by Marc Horn
‘Listen to me, Victor, I am going to tell you something you would like to hear.’ He looks up sadly. I struggle to keep my voice calm. ‘I know you are innocent because I downloaded those filthy images. I used your credit cards. I hid those printouts in your drawers.’
He stares at me incredulously. His breath reeks of alcohol.
‘Do you have enough brain cells left to grasp that fact, Victor? I have emptied much much more than your coins down the drain. I emptied your life down there. Do you understand that, Victor?’
His face is red with rage. I step back before he can lunge at me.
‘Now think about school, think about all those good times, think about our great friendship. That is how I chose to repay it. This is how I want you to suffer until you die...’
He thrusts himself forwards but the movement is slow and easy for me to circumvent. He falls onto the pavement and rolls onto his back. I stand up and loom over him.
‘Mike Wickinton made me rich, and you, Victor Spinney, made me powerful. Powerful enough to change this rotten world.’
22
‘I like playing hockey,’ I told my father thirteen years ago.
He sniffed twice, his bespectacled eyes fixed on the newspaper he was holding open in front of him. ‘Hockey?... That’s a waste of time.’
I waited for more, despite knowing it would not come. My father never justified himself. For him his opinion was enough, it did not need explaining. Still, I always hoped for more.
‘...I’m quite good,’ I said. ‘I hit the puck fifty yards to someone on the far side...’
‘You need talent to become a professional.’
‘Mr Licence said it was an excellent pass.’
Father peered at me over the newspaper. ‘A lucky pass in the playground is worthless.’
‘Focus your energies on something profitable,’ Mother added.
‘Computers,’ Father said. ‘How many times have I told you? Forget everything else.’
Computer Studies was my weakest subject and he knew this. ‘I don’t understand them as well as the others,’ I protested. There was no further communication, perhaps just a slight shake of my father’s head...
I stare at my hands as they rest on the tablecloth. Earlier today my mother had called me on the phone...
‘Hello, Chalk,’ she said. ‘Your father and I would like to see you this evening. Are you available?’
I closed my eyes in mild disbelief. I had not spoken to either of them for two years, yet Mother did not consider it relevant to ask how I had been keeping.
‘I am free this evening,’ I replied, just as robotically.
‘We will drive to you. What time?’
‘Eight. I will prepare a meal.’
‘We will see you then.’
The phone clicked. Conversation complete.
I pull one end of the tablecloth to remove a ripple. It is five minutes to eight. My parents are punctual, they will arrive dead on time. My father will adjust his speed to achieve this.
I place the saucepan in the centre of the table and set down the plates and cutlery. Then I sit and watch the clock. At thirty seconds to the hour I hear my father’s car pull up. Thirty seconds later my doorbell rings. I rise and open the front door.
‘Hello Mother...Father.’
Both shake my hand, remove their shoes and sit down at the table. This visit is not for love or pride, it is merely a tick in the box. They are good parents.
‘Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,’ I say. ‘Please entertain yourselves.’
I smirk as I make my way to the kitchen, and then, as I wait for the ingredients to heat, I flash back again, to my first day at primary school, to the kitchen at my parents’ house...
‘You will be teased,’ Mother said, ‘because you look different to the others.’ Father remained silent as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. A tear rolled down my cheek. I was very scared. ‘Crying won’t change your face. Crying will make it worse.’ And then my mother and I set off on what seemed an endless walk to school, the only mother and son along that route who did not hold hands... I start back when Mother enters the kitchen.
‘May I use your toilet, please?’
‘Of course, turn left at the hallway and it’s the first on your right.’
Mother flashes a cold smile at me before walking off. Instantly I return to my childhood, recalling the sadness I felt when I could not see my mother among the many adults waiting for their children when school had finished. The children and their parents gradually disappeared. Just I was left. A few adults had assured me that my parents would soon be with me, a couple offered to take me home. I remember one lady wiping the tears off my face. And I remember the relief I felt when I saw my father’s car pull up in front of me. I climbed into the back seat, my rapid breaths amplified in the vehicle. Neither Mother nor Father asked me about school, nor did they justify their lateness...
