Category Archives: Short Stories & Poems

Short Stories, Poems, etc

MEETING JIMI (A MONOLOGUE)

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You wouldn’t think it to look at me but I was supposed to meet Jimi Hendrix once. I know. Me, huh? Overweight, grey and wearing the finest ASDA has on offer, in the company of rock and roll royalty. Hard to imagine, but it’s true. 

I was a journalist for Melody Maker, back in the late sixties. I’d hung out with Clapton, Lennon – right awkward, that one, he was a right miserable bastard – and a few other legends, but it was always Jimi that mattered. I would have given my legs to interview Jimi.

Well, in July 1970, I was told I’d get my chance in August, at the Isle of Wight Festival. I nearly wet myself. When you’re a rock journalist you’ve got to curb your enthusiasm a little. You can’t go running up to these guys screaming like a teenage girl. You’ve got to be tactical, even when you’re only 18. I got some pretty good by being natural. Clapton saw I was nervous when we met. He told me to chill and put me at ease. Afterwards he said it was just like hanging out with his mates at the pub. I was fine after that. Thanks to that interview, the issue sold by the bucket load. I liked Eric.

Lennon hated me. It was 1969 and The Beatles were at breaking point. Lennon and McCartney were heading in different directions, George was pissed off he wasn’t getting his songs on the album and Ringo… Well, Ringo was just off his tits. If you listen to those late records now you can hear it. Hindsight’s great, isn’t it? I kept asking about ‘tensions’ in the band, and I could see Lennon sneering. I kept pressing and he kept sneering. By the end of the interview they were giving one word answers, and Lennon called me a ‘cunt’ on his way out.

I released a collection of my work in 1980 when I quit being a music journo. I was going to call it: ‘Give Cunt a Chance’ in reference to the Lennon incident. Then Mark Chapman shot him and it didn’t seem funny anymore. It ended up as: ‘12 Years in the Front Row’. I hated that title.

Anyway, July 1970. Like I said, my Editor tells me I’m covering the Isle of Wight festival in August. Then he tells me I’ll have ten minutes with Jimi after his performance on the 30th. I held myself together long enough to get home to my folks. My folks thought I was mad. They were jazz fans. Hendrix was nothing compared to Charlie Parker.

My friend Mark drove a yellow Ford Cortina, and in return for a free ticket I got a ride down to the festival with him. It looked like a half-rotten banana, but it got us there and back alive.

I turned up in Newport more excited than I’d ever been. I’d gone all out in the fashion stakes. I loved Italian shoes, and I’d bought a pair of Stemar’s. God, they were beautiful, and brand spanking as the company had only started up the year before. I can’t remember how much they cost, but I remember my Mum closing her eyes and crossing her chest when I told her. She didn’t get it, and I doubt God did either.

I wanted to stand out, so I went for the denim jeans-and-jacket combo, with a long-sleeved brown Western plaid shirt. The idea of wearing flowery shirts and those Mexican style jackets made me cringe, although Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper pulled it off in ‘Easy Rider’.

My 1969 Levi’s 70505 ‘Big E’ Third Edition Jacket was my prized possession. I had it until about five years ago when we moved house. It got lost in the transition somewhere. I was devastated. Still am.

I looked great. I’d had my haircut the day before, a little shorter than I was used to. It was similar to Bowie’s in the ‘Space Oddity’ video. I remember that it was short enough to tickle the back of my neck, and I didn’t like the feeling. I kept rolling my shoulders to stop it, and my friends thought it was hilarious. I soon forgot about it when the bands started to play. As much as I couldn’t wait for the music, it was Jimi I was looking forward to. I made scribbles about the event and the line-up, but I couldn’t motivate myself for anyone but Jimi. Jimi, Jimi, Jimi, fucking Jimi!

When he arrived, I took a sharp intake of breath, like when you see the girl of your dreams for the first time. My eyes welled up and I felt anxious for the first time in my life. I’d never been star struck before. I honestly believe that – to this day – that moment was my first experience of love. I never belittle anyone who says they ‘love’ a star, even if I don’t agree with their choice. I know exactly how they feel. Most people never find true love. What better substitute is there than a God with a guitar?

Jimi came out and played ‘God Save The Queen’, just like did at Woodstock with ‘Star Spangled Banner’. Such a dreary national fucking anthem, but Jimi made it sound cool and relevant. And this was seven years before the Sex Pistols.

Halfway through the set, Mark handed me the biggest joint you’ve ever seen. I didn’t want to get wasted as I had so much to ask Jimi and so little time to do it. A ten minute window can close very quickly if you’re so fucked up you can’t even speak. I should have had my head examined before puffing on anything handed to me by Mark. You know Danny from ‘Withnail and I’? Yeah? Multiply it by ten and you’re still not even close. He smoked weed like your Nan drinks tea and took more pills in one night than the NHS handed out over a decade. I remember that his hair was so long that his shades were worn over the hair that had grown over his eyes. He looked like Cousin It, only cool as fuck.

