Checking out

I can't wait to be out of this place, to get home and shower away the stink of the prison. It won't be long until I can remove this uniform, change back into my own clothes, collect my belongings and leave. Leave behind the keys and the doors, the sound of boots on the steel-grilled landings, the sickening weight of fear that is always lodged in my guts.

I can't wait for the doors to open, to step out into daylight and be on my way home, away from the petty rules, and the casual brutalisation.

It will feel so good, on the outside. I never want to come back, but I know I will. Next week I'm on night shift.

"Ohmigod" Samaantha

"Ohmigod" Samaantha never entered a place; she always made an entrance. She always made sure she was heard, just on the off chance we hadn't seen her trailing her trophy husband. "He's so much younger than me, but you know, I never met anyone else before who I even wanted to marry. I just knew, after two months. This Is the Man for Me. Isn't he gorgeous?"

Gorgeous trophy just grimaced, fully convinced the expression was an endearing grin. Samaantha spoke with an edge of desperation which she tried to convey as enthusiasm, that hyper tone which cut through any crowd, even in her hushed confidences. That desperation, seeking of approval, was evident to everyone, except Ohmigod herself. Dropping names and justifications like an amputee juggler, her intense eyes bore into whatever audience she had selected for the moment, with all due appearances of sincerity. Of course Ohmigod always wanted to talk to you, so long as you wanted to listen about her. Which of course you did.

"I was almost beginning to think I'd been left on the shelf," she confided. "But what fun I had on the shelf! But now that I'm," and here she stage-whispered, "forty …" and paused for the expected 'oh but you don't look it,' even though she did. "Well, you know. Tick tock," she continued, undeterred.

Gorgeous trophy continued to grimace. "All my previous boyfs were all singers with bands, or racing drivers, or managing directors," she patted his arm, "but so interested in themselves, you know. Like the last one, big, and I mean big, football fan. So he had to go. Not gene pool material."

"I've done the career thing, but now I'm ready for somewhere quieter, suitable for the progeny. Oh, it's so quaint here, but Girl Guide holiday or what? Well, we would have to choose the oldest house in the village, so historic and full of character. Tiny, but all period, you know. It's like camping, and I know I've done the London thing, and would never go back, but I do miss Harrods," she dropped, as though expecting either complete agreement, or else an admission of unfathomable social inferiority on the part of her audience.

One had to be impressed, simply had to be. Else Ohmigod would be off to the next willing or unwitting victim to project against. One might after a while wish for that, of course.

"How long have we been married? Nearly two months, isn't it delicious?" Gorgeous trophy tried as hard to look enthusiastic as Samaantha tried to sound it, but he was already looking bored. But that's the thing with social ladders. You only need the bottom rung once.

Caribbean magic

Stood at the bow, gazing down into the water breaking around our
progress, seeing the faint glimmer of phosphorescence. Fist-sized
balls of light dancing in the foam, and occasionally a larger,
unidentified light will burst into life, tumble through our wake and
slip silently back into darkness.

It is a night illuminated by the first quarter of the moon, shrouded at
times in a gentle gathering of cloud, bright-edged and dark-hearted,
yet in the prow's shadow, eyes can adjust to the darkness and see
this spectacular dance. To describe it would be to describe an
hallucination, a mariner's tale born of madness or isolation. But no,
this is how the world is.

The day's glass-smooth sea has been stirred once more, and the
swell is rising, gently and slowly, but noticeably. The brief respite,
of walking straight, standing securely, is over. We are back to pitch
and roll. Meanwhile, the moon's horns sink down towards the
horizon, chasing the sun who left us hours ago, and the bow
sparks cold fire from the surface of the deep.

The day itself ended in a shroud of pink and blue, the remnant
footsteps of a tangerine sun that sank slowly into the Caribbean,
blinking at the end its elusive flash of green light. Now stars familar
and unknown take their stations. Orion upright once more since
crossing the equator, Sirius, his spouse bright and serene as ever.
The great bear now hangs at a tortured angle, and the southern
cross is now but a memory from beneath alien skies. The dim path
of the milky way has become bright here, removed from the lights
and distractions of land.

Nearing journey's end the southern stars are a receding memory,
fading over the horizon with every turn of the screw. Those of the
north are old friends, laying out a homecoming.

A man may go out to sea, but can never entirely return. A piece of
his soul will always remain on the waves, watching the fish and the
birds, looking for whales and rocks, and bathing in the silent
moonlight. Why else would he ever go back to sea, to risk the
vengeance of its vastness, to feel the might of its grandeur tossing
the eggshell frailty of his ship? To relive the agony of such
exquisite transient beauties? For none of these; solely to recover
the lost portion of his soul. But each time he goes, a little more is
lost. Then one day he is all gone, he returns with no soul left at all,
and just stares through the rest of his life watching the waves
crashing behind his eyelids.

