INDE-POL

For your light relief, some fiction.
WARNING: Some stories could contain disturbing scenes.

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EURO STREET

Anthony North

It had been a sorry tale.
Of course, there was no way it could have been avoided. When you place so many disfunctional and antagonistic families of so many different persuasions in a single street, anarchy is bound to be the outcome. And so it had. And although it had been a long time ago since the trouble, an uneasy peace pervaded the whole area.
It was Mr French and Mr German who took the first moves to ease the problem. Although bitter enemies, they decided to meet and talk and try to get it together. Remarkably, there was a definite spirit about the meeting – a real feeling that it was stupid to have more trouble. Agreement was obviously just around the corner, and in a spirit of togetherness, other neighbours decided to join in the discussions. Although it was a fact that when Mr English turned up, Mr French looked at him with distaste and said: ‘No.’
Eventually, it was decided they would all meet regularly at Mr Belgium’s house to make sure they didn’t fight again, and see what they could do to help each other socially and economically.
This, it was agreed, was important, for money was tight. ‘And being so tight,’ said Mr German, ‘why don’t we all shop together at the supermarket. Pool our needs and we’ll save a fortune. ‘
Mr French was inclined to agree, as long as Mr English did his own shopping.
Thus the entire street – bar Mr English – did their shopping as one. And as the mood of friendliness and prosperity increased, it was even agreed to let Mr English join the club. However, it wasn’t long before the arguments began.
‘And why can’t we fish at the bottom of your garden,’ said them all to Mr English, who had the only garden to reach down to the river.
‘Because it’s mine. And if you try to fish there, I’ll push you out.’
Eventually, the problem with Mr English’s fish was overcome and a relative peace descended once more. But it has to be said that now and again, when they all got together, the silliest ideas came out.
Typical was the time when Mr German decided that the bananas from the supermarket were too bent. ‘They’re too bent,’ shouted Mr German as they met in Mr Beligium’s house. And rather than deciding the whole thing was silly, they agreed, sending an ultimatum to the supermarket that they wanted standard shaped bananas or they’d go elsewhere.
As is often the  case in such exclusive little clubs, the time comes when one or two members decide they want the rules to be more clearly defined. Just what kind of ‘club’ were they in, and how far did the reach of the committee go? Did it simply extend to getting in the shopping, or did it have the right to tell people how to live inside their own house?
Mr French and Mr German decided the latter. Mr English predictably played up, but eventually a new agreement was made that from now on the street committee had a right over everything. And thus the dictats began:
‘Mr English, will you please put that fag out in the street.’
‘Mr German, will you stop hogging the li-lo in the communal garden.’
Predictably, it was Mr French and Mr German who eventually realised that perhaps the families in the street no longer had the right to be families at all. Maybe it was time to give each member rights above the family, and even interfere to standardise each family’s individual house housekeeping.
Some, of course, agreed. Mr English did not. Rather, he prevaricated and argued and eventually he said ’stuff you.’
Mr French felt somewhat vindicated by this, knowing that Mr English shouldn’t have been allowed to join the club in the first place. Reluctantly Mr German agreed. But without Mr English to cause Mr French and Mr German to side with each other, it wasn’t long before Mr French and Mr German began squabbling between themselves. And when they eventually looked in the mirror and saw they had submerged their identity to the point that they looked just the same, they too said ’stuff you’ and the antagonisms began all over again.
 
