Cocksure

The cloud-botched sky is postcard-still from my office window and I'm calmly sipping a herbal tea when a Greans sky advertisement sprouting "Our Fish Oil is the Answer" appears. I’m looking at its lettering, a brilliant, eye-catching red, and thinking: fuck, they've done that well.

My DeSalza shoes, made from African elephant hide, are tapping against the floor. I loosen my Devereaux tie. I rub my nose, thoughts presenting and then erasing just as they take form in my head; it's million-miles-an-hour-time.  

Pacing the room, I kick my Argentinian soccer ball into my office net, give the framed portrait of myself the acid eye. I undo a couple of shirt buttons, revealing the $15,000 Chiveez necklace I bought in Dubai, and roll up my sleeves, Farmer Beagle-style. I think about checking myself out in the mirror, but I’m sidetracked by a rattle against the window. Looking outside, the Greans advert is twisting in the wind, its capital F scrunched up, the whole thing a haggard, black-red streak across a graying sky.
I exhale, reach into my refreshments fridge for a fresh bottle of San Perignino, some ice cubes and lime, and sit down in my easy chair, watching the struggle as the first spits of rain hit the window. 

Top of your game at 21, the Company hounded you out straight out of university. Your charms, they'd take you to the top of the advertising tree, a recruiter said.
It wasn't always this easy. The first few years you didn't stop working. In the apartment they set you up in, a few doors down from the office, you'd down an upper and a short macchiato and force your reddened eyes to plot, plan, ponder.
One day, finally, they called you in upstairs, gave you the exclusive handshake. He seemed smarmy, the silver-haired suit, but he was only a year or so away from cashing in his super cheque. 

Outside, in Open Plan Central, I know The Plebs are either asleep, web-surfing, sucking chocolate through their teeth, or considering which colleague has the worst perspiration, the cleanest orifices. If only they spent time contemplating the level of pressure I'm under in here, then I could excuse their lack of work ethic.
Recently I called them in to announce cutbacks. Until we’ve weathered the storm, I was told to say. After a good portion of bodies were hauled out, I designated more work to the remaining Plebs; including work the Super Toffs recommended I take to ease the load.

I flick on the security camera. I really should go out and stir things up.

I always have my office door closed. This time of afternoon I lock it, using the remote-controlled bolt lock, all shimmering gold, that our richest client put me on to. I knew the Super Toffs wouldn’t approve it, let alone pay for it, despite my demands, so I paid for it out of my back pocket. It's rich man’s prerogative, to pay for something one wants, but I'll recoup it in some way. Smooth as.

For the first few days after it was installed I'd sit at my desk, 20 or so metres away from the door, sporadically taking aim with the remote, which doubles as a pager to the locksmith. The locksmith was on the camp side, with his extended gaze-holds and a roving eye that would inevitably fall on my groin region.
No time's inconvenient, he'd said, not once but twice, with a wink and a gold-toothed smile that, for all his butchered looks, actually worked.

I can't blame the jolly locksmith, though. I've often considered how all my other assets have been overshadowed by my manhood, and how it's taken a life of its own rather than just a physical extension. At this hour of the day, three to four, all I can do to help myself is admire, release and fondle.

My manhood – for want of a more politically-correct word – has become something of a sordid fascination for the women in here; I see the desperation in their eyes, the wetness on their hanging tongues. One Saturday afternoon recently I purchased a charcoal-grey Dierre Talia suit. When I tried on the pants I thought everything fitted, or should I say clung, one-to-two percent better than normal, but I never expected the reaction that came the following Monday morning. First the doll-faced-but-soldier-faced receptionist – whose hair is tied back into a tight bun and whose upward-inflected “good morning”s rattle the phlegm in my throat so much I have to restrain myself not to spit at her – licked her lips as I walked by, as if I were her favourite ice cream or something.

 Then what happened was I got the lift with five or six skirts, mid-level as far as I could tell,  and they all stole gloss-lipped glances. I felt like Robert Palmer in the "Simply Irresistible" film clip. I like to think of all the stifled moaning coming from behind the ladies' cubicles that morning.

Normally I have my cleaning lady – I call her Miss Vanilla, on account of her blonde hair and impeccable spit-polish abilities – send my suits to the dry cleaners after two days' wear. Other times, if I don't get any reaction, I'll just throw the suit out, or give it to one of the several homeless cats who hang around downstairs. You should see the look on their face when I hand the bundled Italian cotton over: at first their eyes shine with delight, only be replaced by disappointment, like I've kicked their money container down the street, or emptied their last bottle.

But today is Wednesday, the third day in row I've worn my new pants. This is because of an unconquered quest: my secretary of three weeks, Dianne, and her reaction. I'm sure even she blushed, had the wild look in her eye.

There were women from the get-go. In the office, after work, all weekend, all types.  They admired your occupation, your money, your fashion, your sharp looks, in any order. You're six-two, but you tell everyone you're six-three. You're lean in the torso and muscly around the shoulder. 
Soon after you started at the Company you and a colleague visited a city tattooist, where you had inked a cartoon portrait of yourself, below your initials, GJN, in dark green Chaali font. Although your jet-black hair is chopped and roughly textured these days – you vouch for RokkBalm wax – it's flexible enough in that, when washed, it has a business-like sheen for meetings with the Super Toffs. Your hairdresser, Fergal Deaken, ensures this hair never shrouds your aqua eyes, another of your jewels. Your chiselled jaw sprouts two-day stubble; you rub Joam du Paul aftershave through your whiskers each morning. The smell of fresh lavender spice lingers on your fingers when you rub them along your chin; perfect for shushing the lips of a chick who's babbling about this and that and all you want to do is get things started.

Diane's a funny one; only a few years younger than me at 27, but she seems a little, I don’t know, beleaguered. Like she’s constantly in dispute with herself. I can tell she doesn't want to be here, and the few times we've spoken she talks about some woman called Greer, about being a published writer and the book clubs and workshopping groups she's in. This is what she tells me she has planned when I ask her out for a drink. I tell her on day one to see me as a friend rather than a boss but within a week she was scooting off as soon as she's delivered my mail, brought in my morning mac, or watered the chilli plant on the window sill.

She didn't say anything about a boyfriend when I asked at the interview. He came into the lobby on Dianne's first day, wearing a ratty cardigan, skinny jeans and John Lennon glasses, a book in his hand. He gave me this look, like he knew something I didn't. I got security to kick him out of the building, but he just kept coming back. In a recurring dream, I have him by the throat, the suit against the student bum in clothing so old that it almost falls off him, and I'm snarling: use those brains of yours and get a job instead of rebelling against whatever it is you rebel against. The security guard pulls me away as I'm screaming that I'll kill him if he returns. 

