by Steven Dunne
Instead of rushing to the window to scream abuse, Becky busied herself on her laptop keyboard, keeping her back to the window but her eye to the mirror to observe the gawky Thomson. A moment later Becky watched him lift his right hand. The faint dot of red light emanating from the object in his palm was confirmation of his intent. He was filming her. Geek Boy was filming her in her bedroom. Cheeky fucker.
She took several deep breaths then put her laptop aside on the bed and stepped over to her make-up bureau. She moved the chair so she could stand closer to the reflection and the lights. She stared at herself in the mirror again, this time with heightened interest. Her nipples had hardened under her slip and she brushed them with her forearms as she ran her hands through her hair.
Slowly, very slowly, she began to sway her hips from side to side, throwing back her head and opening her mouth invitingly. She cupped her breasts in her hands through the soft silk and massaged her nipples with fingers and thumbs. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and flicked the thin straps of her slip from her shoulders and down her bare arms.
Little by little she lowered the slip until, with a faint wobble, her breasts wrestled themselves free of the material and she pushed the garment to her waist. Swaying more urgently now, she eased her hands down her stomach before pushing the shiny slip to the floor, standing naked before the mirror. Finally she turned towards her bedroom window and stared intently at the red dot.
PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK – A FILM BY PETER WEIR
In the 1975 film Picnic at Hanging Rock, set in Australia in 1900, a party of girls from a local college set out for a day at Hanging Rock, a local beauty spot. The film begins in Appleyard College and introduces us to the girls as they dress, wash their hair and press flowers. They are all very ladylike and it is clear that the college is private and parents have to pay to send their daughters there.
Early on we meet the beautiful Miranda, who is compared to a Botticelli Angel by the French teacher from a book she’s reading. Botticelli was a painter in the fifteenth century. We are also introduced to Marion and Irma who are also pretty, but it is Miranda who steals the film with her looks and also her sadness. She seems to know that she’s not going to live very long because she tells her friend Sara, who idolises Miranda, that she must choose someone else to love because she herself is doomed.
Sara is appalled at this. She is an orphan who is picked on by the headmistress, Mrs Appleyard, because her foster-parent has not sent the money to pay for her lessons and so she is not allowed to go on the upcoming picnic. Irma compares Sara to a deer she found that died, fragile and pale and also doomed to die.
So things are all set up towards some kind of tragedy at Hanging Rock and every time we see a shot of the rock the music becomes creepy, as though some supernatural force is living there. Also, the girls spend a lot of time looking at the sky as though they are thinking about the afterlife and being angels.
At the picnic, the coach driver tells us his watch has stopped: another bad omen that the Hanging Rock is somehow not natural. Miranda asks a teacher if she, Irma and Marion can go and explore the rock. Another girl, Edith, nags them to come along too. She is not pretty but overweight and she always complains, in comparison to the calm beauty of the other three. As they disappear from view, Miranda turns with her long blond hair and waves at the teacher, almost as if she’s saying goodbye.
On Hanging Rock the film becomes less natural. There is a lot of slow motion with weird sound effects and odd camera angles which imply that some unseen force is watching them. Also the girls seem very calm and resigned to their fate. At one point, Marion says, ‘Surprising how many humans are without purpose,’ which I take to mean that she sees no point in living. Also Miranda says, ‘Everything begins and ends at exactly the right time and place,’ as though she knows her time is up and she accepts it.
While Edith is whingeing again the three friends hold hands and set off further up the Rock. This is in slow motion and there is an unnatural rumbling as they leave. Edith seems to know something is wrong and begins screaming and runs off.
I found this film very moving. It was quite slow but I couldn’t take my eyes off it. What I found most moving was the calmness with which the girls faced their death. They are the only ones in the film who don’t seem to be suffering. They’re leaving the world behind. Their pain is over and it is left to everyone remaining to suffer the torment of their disappearance and to wish they’d behaved differently towards them.
Back in the real world, Mrs Appleyard’s school starts to go bust and she ends up drinking too much and then killing herself at Hanging Rock. Sara throws herself off the roof of the school because she misses Miranda so much and she can’t bear the pain. The director is telling us that perfect love can’t exist for very long and we have to settle for imperfect love or die.
