Ball of Confusion Read online

  While the truck passes by, both turn their faces from its cloud, and cover their mouths. As trundling fades into the distance, the men’s attention is drawn to a new sound, emanating from the open windows of an apartment directly above their heads. Both stand and look up, in the direction of a baby’s frantic high-pitched cries; followed closely by whooping cheers, from a man’s voice who sounds delighted.

  Upstairs, the dreary one-bedroom apartment is being brightened significantly by the beaming smile of ecstatic new father, Bilal Sahar; while the mother lies exhausted in the bedroom, being cared for by her mother and a midwife.

  Bilal stands proudly cradling his first child, Hazma, a healthy son. Overjoyed and overcome with emotion, the man sways himself and his gurgling child gently from side to side. The new dad is the “cat that got the double cream”. He’s so emotional and happy that in between short spontaneous bursts of laughing and crying, he gibbers gibberish and coos calming noises and words to his offspring. Gibbering and cooing just feels like the right thing to do, and it works, the baby’s crying has stopped, and young Hazma appears to enjoy the communication, responding with gurgling gums and brown sparkling eyes.

  Also in the room is Bilal’s older brother, who sits enjoying the entertainment from an armchair; until he looks down at his wristwatch and interrupts the delirious swaying. Nodding towards the river, he comments wryly, “I’m delighted for you, Brother… but if you gurgle much longer we’ll catch no fish today.”

  Bilal stops gurgling and responds, “Brother… I am a father now… and you are an uncle. This is the best day of my life. We fish seven days a week. Today… the fish can wait.”

  The older brother doesn’t seem too perturbed. He just shrugs in his chair as the father carefully carries his baby outside, onto a tiny balcony overlooking the narrow road.

  The two old men are still there, standing below in the middle of the street looking up, and both watch as Bilal cradles Hazma in both hands, extends his arms out high, to their fullest extent, and proudly holds his newborn son aloft, like a trophy, for the whole wide world to see.

  With a beaming smile and glowing face, loudly and proudly, Bilal announces to Baghdad, “I am Bilal Sahar… the happiest man in the world… Today, I introduce my son to the world…” and yells “THIS IS HAZMA SAHAR!”

  The two old men spontaneously grin their approval; both exposing missing front teeth as they break out into a shuffled jig, dancing around and around in a circle while wholeheartedly applauding the announcement.

  Bilal draws Hazma near, very close to his face; kisses him gently on the forehead and whispers, “Welcome to the world, my son.”

  •

  Chapter: 4

  Epidural

  In a plush private Los Angeles maternity ward.

  “You’re ready to pop!” confirms the black male paediatrician, through his sterilised mouth mask, while closely inspecting Mary Jones’s plumped genitalia.

  He instructs, “Now control your breathing, and gently… push.”

  The attractive Afro-American mother-to-be’s stretched belly bulges behemoth and proud, and does indeed look ready to burst as she lies perspiring on the bed. Two midwives are at hand, stood either side in close attendance. One wipes her brow with a soft flannel, while the other monitors epidural pain relief being drip fed via a tube into her spine.

  Knowing that her induced time has come, grimacing in anesthetised pain, Mary turns her head to the side and finds a focal point to concentrate on: the bedside cabinet; which overflows with gifts, cards and flowers from well-wishing friends and family. The lavish hospital room is well furnished and well staffed: two more nurses hover, making a total of five staff on hand attending to one mother, to deliver one baby.

  Mary braces her body, and pushes. With assured confidence, the paediatrician cups his latex gloved hands together in preparation and calmly compliments her efforts, “Beautiful… keep those legs at twenty-to-four… perfect.”

  Then finally, the mother’s vocal chords let rip; with pained breath she howls. A shock of black matted hair appears between her legs; followed closely by the screwed-up face of a brand-new baby girl. Expert hands assist in sliding Millie from the womb. They inspect and wrap her, then pass the squealing newborn into Mary’s grateful arms.