The food is done. I amble into the dining room and place the slices of toast on all three plates, and then look up at my parents’ stiff expressions. ‘One last thing,’ I say, and then jog to the kitchen, returning shortly with a tub of Anchor butter. I sit down at the table and remove the lid from the saucepan to reveal two cans worth of steaming baked beans.
‘Please help yourselves first,’ I say, ‘you are my guests.’
Father sniffs, fingers a shirt cuff, then leans forwards and slowly butters his two slices of toast. Afterwards, Mother follows suit. I watch in silent delight. Father scoops up some beans and lays them on his bread.
‘To enjoy the meal at its best, you must eat it fast,’ I advise, ‘otherwise it will turn soggy.’
No reply. After both have served themselves, I shovel some beans onto the spoon and as I guide it to my plate, I purposely cause some sauce to drip onto the table. Then, from a foot above, I drop the contents onto my toast, relishing the wonderful ‘splat’.
We consume the meal in silence. Mother is the last to finish.
‘Would you like more beans, Mother?’ I ask.
‘No,’ she says, shaking her head.
‘Father?’
He too shakes his head.
‘Can I get you anything else?...Cereal?’ I hold out a palm. ‘Please, it would not put me out.’
‘No, Chalk, we are both full,’ Father says, a little sternly.
‘Did you enjoy the meal?’ I ask.
Both nod, forcing the briefest and fakest of smiles.
‘Then the evening is a success.’ I beam at both of them.
Silence follows, four minutes of it, and then my father says, ‘We must leave now.’
Mother jumps up from her seat with a clear sense of urgency.
‘Really?’ I say, injecting some despair into my tone, ‘That’s a shame. It’s been an eventful evening, we must do it more often.’
‘Yes,’ Father says, avoiding my eyes.
I open the front door for them.
‘Bye, Chalk,’ Mother mutters, and then both leave my house. I wave as they drive off, but neither of them see the gesture, as their eyes are fixed on the road ahead. I check my watch and smile – it is 8:26. Sunday dinner with the folks done and dusted in half an hour!
23
I am addicted to Big Brother, the reality TV show. It is an excellent idea which offers a viewer unique – and in my case, otherwise unattainable - insights into human behaviour. Prior to Big Brother, I didn’t truly know anyone else. A stranger would not spend five minutes with me, let alone three months. But now I can sit in my armchair and watch a dozen lives unfold. Of course I know the camera-monitored environment breeds falseness, but, after a couple of weeks we see evidence of everyone’s true nature. Constant tests force out their base reactions.
We see an interview with each housemate before they enter the house. These are amusing. Such is their desperation for fame that these idiots will say anything, sacrificing their dignity as they sing about sex toys, bed-hopping and masturbation. Once, one imbecile claimed
to have broken her vibrators. Initially I had wondered how on earth a lady manages to break such an item. Feasible, perhaps, if she was using it as a stirring spoon. If used as intended, it should be highly durable. She said it just to arouse interest, to keep us hooked – don’t evict her and watch her on the show...
I think the production team behind Big Brother mislead us, the viewers, just as much as they mislead their victims. I believe it is Big Brother and not us who chooses who should leave and who should stay. The articles written by unpopular ex-housemates – often claiming that they were scapegoats and victims of Big Brother’s cunning editing – did not nurture this awareness. If you think beyond the footage you are shown, the manipulation is obvious. We hear bold statements in the diary room, apparently unprompted. But I believe each housemate is responding to questions we are not permitted to hear. That way Big Brother cultivates in us a recollection of a voluntary admission. And the information relates to one of three ‘hot’ topics – a declaration of homosexuality (something the parents never knew – well, forget about privacy, respect and discussion ̶ tell them on national telly!); affection for another housemate (just to dismiss suspicions that what we are seeing is a sham); or criticism directed towards another housemate (to stir up some suffering). Big Brother is not stupid, they want an audience, so they show what the viewers want to see. Of course this means they need to field a team of players gullible enough to play their game.
