Poem

Written for Simon's lesson.


Slow sunlight.
The dawn chorus
Of birds and kettles sing.
While others dream
In riddles
I keep my eyes open,
Listen to the slumber
Of the street;
A peaceful pause,
Sheltered from the storm.

'No Bloody Angel'

This was written in Johanthen's lesson on Wednesday morning. It's been edited and revisied.

‘You’re no bloody angel!’ Jack’s last words rumbled through Carole’s mind along with the sound of the train in the distance. ‘No bloody angel’, she mused to herself and she supposed that he was right. Then again, she thought, Jack didn’t even know half of what was going on, and he’d hate her even more if he knew the full story.
The train appeared on the horizon, so she stood up and carried her three suitcases forward to the platform. Two suitcases full of clothes, one full of money. That suitcase she kept closest to her.
The thought of the money had her smile. The amount was enough for her to live comfortable and quietly in the countryside for years to come, or until she got bored of the countryside and returned to London. She felt a little sorry for Jack, though- he’d be rather upset when he returned home to find the little pink note she’d written for him, and then her and the money gone. ‘No money and no girl’, she thought, ‘Poor Jack.’
In the brief moment before the train crawled to a stop at the platform, she thought that Jack Redgrave hadn’t been all that bad. He was probably the nicest guy she’d stolen money from. She thought he had been charming when he wanted to be. ‘Oh well’, she said, ‘I’ve got my retirement money now’, and carried suitcases to the train. Carole flashed a smile at the fat little porter and he came scuttling over to help her carry her luggage onto the train.
The words ‘You’re no bloody angel!’ returned to her mind as she watched the fat little porter step back onto the platform, having just dragged her suitcases onto the train and put them in the luggage rack for her. Carole stepped into her first class compartment, shut the door and then sat down on the green, cushioned seats. She pulled a packet of cigarettes from her handbag, took out a cigarette and lit it. As she inhaled the smoke she remembered she’d taken the packet of cigarettes out of Jack’s coat pocket before he’d left after their little row. The cigarettes were just something else to add to the list of things she’d taken from him. She guessed that the cigarettes would probably the last thing on his mind to worry about, after all he’d have just enough money left to be able to buy a new packet. She exhaled and imagined the smoke coming from her mouth like it would from a dragon.
‘No bloody angel’, she said, ‘Probably the only time you ever got me right, Jack.’. She smiled at her reflection in the window.

My Back Pages

In a bored moment I began to ponder over influences- all artists have them. One thing I have always loved is finding out who my influences are influenced by and then searching those people out. Plus I wanted to answer the question- what's my most major influence, what can I trace back to being the 'first cause' for want of a better statement.

Two influences I've discovered in the last 9 months or so are two people who work in different fields but with quite similar common themes- Raymond Chandler and Edward Hopper- an author and a painter. I've always loved detective stories. Murder mysteries and whodunnits have always been a great joy to me. The hero of Chandler's book is Phillip Marlowe, the classic archetype of the Private Eye. A lone moral hero in an immoral world. Great stuff. As the books were mostly written in the 40's they have that wonderful fashion of the time- hats, ties and big coats, and the same period was when Edward Hopper was painting. I love all of his paintings- they have such a strong sense of narrative in them it really seems as if there's a story going on. Hopper has inspired many other writers as well as myself.

Over the summer I discovered the wonderful writer that is Leo Tolstoy. I read 'War and Peace' and 'Anna Karenina' back to back and loved both very much. He really has a true insight into human nature and the tickings of the human mind, plus his prose is just magnificent. 'War and Peace' is not a book to read- it is a book to be lived, balancing the big scale drama of war with the human drama of it's characters.

Keeping with the idea of introspection and melancholy is David Bowie, or specifically Berlin Bowie. In 1976 and 77, Bowie escaped from America and returned to Europe to kick his cocaine habit and give his career a new direction. 1977 brought about two classic albums- Low and "Heroes". Both albums contain soundscapes that really invoke a true sense of place, and the sparse lyrics reveal in their simplicity Bowie's depression and lethargy over his break from his drug abuse. Bowie spent most of this period in Berlin, and lets the spirit of the city wash over both albums.

