Ball of Confusion Read online

  Now three years older, although still lacking in self confidence, his experiences in DC have made him considerably wiser in the ways of the world. Consequently, he marches boldly through the sliding front doors, straight up to the condiment area, and quickly notices that some things have changed in McDonalds… they now have mayonnaise in sachets too. Delighted with this veritable feast before him, he gets stuck in; but after battling to tear the tops off dozens of individual sachets, and laboriously sucking out the contents one at a time, he gets bored with the rigmarole and discovers a more efficient way of getting food to mouth in volume.

  He lays a napkin flat (which is also free) onto the counter’s shiny steel surface, piles up a mixed quartet of sachets, lines up the perforations, and with his teeth tears open four at a time; which are then squirted collectively onto the napkin, producing a mounded concoction of ketchup, mayonnaise and sugar, which he mixes together with his finger. This speeds up the process considerably. Once stirred to a marbled consistency, he stoops his head, and with his tongue laps up large dollops into his mouth. He loves that taste, complimented by miniature mouthfuls of milk. Absorbed totally in his self-serve meal, his face is ecstatic.

  After a while his unusual, creative eating technique draws a crowd of watching children. A young toddler, who’s wandered away from his pack, stands right next to George staring up at him, in awe, intrigued, and as the boy’s mother rushes to the rescue, he tells her, “I want to eat like that!” She drags him away in disgust.

  George is also being observed by a young uniformed female McDonald’s employee, who casually mops the floor nearby. They both make awkward flickered eye contact. On the outside, George seems unperturbed at being watched, and continues lick feeding, but inside, he’s wary of the attention. He learnt in DC – uniforms mean authority, which should be handled carefully to avoid grief, but George thinks now that he may have misinterpreted the uniform message somewhat, and wonders if restaurant uniforms count as well. But he’s still hungry, and she doesn’t seem too bothered, so he continues lapping it up.

  Another lesson he learned: for self-protection or gain, an aggressive frown can sometimes speak louder than words. A fierce face can also be intensified in degrees so as to be interpreted (at its worst) as a psycho stare, a weapon to ward off, but only when necessary. He’s not over concerned at present, so glances back slightly sternly, but respectfully, as she poses no threat to him yet.

  She’s soon joined by a young well-uniformed male with a well-pimpled forehead. His smartly fastened tie looks a bit too tight, like his emotions. His shiny name badge presents his Polish name, Mathius, and his position, Store Manager. George continues squirting, mixing and licking as he watches the employees whispering while watching him. The girl then turns slightly, and attempts to disguise a hand behind her long hair, while pointing to her forehead. George wonders if she’s discussing the manager’s pimples; until the penny drops, that she’s noticed the faded blood cross on his forehead. He’s forgotten to wipe it off.

  The young manager nods back to the girl then tentatively treads his way over, and nervously advises George, in heavily accented English, “Yous is only suppose to eats these foods yous dids buys in McDonalds’s.”

  With smeared mayonnaise, ketchup, sugar, and dried blood on his face, George feels nervous now. With false bravado, forming his face into psycho stare, he leans forward onto his front foot, and watches for a response.

  It works. The nervous manager is intimidated, and stammers back even more nervously, “Please, if yous is nots eating foods yous dids buys in McDonalds’s please I must please ask yous please leave please.”

  The watching crowd is a reasonable size now; huddled behind the staff. Another boy comments, “I fancy that… mayo, sugar and ketchup.”

  “Me too,” his friend agrees, “That cross on his head’s cool as well.”

  Hearing the comment, George checks his reflection in the shiny surface, which confirms the cross is there. He’s feeling increasingly uncomfortable now, and vulnerable, as his mind races, wondering: Do they know who I am… and what I did to Frank?

  Panic sets in. He places the saucy napkin onto the steel surface, but in doing so accidentally spills a few dollops of red ketchup, and watches as they drop and splatter across the white canvas of his plimsoll, right next to the fine spray of Frank’s dried blood.