A few tokes on Mark’s joint and I was wasted. I felt like every bone in my body had been removed and my flesh was floating on a cloud. In short, I was fucking fucked.

The next thing I remember was Mark slapping my face and waking me up. He’d taken me to one side and looked after me after I’d apparently started dancing wildly and barking like a dog. I asked him what the time was, noticing the stars in the sky above his head.

“It’s time to get you back to civilisation, Mr Journalist!” he joked.

I jumped to my feet as soon as I noticed that the only sound I could hear was that of the crowd dispersing.

“Where’s Jimi?” I shouted. “Where’s fucking Jimi!?”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, he’s finished,” Mark said.

“He did a fantastic version of ‘Sgt. Peppers’. Didn’t you meet John Lennon once?”

I felt my stomach tighten, like a giant had burrowed his hands into my gut and tied my insides in a knot. Then I started to cry.

Mark calmed me down, this time without the use of his industrial strength weed. I couldn’t be angry with him, all the fight had been taken out of me. A lot of tears were shed on his shoulder that night.

When I got back to London I was sacked from Melody Maker. From what I heard, Jimi waited two minutes for me, and then dived into the back of a black Chevy.

Goodbye, you beautiful bastard, and good luck…

19 days later, Jimi was found dead in a flat in Notting Hill.

I took Jimi’s death pretty well. I think as a journalist I’d found a cooler story in my festival experience than I ever would have in meeting him for those ten minutes. The hardest part of losing Jimi was that there would be no more music.

The great ones always die young, and it hurts. Marc Bolan, Tim Buckley, even Lennon – 40’s no age to snuff it. But Jimi was at his peak, we never saw how far he could go. I believe he would have got better. Fucking drugs…

I carried on as a freelance music journo, ending up at the NME from 74-80. I was 26 when punk exploded, but I was too old for it. I remember giving the first Clash album a bad review, saying it was “a load of noisy racket and slogans”. My Editor looked at me like I’d walked into his house and shit on his kids.

I turned up at the gigs, listened to the music and interviewed the bands. But it felt like a chore, a conveyor belt of gig-interview-feature-gig-interview-editorial meeting-gig…

Punk started to die on its arse around 1980, but that smugness was written all over my face and my Editor was done with me.

“You’re no longer NME material. We’re here to capture a mood, and you’re becoming too negative. For your last piece, I’d like you to write your Jimi Hendrix story.”

Typical, ay? All those years being battered at gigs and festivals, being called every name under the sun by members of The Beatles, and my claim to fame was still being the kid who fell asleep and missed Jimi Hendrix’s final festival performance.

Thankfully, I’d built up a big enough profile over the years to jump straight back into work whenever I wanted. This would have been great had the New Romantic movement not been around the corner. The first time I saw a New Romantic I stopped wanting to be a music journalist – stopped wanting to fucking live, if I’m honest. I started writing about film instead.

My first feature was ‘Easy Rider’. How could it not have been? I was so lucky with it. I met up with Dennis Hopper and talked for hours about the whole movement. I told him my Jimi story over some of the biggest cigars you’ve ever seen. I think each one cost more than I made in a year. He laughed at my story and then told me his account of making ‘Apocalypse Now’ with Coppola, Brando, Sheen and a shit load of madness. Right now Hopper’s in heaven, sitting on a cloud with Brando smoking a stogie. Enjoy it, Hopper. You earned it.

The career change came the same year as Ben was born. The greatest thing that ever happened to an idiot like me, that lad. These days I make sure he knows that every single day. I was away a lot during his formative years, and, I can admit it now, cheated on his Mother constantly. I couldn’t let go of my independence, or didn’t want to. Maybe I just matured late. All I know is that I treated the people I loved like shit for a long time, and I’m trying to make up for it now.

Ben was a great kid, always smiling. I expected some battles as he got older. The ‘fuck you, Dad’ phase. But it never came. I think he understood what I was doing.

He inherited the bug.  Became the only person in my family’s history to go to university. Journalism and Media studies. I went to his graduation and I cried like a baby. All the guilt I felt for not being around just poured out of me, and I was proud as fuck. My wife held my hand throughout the whole thing, tighter than ever before. It was… lovely. Yeah, it was lovely.

Last year, Ben wrote an article for the Guardian about my Hendrix debacle. I can never escape that story, and I never want to. Everyone deserves a moment in the sun, even if my moment in the sun was literally lying in the sun and missing the opportunity of a lifetime. It was nice to sit down with Ben and give him a screenshot of my life.

