There was once a man (Leonard could not remember if he had known this man personally or it was a tale an old friend had told him years ago) who had read every play by William Shakespeare, bar one- ‘As You Like It’. The reason for this was thus- the man held Shakespeare in such high regard and loved his plays he wanted ‘As You Like It’ to be the last thing he read before he died. Leonard had thought it would have been amusing if that the man had been hit by a car or shot because he’d go into the afterlife knowing he had missed one play out. Leonard had no patience for waiting till his deathbed to read something, so he had read Tolstoy’s ‘Anna Karenina’ practically once or twice a year. As he sat in his North London flat he read- it truly would be the last book before he died, he knew that for certain. He just wanted to read it one more time before he took his life.
Leonard first picked up ‘Anna Karenina’ while he studied at Cambridge in the late 20’s; he had forgotten the years that he had attended, it felt like centuries ago in a very different planet. He knew it was before MI5 had approached him that was for certain. A particularly favourite tutor of his had recommended that he read it, and following his mentor’s advice he did. Upon first reading he had absorbed Tolstoy’s evocative prose loving each and every sentence contained within. Leonard praised the book as ‘the perfect novel’ to all friends and family he came in contact with over the next year. Even when he was stationed in France during the war he had purchased a French translation to read and read it he did.
Languages were something of a speciality to Leonard- his Mother had been French and had taught him the tongue from an early age. In school he had developed a taste for German; so it was not a difficult choice for Leonard when asked what he wanted to study at Cambridge. It was his excellence in languages that made MI5 approach him to work for them, and because Leonard had not given much thought to life after Cambridge he gratefully accepted.
The MI5 were very encouraging and Leonard felt quite contented working for and with them. His language skills were thought of very highly, and one high ranking member told Leonard that he would make ‘the best spy I’ve seen in all my years’, this compliment was one Leonard had never forgotten. Even in his forced retirement, he would take himself back to that moment.
Within a few years with MI5 the shadow of war was beginning to loom large over the world. As soon as war was announced Leonard requested that he was stationed in France as his French was fluent and he could pass himself off as a born Frenchman with little difficultly. Leonard was also concerned about the family that still were living France from his Mother’s side. Even though Leonard saw himself as nothing less than British, he felt a certain attachment to the land that bore his Mother’s family. The officials declined his requested and he was sent straight into Germany. He served only three missions in Germany, with only one being successful- the failure of the other two Leonard put down to the inadequacy of others. But once France was invaded and occupied Leonard begged his superior to be transferred to France and this time his requested was granted. Leonard was flown into France, taking nothing of his former self with him. Leonard Carter was left in Britain, he was now Jean-Luc Beineix. Upon getting himself a job working in the dock, he used his money to buy a copy of ‘Anna Karenina’- a French version. He had considered learning Russian to read it in its original language, but whilst been stationed in France he thought it not the wisest idea he’d even had.
‘Anna Karenina’ had been a common denominator all his life- no matter what age or era Tolstoy’s novel would be along with Leonard. As his Cambridge friends grew older began to find women to settle down with, Leonard felt a strange sadness settle upon him. He knew what kind of woman he would like to marry, but he had yet to find her. It was to be a woman very much like Kitty. Leonard had fallen in love with Kitty upon the first reading of ‘Anna Karenina’ and she became the bar he judged other women and girls by. For a large part of his life he had not found another like her- lively, full of laughter and grace, devoted and loving to her husband. That was what Leonard wished for in a wife.
There was a time in France he thought he had found a woman close to Kitty. Eloise (‘Or was it Estelle?’ Leonard mused, ‘It began with an ‘E’ I remember that much) had been working for the résistance as had Leonard, but barely three months into their relationship she had been caught by the Germans and executed after days of torture. The officials wanted to bring Leonard back to Britain, but Leonard had insisted he wished to carry on his duty in France. He knew the girl would have told the Germans nothing, and he had been right.
After the war he was happy to have been stationed in Berlin after a brief return to England. He felt happier out in the field doing something. Over the years in Berlin he had done much to aid the government- he had broken many circles and stings by the KGB and had trained several pupils and protégées, though he had heard nothing from any of them since his ‘retirement’ 6 years ago.
