by Nicky Blue
‘I ended up throwing a bucket full of piss over the buggers. It worked wonders; they never came back. I sleep like a baby now.’
When Barry got home, Molly had already gone to bed. Barry laid back on his futon, closed his eyes and was instantly dragged back into the terrifying recurring nightmare he had been having ever since his dad disappeared.
Barry was hanging from a ledge on the side of a steep cliff. However hard he tried, he couldn’t find a foothold. Crawling along the top of the ledge were samurai warriors about to swing down their swords. If Barry let go, he would fall five hundred metres onto an outcrop of rocks below, around which a furious ocean broiled and spat. Swinging from the ledge, struggling and clinging to life, he heard the voice of his father.
‘Beware the samurai ghosts, Barry. They are coming to get you!’
Barry started awake, shivering and fighting for breath. He sprang up and called out, ‘Dad, where are you?’
The words echoed into the hollow darkness, the bitter strangle of two alien worlds colliding. Barry fell back onto the bed, defeated again, realising this was just another nightmare.
* * *
2
SUSPICIOUS MINDS
Like any self-respecting gardening ninja, Barry lived by a strict, and, he would suggest, sacred code of ethics. This wasn’t a code that applied to Barry as such but rather a set of rules on how other people should conduct themselves around him. The only problem was that you weren’t aware of these codes until you fell foul of them. Barry would say they should be obvious. See what you think:
One should never besmirch the ninja philosophy.
We should only ever focus on the beauty of life.
Only speak if you can improve on the silence.
Be kind to all living beings.
Never let the enemy have your weapon.
Don’t take any shit from idiots.
A concise and consistent set of principles, I’m sure you will agree. Barry was somewhat foggy around what form of punishment any transgression should incur. Suffice to say, when Barry got angry, he was not someone you would celebrate for his forbearance.
He managed to keep a lid on his frustration most of the time. It only really spiralled out of control when he felt misunderstood, when he was being clear with people and they still didn’t get him. In its most extreme expression this could give birth to an unquenchable rage, a fury that was often accompanied by an awkward tic just above the right corner of his lip. To the uninitiated, it could appear like he was attempting an Elvis impersonation. To the initiated it was time to leave the building.
There was a recent incident at Portslade library. Barry had gone in to find a book on Japanese art. He had somehow managed to set off the alarm monitors as he entered the front door.
Stanley Tilbury, the seventy-four-year-old security guard who spent most of the day chewing gum and scratching his arse, was on his feet and in Barry’s face like a rat up a drainpipe. Stanley was wound up tighter than a celebrity facelift and simply born for moments like this. ‘Hey punk! Smuggling a book out of the library, are we?’
‘No,’ replied Barry, ‘I’m actually coming into the library to find a book. Who are you? Dirty Harry?’
‘Don’t back chat me, sunny jim, I spent thirty years in the navy! Let me look in your bag and see what you’ve half-inched,’ barked Stan. ‘You must have nicked something or why would the zinger have gone off?’
‘I’ve got no books in my bag,’ growled Barry as his lip quivered.
‘Don’t you raise your voice at me, you grubby little scroat! You are a thief!’ Stanley grabbed at Barry’s bag causing his nunchucks to come flying out and ricochet off the side of the returns counter. Stanley saw the weapon and screamed, ‘Terrorist! Call the police!’ He then ran bravely off in the direction of his office to raise the alarm.
Falling into a panic, Barry picked up his nunchucks and decided the only logical thing to do was to explain to everyone in the library what was happening.
‘Please calm down, and listen to me. What has happened here is that the security guard has accused me of stealing, grabbed my bag and my nunchucks have fallen out. It’s really nothing to worry about; the nunchucks are essentially a defensive weapon. If you had an enemy coming at you holding a sword the nunchucks can be used to trap the blade with the chain between the two sticks. Admittedly, ninjas have been known to strangle an opponent by twisting the metal chain tightly round the neck of an opponent which can actually cause a person’s eyes to pop out of their skull, but that’s a very rare occurrence. For those of you still looking a bit worried, I’m guessing you may have seen Bruce Lee’s Fist of Fury where the master beats the living shit out of a gang of nunchuck-wielding students who had pissed him off. I think I know how he feels but I want to reassure you all that a ninja would never kill anyone with nunchucks. He would probably do it with his bare hands.’
