by J. S. Brent
She denied images of the Rose but could not. She tried again and failed once more. She tried something else. She released the Rose’s soul and sent him to the heavens like a drove of doves released from the grasp of this world.
“I want to stay with him alone, Paulo. Go on, take my daughter with you somewhere else. Come back later. I need time to be with your son.”
Paulo led Pearl out the door and brought her to the cafeteria for some sweets.
***
Dyanela sat beside Emil. She watched him breathe, every breath a curse on his soul by the deaths of thousand souls who have suffered under Paulo’s hand; the assasinations, the back dealings in governments, the fields of coca unfurling like a tide of unseen winds, the black power.
Breathe Emil, breathe.
Emil shook.
The boy shook and sputtered blood from his lips. The monitor began to sound an alarm, so electric, its waves of indications came to life and spiked. Dyanela remained seated on the chair before him.
Breathe. Bring me back the lives of people who perish in the streets from the hand of your father. Give us life, Emil. Breathe and live.
The waves continued to spike and go haywire on the monitor.
Emil stopped sputtering blood but continued to shake. He breathed a low, deep groan so alien for a boy his age. What is he? Fifteen? Parties? Inside Dyanela’s inner eye she saw images of lines of coke so early in life, cars, gold jewelries, girls in their underwear dancing for him. The genius of the Rose fell like icebergs of crystals beneath the cruel wrath of a hostile sun.
Breathe Emil. Give us back our lives.
Nurses flooded the room and soon doctors who checked his heartbeat with their stethoscopes. They removed his mask lest he drown in the blood he emitted from his mouth.
Dyanela stood at a corner and watched them.
Mama, he finally spoke and the doctors clapped their hands. The nurses breathed sighs of relief. He had been dismissed a hopeless case, on life support forever or to be let go, so young and full of life.
Later, Emil would tell his mama about a beautiful woman who visited his dreams. He was swimming in a calm, blue pool. He started to swallow water and was drowning. He was dying and was terrified yet fascinated at the ebbing of his life. This beautiful woman plunged into the pool beside him and yanked him out of the pool, so strong, sudden and almost violent.
He had wanted to die, before his innocence left him and find the secrets of his father, their family, the lines of cars, the beauty queens, the strings of gold necklaces, the lines of crystalline coke he snorted to know something he could never be told about.
He woke up and saw her, past the white coated doctors and nurses. She stood very still by a corner watching him with a face devoid of emotion. Unless he was wrong, for he could never tell how people felt. They were always hiding something from him. All he had to do was to live, party and never question why.
A girl rejected him, a stupid daughter of their rancher who would not receive his advances. He loved her because she did not want him back. That was the only secret revealed to him. The girl knew him, he was a monster. Why? Dear God, why was he a monster?
Mama.
***
Dyanela and Cortes were married in the old crumbling church in Guadalajara where the Rose had prayed piously beside her.
Paulo brought his family during the ceremony.
During the ceremony they could smell the fires of coca burning behind the fields of
produce. The smell of coca dying , razing about them overpowered the scent of incense and roses.
It was an age of transition and life would move on.
***
David Emerson walked among the stones surrounding the waterfall. He held on to the memory of Dyanela’s kiss and the possibility of love when she responded back to his second kiss.
He had a photograph of her in his file and kept it.
He still wanted her.
He would travel the world for the moment and come back to find her. That kiss was not innocent. It was a seed of possibility and he would find a way to take her away from Cortes.
A Time Before Time
BOOK ONE
Busker
by
J. S. Brent
CHAPTER ONE
I strummed my guitar. There was a simplicity to it. The lights around me were dull. I was relaxed. I was trying to pick out a familiar face in the audience. It wasn’t hard, term had ended and most people had gone home. This was only a college open-mic session. I had been put on last, I knew the person who ran them and I guessed that she trusted me. There was a dull murmur amongst the audience but it did not distract me. I was only entertainment, I wasn’t supposed to stop everyone from drinking and talking to stop and look. I was in the background, where I felt like I belonged.
My surroundings were familiar which helped my nerves. It was the college bar, the Stag’s Head. It had been voted the best bar out of all the colleges, as shown by the dirt-cheap prices. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to the inside world, complete with expensive drinks and shattered memories and so I played harder and sang tougher.
I always feared that I had not been through enough to put all of my emotions and fears and memories into my performing. It seemed to be working, though. The murmur was lessening and people’s conversations were flowing inwards and outwards like the steady tide, as if they were distracted by the notes emanating from the equipment that ran from the stage like veins.
The bar had a wooden aesthetic. It felt like a hunting lodge. It was the kind of place that, when I travelled, I hoped to accidentally find. Maybe there would be a strange man at a front desk, ushering me into a Pacific North-western hotel where I could retire to my room and write my music. Maybe it would only be the illusion of a time gone by, undercut with state of the art electricity and a high speed Wi-Fi connection.
