Prose

Tiger Man (Short Story Extract)

Barnoldswick; or Barlick to the locals is a terraced maze of mill stone grit, cinderblock and sandstone. The town centre is serviced by a network of narrow cobbled streets, most stemming from the wide and winding Church Street, where six of Barlick’s eight pubs hide from each other around corners. From above, Barnoldswick is shaped roughly like England, which suits the territorial nature of the residents. The town’s proudest historical moment was in 1147, when monks from Fountains Abbey scrapped plans to build a monastery in the area after being run out of town for interfering too much in local matters.

One Saturday in late August, Marie Whitt was jogging through the picturesque market square, encircled by seventeenth century stone buildings with glass and wrought iron awnings. The intense morning sunlight mirrored off the shop windows like a heliograph and she shielded her eyes with her hand as she ran. Her purple trainers thumped and crunched against the asphalt in steady rhythm with her breathing. She ran through a snicket between two stone buildings leading to Church Street and had just rounded the corner when a broad shout followed her.
“Fuck me; Marie Fit’s been on her Wii Fit.”
This nickname was countered with another girl in Barlick called Marie Platt, who they called ‘Marie fat’. While undoubtedly the prettier of the two, Marie’s face seemed to point like an arrow through her feathery black hair, giving her a hard-faced look. When she smiled, her eyes narrowed into slits, and her tongue would often curl seductively around her right incisor, revealing the tongue piercing she’d had done in Burnley.
When Marie stopped to look at the street behind her, a couple of lads she knew from school were leaning on their bikes by the newsagents. Hearing the boy’s shout, a stocky girl with yellow hair extensions lurched from the shop door.
“You,” she said, jabbing her finger towards Marie. “What the hell are you playing at sneaking round town taking pictures of people?”
“I didn't have to sneak around to catch you making a show of yourself Tara,” Marie said, catching her tongue piercing on her teeth but not smiling.
“Well congratulations Marie, you’ve broken up someone’s family.”
“I think Judy would say it was you who broke up her family,” Marie said. “Perhaps now you’ll be more careful what you say about me and my father.”
“I never broadcast anything over the internet. Your vicious little blog has ruined people’s lives.” Tara remained by the doorway but continued to jab her finger, now thrusting from the shoulder.
Marie walked steadily towards her. “You’re the one who ruins peoples’ lives. You did it when you got off with your best mate’s dad and you did it when you spread your little rumours about me.” She jabbed her finger into Tara’s chest.
“Don’t you touch me,” Tara snapped, pushing Marie with both hands.
Marie skipped like a netball player, swinging her arm around. It sailed through the air, slapping Tara full force in the left ear.
Tara cried out, cradling her head in her hands. “You mad bitch, wait until my dad finds out.”
“I don’t think you’re in his best books at the moment, do you? I’ve probably saved him a job.” Marie shouted, her hands trembling at her sides. She looked at the crimson stain spreading across the side of Tara’s face and turned away, wiping her running nose and eyes.
The two lads had been watching this unfold in dumb amusement, but as Marie jogged towards the canal the same broad shout followed her. “Get in, Mohammed Mah-rie.”