Taking a deep breath, Barry realised by looking at the sea of ashen faces that his speech didn’t seem to be helping with the tension levels all that much. A soft voice drifted from the back of the room, ‘I’m sorry to have to say this but I can’t help thinking they do look like a weapon.’
‘They are not a bloody weapon!’ howled Barry. ‘You want see a weapon? I’ll show you a weapon!’ And with that, Barry went into his bag and pulled out two mini ninja swords. ‘Now these are weapons! You could gut a mackerel in mid-air with these!’
An array of yelps and whimpers from the back of the library indicated that anxiety levels in the room were now reaching DEFCON 1 status. This seemed to barely register with Barry, however, and the more he felt he was losing his audience the more agitated and annoyed he became.
Mavis Greenrod, the head librarian, put her hand up. ‘Can I go to the toilet please?’
‘No! I’m trying to explain something to you. Sit down!’ Barry’s lip was in maximum Elvis mode as he continued. ‘This is about Stanley, isn’t it? You’re all taking his side over mine, aren’t you? Let me tell you a few home truths about Stanley. He’s just a jobs-worth who believes he has some power. Ha!’ Barry turned to project his voice towards the office, ‘Here’s a news flash, Stanley; you are just a little corporate puppet being played by some middle manager who probably doesn’t even know your name.’
Returning to his audience, Barry continued, ‘God forbid he had any real power he’d be the next Pol Pot of Portslade! He would line all of you up in the reference section and get his death squads to fill you with lead! How does that sound?’
‘Stanley’s really nice to me,’ came a timid voice from the back of the room. ‘He brings in cream buns for everyone on Fridays.’
‘Ha, yes, and Hitler banned vivisection but what does that prove?’ snapped Barry. ‘If I were God, I’d give Stanley mood-related anal incontinence. That way every time he acted like a fascist he’d shit himself.’
‘I’m going to shit myself if you don’t let me go to the toilet,’ replied Mavis.
Meanwhile, Stanley had decided, in the interests of national security, to set off the fire alarms and then made for the roof to signal for help. Barry chased after him in hot pursuit.
By the time the police arrived, Stanley had locked himself in the cleaning cupboard and Barry was reading the Human Rights Act to him through the keyhole.
This unfortunate misunderstanding caused a modicum of disquietude at the Harris residence later that evening.
‘I will never be able to step foot in that library again you dick head,’ said Molly, throwing a tea towel across the room.
‘It’s not my fault, Mum. That security guard is an idiot and Doctor Harper said I have “Perpetual Rage Syndrome”.’
‘What the hell is that when it’s at home?’
‘It’s what happens when I get angry. I get a severe anxiety reaction that releases a huge adrenaline surge making me even more angry, and before I know it, I’m in a self-propelling anxiety rage loop which I can’t get out of. It’s been happening ever since Dad left.’
‘I haven’t got a clue what you just said but you’re going back to see Doctor Harper, or I’ll show you the true fucking meaning of the word anger. Get him to give you some pills to calm you down.’
Barry took the following morning off work and arrived early for his appointment at the doctor’s. He was greeted with the customary ‘Welcome, Mr Harris. The doctor will be with you shortly.’ Barry wondered why they still spun that tired old yarn when there was always at least a sixty-minute wait.
Sitting down in the cramped and brightly lit waiting room, Barry’s irritation levels rose immediately when two small children started fighting in front of him. Why aren’t the parents controlling these brats? Barry tried to distract himself by reading the only magazine available, Celebrity Gossip, but the man opposite him was sneezing wildly in all directions.
As Barry’s heartbeat accelerated, he rubbed his muculent palms down his jeans and leant back against the wall, inhaling the stagnant air. The sole topic of conversation from the elderly woman beside him rabbiting on like a well-meaning machine gun was how painful it was having your varicose veins removed.
