close to my face, so that the barrel was out of focus, he said,
'How's that feel, Charlie?'
'I don't like it.'
'You're not meant to,' he said. 'When I pull this, that's it—drapes for Charlie.'
'But not of the proscenium arch, rather of bodies flambés ...?'
I heard the bang, closed my eyes. I was still standing, hadn't fallen. My fingertips tingled but I was sure I hadn't been shot.
'Open your eyes, Charlie.'
I did. He withdrew the gun and, indicating the end of the barrel, revealed the projecting tip of a biro. Using the gun-pen he wrote on a pad of paper, produced from his other pocket, and held it before me. The biro is mightier than the gun .
I laughed: 'Surely you can do better than that.' Embarrassed, I discovered that I was wet; both front and back. I said: 'This isn't funny, Martin.'
'It isn't meant to be.' He smiled. 'The purpose is to reveal your deficiencies—you're trite, predictable and weak.' I said:
'Oh, yeah. I know all about you: Pete Posh, perched over the pouch of the urinal, a Greaseburger in one hand, a Posafone in the other, thought, How can I shake the drops off my prong and spark a lungscorcher—with both hands full—? Then anthrax came to mind: Debbie Anthrax. Pete was excited! Armpit-burningly electrified!! '
'Only one of us can do that, mate. 'He left a silence. 'Charlie, the ability to write is a gift; to write well a privilege.'
Suddenly scared, I tried to laugh: 'Ha! No argument.'
'Who do you think you are?' He paused. 'Your talent—for what it's worth—is a small one.'
'Oh, yeah, and you're my nemesis...?'
Ffion continued to observe without passion. My underpants were soaking. I was beginning to get scared. I said,
'You're the other , aren't you?' He barely nodded; I took that as a yes. Of course, of course . Ffion continued to watch. I said to Martin, 'You're the one who's been influencing me all the time, aren't you? Pointing me here, nudging me there.' I considered for a moment. 'Why did you jump out of the car?'
'Thought it'd help you, Charlie. Cut the ties.'
'So, I wasn't controlling you . You were controlling me from the start.'
He blinked assent, then sniffed: 'Phew! You're not too delicate with your dooh-doohs, are you?'
Ffion looked at me. 'Filled your pants, Charlie? Wet your knickers?'
I didn't like the way this was turning out. Martin said,
'You've tons of enthusiasm, but you lack the ice.'
'Ice...?'
'Yeah. That splinter in the heart.'
'Splinter...?'
He nodded: 'The killer instinct.'
'But I'm not a boxer.'
Although the toy gun was lying on the table, I felt there was a weapon at my temple. Desperately, I said:
'You're taller than I remember. In fact every time I see you, you're one inch higher.'
'Nonsense.' He said: 'Charlie, you have the pallor of bellybutton fluff. Deeply tragic. No, there's a change in your aspect—you have the complexion of a mortuary technician, the hue of a corpse.'
'Aw, but Martin, think of the way we used to laugh when we went out drinking and chucked up our curries.'
I was hoping that Belinda and her parents would be back soon, to break up this showdown and put Martin where he belonged—in that place which some people call home. I looked at my watch; noticing this, Ffion said,
'No. They won't be back.'
That schemer had really poisoned her mind!
'So,' I said, 'here I stand, accused of unoriginality.'
'You've been deluded for too long, Charlie.'
I kept thinking of that story of the man being shot. I'd already humiliated myself by releasing bodily fluids. Did Martin have a real gun? Would it come from an inside pocket? Or would he go back to his car for a heavy tool? Worse: would Ffion inject me? I tried again to make him laugh:
'Hey, Martin, remember when you posed topless for Good Guy , bottomless for Bad Guy and full-frontal for Chunk ? When you wrote articles for Spiv , drew pictures for Ersatz ...?'
I felt ashamed as well as frightened. Was this all I was going to leave behind—a dead body and soiled
'How's that feel, Charlie?'
'I don't like it.'
'You're not meant to,' he said. 'When I pull this, that's it—drapes for Charlie.'
'But not of the proscenium arch, rather of bodies flambés ...?'
I heard the bang, closed my eyes. I was still standing, hadn't fallen. My fingertips tingled but I was sure I hadn't been shot.
'Open your eyes, Charlie.'
I did. He withdrew the gun and, indicating the end of the barrel, revealed the projecting tip of a biro. Using the gun-pen he wrote on a pad of paper, produced from his other pocket, and held it before me. The biro is mightier than the gun .
I laughed: 'Surely you can do better than that.' Embarrassed, I discovered that I was wet; both front and back. I said: 'This isn't funny, Martin.'
'It isn't meant to be.' He smiled. 'The purpose is to reveal your deficiencies—you're trite, predictable and weak.' I said:
'Oh, yeah. I know all about you: Pete Posh, perched over the pouch of the urinal, a Greaseburger in one hand, a Posafone in the other, thought, How can I shake the drops off my prong and spark a lungscorcher—with both hands full—? Then anthrax came to mind: Debbie Anthrax. Pete was excited! Armpit-burningly electrified!! '
'Only one of us can do that, mate. 'He left a silence. 'Charlie, the ability to write is a gift; to write well a privilege.'
Suddenly scared, I tried to laugh: 'Ha! No argument.'
'Who do you think you are?' He paused. 'Your talent—for what it's worth—is a small one.'
'Oh, yeah, and you're my nemesis...?'
Ffion continued to observe without passion. My underpants were soaking. I was beginning to get scared. I said,
'You're the other , aren't you?' He barely nodded; I took that as a yes. Of course, of course . Ffion continued to watch. I said to Martin, 'You're the one who's been influencing me all the time, aren't you? Pointing me here, nudging me there.' I considered for a moment. 'Why did you jump out of the car?'
'Thought it'd help you, Charlie. Cut the ties.'
'So, I wasn't controlling you . You were controlling me from the start.'
He blinked assent, then sniffed: 'Phew! You're not too delicate with your dooh-doohs, are you?'
Ffion looked at me. 'Filled your pants, Charlie? Wet your knickers?'
I didn't like the way this was turning out. Martin said,
'You've tons of enthusiasm, but you lack the ice.'
'Ice...?'
'Yeah. That splinter in the heart.'
'Splinter...?'
He nodded: 'The killer instinct.'
'But I'm not a boxer.'
Although the toy gun was lying on the table, I felt there was a weapon at my temple. Desperately, I said:
'You're taller than I remember. In fact every time I see you, you're one inch higher.'
'Nonsense.' He said: 'Charlie, you have the pallor of bellybutton fluff. Deeply tragic. No, there's a change in your aspect—you have the complexion of a mortuary technician, the hue of a corpse.'
'Aw, but Martin, think of the way we used to laugh when we went out drinking and chucked up our curries.'
I was hoping that Belinda and her parents would be back soon, to break up this showdown and put Martin where he belonged—in that place which some people call home. I looked at my watch; noticing this, Ffion said,
'No. They won't be back.'
That schemer had really poisoned her mind!
'So,' I said, 'here I stand, accused of unoriginality.'
'You've been deluded for too long, Charlie.'
I kept thinking of that story of the man being shot. I'd already humiliated myself by releasing bodily fluids. Did Martin have a real gun? Would it come from an inside pocket? Or would he go back to his car for a heavy tool? Worse: would Ffion inject me? I tried again to make him laugh:
'Hey, Martin, remember when you posed topless for Good Guy , bottomless for Bad Guy and full-frontal for Chunk ? When you wrote articles for Spiv , drew pictures for Ersatz ...?'
I felt ashamed as well as frightened. Was this all I was going to leave behind—a dead body and soiled
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