  The paediatrician’s air of authority then shows a softer side; as he manipulates his voice into a high-pitched tone, and through his facemask squeaks, “Hello, baby!”

  “Well delivered, sir!” compliments a nurse.

  “Thank you, nurse… I’m thrown a few curved balls sometimes… but never miss a pass from the quarterback!” He winks, and moves around the bed removing his facemask; revealing a grin from ear to ear. He stands momentarily in silence, proud, enjoying his work, and comments, “She’s a little ball of confusion at the moment, with all the excitement… She’ll soon calm.”

  Right on cue, just as he has predicted, once snuggled in Mary’s arms, Millie quietens. The doctor nods assuredly, stoops, puckers his lips, and politely pecks a kiss onto the beautiful baby’s cheek.

  Then puckers again, cradles the mother’s face between his palms, and kisses her passionately fully on the lips.

  A nurse removes the epidural needle from Mary’s back, and offers her felicitations, “Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Jones!”

  The vision of Millie: swaddled in soft blankets, in the warm safety of her mother’s loving arms; with delighted father doting… paints a perfect picture of idyllic family contentment.

  •

  Chapter: 1A

  Ball of Confusion by Millennium Jones

  (continued)

  Millie glances at the clock on the rear auditorium wall. At this point she’s on schedule to finish well within the allotted exam time limit. Referring back to her notes, she continues, “Once we’re born… wherever it is, or whoever to, we’re introduced to life… Taught to eat, talk, wash and walk. Our mentors generally guide us to do… as they do. To live like them and to think like them, because they all honestly believe they live their lives… the right way!”

  She takes another glance across the audience. When writing her speech Millie was mindful that some of her points get a bit heavy, and reminded by her father of most folks’ low boredom thresholds. She knows to make her points swiftly and concisely; so with no apparent dissension in the ranks yet, “By the time we reach around six years old, our foundations are set. Circumstance and influence have guided us onto our life’s path… and from thereon we all generally live our lives in a manner acceptable to our creed… That is until… we encounter outside influence!”

  Another quick breath, “Outside influences add spicy new dimensions to our lives, as we meet friends and foes, experience wins and woes, and as we laugh and cry we learn that the world’s vast diversity of “need, creed and culture”… offers many varied paths… Paths different to our own, so consequently at a very early age, we face a choice…” Millie looks out across the room, “To blindly follow our guided path… or choose another route?”

  •

  Aged Six (1991)

  •

  Chapter: 5

  The Den

  In the same grimy London bedsit, inside the kitchenette cupboard, beneath the sink’s draining board, slivers of light slip through the gaps, but it’s still dark… Six-year-old George sits in that darkness, on his backside, with knees drawn up tightly against his chin. It’s the only way his small skinny body fits inside the locked cupboard.

  His legs and feet are numb, from restricted movement and blood flow. With nothing else to do but think, he whiles away hours of isolation by thinking about his breathing; varying the tone and tempo while inhaling and exhaling, making interesting sound combinations and tunes; anything to help break the boredom during his dark times in solitary.

  But then, his creative breathing stops, instantly as his ears detect a recognisable sound indicating it may be time to be let out. Outside in the bedsit, above the droning never-ending tedious television noise, h
e hears the welcome sound of a deadbolt, sliding across a bracket.

  Light penetrates his darkness, as expanding cracks appear around the frame; the door squeaks slowly open. Well versed in the routine, George accustoms his eyes to the light before focusing on Maurice’s black naked knees and shins standing directly outside the cupboard.

  “Come out!” commands the deep Somali voice “Don’t do it again!”

  George can’t actually remember what he’d done wrong, if anything; probably something trivial as usual; or nothing, but regardless he’s so delighted to get out that he replies subserviently, “I won’t!”

  Leaning forward, his numb limbs climb out on all fours; stopping when the top of his head touches Maurice’s knees. He cranes his neck to look up. From that angle the pimp looks enormous, and compared to the small skinny boy he is ginormous.