I clear my throat. The whole situation has me confused. I'm looking at my chilli plant, my tongue tingling with anticipation. Perhaps some nachos and an icy Quo lager to start the evening off. I ring Diane, but it diverts to voice mail.
“Diane, I didn't know you had voice mail... At least, I don't recall authorising it... Anyway, can you come in here as soon as possible, I have a couple of requests... Yes... Was thinking maybe I could shout you some Mexican and a beer later on... if you're not doing anything, that is... Horaros do the best nachos—”

I cut myself off. I'm starting to sound like The Plebs. You don't need to sell it to her.

Today I'm wearing Devutti boxers, Italian cotton. After I finish myself off into a lavender-scented tissue I flick back to the iGoogle22 homepage and stand up, the thing still hanging out, dripping, as I walk over to the window. Approaching the glass, I see a gold-tinged reflection of myself with a beard – again I promise to check myself in the mirror – and, beyond that, the Greans advertisement, which I catch just before it disappears behind a cloud, and I don't want to know about it anymore. I'm nodding my head: I’m not going to leave the office until I’ve devised a plan to go one better.
Such positiveness gives me adrenaline, has me in awe of myself. 
A rainbow forms a back drop to the sky-rises all under my eye level, each one uglier than the next. I can't help thinking that everyone in them, suits and skirts existing on self-importance but floundering in stress, should be looking up at me, staring out of my office window, the beautiful man in the designer suit who carries the fortunes of a zillion-dollar company, the man who can admire his face in the shine of his shoes that are up on his desk while he plays Street Fighter on his iPhone Deluxe for at least two hours each day, the shirt white and crisply ironed, the tie expensive silk, and, yet, undone in a way that suggests there's plenty more where that came from. While I know some of them aren't necessarily Plebs, I know they’ll always disappear back into their hovels knowing that there'll always be something that's out of reach.

I start writing Dianne an email. Would you like to have a business dinner tonight? I promise I'll change my pants! I hold the cursor over the last bit, then send it.

The mirror awaits but I convince myself to wait a while. I'm looking outside again at the first strands of pale yellow light that indicate the afternoon is diminishing. I need inspiration. I look across at my portrait, at the line of freshly polished shoes – all of them different Italian brands – in front of the fireplace, and, finally, back at my computer screen. I notice an error message; the email to Dianne didn't go through.

 At first I take the message as reading: I can't receive this email because your charms are too much… and your cock, well... as if it's an automated message designed by Diane, and I stare in shock for a few seconds, before I realise it's what the IT Department call a Non-Recog Message, as if the email address doesn't exist.

I sit there awhile, considering the error message, tapping my fingers on the desk, admiring the shine from my Nezarus Marble in-tray, running my fingers along the sweet pink font of company's business logo on an envelope addressed to me.

Their pay packets are bigger than yours, but their suits, far less stylish. We're in the long room, I'm peaking on caffeine and the furrowed faces around the table are all in agreement.
It’s affecting us more than we’d thought.
Well, we’ve doubled our efforts.
And your performance. We keep getting beaten to the—
But I'm on the cusp of an idea to blow Gr—
We've had various complaints.
What do you mean?

The suit's mouth is moving, he's talking out of the side of his mouth. He has a grape-sized wart on his forehead. None of the others have warts, but they're all merging into one and things are impossibly hazy.

I find myself blinking and I rub my eyes. My face is rough, blistered in parts. Running my hands through my hair, I can’t feel any wax, rather a filthy slickness. I stand up and start walking, floating, over to where the mahogany-framed mirror should be when I hear the wind rattle against the window again. Like a splat of red paint, the sky advertisement fills the window, like sideways credits in a movie, going from left to right: OUR… FISH... OIL.... IS... THE... ANSWER... It’s flapping against the glass and then, eventually, sticks. Transfixed, I reach out and touch the glass. I make a fist and my and my arm goes through but it doesn't cut me, it feels like silk, glorious silk, as I let it the advertisement fold itself around my arm. I’m smiling giddily; I know I'm stealing the idea but no one will see me and I'm sure this’ll put credits back in the bank. But then it's out of my control again; it unravels and falls, and I lean forward to watch it fall to the street below but my head bangs on the glass and then I'm on my arse, stars everywhere.

I wonder how it came to be night all of a sudden. Little twinkling shapes, diamond asterisks, are floating around, crashing into one another, each explosion releasing a thousand new stars.

Things are starting to take form again. The window above me, the outlines of my desk and computer, its screen a dark purple into grey, into light grey, into white, white, a brilliant white light and I can see a message forming on the screen: Call me, you bum. Luv Dianne...

I'm up like a shot and almost fall forward, tripping over a pile of clothes. I'm feeling around for my desk phone but I can't see it anywhere, and then, on the floor, I see a little red light on the ground. I pick it up, burning my fingers. I’m whispering in the darkness: Dianne... call me... please...

I see the sun arcing across the window, as if everything is in fast forward. I assume I've been knocked out overnight and the hours have gotten away from me. I sit down at my desk, the light streaming into the room, and I'm thinking how The Plebs had it easy yesterday, how I didn't even leave my office to check up on them, and then the thought that I should be hungry hits me, but instead of a rumbling in my stomach I feel it churn, churning like a stomach does when whiskey hits a raw, salmonella-tainted gullet, and I start dry-reaching as I see the sky falling outside, an icy chill against my cheeks as I see what looks like thousands of one-hundred-dollar bills floating in the air, and behind them, that infernal fish oil banner.

I hear laughter nearby. I'm guessing it's just outside my office door, so I crawl along the carpet which feels hard under my knees and I know I’ve torn my suit pants because I can feel the wetness of blood on my knees, but not only that, the smell of stale shit and piss hits me. In the darkness, I lean into the door to listen for voices but I don’t hear anything. I push against the door but it won't budge, and I'm sure I hear laughter again as I drift off again.

It's crystal clear: my locksmith, tutt-tutting as he finishes sawing off the gold lock, handing it to me.

Blinking again, I'm hard up against a wall, next to a large mini skip. There's a pile of cardboard and raggy clothing by my side, a pair of black shoes in need of polishing. Against the mini skip is a scraggly old woman in a smock and torn suit jacket, her dirty mouth open and her eyes rolling. I notice my knees, ripped up and purply-bloody, my knee bone visible. I feel a scorching burn in my groin region but I'm too afraid to look down there. Another snigger. I turn to my right and see a bearded dark man a few metres away, smoking, the smell metallic, its red tip glowing with each drag. His shiny, misty eyes catch mine as a smile bares ochre, broken teeth. "Wish I could take a trip like that," he says.