Mark once told me: “Your parents are the people you learn the least about. Everything you learn about them is blinded by your love for them. They’ve already lived a life before you come into it.”

I always remembered him saying that to me. It was after my Father had died. I remember what I said back to him, too: “I was around him my whole life, but I never felt like I knew him.”

After that day, I was always honest with Ben, for better or worse. I can tell him anything, and I do. Sometimes I tell him things that hurt him, like all the playing around I did after he was born. He understood, and I think it strengthened the bond between us. It definitely strengthened the bond between him and his Mother.

We’ve been married 25 years now. She stood by me where others wouldn’t’ve. She’s the best person I’ve ever met and I’m in awe of her every day. She chose a twat like me over everybody else, and on our wedding day, when she answered ‘I do’ to all those questions, she meant them and she meant them for life.

We’re going to the Cambridge Folk Festival this summer, for our anniversary. It’ll be a different experience from the Isle of Wight days, but I’ll be keeping my ears open, listening to the old vagabonds telling their stories.

I’m writing a book about the history of folk music. It came as a surprise to my publishers, who are constantly asking me to sell my ‘Meeting Jimi’ story to Hollywood and play up to the ‘bad boy journalist’ tag. If they’d seen me bawling my eyes out at Ben’s graduation that tag would fall away pretty damn fast.

Ben’s a good writer, better than I ever was. He’s level-headed and smart as a button. He’s settling down with his missus and planning to start a family. I feel like he’s the grown up and I’m the kid. All the lessons I’ve learned about being a good man I learned from him.

He gives me shit about the Hendrix incident to this day. I just tell him: “You can laugh, but your CV will never be as sexy as mine!”

After all, John Lennon never called him a cunt, did he?

 

FRANKIE’S FIRST KISS (or HOW I STOPPED HIDING FROM GIRLS AND LEARNED TO EMBRACE SOCIAL EMBARRASSMENT)

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1. MIRANDA

Miranda was the first girl I ever found the courage to kiss. When I’m lying on my death bed I’ll probably mutter ‘Miranda’ before dying. It will be my very own ‘Citizen Kane’ moment. People will ponder its meaning and significance for years. Books will be written about it. ‘How not to’ books, I imagine.

I was excited by the prospect of being with Miranda. It opened up opportunities. Our year was split into two groups: ‘V’ and ‘C’. Miranda was in the ‘V’ half and I was in the ‘C’ half. The two year groups rarely mixed. When I moved up from primary school, lots of my friends had been put into ‘V’ and it was like they had been taken to concentration camps. All it really meant was that when I had Maths, they had gym. But it was traumatic nonetheless. For a start it forced me into direct contact with Jamie, a union I have regretted for half of my life. At least Miranda gave me a chance to bridge the gap between ‘V’ and ‘C’, albeit for a fleeting moment.

Miranda was an extremely attractive girl, like Kate Moss before she discovered smoking, drugs, booze and men. Her friends were all attractive, too. This meant that Jamie wouldn’t try and sabotage me for his own private amusement, because he needed me as an angle. He wasn’t exactly flooded with offers.

2. TRAINING

It was approaching the end of term and I didn’t have a clue how to get from talking and holding hands to a kiss. Questions were running round my head like a crazed hamster in a wheel: Do I lunge in? Do I ask first? When I rehearsed it in a mirror I just sounded like a fresh-faced Hollywood actor preparing for an audition he knows Brad Pitt has already nailed: I expected to fail instantly.

One night, I decided to practice my carefully constructed set up speech and the kiss itself on my pillow. It was hard to concentrate as my pillow case had a Dalek on it, but I decided to be professional about it and soldiered on. I adopted the accent of a posh 1940’s British actor for this little escapade. I wasn’t helped when my 14 year-old brother Sam, who I assumed was sleeping at a friends’ house, called out from the other side of the room: “Hey Casanova, when you’ve finished seducing your pillow feel free to shut up.” We didn’t talk at breakfast.

I decided to ask a few people whose opinions I valued. It was a short list and made shorter by the fact that most of my friends were hardly budding Don Juan’s and my brother thought I was psychotic.

I started with my Dad. He was a child of the Sixties, so I was sure that he would love to share some of that summer of love wisdom with his son in his hour of need. Unfortunately, since the summer of love he had been beaten down by working on building sites for years, and my brother and I had definitely contributed to the Klingon forehead he’d developed from frowning so much over the years.

I caught him in the three hour window between getting home from work and sleep. He would sit on the sofa in his dressing gown and stare vacantly at the television, occasionally glancing at the newspaper and drinking coffee from the gigantic mug that I bought him for Fathers’ Day that had ‘I’m the Daddy’ written on it. He was pretty vacant in this period, like a post gazelle-feast lion.

