SECRET DOVETAILS


On two sides of the room,
Broad, sunny windows.
In the air, flickering particles of heartwood
Like stars brighter than daylight.
Two men are at a long bench.
Beside them, contained by ugly iron cramps,
A rectangular box.
There is a drawing spread out,
Curled at the corners
And weighted down with odd tools.
One of the men
Has a piece in his bench block,
Marked out.
He places his left hand there,
Thumbnail at a line,
Then he raises a light backsaw
And begins to cut,
Leaving a shadow of the pencil line,
Cutting deeper
In sure strokes until the saw
Is exactly home,
Then the man eases it out.
He blows away dust,
Adjusts his angle and continues
Cutting the tenons.
The other man takes a pencil
From behind his ear
And writes in a notebook.
He goes to a rack of planed timber,
Selects a length,
Takes it to another bench,
Measures, marks with a try square.
He rips the length,
Crosscuts it to size.
The men rarely speak,
They know each other's secrets.

THE CITY

By nine o'clock the breadless hosts of clerks are penned, the typists
pooled. Unhurried girls are at their counters, and urgent men in suits
debouch importantly, going somewhere else. Windows all have wall to wall
extravaganzas on display. Instore, ex-wives experiment with scent, feel
flimsy silks with foreign names, anticipating captivating Mr. Right tonight.
And bagged trousered perambulists load up their ready meals on wheels
without consulting shopping lists, or checking out the hidden extras. After all,
there's rent to pay, and tally men, and next door neighbours.

At noon the punters take their ease, confined in cafés, squeezed in
queues. They fork at shepherds pie in bars, eat neat sandwiches with
pinkies raised. Smart temporary tycoons suck at banned cigars, admiring
their mirrored style, snake-eyed. A clique of representatives amuse each
other with bad jokes, and how they laugh to hear a fellow traveller's
tale about the time he almost missed the consummation of a deal, because
he had his hand caught at the wrist.

Now, in gloomy evening exodus, spent consumers congregate, complaining
of their missing buses, and missing their trains. Cars go by, with room
to spare, the emptiness of success. Taxis clatter with yellow signs writ
large, and vans of every size disperse, shouting their names from every
surface.

And so, another city day is done. I waste an hour in the café. Gino Jr.
brings espresso and I fail, again, to finish the cunning crossword. Herself
arrives, notes the single cup (I have a manly understanding with the Ginos)
and looks at me hard. We stroll down to The Embankment, she always
parks a walk away. Driving across the city she tells me about her day.

SHITHOUSE RONNIE, OH NO ANNETTE AND THE BLACK BASTARD


Smallbone had to say something, 'That's bollocks,' he said.

The boys were in the bar, variously disposed and not a little
dissipated. Shithouse Ronnie had the floor and he meant to make
the most of it. Pausing only to swallow his pint, he'd spotted
Annette coming in, he said, 'Bollocks? Bollocks? When did he
win anything, eh? Come on, when? What's he won worth a
shit, eh? What? Bollocks.'

'What has that to do with it, winning anything?' Smallbone sighed.
He saw little point in going on, poor deluded fools seemed unable to
recognize pure genius. Art, science, class, style, magic, luck, wit,
all embodied in Jimmy on a snooker table. He could have won the
World, sure he could. He was simply the best.

'He was simply the best,' Smallbone said, resting his case.

Annette got them in and spilled hers straightaway, 'Oh no,' she
said, 'Anyone see the Trump match?'

They all said bollocks and watched the luncheon crowd playing
snooker. The Slasher was in, hard at it, very Freudian, cutting
and thrusting, missing. Mr. Bumbole, sipping Guinness, upheld
his chewsoggy castella, 'Woya blod clart, shou'dn be allowed,
man, dis, me reach up to seea snookah, notta loada bankers.'

'Never mind, Bumbole, you can watch me give Annette a spanking.'

'Ah gard,' Mr. Bumbole said, 'Gard help me.'

Annette tossed a coin as Smallbone got down to break, 'Head,'
he said.

'Oi, it's a tail,' Annette said, 'Sod off, I'll break.'

She didn't quite reach the baulk cushion, 'Oh no,' she said, but there
was no harm done, and Smallbone was bound to go for something
spectacular. He played too fine, too pacy off the pack, dislodged a
couple of reds, clipped one on the way back sending it into the middle
pocket as the white spun off two cushions to a stop in the D. He rolled
up to the yellow, bumped it. Annette had a walk round, 'You might at
least apologise,' she said. She played cushion first off a stray, up and
down, safe. Mr. Bumbole watched, sucked on his cigar.

Three or four tables came off at once. A number of bank clerks
fiddled at the counter, looking everywhere but at Annette who'd
seen a tight red along the side cushion and mounted the table,
wriggling comfortable. She lined up the shot. There was a pink
into the middle inside the pack and she wanted it, but just as
she breathed in she touched a loose red with her right tit and
Smallbone called a foul.

