybe you got on the wrong train, one that goes underground. But you remember checking the app five times to make sure you didn’t. And you didn’t see or feel the train descending, if it is indeed underground. (which is your best guess right now because surely you’d know about it if there was such a huge tunnel somewhere in the North of England)

You lean over towards the bald 40 year old man in the seat across the aisle from you

‘Excuse me… Where is this train headed?’

The man lowers his newspaper. You notice his eyes quickly flick up and down as he looks at you. You hope you don’t look too panicked. Or stupid.

‘Sheffield… we’ve almost arrived there,’ he replies, apathetically.

‘Cheers,’ you reply automatically, and begin to lean back into your seat, satisfied with the answer. Actually, no you are not at all satisfied with that answer. If anything, that raises more questions. You lean forward again.

‘Was the train rerouted or something?’ The man looks at you, blinks, and responds ‘I didn’t hear any announcements, did you?’ with a slight condescending tone and a glance towards the overhead speaker next to the digital display of the stops.

‘No.. I guess not’ you reply and slink back into your seat, then become annoyed at yourself for such a weak reply to his condescending tone, the kind of weak shit that justifies his use of tone, maybe to him at least. Maybe they rerouted the train and didn’t announce it. But why wouldn’t they? Maybe the route got changed sometime in the last week, between now and the last time Dom travelled from Manchester and Sheffield, so there would be no reason for them to announce it during this journey. Either way, fuck that guy.

Forgive others, not because they deserve forgiveness, but because you deserve peace. A quote you remember seeing on Instagram, but who said it?

It’s been another 7 minutes which you spent brooding about the condescending tone with which the man responded to your completely understandable (given the situation) question, and you decide you need to forget the whole thing. You always let things like this take too much head space, and take things too personally. It is for these reasons that in the past you have thought about the ways you could kill or severely hurt someone for a good half an hour simply because they were rude to you and made you feel small. Of course, you wouldn’t admit these thoughts to anyone else, and you certainly wouldn’t ever actually carry out any of these fantasies, would you? (Is it my impulses or my inhibitions that represent my true self?) Not the time to think about that. The pain in your asscheeks serves as a reminder of how long you’ve been sat for, and you get the urge to be proactive and find out what the fuck is going on.

You sling your black rucksack over your back and set off down the aisles to find someone else who might know what is going on. The train is lined with rows of heads in books and newspapers and phones, a few sleepers and a few talkers. Nobody but you seems to be phased by the fact the train has been in darkness for the past 25 minutes. Just a typical train journey.

((The whole cast is here))

WhAt?

You get to the end of the carriage, where the doors are. Three people stand in here, leaning against the walls. A young Asian man is stood half in front of the door that leads to the next carriage, looking at his white iPhone with one earbud in.

‘Excuse me..’ you mutter.

No movement. He hasn’t noticed you. You clear your throat with a small cough and repeat yourself, more loudly this time. Still no acknowledgement. Whatever he’s looking at must be pretty fucking engrossing. With a sigh you step forward, tap him on the arm and begin to squeeze past him, when he finally looks up and steps aside, apologising. But there’s something about the way he does it that you find a bit off, and you feel him watching you as you step between the carriages. The engine is roaring loudly here and you can hear air rushing past. You wonder if perhaps you’re not in a ridiculously long tunnel but in fact the train is just going really slowly, however it doesn’t sound that way from here. Pushing the door through to the next carriage, the first thing you notice is that the lights seem a little brighter, everything looks a little clearer. Something feels very different, but you can’t put your finger on it. You are hit with the feeling that you shouldn’t be th-

He wasn’t startled at all.

That’s it, right? The thing that felt off about the guys reaction. Surely if you were totally oblivious to someone’s presence, you’d be a little shocked by them touching you. Instead it seemed as if, upon being touched, he had just decided to become responsive. You probably just imagined that though, right? Your mind is playing tricks. You must admit, the whole situation has you a little bit spooked and you feel uneasy as hell. What if you’re not in a tunnel, what if the whole fucking world has fallen into darkness. Stupid? Yes. Impossible? Indefinitely. But fear doesn’t listen to rationality.