“Dad, I need your advice on something…” I said.

“Go ahead, son,” he replied.

As I opened my mouth to speak, Sam came in the front door and jumped onto the sofa. He looked at me and laughed.

“Well if it isn’t Frankie the Dalek fucker!” he mocked, with a smile on his face as wide as the Grand Canyon.

Dad instantly exploded into a rage.

“What have I told you about swearing in this house… and coming in here with your bloody shoes on?”

He took a swipe for Sam’s head but he ducked out of the way and ran upstairs laughing. I didn’t fancy asking questions about girls to an angry, red-faced man in a shell suit so I left.

Next on the list were my closest friends. Naturally, I asked Jamie what I should do first, quickly realising that I had chosen the wrong social circle the previous year.

“Just close your eyes and walk forward. She’ll know what’s going on,” he said.

“Or think you’re possessed… or mental. It could go either way.”

Jonathan, Paul and Steve were next. They were the only friends close enough to help me with the situation. Jonathan’s reaction was to go giggle and play football. Paul frowned at me and uttered ‘girls are gay’ and Steve took me to one side and convinced me that I wasn’t psychotic.

“I’m still practicing on my pillow mate, but don’t tell anyone,” he said.

The decision was made that this would be a solo mission. Luckily, Miranda had cottoned on to how inept I was and had enlisted the help of her best friend Chloe to bring things forward.

3. DAY OF RECKONING

Chloe placed the small hand-written note into my hand and walked away blushing before I could ask what it was. I opened the folded note and read it aloud:

“Meet me behind the Humanities Block after school. Miranda xx”

Jamie punched me on the arm and jumped around the surrounding area, singing Miranda’s name into every love song he knew at the back of his mind. My personal favourite was Boston’s ‘Miranda I’m Feeling’ – even if the phrase itself meant no sense. He seemed to be more excited than I was, or maybe it was just that I was overcome with fear and dread.

We walked to the Maths block for our final lesson for the day, listening to the new Oasis album on my walkman. We had an earphone each, but when ‘Live Forever’ is on I like to go solo, losing myself in an imaginary world where I am performing in front of millions with my band. The feeling of euphoria would linger long after the song had ended.

At the block we split to our classrooms. I was in set 3 as my Maths skills consisted of knowing the difference between ‘Die Hard 1’ and ‘Die Hard 2’. I spent the last period playing out the kiss in slow motion, sound-tracked by a sweeping romantic score. Mrs Evans knew my head was elsewhere. I stared forward like a Madame Tussauds wax work of a love struck teenager.

When the bell rang I shot for the exit and met Jamie outside. In a moment of exhilaration, Jamie had seen it fit to tell everybody in his lesson about ‘The Kiss’. We walked down to the Humanities Block, accompanied by 30 eager would-be spectators. I now knew how Wyatt Earp must have felt as he walked down to the gunfight at the OK Corral. Jamie wouldn’t pass for Doc Holliday though; Doc never wore an Eclipse jacket for a start.

Miranda and Chloe had waited patiently for me to arrive. Miranda’s eyes burst out of her head when she saw ‘Fool and The Gang’ arrive. I gave her an apologetic look and sneakily pointed to Jamie in an attempt to shift the blame. As I approached to explain, my legs weakened and my stomach tightened. The temperature in my face increased to boiling point. I could have sold my body to medical science right there and then.

“Bring enough friends?” Miranda asked. I felt so small I could have hid behind a pebble.

“Ah-huh-uh,” I replied, as the rest of the world collectively pondered the question: ‘How on Earth did he get this girl?’

My throat had gone the same way as the rest of my bodily functions; to hell, where the rest of me would follow if I didn’t pull myself together. After a tense stand-off, I was forgiven. Miranda moved towards me and our bodies pressed together. The last thing I saw was her head tilting and her eyes closing. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth. I moved my mouth round in a circular motion while reciting the word ‘Fuck’ continuously in my head, concentrating hard to keep our lips together. I thought about using some tongue, but I imagined her being sick on me in front of 30 people, and I was hardly Mr Cool around here as it was.

After what felt like a lifetime she pulled away and smiled at me. Her eyes gleamed, like they’d been taken out of her head and given a polish.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, as she grabbed her schoolbag and made for the school gates.

I turned to face a bored looking crowd, and a smug faced Jamie.

“That was… Pathetic,” he said.

I put my headphones in and walked ahead of him. I’ll teach you a lesson later, I thought.

Behind us the crowd dispersed, finally realising how little there was to see.

