SELF-SLAUGHTERERS
A tremendous thunderstorm was dying off. I can move again.
I’m paraphrasing here, of course, but tell me if you can, was it Ezra Pound or Shakespeare whom said: “The Lord had long ago turned His cannon upon self-slaughterers.”
I’m suffering badly. I lost my business, my side-jobs, my pay-off and my pension because of this pandemic and my own stupidity. I lost my wife and kids too. I lost the tenant on the last property I own, and with it, the last income coming to me. I could sell it, but that was for my kids, and besides, no one is buying anything these days. And now they tell it me things will only get worse. The only jobs to emerge from this chaos you’ll need a particular colour skin; the colour of my skin is wrong. I should have run off with that young rich Blackpool piece who adored me, but I had this idea about family and shared western values. I was a sap. And, though you’ve willingly self-sacrificed over the years in pursuit of the idea, your only option is now self-slaughter. There’s a piece of rope there and a tub full of tablets, but I don’t have a gun—because this is England.
I’d been so gloomy I couldn’t move for days. I went for my first run in ages this morn, but I pulled my hamstring immediately. So I limped home, showered, listened to Debussy, had a coffee and then jumped in the purple Hyundai and drove to the train track. I had no intention of boarding a train precisely because I haven’t got the money for a train, or a mask, and there was nowhere for me to go, anyway. No, I just wanted to stand on the ledge and watch them fuzz past and think. There’s one of those speed-trains that carry goods and not people due any minute now.
There are a couple of women stood talking at one end of the platform, and a young lad at the other end stood beneath a no-smoking sign and he was smoking a joint. It’s almost silent and eerie. The birds are singing, and I can hear the wet wheels of the cars roll behind me.
Then a voice came, the words indistinct. I spin round and it’s one of those ticket inspector guys. “Sir, you need to wear a mask.”
I told him I didn’t have one and so he gave me one and insisted I slap it on my face. “Which train are you waiting for?” he asked. I couldn’t say the goods-train, to throw myself under. “Can I help you?” he asked. I wanted to say, yes please, please help me. I deserve better than this.
“Sir, are you alright?”
“No, I’m not! The world’s inverted! I tried, I really tried to make it. I really tried to help others and warn them. And now look.”
“You won‘t do anything,” he paused, seemed to struggle for the right word, “silly, will you?”
I could feel my lips trembling, my eyes watering and my knees buckling. He pointed at his little porter cabin that had a sign on the door saying ‘Train Manager’ and asked, “Sir, would you like to come in for a coffee?”
I nodded and followed him inside, nodding also at the lad smoking weed (blueberry I think) but he didn’t nod back he turned his back on me.
In the office there were pictures of women on the wall, a calendar of beach girls and a massive signed poster of the Newcastle United team-squad. I wince at that, for I am Sunderland. But I’m numb to everything these days–even football.
We talked for a little while. We talked about all the recent suicides occurring in this town amongst the white males of late, how those yappers dub us ‘suicide city’ of the nation. “It’s not, right” I said, “There’s something weird going on. They better not be glorifying such actions, or anaesthetising the males for what’s coming.”
The train-manager looked at me pensively. pensive
“I knew those 3 lads who hung themselves within months of each other. We were all childhood mates–I fell out with them but still, I wished no harm upon them and it kills me to think of it.” I said.
The man took a sip of his coffee with his eyes fixed on mine. In the distance I could hear the rumblings of the goods train hurtling in.
“There have been six suicides at this train station since the lockdown, you know?”
“Aye, one of them was one of my mates from the football.” I tell him. “Bobby Red-shield.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, my friend.”
“It’s alright.”
“We haven’t advertised it, of course. Bad for business; might put the idea in people’s minds.” he said.
I wanted to ram this coffee mug right down his fucking throat. Bad for business? After I’ve just told you my mate died here?
I breathed and counted to ten, said nothing because I don’t think he meant anything by it.
“What do you mean?” I asked, “You mean potentially glorifying such actions... or at least, anaesthetising the populace for what’s coming?”
He stared at the calendar, blew his coffee, shuffled in his chair and silently burped. But I knew there were no worthy words to come from his sealed yapper.
There was an uncomfortable impasse. “Was it Ezra Pound or Shakespeare whom said The Lord had long turned His cannon upon self-slaughterers?” I said.
The train hurtled into the station; I felt sure I heard screams, but it must have been the whistling and rattling as the train passed through us like a missile. We both turned to admire the immensity of the steel blast by us, shaking the office. As it passed and its noise waned, there was clear screaming and shouting going on outside. The man rose with haste and I followed him out. Out there, the two women were screaming and cuddling one another. One of them was pointing at the track, utterly scandalised. But I couldn’t look. I glance at the no-smoking sign. The lad is no longer there, only is his backpack and half a joint laid on the platform and a gentle plume of smoke lingered. I smoke it... nice, blueberry; I was correct, for I have an expert nose.
Then I watch the train manager peer over the edge to get a peep, but he jerked himself back, brushed past me and headed to his office. But he didn’t make it. He hurled a barely digested full English breakfast all over the platform. The women were screaming hysterically. The poor things, no one should have to witness something like that; no one should have to endure this pain. The poor young lad too; the poor train manager. Poor me.
Soon the police arrived but there was nothing they could do; nothing I could do. There was nothing anybody could do!
William?
Ezra?
Logos?
I asked the two women if they fancied coming back to my house for a coffee, to listen to Debussy and to talk about this, but it just made them scream more and clasp unto one another. I was useless to the police and the women and the train manager, so I limped away, tackling the icy stairwell with my hamstring worsening, and made my way to my Hyundai. I drove home, made another coffee, and listened to Debussy and then Wagner. I ignited my laptop and checked the timetable—for goods-train arrivals later today.
I hid my rope in the garage, emptied the tub of tablets in the toilet and flushed them away; as regards the gun, there was nothing I could do because I don’t have one. I can’t possess a gun... because this is England.
===the end===