Tag Archives: storytelling

Beating Hearts of the Mermen

A sea-salt breeze. I think of Daryl Hannah in Splash inviting a young Tom Hanks to join her. I read an article that said that seventy-five per cent of mermen had an interest in mermaids as a child. In some stories they were very sexual, in others they sank ships, while others said they were royalty that ruled the sea. Are there really such things as mermen? And yet, I see one heading towards me now. He will invite me to take my last walk through the noise to the sea, not to die, but to be reborn.

Love Came For Me. Lyrics by Will Jennings & Lee Holdridge

Perfectly Hard and Glamorous / Each time I think about him, the memory is more fragile

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It’s been a long time. Almost ten months, but the story resumes. Harry Oldham is an author whose last book bombed. He has been encouraged to return to Sheffield and write about his past. His agent finds him an apartment not realising that it takes Harry closer to his shocking past than she realises. Will his readers want to know the type of person he used to be? (Parts 1-6 are available to read in the menu)

Part 7

It had been months, and I hadn’t added any new chapters to the book. Meghan was horrified. She didn’t understand that the creative process could be painful. I’d opened my notes several times, but I couldn’t bring myself to go any further. Instead, I wrote anonymous blog posts that nobody read.

Winter turned to spring, and Sheffield seemed cleaner and brighter. By the time June came, I was also alarmed. I had until the end of the year to submit the first draft and I’d barely scratched the surface.

But something happened.

I had walked into the city centre and called at WH Smith. I remembered it as being a vibrant place, but on that sunny morning there was barely a soul inside. I didn’t get what the shop was supposed to be. There were only so many pens you could buy, the choice of magazines had diminished, and it was a place that didn’t sell my books. You also had to serve yourself, and if I’d been a young lad, I wouldn’t have paid for anything.

On the way home, I cut through the station that was empty because the train drivers were on strike again, and I bought the latest copy of Granta at the news stand because WH Smith didn’t stock it. I decided it might give me the inspiration to write, because everything in it was better than mine.

I walked over the footbridge and saw a young guy walking towards me. He seemed vaguely familiar and made eye contact. As we passed, I smiled, and he blushed. I looked around and realised that he’d done the same and quickly turned away.

I climbed the steps and sat on the grass in South Park. From here, I could look at the skyline with its cranes and emerging tower blocks. I lit a cigarette and thumbed through the magazine. Then I found a vape in my pocket and puffed on it. I was alternating between smoking the cigarette and the vape, but the sweetness of grape edged out the harshness of the tobacco.

I saw the guy walking up the steps from the station. He wore a grey hoodie and sweatpants and looked about eighteen or nineteen. Grey sweatpants are always an attraction. I sensed that he’d sat on the grass behind, and I resisted the urge to turn around. I began reading a story, it was written in strong Glaswegian about a young kid caught up with gangs that I found hard to understand. Londoners had once struggled to understand me too.

The young lad had moved and was sitting to my right. I looked across and he held my gaze. Those anonymous blog posts are about moments like these, the brief encounters that I embellish with happy endings, when they rarely are.

“I know who you are,” he called. “You’re Harry Oldham.”

I’m never recognised and the fact that he knew me was disconcerting because I’m more comfortable as a name and not a face.

“Have we met?”

“Yeah, we have, and you owe me a cigarette.”

He shifted to my side, and I gave him the cigarette he wanted. He had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and peachy stubble.

“What’s your name?”

”Tom.”

“Does Tom have a surname?”

“Everybody just calls me Tom.”

“Are you always shy?” He coloured up, his crimson cheeks glowing on a pale complexion.

“I’m only shy in front of people I’ve just met.”

“But you know who I am. Have you read my books?”

“‘I’ve read all of them. I suppose I know a lot about you. I’m not scared. Just curious.”

“I’m curious about you too. Tell me about yourself.”

“There’s nothing to say. I’m me.”

He looked down like he’d done once before, and I remembered that he’d once given me a cigarette.

”There are times when you have to tell somebody something.”

“I think you’re approachable, but you can tell me to fuck off if you want.”

“It’s not often I get to meet my biggest fan.”

“I didn’t say that I liked the books. I’ve just read them, that’s all.”

“Why read all three then?” He didn’t answer.

“I thought you and your two mates were going to mug me.”

“That wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have let it.”

“When I was your age, me and my mates would have sat outside the flats and been up to no good.”

He didn’t reply straightaway and seemed ill at ease. He blinked in the sunshine and concentrated on a passing tram. “We’re not all bad. No threat to you. Park Hill’s not a bad place.”