The dirty face, mouth still open, has fallen to the cobblestone with a slap. I look further down the alley and see others, heads down, wearing old suits or draping them over their knees to keep warm. The thought that I need to reclaim the suits flashes in my mind for a moment before I slide over to the black man, following a trail of faint blood on the concrete made visible by the street lights. He hands me the pipe. I drag deeply before wedging myself between two bins, looking up at the night sky, holding my gaze on the building across from us, its floors seemingly endless against the sky, most of its windows lit up. Feeling my cheeks warm, I take another drag and watch the shadows in the windows, looking out at the city, looking down on me.

The Burn

All his life Jarem Parnell had been naturally fit. An athlete of some renown, his teenage and early adulthood years were spent training, eating what he was told to, sleeping, training again.
As a businessman he'd climbed as far as he'd wanted in the corporate world, and was now the owner of a successful mortgage franchise.
His wife Chelsea was a woman of immense natural beauty – bronzed skin, full features, yet  gamine – who understood him inside and out. They married young, and, reading the play, started trying for children almost straight away.
Their two children – Bob and Elisa – were both in primary school and doing well, but more importantly, showed humility and empathy towards others, garnering each many friends.
Suffice to say, when Jarem and Chelsea put their feet up on a Friday night, their kids' rooms were full of sleepover chatter.
Yes, it could be said all was well in Jarem's life.
But as he neared his 32nd birthday he'd started questioning whether there was more outside of all he'd created.

Part of the problem was his artist brother, Floyd. Two years Jarem's junior, he was less handsome, despite his floppy hair and aqua eyes, less successful and as single as was possible. Yet he always had a spark of excitement about him – even when regularly fronting up for Sunday roasts. He'd arrive, glassy-eyed and reeking of booze, two bottles of red to hand. He was simply topping up from the night before, but the children – and Chelsea, despite her earlier misgivings – adored his energy. Jarem, on the other hand, couldn't understand it.

After lunch, as Chelsea and Elisa did the dishes, the brothers often retreated to the backyard to sit by the chiminea. Floyd would chain-smoke cigarettes and tell Jarem, in detail, about the drugs he'd taken the night before, the clubs he'd visited, the crazed house parties that followed, the women he'd been with. He'd talk of his stints as a tour guide in Europe and the US; of his many months' partying in Thailand; of plans to visit Spain, and the Caribbean. Again and again.
“Don't you ever get tired of it and want to settle down,” he'd ask Floyd.
“No chance,” Floyd would reply, his eyes shining with surety. “I mean, when the right chick comes along I'll have the rest of my life to be settled. I'm only a third of the way there.”
“Not with your lifestyle,” Jarem countered.
“Again, that won't be forever. I have the rest of my life to be healthy.”
Floyd always had an answer. He had, ever since Jarem had known him, lived in the grey shade between black and white. For many years it didn't bother Jarem (although he'd always wondered how Floyd, a body-abuser, was able to press on without recuperating). He'd had, after all, enough to worry about with his busy routine.
Yet, now that things had slowed down – having children was done with, work was just work, and, with Chelsea recently launching her fashion label, he was no longer the sole provider – he found himself seeking that grey shade.

One Sunday Floyd arrived for lunch as usual. Jarem, tired after rising early to take his Bob and friends to football, found himself going glass for glass with his brother. Chelsea questioned Jarem with her eyes, but he ignored her and continued on. Once lunch was done with, Jarem and Floyd retreated outside with a half bottle.
When Jarem came back inside soon after, passing Chelsea on the way to the cellar, she asked what he was doing.
“Just having a drink with my brother,” Jarem said.
“But you never drink like this.”
“I know that, but fuck it. I feel getting drunk.”
He took a few steps towards the back door, then turned around. “I might take tomorrow off.”
She looked at him curiously, but let it pass. “Fine. But don't set a bad example for the children.”
Jarem nodded, then let the door shut behind him.

It was a cold winter's afternoon and the brothers stocked the chiminea with wood; a roaring heat emanated from its belly and flames licked from the top. For a while they sat back on their chairs and talked about work – Jarem without passion about his business, Floyd with understated optimism about the world of freelance photography – as they gulped down the red wine.
Every so often they hit a quiet spot, and it was during one that Jarem noticed Floyd lighting another cigarette. He looked on as Floyd blew smoke into the air, watching it dissipate. “Give us one of those,” Jarem said.
Floyd laughed. “What, a smoke? Don't be a cock. You've always called Phillip Morris the Anti-Christ.”
“Come on, mate. Give us one go of them.”
Floyd was reluctant. He sensed Chelsea looking at them through the kitchen window.
“Come on, fuck ya,” Jarem said, leaning forward.
Floyd felt a small thrill in his gut. What the hell, he'd enjoy this. “Okay, bro. Just don't blame me if you get hooked.”
Jarem smiled at the absurdity of it: he, hooked on cigarettes! He looked at the cigarette in his hand, smelled it. Then – with Floyd watching on, a slither of smoke sneaking from his nostrils – he lit it and inhaled. He coughed hard, bile rising in his throat.
Floyd laughed. “Fucking Virgin Lungs. It must be like the devil's trying to get in there.”
Jarem smiled. He took another drag and countered the next cough with a sip of wine. Soon there was no coughing at all. He was a little underwhelmed as he butted out, but happy with his persistence.
“What'dya reckon?” Floyd asked.
“Can't see what all the fuss is about. But the head is spinning a bit.”
“You lucky prick,” Floyd said. “I need a six-skin of super skunk to get high these days.”
Jarem raised his eyebrow. “You don't have any of that here do you?”
Floyd shook his head. “Calm down, bro. Another time.”

That night, after Jarem had put a jibbering Floyd into a taxi, he stumbled into the master bedroom, past a sleeping Chelsea, and into the bathroom for a shower. A serial mirror watcher, he checked himself after undressing. So this is what I look like drunk, he thought. Blood-shot eyes with sunken grey shadows underneath. It didn't suit him.
Peering closer, he noticed a small, dark grey spot just above his heart. He stood there for a moment, hauling himself on tippy toes into the light. After rubbing it, merely making the skin around it redder, he stepped back and almost lost his balance. Some other time, he told himself, turning the shower on.