Pierre

His hatred had become a palpable thing. I could see it perched upon Pierre's shoulder, a darkness whispering into his unhearing ear as he drove us through the rolling russet-dashed greenery of the British Columbian autumn.

Fifty years before, he had arrived in Vancouver, a fearful child, a refugee from occupied Paris. Today, the bitterness of the Seine still pulsed in his twisted veins, his hatred a jackboot forever pressing his winter-leathered face into the mire.

The darkness shone through his tight grey eyes, the bitterness curled his whitened hair into unruly knots. He gripped the wheel, tendons and sinews distorting the thin skin of his clawed hands, echoing the unrelenting clutch of the eagle's talons upon his lost childhood.

Half a century of exile under Canada's yawning skies, amidst the richness of snow-fed lakes that nestled deep in valleys carved by long dead giants, hadn't eased his hateful pain. Instead the black succubus on his shoulder gnawed away at his withered compassion.

Pierre slowed the car to point out a miserable huddle of log cabins squatting in a lakeside hollow. "That's the reservation," he spat at us, "Where the Indians live tax free since the government gave it to them."

Eagles soared above these mountains once, ranging a thousand miles in every direction, before their wings were broken, before Pierre and his succubus settled.

Pierre gestured once more, dismissive, resentful, his claw describing the tiny valley. "All this," he snarled, "all this is Indian land now."

Flamenco

Two chairs, rustic, woven-seated, blue painted, stood side by side, angled together in a conspiratorial huddle upon the stage, which loomed a sparse two inches above the floor. On one chair, a guitar reclined. The other was vacant. Chairs such as Van Gogh would have revelled in, vibrant, expectant, actors on the stage, not mere props.

Before the stage, a crowd. Open, honest, sun-leathered faces cracked with smiles and cameraderie, glowing with the warmth of slapped backs, beer and the open fire. Smoke curled into the gaping chimney, logs crackling with tension.

A silence fell as two men mounted the low-slung stage. Inattentive chatterers at the rear of the crowd were shushed, for flamenco is not entertainment, but culture, the crowd not spectators, but participants. The anguished strumming, soundboard rapping, and melodic picking of the guitar combined with the plaintive voices, and were picked up in counterpoint by the clapping of hands. Songs of love and pain, starry nights and war, Moorish roots showing through echoes of the muezzin’s call.

It was not performance, but dialogue, a long tradition played out across the stage-floor divide that was no divide. A hundred years ago, the same scene could have been played out, or a hundred years hence. Traditional words, known by all, were savoured, and topical variations, knowing takes on the day’s gossip were applauded with a shouted ‘¡olé!’ and some old boy would receive a dig in the ribs and a wink or two.

Occasionally someone would dance, tracing on the floor the toreador’s footsteps, or a lover’s swoon. More than music, it was community in action, particular yet inclusive, for the community here also includes the transient tourists that pass, and the foreigners who have settled. All that is required is presence. We may not all understand the Andaluz singing, but rhythm is universal, and passion is passion in any tongue.

By day the bar is quiet. The chairs wait in their huddle, and the stage is not quite empty. Flamenco echoes between these whitewashed walls permanently.

Then I wonder whether I am in receipt of something special, a chance to join, however transiently, this unique event; or should I hang my head on realising that the highlight of my week is to clap along to the wailing of two old men with a guitar?

Pigeon People

The boy steps through the crowd of pigeons feeding in the Town Square, each stride slotting into a space as the birds mill around uncaring, as though they can't see the intruder in their midst.

A puppy bounds in, all lolling tongue and soft fur and enthusiasm, and despite his gentle soul, the pigeons fly. Having flown they scatter, reshuffle their flock, and settle again, in new patterns, new distributions to peck at the tourist-scattered corn and discarded sandwiches. A young family advances, with a wobble-wheeled buggy full of impatient wailing to the fore. Again the pigeons fly, scatter, reshuffle, resettling in the wake of this latest disturbance.

Mouselike, an archetypal librarian diffidently creeps across the cobbles. In her averted eyes we can read the unspoken promise that she shall one day whip off her spectacles, untangle her bunned-up hair, and fly headlong through the window wearing nothing more than a magic cape, thigh boots and a studded leather G-string. Today, she is demur, unremarkable, unthreatening; yet the pigeons flee at her approach nonetheless.

