surgery is still making me hard to place, but I oblige him with a lingering stare into his eyes until he recognises mine.
‘My God. You’re… you’re…’
‘Not any more. I’m just a concerned parent.’
I put four bullets in his brain then head for the fridge and grab a Coke for the kid. The boy obediently keeps his head down as we near the agreed rendezvous. I drive past the bench where we spoke this morning, then double back, checking the dimly lit sidestreets for any concealed cop cars ready to swoop in. It looks as though the father has been true to his word. He’s sitting there, looking expectantly at the Beamie, as he will have done at every other car that has passed since he arrived.
He springs to his feet the moment his eyes meet mine. I stop the car but don’t get out, merely reach back and undo the kid’s seatbelt. The father opens the door and hugs his son, both of them crying. I look away.
‘There must be something I can do for you,’ he says.
‘There is. I told you.’
When I get back to the villa, the first rays of sun are still loitering with intent behind the hills, the air pleasantly crisp before the heat starts to build once more. I drop Miko’s bargain charlie in my safe then go down to the cellar to find the man himself. The scene does not disappoint. He is dead, face-down on the floor, an empty syringe lying discarded beside him. As I anticipated, he has freed himself from his restraints through brute-strength and desperation, but with his leg welded to the table, was only able to reach the hacksaw, not the hypodermic. He has proceeded, therefore, to amputate his own foot, before injecting himself with weed-killer in a misinformed attempt to neutralise the harmless saline solution I gave him earlier.
It’s uncool to laugh at your own jokes, but I can’t help it. Maybe I’m getting whimsical now that I’m technically a generation older; and I know I wasn’t around for the punchline, but you have to admit it was a belter.
I go back upstairs, grab myself a cold one and sit outside to watch the sunrise. It feels like a new beginning.
I think I’m going to enjoy being good.
Playground Football
(The following article has been vigorously cut-and-pasted all over the web since being posted on www.blackandwhitearmy.com in July 2003, but as nobody’s clipboard had quite enough room for two little words – my name – I thought I should set the record straight by giving it an official home here. It was written in two parts for
The Absolute Game
during the early nineties, and remains arguably the truest work I have ever penned.)
Duration
Matches shall be played over three unequal periods: two playtimes and a lunchtime. Each of these periods shall begin shortly after the ringing of a bell, and although a bell is also rung towards the end of these periods, play may continue for up to ten minutes afterwards, depending on the nihilism or ‘bottle’ of the participants with regard to corporal punishment met out to latecomers back to the classroom. In practice there is a sliding scale of nihilism, from those who hasten to stand in line as soon as the bell rings, known as ‘poofs’, through those who will hang on until the time they estimate it takes the teachers to down the last of their gins and journey from the staffroom, known as ‘chancers’, and finally to those who will hang on until a teacher actually has to physically retrieve them, known as ‘bampots’. This sliding scale is intended to radically alter the logistics of a match in progress, often having dramatic effects on the scoreline as the number of remaining participants drops. It is important, therefore, in picking the sides, to achieve a fair balance of poofs, chancers and bampots in order that the scoreline achieved over a sustained period of play – a lunchtime, for instance – is not totally nullified by a five-minute post-bell onslaught of five bampots against one. The scoreline to be carried over from the
‘My God. You’re… you’re…’
‘Not any more. I’m just a concerned parent.’
I put four bullets in his brain then head for the fridge and grab a Coke for the kid. The boy obediently keeps his head down as we near the agreed rendezvous. I drive past the bench where we spoke this morning, then double back, checking the dimly lit sidestreets for any concealed cop cars ready to swoop in. It looks as though the father has been true to his word. He’s sitting there, looking expectantly at the Beamie, as he will have done at every other car that has passed since he arrived.
He springs to his feet the moment his eyes meet mine. I stop the car but don’t get out, merely reach back and undo the kid’s seatbelt. The father opens the door and hugs his son, both of them crying. I look away.
‘There must be something I can do for you,’ he says.
‘There is. I told you.’
When I get back to the villa, the first rays of sun are still loitering with intent behind the hills, the air pleasantly crisp before the heat starts to build once more. I drop Miko’s bargain charlie in my safe then go down to the cellar to find the man himself. The scene does not disappoint. He is dead, face-down on the floor, an empty syringe lying discarded beside him. As I anticipated, he has freed himself from his restraints through brute-strength and desperation, but with his leg welded to the table, was only able to reach the hacksaw, not the hypodermic. He has proceeded, therefore, to amputate his own foot, before injecting himself with weed-killer in a misinformed attempt to neutralise the harmless saline solution I gave him earlier.
It’s uncool to laugh at your own jokes, but I can’t help it. Maybe I’m getting whimsical now that I’m technically a generation older; and I know I wasn’t around for the punchline, but you have to admit it was a belter.
I go back upstairs, grab myself a cold one and sit outside to watch the sunrise. It feels like a new beginning.
I think I’m going to enjoy being good.
Playground Football
(The following article has been vigorously cut-and-pasted all over the web since being posted on www.blackandwhitearmy.com in July 2003, but as nobody’s clipboard had quite enough room for two little words – my name – I thought I should set the record straight by giving it an official home here. It was written in two parts for
The Absolute Game
during the early nineties, and remains arguably the truest work I have ever penned.)
Duration
Matches shall be played over three unequal periods: two playtimes and a lunchtime. Each of these periods shall begin shortly after the ringing of a bell, and although a bell is also rung towards the end of these periods, play may continue for up to ten minutes afterwards, depending on the nihilism or ‘bottle’ of the participants with regard to corporal punishment met out to latecomers back to the classroom. In practice there is a sliding scale of nihilism, from those who hasten to stand in line as soon as the bell rings, known as ‘poofs’, through those who will hang on until the time they estimate it takes the teachers to down the last of their gins and journey from the staffroom, known as ‘chancers’, and finally to those who will hang on until a teacher actually has to physically retrieve them, known as ‘bampots’. This sliding scale is intended to radically alter the logistics of a match in progress, often having dramatic effects on the scoreline as the number of remaining participants drops. It is important, therefore, in picking the sides, to achieve a fair balance of poofs, chancers and bampots in order that the scoreline achieved over a sustained period of play – a lunchtime, for instance – is not totally nullified by a five-minute post-bell onslaught of five bampots against one. The scoreline to be carried over from the
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