His ‘retirement’ was brought about by a woman by the name of Lillian. She had been a nightclub singer and sometimes prostitute whose company Leonard had paid for whilst in Berlin. He had been with her for a large section of the 50’s. Despite knowing she saw other men Leonard felt quite attached to her, despite the large age gap between them. Leonard knew she was not beautiful, but she was certainly an attractive young thing, with blonde always in a fashionable way. He liked talking to her. He often told her about his life, his Cambridge years, his parents who passed away, his role in the war years, and because she spoke only broken English he would reveal more intimate details of his life to her, believing she did not understand him. It was in 1957 when he was taken aside by a colleague and discreetly told that information had been leaked to the KGB about British spies resulting in several names of British spies been sold for high prices- and the name ‘Leonard Carter’ had been one of them. The colleague put a hand on Leonard’s shoulder and offered condolence, but his cover had been blown and he was no longer welcome in Berlin. “Sorry old chap,” the colleague had said rather unsympathetically, “That’s how it goes I’m afraid.” Leonard had never liked the man anyway, Leonard thought him far too young to be working such a high priority position.
Leonard had only even told one person in Berlin his real name- and that had been Lillian. She had sold his name to the Germans as if that’s all he was to her- a collection of letters.
He managed to stay in Berlin for an extra week much to the upset of his superiors. He had wanted to find Lillian, ask why she had down what she had down. He had waited outside her apartment building, watching her bring a new man in every night, even two some nights. He never spoke to her and she never knew he was there. She appeared in dreams sometimes, normally laughing at him. Once he dreamt he was chasing her laughter through a hall of mirrors, only for him to be chased around by a clown. It was only when he reached a dead end he realized the clown was just his reflection.
His superiors had convinced him that his retirement was a well-deserved one, although a little early. Leonard began to believe it too after a while. He settled into a small house in London. He had great plans for his garden, but after several months back trouble prevented him from doing too much bending up and down so his plans for the garden were crushed. He lived in that house for only a year or two more, watching the garden get overgrown.
He tired to find his old Cambridge pals, but many had died in the war or could no longer remember him. All the friends he had in MI5 were forced to keep their distant- if the enemy knew Leonard was a spy they want to know who he mixed with in case his old friends were also spies. Leonard was aware a young chap tailed him for a while. It became quite a game for Leonard to see if he could still outwit a young man at his own game. Soon the tail grew bored by it and left Leonard alone.
Despite large funds of money, Leonard elected to move into a more modest accommodation. A little apartment, like the one Lillian had owned, was what he was after. He eventually found one in the north of London and settled down there. He had tired to buy himself some company one early night, but had been laughed at for being ‘a dirty old man’ by the women he had though provided that service. Leonard was not disheartened though- he wanted company for old times sake, he didn’t think his back was up to it these days.
In was in 1963 that with no friends, no job nor family Leonard did not want to carry on suffering of isolation from the rest of the world. He no longer recognized music on the radio- it was all guitars now and raving about these ‘Beetles’ (whom Leonard was surprised to discover were a group of young men, not women). He had decided enough was enough and that he did not want to spend the rest of his years wasting them. So he took out his shoelaces to form a noose as he had been taught by the MI5 in case of capture and it was likely British secrets were to be revealed. He was about to stick his head though when he looked across at his book shelf- ‘Anna Karenina’ seemed to look at him. He removed the makeshift noose and picked the worn copy up. It had been with him many years now, there was a brandy stain on page 54, and page 203 had been torn a little. He poured himself a brandy, pulled up his armchair, sat down and began to read…
Friday 29 August 2008
Monday 18 August 2008
'The Watchmaker'
No man can create time, he can only create instruments to track it, and to be able to create something complex enough to track time was a gift, a gift the watchmaker was proud to possess. Taking apart an aged clock, gently lifting the face to reveal the intricacies within never failed to amaze the watchmaker- that man could create something so pure and as perfect as a keeper of time.
In the workshop of his Father’s shop, the watchmaker would sit surrounded by keepers of time, each second hand of each and every clock and watch moving in exact synchronisation creating a small hum of cogs turning. The watchmaker smiled- it was so perfect and pristine.
The clock before him was running half a second slow. It had been out in the main area of his Father’s shop for sale, but the watchmaker could not let the clock be sold when it did not run at exact time- that would be cheating the customer, and that would be wrong. It was 8 seconds past midday and his Father had left the shop to purchase sandwiches for their precisely 20 minute lunch break. They would then start work again, and then take a tea break at 3:15. They would resume work at 3:30 then at 5:00 close the shop for the night and be home for 5:47. The watchmaker and his Father ran their lives by the ticking of their clocks.