A few weeks later Jarem was feeling restless at work. It was a Wednesday and he was jittery and irritable. There was a weakness in his lungs. He was eating incessantly, and  no longer had the energy – nor the inclination – to exercise; the last time he tried running he'd stopped, out of puff, after just a few minutes.
It hadn't been a good week. Monday was spent in bed with a hangover, Tuesday he returned to work but didn't get out of second gear. An important client withdrew his business, no warning given, and Jarem let him go without a fight. He and Chelsea were, for the first time, arguing in front of the children. He'd been floundering the previous few weeks; now he felt he was drowning.
Jarem looked at the pile of paperwork in front of him, shrugged his shoulders, then grabbed his jacket and left the building.
He walked past Cronin's, a university pub three doors down from his office, then – realising he had no plan, nor a decent knowledge of the city's best pubs – turned back and went in. Taking a seat at the bar, he ordered a beer and drank it in three mouthfuls. He ordered another and acquired some change for the cigarette machine.
He considered the available brands. Floyd's brand wasn't there, and he was uncertain what to get. He'd dialed Floyd's number and was waiting an answer when he noticed a spiky-haired young man behind him.
“You go first,” Jarem said as Floyd's voicemail message started.
Spike shrugged and fed the machine money, procuring a packet of Peter Stuyvesent. Jarem watched the transaction intently as he left Floyd a message, then did the same.

Jarem removed his jacket and tie and followed Spike and another young man with long, Jim Morrison hair out to the smokers' courtyard. Fuzzy-sounding rock music blared from some old roof speakers.
“Got a light?” Jarem asked, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
Spike obliged with a cheap Bic.
“Thanks,” Jarem said. “You blokes students?”
“That's the label, yeah,” Spike's friend answered.
Jarem sucked hard on his cigarette. He was enjoying it immensely. “What are you studying?”
“Arts,” Spike said.
“We both,” Spike's friend answered. “The lives of melancholy we live.”
“Cool,” Jarem said. “Good to be doing something different.”
They pair chuckled. Jarem looked at them, wondering what the in-joke was.
“Early knock off?” Spike asked.
Jarem picked up his glass and realised it was empty. “Late, more like it,” he said.  He lit a new cigarette off the old one, and exhaled a huge plume of smoke. “I'll get you blokes a beer. Draught?”

Evening came. Jarem found himself drinking with a crowd of six or seven young men. He'd promised them all jobs. They laughed and heckled as Jarem spoke to Chelsea on the phone – he told her he'd landed a huge investor and they were having celebratory drinks.
Later again and there were as many as 15 student types sponging off him. A young girl in a floral dress sat on his lap. In the toilet Spike handed him a tablet and asked for $40. Jarem handed over $50 and didn't ask for change. The group lurched to another bar. Jarem put his credit card behind the bar and they sat at a huge table in the beer garden next to a gas heater. Fluorescent light bulbs hung from everywhere – off the marquees, the walls, the roof – and a chain-smoking Jarem found himself entranced by them, squinting at them so all the lights became one. He left a message on Floyd's phone, urging him to come along. The drinks kept coming. The mood was euphoric as a DJ began a trance set.  Jarem and Spike joined two girls on the dance floor. Jarem's initial uncertainty and self-consciousness soon washed away in a sea of endless music.
Floyd arrived and put his arm around Jarem, instantly realising his brother was in trouble. The tell-tale signs – owl eyes, gnawing jaw, sweaty forehead – were all there. He led Jarem to a toilet cubicle, where he handed him a tablet. “To calm you down,” he said.
“Fuck, no,” Jarem said, tapping his feet and bobbing his head. “Don't want it. Not yet.”
Just then Floyd noticed the spot beneath Jarem's half-unbuttoned shirt. He stared at it for a moment, wondering if he'd ever noticed it before. He considered asking about it, but instead said:
“You need something to calm you down.”
“Don't need nothing... nothing,” Jarem said, shaking his head and howling at the ceiling.
Floyd followed Jarem back out to the beer garden, ordering two beers on the way.

Next thing Jarem was home, all lidded eyes and bloodied elbows. Chelsea, who was up getting ready for work, demanded an explanation.
“Think I had my drink spiked,” he said, his words fading as he fell on the bed.
Chelsea removed her husband's shoes and gave him the once over. His good silk shirt was stained with alcohol and his pants were torn at the knees. Noticing the spot on his chest, like a blotch of ink on his chest, she went to the bathroom and came back with a damp cloth. She started rubbing. Nothing happened. She rubbed harder. Jarem's snores turned to heavy wheezes. Alarmed but running late, she tried one more time with a lather of soap. All she got was a reddening around the area – whatever it was, it was embedded in his skin.
She knew it had never been there before. She thought it might be a tattoo gone wrong, but had no idea. It was so unlike anything she'd ever seen or read about. She shook her husband slightly but he merely exhaled, and a whiff of stale alcohol hit her flush in the face. Shaking her head, she turned off the bedside lamp, and left for work.

Chelsea waited until midday and then started ringing Jarem every few minutes. At 1 o'clock, he finally answered.
“I've made an appointment for you to see Dr Quayle,” she said.
“What for?” Jarem croaked.
“What for?” Chelsea replied. “That black spot on your chest, that's what. What the hell is it?”
Jarem looked down at his belly, kinking his head so he could see the spot. “I don't know. Just a skin infection, probably.”
“Looks worse than that,” Chelsea said.
“I don't know, do I? Maybe I'll wait until tomorrow. Don't know if I'm up to leaving the house–“
“You're going. It could be infectious for all we know. Think of the kids,” Chelsea said.
The kids. She always played that card.

Dr Quayle was initially baffled. He leafed through a number of books and took several scans before diagnosing a form of advanced eczema.
“One thing's for sure,” he told Jarem, “it's not cancerous. But I'll prescribe you some Hydrodex. It's a cream with skin-bleaching qualities, and it should do the trick. In the meantime kick that smoking, and come back in two weeks for a check-up.”
But Jarem continued to damage himself. Over the next week he and Chelsea's relationship deteriorated further, as did the appearance of the spot. It was now weeping a dark, thick substance. The liquid would solidify, then crack open as the spot continued to expand, releasing an acrid smell of burnt flesh. An emergency GP (Dr Quayle was booked out until their next scheduled meeting) told Jarem it was a stye; that the dark colouring was internal bleeding. Not outwardly concerned, the GP relayed his diagnosis to Dr Quayle's secretary, suggesting an operation to cut out the stye.
Later that day Dr Quayle rang to confirm the operation would take place in two days, and recommended Jarem rest up beforehand. Jarem spent the evening on the couch, relaying information to his assistant over the phone. Then he started writing emails to clients and staff, informing them of his absence. With Chelsea in bed, he started going outside for regular cigarettes. He'd almost done a pack by the time he'd finished tying up his business's loose ends. He remained on the couch throughout the night, dozing and waking short of breath.
Chelsea, meanwhile, couldn't sleep with worry.