4. THE AFTERMATH

Miranda and I shared just one more kiss in the time we were together. It was at the school disco at the end of term. My technique had improved and the nerves that once threatened to shut my body down had evaporated into the realms of experience. But it was just impossible to live up to the hype of the first kiss, or maybe Miranda and I had just run our course. It was good to know I didn’t have to practice on the Dalek anymore though. An added bonus was seeing Jamie suffer third degree burns to his knee caps, when he tried to break dance to ‘2 Unlimited’. Seeing a young man with smoking holes in his trousers cry for his Mum is a magical moment.

I was relaxing at home on a Sunday afternoon when my Mum walked into the living room with a big grin on her face.

“It’s Miranda on the phone for you, sweetheart,” she said, full of pride.

I should have suspected something was wrong. I hadn’t given my number to Miranda or any of her friends. But I walked into the hall and picked up the receiver anyway, just in time for the voices of six or seven girls to shout ‘YOU’RE DUMPED!’ before hanging up the phone.

I managed to keep a fake conversation going for 5 minutes before I hung up and wandered back into the living room. It gave me just enough time to let the shock sink in and stop my bottom lip from shaking. My Mum was so energetic about me having a girlfriend it made me sick to my stomach.

Later that day, Jamie came round to play Nintendo. We were beating up street thugs and pimps on ‘Final Fight’ and sharing Maltesers. I took the opportunity to cover my own ass.

“Yeah… So I called Miranda and said: ‘I like you, but I’m not ready for a relationship right now. It’s not you, it’s me. I just can’t commit.’ She started to cry but I think she understood in the end.”

Jamie was silent. He continued to beat up drug dealers on screen.

“What’s up with you?” I said, thinking he wasn’t listening.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” he said. “Chloe asked me for your number because Miranda was getting bored and wanted to dump you. I suggested a bunch of them shout ‘You’re dumped’ down the phone. Payback for you laughing at my burnt knees… which still hurt, by the way.”

Embarrassment washed over me like a cold shower at dawn. But I didn’t retaliate. I just beat up some animated drug pushers and made sure Jamie got a few more Maltesers than me as way of a truce.

Chocolate, like time, is a great healer.

YOU HAVE BEEN TAGGED IN A PHOTO (AN URBAN GHOST STORY)

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The following short story was written by Daley James Francis and Tom Wingfield for a Creative Writing workshop exercise. The basis of the story is two teenage boys emailing each other simultaneously, and works really well when performed aloud.

Hey Paul,

The computer came on by itself again last night. No shit. I know you think I’m saying it to wind you up because of what you told me, but I’m not. That’s four nights in a row now. The first night the computer turned on. The second night, the computer and the internet. The third night, the computer and the internet came on, then redirected to Flickr. I didn’t even know what the fuck Flickr was. The photo that came up was of Andy. Remember him? Of course you do. He was looking at me. I’m convinced. I’m typing this and laughing, shaking my head even. But I’m also scared to fucking death.

Jamie,

Remember I told you about my Facebook being all weird? Well last night shit went crazy. I loaded it up, and all my friends were different, I was like WTF? Then I looked at my profile, and it looked like my profile picture but my face wasn’t quite right, like I was seeing myself through a window or something. Looked at the top and bang there it was: I was signed in as Andy. No bullshit, there it was, his name, his details, everything. There it was.

This is getting weird now. It isn’t rational for these things to be happening. At first I thought it was my little brother, but I squeezed his balls until he told me the truth. I believe him, I’ve done it before and it’s worked a treat.

So I figured somebody was doing some shit or something. I started looking through the pics because why not? They were all of me, but in all his places, in his life and stuff. They hadn’t just changed my name, because all my friends were his friends and all my details were his and how the fuck would they do it anyway? They were all of me. But I was him.

Andy’s been dead five days. I can’t believe I’m writing this shit, but I think it’s got something to do with it. We were pretty fucking mean to him. I think he’s come back for us. It sounds ridiculous, but I can feel a presence in this room. I mention his name, I think of him, and I feel like something is smothering me. I don’t know what to do.

But here’s why I didn’t come into school today. Scrolling through the pictures and I get to one. It’s of me hanging on a fucking noose in his fucking bedroom. It made me throw up, like properly throw up in my bin. I couldn’t stop staring at it. I spent all night going through the pictures, just going through. I’ve never been to any of those place. Ever. I haven’t shown them to anybody yet.

I think we should go to his grave and apologise. I saw somebody do that in an old horror film. I can’t remember if it worked, but I can’t think of anything else. It might give me a chance to sleep, at least. I really need to sleep.

I don’t know what’s going on but it scares the shit out of me. I’ve tried logging out and in again, sending off messages to Facebook. I googled it but ended up just finding forums where people have already asked the same question but all the people are me, like, not me, but Andy, and all the replies are me. Jesus fuck Simon who the fuck is doing this??

I’m unplugging everything after I’ve sent this email. I’m going to put each part of the computer in a separate room. Take the piss all you want, but I’m making sure this time. I don’t want another shock like last night. It does seem to get worse each night.