Tony ‘Tiger Man’ Taylor was sitting on the deck of his barge in his shades, enjoying the sunshine. He had forsaken his leather trousers for denim cut-offs, but couldn’t part with his cowboy boots. He normally wore his long grey hair loose, but was wearing it in a ponytail to keep the balmy heat from his neck. The water quilted in the breeze and lapped the concrete embankments of the canal in rhythm with the boat’s movement. A mallard scooted a trail over the golden brown surface and something else slipped into the water ahead of him, possibly an otter. Midges gathered like a gas cloud around Tony’s head, he swished his arm around his face occasionally to keep them away.
The sound of sluicing water was accompanied by a dull thumping, gradually increasing in volume. Marie was bounding towards him down the canal path, nearly upon him before he saw her.
“What you up to, loser?” she said, grinding to a halt beside his boat.
“Just rocking. Did you want to film something?”
“I’ve filmed you here a million times; it defeats the object of the game.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” she said, flicking her eyes away.
“You could come inside if you want.”
“No,” she squealed. “Fucking perv, you’d like that wouldn’t you? Lure me into your floating turd and abuse me.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”
“You’re too ugly, and I’m old enough to be your granddad,” Tony said, placing a hand on his hip. “I just thought you might want to film inside the boat.”
Marie looked at him, stroking her incisor with her tongue. “Fine,” she said eventually. “I’ll film inside. Bet you have weird shit in there.”
“Dead bodies and stuff?” Tony smiled.
“I never said anything about dead bodies.”
Tony rose and held his hand out; she hesitated before taking it, and then hopped across the narrow gap from land to water.
Inside the barge looked like the gipsy caravans that sometimes parked up in Brook Field. Marie’s dad had once had some dealings with them and taken her along. She remembered thinking each possession whoever lived there owned must be on display. They had always seemed glamorous, like film stars’ trailers. Most of Tony’s Elvis costumes were hung on a rail along one side. They sparkled, even in the dim light of the cabin. An old record player was on the table, a few LPs strewn around it like satellites; Elvis, Roy Orbison, more Elvis. He had a modest collection of memorabilia; a few mugs, a picture hanging lopsided by the kettle. The room smelled sweet and strangely floral for a man’s home.
“It smells like air fresheners in here,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It’s like having your head down a chemical toilet.”
“I’m sure you’ve been there often.” Tony smiled.
She ignored him, hopping from leg to leg to feel the floor sway.
“I bet it’s nice at night,” she said, “It’d be like being rocked to sleep.”
“I rock all the time,” Tony said, smiling.
She shot him a contemptuous look and glanced around the room, zoning in on an object on a corner shelf. She went to pick it up; it was a plastic Elvis figurine, similar to a Ken doll, supported in its unnatural stance by a metal hook stand and a noose around its neck. She raised an eyebrow at him then took her phone from her bag and started to film.
“Where is he this week? Inside his barge, and he’s hanging effigies of Elvis.” She zoomed in on the figure and turned towards Tony. “Explain yourself.” She smirked behind the camera.
“Give it a rest Marie,” he said in Elvis-speak. “You know I’m the King reincarnated.”
“Except you were probably born before him.”
“I’m the King and I can prove it.” Tony burst into song. “—Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times they’re not forgotten—”
“—Go away, go away, go away, little man—” Marie finished, snapping her phone shut.
“Not good enough for you?”
“I’ve heard better.” She picked up one of his records and turned it over in her hands. “My dad liked this one,” she said, pointing at one of the tracks listed on the back. “He used to sing it to me in the bath.”
“Well he won’t be singing much where he is now,” Tony said, taking the record from her.
Marie’s head snapped up. “That’s my father you’re talking about.”
“How can you stick up for him after what he did?”
She tried to snatch the record back from him but he caught her wrist, his fingertips pressing hard into her flesh and held the record behind him in the air.
“Fuck. You,” she said, twisting from his grip and stalking to the exit.
“I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave,” Tony called, before the flimsy door banged behind her.
The Monkroyd housing estate was near the site of the ancient monastery, or what the monks had managed to build of it. Marie’s house was jammed into a row, all with a similar hollowed out appearance. The grey rendering on the outside needed re-doing and the plastic framed windows looked as if they would rattle in their frames. When she arrived home, her older brother Sean was perched on the chintz sofa, shoulders poking from his work shirt with the Rolls Royce logo appliquéd on the breast. Her laptop was open on his knee.
“Why are you looking at that?” she said, wincing afterwards.
“Why are you following old men round town and making them out to be fools?” he demanded, ignoring her tone.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen your blog, Where’s Wally with all your videos of Tony Taylor.”
“That?” She smiled. “He’s just a sad old loser.”
“Stalking Tony, making him play that toy guitar in town, filming him on the swings; it has to stop. You know he’s not quite right.” Sean slammed the laptop shut and put it aside. “I wouldn’t give a shit, personally but Nan’s been screeching at me down the phone all morning.”
“He loves the attention, he doesn’t get it,” Marie said, shaking her head.
“I don’t think you get it either. What’s wrong with you lately?” He pulled her down beside him. “The weight’s falling off you, I hardly recognise you.” He stroked her hand with his little finger. “You’re never in the house.”
“I’ve been busy,” she said, moving away from his touch.
“I can see that,” he said, grabbing her roughly round the arm. “Now what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” she said, staring defiantly at his angular features, very much like her own.
Sean’s face contorted and he raised his arm as if to strike. At the last minute he slowed and instead stroked her hair, laughing as she flinched.