'Oh no,' Annette moaned. The clerks held their breath as she
slowly poured herself back onto the floor, 'Aaaah,' they all
nearly said and left, sighing, like wet dreams.

Mr. Bumbole remonstrated, 'Wha' ya say? Wha' ya say?'

'Calm down, Bumbole, look, her tit touched the ball and that's
four to me ... '

'Touch? I see no touch. What touch? I see no body part ... '

'Look, Bumbole, tits are part of the body and body parts must
not touch balls, so when a tit does touch a ball, it's a foul, a tit
foul, and penalty points to me.'

'Oi,' Annette said, 'They're my tits and it's your shot so get on
with it.' Mr. Bumbole went to get the drinks in but he wasn't
happy. Smallbone got on with it and made a winning forty, then
he took the next frame on the blue. Annette handed over a
tenner and glowered.

Most of the tables emptied now and serious snooker began. Mr.
Bumbole watched Annette. She'd taken on Shithouse Ronnie and
she was a frame up in a best of three, stalking balls with a glint
in her eye. Ronnie needed a snooker to stay in it and he didn't
get it, leaving Annette the last red sitting over a pocket.

'Just going to the shithouse,' Ronnie said.

'Oh no,' Annette said.

A DOLL FACE DOWN IN THE WATER



There is a heat in August sometimes
That coils, fraught with summer spells,
Glowing in gardens, cooling in corners.
On so hot a day, a girl came, grieving.

We mourned a young brother.
By the pool children played,
'Oh, look,' one cried, 'Look,
'Esmerelda is drownding.'

DOG FOOD



It was late evening but still light when I pulled over. I'd been
driving all day and needed one more break - it was half an hour
or so to the cottage. I stepped down, went round to the passenger
door and let Connor out, he needed a walk too. I snapped the
lead on him, he was dumb enough to wander off and flop out of
sight. The road was deserted. A small wood over to the right was
in shadow as night closed in. I knew the outskirts of this small town
and figured we were private enough. I took a leak against a tree
and Connor kept me company.

Walking back to the van I heard a muffled scream, cut off. The road
bent left up ahead, to where the sound had come from. I shortened the
lead and trotted up to the corner, knelt down with my arm around
Connor's shoulder and had a look. There were two well spaced
streetlamps before the rows of houses. A man came out of  the trees,
looked round brushing himself off, and began to walk away from us.
I sprinted for the van, hustled Connor in and started it, slowly backed
up to keep the sound low as possible until I had the distance to round
the corner at cruising speed. I reached in my bag for the Colt, safety on,
tucked it under my thigh.

The man had reached the first of the houses when I passed him and I
was looking round for a mailbox, anywhere to make a normal stop when
he turned off into a small row of houses. I parked, tied Connor to
the wheel, put away the Colt, and left the van with its lights on. I
walked over. He was there, putting his key into the side door of a
small house that had lots of lights on at the front, music playing,
not too loud. I hurried back to the van, started up and turned it
round, drove back to where the man had come from.

I parked by the spot and stepped out with Connor who was a little
surprised but he didn't argue. The trees started quite near the road
and as soon as we reached them Connor stiffened. He found her in a
second. Poor kid, she was bleeding steadily. I should have let the
bastard go and looked here ten minutes ago. Running back to the van
I hit the emergency key on my cellphone and got an ambulance on its
way before I spoke to the police. I said my dog had found her when
we stopped for a break and I was going back to her now with a blanket.
I could already hear the ambulance. I covered her still form. A tiny
sound came from her as she breathed. I stroked hair away from her
forehead. 'You hang on,' I said. Connor fussed round her, nuzzled
a trembling hand, cleaned off a trickle of blood. I looked for the knife.
Nothing there.

The police took four hours to process me, during which time I heard
that the kid was critical, on machines, but the signs were good. The
sun was low over the cottage when we got there. We didn't care. When
I closed my eyes to sleep the last thing I remembered was the cold
feel of her skin and her smell. It was afternoon when I woke, ran a
bath and took the radio in, turned on the news. The report was low key
but I found out what I wanted to know. He was out there, and I was
ready for him. I called the garage and told them I'd be keeping the van
for another week. I ordered a few steaks from the butcher and a sack of
bones for Connor. He was a big fucker, with a fancy name, a big shaggy
wolfhound with the brains of a flea and the table manners of a dog. Three
years ago I could carry him in my pocket. We ate a big meal.