I suggest you do the same, just in case.

Simon.

After this I’m gonna go round to his house, talk to his family, see if they’ve got answers, just say I’m sorry I don’t know it’s worth a shot. I’ll e-mail you when I get back. Wait, I’ve just got an e-mail from you, I’ll send this one-off then read yours.

Paul.

POSTTRAUMATIC (A Horror Short Film Script)

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‘POSTTRAUMATIC’  is a horror/thriller script that I wrote in 2009 but never got round to filming. Whether or not I’ll get round to making it or not, I don’t know, but I think it’s got the potential to be a pretty cool short film. It has some nice touches and a few ‘homages’ to the classic films of its type: ‘Rosemary’s Baby’, ‘Black Christmas’ and ‘A Warning To The Curious’ were a few of the influences. Check it out. Feel free to leave feedback or offer me $10 million to make it!

INT. CAR, NIGHT

A pretty woman, AMY, aged approximately 20, is driving. She is very pale and appears shaken.

CUT TO:

EXT. HOUSE, NIGHT

The car turns into a housing estate and parks outside a house.

CUT TO:

EXT. HOUSE, NIGHT

AMY exist the car and stands at the front door of her house for a moment before entering.

CUT TO:

INT. HOUSE, NIGHT

AMY puts her bag and keys on a coffee table and sits on the sofa. She grabs a nearby cushion and holds it tight against her chest.

CUT TO:

INT. HOUSE, LATER

AMY stands in the kitchen, leaning against the work surface and not doing anything in particular. She moves over to the kitchen window and looks out. After a few moments of contemplation, she exits.

CUT TO:

INT. HOUSE, NIGHT

A short amount of time has passed. The TV has been turned on and AMY is now lying on the sofa with the cushion resting on her stomach. She is on the telephone. (We cannot hear what the person on the other end is saying)

AMY: (On phone) I’ve been given leaflets to read… (Pause) He doesn’t know… (Pause) Can never know…

AMY’s eyes well up with tears.

AMY: (Into Phone) I’m going to have to call you back… (Pause) Bye.

AMY hangs up the phone and drops it by the side of the sofa. She lays back and stares up at the ceiling. Her eyes start to close.

FADE TO:

INT. HOUSE, NIGHT

A loud bump; AMY sleeps through it.

After a few moments, AMY wakes up and slowly rises. The cushion has fallen onto the floor next to her. She picks it up and holds it against her again. She stands and walks over to the window. Peering through the curtain, she looks out into the street.

AMY moves away from the window and yawns. She makes her way through to the kitchen. She turns the water on to make a drink. Whilst it flows, a strange screeching sound is heard. AMY instantly turns the water off, then back on again to check if it was the water system. No sound. She fills her glass and starts to walk back to the living room.

The sound returns… causing AMY to drop the glass into the sink. It smashes. 

AMY, knowing the sound came from outside, turns and unlocks the back door. She steps outside.

CUT TO:

EXT. HOUSE, NIGHT

AMY sets onto the patio and looks out over the small garden.

AMY: Hello?

The sudden screeching of two cats startles AMY. She regains her composure.

AMY: Jesus…

AMY closes the gate and re-enters the house.

CUT TO:

INT. HOUSE, NIGHT

AMY jumps back onto the sofa and watches the TV. She picks up her mobile phone and begins texting someone.

Something hits the window, making AMY jump to her feet and running to the window. She checks the window for any damage before opening the window wide and putting her head out to look down the street. AMY leans back inside and locks the window.

She sits back down but has a look of suspicion on her face. She turns the volume of the television up for comfort.

The feint sound of a baby crying can be heard outside. AMY leans forward, trying hard to listen. She mutes the TV and starts walking towards the front door. It is a faint sound but it is continuous. AMY reaches out for the door before opening it and stepping into the street.

CUT TO:

EXT. HOUSE, NIGHT

The street is empty. AMY takes a moment to look both ways, before walking back into the house.

CUT TO:

INT. HOUSE, NIGHT

The door closes. She stands with her back against the front door, waiting for the sound to return. Her hand is grasped onto the door handle. After a few moments, her hand eases off. She takes a couple of steps away from the door and smirks to herself.

She reaches down to pick up her mobile phone. The crying sound returns. This time it seems to be louder, and not from the front of the house. AMY follows the sound, trying to pinpoint the location of where it is coming from. She follows it through to the kitchen and to the back of the house again. She puts her hand on the door to open it and…

Three very loud bangs on the front window.

AMY sprints through to the front door and pours out onto the street.

CUT TO:

EXT. HOUSE, NIGHT

Gasping for breath, AMY walks up and down the street a little, checking under a couple of cars. She mutters something under her breath as she re-enters the house.

