Incunabulum by Carol McKay - a review

You wake up one morning and everyone is dead. Society has broken down and it’s up to you and a handful of survivors to try to keep the human race going – and to stay human. This is the premise of Carol McKay’s excellent post-apocalyptic novel Incunabulum. It has to be said that McKay is way ahead of the screeds of Covid-related analysis that will inevitably hit the bookshelves in the coming months. Incunabulum has roots that go back to 2007 – the first section of the book was longlisted for the Daily Telegraph Novel In A Year competition, and subsequently published in the newspaper. The novel itself came out early last year. McKay has said that she regards this as a ‘women’s book’. I don’t quite understand what she means by that. Certainly, the protagonist is a woman and it is through her eyes that the story unfolds. But does this make it a book for women? I think not. I do think, however, that McKay’s writing flows beautifully throughout. The main question raised concerns her choice of how a post-apocalyptic society would set about organising itself. This isn’t a criticism, and I won’t give any spoilers, but I guess a few readers might take issue with the proto-society McKay imagines. Others – myself included – will conclude that she hits the nail squarely on the head. The fact that the book raises so many questions is one of its strongest points. Seriously, what would happen if everything went back to zero and we had to start again? Who would be in charge, who would forage for food (and weapons), who would look after the children? Delve into the pages of Incunabulum and you just might find out.

Incunabulum by Carol McKay is published by The PotHole Press

South Shore Road by Andrew McCallum Crawford published by Clochoderick Press

South Shore Road

He’s a good laddie. I never see him. I wish I did.

The living room was pitch black. He pulled his legs off the couch and unzipped the sleeping bag. Although he was still dressed, he started to shiver immediately. No heating, he’d had the gas cut off. He was thinking about doing the same with the electricity, but that would have to wait. Scotland was about to shut down for two days. Out with the old and in with the new. But what if someone wanted to see the house? Wouldn’t they need electricity? He had no idea how these things worked.

Awake for less than a minute and already the thoughts were overwhelming.

*   *   *

South Shore Road has been published by Clochoderick Press in their magazine Laldy!, which can be purchased here.

Three stories published by Interlitq

Three of my short stories, Ichneumon eumerus, Dunfermline Bus Station, 196- and Admissions have been published by Interlitq this month. Do click on the links to go to the stories. Writing has its ups and downs, but it's finding an audience that's the hard part.

Ichneumon eumerus by Andrew McCallum Crawford published by Interlitq - The International Literary Quarterly

Ichneumon eumerus

  

Mindy was fifty-four years old and had never achieved anything on her own. She knew she was being hard on herself; she had a good job in middle-management and had married well. In other words, she lived in a big house with a husband and two lovely children. However, at work she was no more than a cog in a wheel, and marriage by definition is a partnership, a joint venture. It wasn’t her work or domestic arrangements that were on her mind. She had always been a follower, a hanger-on. This was before she got married, when she was single and playing the field. She wanted to do so many things, music, art, writing, but she never had the courage to strike out and achieve something in her own right or through her own efforts. Something had happened recently, however, and she had found herself thinking about her past, a moment when someone had spoken badly to her. That was what she thought, anyway. Memory is a strange thing; she couldn’t even remember the words that had been used, not clearly. Perhaps it was merely a thought in her head. Things get conflated, especially when you try to remember them from a lifetime ago...

*     *     *

To read the story, go to the Interlitq website.

When Iron Turns To Rust

Trying to boil water in a small, long-handled pot. The flame was tiny, sputtering. There was hardly any gas left in the canister. The water had to be boiled, and boiled well. It was orange, the colour of old iron. He tried to tell himself it was nothing bad. There is nothing harmful about iron. It is supposed to be good for the blood. Maybe it would make a man of him. But he was careful. You never knew. Germs. It is never wise to give them a head start.

The flame wheezed. He would have to risk it. He added a teaspoon of coffee and stirred vigorously. Perhaps friction would speed things along.

Someone was at the door.

He wiped the spoon on his vest.

A woman was standing out in the passageway. She looked vaguely familiar. The expression she wore was tearful, apologetic. A suitcase was at her side. He became aware of his heart beating as vague familiarity welled up into something else.

‘You can’t be fucking serious,’ he said.

‘Bastard,’ she said. She leaned to pick up the case, but he got there before her, a real gentleman.

He squared the sheet on the bed. He made it last longer than necessary, tucking the corners in just so. He could feel her standing behind him, next to the sink, taking in the state of the place.

The canister gave a final pop. The flame died.

‘I’d make you a coffee,’ he said. ‘But, eh...’