© Anthony North, October 2001

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 LOVE AND MARRIAGE
 
Anthony North
 
‘Hello darling, you’re back,’ said Miranda, looking resplendent in her long black hair and thick black mascara. ‘You’ve been gone such a long time.’
Lucy sighed; sat on the settee opposite her friend. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘but I had to try something different.’
Miranda sighed. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘you young ones; you just won’t stick to the good old ways.’
Lucy offered a deeper sigh. ‘I know, I know, but we always think we know best. And what’s wrong with a little bit of experimentation?’
Miranda had to agree, but with a proviso. ‘Oh yes, it’s all very well, but you’ve wasted such a long time.’
A silence followed, but eventually Miranda said: ‘So what have you been doing with yourself?’
Lucy sat up straight. Said: ‘I got married.’
 ’You what?’
‘I got married.’
‘But why on earth did you want to do that?’
 ’To see if it would work.’
Miranda looked at her suspiciously. ‘And how on earth could it?’ she asked.
Lucy smiled. ‘Easy. It was straight after the honeymoon that I said to him: “It’s about time I had a new wardrobe.” And straight away he handed over the money. And I spent it all and went back for more, and then the house needed decorating and then I thought: how about a new car. And it took ages for him to complain. But I didn’t stop there, and soon we moved into a bigger house, and of course it needed decorating and by then all my clothes were out of fashion. Well, you can see how it went.’
Miranda was impressed by her cunning. ‘Good idea,’ she said, ‘I’m beginning to see how it could work.’
‘Oh, but I didn’t stop there,’ said Lucy.
‘You didn’t?’
‘Oh no. It started on the honeymoon, did the next plan. Three times we did it on the first night, and for the following week we kept up the pace. And just when we got back, when he thought he’d have time to recover, I upped it to four. And by the end of the month I was demanding five times a night with a quickie for lunch.’
‘That must have taken its toll,’ said Miranda.
‘Oh, it did. But I said to him, you give me it all the time or I’ll be unfaithful.’ She laughed. ‘Oh dear, poor chap. I began to see the weight fall off him, his eyes go red – he looked completely drained.’
‘Wicked!’ said Miranda, ‘it sounds great.’
‘It was,’ continued Lucy, ‘but I didn’t stop there.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Oh no, I still wanted to have fun.’
‘But what was left?’
‘His ego, of course. And my soul-destroying ways began even before the wedding service. “You’re too fat,” I said to begin with, and after a while it was, “I’m sure you could improve your image.” You should have seen his confidence disappear, and when I began to question his virility, his intelligence, his manliness. Good grief, by the time I had finished he was a drained, empty shell.’
Miranda collapsed in tears of laughter. ‘Marvellous’ she said, but added: ‘Though I think I’m a little too old to change my ways.’
And so it was that, as darkness fell, she showed her fangs and disappeared into the night.
 
© Anthony North, March 2002

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RUMPELSTILTSKIN – An Adaptation

Anthony North

There once was a poor speculator who, no matter how hard he tried, just could not pull off enough deals to make himself rich. However, he did have a beautiful daughter who was so clever that he told his multi-national boss that she could literally spin gold. For a long time the Boss thought this was mere spin, but after a while he decided to put the girl to the test. Hence, one day she found herself locked in a mergers and acquisitions chamber with nothing but computers and phones for company. ‘And you cannot come out,’ said the Boss, ‘until you’ve made me fantastically rich.’
The daughter was worried by this because she knew that her father’s claims WERE all spin; and even the Prozac didn’t help her growing depression. But at this point a strange little man walked into the chamber and said: ‘For twenty per cent of the profit, I will spin so well that I will make gold.’
The girl agreed, and so the little man sat down at a desk and spun fantastically on the phones, buying this company and merging that until he amassed a fantastic fortune.
Thanking the little man, the girl phoned the Boss, who was most pleased with what she had done. However, having an instinct for gaining wealth, and a greed even bigger than his instinct, the Boss locked her in the chamber again and told her to make him even more money.
The girl popped another Prozac and wished that the little man was still there, whereupon he appeared once more. Quickly explaining the position to him, she said: ‘So can you please help me again?’
The little man thought hard. He, too, was very greedy and eventually said: ‘Of course I will, little girl, but only for forty per cent of the profits.’
The girl thought about this, and even though she had no idea how she was going to spirit away forty per cent of the profits, she said: ‘Okay.’
Thus the little man sat down once more at the desk and again did deals with such brilliance that it could only be classed as spinning gold.
‘Oh, thankyou,’ said the girl as the little man disappeared again. Then she phoned the Boss. He was over the moon, but still not satisfied. Rather, he said: ‘Make me even more of a fortune and I’ll marry you.’
The girl wasn’t really sure that she wanted to marry this sleazy, greedy, opinionated control-freak, but not wanting to cause trouble for her father, she popped yet another Prozac and wished so much for the little man to appear again. And just as she wished, he appeared.
‘Oh, little man,’ she said, ‘the Boss wants me to make even more money. What shall I do?’
‘Have no fear, little girl,’ said the even smaller man, ‘I will make more money than anyone has ever done before. But,’ he advised, ‘I want one hundred per cent of the profits.’
This was a bit of a shock to the girl. How could she make the Boss rich if the little man wanted it all? But she could worry about that later. For the moment, she simply said, ‘thankyou,’ and the little man sat down at the desk, juggled the phones, scanned the computer, and made more money than anyone had done before – indeed, he made more money than there was in the world.
‘Oh, thankyou, thankyou,’ said the little girl, ‘but I don’t know how I can give you one hundred per cent of the profits. What shall I give the Boss?’
At first the little man thought ‘well you’re marrying him, aren’t you,’ but actually said to her: ‘I’ll tell you what. I’m going away now, but if, tomorrow, you can tell me what I am, I’ll let you have all the money for the Boss.’
After the little man had gone the girl popped yet another Prozac, thinking that this fast track life was very fast. However, thinking on her feet, she sent some assistants out to bring her every newspaper they could find. Maybe, she reasoned, there would be a hint as to what the little man was in current affairs. But by the time he returned the following day, she was not confident that she could identify him.
‘Are you a commodities speculator?’ she asked.
 ’I am not,’ said the little man.
‘Then are you a drugs cartel launderer?’ she asked.
 ’I most certainly am not,’ said the little man.
Which left the girl in a difficult position. Once more she scanned the newspapers, reading report after report until they all seemed to mingle in her head. And it was then that she had a flash of insight.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘you’re New Labour.’
The little man’s face dropped and, found out, he walked out without his profit.
 