Interestingly, one of the girls, Irma, is found but she can’t remember anything and her life becomes really miserable again once she returns to normal life. The director might be suggesting she may have been better off dead because now she has to grow old and ugly and live with all her pain. He’s also trying to tell us that a lot of the story may not be real and not to believe what happened because the first words spoken by Miranda are from a poem by Edgar Allan Poe which I found on the internet. ‘What we see and what we seem is but a dream, a dream within a dream.’ This tells us that reality and fantasy are being mixed up, like life may be a (bad) dream but there are different places where you can be happy, including when you go to the afterlife.
824 words
By Kyle Kennedy
Kyle checked through the text and saved it on to his pen drive. He lay back on his bed and flicked at a remote. He was bare-chested, his skinny frame glistening in the evening heat. Music drifted out of the speakers mounted at each corner of the room – The Smiths. He looked down at the pasty, almost white flesh on his puny torso and pulled on a T-shirt in disgust then gazed at the cloudless sky, the same sky the girls at Hanging Rock must have been looking at. He could hear the faint muffle of outdoor life continuing elsewhere even though his window was firmly closed against it.
His favourite song started to play – ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’ – and he began to sing along. He nodded wistfully when Morrissey sang about the possibility of being run over by a ten-ton truck and that to die beside his lover in such a way would be a privilege. Kyle dug into his skintight jeans and pulled out a crumpled and dirty piece of paper. Unfolding it, he read the handwritten text.
Jake finished his hundredth sit-up and fell back on to the floor panting. He sat up and rolled over to do his press-ups when he noticed his mobile flashing. It was Kyle. Jake sat on his bed and looked at the sweat dotting his brow in the wardrobe mirror.
‘Hello.’
‘It’s Kyle.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Jake. I’m outside.’
With phone in hand, Jake looked out into the dark sultry night. Kyle was at the front gate waving at him. ‘It’s late, Kyle.’
‘I’ve got something for you. To thank you for this morning.’
‘This morning?’ asked Jake, though he knew very well what Kyle meant.
‘When Wilson went for me at college. You stopped him hitting me.’
Jake smiled. ‘Oh, that.’
‘Can you come down? I’d knock on the door but I don’t think your dad likes me much.’
‘Wait there.’ A minute later, Jake had slipped through the kitchen and out of the back door. He came round the corner of the house and walked towards Kyle, who pulled his hood down and watched Jake’s panther-like steps.
Kyle grinned sheepishly. ‘Hi, Jake.’
‘Kyle.’ Jake nodded back. There was a brief silence. ‘Well?’
‘Well, it’s my eighteenth tomorrow.’
‘Happy Birthday.’
‘Thanks.’ Kyle hesitated.
‘Hope you’re getting a new hoodie.’
‘Sorry?’
Ja
ke smiled to diminish any insult. ‘That G-Star thing you’re wearing. You ever take it off?’
‘It depends,’ said Kyle mysteriously.
Jake stiffened. ‘Was there something else?’
‘My mum’s going away for the weekend with Daddy Warbucks – Uncle Len. He’s kind of her boyfriend.’
‘I know him,’ said Jake. ‘That old fart who dresses like Eminem.’
Kyle giggled and Jake reluctantly laughed with him. ‘I know. A pensioner in a tracksuit. That’s so not right on so many levels. Well, I’m having a few people round – not many, just a handful.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘I don’t have a block full of friends.’ Jake’s expression remained sombre so Kyle said his piece. ‘About nine o’clock. Only if you want, of course. And no present, just presence.’ Kyle laughed, embarrassed at his own pun.
Jake stared at him, making no attempt to reply. Finally he squirrelled a glance at Kyle’s hand. ‘You said you had something for me.’
