warning: some stories may contain disturbing scenes

the point of it all

    'Just 'cos I'm here, don't think I want to be.'
   Jimmy Haroldson stood in the doorway to the house, defiantly. At twelve, he had grown up quickly of late. And as he looked at the smile disappear from his father's face, a sense of gratification crossed his mind.
   Peter Haroldson had been so looking forward to Jimmy coming. It would be the first time he had him to stay since he and his wife broke up. It was to be a time of reconciliation, well aware how Jimmy had been affected by the break-up. However, any hope that Jimmy would make it easy for him had already evaporated.
   'I understand how you feel, son. But let's try.'
   'I don't wanna try,' said Jimmy, 'I hate you.'
   Peter struggled for words that would help, but was aware words would fail him. 'I'm sorry you feel that way. But maybe you'll understand.'
   'Never. All I know is you dumped mom, and she cries herself to sleep every night.'
   Philippa Simons gunned the engine as she turned the corner. An attractive woman of thirty, her life had been renewed of late. She had been Peter's secretary, and in the normal line of promotion, she had advanced to his mistress, and now to his new live-in girlfriend. Her immediate thought when she heard Jimmy would be coming to stay was to go and stay with friends for a couple of days. But Peter had been adamant. 'No. He's got to understand you're with me.'
   'But Peter,' she had said, 'he'll blame me for breaking his parents up.'
   'Oh no,' said Peter, 'that is all my fault. Believe me.'
   The house filled her windscreen as she straightened the wheel, and even as she parked, she was convinced it was a bad idea. But regardless, she got out of the car and entered the house.
   'I'm home,' she said as she walked in, with mock joviality. She found Peter and Jimmy in the kitchen, Jimmy eating beans on toast, Peter watching. 'Hello,' she said, 'nice to see you again, Jimmy.'
   Jimmy filled his mouth with beans. Looked up. Threatened a mock puke.
   'That wasn't very nice,' said Peter.
   Jimmy chewed momentarily. Said: 'Neither is she.'
   'But you've got to try to get on with people.'
   'Mom says she ain't people. She's a tart.'
   Philippa felt like slapping the little runt. But instead, said: 'I'm sure we can get to like each other, Jimmy. Once we get to know each other.'
   Peter immediately realised it was a wrong move. Hence, as Jimmy finished his beans, he said: 'How about going for a drive. You can see where we live now.'
   As Peter stood up and walked out, Jimmy hunched his shoulders nonchalantly and followed.
   'Things move on, you see, Jimmy.' Peter drove along the road, determined to get through to his son.
   'But I didn't want things to move on,' said Jimmy.
   'I know, son, but we don't always get what we want.'
   'Mom sure didn't.'
   'I know.'
   'But your tart did.'
   'That's not fair, Jimmy. It's not as clear cut as that.'
   'It seems so to me. Mom says it's your fault, anyway, 'cos you couldn't keep your thingy zipped up.'
   Peter flushed. What was that bitch playing at, telling the lad things like that.
   'I'm sorry you feel that way, but nothing's gonna change now. '
   'But dad, you said things move on. So she can't stay for long. '
   'You know what I mean.'
   A thought came into Jimmy's head. 'But dad, things can change really quickly.'
   'How's that?'
   At which point, Jimmy's hand shot in front of his father, grabbed the wheel, and gave it a mighty tug.
 
   Philippa Simons was driving alone for the second time that day. However, this time she drove with more urgency. The phone call had come ten minutes ago and already she was nearing the hospital.
   Finally arrived, she rushed through the door and found herself face to face with a blooded, but otherwise unhurt Peter and Jimmy Haroldson.
   ‘What the hell happened?’ she said, shocked.
   Peter took a sly look at Jimmy and said: ‘I don’t know. As I told the police, I just lost control.’
   At least, thought Jimmy, he’s no grass.
   Philippa looked down at the boy. ‘So you still hate your father now? You know, after saving your life before the car exploded?’
   Jimmy Haroldson smarted as she repeated the events the police had told him about. And before his very eyes came a vision of the car on fire, his leg stuck and unable to move, and his father … damn him.
   ‘It was nothing,’ said Peter for him. ‘Let’s get home and try to be a family again.’
 
