Mulled Vine

She stood before him defiantly, with clenched fists, her lips quivering with emotion, the words “Or else what?” hanging like a Damoclesian sword between them.

He knew she knew he would do nothing – he was boring, dull, predictable and grey in her eyes – but enough was enough and he felt an unfamiliar sensation rise up in his usually placid spirit, a raging fire, torrid emotions that poured into his mind like a swarm of infidels. He let out a roar and rushed forward, grabbing her fiercely with both hands by the throat and lifting her off the ground. She stared back with wide-eyed astonishment, immobile at first, but then clutching frantically at this hands; but he was too strong – the unappreciated hands that had slaved away to give her all she wanted now squeezed the life out of her.

He watched coldly as her eyes began to mist over and the struggling
ceased, until finally she hung limply from his grasp. He let her fall to the ground and stared at this hands – good, reliable, faithful, servant hands – and he wondered if now at last she would stop wanting more.

The old woman waited patiently on the pavement, like so many times before, clutching a flimsy, frilly jacket to her body to escape the icy wind that swirled mockingly around her and taunted her exposed flesh. She had been there all evening, dressed in her finest: improbable heels, fish net stockings, a tight silk red dress slit up to forbidden heights, and excessive makeup to match. But no one had even slowed for her, and the street was now empty, the other younger girls having found customers for the night, leaving her alone to her maudlin thoughts.

Finally she sighed and walked off slowy, painfully, to return, hungry to an empty room.

Behind her a solitary can clattered in the wind, offering a tinny accompaniment to the click-clacking of her fading heels.

It had been a long day, traipsing through the cobbled streets of Venice and watching languid, love filled gondolas float by under our feet. We turned the corner and there it was, a quiet little plaza, in the centre of which tinkled a little fountain sculpture of a smiling cherub. Thankful for the opportunity to rest and the surprising absence of any other tourists we sat down and munched on our cheese sandwiches.

Milly turned to me, her little rosy cheeks bulging with food, and said, “Daddy, is this a wishing fountain?”

I hesitated, unsure whether to be truthful and to disabuse her of her childish notions, that wishing wells, magic, pixies and assorted heavenly beings were imaginings that had no useful bearing on practical reality and human progress.

But then the cherub winked at me … I swear it did, leaving me vaguely stunned … and since to the best of my knowledge I am not insane, I looked down at her and scooping up a little of the crystal clear water, splashed her playfully in the face and said, “It might just be, my love, you never know.”

I am holy.

I don’t just mean good, and neither am I oblivious to my many faults. This is not delusion or arrogance because my state is not my doing, that I should be given a reason to boast. The fact is, some chap came along one day and said, “You are holy.”

I did ask him what right he had to make such declarations but he just shrugged and told me about some other chap that had come along one day and said … well you can see where this going.

Holy am I.

Hans Schmittal was made for his job: a large man with brutal, hairy hands, closely shaven head and cold, grey eyes to match his uniform. He relished pain – in himself or others, it did not matter – pain was his elixir. He particularly liked being given the young ones, eyes so innocent and trusting at first, then slowly registering frightening realisations of their fate, they began to plead, to snivel and whimper – he liked that; for him it was sexual, and their deaths, finally, orgasmic. They promoted him to camp Kommandant, where he was able to architect more efficient mechanisms, to inflict more efficient deaths, and even though he could hear the screams in the air as he sat on his balcony sipping Riesling, it was not the same – he missed being the instrument of his own dreams.

I wonder if God feels like I do now, holding a single life in my hands, in the the subtle potential squeeze of my index finger?

Does this fat, bearded man in my sights deserve to live, this dick-head, wife-shagger that seduced my Mabel, soiled our marriage bed, and destroyed our lives forever? No, of course not.

At least, I think it’s him – the photo in her purse is not very clear.

Oh well, never mind – unlike God you can’t expect me to know everything.

Better safe than sorry.

I have a pair of rose-tinted glasses, through which the world looks lighter and brighter, more hopeful than the place I am used to. I bought them from a street vendor in Notting Hill, a smiling, dark-skinned fellow with filthy dreadlocks – he said they would bring me much happiness.

I asked him why he did not wear them himself, but he just beamed and, pointing to his eyes, replied, “Laser surgery, man.”

I was immediately envious, and watched as the tint faded away from my new glasses.

They pass without seeing me, islands of guilt drifting past my unwashed shores. I was once the same, purposefully prosperous, clutching that which was rightfully mine and well deserved, but somewhere, sometime that changed and was no more. Doors once obsequiously opened to me now slammed shut against my bloodied face and outstretched supplications. One of my kind shuffled by, nodding in kindred acknowledgement, but I saw his eyes lingering just a moment too long on my shoes. I would need to sleep elsewhere tonight, somewhere invisible.

I proposed to my girl in a gondola. The driver, or gondolier if you want to be fancy, laughed so much at my proposal that he ran into a bridge and knocked himself unconscious into the water. I tried to grab the pole but was too late, and in the process knocked my girl into the water.

She can’t swim and sank like a complaining stone.

I don’t swim either, and anyway was wearing my best Armani jacket, so I had to leave her in the water, unfortunately.

I still see her at the bottom of the canal, looking up at me, and I wonder if she would have accepted my proposal.

The gentle afternoon stroll had turned into a rigorous climb, but I persisted and was finally rewarded with the end: a narrow ledge adorned by only a small cairn of stones. The view was breath-taking, stretching all the way along the Kentish Weald to the South Coast where Hastings and the ocean beyond could be dimly made out in the late afternoon haze. I sat down, dangling my legs like a child over the precipice and eating an apple, while below me in the valley the shadows slowly lengthened.

It was soon time to turn back, but I sat transfixed as the evening approached and scattered the sky with stars like pixie dust. Then the moon rose in languid incandescence, a sadly smiling visage that offered a familiar comfort. I stood up and gazed at her, my Queen Of The Night, aware of the pain in my changing body and the howl that was welling up inside and would soon be sent forth, irresistably, into the night skies.