The Man Next Door (Short Story Extract)

I was an artist, before I lost my sight. My wife Pat and I used to have a little gallery in a village called Ingleton up in the Peaks. She was a potter and I painted. Her work cluttered every surface in our house: vases, perfectly rounded at the base, blooming into stunted shapes, like castle ruins; jugs with wilting lips and fragile willowy handles; sweeping shallow bowls, like meandering rivers. I couldn’t see them properly but I liked to pick them up and feel their weight in my hands. The glaze she used had little bumps in it that reminded me of Braille. Sometimes I felt real words in them, but could never find them again.

After I gave up painting, Pat encouraged me to sculpt. I would model the clay and she would fire and glaze the pieces. The first sculpture we made was for our Gold Wedding. It was of four hands, clasped together. Two male hands on the outside, square and brutish, and the delicate female hands inside, like a butterfly emerging. I used to think the hands were clasped in love and friendship. Now when I hold it, all I sense is desperation.
Once my sight started to go, we bought a house on Clapham Road, along with the rest of the old fogies. The day after we moved in, the man next door came round. I could just about make out that he had a mass of curly grey hair. Pat always had a very expressive face, at that point I could still see whether she was smiling or frowning. The man next door’s face was like a muddy pool, his head perfectly static as he delivered each careful word.
“Good morning, I’m your neighbour, name’s Joe,” he grasped for my hand. His handshake was cold and businesslike.
“I thought I’d best introduce myself, I do a few odd jobs here and there for people. Not for money of course, I’m not on a sales pitch here,” he chuckled quickly, but still his blank face seemed not to move below the grey fuzz.
“I’ve been coping alright so far thank you very much,” I said stiffly.
“I didn’t mean any offence, I was just thinking I could cut the grass for you when I do mine,” he paused, “Anything you need help with, just ask.”
Without answering I started back into the house. Pat surprised me by touching my shoulder, I hadn’t realised she was behind me.
“That would be very kind of you; we used to pay a young lad to do that at our old house.” She leant past me to shake the man’s hand. She had always been shy with strangers; she had a peculiar habit of holding her breath for a second after she had finished speaking with them. She didn’t hold her breath for the man next door. Even by then, that wasn’t the only thing that had changed about her.