 
   It was a difficult night for Jimmy. He wasn't stupid, and regardless how he felt for his father, he had to admit he liked his life and didn't really want to be dead. Hence, it was with mixed emotions that by nightfall the three of them were finally talking civilly. At one point, even a laugh erupted from his mouth.
   Finally, Peter Haroldson looked at the time and said: 'I think it's time for bed.'
   Begrudgingly, Jimmy agreed, and as he walked out the door, he managed a reasonably cheery 'goodnight dad,' although his referral to Auntie Philippa still had the consistency of a rasp.
   Finally in bed, he began to reappraise his life. Maybe, he thought, things might not be so bad. Okay, mom was still very upset, but he could help her with that. And he had to admit, a little love still existed for his father under all that hate.
   Finally resolved to make a go of it, Jimmy Haroldson decided to let his dad know right then how he felt. Getting out of bed, he walked down the landing and was about to go into his father's bedroom when he heard the noise.
   Just what went on in his head at that moment, he was unsure. Maybe he never realised what living with Philippa would entail. Maybe he thought they were just friends. But as the noise of love-making filtered to his ears, he knew he could stand it no more.
   Peter Haroldson was in the hospital for the second time in twenty four hours. And also, for the second time, he found himself lying to the police.
   'No officer,' he said, 'I didn't see his face. All I saw was the knife. And after that, everything went blank.'
   Jimmy could only agree. And as he had said: 'I think I do love you, dad. And maybe the two of us could still be a family.'
 
© Anthony North, August 2002
 

autumn of the soul

    When Alan Jeffries walked into the nursing home to see his father he saw the most horrific thing he'd ever seen in his life. For there, in the corner, Percival Jeffries rested one hand on his walking stick and held seventy five year old Rita Madden in his other arm. With a slight shake of the body, he struggled to control his deep cough and spittle whilst his and Rita's lips met in what can only be described as an awkward but definitely passionate kiss.
   'What the hell do you think you're doing,' said Alan, a successful, if pompous businessman, totally different from his devil-may-care father.
   Percival released his grip on Rita, hobbled round on his stick, and said: ‘I really should have given those sex lessons, shouldn't I’
   'Don't be disgusting, father. This is revolting.'
   Rita Madden tutted. 'Tell it how it is, son, don't hold back. '
   ‘I’m not your son,' said Alan. Then, turning to his father: 'And at times I wish I wasn't yours.'
   Percival offered a dismissive gesture, hobbled round once more on his stick and, placing his arm once more around Rita, they hobbled into the day room.
 
   ‘I’m telling you, Mary, it was disgusting,' said Alan when he arrived home.
   Mary Jeffries, Alan's wife, sat on the settee taking it all in. 'And he really kissed her?'
   'He did. And ... and ... oh God! there were tongues!'
   Both Alan and Mary winced at this. Eventually, Mary said: 'So what are we going to do?'
   'Well,' said Alan, 'it's got to stop. That's for sure.'
   Further thought followed. Both Alan and Mary sat in silence.
   Alan had always been embarrassed by his father, even when his mother was alive. He never found evidence that his father was a philanderer, but he certainly enjoyed surrounding himself with women. And on top of that he smoked, drank and gambled. Indeed, that is why Alan rebelled at an early age, deciding that he would be the total opposite, becoming not only pompous, but prudish, reliable and a pillar of the community.
   'Very good, Alan,' Percival used to say. 'But when do you live?'
   Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Alan said: 'Well, Mary, there's only one option.'
   'What's that dear?'
   'We'll have to move him.'
   While his son was deciding his fate, Percival Jeffries sat comfortably on the settee in the day room, offering snarls to any foggies who disturbed him. He indulged in much practice. Coming up for air, Rita Madden said: 'So what are you going to do about your son?'
   Percival smiled. 'I think he's too old for a good hiding.'
   'No, I'm serious,' said Rita. 'He could get awkward.'
   'Not as awkward as that doctor,' said Percival.
   'What do you mean?'
   'He won't let me have Viagra.'
   Rita moved her hand down. 'Do you really need it?' she said. Percival felt a stirring, but it was a long way from better days. But as it was, Viagra was not to be the most important issue for Percival Jeffries and Rita Madden, for two days later Alan walked into the nursing home and told his father, forcefully, that another room had been booked for him at another home.
   'Well I'm not going,' said Percival.
   'Then you'll be on the streets,' replied Alan, 'because I'm not going to pay any more if you don't move.'
 