The following morning, the day before his operation, Jarem woke up a strong rattle of phlegm in his chest and a bout of dizziness. He retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. His chest felt extremely tight, as if his lungs had collapsed across his airways. Each inhale of breath came with a sharp whistle. He removed his shirt and checked himself. The spot was cricket-ball sized. He grabbed one of Chelsea's makeup mirrors to look at it more closely. Prodding it, he gasped with shock as his finger sunk into the soft, jelly-like texture. He quickly pulled out, the smell of burning flesh all the more pronounced. Delirious, he grabbed hold of the sink. He splashed some water on his face. What was with that smell? Again he held the little mirror a few inches away from his upper chest. It was smouldering! He jumped back at once, hitting his head against the bathroom door. Chelsea started banging on the other side. Jarem let his body slide down until he was sitting on the floor.
Jarem lowered his eyes and could see the dark spot expanding in his periphery vision. The crackling sound intensified, the smell foul. He could feel the door thudding against him, and Chelsea screaming, “there's a fire in there”. There was the low drone of a male voice. Jarem's heart thumped wildly in his chest and he gasped for breath. He could sense something blasting through the upper door. Chips of wood fell just as the first flames flickered from his chest. Screaming inaudibly, he felt a hand topple him forward and he could hear Floyd's voice in an uncharacteristic panic. Jarem could sense frenzied movement all around him as the flames shot up to his face. Through the nightmare, he could see the water from the shower head coming at him, the hiss of his own scorched skin.

Then, just as the smell of his own burning flesh blanketed him, everything went black.

Wreath

I arrived in Edinburgh on the back of a six-week tour of Europe. I'd spent almost all my savings from the factory back home and needed work. I had sketchy plans for a bar job but had no real idea. As long as it wasn't hauling bags of infant formula onto a conveyor belt.
After two days, a job on the hostel advertising board caught my attention: Motivated folk with good people skills wanted for a dynamic career in sales and marketing... No experience needed as full training is given.
I was taken by the keywords; the promise of wearing a shirt and tie; of carrying a briefcase. I dialled the number, and, no questions asked, was booked in for an interview later that day. 

The interview was more a casual chat. The boss of Milestone Marketing, Sadie, was a sexy late-20s Glaswegian brunette who had just returned from an Australian holiday.
“I loved the climate, the food... and the men,” she said, a twinkle in her green eyes.
In my mind's eye I could see a classic porn scene developing but I restrained myself. I asked a few questions of the job, she asked why I wanted to get in sales. I said I had career aspirations. She nodded, her eyes always smiling, and then told me to come back for a trial the next day. 

That night most in the common room were playing a game involving vodka and film canisters, but I kept my intake to three beers and two joints, and called it an early night.

The next day I jumped out of my hostel bed, showered, put on my new Marks and Sparks shirt and tie, a pair of Will's pants. Everyone else was asleep, cheap blankets pulled up to their throats. I wrapped a communal scarf around my neck, put on my rain jacket and belted down Dublin Street.
I could hear 1980s disco as, wheezing slightly, I buzzed the front door. Sadie let me in, made a comment about the cold, then took me into a room where groups of suits and skirts were yelling in thick accents over the top of the music. I was introduced to Nicholas, a French bloke with a wide face and jumbled English tongue, and within minutes was following him out the door.
We travelled in his little Datsun to Berwick, about twenty minutes out of Edinburgh. He cranked up the heater and we touched on our backgrounds. He had no intention of going back to France, was going to make it big at Milestone Marketing. 
“It's only been operating six, seven months,” he said. “I made Assistant Manager last week.”
I nodded, rubbing my pants for warmth.
“We'll hit some juicy places today,” he said, wringing a hand for emphasis. 
I nodded again. He continued the sales speak as we drove on. I fingered the top of the cigarette packet in my jacket pocket, considering life's possibilities, reflecting on the tedium of my job back home.

We parked in the town centre and sat there a few minutes while Nicholas showed me what we were selling. There were vegetable cutter sets, wind-proof lighters, and hand-held puppets that made tiger or monkey noises when you threw little balls into their mouth. 
“The balls come free,” he said. “And the lighters are gold.” 
I held one of the Zippos up to the sky. Silver and shiny, they were indeed a nice-looking accessory.
Then we were off. I grabbed one of Nicholas's bags and followed him as he weaved in and out of shops, cafes and pubs. His pitches were direct, yet friendly, and every few shops he'd get a laugh from someone. He was making regular sales. We had lunch at a fish and chip shop then continued, stopping off at the car to drop off Nicholas's empty bag. The Frenchman was in great spirits.
“This is hot street,” he said as we walked up a marbled laneway. “And people better mood Friday.”

By late afternoon he'd emptied the second bag and we were heading back to the office. He seemed very pleased with himself. “I'll ring the bell tonight,” he said. 
I didn't press him on what that meant. It was Friday night and I had my mind on other things. But I'd enjoyed the day, saw that it wasn't rocket science, and considered it a good chance to develop my communication skills and see a bit of Scotland. 
Best of all, as Sadie explained when we got back and she offered me the job, we got paid daily – tax-free. “You get twenty-five percent of the takings. Most of the guys average about 36 pounds per day.”
I did the sums. About 180 quid a week. The hostel was forty. Plenty left over for a few pints each night, groceries. And that was at a minimum. I'd set up an account for savings. I envisaged a warm Mediterranean cruise. 
I had that jittery Friday afternoon feeling. I knew I'd get drunk. I walked back up the hill to the hostel, stopping at a convenience store for a bottle of cheap scotch. When I walked into the common room I noticed everyone drinking tall blue cans – Tennent’s were one pound in the reception bar – and the mood was festive. Will was sitting at one of the tables with a bottle of awful Safeway vodka, already half empty. I settled into a seat beside him, cracked a can, twisted the cap, and fell into delirium.