My college were obsessed with stags. It was our insignia and we were proud of it and everything it represented. There was a statue of a stag that proudly stared from its post to the lobby, where porters were either waiting to welcome you home or ask you what you were doing there. Its left antler was broken and so they had completely removed it, and with it, it had lost some of its peaceful dignity. Part of me felt like I was that stag, silently watching as everyone came and went, just an observer who’d once lost his dignity.
A fake hunting trophy of a stag’s head hung above the bar, its empty beaded eyes staring at me as I performed. I stared back briefly, before breaking from its gaze and returning to the faces I was originally performing to.
I was performing my own music. I preferred it this way. This way I could go wrong and nobody would know and I could write it to suit my voice. I wasn’t very confident in my ability to sing but nobody ever is. Not until they get swept into an alternate dimension of millions screaming for them and only them because of their fingertips and their voice, anyway.
The last cadence rang through the room, reaching person after person, before being broken by a light applause. I smiled and switched off my guitar and unplugged it. I didn’t want the room to be filled with the hideous buzzing of feedback. I wanted to at least look professional.
‘Thanks, as ever you’ve been great.’ I said, staring out to the sparse sea of familiar faces. Even now, at the end of my second term, I saw new faces every day, but, as always, there were always a few that you couldn’t avoid. For the most case I was glad of this.
As I was leaving the stage the person running the event walked on behind me.
‘That was Tom Ellis, which, I’m sure you all already know.’ There was a second applause as my tunnel vision broadened to take in more of the bar around me. It was as if I was seeing the world around me for the first time. As if some veil had been lifted.
After putting my guitar back in my case and my pick in my pocket, I made my way straight to the bar. ‘What a note to end on.’ She paused. ‘Pun intended.’ Light laughter. ‘Anyway, the bar will be serving for another half an
hour, I’m sure Tom needs a drink after that.’ I sighed as I stopped next to the two friends that were supporting me: Flora and Effy. They were two of the only ones that hadn’t gone home yet out of my closest friends. ‘Let’s give one last round of applause for all of our talented musicians tonight.’ I joined in this time. It had been a night brimming with talent. Mostly. ‘Thank you. I’ll post it on the fresher’s page when the next open-mic is.’ She said, leaving the stage.
‘You did good.’ Flora said. A compliment from Flora was few and far between.
‘Yeah.’ Effy half-agreed. Nobody had ever been complimented by Effy.
‘I didn’t know you could actually sing. You’re shit whenever we do it.’ Flora said.
‘Well, you can sing in tune.’ Effy said.
‘As ever I appreciate your honesty.’ I said to Effy, turning towards the bar.
I knew the bar-staff. The person who ran it deserved a multitude of medals for her work. The bar was polished wood and the drinks stood proud behind the bar on shelves and in the fridges. On a chalkboard next to the bar the college drink had been scribbled on in red chalk, the stagger. One of the bar-maids made her way to me.
‘You sang.’ She said, smiling.
‘Yeah, I thought I’d do it a bit more than just classical covers, this time.’ I had a reason for teaching myself to sing but I didn’t want to go too deeply into it.
‘What d’you want?’ She leant over the bar towards me.
‘Pint of… Surprise me?’ I had grown into a routine of the same drinks at the bar and the same drinks on a night out. I wanted to shake things up before I was forced to make my way back to my house.
‘One ‘surprise me’, coming up.’ She said, turning away to do her job.
‘So when did you say you were going back?’ I turned back to my friends.
‘I’m staying as long as possible.’ Effy said. ‘There was another attack in Turkey.’
‘It’s a good excuse to stay, though.’ Flora said, smiling. ‘Tomorrow.’ She said to me.
‘Yeah, same.’ I said, looking at my hands.
‘I’m going for a fag.’ Effy said, walking out. ‘Want to join?’ She asked, turning back.
‘I’ll join you in a sec.’ Flora said after her. ‘You coming?’ She asked me.
‘No I’m being good.’
‘I saw you smoking before your set.’
‘I was calming the nerves and making my voice husky.’ I said flatly.
‘Ok.’ Flora seemed to think about moving, before pausing and turning back to me. ‘Are you ok, Tom?’
‘Fine.’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’ I forced a smile. Flora wasn’t convinced. ‘Just tired.’
‘Ok.’ Flora said to herself. She changed her tone. ‘Well if I don’t see you tomorrow…’
‘I’ll miss you.’ I said, trying not to reveal how much I would really miss everyone at university.
‘You too.’ We hugged as she stepped outside. They would probably go up through the other entrance after their cigarettes and not see me for the rest of the night.
‘Your drink, sir.’ A soft voice came from behind. I span around, reaching for my wallet. ‘No, don’t worry, it’s on me.’ She smiled and spun away, serving her next customer.
I sipped the cold drink before me. Its soft poison went down perfectly. My mouth was dry and my head pounding. It was just what I needed. I allowed myself a temporary moment of pride, before supressing it to make sure I didn’t get complacent. I still had a long way to go.
The organiser walked towards me.
‘Double vodka lemonade, please.’ She said to one of the bar staff. They nodded and set to work on their imperfect mix. She looked at me. ‘I’m done for the night. I can drink, now.’