   Maybe it was his age. But Percival eventually gave in. He knew he had little choice; little energy to fight his son like this. But as he sat all alone in his new room in his new nursing home, he doubted the old spark would keep him breathing much longer. How can a man live without happiness, he thought to himself. My son has gone and killed me.
   It was Mary who visited him a couple of days later. 'You look a bit peeky,' she said.
   Percival looked at his daughter-in-law. 'And how would you feel if you could never see Alan again?'
   Mary thought long and hard about that. Finally, she decided Percival was making too much of all this.
   'I'm not,' said Percival. 'Who the hell does he think he is, taking me away from Rita like that?'
   'But Dad, you reach an age when you really must grow up, you know?'
   'So only kids fall in love?'
   Mary felt she had to say yes; for when you do grow up with the man you used to love, you realise it was maybe only a childish fancy anyway.
   'Well he's killing me,' said Percival. 'And you're his accomplice. '
   Percival's words just wouldn't go out of Mary's head over the following days. She went about her life as if in a daze. Oh, she did everything she had to do. Did the housework, the shopping, took care of busy Alan's every whim. But her mind simply hadn't been on it.
   At forty five, Mary Jeffries had retained much of her good looks of old. Even her body had remained compliant with what her mind wanted. And it was predictable that, going through life, other men had noticed her. The latest was Rod, a distant friend and colleague of Alan's. He had often pestered her to sleep with him - as had the others - but she had always remained true to Alan.
   He wasn't a bad sort, she was sure. He had never hit her; never failed to provide for her; never even ignored her ­except …
   Well, passion was not a thing Alan did. Maybe that was part of his rebellion against his father.
   Yes, his father. Oh, dear Percival. Always full of life. Although joking. Always …
   Mary decided that when you're forty five and you're jealous of a man approaching eighty, something just had to be done.
   She exited Rod's flat in a dream. She had been taken to places she had never been before, and never intended to be denied such pleasures again. Indeed, she never knew that her body could react in that way, be so stimulated, so ecstatic, and, let's face it, so gymnastic. And then she began to think about Percival.
   She had planned it well. She had found them a place miles away from Alan. But as always, Percival had to do something that was not part of the plan – such as visiting his son.
   'But I hadn't planned for that,' said Mary as she drove.
   'Maybe that's your problem,' said Percival. 'Planning takes the fun out of life.'
   And as Mary waited in the car with Rita, she could imagine the fun Percival was having. And when he returned, Mary drove them off for their new life knowing that her fun had just begun.
   As for Alan, he had never really had any fun. And tied to the back of his dining chair, he certainly wasn't having fun at that moment.
   Of course, he could have had fun - could have discovered his soul at any time during life. And now, facing the crisis of being imprisoned in his own home, those niggling things of life made sure fun would still not invade him. Rather, all he thought about at that moment is what damage his father could do with his credit cards before he got himself free and cancelled them.
 
© Anthony North, July 2003
 

the rape of africa

 
   When Africa cried the jungle seemed to weep in sympathy. I could hear it now as I stood, ears pricked back to the noise. All about me untold sounds echoed - the birds, the insects, all joining in the omnipotent dirge.
   I wiped sweat from my brow, trying to figure out what strange sensitivity had made me divert this way. As an aid worker of many years in this pained continent, I had learnt to trust my instinct. It had got me out of trouble on more than one occasion. And as the black workers were stirred up to yet more trouble by this barbarous government, I knew my instincts would be working overtime.
   It told me to look behind the tree. Slowly, cautiously, I approached, unsure of what I would find. But to find her like that brought me so much sorrow …
   'So what's your name?' I asked an hour later.
   In front of me she sat. She was maybe nineteen, blonde hair, pretty if not for the bruising; the ragged, ripped clothes. 'Petra,' she said with a typical Afrikaner accent. 'And yours?'
   Even in her state that air of authority was with her. She was obviously of the whites who had ruled for so long, until black rule was forced on them. 'Saul Jones,' I said.
   'Well thankyou, Saul Jones. I owe you my life.'
   Underneath, I could see she was a wreck. I asked: 'What happened?'
   She sniffed back a tear; thought a moment, sadly. Then told of the attack on the farm, of the gang determined to clear them out, of her mother and father's stand, of their ...
   What can you call it? Were they simply murdered, or would butchery be a better term to use?
   When night comes to Africa it is impenetrable. And of that I was glad. It soon became clear that the gang was not content with simply her parent's murder. Their blood was up; or maybe they just didn't want any witnesses, regardless of how often the government turned a blind eye.
   'There must be twenty of them,' Petra had told me, 'armed to the teeth.'
   We hid for the third time since I found her. It wasn't too difficult. I had much experience of Africa and she had been brought up in the area. She could crouch there, not moving, not breathing, even her smell seeming to change to smell like the terrain around her.
   When they had passed, we relaxed, sat back. I said: 'You won't be able to stay after this.'
   'I know,' she replied, a sadness in her voice. 'But I'll miss it. I have family in England who'll take me in. But it won't be the same.'
   She took the old, tattered sack off her back which she had clung to for dear life since I found her. Opening it, she took out food and we both ate hungrily. Satiated, she took out an old music box. She stared at it, her eyes seeming to glaze.
   'A strange thing to take with you,' I said, 'when you're running for your life.'
   She smiled. 'It was bought for me on the day I was born; it so much is part of my life. Even as I ran from the farm, I knew it would go with me.'
   We were about thirty miles from help, and the following day allowed only slow progress. During our rest periods, Petra spoke of her life before the troubles. Of the way both blacks and their white bosses got on so well. Of how much her father had black interests at heart, both in economic terms and in their welfare. To her, it was only right and proper, and often she would play with the black children. The country could have done so well, if only politics and the desire of certain men to control had been kept at bay.
   I wasn't sure I fully agreed with her argument. After all, I had been in this country a long time, doing aid work. If they had got it so right, why was I needed?
   'But doesn't the fact you're here confirm that the white man wanted to do best for this country?'
   That second night, I'm afraid I ended up doing things an aid worker and peace loving man shouldn’t. But when their patrols stumbled on us, there was nothing else I could do.
   There were two of them, undisciplined and disorganised as any black African gang, be it marauding thugs or a supposedly professional army. And luckily they were as startled to find us as we were to be found.
   A moment's confusion followed. But I knew the moment they fired a gun it would be over. If we were not killed there and then, the noise would bring the rest. So when I took out my knife - for cutting food parcels open; for splaying rope when building shelters for the refugees - I knew blood would now run down its blade. And after the carnage - after I had thrust into those living things, reducing them to corpses - I spent the remainder of the night staring into the darkness. Into the darkness of the continent, and the darkness that had prized itself into the centre of my being.
 
