by Ian Black
“Okay… so I don’t always have the answers that people want to hear, not all the time, and what I might do in a situation may be different to someone else; but Millie… that’s what opinion is all about… We all have different opinions on things,” and then smiles at his wife before continuing, “even me and Mom disagree sometimes.”
Unhappy with his diffusive, diplomatic answer, with a frown Millie asks, “So who’s right… you or Mom?”
William can feel Mary’s eyes boring into him. He wants to make his point, but knows he must respond with tact, “Well…” choosing his words carefully, “as I just said, there are two sides to every argument… and both sides usually believe they’re both right… but in reality… who really knows who’s right or wrong?”
Mary pipes in, “A judge!”
He’s trying really hard not to climb too high onto his high horse, but feeling a tad frustrated now, sounds a little sarcastic as he retorts, “Well yeah, a judge, of course; but whose judge? A judge in Iraq would say it was legal to invade Kuwait. A judge in Kuwait or the US would disagree. It’s the same with religion, where God is judge… The amount of wars fought in the name of religion, is incredible… But how do people who fight over religion… actually know their religion is right?”
William’s in the groove now, on one; this subject has frustrated him for years, and although he didn’t want to, William now rides his horse high, like his exasperated voice, as he asks rhetorically, “Who knows best?” then answers himself, “They ALL think they know best!”
Mary tries to calm him, patting his knee, “Okay, honey, you’re getting carried away now.”
“Well okay, I know.” he admits, “I’m sorry, ladies, but Millie… will you please remember one thing for me, and you won’t go far wrong.”
“What’s that, Dad?” Though Millie doesn’t understand everything he’s been ranting about, she hangs on his every word.
“In any dispute…” he explains, but calmer now, “whether it be war, falling out with your friends in the playground, or me and Mommy arguing… in every dispute, you’ll always find three things.” He holds his left fist in the air, with his solitary index finger stuck out upwards to signify the first thing, and says, “Right!” Then erects a second finger, his wedding-ring finger “Wrong!” and then pops up his longest middle finger between them both, which he calls, “Resolution!”
Now holding three fingers in the air, alongside each other, he repeats, “Three things… right, wrong and resolution!” and continues, “Now when most folks argue, both parties naturally both think they’re right! But age and experience has taught me… that finding resolution to a dispute is far more important than arguing over right and wrong.”
While pausing for breath, he splays the three fingers wide apart, then with a fingertip from his right hand prods each finger in turn, from left to right, “Right, resolution, wrong.” And continues, “Most people don’t realise… resolution, is always there…” Pointing to his middle finger, “It’s always there, sat right in the middle, right between right and wrong.” He shakes his head in frustration. “But the problem with our world is… not enough people want to find it.”
William returns his demonstrative hand onto Millie’s head; he begins stroking her hair and concludes, “And that’s why, Millie… our world is constantly… one great big spinning ball of confusion!”
Much to Mary’s relief, William’s speech is halted by opening jingles from the TV, for the Evening News show. They chime from the superb surround-sound system’s speakers that are mounted in every corner of the room. All three swivel their heads towards the screen in unison.
“Time for bed,” Mary reminds her daughter.
“Can I watch the war?” pleads Millie.
Her mother shakes her head, “No, honey. It’s bedtime.”
William intervenes, “It’s not every day our country goes to war, Mary… This is history. Let her watch for a while.”
Mary shrugs, “Okay… but just for a while.”
Millie smiles contentedly to herself, delighted at being allowed to stay up late. She snuggles deeper into her father’s lap and watches as a stern newscaster’s face appears on the huge projected screen and pronounces, “War!”
•
Several hours later, the three family members have not left their seats. In 1991 live coverage of war is something not often witnessed as it happens on TV. Now riveted to their chairs, eyes glued to the screen, their ears hang on every word that is spoken, following each and every deafening explosion that reverberates through the sensational rumbling speakers. So explosive is the coverage beamed into their home from Iraq, that even six-year-old Millie is engrossed.