As the watchmaker made the second hand move forward he caught something- something that was not meant to be in a clock. He set the clock down and picked a pair of tweezers and leaned over the clock and extracted the alien object. The watchmaker was confused; he turned around to hold the object up to the lamp.
It was a hair. A long, very fine strand of golden hair.
The watchmaker looked at it in confusion- he himself had not blonde in his hair and his Father’s hair had been grey for many years now. How had this golden hair got caught in a clock that the watchmaker himself had built over a year ago?
He delicately lifted the hair from the tweezers and placed it in the palm of his pale hand. It just lay there. Perhaps, the watchmaker wondered, that it had belonged to a customer with an interest in the clock, but had not purchased it. Or perhaps this customer, possibly female, had lifted the clock up to hear the ticking (the watchmaker himself had the habit of listening to the rhythm of a clock) and a stray hair had been caught inside the mechanics of it. The watchmaker wondered then if this woman had noticed the clock was half a second out then perhaps she decided not to purchase it.
The watchmaker was about to dispose of the hair when an image rose in his mind- the owner of the hair, a woman, with blonde hair perfectly styled and with sparkling blue eyes. The watchmaker liked this image, especially when he coupled it with the idea that this woman had showed an interest in clocks, much an interest the watchmaker shared. He did not realize he was smiling.
The watchmaker sat at his bench, but his mind had long flown away from the shop to this owner of the golden strand of hair. He wondered that if this woman had not been too offended by the clock that was half a second slow that she may indeed return to his Father’s shop to inspect the clocks and watches once again. Then perhaps she would notice the watchmaker sitting in the light of his workshop, composing another clock, then she may approach the watchmaker- a conversation would begin. About clocks? Most likely. He would say something deep and interesting about the nature of man been able to keep time, and she would be wowed be his poetic philosophical nature. They would speak of their past- the woman would tell the watchmaker of a bad past relationship she had barely escaped from, and (up until this point) believed she would never love again. The watchmaker would be flattered and casually ask her if she would accompany him to dinner this Friday. She would smile and say ‘of course’. No, the watchmaker had a better idea- she would say ‘No, I’m sorry’, then watchmaker would be dejected but then she would say: ‘I should have made myself clear, I’m busy Friday but free Saturday instead’? The watchmaker smiled.
Each day for the following weeks, the watchmaker moved his chair a little closer to the door that connected him to the shop, in the hope his daydream woman would enter. Each time the little bell above the door tinkled the watchmaker jumped up and looked into the shop to see with disappointment that it was not who he was looking for.
His hands became shaky. He felt like nerves and excitement were fighting it out in the pit of his stomach. His watch making was become increasingly sloppy. His Father had to HAVE WORDS with him, something that had not happened in many years. The watchmaker kept his head bowed so not to reveal the deep shame on his face- as his Father said watch making was an absolute gift that was given to very few, and to produce substandard pieces of work was to cheat the customer. “Do you want to cheat the customer?” His voice boomed.
“No, Father.” Came the quiet response. The watchmaker wanted to tell his Father that he struggled to work to his normal standard because he was in love. Yes, he admitted he was in love. He could not admit to the Father that he had finally found love- he would not understand.
The watchmaker had kept the strand of fine gold hair wrapped in a handkerchief which he kept in his shirts drawer at home. Late at night he would often take it out and caress the hair and continue his dream of life with it’s owner. By now they were to be married, at first Father had not consented by once he saw that the young couple were truly in love he caved in, much to their delight and they celebrated with a bottle of red wine.
Vienna or Switzerland? The watchmaker pondered on a rainy Tuesday. Which would be the preferred honeymoon destination? They would have to bring Father along too, if he could bear to shut the shop. Then again, the watchmaker thought it be better if they just stayed in Britain. He’d never flown before and after all he’d heard about plane crashes and such and such it might not be such a good idea. An early death was not one he had planned, but he was trying not too think of that- he wanted to go through their life in a logical order.
It was on a Friday, when Father had left to purchase sandwiches for lunch that the watchmaker had been left in charge of the shop. There was the tinkling of the bell, and the watchmaker felt his heat stop for a moment and he knew it was her.