A category ten panic attack was about to ensue when Barry heard his salvation in the words, ‘Mr Harris, the doctor will see you now.’
Barry stepped inside the doorway and was hit with the unique and overwhelming scent that filled Doctor Harper’s consultation room. A perfumer may have placed the fragrance somewhere between bizarre e-pipe essence and acrid body odour. It was so strong an aroma it attacked the back of your throat every time you opened your mouth. This had the effect of giving every first word of your sentence a muffled resonance. It also led Doctor Harper to wrongly diagnose a large proportion of his patients with throat infections.
Doctor Harper looked up from his case files.
‘Ah, Barry, fantastic to see you! I hear you’ve been having a few troubles again.’
‘Yes, doctor,’ replied Barry sheepishly.
‘The buggers have been pressing your buttons again, haven’t they?’
‘Yes, doctor,’ Barry looked awkwardly at the floor.
‘The Fucking Bastards!’ bleated Doctor Harper as a long thread of drool made its way down the underside of his pipe. ‘Nonetheless, you really must rein it in, boy. Take control of yourself or all hell will break loose! There’s already enough madness out there! From what I read in the papers, things are getting out of control in the sexual arena. If you follow me, Barry?’
‘Sorry?’ Barry’s cheeks began to radiate.
‘Horizontal refreshment,’ barked Doctor Harper with a deranged glint in his eye. ‘They’re all at it! If only I were single again I’d be rutting like a billy goat in mating season.’ By now a small puddle of drool had collected on the desk under the drip line of Doctor Harper’s pipe. Barry wriggled uncomfortably in his chair and was about to speak when Doctor Harper, warming to his subject, began again.
‘I do hope I’m not being too personal, but I got married before the sexual revolution, you see. My wife, Mrs Harper, only lets me once a month and a man has his needs. Don’t get me wrong, Barry, I love my wife but I see these young ladies around covered in tattoos and I get the distinct impression I’m missing out. I bet you’re sticking it everywhere, aren’t you? A young buck like you.’
‘Er…’ spluttered Barry. ‘I’m single at the moment.’
‘I bet you are! Very wise. One in every port, hey? I’ve tried to get more adventurous with her, I really have, but she’s just not that way inclined. I suppose I shouldn’t complain; we did try a bit of back door fun as a treat on my birthday last year, but I fear it’s not enough. I have a deep itch, Barry, and it needs to be scratched.’
Barry was sweating like Big Daddy in a sauna. He was gripping the edge of his seat so tightly his knuckles had turned white, and a steam train of thoughts was hurtling through his head. Why is he telling me these things? What am I supposed to say?
In a bid to get the conversation on track Barry said, ‘Doctor, my mum was hoping you may be able to give me some pills to stop my angry outbursts from happening again.’
‘No, you don’t want that. I’m going to refer you to see a very good psychotherapist I know called Doctor Thomas Gilpgünter. I think he may be able to help you.’
‘Thank you Doctor. There was something else I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Barry. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing. My IBS has been really playing me up lately, I’ve been finding it really hard to stick to the diet. The thing is sometimes at work if I bend over too quickly I get a bit of….How do I put it? accidental leakage. I find it all a bit distressing really.’
‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of Barry, I can prescribe you some fitted underwear to wear for when you are moving around a lot, they have built in leakage pads you can swap over.’
‘I’m not wearing incontinence pants Doctor, you can shoot me before that happens.’
‘There’s no need to think about them like that Barry, they are merely support briefs, you only need to wear them until your diet is back under control. Are you still eating all those fish fingers? You need to cut them out.’
‘I am trying Doctor.’
‘Look, they are very discreet, no one will ever know. Let me write you a prescription.’
Barry reluctantly took the piece of paper and after another hour of detailed accounts regarding Mrs Harper’s bedroom affairs, Barry managed to abscond from the surgery. He couldn’t help wondering if the entire experience had all been some huge ruse to trick him into to therapy.