  He feels a knot forming in his stomach, and looking up sees the Polish manager staring down at his splattered shoes. George’s skin colour turns pale. His psycho stare has gone; replaced by doubt and concern.

  The manager wears the same look, while his spotty face twitches at the conflict he’s created. He hates drama, but had to do it; it’s his job, as store manager; rules is rules.

  George’s delayed emotional trauma comes home to roost. In his desperation to escape DC, and eagerness to get home, his mind’s self-defence mechanism masked out much of yesterday’s experience with Frank, so he hasn’t thought about it really. But as the crowd stare, last night’s events come flooding back. A dawning of realisation rings around his head: I killed Frank last night! I killed Frank!

  The silent manager and crowd all watch, in complete surprise, as a single tear rolls down across George’s sauce-smeared cheek.

  The Pole has no idea what to do or say to handle this. No one ever cried over ketchup in his presence before. There were no instructions for this scenario in the handbook. He watches George’s bottom lip quiver, and with concern asks, “Why is yous cry?”

  George’s agitated head and body begin turning, around and around slowly, in circles in panic, scanning the restaurant, and as he swivels he catches reflections of himself everywhere in mirrors and steel, all around him; of the cross on his forehead and the tears flowing down across his cheeks. Then as he stops spinning his eyes settle on a transfixed wall of astonished faces, staring back, at him. He blurts out, “I didn’t want to do it… I had to. What else could I do?”

  Complete silence now fills the restaurant; even kitchen staff stop cooking to observe. Nobody expected this dramatic emotional response. All eyes are on George; he is the complete and utter centre of attention. George knows it, and can’t handle it, he sprints for the exit.

  “Err…” the confused guilt-ridden manager shouts after him very, very politely, “if yous wants yous can takes some sauces with yous… please!”

  But George has scarpered, prompting hoards of children to invade the condiment area, eagerly filling their pockets with handfuls of sugar, ketchup, mayonnaise, napkins… and tiny little containers of milk.

  •

  George heads for home, to the park, and guided by moonlight follows that line of fences behind the terraced houses with long gardens backing onto the park. He’s regained composure now, and stops at the point where he used to climb over to steal fruit and vegetables. He leaps onto the fence, peers over, and clearly remembers his battle with the Rottweiler, and its outcome. He still half expects the sounds of growling and pounding paws and the dog to spring from the darkness, but the garden remains quiet and still. He’s had many nightmares over killing that dog. George loves animals.

  The allotment and lawn have been untended for a long time, and are now completely overgrown. The compost mound in the corner fertilizes a forest of weeds sprouting, and spears of grass that protrude; along with the rusty short-handled pitchfork that George used to kill the dog.

  •

  As George passes the swaying squeaking swings, he remembers his mother, and the chats they’d have walking across the football pitch, and their dance, to their music. The tune plays clearly in his mind as he walks, and nearing the penalty spot he’s so absorbed in the tune that he almost treads in something… but saved by the moonlight he sees it first; prompting another memory, which brings a smile to his face.

  The moonlight is so bright tonight, George can see well ahead of himself, and as he nears the den it becomes clear that the dense wooded area isn’t dense anymore. In fact, it’s not even wooded.

&n
bsp; George stops and stands still… staring in dismay, dumfounded at the flattened area where his woods used to be. A residential building site, in early stages of development, is now sprouting from the ground. A huge billboard advertises in bold letters: FOR SALE – New two and three bedroom homes. A large painted illustration below the words shows a nice happy-looking two-plus-two family, standing in front of a nice house with a nice car, parked on a nice block-paved drive.

  As George looks closer at the family picture, the four people appear to be smiling down at him, which only makes it worse. They’ve got everything… He’s got nothing. He stares back, gutted. His den – was his home – and now it’s gone.

  In the depths of despondency he plonks himself down on the floor; crosses his legs, rests his elbows on his knees, places his head into his cradled hands, closes his eyes and wonders what he’ll do next.