That night I drove to the town and parked in the centre. Unloaded
 my bike and took a leisurely ride around, past the house. The lights
on, it was quiet. One of the houses opposite was dark and I circled
behind it, stashed the bike and climbed over the back fence, down to
the side to where I had a good view. I saw movement across the
window of his house and in a minute someone came out of the side door.
It was him. He turned to walk into the town. When I got there I
thought I'd missed him but I caught sight of him in a cafe. I put
the bike in the van and stepped over to the plate glass window and
looked at the menu. I saw him ordering from a waitress, a girl like
any other girl in that small town. She turned away. He made a con-
temptuous shrug and sneered. I went in. There was a young couple in
one corner, and another at the counter huddled close. The atmosphere
was sombre. The waitress served me hot coffee before she carried a
tray over to the man. I was two tables across from him and in the
neon light I looked at him. Light brown hair, his face slightly
waxy, freshly shaved, his mouth never quite closed, tight look to
his shoulders. He was in his late thirties.

A marked police car drew up outside and an officer came in. There
was a bag ready for him and he left with it straightaway. I saw that
the man had shrunk into himself when the car arrived but he did that
shrug again as it moved off. I was looking directly at him. I nodded
conspiratorially. He ignored me. I ordered a sandwich. We finished
eating. He picked up his check. We walked over to the till together;
I let him go ahead. Standing behind him I thought I might smell him.
He had a combed parting to one side with a fine sprinkling of
dandruff. I paid and left. Outside, I saw him looking in the window
of an electrical store. It took me ten minutes to walk as calmly as
I could to his house and I saw that there was a single light on in
an upstairs room. The neighbourhood was quiet as I went up the path
of his house to the side. I waited for him. His footsteps neared the
side door and as soon as I heard his keys I stepped out and sapped
him hard and he dropped. I dragged him out of sight, injected him,
took a look round and walked out and on into the town. I drove the
van back to his house and parked it, two wheels up on the curb, no
lights. I heaved him in. He had pissed himself, he stank. I covered him
up, drove back to the cottage, gagging on the smell. Connor came out
through the window and greeted me, hugely licking. Dumb dog, I'd
only been gone a couple of hours.

The man was stirring a little by now so I stuffed up his mouth and
tied a gag tight, making sure he had good breathing through his nose
before I ran the chains round him and secured him to the passenger
seat fittings. He could move his left leg slightly but he would have
agonizing cramp quite soon. I went in to the kitchen, made a pot
of coffee and heated pizza, I was hungry again, and so was Connor,
he was always hungry. I chucked a couple of bones down for him. I
always felt like David Attenborough, watching him. He looked as if
any minute he'd be ready to go hunt something. Local Jack Russells
put the fears up him just yapping out of their car windows, but he
looked the part.

It had been a tiring day. I went out to the van and the man's eyes
were open. There wasn't much light but I could see them. He'd been
crying. I hooked a couple of Connor's leads through the chains, got
him loose from the fittings and dragged him out of the back of the
van. He caught his left leg in the tow bar and, what with the dark
I didn't notice, and his leg snapped, just above the ankle. He did a
kind of balletic arch and I tugged on the leads more and he came loose.
I dragged him over to the shed and rolled him in. He came to rest
up against an old watering can and it tipped over onto him, dirty
water all over his shirt front. 'Good night,' I said, gave him a
smile, before I spiked him again. He shit suddenly, awful noise,
and I got out of there, nearly threw up. I was exhausted. Asleep
the minute I hit the sack.

Poor old Connor. He couldn't understand it. Most mornings down
here on the coast, we had breakfast together and then went for
a walk. Well, I had a quick cup of coffee as soon as I woke up
and then I went into the sitting room and listened to my messages,
not too many, I kept the line here private. Connor followed me
round with a look on his face. Puzzled. Hungry. I made sure all
the exits were closed then I went out to the van. I rigged up a
tow rope, backed up to the shed. When I went in I thought the
fucker had died on me, but he opened his eyes when I kicked him.
I think he was hallucinating, because he looked at me as though
I was the devil himself, and damned if he didn't shit himself
again. I threw some water in his face, the gag would soak it up,
I didn't want him mute. I looked at his leg. It was a clean break.
I hadn't realized last night. Made it easier to cut off. I'd have
liked him to have seen it but he was unconscious again. I left his
shoe on for purchase, drew a black plastic bag over his foot, and
cut it off with a carving knife by feel, nearly gave myself a nasty
nick. There wasn't much blood when I took the foot out, don't know
why I bothered with the bag, but anyway I'd made a nice neat job of
it, considering. I taped up the stump, put a bag over it, taped that,
put the foot in another bag, and then I hooked up the rope to his
chains and towed him out back into the trees. It was a squeeze but
I got the van through to the little copse I had in mind for him and
left him there. I drove the van back down and gave everything a
good hosing, cosmetic really, but it got rid of all the stinking shit
trails and blood on the floor. I took a good slice out of the foot,
from the heel, and went into the kitchen, sorted a couple of nice
juicy bones for Connor, he was practically beside himself, poor sod,
and in a couple of minutes he was done. Didn't seem too worried
about the man's meat, though he did take a good long drink from
his bowl.

