6. Only words
By alan_benefit
- 935 reads
Monday 5th December 2005: 5.20pm
So. A day for endings and beginnings. A day to haul anchor on the past, yank the wheel around, put up the mainsail, head for the horizon and see what was over it.
And I wasn't the only one, it seemed¦
I'd just cleared my stuff away and put some clothes on when there was a knock at the door. It was Yoyo, come to return a hammer he'd borrowed a couple of days before. He didn't say what he wanted it for and I didn't ask ' though I noticed, in taking it back, a dark red splotch of something on the head. I still didn't ask. His business is his business.
He didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave ' leaning against the door frame, arms folded, looking down at me from behind his Bono wrap-around shades. When I say looking down, I should point out that although I'm 6' 4, the top of my head just about reaches his nose. And whereas I'm a bendy 12-stoner, he's a rather more implacable 20. He holds a 1st Dan in Bujinkai karate, but regularly floors the 4th Dan instructors at his dojo. He says he does it for self-defence ' joyfully oblivious of the fact that his sheer physical presence is a good enough defence mechanism in itself. No porridge-faced chavvy boy in a Peugeot 205 is ever going to tell him to "Git art ma fookin' way, twat or take the piss out of his pink mohican. This is a man who has industrial machinery tattooed on his body and enough piercings to make a suit of armour. He goes in for black jeans, para boots and death-metal. How much more of a warning does anyone need? He bites the tops off of bottles and grinds the glass up with his teeth. He does bench presses with a car axle. He doesn't need a sign saying 'leave me alone'. If he asks to borrow a hammer, you give it to him and don't ask what for.
On the other side of it though, as I've mentioned before, he worships a goldfish called Edith. He sings to it. He favours pastel shades for interior decor. He apologises when he farts. He buys himself flowers. He sobs during the sad parts in films. After Titanic he was inconsolable, playing that fucking Celine Dion thing for weeks.
I didn't complain.
"What's on your mind, Yo? I asked him, when it became obvious that it wasn't departure. He took that as an invitation to come in and sit down. So he did ' parking his bulk on the middle of my sofa, making the cushions either side spring upwards like wings. Things creaked and sagged. It was like watching a five-ton punk-goth Buddha being lowered onto a pile of cardboard boxes.
Laconic as ever, he answered my question by handing me a postcard. On it, in disjointed script, was written:
YOYO'ES ODD GOBS
all kind of gobs
dun
widows clened
panting decrating
moving
NO GOB TO SMALL
CHEAP
01227 794783
I looked at him. His face was as blank and innocently cherubic as a child's. Yet there was something in the set of his chin that made him look like Einstein must have looked after pronouncing a certain equation for the first time. I handed the card back to him.
"What's it about then, mate?
He gazed up at me ' something only possible for him when he's seated.
"I'm setting up, mate. Think it'll do the trick?
I didn't want to upset him. I knew how sensitive he was on stuff like this.
"I think people will get the gist, mate. Just one tiny thing, though. Shouldn't 'job' have a 'j' in it?
His face froze. He lifted his shades briefly and held the card up to his eyes. Then he softened again.
"No. It's only got three letters.
"Right. It was a good enough answer. I was puzzled by something, though. "How are you going to do moving? You can't drive.
He looked at me as if he was beginning to doubt my intelligence ' not the best of reactions to provoke in him. Unless you know him, of course.
"Moving. You know. Shifting stuff about. He demonstrated with flailing hands the size of blown-up rubber gloves. "Telly over there. Sideboard where the fridge used to be. That kind of thing.
"Right. Sort of¦ sort of like feng shui?
His face went cryptic, so I didn't pursue it. But there was still one big unanswered question. Karate katas aside, Yoyo was normally a static individual. He had no economic motivation whatsoever.
Why this sudden burst of productive activity?
His face softened again. I might almost say he looked wistful. In fact, I will say it. He looked wistful. He put his hands together and started to twiddle his thumbs. Then he cleared his throat and looked up at the window. I could see the colour beginning to rise in his cheeks.