At 17 I discovered two of the finest songwriters to have picked up a guitar- Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen. Dylan is the master of voices flitting brilliantly from protest singer, finger wagging at those in power, spurned lover, reborn Christian and above all rock's first ever poet. His most poetic album 'Blonde on Blonde' is only a recent discovery but it contains some beautiful prose. Cohen is the King of Melancholy and nobody can challenge that title. He speaks of love, romance and sex in quasi-mystical terms, bringing an almost religified view to them, as best done in the monumental 'Hallelujah'. Once you've listened to Leonard Cohen nothing else seems that depressing any more.

And once again to depression with three excellent poets- Edgar Allen Poe, William Blake and Dylan Thomas. Three men responsible for (or guilty of) getting me into poetry. Their words combined with an excellent English Lit teacher opened up my mind to poetry.

Then a return to songwriters two whom I discovered around the same time at 16- John Lennon and Roger Waters. Both members of famous bands- The Beatles and Pink Floyd. Waters wrote all the lyrics to the classic album 'Dark Side of the Moon', the first time he'd written all the lyrics of an album for Pink Floyd. The lyrics were born out of his frustration with modern life- time, money, war, mortality and all those sort of things. He wrote the wonderful line: "Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way". Other albums he's done are also excellent, but 'Dark Side of the Moon' is undoubtedly his magnum opus. John Lennon is one of the most iconic performers of all time. 'Imagine' is an athem for a generation and his work in the Beatles is very avant garde- he changed the face of rock and roll, but he wouldn't have devolped as he did if it wasn't for... Bob Dylan who encourage his more personal style of writing. And Roger Waters calls Lennon his favourite lyricist.

And at 13 I discovered two writers who I always say formed the foundation of my writing- William Shakespeare and Stephen King. Two very different writers but I learnt one thing from both of them- to have no mercy with my characters. I am not at all squemish about having my characters meet grisly fates. In a way they both deal with the themes of death and religion (if you look closely enough that is.

I always said that Shakespeare and King were my foundation but it was only today that I realised a very important influence to me that I rarely acknowledge, but it's effect on me still lasts till today, and probably will last for many more years too come. What made my favourite genres detective stories, mystery and horror? It can only be...

'The Perfect Hostess'

'Room In New York' by Edward Hopper

'The Perfect Hostess'

He could not love a stranger, and that’s all that she was too him now, no different from the faceless people that walked along the sidewalk below him. It was the memory of her he was in love with- as she had been before, when he had first known her in their early years, but the illness became apparent.

Larry sat down in his chair with a heavy sigh. It was a relief to be home- the old familiar room, the same wallpaper and carpet that had always been there- none of that had changed and he was glad for familiarity of it all. It was a great sense of comfort after the repetitive bleakness of hospital walls.

Light notes of music covered the silence of the room. Larry knew she was at the piano, pressing the one same note over and over. They’d brought it 6 months ago, with the paycheck from her last cinematic appearance. Alice gladly told people she was teaching herself the piano and would take singing lessons too. She always told people with such pride that she was going to be musical, Larry had his doubts and it proved true when she abandoned it within weeks. She pleaded with Larry to get rid of it, but it’d been so much trouble getting the damned thing up the stairs to their apartment they were keeping it.

Larry leaned forward and picked up the newspaper on the table. It was from a couple of days ago, ‘Has it been that long since either of us were here?’ He thought. Maybe two months since he was last here? He’d been in New York for three days but never visited the apartment- he’d gone straight to the hospital to see Alice. He looked up from the newspaper over to her. She was wearing her red dress, the one she’d been wearing when they took her into the hospital last Thursday. It was crumpled and messy, but Larry was not surprised with all the fight she had put up with the nurses and everyone else.

Larry thought back to when they first met- before she was ill, he liked too think, but he suspected that she may have been ill for a lot longer but he had not noticed. Perhaps he passed it off as moodiness, or that all actresses behaved like this- they were used to top treatment. It was backstage of the theatre they first met, Larry gone to greet the cast, and he secretly hoped he would get to meet Alice.

Larry knew of Alice Rains before he had met her, most had- she was the biggest box office draw in America in 1946. Larry had seen her in three or four films before they met, he always did have a soft spot for her. She’d told him years later that she moved from movies to Broadway because she’d wanted to be a real actress, see what it was like to really be put under pressure and sustain a character for a lengthy period of time. His second play went to Broadway, something he was very proud of, and he was equally pleased when he found out that Alice Rains would star. He’d wanted to go and watch the rehearsals but he was working in L.A, working on a script for a romantic comedy for the studio. He rushed through his work as quickly as he could, and managed to be free to go and see his play open on Broadway. After the show the director had brought Larry backstage to meet and greet with most of the actors who all seemed to put on a welcoming greeting, but Larry guessed their true feelings didn’t amount to much. As the director leading him down the hallway they came to Alice’s dressing room.