***

The following Monday I woke up hurting. I coughed and wheezed as I sat upright, watery sleep falling from my eyes. Friday night had merged into Saturday via a nightclub, as did Saturday afternoon's pub crawl into Sunday. The mad fuckers were at it again on Sunday night when I came down after sleeping all day. I had few more drinks, but couldn't get out of second gear. That's the thing about hangovers; you can only chase them away for so long. 
It was the sense of the unknown that got me going. A strong coffee, bacon roll, Panadol, juice and water and I'd be fine. But I was running late, and only had enough money for coffee.  I blew on a Styrofoam cup in the January chill as I passed a bunch of labourers on a construction site on my way to the office.
I was greeted with enthusiasm over the same cheesy music when I walked in at 7.30am. I was introduced to an Asian Pom called Eddie Fu, who I'd walk around with for the day. 
Eddie was friendly, but in no hurry. He and a few others kept looking at the door. I needed another coffee.  That's when I saw four or five guys, white shirts and black ties, standing in a corner. They were huddled together like the group of bonfire crooners in Rocky. 
One of them checked his watch, nodded, and then they all launched into song: “We want it bad / we want it bad / we want it bad / whoa-oh-oh / we all want it bad / so tell us Sadie, baby... Lights, camera, action, huh!”
A brief silence follwed as they stared at each other, open-mouthed, and then: "There she is!”
Sadie appeared, her eyes flashing: “Mornin, guys!” 
“MORNING!”
Sadie sat in a chair and everyone formed a circle around her. “Now, if someone wis offerin ye a special deal, ye'd feel pretty special, wouldn't ye, hmmm?”
“DARN RIGHT, SADIE!”
That group of crooners again. In the same corner of the room, behind everyone else. 
Sadie squeaked, sparkled, implored. I arched my eyebrows to keep my eyes open. My lips were dry. I eyed off the water cooler. 

We took Eddie's sports car to a small town called Dalkeith, just out of Edinburgh. He was an engineer, had done well out of it, but liked the appeal of Milestone Marketing. The idea of building a company from the ground up. He too was an Assistant Manager. 
“There are eight of us now. Makes for a nice, competitive environment, but it's all about the company, really.”  
We started hustling. Eddie's pitches were a little drier than Nicholas's, but no scenario daunted him.
“This would be great for an early Easter present, and eggs aren't cheap these days,” he said to a thick-set publican who was having an early-doors pint with a local.
“You look an opportunist type. The kind that enjoys bargains,” he told an old woman at a pet shop who held her bony hands up to an electric heater for warmth. 
It was a slow morning, though. Eddie was working hard for little return. After lunch he told me to walk around by myself for a couple of hours. Get some practice in. The first shop shooed me away. The next bought a tiger and a monkey. A cafe took a vegetable cutter set. People could tell I was fresh. I got a few sympathy purchases. But I soon got past the stuttering and into an enthusiastic groove. It was enough for me to feel I could make something of the job. 

Later I met up with Eddie in a pub and we had a purple patch, selling lighters to punters. I wanted a pint but Eddie said we had to get back.
In the car Eddie counted up his takings. “Well, not enough for the bell, but not bad for a Monday.” 
I looked at the cash in his hand. He put it back in his pouch, which he threw into the glovebox. He started the car and we were on our way back to Edinburgh.
“You know how the bell works, yeah?” he said.
“No.”
“Well, if you make forty quid or more for the day, you get to ring it. We'll see if anyone does when we get back to the office.”
It was dark when we pulled in. The music was vibrating the floorboards as we walked inside. People were immediately in our faces, asking how we'd fared. I was tired and in need of a drink. Eddie pointed out the bell in the corner. No one had rang it yet. Then Nicholas walked in, his big round face beaming. He marched over and rang it. Everyone clapped. A round of backslaps followed. 
“Juicy day,” he said to me. 
“Well done,” I said. 
Eddie high-fived Nicholas and wrapped an arm around me. “You did well today. Tomorrow you go by yourself.” 
Nicholas smiled, nodding. “You be good.” 
They both stood there, grinning, prodding me. “Just remember to follow the Eight-and-Five Steps,” Eddie said. 
Sadie had explained these during my interview. It follows the principle that five out of every eight people will show some sort of interest. The success of the salesman depends on how many of these bites convert into a sale. 
“Do whatever you can to get that sale,” Eddie said. “There's been many a day I've made stuff-all at 3pm but ended up ringing the bell.”
I nodded, checked my watch. It was 6.30pm. No one was leaving. I told Eddie I had to go. He looked a little surprised.
“So soon?”
“Yeah. Meeting up with some friends.”
He held his look of bewilderment for a few seconds longer, and then said: “Alright then. Good luck tomorrow. Remember: the Eight-and-Five Steps.”
I nodded, walked out. A last glance and everyone was flocking to Sadie, who had come out of her office. 
Outside, the chill hit me quickly. My ears were pink when I arrived back at the hostel. I knocked the top off a Tennent’s, drained half, then sat down. I was knackered, and hadn't earned any money yet.

***

The next morning, after the crooners welcomed Sadie in and she'd sat down on her chair, she called me into the circle.  
“It's Bevan's first day oan his own today! He'll huv—”
The crooners cut in. “SWEATY PALMS!”
Sadie: “And he'll huv—”
“KNOCKING KNEES!”
“AND... he'll HUV—” 
“MARBLES IN HIS MOUTH!”
Each response came with the corresponding actions: shaking hands, spasmodic knee movements, fingers wriggling around mouths. And all before 8am. I smiled a thin smile.

When Nicholas dropped me off on Leith Walk I felt alone. I needed a coffee and cigarette to get going. A cafe let me leave one of my bags there, but didn't want to buy anything. Neither did the one next door. After an hour I'd made just one sale. First proper day on the job and I was already fighting it, that feeling of doing something I knew wasn't me. 
My bag was tearing at the seams. I'd pointed it out to Nicholas earlier. He'd just shrugged and suggested buying two of my own, at six pounds each. 
“You have to pay for your own bags?” I asked.
“Of course,” he'd said. ”And lose any stock you pay for it. So check sometimes.”

I noticed a pub was opening. I followed two old blokes wearing chequered flat caps inside. I had planned on a coffee but there was something about the assured way the old boys ordered their pints and whiskey chasers that changed my mind. 
“A pint of Guinness,” I said to the publican. 
He filled my glass three-quarters then put it on the bar to settle. Picking the sleep out of his eyes and rolling it in his fingers, he nodded at my bag. 
“Awright, what ye got?”
I paused for a second, then opened it up to him. “I've got three specials today—”
He topped up my pint and then placed it in front of me. “Nae spiel, pal, jus if there's anythin worth buyin.”
I pulled out a vegetable cutter set. “Maybe you could use this in the kitchen,” I said.
He laughed. The old boys were watching on now. “I could. It'd go nicely wi the other set I bought a few weeks back.”
“Yeah? Well, they're only—”
“I'm kiddin', pal. It broke oan me. First fuckin carrot I tried tae grate. It's in the bin now.”
I stood there, reddening. 
“What else,” he said in monotone.
A little monkey stared up at me. I considered asking if he was a grandfather, but decided against it. I pulled out a lighter. He looked interested. 
“Windproof,” I said, handing it over. 
He flicked it. A blue-red flame shot up. “No bad,” he said, raising his eyebrows at the old boys. They took in turns lighting it, holding the flame to eye level. 
We walked out the front, where a wind had kicked up, blowing a chill off the North Sea. He put a cigarette in his mouth and backed into the doorway to light it. No flame. He tried again. Nothing. 
“Might be out of gas,” I said.
“It worked fine in there.”
I pulled out another and went to light it. Same result. I dug out another. I silently pleaded with it to work. No chance.
“Sorry pal.” He handed me back the first lighter, and walked back inside. I sighed, following him. 
He eyed me off as I grabbed my pint off the bar and sat down at a table. “I wis in sales once. Tough gig. I only lasted a week.”
I drank from my pint. It was a little rough. 