"I've¦ er¦ I've seen this girl.
Right. It clicked. I should have known. It could only be one of four things: food, drink, a scrap or a woman.
"You need a bit of money, then.
He swung his head my way. I couldn't see his eyes, but there was light twinkling on his shades.
"It's no good like it is, Al. I live in a shit-hole. I'm always brassic. I can't get off with no one in that state. I need to sort things out.
"Serious then, is it?
He shook his head. It was clear he was gone.
"What's her name?
"I ain't got that far yet. I only saw her Friday.
"Love at first sight, eh?
He gazed longingly at his feet.
"Where at?
"The 10 o'Clock shop by the bus garage. I went in to get a curry for dinner.
He made it sound like he was reciting poetry. I could think of worse circumstances for the arrow of love to spring. I met one of my girlfriends when I went to unblock her landlord's septic tank. A corner shop, a frozen balti, the whiff of diesel in the air¦ who knows what the perfect accoutrements are for the prompting of passion?
A grin spread across Yoyo's chops. He pointed at his head.
"I know, Al. I saw the way she looked at me.
I put my hand over my mouth.
He saw the way she looked at him!
She probably looked at him the way everyone looks at him on first meeting. You see the same look on the face of a first-time parachutist when the hatch gets opened at 10,000 feet. Absolute crap-liquefying terror.
But I suppose it could easily be mistaken for love.
"How are you going to play it then, Yo?
He examined his card, nestling in the JCB buckets of his mitts.
"I'm going to ask her to put this in the shop window.
He grinned again. This time, though, there was something more knowing in it.
"See¦ it'll do two things. It'll show her I'm industrious.
He was silent for a moment. I thought he'd forgotten the second thing. But then I could see that twinkle on his shades again. His mouth broke open in an upward checkerboard arc.
"And it let's her know my phone number.
Maybe I'd been underestimating him.
*
After he'd gone, I put on my jacket and boots. Time for the final big job of the day. Heaving the sack down the stairs, I shouldered it and set off along the seafront. I'd just got past the Clock Tower when a police car passed me and pulled into the kerb. Down came a window, out popped a constable's head ' inevitable as income tax.
"Evening, sir.
"Good evening.
I saw myself as he was seeing me: a tall, cadaverous, prematurely middle-aged man, dressed in faded denim jeans and jacket and cherry-red Doc Marten 18-holers, rather hollow about the eyes, chin like I'd rubbed it with newsprint, French cropped hair, great big fuck-off bulging black sack on my back. Definitely not Father Christmas ' post-modern or otherwise.
"Mind if I ask what you've got in the bag, sir?
Here was a quandary. If I told the truth ' works of art ' would he construe it as lippyness? On the other hand, if I lied and he insisted on looking anyway¦ There was a middle ground, of course.
"Just a load of old paper. I'm taking it down to the recycling skip.
He didn't make a move to get out. He didn't seem convinced, either.
"At this time of night?
I looked at my watch.
"Yeah¦ sorry, I was forgetting how dark it gets early now. I mean¦ how earlier dark it gets now¦ later.
What the fuck was I talking about?
He gave me a hard stare ' one that suggested a 'hands-on-the-roof-legs-apart-anything-you-say' type scenario. So I dropped the sack down. Without its bulk, I reasoned, I'd look less threatening ' conveying at least the impression of servility and readiness to submit. Besides, it was getting heavy.
But it was the very worst thing I could have done.
BANG went the bloody thing, like a gunshot, as it hit the deck just that bit too hard. Both the coppers in the car ducked. Stained underwear for certain, I thought. Even I jumped. The bag split its seams and spewed it's contents towards the car like an exploding postbox.
"What the hell are you trying to do? said the copper, getting out now and stepping on the leading edge of my cascading pages.
What could I say?
"Sorry. I didn't realise the sack was so fragile.