“Do you live there?”

His answer was decisive. “No!”

“Where do you live?”

“Hillsborough. I caught the tram.”

“Cool,” I said, and felt like a dork for saying it. “I once knew someone who lived there.”

“I won’t know them.”

“No, you won’t, because he’s been dead a long time.”

Tom looked inquisitive.

“He was called Paolo and one of the most beautiful boys I’ve ever known.”

“Old people die all the time.”

“I’m not that old, but yes, they do. In my mind, Paolo isn’t old. He never was. He still looks the same. Like James Dean… ”

“Like Heath Ledger?”

“Yes, like Heath Ledger. They’re frozen in time, but we get older, and they don’t, and we remember them from movies and photographs, except with Paolo there are no photos. He lives in my head, but I’m afraid that each time I think about him, the memory is more fragile.”

“Are you a faggot?”

“Yes, I am, but it takes another faggot to recognise one.”

“Not me, I have a girlfriend.”

“And what’s this girlfriend called?”

He hesitated. “She’s not important, and I want to hear more about Paolo.”

Demon of Deception

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It is hard, just as cruel as it is glamorous

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It was long overdue and might have been a mistake, but I checked the email repeatedly, and it was certainly meant for me.

The photographer was from Brazil, and he’d chosen me after looking at my online portfolio. This wasn’t going to be a fashion shoot for a glossy magazine. Pablo had a reputation for taking raunchy images, and I hoped that he might make me look like the boys who made me feel inadequate.

The email didn’t give a lot away, but I knew there would be a lot of flesh, and the images might end up on the right side of Tumblr’s community guidelines.

I’d been to photoshoots before and hoped that it didn’t involve a room full of ego-driven males.

Don’t get me wrong. I know a lot of easy going guys, but there are many more self-centred boys involved. It’s an insecure business, one where you’ll be gone by the time you are thirty, and beneath the bravado is the fear that it can quickly be taken away.

The reality is that agencies no longer look at your body or looks. They are far more interested in how many Instagram followers you have, and that puts added pressure on. But that isn’t everything. I have an Insta-famous friend who does a lot of major campaigns and almost nobody knows who he is.

On the day, I turned up at an old factory located in the East End. It was split into separate business units, and Park Studio was on the second floor.

I walked up the staircase with its peeling walls and realised that money hadn’t been mentioned. The shoot would offer little financial reward and fell into the category of providing exposure only. I wouldn’t be leaving my job at Waitrose anytime soon.

I was relieved to find that there were only a handful of people present, those who made things happen. Photography assistant, stylist, make-up artist and the guy who handed out coffee.

After the obligatory hugs and kisses, I was directed behind a screen that served as the changing area. There was another guy who was half-undressed. He was called Luca and was from Italy. We blushed as we swapped our cheap underwear for snowy white Calvin Kleins.

We walked across to the big screen that would serve as the background to the shoot and made small talk. I discovered that Luca’s girlfriend was waiting outside.

At times like this, you mustn’t be self-conscious. Even when you’re practically naked next to a straight guy who you’d assumed was also gay. I was anxious not to make a fool of myself.

Pablo ignored us, played with his cameras, and barked orders about lighting and shading. When he realised that the main event was before him, he gave instructions as to what we should do, explaining the postures he wanted, and the way we had to interact.

The theme was ‘Boys Who Tease’ and that required Luka to be the dominant one, holding, touching, slinging me over his shoulder and placing his arms around me.

This went on for hours, Pablo firing shot after shot, and inventing new angles in which to enhance his standing in the photographic world.

We’d arrived well-groomed and smelling sweet, but by the time Pablo had burnt through his umpteenth roll of film, we were sweating under the hot spotlights, and he complained that our bodies were wet and glistening.

The assistant threw us towels and we wiped each other down. I told Luca that I was enjoying the experience, and he cocked an inquisitive eye.

For the final shots of the day, I had to crouch in front of Luca, who stood motionless with his arms by his side. Pablo told me to close my eyes and tilt my forehead until it touched the band of his Calvins. I was only a hairbreadth away from his crotch, and the slightest movement would have meant that my nose rubbed against his dick.

This was a tricky situation.

Pablo said to hold the position. I tried not to breathe, but I could sense Luca’s trembling body, and smelt baby oil and talcum powder on him. I was scared that I might embarrass myself, and started thinking about my checkout job at Waitrose, about what I might eat later, and about Luca’s girlfriend waiting in the street outside.