In the next carriage, you see an overweight 40 year old woman outfitted in a Northern Rail uniform checking tickets. She might know something. You make your way down the aisle until you are stood near her, and wait for her to finish dealing with the passenger she is selling a ticket to.

It is only then that you realise how quiet this carriage is. In fact, silent.

She turns towards you, looks you up and down and flashes you a polite occupational obligation of a smile that says ‘What do you want from me?’

Something about the silence of the carriage makes you feel under pressure.

‘H-has this train been re-routed..recently?’ you ask.

Why’d you have to st-stutter like that? Just like you used to every time you had to answer a question back in high school. Back when you used to wonder how people could talk so confidently all the time, how they could really own their sentences and use their words as if the act of announcing an idea would make it official and important, rather than let their thoughts leak from their mouths and be bastardised by a barrier of awkwardness and anxiety whenever they were forced to speak.

‘This is the same route as always, do you need any help?’ replies the ticket collector. This is the opposite answer to what you expected; what you wanted. A simple ‘Yes’ would have explained everything away, put your mind at rest, and you could sit back down and wait to arrive in Sheffield.

‘Then where the hell are we? Why have we been in a tunnel for half an hour?!’ you blurt out without thinking about it, and you’re surprised by your own sudden brashness.

‘Tunnel?’ she replies with genuine confusion which you cannot believe. You glance towards the windows impatiently, and her eyes follow your gaze. As before, nothing but blackness and the dark reflection of the train’s insides. The woman seems to freeze up in front of you, staring at the black rectangles on the wall with slightly raised eyebrows and a mouth held tightly shut.

What the fuck is she doing?

It feels like a whole minute before she replies. She awakes from her trance with an awkward and apologetic cough. She looks at you.

‘I think you should sit down, we will be arriving shortly.’

You are halfway about to take her orders and sit the fuck back down and wait, but now you have more questions that need confronting. The situation makes even less sense.

How the fuck hadn’t she noticed? Why has nobody else noticed?

In your head you have started a mission that you need to finish, the confusion and unfamiliarity of the situation has fed something inside you. There is something else though, isn’t there? Something making you act. Something about the way the people around you aren’t doing anything, or at least not doing anything they wouldn’t be ordinarily.

It is most obvious in the people, but it isn’t just the people.

What is it then?

The light still doesn’t look right.

Why does that matter?

‘I-I’ you begin to say something to the stewardess. ‘I demand answers’ is what is on the tip of your tongue, but think it a little dramatic to announce out loud.

‘Can I speak to the driver or something?’

‘I think you should just sit down.’

‘I want to speak to somebody else. I want to speak to the driver.’

You don’t quite know why you’re making such a big deal, but there’s no way you’re sitting down. You start to squeeze your way past her, hoping she’ll take a hint and move out of the way, as there is no way you could push your way past this obese obstruction before you. She doesn’t budge at all, in fact the opposite; the vast weight difference means a gentle shove throws you into the seats beside her.

What the fuck?! Did she really just push me?!

The obstruction takes a deep breath, giving you a malicious admonitory look before continuing down the aisle.

Confused and pissed off, you take half a minute to comprehend what just happened. Before you’ve finished thinking about what to do next, you feel yourself running towards the door on the other end of the carriage. Yes, running!  When was the last time you ran in front of other people? You can no longer even rely on your own fucking actions to be predictable.