CUT TO:

INT. HOUSE, NIGHT

AMY stands at the front door and takes a deep breath to compose herself. She looks straight through the passage between the living room and the kitchen. The door to the back garden is wide open. AMY panics and runs towards the kitchen. She slams the back door shut.

AMY: (Whispers) That wasn’t open…

AMY walks back to the living room and picks up her phone, calling someone. There is a busy tone.

Eight or nine extremely loud bangs on the front and back of the house come from nowhere. The shock makes AMY drop the phone, causing the back of the phone and the battery to fall out when it lands. AMY scrambles to her hands and knees and struggles to put the phone back together. Her hands are now shaking and she is starting to show the mental effects of this abuse. She is muttering ‘Come on’ to herself as she puts the phone together. She calls the person back but gets a busy tone again.

 AMY: No!

 The crying returns. This time it is louder than ever before and swiftly followed by banging. It is continuous now. AMY screams and runs for the front door.

CUT TO:

EXT. HOUSE, NIGHT

AMY runs into the street screaming.

A man, thirties, runs out of the house next door and grabs hold of AMY.

PAUL: Amy, Amy! It’s Paul! It’s Paul! Calm down, Amy!

AMY turns and faces PAUL. She tries to compose herself, but cannot stop shaking. She tries to talk to PAUL but it makes little sense.

AMY: Did you hear it, Paul? Did you hear it?

AMY falls into PAUL’s arms to starts to cry heavily. PAUL, also visibly shaken, rubs her back and tries to calm her down.

PAUL: Don’t worry. It’s over now.

PAUL looks towards the house.

FADE TO:

ON BLACK:

 The following discussion takes place on black and then continues as we fade in to show that AMY is waking.

 AMY’S MOTHER: I should have been with her.

DOCTOR: You shouldn’t blame yourself.

AMY’S MOTHER: She didn’t say a word… And I left without asking her. I just assumed… (Pause) Will she be okay?

DOCTOR: She needs plenty of rest and support.

AMY’S MOTHER: I’ll see to it that she gets both.

FADE IN:

INT. HOUSE, NIGHT

AMY’s bedroom.

AMY slowly wakes up. She is lying in bed. AMY’S MOTHER, 60, stands at the end of her bed.

AMY’S MOTHER: The Doctor has been. He said you’d be OK. But we can call him anytime.

AMY: If I go crazy, you mean?

 A long pause.

 AMY’S MOTHER: You’re old enough to know better.

 AMY: We don’t have to worry about that now.

Beat.

AMY’S MOTHER: Get some rest.

AMY closes her eyes. AMY’S MOTHER turns off the light.

AMY: Tell Paul I said “Thanks.” For being there.

AMY’S MOTHER stands at the door. She bows her head, then leaves, closing the door behind her. The bedroom is plunged into darkness, except for a small amount of moonlight that shines from the window onto the bed.

CUT TO:

INT. HOUSE, NIGHT

AMY’S MOTHER walks down the stairs and into the kitchen.

From AMY’S MOTHER’s side, the camera turns and moves up the stairs, onto the landing and towards AMY’s room. It circulates the room and stops on the peacefully sleeping face of AMY. The camera then moves round the bed and towards the walk-in wardrobe in the corner of the room.

The moonlight from the window reveals that the wardrobe door is ajar. The camera closes in until the wild eye of a man can be seen. The muttering whisper of the intruder can be heard as the camera gets closer approaches the wardrobe. The intruder is whispering various baby noises to himself repeatedly.

We hear a button being pressed and the recording of a crying baby begins to play.

FADE TO BLACK.

THE MAKING OF SEAN TAYLOR

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“Did I ever tell you about Sean Taylor?”

Principal Harvey had been cooped up in her office for days, with no contact with anyone except her assistant and the odd unruly child who had been sent to her by a teacher who could no longer cope. She was wild-eyed and blood-shot from the gallons of coffee and hours of laptop usage. I was surprised she’d upgraded from a typewriter.

She was wearing the god-awful purple cardigan again. It made her look like a tramp, and her Ken Dodd hairstyle didn’t help much. Her spine had begun to bend into the shape of her slouched position in the chair and she looked much older than her 57 years. 

These meetings took place every six months and felt like they lasted that long, Principal Harvey always taking the chance to tell an anecdote from her 25 years in the job.

“No, I don’t think you did. Was he a pupil at this school?” I replied.

“Oh yes,” she said. “He was a right little bastard! But not anymore!”

She seemed to liven up very quickly as she prepared to tell me the story. 

“I’m fascinated by the occult,” she said. “Are you?”

“Ghost stories and the like?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Let me tell you about Sean Taylor. It might not make a believer out of you, but it makes a good yarn.” 