The first image Larry saw of her was her reflection in the mirror. She was facing away from him, but her reflection seemed to look straight into him. Larry thought she looked better in the flesh than in the movies- her dark, velvet eyes, porcelain skin and raven black hair. She had a dark beauty like no other. She spun around in the chair and greeted Larry so courteously he could not fail to fall for her charm.

She was married then, when they first meet, but she left her husband soon after. Larry guessed she’d been looking for an excuse and Larry entered right on his cue. They both alternated between New York and L.A. depending on their work- most of the time moving together, thought there were often periods where they would be separated for weeks and months at a time. They wrote each other long letters- Larry kept all of hers in his desk in New York, Alice assured him she had kept the love letters he sent her, but Larry had no idea where she kept them. The letters rambled on for pages about their burning desire to see each other again, the large chunk of them that was missing, and so on and so. The one Larry had treasured most of all went along these lines-
“Oh, Larry-kin, oh dear the days are far too long and every time I close my eyes I find you are here with me and you hold me in those loving arms of yours to take me away and protecting from all the nasty people here. Then when I wake up and she you’re not here I cry to myself because it’s only a dream, but I count the days till I finish here and I can come back to you and we can be together again… much love and tears and kissing, your Alice from Wonderland”
Those two years were the happiest Larry could remember. They had only argued once when he had called her to say he was going to stop in New York a couple of extra days. She screamed down the phone at him, screaming that he did not love her and that he was going to leave her for some woman with loose morals, or worse- a dancer. Larry did his best to reassure her. When he finally got to L.A three days later he was told she was ill and would not see him. Then a day later she appeared at his hotel and threw herself into his arms, and they had made love soon after as if the last days were a fiction.
Larry thought she had always seemed happier at her home in L.A. He’d take her back tomorrow morning. He knew she’d be happier there, as she used to be, Larry thought- it was a last attempt. The house in L.A. was 5 times the size of the New York apartment and Alice loved throwing parties for everybody and anybody in the movie industry. Alice was always the perfect hostess, making sure each and every person in the room felt her presence and she was in total control.
There had been one time, with two older British actors when her perfect hostess act slipped. The actors were both invited to one of Alice’s parties, except one had told the other that it was a fancy dress ball as a practical joke. So, the one actor turned up dressed as a harlequin, much to his embarrassment when he realized the joke. He’d seen the lighter side of it, but Alice did not. Her face froze in shock, and when it melted she stormed up to the harlequin, ripped off his mask and ordered him and his wife from the house. They thought she was joking, but Alice had surprising strength when she was angry and virtually pushed them outside and refused them entry. Once they’d gone Alice had run upstairs, Larry followed and then returned five minutes later and informed the guests that Alice had a headache.
Over the years Larry had heard those that she was working with complaining about her, that she could one day be screaming and shouting at people, then deathly silent and still and sometimes perfectly charming. She was mostly charming to people whenever shooting began, but soon Larry would hear reports of problems. In the early years that’s all they were to Larry- reports of unhappiness, she kept that side of nature hidden from him for the most part, but in the last 18 months he’d seen the other side to her, the one only talked about it bitter terms by co-stars and directors. Larry began to fear her a little, and pandered to her whims more and more afraid of an outburst. One night when she had ripped into him for coming home later she had threatened to kill herself, so Larry had taken all the pills in the house and flushed them down the toilet. The next morning Larry awoke from the sofa to hear Alice laughing hysterically, and he found her laughing at the empty medicine cabinet.
It was three months ago, just when the summer of ‘54 had started than Larry nervously told Alice he’d been contracted to go to L.A. to work on the script for MGM. Alice had politely smiled and told him that was fine, she’d come to see him just as soon as her play finished in a few months time. Larry had breathed a sigh of relief and left two weeks later. They written each other long letters as they normally did and ran up long telephone bills, but Larry was began to feel like an actor. He was just repeating things he’d said to her years ago just to keep on her good side- he loved her good side. That side of her was the woman he’d fallen in love, the other side of her scared him. Once arriving at the studio office he was told he would be co-writing the script. Larry was put aback at this as he had never written with anyone before, and even more shocked was he when he learnt it was to be a woman he was to work with. He knew that it was her novel he was meant to be adapting, but he did not expect to be adapting it with the author herself. When they first meet, she nervously shook his hand and said that would have written the script herself but she just “Had no darned idea how to do it.” She had laughed a little with a Southern twang to it.