The news anchorman cuts to pre-recorded footage of an earlier air raid carried out on Baghdad. A war commentator explains in great detail about the technological sophistication of today’s smart weaponry. He uses visual examples to illustrate how the allied forces can now laser guide their missiles to hit predetermined targets with exact, pinpoint accuracy. He also goes on to explain that the method of bombing is apparently so precise that it’s been termed… surgical bombing. Namely because they can now confidently target missiles so precisely, that only designated military targets will be destroyed; without bringing harm, or death, to innocent civilians in close proximity to the target. The report goes on to show impressive aerial footage of a laser-guided missile’s flight path: its descent is tracked on screen, heading towards a large isolated warehouse, marked on the screen with an X. The missile lands and explodes exactly on the X; dead centre.
The anchorman cuts to live footage from downtown Baghdad; being filmed by an extremely brave rooftop cameraman, and although he’s using a night-vision lens, which produces a green shimmering haze, it is blatantly obvious to anyone watching, that the city of Baghdad is being rained on by missiles, and enduring a devastating attack. In fact, the woofers and tweeters of William’s sound system have rarely worked so hard, and are doing a brilliant job of amplifying explosions right around the room. Time and again the Jones family jump startled, as the speakers crackle and boom.
Mary asks her husband, “William… how pinpoint do you think these pinpoint surgical weapons really are?”
He shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders and replies, “I don’t know… but it looks impressive.”
Millie asks inquisitively, “Are all the people in that Iraq town bad army men then, Dad?”
“Well no, honey, not all of them. Why?”
Millie looks surprised by his answer, and points her finger at the live panoramic footage of Baghdad’s skyline, which shows large pockets of the city on fire; then replies, “You mean nice people live there too?”
William sighs, before explaining, “Well… yes, Millie… Baghdad’s a large city, like LA. Families live there with their children. They’ve got shops, schools and hospitals… just like us.”
Millie continues absorbing this overpowering coverage, before enquiring innocently, “Are those families and children in that city our enemy as well then?”
Mary jumps in, “No, Millie, no!”
William explains, “The normal Iraqi people are not our enemy, but as they live in Baghdad, they’re drawn into the conflict. America would never deliberately go out and harm innocent people. Our targeted enemy is the Iraqi leader, and his army.”
Millie returns her attention to the screen, but then uses the remote to turn the volume down and asks, “Dad… I know the man on TV says they’re using smart bombs that only bomb the bad men… but what happens if, by accident, a bomb bombs a house where nice people live?”
Unsure quite how to respond, William looks to Mary for help, but she’s no help, responding only with raised eyebrows and a shrug.
But Millie doesn’t give up, “Dad… I asked, what happens if a—”
“I know what you said, Millie,” he replies. “All I know is… these military experts are telling us that that just can’t happen… The weapons are too sophisticated… too accura
te for mistakes to happen.”
Millie, as always, takes her father’s word as true. She nods and comments, “It must be true, what they say about smart bombs… because nobody would risk hurting nice ordinary people like that.”
She turns the volume up and snuggles back into her father’s lap, but after focusing on the action again, mutters to herself quietly beneath her breath, “I wouldn’t want to be down there though!”
•
Chapter: 1B
Ball of Confusion by Millennium Jones
(continued)
Like everyone else in the packed auditorium, Millie feels the temperature rising; amassed body heat adding to close humidity. She sees sweat shimmering across many foreheads now, and dabs her fingers across her own brow, but accidentally touches her glasses, that prod her swollen eye; she flinches at the pain and feels the bruised area pulsing as it starts throbbing again.
Her mouth and throat are dry. While sipping water from a tumbler she recalls her mother’s advice on the importance of posture: head up, shoulders back, belly sucked in, tight butt cheeks, and adjusts her stance accordingly, places the glass back down onto the podium and continues. “Like sponges, we continually absorb new influences as we grow, and soon find ourselves introduced, in one way or another, to trauma… Classroom tittle-tattle, the playground stuff, bullying, teasing; we see our parents argue… and in most cases these incidents are nothing too serious, but enough to teach us that life isn’t always a bed of roses…” she pauses. “Whereas other, less fortunate children… have the misfortune of experiencing real trauma, extreme trauma, as through no fault of their own they’re drawn into domestic violence, child abuse, or war!”