She was about 10 years older than he thought. And perhaps she had more weight on her than he had thought, and her eyes were green, not blue, but still- it was her. She came to the counter and told the watchmaker than she had come to collect her clock she’d sent in for repairs. The watchmaker took the repairs slip from her and found her clock, and gently handed it over to her. She thanked him and left.
The watchmaker sighed. He had forgotten to ask her name.
In the workshop of his Father’s shop, the watchmaker would sit surrounded by keepers of time, each second hand of each and every clock and watch moving in exact synchronisation creating a small hum of cogs turning. The watchmaker smiled- it was so perfect and pristine.
The clock before him was running half a second slow. It had been out in the main area of his Father’s shop for sale, but the watchmaker could not let the clock be sold when it did not run at exact time- that would be cheating the customer, and that would be wrong. It was 8 seconds past midday and his Father had left the shop to purchase sandwiches for their precisely 20 minute lunch break. They would then start work again, and then take a tea break at 3:15. They would resume work at 3:30 then at 5:00 close the shop for the night and be home for 5:47. The watchmaker and his Father ran their lives by the ticking of their clocks.
As the watchmaker made the second hand move forward he caught something- something that was not meant to be in a clock. He set the clock down and picked a pair of tweezers and leaned over the clock and extracted the alien object. The watchmaker was confused; he turned around to hold the object up to the lamp.
It was a hair. A long, very fine strand of golden hair.
The watchmaker looked at it in confusion- he himself had not blonde in his hair and his Father’s hair had been grey for many years now. How had this golden hair got caught in a clock that the watchmaker himself had built over a year ago?
He delicately lifted the hair from the tweezers and placed it in the palm of his pale hand. It just lay there. Perhaps, the watchmaker wondered, that it had belonged to a customer with an interest in the clock, but had not purchased it. Or perhaps this customer, possibly female, had lifted the clock up to hear the ticking (the watchmaker himself had the habit of listening to the rhythm of a clock) and a stray hair had been caught inside the mechanics of it. The watchmaker wondered then if this woman had noticed the clock was half a second out then perhaps she decided not to purchase it.
The watchmaker was about to dispose of the hair when an image rose in his mind- the owner of the hair, a woman, with blonde hair perfectly styled and with sparkling blue eyes. The watchmaker liked this image, especially when he coupled it with the idea that this woman had showed an interest in clocks, much an interest the watchmaker shared. He did not realize he was smiling.
The watchmaker sat at his bench, but his mind had long flown away from the shop to this owner of the golden strand of hair. He wondered that if this woman had not been too offended by the clock that was half a second slow that she may indeed return to his Father’s shop to inspect the clocks and watches once again. Then perhaps she would notice the watchmaker sitting in the light of his workshop, composing another clock, then she may approach the watchmaker- a conversation would begin. About clocks? Most likely. He would say something deep and interesting about the nature of man been able to keep time, and she would be wowed be his poetic philosophical nature. They would speak of their past- the woman would tell the watchmaker of a bad past relationship she had barely escaped from, and (up until this point) believed she would never love again. The watchmaker would be flattered and casually ask her if she would accompany him to dinner this Friday. She would smile and say ‘of course’. No, the watchmaker had a better idea- she would say ‘No, I’m sorry’, then watchmaker would be dejected but then she would say: ‘I should have made myself clear, I’m busy Friday but free Saturday instead’? The watchmaker smiled.
Each day for the following weeks, the watchmaker moved his chair a little closer to the door that connected him to the shop, in the hope his daydream woman would enter. Each time the little bell above the door tinkled the watchmaker jumped up and looked into the shop to see with disappointment that it was not who he was looking for.
His hands became shaky. He felt like nerves and excitement were fighting it out in the pit of his stomach. His watch making was become increasingly sloppy. His Father had to HAVE WORDS with him, something that had not happened in many years. The watchmaker kept his head bowed so not to reveal the deep shame on his face- as his Father said watch making was an absolute gift that was given to very few, and to produce substandard pieces of work was to cheat the customer. “Do you want to cheat the customer?” His voice boomed.
“No, Father.” Came the quiet response. The watchmaker wanted to tell his Father that he struggled to work to his normal standard because he was in love. Yes, he admitted he was in love. He could not admit to the Father that he had finally found love- he would not understand.