‘Oh, I see.’ I said, taking another sip from my drink. I still had no idea what beer I was drinking, but I would have to have it again sometime.
‘You were good. Are you doing the open-mic competition?’ She asked, turning towards me. My body remained facing outwards to the emptying space.
‘What’s that?’
‘They have it every year. You should enter, I’ll message you.’
‘Ok, maybe.’ I smiled, finishing my drink. ‘Thank you.’
‘No worries.’
I said goodbye and made my way through the crowd, sustaining a few brief conversations with the faces I recognised.
After that I grabbed my guitar and headed back to my room.
My room was silent. I felt like I could still hear the music or the low murmur of conversations or laughter. I was tired and I had a busy day ahead of me after I slept. I put my guitar against my messy desk, the weight of it lifting immediately from my hand. I did most of my work sitting in bed, there were too many empty bottles on the desk to move easily or quickly and so I had to make do. I didn’t mind. It was my room, my little space where I was in control of what I put up on the walls and what happened inside. Well, most of the time, anyway.
This was my sanctuary. Here it was ok to write essays. Here it was ok to be hungover. Here it was ok to do nothing all day. Outside this room there was pressure. Pressure to be funny or outgoing or interesting. In here, though, I could just be myself, I could just be alone. I had almost grown to like myself and so I didn’t need anybody else that I could be the person I am when I’m alone around. All it would take was to stop smoking and to drink less and to work more and then I might have been able to live better with the person I was. Maybe not. Maybe it was my flaws that made me who I was.
I reached into my jacket pocket and drew out my cigarettes. One more before bed.
I was an anti-social smoker. I had stopped doing it on nights out because it had caused every lonely night in recent memory. I preferred to be by myself when I smoked, taking in the sights and listening to my music, especially at night when all the stars were out.
I drew the covers over the bed so that it would look better when I returned to sleep there one last time for a while. I knew there was no point brushing my teeth, yet. That would be like playing football after a shower. I would have my solitary cigarette first, then I would clean my teeth, then I would sleep.
My door was probably the most broken in college. The lock didn’t work. There had been times where this had been a blessing and times where it had been a curse. It heavily creaked open as I stepped into the familiar corridor. I checked myself in the hall’s mirror before I left. I needed a shave and my eyes were bloodshot. I shook my head. At least I looked good in my long coat. It made me look taller. I switched on my music.
The barmaid crossed me on the stairs as I made my way down. We smiled at each other without exchanging a word.
I propped the fire escape open with the stick. We used to use a block, but the porters had hidden it. There’s nothing more inventive than a student that needs a cigarette and an easy way back inside. It worked perfectly.
Outside was beautiful but the stars were hidden behind a thick layer of cloud. It was cold but I didn’t feel it. I walked up to the bench I always smoked at. Hundreds of windows looked down on me as I looked back up to them. Most of the lights were off and most of the curtains drawn. People were either sleeping or enjoying warm, unbroken showers and home cooked food.
I waited until I found the right song before I lit up my cigarette.
Night-time was my favourite time to smoke. The smoke lay heavy on the thick wind as it emanated from my lips. It didn’t dissipate but flowed away from me softly. This was the only time where smoking didn’t feel so poisonous. It was the only time I could look between my fingers and not see a deadly serpent spitting out ashen venom. At this time of night I looked down and saw a painkiller, or a sleeping pill, or something, as if it was leading me back to my bed by candle-light.
I was going to temporarily quit when I went back home. I told myself it would be easier. I’m pretty sure my parents knew. They knew about the tattoo and about the piercings and about the amount of alcohol and scarcity of food that I was consuming. They always seemed to
have a way of knowing. This holiday, though, this time I could throw them off the scent by keeping my room smoke-free.
I thought of home. I tried to look forward to it.
There were definitely things to look forward to, but I knew that no matter how perfect it was I would still miss that broken door and that shower that didn’t caress with water but singed. I preferred to be able to experience the imperfection than just sense it. You know where you stand with a broken shower, but if it still works some of the time then what’s the point of trying to fix it?
My cigarette burned out between my fingers. I threw it amongst the butts that littered the grass and isolated trees around me. They weren’t all mine, just most of them. I’d been told that birds used them in their nests and people doing community service cleared them up regularly. I only did it because everyone else did.
I waited until the end of the song before making my way back to my room. I didn’t see anyone on the way back up, only my reflection in the mirror.
Sleep did not find me and so I found refuge on my laptop. I did not sleep until two in the morning.
CHAPTER TWO
A knock on the door woke me up. I already knew who it was.
Sure enough, when I opened the door, still in my pyjamas (the shirt from last night and a pair of pyjama bottoms clumsily thrown on), there stood Jimmy. Jimmy was my best friend at the time. He had three passports, four nationalities, and five names. His family were richer than God. None of us knew this when we first met him because he never intentionally showed off about it. I found out when he spent £140 on me for my birthday. I had bought him one drink for his.