‘Hey!’ you hear from behind you. The obstruction starts a high speed wobble down the aisle towards you, which in any other situation you would’ve found comical (followed by feeling guilty for finding it so funny), however right now, the sight of her pursuing you spurs you desperately towards the door. You swiftly push down the cold metal handle and pull open the carriage door, letting it swing into someone’s suitcase. The adjoining room is empty. Before you is the door to the driving room. You place your fingers over the handle. A meaty hand grabs your shoulder, sending electric bolts throughout your joints. Violently twisting your body round, you face The Obstruction, who you could swear has doubled in size. With all your weight and strength of desperation and madness, you shove her away from you, and are surprised by how easily her immense weight is imbalanced. You’re no physics expert, but you can see when her centre of gravity shifts beyond the back of her ankles. She falls backwards, with her rib awkwardly jamming into an armrest on the way down, creating a muffled crack like a floorboard under a carpet. She curls into a fetal position, an automatic reaction, as if you hit a reset button on her body.

Oh shit oh fuck oh shit WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Breathing hard and fast, you pull shut the carriage door and you find that hiding the situation from your view calms you a little bit. You lean against the wall; you’re sweating and your head throbs.

You look up and see the blue door that leads to the driving room.

What are you going to ask the driver? What do you expect to find out?

Questions like that stopped needing answering a while ago. The feeling you don’t belong feels stronger than ever. Rationality is out the window. It doesn’t matter what is behind that door, something doesn’t want you here.

You place your hand once again on the handle and push down.

Darkness

Loud noise.

Everything becomes black. You are surrounded by pitch black nothingness, as if you’ve been transported to inside a black hole. Suddenly lines of light appear, appearing all around you and joining together, creating a wireframe model of the train around you. You think of your childhood bedroom, when the room was pitch black and the light from the hallway would shine through the gaps between the door and the doorframe, creating the outline of a rectangle.

The exploding engine and whirring wind are deafening now, as if you are outside the train.

Where am-

Suddenly silence. Light returns. You are in the room at the edge of the carriage, standing before the driving room. The door to the left of you slides open to a train station. A blue sign that says ‘Sheffield’ hangs on the brick wall across from you.

You don’t quite dare step off the train, in case upon stepping off, the ground swallows you up and everything disappears again. You look into the seating area of the carriage, where people are grabbing their bags and leaving the train at the other end of the aisle. The ticket collector is in the middle of the carriage, and she turns and gives you a service industry smile like nothing has happened. Through the windows you see the other passengers exit the train and disperse around the station, to wherever they are off to next. You consider going back to your original carriage to get your suitcase from the shelves.

What the fuck does it matter now?

Hesitantly, you alight the train now that you are the last person aboard. The station is empty apart from you and the other passengers from your train, who are making their way to the exit or to other platforms. The place feels more than just unfamiliar, but otherworldly. You need to get out of there, away from anything to do with that train.

Following the signage, you make your way to the exit. The station seems to become more and more crowded, as it should be at this time of day, as you shuffle your way towards the city centre exits.

You are outside the train station, in a kind of public square. Water rushes down giant concrete steps of a water feature. You notice the way the light reflects off the moving water. You look up at the giant cuboid buildings of the city before you, more aware than ever of how 3 dimensional they look, and you wonder what is inside them.

The next thing you take note of is the people bustling up and down the slope that leads from the train station to one of the main roads of the city centre.

It is most obvious in the people

You wonder where they are all going, and whether they have the rest of their lives to get back to, or if they just cease to exist when they go out of view.

Where do you go from here? What do you do now,`````````* when faced with what seems like undeniable proof of something part of you had always suspected. That impulsive part of you that says ‘What the fuck does it matter, if nothing matters?’. The part of you that needed to be controlled, before you acted out all of your impulses and got killed or made a killer.

Do you jump into the fountain because the water looks cool? Run into the traffic? Punch somebody in the face just to see what happens? Or does part of you still cling to what you used to fully believe, what you had to assume to be true in order to function as a cognitive being; That everything you see is real?

But reality doesn't disappear and reanimate itself before you.

What do you do when an experience throws reality itself into question?