He stooped and picked up a sheet of paper. He turned it around a couple of times, then held it towards the lamp-light. His forehead wrinkled like a Shar Pei's dewlaps. You'd have thought he was trying to decipher code. A Detective Constable in the making, I thought ' though I kept it to myself.
"Midwinter Memories, by Ellen Boniface, he read.
Ah, shite! Why did it have to be that one?
He eyed me over the top of the page.
"Who's this Ellen Boniface then, sir?
I hung my head.
"It's me. I wrote it for The Lady.
His gaze narrowed.
"What lady?
"What? No, the magazine. The Lady. I sent it to them. They didn't publish it, though.
His tongue was working away in his cheek, like he was trying to dislodge something. A tooth from the looks of it.
"So, you're saying you¦ wrote this?
"I did. It's what I do. I'm a writer. Sort of.
"So your name's, er¦ Ellen Boniface is it? Sir?
"Yes. I mean, no. It's Alan Benefit. Ellen Boniface was the pen-name I used. It's kind of homophonic, you see.
Something was happening to his face. He looked like he'd just sucked a lime and was gearing up for the shot.
"Homo what was that, sir?
"Homophonic. H-Homophones are words that sound the same as others, but are spelt differently and have different meanings. You know¦ like sell and cell.
I bit on the words almost as I said them. Not the best idea to be mentioning cells in a situation like this.
"I see, he said, going back to the sheet. "Homophones, eh? Sort of like in that film. 'E.T¦ homo-phone'.
I couldn't help it. I chuckled. That was quite witty, considering. I wasn't sure if it was intentional, though. Whatever¦ I chuckled alone.
The wind was starting to shift the pages around, making the pavement resemble a snow scene. The copper was examining my poem like it was the vital remaining clue in the whole unsolved twenty-year mystery he'd been assigned to.
"How oft I do remember, when I'm low,
those special times we spent so long ago,
when you and I were in the prime of youth¦
Oh, for fuck's sake! He wasn't really going to read the whole fucking thing, was he? The cells would do. A hundred hours of community service. I didn't mind. Not this.
"¦when down along the lanes we used to run,
and¦
"Everything alright, Al?
He stopped, mercifully, and we both turned at once. Looming up out of the shadows by the Clock Tower, his face aglow from the tip of his rollie (oh, bless his cotton boxers! ) was Sherlock.
"Yeah¦ fine. Just a bit of an accident with my recycling.
The copper's attention shifted to my friend as he came into the light and stood beside me. I saw him as the copper saw him, too: a jolly-faced thawing snowman in green wellies, waxy Belstaff jacket, deerstalker hat with flaps akimbo. I hoped his rollie was the unspiced variety. He stood there, chest out, hands behind his back, rising up on his toes and down again in a frightening pantomime parody of my latest fan. Fortunately, the copper didn't seem to notice.
"You know this man do you, sir?
"Sure, said Sherlock. "This, officer, is Mr Alan Benefit. Long-time friend, neighbour, drinking partner and fellow freelance. I'd recognise him if you painted him white and stuck him in a blizzard. He looked around at my billowing masterworks. "What's all this paper caper, then?
The copper grimaced. I don't know if it was irritation or whether he genuinely did have something wrong with his teeth.
"And what did you say your name was, sir?
"This is Sherlock, officer I interjected.
The copper eyed me sharply.
"Excuse me, sir, but I asked the gentleman. I'm sure Mr¦
He looked at Sherlock.
"Holmes, officer, said Sherlock.
"Right, said the copper. "I'm sure Mr Holmes is capable of answering for himself.
"Of course¦ sorry.
Then his face altered again. That tooth must have been a big bastard. Either that or¦
He turned back to Sherlock.
"So¦ Mr Holmes. Mr Sherlock Holmes. You wouldn't be trying to have a bit of a laugh at my expense, would you?
Sherlock held out his hands in submission. "Absolutely not, he said. "I just wanted to see what the matter was.
I patted Sherlock on the arm. "Sherlock's his nickname, officer¦ because of his second name. His real name's Clarence, but no one calls him that.