‘No, fine,’ she said. ‘I’m not...can I sit down?’ She wasn’t asking for permission. There were no chairs in the room. There was nothing in the room apart from the bed and the wardrobe. The toilet was on the other side of a threadbare curtain. All mod cons. He reached out onto the balcony for the stool, which was filthy, the result of prolonged rain followed by a heat wave. She lowered herself onto the edge of the mattress.

He wasn’t good at small talk. He wasn’t good at confrontations, either. This one was of his own making. Not just his. They’d concocted this situation between them. It had been a long time coming. He sat on the stool, his knees up around his chin. It was ridiculous. He tried to read her eyes, but she wouldn’t look at him. The grate over the drain in the middle of the floor had her transfixed.

‘Look at me,’ he said.

She did.

‘What happened?’ he said.

‘Are you still writing?’ she said. She wanted to get down to it. Of course she did. ‘I haven’t read about myself for a while.’

‘No, I gave it up,’ he said. ‘It was causing too many problems.’

‘Yes, tell me about it,’ she said.

He hadn’t meant it like that. It was true, though. That was the problem.

‘So I’m no longer your Muse?’ she said. ‘No, hang on, how does it go? That’s right, I’m the oxygen that breathes life into your words.’

‘Sarcasm was never your strong point,’ he said. ‘How are your kids?’ He was relieved to note she hadn’t brought them with her.

‘They’re at my mum’s,’ she said. She looked at the drain. A cockroach scurried out of the grate and stopped, its antennae gyrating, next to her left shoe. It about-turned and scurried back again. ‘Thanks for asking.’

‘So, what happened?’ he said.

She splayed her fingers in her lap. Some of her nails were broken. The skin around all of them was chewed. She looked at him. She looked at him for a long time. Her eyes were dull, like neglected emeralds. ‘He found out,’ she said.

He knew all about jealous spouses. Well, one. He didn’t blame his wife for reacting the way she had. So much deceit, all those years of trust being cunningly, methodically, mathematically chipped away. Secrets cease to be secret, sooner or later. You have to deal with the consequences. Not that he had wanted to leave. He had been thrown out, quite literally. His wife’s cousins were large fellows impervious to his whining. And here he was languishing in this dump, skint, but at least he was safe. ‘How did you know where to find me?’ he said.

‘You emailed me months ago,’ she said. ‘When you moved in here. Then you disappeared. Have you given up the Internet as well?’

He’d been offline for a while. Had it been months? The laptop was out of sight, under the bed, probably covered in dust and worse. He used to get a signal through the wall, but they had wised up to it and put a lock on. He couldn’t afford an hour down the cafe, never mind his own connection.

‘Strange, that,’ she said. ‘Giving me your address. Very old-fashioned.’

‘I wanted you to send me flowers to brighten the place up,’ he said, lamely. There was only one reason for telling her where he lived. He was sitting looking at it. ‘How did he...I mean, what did he...’

‘He didn’t speak to me. He went out and came home drunk. He started shouting, breaking things. I dressed the kids and took them to my mum’s. I haven’t been back to the house since. He’s okay, though, if a bit hysterical, judging by the texts he’s been...’

‘So you decided to jump on a plane and come to me?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mad, eh?’

He looked at the drain. ‘I can’t help feeling responsible,’ he said.

‘You don’t say!’

‘Let’s not argue,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got the energy, believe me.’

‘I can see that,’ she said. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. He couldn’t help himself. ‘So do you.’

She started crying, quietly.

He scratched the side of his face. ‘I haven’t eaten since Tuesday,’ he said.

Her fingers, blunt claws, started opening and closing as if she were trying to grab something to stop it getting away. What it was, he had no idea. It certainly wasn’t her dignity. She’d lost the last vestiges of that when she knocked on his door. She clenched her fists tight. He heard something break. He could have been mistaken. ‘God, what am I doing?’ she said. ‘You are so selfish.’

‘I know,’ he said.

She took a tissue from her pocket. Her nose. That way she had. Still the same. Delicate, but effective. ‘Could we go for a walk?’ she said.

It was an idea.

‘I’ll need to get changed first,’ she said. She hoisted the suitcase onto the bed. The lid flapped open. A pair of jeans. A white blouse with red roses. It looked new, the way it was folded. He should have given her some privacy, but where could he go? He leaned against the wall and rubbed the stain on his vest. It was damp. It wasn’t the first time he’d watched her undress. He wished it was. He wanted to feel something, he really did, but there was nothing sexual in the white cotton and naked skin. It was almost unreal, he was standing outside himself, watching these two desperate characters playing a scene; an excerpt from the jaded routine of married life.