The watchmaker had kept the strand of fine gold hair wrapped in a handkerchief which he kept in his shirts drawer at home. Late at night he would often take it out and caress the hair and continue his dream of life with it’s owner. By now they were to be married, at first Father had not consented by once he saw that the young couple were truly in love he caved in, much to their delight and they celebrated with a bottle of red wine.
Vienna or Switzerland? The watchmaker pondered on a rainy Tuesday. Which would be the preferred honeymoon destination? They would have to bring Father along too, if he could bear to shut the shop. Then again, the watchmaker thought it be better if they just stayed in Britain. He’d never flown before and after all he’d heard about plane crashes and such and such it might not be such a good idea. An early death was not one he had planned, but he was trying not too think of that- he wanted to go through their life in a logical order.
It was on a Friday, when Father had left to purchase sandwiches for lunch that the watchmaker had been left in charge of the shop. There was the tinkling of the bell, and the watchmaker felt his heat stop for a moment and he knew it was her.
She was about 10 years older than he thought. And perhaps she had more weight on her than he had thought, and her eyes were green, not blue, but still- it was her. She came to the counter and told the watchmaker than she had come to collect her clock she’d sent in for repairs. The watchmaker took the repairs slip from her and found her clock, and gently handed it over to her. She thanked him and left.
The watchmaker sighed. He had forgotten to ask her name.
'Out Of Time'
“You wanna talk?” She said as I began to put my undergarments back on. “Some guys they wanna talk.” She carried on, “They wanna talk and tell you ‘bout their lives and all their problems and about their wives giving them trouble.” I slipped my trousers on as she spoke, “Then some guys just want to do their business and be gone.” She paused, bite her lip and asked- “Are you the talking type, mister?”
“Nup.” I replied and lit a cigar.
“Oh God, open the window, mister. I can’t stand the smell of those things.” She order me, and after a pause I did as told. It was still light outside and I could see my horse tied up down stairs. It’d be about 15 minutes before Jack and company arrived. It wouldn’t take them too much trouble to find me. The town was pretty much without face or character, just waiting for the wind of the civil war to blow through and tear it apart.
She stayed within the sheets of the bed, just watching me. Her crimson hair tumbled prettily around her pale shoulders. The girl hadn’t been cheap, but I figured that if it going to be my woman before I die it might as well be a good one. I can’t remember if she said her name was Lily or Rosemary, but I might have got her confused with another one of the girls in the building. The madam told me that she was 21, but I think she was only 17. It didn’t matter. I’d enjoyed it.
“Mister?” She asked, “You want me to go?”
I shrugged.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
“Nup.” I picked up my gun holster and slipped it on. I wasn’t planning on using it when Jack and company found me. They’ll be expecting me to surprise them and surprise them I will- by not fighting back.
“I hate those things.” She announced, “Guns, not the holsters that is. My pappy got himself killed with one. He was working on the farm and then men came all in black and ridin’ on black horses and- blam.” She sighed, “And that was the end of Pa.” I nodded. Probably hired killers. I done one or two jobs like that myself in the past. Never liked killing farmers. They always had families. When I killed Fred I did not feel bad- he had deserved it. The one time I don’t feel guilty is the time it comes back to haunt me.
“You ever killed a man, mister?” She asked.
“Noah.”
“What?”
“My name aint ‘Mister’. It’s Noah.”
She opened her mouth and let out a long ‘Oh’. Then her eyebrows narrowed and she said, “Like the Bible guy?”
“Yeah. Just like the Bible guy.”
“I used to go to church. I liked all the singing.” She frowned, “They don’t let me in church anymore, not since Mrs. De Winter took me in after Mama died. She died about a year after Pa. My brother, Billy went off to join the army, then my sister Fran got married to a nice man.” She paused, “She died too. So did that baby of hers. She never got to see it. I think… Mister Noah, that I might be cursed when it comes to family. They all seem to die. You got any family?”
“Nup.” Jack and company had made sure of that. Trying to spurn me into action but instead I just ran away- like a coward. But now I’m going let them catch me. I’d had enough of running.
“Where you going, Mister Noah?”
“What?”
“I mean, after here. Nobody wants to stay in this town. Not even me.”
I let out a small smile along my cracked face, “Somewhere I haven’t been before.”
“Like an adventure?”