‘Right.’ Kyle handed over a pen drive, a CD case and a rolled-up poster. ‘I’ve done that film review for Media Studies. I thought you might like to borrow it – you know, get some ideas for your own essay.’ Jake kept his eyes on Kyle then unrolled the poster. ‘It’s Morrissey from The Smiths. Greatest Living Englishman,’ Kyle looked around and laughed shyly, ‘far as I’m concerned. And I burned you a Smiths CD – you know, just to thank you.’ Kyle nervously rested one plimsolled foot on the other. He looked about twelve to Jake with his short crop and pale girlish features. Not even a suggestion of facial hair.
‘You didn’t have to. But thanks.’
Kyle took his hands out of his pockets and looked up into Jake’s face but Jake had turned away.
‘Was there anything else?’ he said coldly.
Kyle looked at the ground. ‘A ten-ton truck would be nice.’ He pulled his hood back up and walked away into the night.
‘What does that mean?’ shouted Jake after him.
Kyle turned, a wistful smile on his face. ‘When you listen to the CD you’ll know. Track nine.’
Rusty walked slowly along the pavement, his eyes glued to the glow of his camcorder. What a result. Becky Blake dancing for him, stripping for him. Forget Animal House starring John Belushi and directed by John Landis. This was no American frat-house comedy, this was . . . this was . . . Body Double. That’s it. Brian de Palma’s remake of Vertigo starring Melanie Griffith as the erotic dancer, performing her dance of death for the hapless Peeping Tom in a nearby apartment.
Rusty grinned at the playback. Becky had seen him, he was sure. Cry for help? Goddamn right. He was so engrossed in the image of Becky’s naked body that he didn’t hear the noise from behind until it was too late. At the last minute the whirring of a bicycle registered and he turned in time to catch a flash of steel descending towards his neck. He screamed in shock and pain and fell to the ground, clutching at the wound.
As he hit the ground he tried to keep hold of the camcorder but it fell from his grasp and rolled along the pavement, coming to a stop with the lens facing him. As the blood trickled through Rusty’s fingers, clamped to his neck, he tried to right himself but caught sight of the camcorder as he did so. The red light was on.
Ignoring his injury, he reached out a bloodied hand towards the lens just out of reach. A second later, he slumped down to the hard pavement with a rasping sigh, and lay motionless while the camcorder continued to store his image.
‘What was that little pooftah doing outside?’
Jake turned at the foot of the stairs to face his father sprawled out on the living-room sofa, beer can perched on his belly. Jake wondered whether to pretend he hadn’t heard and just bound up the stairs.
‘I asked you a question,’ growled his dad.
‘His name is Kyle.’
‘Yeah, that gay boy. Poor Steve Kennedy’s lad,’ retorted his father, unable to turn his face away from the TV. ‘What did he want?’
‘Leave him alone,’ his mother said. ‘They’re friends. Kyle’s a nice lad.’
‘That right, Jake?’ hollered his father, a mocking edge in his tone. ‘Are you and that shirt-lifter friends?’
‘Malcolm. I don’t want to hear that sort of talk in my house.’
Jake turned away and shouted back from the bottom stair, ‘He’s in my Media Studies group. We sometimes swap essays.’
‘Essays, my arse,’ his father shouted back. ‘Just mind you don’t catch nothing.’
Jake started up the stairs. ‘Why don’t you have another beer, Dad? You still sound half-sober.’
‘You cheeky little bastard,’ bellowed his father, stirring himself.
‘I wish,’ Jake hollered back from his bedroom door.
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘That’s enough, Malcolm. Sit back down. I’m trying to watch this.’
Malcolm McKenzie sank blearily back to the warmth of the sofa. ‘Cheeky little fucker’s cruising for a bruising,’ he muttered under his beer breath.
Jake fed the CD into his music centre and pressed 9 on the remote. A grubby scrap of paper fell out of the blank case, which he stooped to pick up and unfold. It was a handwritten track list. Track 9 was called ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’. He turned the paper over. There were childlike drawings of unknown yellow flowers around the margins and a small poem in the middle which Jake read aloud.
Morrissey,
you should have died when you was younger,
For you then, we would have hungered,
We would have seen some flowers then
And never seen your like again!!!!!
It was signed KK aged 13.