Romance – or more accurately, sex – and feuds are favoured, and are the focus of the show. We are expected to believe that two people can fall in love on TV, on a show where a housemate’s (meticulously engineered) popularity with the public determines their fate. One would have to be an adept liar to fool me. But I do not get frustrated, I love the show. The housemates’ lust for recognition and wealth, at the expense of everything and everyone else, epitomises humanity. We are ridiculing ourselves, yet the majority see it as entertainment instead of an essential education.
Once the likelihood of sexual intercourse happening on TV has expired, the couple’s relationship is abandoned by Big Brother, and the priority becomes hate. The current series, number seven, has enjoyed the highest viewing figures of them all. Unsurprisingly, it has also been described as the ‘bitchiest’. The public love arguments. Really, what we love is anguish and distress. Big Brother bullies its recruits. But, I am certain, such an approach is covered within the contract these idiots sign. They agree that everything they do or say in the house can be aired, in whatever context, order and manner Big Brother see fit. They agree to anything to get in that house. So they will only have themselves to blame if they are portrayed negatively. Big Brother is ruthless, and will target someone to incite the nation’s wrath. In series seven they chose Grace.
Grace was presented as a repulsive character. She assigned herself the role of leader and purported to be trustworthy, while simultaneously attacking almost everyone, her friends included, behind their backs. Regardless of whether she had a tactical interest or not, she tried to provoke mistrust and conflict between other housemates. She often succeeded. Big Brother showed us every single piece of her backstabbing and little else of her. Certainly, I recall nothing positive about the girl. But she must have had a good side, or all the other housemates would have drawn the same conclusions about her as we did. Few of them did, at least not until they heard the public singing ‘Kick Grace out’ outside the house. Such resentment was also a surprise to Grace, who responded by crying frequently. Big Brother aired all of it for our viewing pleasure. Big Brother chose not to broadcast any of Grace’s appealing moments. Rather, they hung her out to dry, and we fell for it, millions of us paying fifty pence to vote her out. Big Brother knows the public love to hate, so treated Grace in a way that fulfilled that contemptible need.
Outside the Big Brother house, in the real world, I satisfy that need. People hate me because I am hideous. I would stand a very good chance of securing a place in the Big Brother house, because I am a natural victim. I make people feel better about themselves. To guarantee my inclusion all I would have to do in interview is say I’m the Second Coming or something similar...
After creating a public enemy and tossing them into the fire, Big Brother attempts to retain its audience by supplying alcohol to the remaining housemates (drunkenness is guaranteed to create drama), and introducing new ones.
Big Brother takes its name from the George Orwell novel 1984, likening itself to the all-seeing totalitarian state brought to life in the book. ‘Big Brother is watching you’, is their slogan, along with an image of an enormous eye. On our TV screens each contestant is born, and then lives and dies through eviction or triumph. Only the virtuous few, incapable of being corrupted, leave the show unscathed. In this series it is Pete. Although the show is broadcast continuously on one channel, we still see what the cameras want us to see. Big Brother would not let us know the absolute truth. We have to have scandal.
It all says much about us.
24
Koigi Abasi is an arrogant Kenyan male. He stares smugly at PC Collingwell and me as we sit opposite him in the police interview room. Earlier today, PC Collingwell arrested Koigi for overstaying. He had also thumped him in the face, apparently in self-defence. When reading PC Collingwell’s arrest notes, one has to detach themselves from reality in order to visualise the suggested events. In this case, Mr Abasi had allegedly thrown every attack possible at PC Collingwell, including headbutts, elbow strikes and chops. Magically, PC Collingwell sustained no injuries. Mr Abasi, however, sports a cut nose. When the Forensic Medical Examiner examined his injuries, Mr Abasi angrily declined the offer of a plaster, so I briefly gaze at the small blob of congealed blood that hangs like a raindrop from between his nostrils.
‘You do understand that the fingerprint I just took from you matches the fingerprint taken from you in 2004, when you arrived at Heathrow?’