When We Drive into the Night

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Sometimes, late at night, Mark messages and asks me what I’m up to. It means that he’s bored and wants somebody to share the boredom with. He’ll pick me up in his purple BMW and we’ll drive into the countryside.

He always drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other scrolling the touch screen, constantly skipping tracks on Apple Play. The driver’s seat is as far back as it will go because of his long legs, and the seat reclines at an odd angle. He’s not afraid of dark and unfamiliar roads and says it’s safer driving at night. He’ll step on the accelerator and talk about anything, his Yorkshire bluff switching subjects as often as the music. Mostly, I’ll sit in silence.

Mark looks like any other lad in his twenties, but I’ve seen through that disarray. The eye can’t see what lies beneath, but I can speculate. With a bit of tidying up, smart haircut, and a good shave, he could be a male model.

I expect that his parents didn’t expect him to be so tall. They are both average height and probably surprised that he outgrew his bed and slept most nights with his feet sticking over the end. He’s over six-foot and lean, not skinny, and certainly not lanky.

In another life, he’d be photographed in his underwear for a glossy magazine and called something like Callum or Luke.

I keep wanting to say this to him, but it sounds pervy and he might think that I’m coming onto him. That’s why I’m mostly quiet.

We’ll drive into the night and might come across an all-night garage where he’ll disappear inside and emerge with arms full of bad things like crisps, chocolate, and cans of Monster.

Then we’ll park in a layby where he’ll switch off the engine so that we’re in complete darkness and demolish it all. He’ll always ask for a cigarette and will get out of the car because he doesn’t want it smelling of smoke, but seemingly oblivious to the empty cans and wrappers that litter the footwells.

We’ll often arrive back in the city during the early hours, say our goodbyes, and I might not see him again for months.

Charlie / It was the first time that I’d seen him jealous

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Charlie wasn’t happy when he came back from Barcelona. He didn’t say much on the way from the airport, and I put it down to post holiday blues. He’d spent a lot of time in the sun and was still dressed for the beach.

His arms and legs were tanned, and his thick black hair had ginger tints. He said that he’d had a good time and missed me, but I noticed he was scrolling his phone looking for cheap flights. He was planning a quick return.

I thought about what he might have been up to over the past week. He said he’d met up with friends, but I suspected he’d hooked up with someone. Why else would he be silent? A cute French boy would have no problem finding someone to have sex with. Knowing Charlie, he would have fallen in love with them.

I was resentful but had no reason to be. We weren’t in a relationship and to all extent and purposes we were simply flatmates. Charlie was a flirtatious boy and had carefully manipulated me into letting him have a room.

I’d missed our quiet nights watching movies on TV and missed the hours he spent sitting cross-legged on the floor while he painted.

I had something to tell him, but his gloomy mood suggested it wasn’t the right time.

I was afraid to mention that Levi had moved in.

This was the same Levi, with his boundless energy, who claimed to be Polish and spoke with the broadest Yorkshire accent. Like Charlie, he’d asked for a place to stay, and I’d let him have the spare room.

Charlie sensed something was wrong as soon as we arrived home. I hid in the kitchen while he inspected every corner of the apartment. Eventually he opened the door to the last room and saw Levi asleep on the floor.

Charlie closed the door and muttered something in French that I didn’t understand. Then he threw his rucksack on the floor and kicked off his Nikes. He looked at me, a flash of anger in those eyes that turned to hurt, and he slammed the door as he disappeared into his own room.

It was the first time that I’d seen Charlie jealous, and I felt strangely satisfied.

The Boy with the Dolphin Tattoo

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Bro’, I’m sorry it ended this way. Kayla said I was a pussy. She’s a hard-faced Scouser bitch. She fingered my blue dolphin tattoo and said that I needed to keep face with my boys. I needed to teach you a lesson. I knew that.

It was months ago, and you’d picked up on something that I didn’t want people to see. You’d sent me a message, I was drunk and stupid, and I replied saying that I found you exciting and I was intrigued.

But there was a problem because you showed my message to the boys and made me look a dickhead. Didn’t you think that I wouldn’t find out? That’s why I dropped you because I had to show that I was still the hard cunt I was supposed to be.

I always hold a grudge, and I might have made an exception, until Kayla said the boys were still talking about that message. She said that you didn’t deserve that dolphin tattoo, the one that said that you were in a gang.

Bro’, you must understand that I had to do something about it.

I couldn’t do it myself because I didn’t have the heart, and it was too obvious. Instead, I paid five hundred quid to a geezer from Manchester who was an absolute nutter.