Back in full flow now, she’s forgotten her eye. “But for all of us, wherever we are born, these experiences, however minor or extreme, are ingredients that mould us into what we become, and determine how differently we live our lives… and how differently we all… perceive right and wrong.”
Millie holds out a gesturing hand, emphasising her point, and quotes, “Which is why… what is considered right for one person… may be unthinkable to another.”
•
Aged Thirteen (1998) to Sixteen (2001)
•
Chapter: 8
Good Fight
At thirteen, George remains remarkably small and skinny for his age, and his body looks lost as he sits swivelling in a large revolving chair in the local tattoo and piercing parlour. Each time he spins a complete revolution, he kicks himself off again against the cabinet to keep the chair revolving continuously.
With the exception of a large mirror, the parlour is clad wall-to-wall with tattoo designs, piercing options, and photographs of previous work. Martha stands behind spinning George. With her long blond hair, flimsy tee-shirt, skinny frame and tight jeans, she looks great… from the back; but when she turns around her haggard forty-three-year-old features now look sixty. Habitual abuse has continued aging her dramatically.
She’s currently in murmured discussion with the heavily tattooed and seriously over-pierced tattooist; who has more tattoos visible on his skin than skin. His pierced ears, eyebrows, nose, cheeks, lips and studded tongue shimmer in shop lighting as he clarifies his position, “Martha… I just can’t tattoo a thirteen-year-old boy! If the authorities find out, I’ll lose my licence.”
His statement prompts Martha to up the ante; with hands on hips she arches her back, and thrusts out her breasts. This definitely grabs his attention, but still, he shakes his head, refusing to tattoo the boy. So she raises her game further; pointing a finger to her erotically grinding crotch, she puckers her lips provocatively and purrs, “You won’t get paid then… will you?”
The under-pressure tattooist reconsiders; sensing a twitching in his loins. He looks Martha up and down longingly, as she lightly strokes a finger up and down across the front of her sprayed-on jeans. He even finds her lipstick stained teeth horny. She reads his wanton eyes, and knows he’s nearly on the hook; so adds more bait, more tricks of the trade: tilting her head cutely to one side she gazes invitingly into his eyes, while wetting her lips sensually with her tongue… and he’s hooked; caught, netted, she’s sealed the deal.
The tattooist claps his hands together, turns to face George and announces cheerily, “Right, young man… let’s get started shall we?”
•
Later that afternoon, George lies on his back on his flattened-out cardboard box bed in his extensively developed den; which now boasts a crude precariously balanced lean-to roof (of sorts) made from broken pallets suspended between trees. Many new articles of interest (to a lad) have also been added. Beneath the lean-to sits an old torn Recaro wrap-around front seat from a sports car, positioned next to a round freestanding rusty old barbecue, with a small yellow plastic duck sat in the middle of the grill. The den is also guarded at its entrance by a life-sized plastic replica of a Labrador guide dog, previously used to collect charity donations for the blind. It has a moulded coin slot in its head and a bashed-out hole in its belly.
George is reading his old George and the Dragon storybook. He finishes the last page, closes the book and places it away in the sliding drawer of the old cash till. Then remaining on his back, holds both hands up into the air in front of him, and examines them. Two fresh brightly coloured tattoos now adorn his tiny hands. On the clenched fist of his right hand, on the knuckle of his middle finger, is a small half-inch long red cross (of Saint George) and on the inside palm of his left hand, an inch-long tattoo of a green fire-breathing dragon.
As he focuses on the dragon tattoo, the words spoken to him by his mother earlier that day, echo through his mind: Baby, these tattoos will remind you… The dragons are powerful… bigger, stronger… But keep your head and heart strong… and you will win!