  George cowers in expectation, awaiting the customary slap (standard procedure on release). Maurice is a professional intimidator, a very talented one; but surprisingly… no slap today, or feigned intent to make the boy flinch; instead Maurice crouches down onto his haunches, while George kneels back on his. They meet at about eye level. The powerfully built man is dressed in scabby boxer shorts and a discoloured multi-stained string vest. The glowing red tip of his long fat smouldering cannabis joint protrudes from Maurice’s mouth; which practically touches George’s nose as he exhales smoke into the boy’s face and mumbles, “Time you go out, boy!”

  As George coughs, Maurice grabs hold of the boy’s blond mane of shoulder length hair, and uses it to lift the boy to his feet, as he stands himself.

  From behind Maurice, a faint woman’s yawn can be heard before Martha’s soft slurred voice announces, “It’s my handsome George… Hi, baby.” The intoxicated mother lies spreadeagled in an untidy mess on the well-stained mattress. She wears her traditional badly plastered make-up, and the same grimy threadbare silk dressing gown. Time has not been kind to Martha; every dogged day of the last six years now shows on her face. She’s still attractive, but habitual abuse from alcohol, drugs, prostitution and Maurice, have made their mark… her thirty-six looks a well-worn fifty.

  “Hi, Ma,” replies George; whose voice is unnaturally deep for one so young. He speaks his words slowly, in a kind of thoughtful drawl.

  Martha lazily flops her half-naked body across the bed and puckers lipstick-loaded lips preparing to kiss her son, who stoops towards her; but before she can plant a red mark, Maurice yanks her target away, and drags him unceremoniously towards the door. As George’s tiny legs struggle to keep up, he notices an open packet of biscuits on the kitchenette, which he grabs.

  At the front door Maurice releases the boy, opens the door, exhales another intoxicating cloud of smoke and mumbles, “My biscuits, boy!” He snatches the packet back before pushing George’s frail frame forcefully through the door, out into the night.

  Maurice shoves the lad so hard that he falls and sprawls right across the footpath; but well used to the treatment George is unperturbed, and picks himself up from the path.

  After evicting the boy Maurice goes back inside; leaving the front door open behind him. Outside in the poorly lit heavily littered street, the walls of their “house of disrepute” are in desperate need of repair, and degenerated further by spray painted slogans and obscene pornographic graffiti; due to local knowledge of the nature of the abode.

  George turns around, and notices in the shadows hidden from street lights, a fat white man in a cheap creased suit leaning against the wall.

  On seeing the boy eyeing him up and down the fat man steps out from the shadows. His top lip and chubby cheeks wear the extended whiskers of a ridiculously wispy half-handlebar moustache; which twitches as his face wobbles, while he comments sarcastically, “You’re the youngest punter I’ve ever seen!”

  George is puzzled, “Eh?”

  His fat face forms a fat sardonic smile, as he thrusts sexually with his groin asking, “The prozy… did you nail it?”

  As the man chuckles at his own joke, he wobbles… like a frolicking walrus.

  Although only six years old, George has seen enough action around his mother to know exactly what the man means. He’s well versed in gutter-based vocabulary, having heard it relentlessly as the norm during every day of his upbringing. Without a second thought he moves towards the man, retorting angrily, “That’s my ma, you fat mess!”

  “Why you cheeky little…” Fat Man blurts, lunging towards George, reaching to grab him, muttering, “Come here you…”

  But his lunge is halted by Maurice stepping from the doorway. Fully dressed now, the pimp slaps George across the back of his head and orders, “Go away, boy… Mammy got business.”

  Maurice holds out a large upturned hand in the direction of Fat Man; who knowingly responds by pulling out banknotes. He checks the amount, slaps cash into the pimp’s palm, and seeks confirmation, “One hour?”

  He nods, while counting the cash.

  Fat Man wants clarification, “She’ll do anything?”

  Again Maurice nods his agreement and steps a few paces from the door, enabling Fat Man to waddle his way behind him; but before he enters, Fat Man turns to face the boy, and behind Maurice’s back thrusts sexually with his groin, mouthing the words, “Mammy’s gonna get it!”