  After spending some time quietly with his thoughts, he feels something soft and furry breeze lightly against his hand. He looks up and sees the long fluffy tail of a black cat swaying gently in front of his face. George sits upright, the cat climbs into his lap and gets comfortable; purring as the boy strokes its fur.

  George takes comfort from the cat; he needed the company, and while stroking, looks up at the moonlit billboard, and says to the cat, “I wish we’d had a house like that, for me and Ma… and a car… A car would be brilliant.” The contented cat’s purrs grow louder, as George rolls out another wish, “A dad would have been nice…”

  After pausing for thought, he asks the cat, “Where do you live?” but the cat ignores him, so he talks to himself, “I don’t know where I’ll go now…” George cups the cat’s tiny face between his palms, while thinking about the dramas of his own past, present and potential future. These thoughts pile up on the downtrodden sixteen-year-old, and his emotional voice tremors under the weighty burden of his past. From the heart he admits, “I didn’t want to kill Frank… but he kept battering Colin… I had to fight him… like Ma told me, and she was right; he was much bigger than me, and I won—” he’s snuffling a bit now as he talks, and admits, “I don’t like fighting. I don’t. I just don’t like it…” then his sadness turns to rage, “Now I’ve got to do it again!”

  •

  His emotional outburst disturbed the cat. It fled, and it took George a good few hours of walking around the park, swinging gently on the swings, and rotating slowly around and around on the roundabout, to regain composure… and focus on his task ahead.

  Completely focused now, George crosses the lamp-lit littered street at pace with purpose. He marches straight up to the bedsit door and kicks it hard, twice.

  Three more years of daubed graffiti have been added, practically engulfing the wall and door; it’s now difficult to see any red brick or original timber.

  Through the old door he hears loud muffled television noise. More memories flood back. George glances quickly at his tattooed hands then impatiently kicks the door again, three times; so hard that the door shakes in its rotting frame.

  “Wait, man, wait… I is coming,” the unmistakeable Somali accent replies.

  George steps back from the door as it opens, and puts both arms behind his back, stood at ease, but looking uneasy. The drug-dealing pimp hasn’t changed at all. Still big and ugly, and even may be wearing the same grubby old boxer shorts. His powerful naked upper body ripples with pumped muscle definition (he deals in steroids too).

  Maurice doesn’t recognise the boy, “What you want, man?”

  Staring into the milky eyes of the man he’s detested for ever… George is unsure what to say, but realises Maurice hasn’t recognised him.

  “What you want?” Maurice assumes George is a young punk wanting to buy drugs. “Blow, coke, crack… what you want?”

  George feels carefully behind himself, beneath his sweatshirt.

  Again Maurice snaps, “Cat got yer tongue. I ain’t got all night… what you want?”

  George wraps his fingers around the short handle of the pitchfork, tucked into the rear waistband of his joggers. He takes a tight grip and asks, “You don’t remember me?”

  Maurice stoops his head to take a closer look; then the habitually hostile expression on his leathery unshaven face softens slightly, as he appears to recognise George. He’s not one hundred percent sure, and questions, “It you?”

  “Yes,” replies George.

  “Ha!” the pimp scorns, “You still a runt!”

  “And you’re still a cunt!” George snaps back.

  Maurice definitely recognises him now. He actually seems quite amused to see him, and by his spirited response.

  George slides the pitchfork partially from his trousers, still out of sight, and plucks up the courage and strategy to strike. The toothbrush thing with Frank just happened that way, instinctively, it wasn’t planned. His actions now are premeditated. He’s waited a long time.

  Maurice predictably moves in closer, to tower over George. The same old intimidation tactics, while mocking, “Mammy don’t live here no more, boy.” He smirks at his own cruel words, then continues despicably, “Mammy don’t live no more!”