I didn’t know when it would happen, and I bet you thought you were home and dry. But I got you in the end.

I’ve watched it on my mobile phone.

Laying in the gutter on some dark backstreet, snivelling, and begging for mercy. Crying because your nose was split and most of your teeth had gone. Screaming because your face had been slashed with a sharp knife. Blood, blood, everywhere.

When you thought you couldn’t hurt anymore came the kicks and the cracking of bones. There was still unfinished business. Next came the acid that burned your tight stomach and obliterated that badge of honour, the dolphin tattoo.

Somebody will find you, half-dead and alone, and you’ll recover from your wounds, but not your sanity.

Bro’, my boys will know who did it, and they’ll think twice about taking the piss. What can I say? I really did like you, and you excited me, but if I wasn’t going to have that pretty face then nobody would.

The Dream / Hello girlfriend, please forgive me now

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The girl I went out with, who thought I was so fucking nice. She couldn’t wait for her parents to meet me because I was perfect. And I’d sit in their little council flat with my arm over their daughter’s shoulders and make polite conversation. We’d watch TV until late into the evening and the brother would stare and not say a word. Dad would offer me cans of Carling and Mum would offer me sandwiches and biscuits until it was time for bed because they had to get up for work.

They’d ask me to stay, not in their daughter’s room, but in the brothers, because he wouldn’t mind me sleeping on his floor. I’d end up stripping down to my boxers and laying on a cheap carpet with a travel rug to keep me warm.

The brother in his single bed would ask me if I’d shagged his sister and I’d say that I had, when I hadn’t. He’d say that it was gross, and then he’d talk football because that’s what lads did, and he’d ask me about movies and music I liked. I’d lay there wishing that he’d shut the fuck up and let me sleep.

But he’d continue to talk, a voice in the dark, asking question after question, until I’d pretend to drop off and he’d say that the floor must be uncomfortable. I’d tell him that I was grateful for somewhere to stay and that I wasn’t bothered. He’d say that it wasn’t right for his sister’s boyfriend to sleep on the floor and that I could have his bed instead.

Eventually, I’d stand shivering in my boxers while he made an Oscar performance getting comfy on the floor. I’d slip into his warm bed with its aromas of Lynx and teenage sweat, and he’d still be chattering.

I’d tell him that I felt guilty about taking his bed and that he could share it if he wanted. He’d say that he wasn’t sharing a bed with another guy because he wasn’t gay, and I’d remind him that I was shagging his sister, and that meant I wasn’t gay either.

He’d crawl into bed and say that it was a bit cramped, and I’d tell him to go to sleep. He’d set an alarm on his mobile phone so he could nip onto the floor before his parents walked in the next morning.

Then he’d ask me if I’d kissed a guy, and I’d lie that I hadn’t. He’d wonder what it would be like, and I’d say that I didn’t know. He’d keep talking until I told him to find a guy to kiss, and then he might shut up. That would mean that he was gay, but he wasn’t.

He’d complain that the bed was too narrow and that he might fall out. When I don’t respond, he’d ask if he can give me a hug and I’d say yes, if that’s what he wanted. He’d put his arm around me, and say that he wasn’t a faggot, and I’d smile.

A Mournful Trumpet and a Sorrowful Violin

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I’m on good terms with William and Julian Percy. We’ve had an intimate relationship these past four years. I was fourteen when I found them. It was a spring day, and I took a shortcut through the cemetery when I wasn’t supposed to. My mother had said it was out of bounds. Bad things happened to boys who wandered here, but she never said what these bad things were. As a child I imagined dead people crawling through the undergrowth, walking amongst graves, hiding behind crumbling monuments, ready to pounce on little boys. As I got older, I realised it wasn’t the dead that I needed to be afraid of, but the living.

I’ve come to believe that William and Julian called me that day. Voices from beyond urging me to leave the rough path and clamber over graves and through waist-deep brambles and nettles until I was lost. The sun shone and birds sang a ripe chorus. Amidst this secrecy was the long forgotten grave of William and Julian Percy who beckoned me to sit on the warmth of their heated stone.

I read the carved inscription: –

Here lies William Percy 1900 – 1918. Also, Julian Percy 1901 – 1918

“The sorrow we felt we cannot explain,
The ache in our hearts
Will always remain.”

I realised that they had been brothers, but only recently did I understand that they had been victims of that Great War.

I used to think that their bodies lay side by side, but the narrow tomb wouldn’t have allowed that. They were undoubtedly on top of each other, their brotherly bodies had rotted until they became one, their skeletal remains intwined.