“You could say that.” I stubbed out the cigar and threw the butt out of the window. “You mind if I have another?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I like talkin’ to you. You don’t say too much.” She smiled, “I’m not going to stay in this town forever you know. No, not me.” She leaned forward, “I’ll tell you a secret, Mister Noah-” And she in an almost whisper, “I’m gonna run my own farm.”
Crazy girl. No one would ever let some ex-whore run a farm. “Cute dream.” I said.
“No, I know how to do it. When my pappy was alive I used to help on our farm. I cold do all the stuff the boys could do and then some.” She folded her arms across her chest, “Hell I could run a farm with my eyes closed and arms behind my back.”
“’Course.”
“I am very serious about all this. All I need’s the money, that’s all, and I reckon I’m almost half way there from what Mrs. De Winter gives me.”
“Money aint everything.” I said and I meant it. If it weren’t for the damned money I wouldn’t be here waiting for Jack and company to find me- waiting for them to kill me. My family would still be here. I wouldn’t have had to run for 5 years. Did the money make it worth it? No it did not. In five years I spent maybe three hundred dollars out of the ten thousand I had stolen. I could not spent it or else it would leave a trail for them to find, but now I did not care and I had spent a little of the money for them to follow me. They could have it for all I cared.
I looked out of the window down the street and I could see a group on the horizon riding up. It had to be them, who else would stumble into this little town than Jack and company? My time was up. I turned and looked and the girl on the bed, and I said. “Get out.”
“What?” She said surprised.
“Get your clothes on and get out.”
There was hurt across her face at my suddenness, she slowly got out of the bed and picked up her clothes, she looked at me and said, “I thought you wanted to talk.”
“I changed my mind.”
She began to put some of her clothes back on but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Poor little girl. As I watched her return to her clothes I began to get an idea, I figured it might be worth it. She was about to leave when I said, “Wait.” She turned back to me and I picked up my jacket from the floor and pulled on a little grey bag. It was filled with notes and gold that I had stole. “Here.” I said and tossed it towards her.
She took it in her hand and looked back up at me and said, “Mister?”
I looked out the window and saw that Jack and company were in town now. I looked back at the girl and said, “Just get going.”
Her little hands felt the bag and she realized what was in it, “Mister Noah-” A grin spread across her face, and I cut her off.
“Talk to no one. Just get out. Hell, take my horse. It’s the grey one outside.”
“But-”
“Don’t ask questions. Go find your farm.”
There was a smile on her face so wide it could have covered Texas. She opened the door, and stepped into the corridor, taking one last look at me then shutting the door.
I guessed she’d probably pass Jack and company on the way down stairs. I found it pretty funny that they’d pass the girl and she’d be carrying all the money they were after- the money I killed Fred and wounded Jack for. At least somebody’d be actually using the money now.
Every step I heard on the stairs I was convinced it was theirs. Death was coming towards me, but I wouldn’t fight. I’d had enough running for my life, I’d make my peace with God. Or the Devil, whichever of them’s got a hold of my ass. I’d be waiting right here to see Jack again, see if he’s still got the crazy look in his eye. Doesn’t matter now- I don’t have the money. Joke’s on you, boys. Ha.
“Nup.” I replied and lit a cigar.
“Oh God, open the window, mister. I can’t stand the smell of those things.” She order me, and after a pause I did as told. It was still light outside and I could see my horse tied up down stairs. It’d be about 15 minutes before Jack and company arrived. It wouldn’t take them too much trouble to find me. The town was pretty much without face or character, just waiting for the wind of the civil war to blow through and tear it apart.
She stayed within the sheets of the bed, just watching me. Her crimson hair tumbled prettily around her pale shoulders. The girl hadn’t been cheap, but I figured that if it going to be my woman before I die it might as well be a good one. I can’t remember if she said her name was Lily or Rosemary, but I might have got her confused with another one of the girls in the building. The madam told me that she was 21, but I think she was only 17. It didn’t matter. I’d enjoyed it.
“Mister?” She asked, “You want me to go?”
I shrugged.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
“Nup.” I picked up my gun holster and slipped it on. I wasn’t planning on using it when Jack and company found me. They’ll be expecting me to surprise them and surprise them I will- by not fighting back.