Principal Harvey was known for her macabre sense of humour. A boy from my year nine class was knocked off his bike by a car just two weeks ago. He rose from the pavement completely unharmed but walked into a lamppost and broke his nose. Principal Harvey thought this was hilarious. 

“It’s moments like that, my dear, that prove the existence of God!” she had said. “He put that lamppost there so he wouldn’t get too big for his boots!” 

She went on to explain that Sean Taylor was a typical ‘wrong side of the tracks’ child. His Mother was a cleaner at a primary school and his Father was a truck driver who was absent five days out of seven. With five brothers within 18 months of each other, chaos reigned as they fought for every scrap of attention going. For whatever reason, Sean’s home life transferred violently to the school field. 

“He was a frightful bully, a horrible child,” she said. “I wish I could tell you that I saw a glimmer of something in those sad eyes, but sometimes bad apples are not redeemable.” 

Sean Taylor played truant often, and had been picked up by the police on many occasions and in all sorts of places. He was once found drunk and unconscious in an abandoned shed next to a cattle market. That was Principal Harvey’s favourite. 

On the day this story is set, Sean had picked up a Ouija board from somewhere and decided to set up a drunken séance at his house along with four other friends. 

“The four accomplices enjoyed playing with the Ouija and started to get the willies when they started to get results from the board,” she said. “But Sean’s didn’t believe in what he called ‘superstitious bollocks’.” 

“If Marilyn Monroe’s there, come back to the real world and show us your tits!” He said.

It was here that – by fair means or foul – the board got its revenge on Sean Taylor. It spelt out the word ‘Ssh’ at first, to the amusement of the group. 

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Sean asked.

S – E – A – N

The group was now silent as Sean and the board began to converse with each other. 

“What do you want?” Sean asked.

Y – O – U

“Why?”

B – A – D

“You’re a dick,” said Sean.

The planchette moved to ‘NO’. 

Sean began to sweat profusely. He threatened his friends, hoping they would come clean about playing with him. They all denied it, and convincing enough to avoid a beating. 

“Fuck this,” Sean said. “Who are you?”

The planchette moved from D to E to A to T and finally to H.

The group took a collective gasp of breath.

“I’m 14! I’m not dying yet so piss off!”

The planchette moved to ‘NO’ on the board.

“No?” he said.

“T – O – M – O – R – R – O – W

The spelling of the word took seconds but felt like years.

“How?” Sean whispered, his voice cracking.

S – H – O – T

the mood was broken. Sean burst out laughing and gave all his friends a playful punch on the arm and a hug. 

“You shitters! You had me going there!” he said. “I won’t give you beatings because it was funny, but this stays between us! Come on, let’s go somewhere else.” 

The friends were too stunned to say anything. They gathered up their things and left with Sean. 

“Shot… Ha!” said Sean. “Where are we living, South Central fucking Leicestershire?” 

Principal Harvey stopped telling the story and poured both of us some tea. 

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Very interesting… So far.”

“That’s the spirit. It’s a great story, true?”

“It is,” I said. 

The more excited Principal Harvey got the more terrifying she became. If Emma Thompson put a toaster in the bath and survived, she would look like Principal Harvey. I did want to hear about Sean Taylor though. 

“Where was I? Oh yes, ‘South Central’,” she said. 

Sean Taylor spent the rest of the day acting like nothing had happened, and that night he enjoyed a good night’s sleep the same as any other. The next day he rose from his bed and completed his usual personal hygiene routine and left for school as normal. 

As he walked down the street with his iPod blaring, a car that was approaching ahead of him started to slow down. Sean paid it no mind, even as the window wound down and a small hand holding a gun came out and pointed at him. The car slowed to a virtual halt, and Sean noticed the gun. It fired, covering Sean in water.

On any other day this would have been no cause for concern, but as the car drove off, Sean was frozen in fear. 

In the office, Principal Harvey was laughing. 

“It’s brilliant, isn’t it!” she said.

“Poor Sean,” I said.

“Poor Sean… Balls!”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“He had a spiritual awakening… also known as a nervous breakdown.” 

I didn’t find this revelation quite as hilarious as Principal Harvey.

“My God, is he OK?” I asked.

“He is now, but it took a good year of therapy. He’s a teacher now at our sister school. He uses that story as an ‘ice breaker’ with his students.” 

I laughed. After a moment’s silence, it was time for me to leave. 

“Thank you for your time, Principal Harvey… And you were right,” I said. “It didn’t make a believer out of me, but it makes a good yarn.”

“Told you,” she said with a smile. “Now finish your tea and I’ll see you in six months.” 

I nodded and stood up. My body screamed out as it stretched back into its original shape, and as I turned to exit the office I started to make a mental note of Sean Taylor’s story so I could recite it at dinner later.