  This is it, George’s prompt: what he’s been waiting for, for years; his Saint-George moment, finally, face to face with the dragon. He steps closer, and in one swift movement pulls the pitchfork around and launches an underhanded thrust upwards towards Maurice’s chest. But the surprised man steps back; George only manages to lightly stab his skin. However, retreating in shock the pimp’s heel catches the door frame, throwing him off balance; as George advances, with a direct charge. Placing a second hand on the pitchfork he lunges forward with a speared assault.

  Maurice falls backwards onto the floor, landing heavily on his back (like George did when he was born). The back of his head smashes onto the floor (like George’s did when he was born).

  Sixteen years’ worth of pent-up fury… released; George piles on top of the floundering man and skewers the pig.

  Adding bodyweight to the fork, he feels its rusty prongs impaling Maurice’s chest, piercing through his skin, chest cavity, and cruel cold heart.

  George remains on top of him, at close quarters; staring down into the eyes of the man who tortured their lives for so long… He savours watching him die… and as the pimp gags in his final breaths of life… George asks him rhetorically, in his own inimitable voice, “You do remember me now.”

  •

  With nowhere else to go, George walks aimlessly into the night. His brain bounces from pillar to post as he walks; he’s torn between two minds: satisfied at avenging his mother’s death, but remorseful about killing, again, twice; two people in two days. He’d hated killing the dog, and now has this weird vision of himself with Saint George on one shoulder and a dragon on the other, while his beautiful mother watches over him, like an angel.

  He trudges footpaths along empty late-night streets for mile after mile, until reaching a large commercial retail park. In the past, prior to DC, he’s known these large stores to leave cardboard packaging outside, awaiting collection by recycling companies. He used to steal it for sleeping on in his den. George enters the retail park looking for a place to sleep.

  The bright fluorescent sign of an electrical appliance store attracts his attention; he remembers this particular shop often has discarded packaging at the rear, and heads that way. As he idles along the store’s frontage, through large windows George admires the vast impressive range of appliances on display: cookers, refrigerators, vacuums, cameras and televisions. He stops and stares at a large eye-catching bank of TVs, all switched on and tuned-in to the same channel. All sizes, small, medium, large and huge televisions, all synchronised, showing the ten o’clock evening news. George watches with interest, footage of two identical extremely tall high-rise towers in a built-up skyscraper city. One of the towers is on fire, with a plume of black smoke plummeting towards the sky. Intrigued, George watches these startling images of a building that tall on fire.

  While watching,
he also catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass, with his latest self-painted bloody cross on his forehead. He can’t even remember painting it, and immediately licks his fingers and rubs it off, mumbling, “No more.”

  He returns his attention to the televisions, and is surprised to see a low-flying aeroplane inexplicably fly directly into the second tower; then watches intently as it explodes, blasting out a billowing ball of smoke and flames.

  George thinks it must be a preview to a new disaster movie, but is distracted when droning engine noise catches his attention from above. He looks up into the night time sky, and amongst flickering stars sees bright flashing lights from the undercarriage of a Boeing 747, as it descends towards London Heathrow.

  •

  Chapter: 10

  Good Flight?

  On September 11th 2001, the ceiling-mounted televisions scattered around London Heathrow’s arrivals hall are surrounded by crowds of people eagerly craning their necks to view incredible as-it-happens live news footage. Many have open mouths as they watch continuous re-runs of an aeroplane hitting the south tower of New York’s World Trade Centre, while the north tower burns.

  The watching hordes are made up of arriving travellers, people collecting travellers, airline/airport staff and security personnel, who collectively represent a good cross-section of the world’s vast diversity of creed and culture. Skin colours vary from black to brown to yellow to white, while the clothes being worn are equally as different: uniforms, jeans, suits, sandals and boots, veils, robes, shorts, frocks, flip-flops and socks… they wear clothing from right around the globe. Heathrow Airport, with its multi-faith prayer rooms, is an excellent 24/7 example of integration. Vast arrays of cultures merging in one place, and all of these people are trying to make sense of what they’re witnessing… except one.