These boys had been loved, mourned, and eventually forgotten. Nature had claimed their bodies as well as their final resting place.

The grave had sunk, and small holes had appeared where the stone had shifted. I peered into the blackness hoping to see something. I reached inside but they were merely hollows where I would later hide cans of Stella and packets of Marlboro Gold.

I came here daily and talked to William and Julian. I shared my secrets and thoughts, and told them about my small world. They always spoke back to me.

They didn’t mind me coming because they liked me and I they.

I don’t see them as skeletons anymore. They are handsome young boys who gave their lives for their country. They remain out of sight during the day, waiting for me to visit, and when darkness falls and owls call from the trees, they come out and roam amongst their friends.

They were musical. William played the cornet and Julian was expert at the violin, and their instruments were buried with them. Was this true? I like to think so. I’ve played them the music I listen to – Bring Me the Horizon, YUNGBLUD and The Reytons – and they smile at the Yorkshire accents because it reminds them of people they once knew.

They didn’t mind that long hot summer when I sunbathed naked on top of them and drank a full bottle of wine I’d stolen from the corner shop and fell asleep until I burned red.

They liked it when I read the opening paragraph of a cool book I found in Oxfam.

“Last night, I fell out with Amy when she caught me sucking her boyfriend under the table of some stinking Euro-pop club in not so gay Paris. She’d been going out with him for five days and claimed he was straight. But as soon as I clocked how much eyeliner he had on, I told her the only place he was going was straight to a gay bar.”

They’d both laughed and made me recite the whole book over the next few days.

Today, they want to have a serious conversation.

“We’ve really enjoyed your visits,” said William.

“It’s been lovely to talk to someone after a hundred years,” interrupted Julian.

“Yes,” said William, “But the time has come when you will no longer be able to come and talk to us.”

“What do you mean?”

“What we’re saying,” said Julian, “is that today is the anniversary of our deaths, and we realise that we might have misled you into thinking that we were soldiers who died at war.”

“But that wasn’t the case,” said William. “Yes, we both served our country and were scarred but came home unharmed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Remember when you came to us a few years ago and spoke about a pandemic and you were forced to stay at home for months?”

“Lockdown,” I agreed.

“But you still came to see us every day,” Julian commented, “And we didn’t feel it was the right time to tell you the truth about how we died.”

“How did you die?”

“Well,” continued William, “we both died of influenza, a dreadful disease that one of us picked up in France.”

“The Spanish flu?”

“That’s what they called it,” said Julian, “and it was an unpleasant experience that turned into pneumonia, and ultimately our deaths.”

“Julian got it first and I sat beside his bed while he slipped away, and then I became ill and by the end of the day had surrendered to it as well. We had each other, but our parents were heartbroken.”

“You see why we didn’t want to frighten you before?” asked Julian.

“That’s so sad,” I told them, “But I’ll keep visiting.”

“Yes, you can visit, and I hope that you shall, but I’m afraid that we won’t be able to speak with you.”

“Whyever not?”

“As the oldest, I was eighteen years old when I died. How old are you now?”

“I’m eighteen, almost nineteen.”

“And come tomorrow you will have lived a longer life than I did, and that means that our ability to talk must come to an end.”

“But what about Julian? He was only seventeen.”

“Alas,” said Julian, “Brothers must stick together in life and in death and where my brother goes, I shall follow.”

“You’re both leaving?”

“We move on, somewhere else, but we shall occasionally return to see our final home. And you shall get on with your own life and in time will forget we ever existed.”

I left the cemetery. Angry, dejected, and sad. I never even said goodbe. And, as I crawled through the familiar undergrowth, the day darkened and spots of rain started to fall, and I swear that I could hear a tune somewhere behind me. It was played by a mournful trumpet and a sorrowful violin.

Only these Geordie Angels remained

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The boys with the bling. In you came, with your coloured VKs and a hint of nervousness in those childlike eyes. I watched because you might have been young lovers.

There are two personalities here. The one who likes to show off, and the sweet one who is content to sit and watch him.

The smaller boy dances, puffs on a vape, and makes ‘v’ signs to some gangster shit. His unobtrusive friend is made to take videos of him that will end up on Tik Tok. Then the extrovert shouts “Newcastle!” in a voice that cracks, and then I realise that the Magpies have stuck eight goals past United.

These are the boys.

The last of the many who celebrated into the night and one by one, they fell away, drunk, bleary-eyed, until only these two Geordie Angels remained.