Her name was Hermione, she was six years younger than Larry and had bright, red hair. Larry had thought her novel was certainly an interesting one, but he’d planned to take a different direction with it, so he thought this would pose a problem. The first days working together was an awful experience, neither of them was sure of each other and had no idea what to do. It was on the fourth day when Larry had had enough and suggested they just go and get some lunch because he couldn’t work anymore, nervously Hermione had agreed. Because Larry distrusted the studio canteen they had driven to a little restaurant not too far away. It was over this lunch that Larry had happened to mention a play by Chekhov that was an influence to him and Hermione agreed with him. Before they knew it they had spent hours talking about books and poetry and had wasted most of the afternoon they should have spent writing. When they came into work the next day everything seemed to click, the reluctance and nerves had gone- the ice had broken, and the script was written in a short space of time. In between writing they would discuss plays and books and find they had very similar taste. Hermione asked Larry what Alice Rains was like and with a fake smile he said “Wonderful”.
One week before Alice was due to visit, Larry and Hermione kissed. They had had a few drinks to celebrate the completion of the third and final draft of their script. It had been a mutual kiss, neither dominated, neither took a back seat- it was mutual. That night Larry was so wrapped up in guilt he had forgotten to call Alice.
The next day Hermione apologized to Larry for what had happened. Larry tried to do the same but found he could not. He gave Hermione his New York address and number so that they could keep in contact. She kissed him on the check, and Larry held her for a few seconds imagining what it would be like to wake up one morning and see her face on the pillow beside him. He said nothing though.
When he got back to his hotel the receptionist said there was a call for him and it was urgent. “Larry, it’s Peter,” Said the voice on the other end of the phone, “It’s Alice- she’s had some kind of breakdown. You better come back to New York. We’re going to try and get her to hospital.”
Larry was told later on that the evening before Alice had been late coming to the theatre for the evening performance, most of the cast believed she would not turn up at all. When she did turn up she was in a red dress and spoke to no one. She went into her dressing room and locked the door. They’d waited as long as they could before the show began but there was no response, so an understudy went on instead. It was during the interval that the cast backstage heard screaming from her dressing and the sound of smashing glass. Some on from the crew broke down the door and Alice was sitting in a pool of broken glass from all the mirrors, cuts up and down her arms and across her face. She was screaming wildly. With surprising strength she had run past them all and out into the street. She had run into the road and was almost hit by a taxicab. The shows director, Peter, was an old friend of theirs, and followed her back to the apartment, he said without irony that she’d left a trail of bloody handprints on the stairwell for him too follow. He’d spent most of the night trying to get her to take some sedatives or go to the hospital, but she refused. While she was calm he had bandaged her arms but minutes later she tore them off. In the early morning when she was out of the room he called from an ambulance to pick her up. It took three ex-marines to get her into the back of the ambulance, and another 2 to hold her down on the journey to the hospital.
Larry got there the next day and she was as bad as ever. She didn’t seem to recognise him and scratched his face. He stayed in the hospital the whole time, sleeping in a visitor’s room. It was the opinions of the doctors and nurses that if she were to stay in hospital any longer she would have to be sectioned then put into a sanatorium. When she calmed down she asked sweetly for Larry to talk to her. She told him that all the doctors frightened her and that she didn’t want to stay in there anymore. Larry looked into her eyes and saw the old sparkle and charm that he knew so well. He kissed her forehead and told her they’d leave straight away. They were about to leave and she threw another fit, the doctors once again sedated her. While the doctors sedated her she threw Larry a glance that pierced him as if she was saying ‘Et tu, Brutus?’
That evening while she was calm Larry smuggled her out of the hospital and back to the apartment. And there they were. Tomorrow, he’d take her back to L.A, and hoped she’d be happier there, as she always seemed to be. She kept playing the same note on the piano- over and over. Ding. Ding. Ding.
“Larry?” She spoke softly.
“Yes?”
With eyes fixed on the piano she said, “Do you love me?”

Larry swallowed hard and looked out the window to the night sky, though it was marred by her reflection. “Yes, my darling,” He said, “Of course I do.”

'The Lonely Death Of A Spy'

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…