*my cat’s contribution that I decided to leave in, she trying to help. 

[speedilyloudpaper]

1 0    t o    w i n

‘OK Jeff. Which group supported Smokey Robinson on The Tears of a Clown in 1970?’

A clock sound effect ticks.

‘Um.. I think that were The Miracles’

Ding

‘Correct, well done! Question 10, listen carefully… name the song title and artist of the following 90s one hit wonder.’

‘You’ve got this, Jeff!’ adds the radio Dj, nonchalantly. Despite his genuine admiration at Jeff’s knowledge of music, he couldn’t make himself interested in the outcome of today’s Ten to Win.

And if you think

That I've been losing my way

That's because I'm slightly blinded

And if you think

That I don't make too much sense

That's because

I'm broken minded

Jeff did have this, he remembers playing a cover of it when he was younger. Suddenly he’s back on stage of the Hillsborough Working Men’s club, clad in freshly ripped jeans and a white T shirt with the sleeves rolled over his shoulders, thrashing his bass guitar like his life depended on it. Yes, he can see the setlist in front of him in his mind’s eye.

‘I think that was... Inside, by um Stiltskin’

‘Congratulations Jeff! That’s 10 out of 10, you really do know your music. You just won yourself a digital radio!’

Jeff feels immense elation having won the quiz, indeed this is the most exciting thing that has happened to him all year.

‘Aw fantasti-’

‘Yeah really well done. Is there anyone you’d like to give a shoutout to, Jeff?’

Jeff sits on the sofa in his living room with his new smartphone held next to his ear, wearing an old Aerosmith T shirt and dressing gown. The room is small and sparsely furnished, with a threadbare carpet and dated off white floral wallpaper. Beside the sofa is a small wooden cabinet. Across the room, next to a fireplace in which stands an electric fan heater, is a huge flat screen impulse-bought television playing on mute. There are no ornaments other than a few photographs on the mantelpiece and an ashtray on the cabinet. Old and yellowing white lace curtains droop over the window, allowing in a little light. In the corner by the window sits an acoustic guitar on a black stand.

‘Um, yeah.. There’s my cousin Derek, who’ll be listening at work’ says Jeff. His cousin wouldn’t usually be the first person to enter his mind, but hearing that track had started a flood of memories of his days in his old band, which Derek, or Del back then, was the lead singer, along with his best mates Tony and Gaz on drums and guitar. The memories bring a wave of nostalgia, but also something else.

‘Also my two sons, Will and Joey, they’re both at their mother’s today, but they said they’d listen t’ the show… um.. All the fellas at work and… and’

He stares at the bare wall above the television set. Suddenly his eyes feel weary and his face feels heavy. Another memory comes to him.

He’s sitting in the passenger seat of his uncle’s van with his bandmates, their equipment in the back. BBC radio 2 is playing over the speakers, for background noise and so the guys could complain to each other about radio stations never playing ‘real music’. In truth, Jeff quite liked the old pop songs they would play, but he wouldn’t have told any of the others. He liked and respected most genres of music, which was probably what made him the most talented at writing songs for the band.

A man had just lost a quiz and was asked if he’d like to mention anybody. It was always men or women of a certain age, who would proceed to reel off a pre prepared list of people they knew like they’d just won a BAFTA, usually followed by the line ‘and anybody else who knows me that I haven’t mentioned’, like everybody they’ve ever met is listening, and they can shout in all of their faces ‘Remember me? Look at me now! I’m on radio!’, Jeff thought.