© Anthony North, April 2002

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FIRST BLOOD

Anthony North

Do they know I’m out here? Do they know back home? Do they know I’m here, in these freezing mountains, saving their freedom? Do they know I’m here, putting my life on the line for THEM!?
Do they care?
It’s a week into the mission now. We’ve no real intelligence; no real battleplan. We just keep buggering on in the hope that we’ll find something to kill. That’s how war goes, much of the time. But it doesn’t stop my feet getting cold.
It bites into you does the cold. I know, we’ve got all the equipment to keep it out, but you’re out in these conditions, in these altitudes, day after day and night after night; it creeps in through the mind. And no clothing – and no equipment – will keep it out then.
Variation would help a bit, I’m sure. But for nearly a week now it’s been the same. Join the special forces and guarantee an exciting life, we were told. And we swallowed it, thinking we could break the mould of war, of 5% action and 95% boredom. But war is war and the unwritten rules hold and my feet are cold.
Do they know I’m out here? Back home?
And on we yomp – and on. Over that rise and through that valley in a neverending up and down up and down world. And so silent, so surreal, so uninviting. Of course, the 5% will come. It has to. You can’t invade a country for a week, forever on the move, forever breaking cover, without eventually being seen and intercepted. Not if it is a real army we’re fighting.
And finally that moment comes.
It’s only a small village we spy from the top of the rise. It’s about a mile ahead, down in the valley, peaceful and warm, the odd puff of smoke from some cosy and warm house. But those trucks don’t look civilian. They look military, don’t they.
The first indication of action came ten minutes later as we moved imperceptibly down the slope. Honed to notice the slightest movement ahead, the forward scout crouched instinctively and fired as the head popped up from the rock and took a shot. He was dead before his bullet whizzed harmlessly past our position.
I’d wondered how I’d perform when it came – that first firefight. I’d feared the time with the same intensity that the adrenalin pleaded for it to come. But now that it was here, and I was in the action, I don’t think I thought about it at all. Maybe all the discipline, all the shouting, all the stupidity and pettiness of our training pays off.
I went straight into an instinctive roll down that slope, controlled and headed straight for the cover of the rocks. In position, I came up to a crouch, brought the M16 to the shoulder and looked to my front. There must have been a dozen of them out there, firing and charging and rolling and crouching as they attacked.
Always aim for the biggest part of the body, we were told, then you’re guaranteed a kill, and my weapon spat, thudding its butt into my shoulder with its recoil. And I saw one fall in a fountain of blood, followed by another.
It was an intense firefight. It seemed to go on for ever, but I doubt it was more than twenty seconds before they began to retreat down the slope. Controlled, always covering each other, we descended after them, hoping to catch up before they reached the cover of the buildings in the village.
Most of them we got before they reached it, and I never thought once about the morality of shooting fleeing people in the back. After all, they WERE fleeing to gain better positions to kill me. But to the village, some of them escaped.
There is always an added tension when it comes to moving into an enclosed, man-made area. The instinct of the wild plays tricks, for in so many parts of the battlefield are signs of humanity, and it confuses. But nevertheless we moved in, forever covering each other’s backs, forever spying this way and that and behind. And occasionally the light crackle of the quick burst as an enemy is spied and popped.
And then my turn. It seems no more than a pile of rubble to my front, but I hear the unmistakable sound of movement behind. With a roll, I traverse the gap between one wall and another, coming to my feet with my weapon prone. Just a few metres more and I’ll be round and ready to fire. And instinctively, so instinctively I move, see flesh and fire ….
… and cry.
The mother and child look so peaceful in their eternal, bloodied sleep.
 
© Anthony North, October 2001

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For lots more fiction, see FICTION post on the What’s Where page of the Eye Blog.