***

I made twenty-five quid that day, and thirty-nine the next day. 
That second day I spent in Murrayfield, an affluent part of Edinburgh. It meant more sales, but more condescending treatment. One lady in a sandwich shop laughed at me when I walked inside; a guy in a milk bar just wanted to talk about Neighbours. Despite this, I knew I'd had a good day, and when Brian, a senior assistant manager with a light Scottish accent, finished the stock check he looked up at me.
“You're close. Would be a grand effort on your second day to ring the bell,” he said.
I looked down at my watch. It was 6.30pm. 
“Come on,” he said, getting up. “Let's hit a few nearby pubs, sell some lighters, get you that last pound.”
“Nah, it's okay. I had ten hours at it. Maybe I'll get there tomorrow.”
Again I copped that look; the same one Eddie gave me when I said I was heading home on Monday night.

***

On the Wednesday I pounded the pavement around Leith and inner Edinburgh. It pelted with rain all morning. I walked into a chippy, threw my still-full bag on the ground and sat down at a table. The water dripped off me and on to the floor. I shivered and wheezed, my feet damp.  The lady behind the counter turned on an electric heater and took my order. A battered sausage and a large serving of chips. I held my hand over the steaming chips before wolfing it all down. I drank a can of Irn-Bru. 
When I finished, she bought a monkey and tiger. “Fir me grandchildren. Gin tae the coffee shop up the way,” she said. “Hen there'll buy some.”
I walked out a little drier. The woman at the next coffee shop bought one of everything, and then I had a one-hour burst that emptied my first bag. I picked up my other bag, made a couple more sales, then sat down on a bench for a cigarette, and to tally up my takings against my remaining stock. 
A gust of chilled wind took my breath away when I realised I was short. I sat there for a minute or so, head down, very still. People walked past me. It started spitting again. I put the money back in my pouch, and slowly got to my feet.

***

I spent the next few hours forcing myself in and out of shops, cafes and pubs. I had two drinks mid-afternoon to keep me going. I was still getting sympathy purchases, but more common was the dismissive wave of the hand before I opened my mouth. Then there were those who would hear me out, only to say, in thick Scottish brogue: 
“Aw, I'm a wee bit skint. Come back next week.”
“We hud someone in yesterday.”
“I've nae money on me.”
I made around twenty-five quid again – after my losses – and got back to the office at 7pm. It was dead dark and I was starving. I went straight to Brian's office and got my cash. Someone rang the bell when I was in there. Brian was trying to make small talk. I told him I had to go. I hurried along through the main room. I sensed Eddie watching me. I pointed to my watch and mouthed that I had to go. Then I ran. 
When I got back to the hostel I realised it was Australia Day. Flags were draped over the windows and somebody had brought a few slabs of VB. It got us started, and then we spent the night at an Aussie-themed pub in The Grassmarket. When we got home, at 4.30am, I left an uneven message on the office voice mail that I was sick and wouldn't be in. 

***

I slept most of that Thursday.

***

When I walked in on the Friday, feeling a little renewed, Sadie smiled and asked how my Australia Day celebrations were. I paused, then told her a half-truth. After all, I didn't get paid for not going in; it was my loss.
“They were okay. Had a few beers, but had a stomach bug yesterday. Must have been the meat pies on Wednesday night.”
She nodded, touched my shoulder and then walked back to her office.
That day I spent at Portobello, a coastal suburb of Edinburgh. When I got off the bus I felt like turning around and going back. The coastline was full of grey rocks. The people inside the tacky arcades weren't biting. After a couple of rejections I sat on my bag out front of the arcade with a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. I sat there looking up at the grey sky, wishing I had a beanie to cover my ears. We weren't allowed to wear them.
I tried the main street. The rejections kept coming. Then it started to really piss down. I retreated into a small pub where the beer pumps were golden and the pint glasses were gleaming in a dish rack. An open fire roared. I sat next to it and drank a pint of Guinness. Then another. As I swallowed the last of my second one I considered starting up again. But then rain got heavier. I could hear it on the roof, against the windows. It turned to hail. I ordered another pint, lit a cigarette and held my hands up against the flames.   

***

I knew I'd fucked up when I walked out into the light again, five pints to the good, with a full bag of stock. My guilt, mixed with drunken confidence, propelled me into action and I made a few sales. I walked into an insurance office where a smiling blonde said there might be a few people interested. She walked through the door behind her and came back with two people. I demonstrated the puppets and they laughed. They both purchased a puppet and a lighter. An older man came through and bought two puppets. 
Then a burly suit came out and asked me what I was doing.
“Just selling a few things,” I said meekly. 
“No here, ye're not,” he said, tightening the knot of his tie. 
“Okay,” I said. And then, in a drunken rush: “It's your loss.”
He laughed, lightly elbowing the receptionist to join him. She smiled awkwardly. I stood there with the door ajar. I wanted to scream a million things at him, but couldn't think of one. My words were tied up in a stunned stupor. 
“Close the door, pal, it's freezing. An get a real job.”
As much as I hated the condescending cunt, he was right. Nothing about the job was real. I slid into another pub with the intention of selling a few lighters, knowing that I wouldn't open my bag for the rest of the day.