‘Listen to this guy, makin’ such a big deal of being on the radio’ grunts Tony distastefully, his elbow resting on the window frame, holding a lit cigarette out of the window. ‘I bet this feels like his 15 minutes of fame. After he hangs up he’ll go back to being a fuckin’ nobody.’ The rest nod in agreement. ‘I tell you now lads’ he continues ‘we’re not gonna be like that. We’ll be on the radio alright, just not doing a stupid quiz’

‘Hopefully we won’t be played on a crap station like this.’ adds Jeff, earning him a few chuckles from the others. He didn’t like classing people as nobodies or successes, but he did agree with his mate. In fact each member of the band had a desire to make something of themselves. He supposed it was due to angst of growing up in a small northern town, however he was sure that in himself, and perhaps the others, it came from something much deeper, didn’t it?. It was about doing more with his life than he watched those around him do. He didn’t want to live in the future, in the past or only at the weekend, he wanted to really live for every second, following his passion and putting his heart into what he did; and what he was passionate about, more than anything, was music.

‘Jeff? Sorry I’m going to have to hurry you up’

‘Um yeah. Sorry. A-and...’ he lets out a sigh and a dry laugh, almost mocking himself.

‘And everybody who knows me who I haven’t mentioned’ he hears himself say.

The nostalgia recedes like an ocean tide, leaving him empty and all too aware of the present moment, the empty flat, the familiar silence except the sound of water running through pipes and occasional quiet whoosh of a car passing outside. The radio host says something but he isn’t listening, and he’s put on hold.

Jeff thinks of all the people who know him who he hasn’t mentioned. Other members of his family, who he keeps meaning to see more often, his friends he meets at the weekends to play pool and get drunk, and his coworkers, who he sees almost every day.

Cher’s ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ plays in his ear, distorted and crackling, as he pictures the last 20 years of faces, and with the faces, memories.

The band had played regularly for three years, playing to crowds that increased in size each night, earning themselves a small following. One of their best performances was at a nightclub in Leeds, to a crowd of over a thousand people. The frenzy of the crowd was like nothing the band had seen before. People were jumping up and down and bouncing off of each other like one giant crazy pounding mass of screaming faces and waving arms that could burst through the walls. The energy that came off this thing was immense, like a powerful force that spurred the band to another level. By the end of the show, each member of the band was utterly worn out and dripping with sweat, the pickups on Gaz’s guitar were splattered with blood from his fingers (which they all found extremely cool).

It wasn’t just the performance that made that night so special for Jeff, it was also the night he met his wife. After the show, the band had gone to the club’s bar, where each had necked the most refreshing beer they would ever taste. After ordering a second they were approached by a girl with red lipstick and a big wavy hairstyle, who introduced herself as Debbie, saying how great the performance was. She was clearly drawn to Jeff more than the others, to his surprise. Admittedly, being the bass player, he was often overlooked by their female fans after the show, something that Del and Gaz would enjoy winding him up about. Because of this, and the fact he was still coated with sweat and had beer dripping from his chin, he didn’t expect her to be interested in him, but she was, and the two got on well. She had travelled with the band for a while before moving into Jeff’s flat. She saw Jeff as a perfect opportunity to get away from her parents, and the fact he played in a rock band was an added bonus. Perhaps she had rushed things a little, but she did suppose she loved him.

Six months later. The two are in the kitchen. Debbie is pregnant. The two had known for a while, yet neither had really mentioned the changes that were soon to come, especially regarding the band. Eventually she decided they’d avoided it for long enough, and brought it up one day before breakfast. She explained that having a baby meant that he’d have to get a job with a more steady income, and that he wouldn’t be able to travel as much with the band anymore. Of course Jeff had already thought about this, he just didn’t want to face the truth. On top of this, she also said that traveling with the band had had an effect on her as well, and that they weren’t spending as much time together as she’d like. This he hadn’t thought about. Obviously they weren’t the only couple to have thought about this, as a day later, the band were in Gaz’s living room, his girlfriend in the kitchen, when Gaz suggests that they call it quits on the band. They all eventually agree.