‘No, you’re wrong,’ he replies, never breaking eye contact, ‘it matches print taken from someone else.’
‘It matches the fingerprint taken from Koigi Abasi, the name on your passport when you entered the United Kingdom.’
‘Are you stupid? I told you, my name is Wangai.’
PC Collingwell fidgets beside me, his face as tight as cling film. He could never do this job.
‘Haji Wangai is not on our system,’ I explain. ‘Anyone not on our system–’
‘Your system is crap. Your country is crap.’ Abasi flicks his hands in the air. ‘That’s why you get blown up.’
‘What’s that make your country then?’ PC Collingwell unhelpfully intervenes. ‘You chose to come ‘ere, how crap must your country be!’
‘I come here to make money. It’s easy to make money here. You people make nothing. I pay nothing and make thousands. See? See? You are little people, you are nothing.’
‘Your nose feel all right?’ PC Collingwell hisses. ‘Can I get you a plaster?’
‘Ha! This nothing, my friend. This will heal fine. Your life goes on!’
‘Okay,’ I say calmly, ‘let’s return to your situation. You are disputing that you are Koigi Abasi, correct?’
‘Yeah, that’s correct, well done, you are clever.’
‘And you maintain that you are Haji Wangai, someone who we at Immigration know nothing about?’
‘Yeah, you’ve lost my record.’
‘And, according to you, the fingerprint you supplied when you arrived?’
‘Yeah.’
‘An individual who is not on our file is automatically deported, do you understand that?’ He shrugs. ‘So lying about your details is not a wise decision.’
‘I not lying. Your system is crap. You lost my record.’
‘To the contrary, we know exactly who you are, and who you are not. That is the beauty of fingerprints.’
‘Ha! It means nothing. You lost my print.’
‘We have Koigi Abasi’s fingerprint, taken from him in February 2004. It matches the fingerprint I have just taken fro
m you. Let me explain something to you. No two people have ever been found to have the same fingerprints. You are Koigi Abasi.’
He sucks his teeth. ‘You talk bull.’ He waves me away.
‘I am presenting you with facts, Mr Abasi. Would you like me to elaborate to help you understand?’ PC Collingwell laughs. Mr Abasi stares furiously at me. ‘The ridge patterns underneath your finger have a unique arrangement that never changes. Such impressions have been used to identify individuals for over one hundred years.’
‘So? I don’t care.’
‘You should, Mr Abasi, as on this occasion it is the evidence upon which I will authorise your deportation.’
‘Yeah? So what? I’ll appeal, I’ll be back here in a month!’
‘Not legally, Mr Abasi, and if you choose the illegal path, you might evade us for a day, a week, or even a month. But remember, we have your fingerprint forever, so when you come to our attention we will know exactly who you are.’
‘Ha! You won’t find me. There’s loads of us here, you never find us!’
I gather my papers and stand up. ‘Enjoy your flight, Mr Abasi.’
PC Collingwell assists Abasi back to his cell. After that, he joins me in custody. ‘Solid, Cutter, you were solid! What a prick he was. I wanted to knock his teeth out!’
‘I’m glad you didn’t.’
‘I loved it when he goes, “you won’t find me”, and you replied “enjoy your flight home”! Brilliant! That was brilliant!’
‘It’s best to have an admission of guilt,’ I explain, intending to defuse Collingwell’s excitement. ‘But Mr Abasi’s obstinacy rendered that unattainable. His outcome was certain before the interview began, so all that was left for me to do was destabilise his low opinion of Immigration Control.’
‘You certainly did that, Cutter. You going to the canteen?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll go with you.’ We leave the custody area and as we pass the station office, the civilian station officer asks PC Collingwell to assist her with a customer. I happily head off to the canteen alone. Unfortunately, PC Collingwell re-joins me five minutes later, as I wait for my meal. He unclips his utility belt, drops it on the floor and sits opposite me. ‘That was a local drunk,’ he smirks, ‘ranting on about kiddie porn.’