  George spits back, “You’ll have to find your cock under that belly first!”

  Fat Man’s face drops; his chins merge into his neck rolls. “Go, boy!” barks Maurice.

  Seething, George rams his fists forcefully into his pockets; wishing he could pummel that fat smarmy face. He despises these men who abuse his mother; night after night, year after year.

  On hearing the door close behind him, Maurice reminds George, “Go!”

  An angry, frustrated young boy bows his head and trudges away despondently. He disappears into the dark, heading towards the park.

  •

  The local public park is situated a stone’s throw from the bedsit at the end of the road. In this congested over-populated area, it is the only open green space of any significance for miles. There used to be more; but over-development of school playing fields eliminated that.

  Early next morning, in the park, apart from trees swaying in the breeze, the only visible movement across a sea of shimmering dewy grass is that of an old age pensioner, who has risen bright and early to exercise his beloved cocker spaniel. Each time the owner throws a yellow ball, the eager hound lets out a tirade of maniacal barks and scampers delightedly to retrieve it, and then on its return, the dog consistently refuses to release the ball from its mouth; so the owner plays along and pretends he doesn’t want it. The dog drops the ball, the owner picks it up, throws it, and the whole process repeats all over again. It’s predictable monotonous stuff; but it keeps them both happy.

  Further into the park, away from the road, the gentle breeze sways the children’s swings, side to side, front to back. It also ruffles the feathers of half a dozen pigeons perched precariously in a huddle on the crossbar of a soccer goal. They warble and coo collectively as they face away from the pitch, looking towards a dense wooded area in the far corner of the park.

  Unbeknown to the outside world, deep inside these woods George lies sleeping, upon a bed of flattened cardboard boxes, with an old tarpaulin draped across him as a blanket. The boy’s eyes begin to open as he’s awakened gradually by nature’s alarm clock. A bird’s chorus chirrups, branches creak and leaves rustle as breeze blows through the trees shrouding this thicket. Looking upwards, through the tips of his flickering eyelashes, his squinting sleepy eyes focus on gaps of clear blue sky visible through naturally thatched branches above him.

  His eyes become blurred slightly as bright sunlight filters through the foliage. George arches his back, stretches out his body and releases a loud yawn; before another sound groans from his body… a loud hollow moan from his empty stomach.

  Scattered around George are a variety of personal items that he’s collected over the years. They are main
ly scrap items that would only ever be deemed useful by a young boy for his den; which is precisely what George has created here. Next to an old bald car tyre, a three-legged wobbly looking wooden chair sits balanced on a pile of broken red bricks; an upturned black plastic rubbish bin sits alongside the chair, as a table. On the floor a rusty handsaw leans against an old shop cash register, so outdated that the money signs pop up mechanically. About eight or nine orange plastic road cones appear to zone-off the den’s perimeter, and his cardboard bed is positioned smack-bang in the middle.

  Then, hearing unexpected noises approaching, he awakens fully; snapping twigs and rustling branches, from the direction of the park, drawing nearer. He sits up, wipes snot from his runny nose onto the back of his hand, sniffs, watches, and waits…

  Moments later, through compacted trees, Martha’s soft voice filters, “Are you there, baby?”

  He looks relieved, and replies, “Yes, Ma.”

  The snapping and rustling grows louder as she fights her way through, “How do you get in there?”

  He sniffs and drawls, “It’s a secret… a secret entrance, Ma.” His mother’s heavily made-up face appears. She enters the den oozing big love from her eyes and beaming a beautiful bountiful smile. Martha wears a loose beige cotton coat; unbuttoned at the front, revealing the same stained silk dressing gown beneath. She half stumbles in, teetering on spectacularly sexy six-inch red patent heels.

  As he stands to greet her, Martha grabs hold of him emotionally, cuddles him to her bosom and whispers warmly, “Hi, baby.”