Del manages to get Jeff a job at Hardy & Co, the factory where Del’s brother worked. Jeff remembers being in the interview, sat across from some miserable looking manager, who had huge bags under his eyes and yellowed uneven teeth and sour breath, trying to explain his O levels and how hard he was willing to work blah blah blah, when all he could really think about was leaving his dreams and passion behind for a 9 to 5 job that meant nothing to him. He got the job and since then life had gone on like it does for most. He and Deborah got married. The baby was born followed by another a year later. At the factory he worked his way from floor assistant to supervisor. He struggled to think of anything that had made his life much different from the thousands of other ‘nobodies’ his age, apart from, maybe, the fact that his wife cheated on him. Then again that might be more common than you think, he thought, if television dramas are anything to go by.

Of course, he hadn’t spent his life in misery, dwelling on the fact that his band never became a major success. He’d had his ups and downs like anybody. There had been moments of immense happiness, such as his wedding day or when he held his children for the first time. In fact, until hearing that song in the radio quiz, he hadn’t thought about his band or old dreams in a few years. He never forgot his love of music either, as he was always listening to new tapes and CDs, and was known by his colleagues as the man to go to to settle an argument about who topped the charts in what year, or who played a certain song. He had a job to do all day, friends to meet at the weekend, and kept himself entertained in his free time, like everyone does.

Only seeing the years flash before him now made it seem so empty and pointless, leaving him feeling overwhelmed with regret and hopelessness and with a sinking in his chest. He felt like he’d failed himself. Like he’d let himself down. He couldn’t just blame himself though, and he started to feel irritated at the whole world for screwing things up for him.

His talent, his dreams, his passion for music had come to nothing. Well, he had gained one thing from it all; winning this radio quiz. Maybe he’d impressed a few listeners. Maybe he’d --

‘Hello? Is that Jeff’

Jeff stands up quickly when he hears the voice, remembering he should be ecstatic that he’s won the quiz, but unable to shake that strange mix of wistfulness and exasperation.

‘Yeah... still here’

When did I become such a fucking failure

‘Hi, congrats on winning today’s quiz. Could you please tell us your full name and address so we can send you your Sony D.A.B radio?’

This is what his lifelong love for music had come down to. This is what he had to show for it all. A Sony D.A.B fucking radio. Maybe he could show it off to visitors. Maybe people would ask him where he got it from, and he could tell them how he had won the quiz. It wasn’t much but it was something. He snickers at himself again, sardonically.

‘Yeah yeah, it’s um Jeff Stephens--’

The phone beeps.

‘Hello?’

No reply.

He takes the phone away from his ear and looks at the screen. Instantly he realises the stupid phone has hung up, like it keeps doing all the fucking time. I don’t even get the fucking radio. He isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or cry.

He stands motionless in the silent room for a few seconds. The empty hole inside him has quickly filled with white-hot rage.

‘FUCK!’ he screams at the top of his voice, straining the veins in his face.

‘FUCKING SHIT FUCKING--’ he aggressively lobs the piece of shit smartphone at his guitar in the corner, smashing the screen, snapping the case and leaving a huge dent in his guitar.

‘PIECE OF SHIT’ he yells, his voice faltering this time. He collapses into the sofa, his anger becoming despair.

‘Stupid fucking phone’ he cries.

‘Stupid fucking guitar, fucking band’ tears fill his eyes.

‘Fucking job... fucking kids...fucking...all this shit’

He opens his mouth to say something else but doesn’t, and slumps back further into his sofa and he doesn’t move for a while.

[speedilyloudpaper]

Nothing Gets Past Jack

‘Say it one more time and I might believe you’ says Jack with a sneer. The two British soldiers stare at each other tensely in the crumbling blown out house somewhere in France.

‘I was just saying you’d … die a hero-’ replies Rick, his best friend, with whom he had enlisted.

‘Yeah, I heard what you said. Is that supposed to make me ok with all of this? Or is it just to clear your conscience?’