Lunchtime people-watchers, posing as office-workers engrossed in their lawful business of eating packed lunches, peer over their wholegrain and Tupperware horizons, eyes busily tracking the birds' and the intruders' movements across the square.

The boy returns, retracing his steps through the flock. Again the pigeons ignore him, and the people-watchers munch on, noses down amongst the picalilly and peanut butter.

I often wondered; now I know. To not scare the pigeons, one must be invisible. Yet I can see the boy.

When I walk away through the feeding flock, not a feather stirs. No-one watches me leave, except the smiling boy.

Photographing Dolphins

The shutter snapped, and the bottlenose dolphin diving gracefully back into the spray was immortalised on celluloid.


"I finally got one!" cried Felicity, shaking her Pentax excitedly towards Joanna. "Oh, it will be beautiful, Jo. I can't wait to show Andrew," she gushed, then instantly burst into tears. Joanna stepped away from the rail and enfolded her friend in a comforting embrace.

"There, there," she soothed, "It's okay, it will all be okay. Come on, Fliss, let's sit down." The two women walked the few paces back to their deckchairs and settled down beside Jo's husband.


"Bernard, be a dear and fetch us a couple more G & T's," Jo prodded. He raised an arm, preparing to call over a steward, but Jo flashed him a sharp look and rolled her eyes towards her distraught friend. "Fetch" she mouthed silently. Bernard grumbled under his breath at having to leave his seat, but still headed off towards the bar, leaving the women to talk in peace, or at least as much peace as the liner's crowded sun deck offered.


"Oh, Fliss, I promise, it will get better, with time. I know it sounds hard now, but life does go on you know."


Felicity had heard that many times recently, even said it herself to others on occasion, but this time she couldn't believe it. Not now, not since Andrew died. She would never show him another picture, she would never stage another slide show for him back in the vicarage, there would be no eager audience waiting for her to return with tales of wonder and images of beauty. There was no life left to her.


But this she couldn't explain to her dearest friend. She had become Andrew's eyes on the world, and now he wasn't there to see.


Joanna placed a pudgy hand over hers, and slowly Fliss reeled back the sobs, taking an occasional deep breath, until at last she was able to speak once more.


"It was my life, Jo. Andrew, the photos, it's what we shared more than anything."


"I know, Fliss, I know. But remember it was just your job before you married Andrew."


It was true, of course, it was what had brought the two friends together all those years before. Jo, the reporter, and Fliss, the agency photographer. Their paths had crossed in Beirut during the civil war. Cowering together in the basement of the hotel to sit out a three-day artillery bombardment, they had talked for hours, each discovering that the other had chosen her job for the travel, the chance to see the world and be paid for the pleasure. Yet Beirut had been no pleasure, and the new friends had vowed to find a better outlet for their talents than covering wars and disasters. Once their respective contracts were over, and they met up again in England, they had settled on the plan which had since made them household names.


It had been a hard and slow beginning, but once their first illustrated travel guide had been published, and the royalties began to trickle in, they realised they had hit upon a winning formula.


Fliss and Andrew had been an unlikely couple, yet he had been an ardent fan of her photography long before they actually met. The day he walked into Felicity's life, at a book-signing in a small, independent bookshop in Chichester, he was not wearing his dog-collar. If he had been, Felicity readily admitted, their love would never had grown as it had. In the event she saw a quiet man, with a passion for the world that exceeded her own, even though he had seen so little of it. It had been her photos, he had told her, that brought the world to his doorstep, and Jo's words, he'd added, diplomatically.


That all seemed so far away, so long ago, now on the cruise that Jo had suggested as a way to soften Fliss' lingering grief.


"Here you go," grunted Bernard, handing over the gin and tonics before slumping back into his deckchair with his beer and his trashy paperback novel.


"Shall we go back and watch the dolphins some more?" Jo suggested to Felicity, who nodded and almost instinctively grabbed for her camera. "Let's leave that here for now, hey?" said Jo, softly, and placed the camera back upon the deckchair as Felicity stood.


"Coming, Bernard?"


"What? Nah - seen one cetacean, you've seen them all."


The two women took their drinks back to the rail, between deckchairs and sun loungers, weaving a path between the bronzed and wrinkled sunbathers that habitually cluttered the deck. Arms crossed against the rail, the warm Aegean breeze drying the last remaining tears from her red eyes, Fliss let out a long melancholy sigh and gazed down at the churning water of the bow wave.


"There are so many of them, Jo. I never realised."


"They are beautiful, aren't they?"


