Four Letters

Four Letters

Dunstan,

Believe me - I do bad things all the time. Today, for instance, I
followed this girl around town - she had these buck teeth and a brace
like bull bars. I followed her all afternoon as she was doing her
shopping. The grocer hid his disgust well but then made a joke about
her after she'd gone. She went in to W H Smith. She went in to John
Lewis. She went in to Waterstones. I can follow ugly people all
day.
Dunstan, truly, I am a terrible person. When I offer to make toast and
tea for my flatmates I always keep the largest mug and the least burnt
toast for myself. I feign interest when my friends are telling me about
bad things that have happened to them. Take Jodie for example:

"Marie, I've been diagnosed with scabies. Scabies? It's like the
plague. I have to spend eight hours each night covered in this cream.
It's just awful. Marie? Marie, are you listening?"

And I'm not listening. I'm watching TV or writing a letter to you. I
piss in the shower, Dunstan. I spit in the sink.

I wipe my hand in my armpit and then smell my hand. I sniff my own
feet. I love all of my body's stench. I breathe myself deeply, like a
herbal tea. Especially when I'm nervous. You should smell me when I'm
nervous.

Please. I've moved out of the old flat. I live at 56 College Road now.
I've got the place to myself. Come back.

M x

*

Marie.

You are fucked. People like you make other people's lives unbearable.
You destroy: realise that. Take a moment from thinking about yourself.
Just once, think about who you are.

David Hawthorne
45 Stevens St
Holt
Norfolk

*

Marie,

I'm not surprised you did not have the spine to reply to my letter and
I'm certain that you do not have the will to stop reading so I will
tell you a story about empathy:

There are two families. One family is beautiful. The mother's tan is
real and the father is strong and kind, his nose excellent. The other
family are chinless, not a chin amongst them, and have small foreheads.
The beautiful and gorgeous daughter of the beautiful family lets
herself get fucked by the golden retriever. The handsome son has
considered things carefully and decided that horse pussy is no
different from girl pussy.
The ugly children are so generous, well brought up and charming. You
can sometimes hear them in their back gardens (they come home for
lunchtimes, their house being so close to the school) gently offering
each other the choice of game.

"I don't mind - you choose what game, I really don't mind."

"No please, you go."

These two ugly children being polite: their flat, shapeless feet, their
necks red and raised with sweat, their smiles like broken dishes.

The way you are feeling now makes you a bad person.

I hope, at some point in your life, that you suffer.

David Hawthorne
45 Stevens St
Holt
Norfolk

*

Dearest David,
We are sorry to tell you that Marie does not live here anymore. She
moved out a few weeks ago. We believe that she may have gone to live
with a man in darkest Soho. We hope you don't think too ill of us for
opening this letter - she left no forwarding address. You should not
feel, however, that your fine advice has gone unnoticed. In fact, we
very much enjoyed your story about the two families. We liked the ugly
family very much but did not think so much of the gorgeous
family.
In gratitude, we (four of us live here) have written you a story that
we hope may resonate in your life in the same way that 'the story of
the two families' has in ours. Here goes...

Anthony Brogan was driving to Norwich on the A11. It was three in the
morning on Christmas Day. He gripped the steering wheel and blinked; he
was an hour away from his home, his wife and his children. He had been
driving all night from Newport on the Pembrokeshire coast where his
parents lived. His mother was German so they opened their presents on
Christmas Eve just like the Royal family.

As he was approaching Besthorpe he ran over a stretch of poorly
maintained tarmac and one of his tyres burst. Anthony slowed the car
and pulled onto the bank at the side of the road, flicking on his
hazard lights. It was Christmas Day, he had no phone, no spare tyre and
no torch.

As Anthony pondered his predicament he saw a pair of headlights
approaching, making empty film reels flicker through the thin, tall
trunks of the fish-bone bare pine forest. (@Copyright Seb 2005) The
car, a cherry red Lotus convertible, dipped its full beams and pulled
up, about fifteen metres ahead, on the other side of the road. A man in
his forties, only greying slightly, with thin, well-chosen silver
glasses got out and approached Anthony's driver-side window. Locking
the door Anthony wound down the window by an inch.

"Hey there," the man said, "you okay?" The man seemed somehow too
animated, too awake.

"I got a flat."

"Shit - this road's terrible."

"You haven't got a phone I could borrow have you? I'm trying to get to
Norwich."

"Sorry, I own a mobile. But I've a jack in the boot and a spare you can
have." The man hopped from one foot to the other in the cold.

Anthony tried to judge if the man was a murderer. Murderers don't drive
a Lotus.

"That's very kind. You sure?"

"No problem. We've all got families to get to." The man proffered his
hand: "Brian."

Twenty minutes later, Anthony's Fiesta was one-part Lotus.

"Thanks, you really saved me."

They walked up the road together to the Lotus.

"No probs."

They stood by the car's front right wheel, both facing its bonnet,
staring at its chest.

"So Brian, what do you do anyway?" he asked. "Why are you driving
around at three o'clock Christmas morning?"

"I'm going home, I only live about ten miles away, in
Herdingham."

"Herdingham?" Anthony laughed. "Well, that explains the Lotus. So what
do you do apart from saving stranded motorists?"

"I used to be in a band in the Eighties. We were called Then,
Jericho."

"Oh wow, I've heard of you. I might even have one of your records
somewhere. Strange."

"So you're the one."

It sounded like a joke that Brian had made a number of times but
Anthony laughed anyway.

"That's great, very nice to meet you Brian.

I'll have to root out one of your albums when I get back."

"Just don't let your kids catch you listening to it."

"No fear of that; they're out of the room as soon as I play any of my
music."

They continued to laugh.

Eventually Brian shivered and although the conversation could have
quite happily gone on, Anthony felt bad for making Brian cold, so he
said: "Well, thanks again. And merry Christmas."

"Have a good one."

"Safe journey."

Brian pointed his keys at the car; there was the hiss of the doors
unlocking like a footstep on snow.

Anthony awoke on Christmas day to his wife, children and a thick rug of
snow. On boxing day he read in the news that the body of Brian Harris,
lead singer in Eighties band Then, Jericho, had been discovered three
miles from his large home. His Lotus had been parked just a few miles
away with a flat tyre. The police suspected that after getting a burst
tyre he had tried to walk home and that he may have slipped in the snow
and injured himself. He died of hypothermia. On the news segment they
played some songs by Then, Jericho in the background - Anthony didn't
recognise them - maybe he hadn't ever bought a Then, Jericho CD after
all.

All our love,

Jon, Seb, Mary, Colin

Xxxxx