"That's right, said Sherlock. "Sorry, I should have made that clear.
The constable still in the car leaned across the passenger seat and looked out.
"Do we want any support, Dave?
The copper glanced at my poem again.
"I think we can handle this, he said. "I'll just finish up with Mr Alan Ellen Boniface Benefit and Mr Sherlock Clarence Holmes and we'll be on our way.
He handed my poem back to me.
"Just make sure you clear it all up, sir. And try not to leave it so late to do your rubbish run next time, please.
"Of course, I said. "Sorry.
He turned to get back in the car again ' and then stopped dead in his tracks, as if his back had suddenly given out. His gaze was transfixed by something a bit further along. I turned¦ and there was Yoyo, charging towards us like a hippo on heat ' his mohican slicing the air like a chainsaw. In one hand he had a carrier bag, containing ' I judged, from the shape of the bulges ' a couple of 4-packs of something rewarding. The other hand was reaching out for something. The edge of the police car door, as it happened.
"Wha's going on? he barked. The copper flinched, but ' remarkably ' stood his ground. The might of the State was on his side, after all.
"It's alright, Yo, I said, patting his shoulder. He was vibrating like a boiler on full steam. "Nothing's up. We were just having a chat.
"And you are, sir? said the copper to Yoyo, with shaky aplomb. "Dr Watson? Professor Moriarty? Pam Ayres?"
You could see Yo's circuits tripping over. He loosened his grip on the door.
"I'm Yoyo! he said, driving the words in like a stake.
The copper looked at me, then at Sherlock, then back at Yoyo.
"I'm quite sure you are, sir, he said. "Now¦ if you'll excuse me.
He got in the car and shut the door. Then they pulled away from the kerb and sped off in a swirl of pages.
"Bugger, said Sherlock. "I was gonna ask them if they'd keep a look out for my bike.
*
Sherlock and Yoyo both gave me a hand, bless 'em. We collected everything up, like a bunch of bank robbers grabbing at fifties, and stuffed it all back into the sack. Then we carried it between us along the seafront, past the Theatre, right to the far end of the Hummocks. There, at the quiet end of the beach, where the council were re-building the wall, we found an old oil drum the workmen had used as a brazier. In went the lot, with a good squirt of white spirit on top Then Sherlock handed me his lighter so I could do the honours. I fished 'Midwinter Memories' out of my pocket, set the flame to it and dropped it in. It went up like a¦ well, like a pile of poems and plays. All my stuff, flaring and sparking, into the void of the midwinter night. Memories, alright. Bad ones, I hoped.
We sat on the wall and watched it go ' a can apiece from Yoyo's bag, slipping down a treat.
"How'd you get on with the advert, Yo? I asked.
I saw the shine of his teeth in the firelight, the glint on his shades.
"She asked for my name and address, he said. "She wrote it on the back.
"And did you ask her for hers?
He belched softly. "Give it time, mate. Don't want to rush these things. She knows. That'll do.
Sherlock took a contemplative sup from his can. "There's two types of bloke in this world you know, Yo. The quick and the lonely. Don't let someone beat you to it.
Yoyo crushed his empty can in one hand. It looked like one of Popeye's spinach tins.
"No one beats Yoyo to anything, mate, I said. "You should know that by now.
"Right, said Yoyo.
Sherlock and I finished our cans, too, and Yoyo put the empties in his carrier. The fire, so fierce at first, was down to the last few commas and dots.
"I think it's a brave thing you've done there, Al, said Sherlock. "Putting your life's work up in smoke like that. I couldn't have done it.
I chuckled to myself. Quite a bit of Sherlock's life's work had been devoted to the cultivation of a certain crop that went up in smoke all the time. But it was a little too obvious to state.
"My life so far, Sherl, I said. "There's a bit more to come yet, I hope.
We stood up and stepped back over to the path.
"It's only words, anyway, I said. "There're plenty more where they came from.
And thinking, I fucking well hope so, anyway.
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