   Morning brought a respite in the efforts Petra made to comfort me. 'You did right,' she said. 'There was no other way.' But even though I knew she was right, it provided only a momentary respite.
   Finally, she sat by me, smiled, her bruises seeming to disappear as that lovely face filled my vision. And soon her arm went around me, pulled me to her breast, comforted.
   I don’t think I can recall when I last felt so right; although nearly ten years older than Petra, a sexual excitement took hold. Maybe it was what we had been through over the last couple of days, binding us together, our experiences taking us to the limits of endurance, releasing new, unknown hormones. Or at least, that is what I thought. But as I raised my head and kissed her, her whole demeanour changed.
   I was confused as she pulled away, as she began to shake, as tears rolled, uncontrollably, down her cheek.
   ‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What have I done?’
   For a long time she was not forthcoming. But in the end she told me. She told me of how she was made to watch her parents die. And then the leader had taken the music box she was clinging to, opened it, allowing her beloved tune to play as he threw her to the floor and raped her before handing her to the rest.
   ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, ‘I should have thought. Oh, Petra, you poor thing.’
   Her eyes glazed over. ‘It wasn’t so bad,’ she said, ‘not really. I was somewhere else.’ She took out the music box; held it to her breast. ‘I was with my song.’
 
   The next few hours were quiet as we continued our escape. The forest seemed to work with us for a change, instead of against us. And although I hated it, I felt a new confidence as I carried one of the AK-47s taken from the gang members I had killed. But I should have known it was to be a false optimism. I should have known the rest would realise two of their number had not come back. And it wouldn't be hard for them to work out what had happened, and where we had been. Which meant they would also know where we were heading.
   The ambush, when it came, was fierce. Both Petra and I dived for cover as the rounds whizzed about us. I was no gunman, but I returned fire as best I could, knowing I had to kill some more, and hating it.
   Minutes passed, though it seemed like hours. But eventually, calm descended, and a broken voice shouted: 'Send out the girl. That's all we want, and you can go.'
   As if I would believe that. I turned to Petra in the hope of giving her comfort, but I was amazed to see she had stood up.
   It was surreal to watch as she took out the music box, opened it up, allowing her song to play, and walk out into the open.
   Slowly she walked, a look of destiny in her eyes, and the gang members seemed to break cover, walk towards her, to surround her.
   White farmers often kept explosives on the farms, I knew. It was useful stuff to blow up a tree, dam a stream beginning to flood after the rains. And as Petra and the gang evaporated in a ball of flame, it seemed like a eulogy to the hate which Africa never seems to throw off. And for the rest of my life I knew Petra's song would also be mine.
 
© Anthony North, November 2004