When Barry got home, Molly had some fish fingers waiting for him on the kitchen table, the best kind of sedative available. It was Sunday night too, which was movie night if they could agree on something. The choices were a Metallica documentary called Some Kind of Monster that Molly had been itching to see for months, or The Crying Game.
Barry narrowly escaped a heavy metal melt down by whipping out a bumper bag of Humbugs, a ploy that was as transparent as it was successful.
They settled down on the futon with steaming mugs of hot chocolate.
‘I didn’t see that coming!’ said Molly as the credits rolled.
‘Who would have thought she’d have a pair of bollocks! I feel a little bit sad now.’
‘It’s just a film,’ replied Barry.
‘It makes me feel like a dog who’s been promised a walk by its owner who then forgets and goes out. Or like the rabid whore of Babylon puking over the rotting corpse of human civilization.’
‘I think I need to go to bed now, Mum.’
‘Yes, alright dear.’ Said Molly picking herself up. ‘Sleep well.’
***
3
LITTLE TIMMY AND MISS MIGGLES
Life as a gardener is quite random. Apart from your regular clients you never quite know when or where your next job is coming from. When an inquiry came in from one of the richer postcodes of Brighton, Barry often had mixed feelings. He could charge thirty to forty percent more than his usual rate. Paradoxically however, gardening for rich people generally made him feel like a peasant worker.
It was a sunny Friday morning in July when Barry turned up to a new job in Hove. Hove is a small seaside town on the south coast of England where people move to if they have too much money to live in the neighbouring city of Brighton. The first thing Barry noticed about the house was a crucifix welded onto the large wrought iron front gates. Below the crucifix was a plaque inscribed with the legend: If God brought you to it He will bring you through it.
Barry whispered to himself as he opened the gate, ‘good luck, mate.’
He was greeted by the lady of the house, Mrs Gann, and her very well dressed son Little Timmy.
‘Good morning!’ said Mrs Gann. ‘I’m very pleased to see you are punctual! I like that in a man. Say hello, Timmy.’
‘Hello, sir. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘What a polite young man,’ replied Barry. ‘You don’t often get much respect for your elders these days!’
&n
bsp; ‘We take great pride in good manners in this house, don’t we, Little Timmy?’
‘Yes, Mummy, good manners don’t cost anything. Would you like to meet my cat Miss Miggles when she wakes up from her morning nap, sir?’
‘That would be very nice, thank you.’ Barry put down his tool bag.
Mrs Gann collected rare sea sponges for a hobby, no one in the family knew why. Little Timmy suspected it may have had something to do with his mother’s debilitating piles but this was not a topic of conversation one could have in polite society. Mrs Gann had been trying to heal her haemorrhoids with raw food smoothies which seemed to be helping but she was under quite a bit of stress. Truth be told, she found it very difficult looking after Little Timmy alone although she would never have admitted that.
The reason for her lack of support was that her husband Mr Charles Gann lived in the attic in a dress. Four years earlier, Charles had come home from his job as the CEO of a large corporation and declared over dinner that he wanted a sex change. Mrs Gann understandably almost spat her teeth out. Keeping up the facade of respectability, no matter what, was of vital importance to her, and so a compromise was found. Charles would be allowed to have his sex change as long as he moved up into the attic and promised to never leave the house in daylight hours. Charles promptly changed his name to Melanie and disappeared up into the loft hatch. From that moment on, he was forced into leading the life of a transsexual vampire, sleeping on an old camping bed in the attic. Segregated from his family and work colleagues, his only crumbs of social contact were in the late night seedy drag bars he frequented. He lived on microwave meals and endless reruns of Breaking Bad at four a.m. He had never been happier.
Mrs Gann taught Christian Mindfulness classes for a living, which she strongly believed was a panacea for all the world’s ills. Barry had only ever heard of Mindfulness in relation to Buddhism and the martial arts. This led him to the perfectly reasonable question, ‘What’s the difference between Christian and Buddhist Mindfulness?’