His mouth made a sound.

She turned to face him. A challenge. Look at me. Look at all of me. He tried not to stare. Her breasts hung heavy, overripe, a vertical crease of wrinkles between them. His heart. His hand moved to his chest. Whatever dream he’d written her into, whatever it was they had shared, its time had come and gone years ago.

A crack like a gunshot as she pushed an arm through the sleeve of her blouse. ‘You’re some piece of work,’ she said.

‘What is it you want from me, for Christ’s sake?’ he said.

‘Don’t you dare shout,’ she said. ‘I can tell by the look on your face. Think about all those things you wrote.’

‘They’re just stories,’ he said. ‘I told you that.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You’re a liar.’

She was right. For him, the line between fiction and confession was so fine it didn’t exist. He was fooling no one, not even himself.

‘Okay, I’m a liar,’ he said. ‘My wife could tell you all about it. But I never lied to you. Not once. Call it misplaced loyalty. If it’s the truth you want, look around you. There’s mould on the ceiling and bugs crawling out the floor. That’s the truth. That’s my truth. You’re welcome to it.’

She sat on the bed and stared at the grate. The cockroach had taken cover. Perhaps all the noise had given it stage fright. ‘I want it to be like it was,’ she said. Her words were measured. Controlled. As if she’d practised them. ‘I want to feel wanted, not owned. I want you. Most of all...’ She was struggling. ‘I want you to leave me alone.’

‘I didn’t ask you to come here,’ he said.

She buried her face in her hands. She was crying again. This time she meant it. ‘Yes, you did!’ she said.

He remembered a tumbler in the cupboard over the sink. It was still there. He held it close to the tap, which spat orange liquid, as he knew it would. What happens when two things, two good things, are attracted? Sometimes they make something bad. Iron is good for the blood, and oxygen is good for everything else. But when you put them together all you get is rust.

Water came into the equation somewhere. Offering her a glass of it was more than he was capable of.

‘I’m sick of this place,’ he said. She was climbing into her jeans. He pulled the curtain closed and used the toilet. She was waiting for him when he came out. Her perfume. He followed her down the passageway, all the way to the lift. There was a place he knew. Coffee and rolls. He hoped she had money.

* * * * *

I read this story at the Waterstones Sauchiehall Street Truth or Lies event in June, 2017. It first appeared in Northwords Now in 2012.

Limerence - published at Ink Sweat and Tears

Limerence

They met in the aisle between the lentils and the tomato puree. It was a chance encounter; nothing had been planned...

To read the complete story, go to Ink Sweat and Tears. 

Retreat by Andrew McCallum Crawford - published in Under The Fable

Retreat

Staring at the wall. It was so close he could have touched it. Plasterboard painted light orange, brush marks, streaks, although you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t looking closely, if you weren’t examining it. Then the angle where it met the other wall, the corner. He could have touched that, too. Was this why he came here, to stare at walls and the corners they form? The sheet of paper on the desk. He had decided to do it the old way, longhand, but all he had managed was half a page. It wasn’t good. He knew the importance of making a start, and the flow of words that would inevitably follow – he wasn’t a beginner – but he couldn’t get his head into it. He couldn’t get his head into it because his head was somewhere else. His head was miles away, hundreds of them, where his body should have been...

To read the rest of the story, go to Under The Fable

The night Large One, Derrick played The Clatrell Leisure Suite, Falkirk - from a work in progress

By the time Large One, Derrick came on, the place was heaving. It had nothing to do with Large One, Derrick. The word was out that Shug Skinner was back in town.

‘HE-LLO FAW-KURT!’ Mooney bellowed into the microphone.

‘Freak!’ someone shouted.

‘I shagged your maw!’ shouted someone else. It was one of the Drive! fans, even though Drive! had already left the building.

‘I’d drink your pish!’ squeaked a wee lassie down the front. She’d been on the light box earlier.

Grant thumped out the tempo with a pair of brushes. He looked uncomfortable; he was trying to avoid the spray coming at him off the snare. Then Mooney came in on the guitar, and Stark on the fiddle. It sounded like The Dubliners meets Rising Damp. But nobody cared what it sounded like, not even the Posse. It was backing music for Shug. He didn’t, after all, have a clue about the lights, but he was a great dancer. He was swaying alone in the middle of the floor, cradling the syringe like it was his own true love. He danced expressively, almost balletically, pushing the hunk of metal away then drawing it closer, as if he couldn’t bear to let it go. It was quite a performance, Dug had to admit; Shug remained focussed even through Stark’s countless bum notes.