I sat at my desk for a couple of hours, admin, made a few phone
calls, and pretty soon it was lunchtime. We went up to the copse. I
took a bottle of water and a bowl for Connor, fussy bastard. I kept
him tied up nearby. The man had his eyes open, dull, which surprised
me. I noticed that the bag was sloshing a bit, and of course then I
realized all the blood in the foot wouldn't have filled a teacup.
His leg had been leaking blood all morning. Pity. I'd have to wash
it away eventually and the hose didn't reach up here, that was for
sure. I took out the foot and showed it to the man. He fainted. It
was a couple of minutes before I could bring him round. I smashed
the foot with a hammer a couple of times and twisted it about a bit.
I wasn't sure whether Connor would be put off if he recognized what
was for lunch. But I needn't have worried. I threw the foot to him
and held the man's head to be sure he saw what was happening. Well,
Con crunched the bones in a matter of minutes and was soon licking
his chops, ready for more. I faced the man and said, 'I'm going to
cut off your hands now, and feed them to Con, get rid of the prints.
Know what I mean?' I could have sworn he nodded, but anyway he had
fainted away and I cut his hands off. Took me ages, I broke them
about two inches above the wrist with the hammer, smashed the bones
really, rather than broke them, had to roll him over and kind of
stand on his arms to actually hack them off. Awkward, but anyway,
there they were. He chewed his nails. I taped him up. As soon as he
came to I waved his right hand but he was gone again. Con cleaned
out his bowl of water, and I took him back to the cottage, he liked
a doze after lunch. I locked him in.

When I went back up the man was awake again. He didn't look as if
he had much life in him. I untied the gag, and pulled out the flannel I'd
stuffed his mouth with and stood back. I thought the man might say
something, beg maybe, I had no idea what to expect. But all he did was
make this inarticulate noise and shake his head. I supposed he'd lost his
voice screaming silently all this time. I said, 'I'm going to cut your head
off next, just in case your body is found. Dental records.' His eyes
looked as if they were going to burst, 'Don't worry,' I said, 'I'm
going to knock you out first, you won't feel a thing.' Tears began
to roll from those bloodshot eyeballs. I stuck the carving knife
into the ground where he could see it and picked up the hammer. I
looked into his eyes and I said, 'She won't remember your face.'
He mouthed something. I went up close and then I saw it. A raw
swollen purplish stump. He'd bitten off his tongue. I'd have to
find it before it got dark - unless that greedy bastard had got there
first. The man began to sway back and forth, gurgling nonsense.
I sank the hammer into his forehead.

The phone call came later that night. Next morning two men arrived
early and took away the torso. I found the tongue when I was boxing
him up; it had landed behind the old watering can. Don't know what
made me look there. I had another phone call a couple of days later.
It was the detective in charge of the investigation. He said the girl
was making good progress. She said the last thing she remembered
before the medics knocked her out was this big shaggy dog with his

head in her lap, gazing up at her. He does that, I said, sucker for a 

pretty face.     

 

BURNING TOAST



Hand on hip, tongue in cheek,
At the bar imbibing Guinness,
Bearded poet addressed his thirst.

'I laughed,' he said, ' . . .at first.'

In the room sipping lips susurrated, 
Owly eyes in mirrors boggled,
Nobody moved, nothing stirred.

' . . .wurze failed me,' the poet slurred.

ONE LESS 


Grey rain persisted so there was no dawn. Instead, a lessening of night.
Sad birds crooned unseen, and a dog barked, once. In the distance, trains
began monotonous shuttling. The street was untidy and most of the houses
were drear. Mysterious doorbells studded the porches, paint peeled around
dusty pockmarked windows, oddly curtained, and against the fencing there
were numbered dustbins with decrepit lids. An electric milkman floated,
flitting door to door. There was almost a smell of decomposition, and always,
half heard, the sound of waste flushing.

In one of the rooms the dead man woke. He lay staring at the wall opposite
his bed, a moment uncertain where he was. On the floor beside him a flat
bottle quite dry and an open book. Morning light seeped through carelessly
drawn shades. Outside, doors slammed, cars started, runners drummed,
more dogs barked, and some birds sang. There were few children.

The dead man came out and began to walk, at pavement's edge, head bowed,
hands deep, avoiding contact. The rain redoubled. When he reached the main
thoroughfare he glanced about him, watching for an opportunity to cross. A
manic pedestrian knocked him into the path of a speeding car that struck him
so hard his back snapped. Passers-by soon gathered to stare at the body
lying broken in the gutter. Those with umbrellas raised them and raindrops
sparkled on the black shroud.