It was a year to the day since we had moved into the house. Not that we celebrated it. I was in my chair listening to one of my audio books when I saw Pat’s shape advance upon me.
“Len, there’s a fire in the living room.”
“What’s on fire?”
“Under the window, the white box is on fire. It’s red hot, scalding,” she cried.
I went through to the living room. I couldn’t smell smoke. It felt a bit warm but we had the heating on. I rubbed her back.
“Show me this fire.”
She led me towards the window, where the radiator was.
“It’s going to set the curtains alight soon, I know it.”
“Pat, that’s a radiator. It’s meant to be hot, that’s how we keep the house warm.”
“But the man next door came round and said it was too hot and it could catch fire.”
“When did this happen? I didn’t hear the doorbell.”
“He came round when you were in the other room.”
I hardly left the house at that point. I was afraid to take Pat out in case somebody noticed the change in her. As her memory worsened, so did my sight, and the more she blamed the man next door for everything, the more I grew to hate him. The more I hated him, the more he wanted to help. I had kept Pat away from him successfully so far, but I knew before too long he would become suspicious.
I started to dream about him. It was the same each time. I was sat in a stiff-backed wheelchair, my feet balanced wantonly on the cold metal rests. Something thick and cold was slithering down my chin. The air smelled of warm cabbage and disinfectant. The man next door swiped my chin with a hot, rough cloth, his musty woollen scent leaking into my nostrils as he bent over me. Dread filled my lungs like smoke as I realised I was alone in a roomful of people, and I was alone in the dark.
I started going out alone with my white stick. I was never one for staying indoors; my happiest times were in the countryside. I used to look for hours at the landscape, taking sketches, considering the view. Now the hills were a barren, sightless desert.
I headed out one morning to stretch my legs around the village. As soon as I left the front door I could feel Joe’s presence, a rusty creaking and snipping noise indicating he was trimming my hedges.
“Morning Len.”
“Joe.” I nodded in his direction.
“You alright going out by yourself? Shouldn’t Pat be with you?”
“I can manage fine, Joe. I’m not an invalid.” I rapped my stick on the path.
“It’s just I haven’t seen Pat for a while. Is she doing alright?”
“She’s grand. She’s been busy with her pottery.”
“I see.” He held his breath for a moment after he spoke, as Pat used to do.
I turned away from him and walked down the drive, tapping my stick as discreetly as I could.
When I got home, I went straight to my chair, tired from my walk. I could see Pat silhouetted in the light from the window, standing by the dresser. She stood there for some time, one arm stretched towards the dresser-top.
“What are you doing Pat?” I heard a heavy scraping, something being dragged across wood.
“What’s this ugly thing?” Her voice sounded strange; harsh and bitter. She had always been so soft-spoken before.
“What is it?”
“Are you blind? This, this hand thing.”
I could see her waving it around, it was the sculpture we had made, of four hands clasped together.
“It’s a sculpture we made a couple of years ago.”
“I never made this ugly old thing.” She tossed it away. It thumped dully on the carpet.
“Don’t you remember why we made that Pat? It was for our wedding anniversary, it was the first sculpture I made since my sight went.”
“Wedding? We got married did we?” She seemed to soften slightly at this revelation. She moved towards me. As she sat down, the faint smell of soup wafted from her. Her hands were warm and damp when I took them in mine.
“Yes Pat, we’ve been married a long time, most of our lives.”
She squeezed my thumb gently. “I didn’t realise.”
“Remember the summer when we were courting, we took a picnic up to the Waterfalls Walk. The sun had warmed the water right up. We dipped our bare feet into the shallows and the clay was hot between our toes. Remember it Pat?”
“Yes,” she said, after a pause.
“I had to dig the cork from the wine with my pen knife, and we swigged it from the bottle.”
“I don’t like wine, it plays hell with my indigestion,” Pat broke in conversationally. Her hands were warm and loose between mine, I gripped tighter.
“You love wine. We drank the whole bottle that afternoon; I needed it, I was so nervous.” I gently let go of her right hand and found the ring on her left. “My feet were still in the clay when I put this on your finger. More than fifty years ago.”
There was an awkward silence.
“That’s nice dear.” She held her breath after she had finished talking, as she used to do with strangers. “So where’s your wife now? Did she pass on?”
I tired easily. I found myself falling asleep on the sofa several times a day. I could never sleep for long before Pat came and woke me up. I tried to sleep in the bedroom one afternoon, but after half an hour, there she was.
“The boiler is going to explode; we have to turn it off.”
“No we don’t Pat, there’s nothing wrong with the boiler, it’s fine.” I turned away and pulled the covers over my head.
“It is, the man next door just came round and said he can hear it roaring from his house. He says it’s dangerous and we have to get rid of it.” She flipped the covers away. I rolled out of bed.
“This man next door is causing you all sorts of worry coming round and saying things about the boiler. I’d best go and talk to him myself.”
Pat quickly interjected, “No, you can’t. He’s not there.”
“You said he just came round, where’s he gone?”
“He’s gone on his holidays. That’s why he came round about the boiler. He didn’t want his house to explode while he was away.”
I have been afraid of growing old since the death of my father. By the end, he was blind, incontinent and completely dependent on my mother. Seeing him like that didn’t just leave me with a sense of pity. It stole the memory of my father. The austere and revered figure of my childhood was transformed into a sallow, smelly burden.
Before I lost my sight, my nightly ritual was to study my face in the bathroom mirror. I would examine the lines in my face, still smooth and young in my mind. I thought I wouldn’t miss the sight of that weathered old man staring back at me, but I was wrong. My face was one of the things I missed the most, apart from Pat’s. She was the woman I married in looks alone. Even her voice seemed different. I still kept up my ritual in the only way I could. Each night, when I washed my face and brushed my teeth, I would stare in the mirror, at the glowing reflection of the light bulb. This had become my sunset.