Jake listened carefully to the song until he heard the reference to a ten-ton truck. He skipped the song back to listen again.
Jake ejected the disc and sat in silence. The song was a love letter and Kyle Kennedy had given it to him. A moment later he carefully picked up the unfolded track list and tore it into tiny pieces. Then he picked up the CD and case and headed downstairs.
‘Going out, Jake?’ shouted his mother from the armchair. She was a small nervous woman with a birdlike way of moving her head. Jake’s drink-befuddled father was on the sofa snoring and the TV was turned up to drown out the noise.
Jake smiled reassuringly at her as he zipped his tracksuit. ‘I’m going for a run, Mum.’
‘At this time? I was just going up.’ On my own was left unsaid.
‘I’ve got a lot of pent-up energy,’ he explained. His mum nodded then looked at her husband without expression. Jake followed her gaze. He managed a watery smile. ‘Anything good on?’
His mother looked at him for longer than felt comfortable. ‘I’ve no idea.’
Jake turned away and opened the front door. ‘I won’t be long.’ He jogged out into the warm night.
Jake turned left on to Western Road and continued to jog powerfully towards the new houses before turning on to Brisbane Road. He kept his eyes peeled for Kyle. He knew roughly where he lived with his mother. Kyle’s father had left them a few years ago because of the shame of having a gay son. Although Kyle’s sexuality had only become blatant over the last couple of years in college, likely his parents would have known sooner. And Kyle’s dad hadn’t hung around to listen to behind-the-hand whispers.
After her husband’s departure, Jake knew Kyle’s mum had been forced to cope as a single parent, on a mixture of benefits and the bits of maintenance she could squeeze out of Kyle’s dad, as well as the odd bit of cash-in-hand work serving at a stall in the Eagle Centre. The years of scrimping and saving had not been kind to Mrs Kennedy and she seemed old and worn out for her age, like his own mum. At least things were looking up for them moneywise. Leonard Poole, a pensioner with a big car, had been taking an interest in her for a year or so. There was a twenty-year age gap – Poole was about sixty – but he seemed to have plenty of money. ‘Daddy Warbucks.’ Jake laughed in spite of his mood. ‘Good one.’
Ten minutes later, Jake slowed to a walk
and put his hands on his hips, feeling the pleasant rush of adrenalin in his system. ‘Maybe he’s gone to a gay bar,’ he panted, his eyes narrowing. Was there even such a thing in Derby? He’d heard rumours but he’d never seen any obvious faggots in the city. Just Kyle. Still, there had to be other faggots, didn’t there? Because the secret existence of gayness dominated his and every other young male’s life on the estate. Anything not quite right was gay. Anything morally dubious was gay. Bad situations were gay. If it rained in summer it was gay. Boring lessons were gay. Even a slow computer was gay. Gay was a byword for everything that was wrong in the world.
Jake prepared to jog again as he turned down a sharp dip in the road. He stopped when he heard a noise, a shout from somewhere. He walked towards it. There was a gap in the houses and a path next to a stream cut through towards open ground where residents walked their dogs on nearby fields.
Another shout now, only louder, followed by a laugh. He reached the path and headed down through the trees into the darkness. In a patch of moonlit ground stood Kyle, his back against a large tree, held at the throat by the podgy hand of Wilson Woodrow. Three of Wilson’s mates stood around laughing, smoking and filming on their camera phones.
Kyle saw Jake before the others did, his frightened eyes blinking in relief. He couldn’t speak because Wilson’s hand was squeezing his throat. A little blood seeped from his mouth. Wilson grinned at Kyle’s terror then followed his tearful gaze of relief. He stopped grinning and let his hand fall when he saw Jake. The others turned too and mobile cameras were lowered.
‘Hi, Jake,’ said Wilson, holding up a placatory hand. ‘We were just having a little fun with your girlfriend.’ Jake stiffened. His eyes dwelled on the blood in Kyle’s mouth. ‘Oh, it’s not what you think, Jake. That was an accident.’ Wilson laughed and looked around at his amused crew. ‘I was just looking at the cut, when you arrived. To see if I could fix it.’