‘Don’t.. Don’t say that, Jack.’ whispers Rick, and it comes out like a sorrow sigh. ‘If one of us doesn’t stay, they’ll come looking for both of us…Besides…’ he pauses, resenting for a second the fact that the bastard has made him explain himself, before dismissing the thought.

(you’re basically asking him to kill himself)

‘I have a wife. I have three children, whereas you... you…’ he continues, looking down at his feet, ashamed of what he was about to say. The fact was that Jack had no family. Not anymore. Everyone in their home town knew what had happened to him, and avoided speaking of it at all costs. Many of them had been to the funeral of his poor baby boy, who died less than an hour after birth.

His son’s funeral was undoubtedly the worst day of Jack’s life, he remembered seeing the coffin and thinking that one so small should not exist in a world overlooked by God. What had stuck with him even more was what the priest had told him afterwards.

‘There’s a special place in Heaven for children that die just as yours did’ Father John had said with a grimace. Jack would think about this alot in the months afterwards. In fact, it was this that was on his mind when everybody else was discussing the international implications of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. It was still on his mind when patriotic young men up and down the country signed themselves up for a one way journey across the English channel.

What bothered him was that it didn’t seem to align at all with what he had been taught in school by Sister Ruth when learning about Baptism, that we are all born with original sin, passed down through procreation since Adam and Eve. My son died a sinner, he must have.

You see, the fact that nothing would get past Jack, the fact he would never allow anyone to trick him or bullshit him, was also a burden in some respects. He had been raised very religiously and remained as faithful as anybody, so he didn’t question what the priest had said. However, he could never fully accept it. It always seemed like a lazy attempt to disregard something so tragic. Hey, sometimes bad things happen, that’s just life, baby! But don’t you go thinking too much about it, it’s all part of His plan! Everything is A-Okay!  But Jack did think about it, and it ate away at him every single day.

‘You know I don’t let people bullshit me, Rick. Did you really think I would go for that newsreel spiel? Or did you just want me to make you think I had?’ spits out Jack, annoyed. ‘Of course I know this is how it has to be’ he says, lighter now.

‘Go! Go and get back to your family, Rick. Get back to your kids. Of course I want them to see their father again... I’m OK with this’

Rick stands up to leave, determined. He looks down at Jack who is sat at his feet.

‘I’m sorry Jack. I shouldn’t have tried to-’

‘Try to bullshit me?’ says Jack and smiles. ‘It’s ok, I understand completely. Now go, they’ll be here any minute now’ Rick glances one last look at his comrade, his best friend, and smiles.

‘Nothing gets past you, Jack’ he says with a wink.

Jack sits on his own now with his back against the wall, and prays for his friends safety. It is eerily quiet except for the sound of shells being dropped miles away. The war has moved on from this unfamiliar town, leaving only a small number of survivors keeping low in the skeletal remains of the town houses, like rats in a gutter. The small group of German soldiers who have been sent to clear up can be heard coming down the street. Jack understands why Rick had said what he did. In a situation like this, the idea of dying a hero is all you have left.

‘Die a hero’... ‘A hero’s death’... ‘You’ll die a hero’ he whispers to himself over and over.

A german boot kicks down the door.

He stands up and tightens his grip on his rifle. He thinks the phrase over in his head a few more times. (Die a hero, Jack)

The germans are in the middle of the adjacent room by now.

‘What a load of shit!’ he says aloud, rushing out from behind the wall, sprinting towards the group of four Germans with his bayonet fronted empty rifle held out in front of him in a desperate last attack.

Nothing gets past Jack.

Instead, the five 8mm caliber bullets from the Mauser rifle sunk deep into his chest.

The Germans exit the house back onto the cobbled street.

‘I think that’s the last of them,’ says one recruit to the others, speaking in German.

‘They will be expecting us back’

Their voices can be heard two houses down the street, where one British soldier crouches behind a wall with his rifle against his chest and his heart beating in his ears. If he was able to understand their language he would’ve known he had been saved, and can now begin his long journey back to his three children.