"Yes. Yes, they are."


"And all the more so by not being framed in your viewfinder?"


Jo had tried hard, very hard, to persuade her friend to leave her cameras at home for the cruise, but to no avail. Fliss was determined to see the world at one remove, framed, behind glass. And to always see Andrew with every shot.


Felicity took a stiff mouthful from her glass before answering. "I suppose you're right. But I just keep thinking what a marvellous picture it would make."


"I know, dear, I know. But do you ever hear how much you swear each time you miss a shot? Old Mrs Cromarty yesterday blushed like a beetroot! It certainly doesn't sound like you're enjoying it. You should just take the time to stand and watch ... ooh, did you see that one?"


Fliss nodded quietly. "They are so elegant," she added after a while, "and I've never really noticed."


"No. Sometimes I feel like you don't really know what we've seen on our trips until you get home and have your films developed."


Ice tinkled against glass as Felicity took another deep gulp. "I've never told you this before, Jo, but sometimes I can't remember even seeing things I've photographed. There are places I don't recognise, people I'm sure I've never met, and wildlife I can't name."


"It never used to be like that, did it? You used to get so excited you'd forget to take the photos! Now look at you. What changed?"


"Andrew."


"Andrew? How so?" prompted Jo.


"He loved my photos so much. I guess he lived through me, because he could so rarely leave the Parish himself. And for my part, I began to live for him, to be his eyes. Neither of us had a complete life."


Another clink of ice, and Fliss' gin and tonic was drained, all but the melting cubes and the wilted lemon slice. "Thanks, Jo. I needed that."


Jo, in sympathy, polished off the remains of her own glass. "Me too! Let's spoil ourselves and have another."


"Why not?" replied Felicity, and Jo was relieved to see a hint of the wicked smile that made her love her friend so much. She turned and gestured to Bernard, holding up her empty glass with one hand and extending two fingers with the other. This time Bernard did call a steward, then walked over to join the women at the rail, peering down at the cavorting pod on the bow wave.


"Told you," he laughed. "That big guy was on the cover of National Geographic last month. See one, you've seen them all."


"Oh, Bernard, you're so cynical sometimes," Jo retorted, not entirely offended. She and Bernard had married young, whilst still at college studying journalism, and knew and accepted each other's different outlook with a practiced tolerance. She had been the adventurer, always a freelancer before becoming an author, whilst Bernard was the company man, having worked his way up from sports correspondent on the local rag to his current Fleet Street news editorship. Jo could never be sure which had come first - his cynicism or his job. Which had determined the other?


"And you, my dear, are far too romantic. These creatures are juvenile delinquent trans-sexual gang-rapists, you know. The males gather in large groups, hunt down and isolate solitary females, and ..."


"Yes, alright, dear. We get the picture." Jo.


"And they aren't picky either, if there are no females to be had," continued Bernard.


"But even so, you can surely appreciate their grace and beauty?"


"I see them for what they are, love, nothing more or less. Appearances don't come into it. They're like politicians - only interesting when they are misbehaving," he concluded.


"And that's why you never spend time watching sunsets, or dolphins, or spending time with friends, unless you're all down the pub getting drunk after work," she jibed, a little more sharply than before.


Finding the conversation cutting a little too close to the bone, Bernard turned to Fliss. "So, Felicity, what do you see? Fluffy beautiful little creatures, or delinquent sex offenders?"


Felicity's brow furrowed slightly as she pondered Bernard's question, and she was forced to admit that it was neither. "Usually, I see one of my most difficult subjects. They're so difficult to follow in a viewfinder, impossible to tell which one will jump next, and they're so fast. It's like it's always the one just out of shot that does the most amazing thing."


"That's why she swears so much," Jo laughed. "But, Fliss, you're always so tied up trying to get the perfect picture that you miss the beauty amidst all that frustration."


"I know," she whispered dolefully. "But I'm a photographer. That's what I am."


"No, Fliss," interjected Bernard. "That's what you DO."


"It's true. What you ARE is so much more, but you have to feed it, feed your soul. You've been Andrew's eyes for so long, you've just treated the world as subject matter. Life DOES go on. Your life. But it shouldn't just be a record of where your camera has been. You have thousands of beautiful photographs, but how many beautiful memories?"


Felicity fought back the tears, knowing it was time now to let go of Andrew, of the life she had led on his behalf.


The steward finally arrived with more G & T's, and another beer for Bernard. Fliss proposed a toast.


"To beautiful memories." All three raised their glasses.


"Now let's watch the dolphins awhile," she whispered, almost, but not quite, sobbing.