***

I was drunk when I got back to the office. It was just on five so I was the first salesman back. 
Sadie eyed me suspiciously. “Rough day?”
“Yeah.”
“Did ye take refuge in a pub?” she asked.
“It rained most of the afternoon,” I said. 
She nodded, her eyelids fluttering, waiting for me to say something. Then I told her I wanted to quit. 
“Did ye get loats of negative responses?”
“Yes.”
“Do ye think you've hud enough training?”
“Yes.”
“Did ye find the work demanding?”
“Yes.... too much pain for too little gain,” I said, pleased with my poise.
She sat back on her chair, considering me. 
I shrugged my shoulders. “It's not my scene,” I said. “I'm not enjoying it.”
She continued sitting there, waiting for me to say more. 
“And that's it.”
There was silence for a few moments. Then there was a knock on the door and Brian walked in. Sadie smiled at him.
“Bevan's quitting,” she said, calmly. 
Brian's jaw dropped. He looked at me as if I were a ghost. 
“That's right,” I said. I stood up and handed my bag over to Sadie. “I made bugger-all today. Don't worry about paying me.”
Brian sat down in a chair next to Sadie. He brought his fingers to his lips. They both looked at me, saying nothing.
“Well... thanks for the job,” I said. “Give my regards to Nicholas and Eddie.”
Brian snorted. “I'm sure those regards won't be very well received, after all the time they put into you.”
Now it was my turn to be stunned. “Time? They trained me for one day each. And took the earnings of any sales I made.” 
“That's the standard—”
I shook my head and walked out into the misty rain. The street lights smudged in my vision. I started walking, a little unsure about things. Then I remembered it was Friday night. I sensed anticipation in the air. I flipped up my jacket hood and started up the hill, stopping at the bottle shop for some scotch and Coke, and two packets of cigarettes. 
I took my time as I continued on up the hill, the wind rattling the plastic bag. The beer was rising off my breath, my chest heaving. Office workers held coats over their heads as they crossed roads. I could see tradies through pub windows, settled at tables, rolling cigarettes with grimy fingers. It warmed me on the inside.  
People shouted my name when I walked into the hostel common room. I nodded at them. Then I sat down next to Will and told him I'd quit. We toasted the news. He told me about the job he'd started that day at a mushroom farm. They were crying out for people, he said. Easy money, too. I poured some scotch into a glass, then some coke. Just like sales, I knew labouring wasn't my thing. But what was? 
I said I'd give it some thought. After the weekend.

The Nuts

Jeb says he’s fine, but I have my doubts. It’s clear to see if you look and listen hard enough. The shiny eyes. The silent lapses.  Conversation is slow. I can tell his mind is working over. What he could have done better. Over and over again.  We empty a few stubbies and I cook dinner. We open a bottle of red. Then another. Still he doesn’t say much.  
We turn the footy off and flick on the Playstation. Ricky Ponting Cricket.  We’d spend hours playing it when we first lived together here. Jeb says it feels like a lifetime ago. To me it is like yesterday. Stoned and giggly, the empty bottles of wine lined up on top of the mantelpiece like trophies, the electric heater crackling like it was about to short-circuit, the dampness all about us. We didn’t care. Life was easy.  
Then Jeb got a girlfriend. I drove him to their second date. He slugged back three of four quick beers as he wriggled about in the passenger seat. He said he had a good feeling going on. Within weeks he’d fallen like a giant, fluttery-eyed bug. He started staying over there on weekends. Then – despite her unit being on the other side of the city – the odd weeknight.  
Soon he was hardly home at all, and distant when he was. He even admitted, when fully sauced, to being in love with her. A go-getter, she was, a hot-bodied fitness fanatic. Anything, he said, felt possible. 
In a blink I was helping him move his stuff. It didn’t take long; she already had everything. He left his old TV – the one that had no remote and whose power button was broken so we just left it on all the time – and microwave. We ferried over his bed and stereo in my wagon; his clothing fitted into a backpack and a couple of shopping bags. She smiled without her eyes as she wrapped an arm around Jeb’s neck. I shook his hand. No eye contact there, either.  
I walked out. The winter sunlight broke a thinly, sickly yellow as I got into the car. I went back to the house and sat on the tattered old couch, a half-beer in my hands for an eternity. Then I walked around the corner to the pub. 
I got a new flatmate: a friend of a friend. He wasn’t a bad bloke, but the silences between us were heavy. Things went on. The train in the morning. Work. The train home. The supermarket. Cooking dinner. Food-encrusted plates. Wednesday night pub. Thursday night Footy Show. Friday and its possibilities.  
I started seeing a girl. She was plain but vibrant. It was good, but I knew she was just filling a purpose at the right time. She didn’t see it that way and left the front door banging behind her one Sunday morning. I went back to bed and enjoyed the space.  
Jeb hardly called. My attempts to contact him were left mostly unanswered. I sat in the lounge room and watched TV and sipped beer on weeknights and weekends. Went into work every other day. I paid bills, put a little bit of money away. I was just living.  
One day I got a call from Jeb saying he was engaged. We met up at a city pub that night. She didn’t show. Work function, Jeb said. We sat at the bar, drinking steadily. He told me they were having a dinner party of couples to celebrate.  You don’t mind do you, he asked. Of course not, I said, taking a deep drink and staring straight ahead. He got distracted by his phone. Pulled on his coat. Boot camp in the morning, he said.  
I stayed, had a few more beers. A scotch. OK, two. 
Not so far down the track, it was over. Jeb says he was surprised when she made the call. Says he would have hung on. That’s why she called it, he said, because I never would’ve.  He booked two weeks in a cheap hotel near her unit. I went around with a slab and we sat on the beds and talked through the night. I told him to move back in. He sat there with his head bowed for a long time. Eventually, 10 beers in, he flashed his old grin.    
So here we are. Playing computer games, drinking beers and just spitting out what comes into our heads. He’s coming out of his shell a bit now. Says he realises it’s for the best. But, he says, he wants to go back to school. No more backward steps.  I procure a three-skinner from the small box on top of the fridge. Plenty of time for that, I say.  
He smiles, the rush of the booze in his cheeks. I suppose you’re right, he says.

Irving's Igloo: An Experiment

Irving sat down at his desk, booted up his computer, cracked his knuckles and surveyed the mood around him.

Irving’s desk wasn’t in a cream-walled office; no, it sat atop a mound of stiffened Nescafe Blend 43 granules.

Truth was, Irving worked inside an igloo with a bunch of multi-coloured penguins, all of whom shared the same name: Pestulio.

The Pestulios weren’t ruffled by the repetitive work. In fact, their wings flapped more excitedly as each day went on.

Irving sported a daily mask. It was pink when the Wig Bigs moved his desk to atop the tiny coffee mountain; now it was purple.

Irving endured the morning. In cricketing parlance, he copped them all over the body. Time for a drink. He grabbed his jacket.

Irving traipsed through PengLand’s sleety streets, Sun Kil Moon’s Benji in his ears, until he hit the Worm ‘n’ Apple pub.

Inside, the bar manager – a burly penguin who’d changed his name by deed poll from Pestulio to Panpam – was stacking glasses.

“What can I get you, old friend?” flapped the bar manager. “A triple Maker’s – no ice,” replied Irving.

Irving got drunk. When several Pestulios dropped in for a drink, he abused them. “You blokes all look the same,” he slurred.

Next day was St Patrick’s Day. Irving was hungover. He couldn’t face the Pestulios after the night before. So he rang in sick.

Then it was Wednesday and time to go to work again. Irving made a promise to himself to never get so Allenby’d again.

But, of course, he did.