“I hate those things.” She announced, “Guns, not the holsters that is. My pappy got himself killed with one. He was working on the farm and then men came all in black and ridin’ on black horses and- blam.” She sighed, “And that was the end of Pa.” I nodded. Probably hired killers. I done one or two jobs like that myself in the past. Never liked killing farmers. They always had families. When I killed Fred I did not feel bad- he had deserved it. The one time I don’t feel guilty is the time it comes back to haunt me.
“You ever killed a man, mister?” She asked.
“Noah.”
“What?”
“My name aint ‘Mister’. It’s Noah.”
She opened her mouth and let out a long ‘Oh’. Then her eyebrows narrowed and she said, “Like the Bible guy?”
“Yeah. Just like the Bible guy.”
“I used to go to church. I liked all the singing.” She frowned, “They don’t let me in church anymore, not since Mrs. De Winter took me in after Mama died. She died about a year after Pa. My brother, Billy went off to join the army, then my sister Fran got married to a nice man.” She paused, “She died too. So did that baby of hers. She never got to see it. I think… Mister Noah, that I might be cursed when it comes to family. They all seem to die. You got any family?”
“Nup.” Jack and company had made sure of that. Trying to spurn me into action but instead I just ran away- like a coward. But now I’m going let them catch me. I’d had enough of running.
“Where you going, Mister Noah?”
“What?”
“I mean, after here. Nobody wants to stay in this town. Not even me.”
I let out a small smile along my cracked face, “Somewhere I haven’t been before.”
“Like an adventure?”
“You could say that.” I stubbed out the cigar and threw the butt out of the window. “You mind if I have another?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I like talkin’ to you. You don’t say too much.” She smiled, “I’m not going to stay in this town forever you know. No, not me.” She leaned forward, “I’ll tell you a secret, Mister Noah-” And she in an almost whisper, “I’m gonna run my own farm.”
Crazy girl. No one would ever let some ex-whore run a farm. “Cute dream.” I said.
“No, I know how to do it. When my pappy was alive I used to help on our farm. I cold do all the stuff the boys could do and then some.” She folded her arms across her chest, “Hell I could run a farm with my eyes closed and arms behind my back.”
“’Course.”
“I am very serious about all this. All I need’s the money, that’s all, and I reckon I’m almost half way there from what Mrs. De Winter gives me.”
“Money aint everything.” I said and I meant it. If it weren’t for the damned money I wouldn’t be here waiting for Jack and company to find me- waiting for them to kill me. My family would still be here. I wouldn’t have had to run for 5 years. Did the money make it worth it? No it did not. In five years I spent maybe three hundred dollars out of the ten thousand I had stolen. I could not spent it or else it would leave a trail for them to find, but now I did not care and I had spent a little of the money for them to follow me. They could have it for all I cared.
I looked out of the window down the street and I could see a group on the horizon riding up. It had to be them, who else would stumble into this little town than Jack and company? My time was up. I turned and looked and the girl on the bed, and I said. “Get out.”
“What?” She said surprised.
“Get your clothes on and get out.”
There was hurt across her face at my suddenness, she slowly got out of the bed and picked up her clothes, she looked at me and said, “I thought you wanted to talk.”
“I changed my mind.”
She began to put some of her clothes back on but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Poor little girl. As I watched her return to her clothes I began to get an idea, I figured it might be worth it. She was about to leave when I said, “Wait.” She turned back to me and I picked up my jacket from the floor and pulled on a little grey bag. It was filled with notes and gold that I had stole. “Here.” I said and tossed it towards her.
She took it in her hand and looked back up at me and said, “Mister?”
I looked out the window and saw that Jack and company were in town now. I looked back at the girl and said, “Just get going.”
Her little hands felt the bag and she realized what was in it, “Mister Noah-” A grin spread across her face, and I cut her off.
“Talk to no one. Just get out. Hell, take my horse. It’s the grey one outside.”
“But-”
“Don’t ask questions. Go find your farm.”
There was a smile on her face so wide it could have covered Texas. She opened the door, and stepped into the corridor, taking one last look at me then shutting the door.
I guessed she’d probably pass Jack and company on the way down stairs. I found it pretty funny that they’d pass the girl and she’d be carrying all the money they were after- the money I killed Fred and wounded Jack for. At least somebody’d be actually using the money now.