George clenches his right fist, as tight as he can, clearly exposing the tattooed red cross on his knuckle. He recoils the fist into his body, then fires a right hook upwards into the dragon in his left palm.
•
A short while later, as dusk settles across the park, George makes his way across the muddy football pitch, continually firing his fist into his palm, until eventually standing directly outside the bedsit, where he knocks the door twice. No answer. So he peers around the corner into a dark narrow tunnelled side alley, running between the adjoined terraces, and jumps startled as a frightened cat springs out.
Just inside the alley sits an open overflowing rubbish bin. George tilts the bin and retrieves a hidden key from beneath (Martha leaves it, to let himself in for food when Maurice isn’t there). He unlocks the door and steps inside, deliberately leaving the door open behind him; it’s a fleeting visit, a food finding mission before Maurice returns.
The bedsit, as always, is in a disgusting state; like his mother: lying unconscious, scantily clad, spreadeagled on the bed. She’ll be high on drugs, alcohol, solvents… or off her head from all three.
George whispers, “Ma!” No reply. So he heads straight for the tiny fridge, next to the sticky kitchenette; piled high as always with unwashed crockery. A quick search for food reveals that apart from several unappetising rotting items, and some tins of Carlsberg Special Brew, both the fridge and kitchenette cupboard are bare.
Disappointed, but not surprised, he turns to face his mother and whispers again, “Ma!” She snores lightly, but doesn’t wake.
Moving closer to Martha, he scans the strewn bedside table beside her that presents a smorgasbord of vice: a large, practically empty bottle of whisky sits next to an empty syringe, with its plunger depressed. Several empty drug-wraps. An open can of Carlsberg Special Brew, with a soaked stubbed-out cig-butt on its top disintegrating into a millimetre-deep pool of stale spilt ale, which a delighted fly is paddling in. An overflowing stinking ashtray sits next to a phallic sticky looking pink latex dildo, alongside a bulk-order box of condoms.
George looks at his new tattoos, glances back at the strewn table, then with dismay gazes down at his unconscious mother.
In a deep depressed voice he drawls, “I understand about the dragons now, Ma.”
He knows she can’t hear him, but feels compelled to tell her, “I know there is good… and bad, and I know you’ve done bad things,” he pauses to swallow, trying to stop himself from crying, but can’t as he blurts, “but I still love you, Ma!” His tears roll as he looks down pitifully at her snoring, dribbling, make-up-splattered face.
He cries in sorrow, and then rage, as his contorted face scours the bedside table, staring at each object in turn, until lashing-out wildly with his leg, he drop-kicks the cupboard right across the room.
Its contents smash against the wall, startling his mother, who partially opens her eyes, deliriously attempting to focus on the blurred image standing over her. As her vision makes some sense she recognises George’s face and greets him feebly, “Hello, baby,” but then as her focus sharpens also notices the menacing frame of Maurice stood directly behind him, in silence.
George jumps out of his skin as the pimp grabs hold of him and mumbles, “We need to talk, boy!”
•
Several hours after his beating, George is back on the street. In search of nutrition he climbs into a large waste bin located in an alley at the back of a popular local McDonald’s restaurant. Papers rustle noisily as he rummages inside hoping to find decent-sized portions of leftover food. Over the years, his ongoing quest for food has discovered all the best places to scavenge free meals.
He eventually lays hands on exactly what he wants, and stands upright inside the bin proudly holding a partially eaten cheeseburger. His face wears the talk he’d had earlier with Maurice, and he’s reminded of it as he takes a large hungry bite of the burger, chews, and then has to stop as the mouthful touches a painful fresh cut inside his cheek. He moves the food across in his mouth and chews on the other side, more carefully; but after gulping down grub he’s startled, as the hinges to the restaurants rear door squeak loudly, followed by a shout, “Oy! Piss off, tramp!” yelled by a chef from the door. George drops the burger, hops out of the bin, and scarpers.