Every step I heard on the stairs I was convinced it was theirs. Death was coming towards me, but I wouldn’t fight. I’d had enough running for my life, I’d make my peace with God. Or the Devil, whichever of them’s got a hold of my ass. I’d be waiting right here to see Jack again, see if he’s still got the crazy look in his eye. Doesn’t matter now- I don’t have the money. Joke’s on you, boys. Ha.
Friday 8 August 2008
I Love Blonde On Blonde
I love 'Blonde On Blonde' by Bob Dylan- it truly is an exceptional album.
You get some albums that are a collection of great songs, but those sort of albums are most likely to fit snugly into a play list and be shuffled into other music, but a 'great' album has a sound to it that is distinctly that album and I think 'Blonde on Blonde' fits this category. Even Bob Dy;an himself has said the album is the closest he's ever got to the 'thin, wild mercury sound' that his music makes in his head. It's no surprise the next album he released was a stripped down, quieter affair- after two previous albums Dylan finally gets the electric guitar/harmonica/organ combination just right.
The songs themselves are mostly brilliant, listen to this (or listen to it as you read the rest of this review)- 'I Want You', a song that always makes my toes tap.
I love that jangly guitar sound. 'Blonde on Blonde' contains several classic songs, opening with the infectious 'Rainy Day Women #12 &35', but from that raucous opening the songs get increasingly sober to the quiet and reflective final track 'Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands' (which I shall discuss later). There's the classic 'Just Like A Woman', and lesser known but still great songs like 'Temporary Like Achilles' There's a clear blues-y influence on a lot of tracks like 'Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat' and 'Pledging My Time', and these slot perfectly against the more poetic songs 'Visions of Johanna' and 'Stuck Inside A Mobile With Those Memphis Blues Again'.
Speaking of poetry- Dylan once again proves he is the poet laureate of the 60's. The lyrics to this album are among the finest and strongest in his career, often the lyrics aren't straight forward at all but cryptic and highly symbolic, but retaining his sly humour. The final track on the album is the epic 'Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands' which clocking in at 11:32 took up a whole side of an LP upon it's initial release. This has to be one of the most beautiful and unconventional love songs ever recorded, it takes my breath away each time I hear it. Even though the lyrics are symbolic references to the relationship with his wife, Sara, the listener can tell this is a heart-felt affair. The affection that appears in his voice is unmistakably.
You get some albums that are a collection of great songs, but those sort of albums are most likely to fit snugly into a play list and be shuffled into other music, but a 'great' album has a sound to it that is distinctly that album and I think 'Blonde on Blonde' fits this category. Even Bob Dy;an himself has said the album is the closest he's ever got to the 'thin, wild mercury sound' that his music makes in his head. It's no surprise the next album he released was a stripped down, quieter affair- after two previous albums Dylan finally gets the electric guitar/harmonica/organ combination just right.
The songs themselves are mostly brilliant, listen to this (or listen to it as you read the rest of this review)- 'I Want You', a song that always makes my toes tap.
I love that jangly guitar sound. 'Blonde on Blonde' contains several classic songs, opening with the infectious 'Rainy Day Women #12 &35', but from that raucous opening the songs get increasingly sober to the quiet and reflective final track 'Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands' (which I shall discuss later). There's the classic 'Just Like A Woman', and lesser known but still great songs like 'Temporary Like Achilles' There's a clear blues-y influence on a lot of tracks like 'Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat' and 'Pledging My Time', and these slot perfectly against the more poetic songs 'Visions of Johanna' and 'Stuck Inside A Mobile With Those Memphis Blues Again'.
Speaking of poetry- Dylan once again proves he is the poet laureate of the 60's. The lyrics to this album are among the finest and strongest in his career, often the lyrics aren't straight forward at all but cryptic and highly symbolic, but retaining his sly humour. The final track on the album is the epic 'Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands' which clocking in at 11:32 took up a whole side of an LP upon it's initial release. This has to be one of the most beautiful and unconventional love songs ever recorded, it takes my breath away each time I hear it. Even though the lyrics are symbolic references to the relationship with his wife, Sara, the listener can tell this is a heart-felt affair. The affection that appears in his voice is unmistakably.
I would not recommend this though, as a starting point to Bob Dylan and his work. To a none Dylan fan unused to his work it's likely to come off as a strange and confusing record. I'd tell a beginner to start elsewhere and build up to 'Blonde on Blonde', but once you reach it you can appreciate what a stunning album it is.
Masterpiece? Perhaps.
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