The applause was loud.

‘I! THANK! YOU!’ Mooney boomed. He pretended to tune his guitar till the noise died down. Then he stepped back to the mike. ‘This yin’s for my auld dear!’ he said. ‘It’s called The Slag!’ No one was listening. Shug was getting his photo taken with his fans. He’d be in the Herald next week. Again. Mooney turned to his brother. ‘Can ye no get this baldy fucker to sit down?’ he said.

There was a sudden ruckus at the door. Three men barged in. They looked identical: receding hairlines, bloodstained white T-shirts and arms like thighs. Dug found himself thinking of butchers, which was apt. It was the Bell Brothers. Their wee sister was with them, crying, getting dragged along by the wrist.

‘Where’s this Derrick Mooney cunt?’ shouted the largest brother. The meat cleaver he was wielding had bits of mince hanging off it. Shug shot a glance at Dug, who immediately pointed at the stage.

‘IT’S THE SINGER!’ Shug shouted, and led the charge. Grant scarpered. So did Stark. Mooney tried to vault the drums, but got his feet caught in the snare. He managed to get up before they reached him, though, his guitar banging off the walls as he legged it out the fire escape. The Bell Brothers kicked the drums out of the way, dragging their wee sister behind them.

Clatrell lost no time picking the microphone off the floor. ‘Anybody for a wee bit Rapper’s Delight?’ he said.

The joint was soon pulsating, The Posse, the whole lot of them, keening like a flock of Hasidic pigeons. Dug ordered another beer. He watched the remaining Drive! fans sink their pints and leave. Shug Skinner poked his head through the fire door. He walked straight up to Dug. ‘Nurse Buckle hasnae been in, has she?’ he said.

‘Eh,’ said Dug. ‘Don’t think so. Are you expecting her?’

‘Ye could say that,’ said Shug, and inserted his needle into the leg of his overalls. ‘I’m no really supposed to be out. Keep it to yerself, though!’

‘Got you,’ said Dug, and watched his new friend disappear through the back of the stage.

Half an hour later, Grant sloped in, followed by Stark.

‘Drink?’ said Dug.

‘Give us a hand with the stuff, will you?’ said Stark.

Stark’s car was parked round the back, next to a white Saab with a meat cleaver embedded in the bonnet. They laid the drums carefully in the back; the newspapers were already spread out. They had to leave the tailgate open – Grant’s bass drum was large. Dug was about to climb in when Mooney shoved past him. ‘Come on, youse,’ he said. ‘Handers. I want my money.’

They followed him through the back door of the pub, into the kitchen. It wasn’t long before the argument was in full flow.

‘Aye ye’re fucking right ye’ll be paying me!’ Mooney said. He was hyperventilating. His guitar was hanging off his shoulder, machine gun style. A few of the strings were broken. It was obvious the Bell Brothers hadn’t caught up with him.

Clatrell stuck his ladle into a pot and stirred. The bass line was thudding through the wall. ‘See this soup?’ he said.

Mooney was shaking with anger. ‘What about it?’ he said. There were bits of meat and carrot floating on the surface, just visible through the steam.

‘If ye don’t change yer tune,’ said Clatrell, ‘ye’ll be fucking wearing it.’

‘Whhhh?’

‘This is my Friday Night Delight,’ he continued. ‘Fuck the idiots through there in their baseball caps. Mutton broth, the kind of soup that sticks to yer ribs, and other parts of yer body, if ye get my drift. And ye know something else? I don’t need mouthy twats like you spoiling it.’

‘Fuck yer soup,’ said Mooney. ‘You booked us...’

‘You cheeky monkey,’ said Clatrell, and scooped a load into a bowl. ‘You’re asking me for money? Ye owe me five hunner quid for the fire door – mind you, you were too busy legging it down the road to see the Bell Brothers tearing it off its hinges. And ye can’t have missed the hatchet sticking out the bonnet of my new car.’

It was a case of mistaken identity. Stark coughed. ‘There’s a good panel beater in Denny...’ he offered.

‘What?’ said Grant. ‘Dalrymple Bash ’n’ Dash? They’ve been on strike since June.’

‘Eh?’ said Stark. He was blushing. ‘I didn’t know...’

Clatrell parked himself at the table and tore a hunk of bread off a loaf. ‘Stark,’ he said. ‘Get the Mooney contingent out of my sight. I can’t eat when there’s pricks like that watching me. Fancy a plate of soup, Dug? There’s plenty in the pot for folk with jobs.’

Perseids

Flat on my back
in a Surrey hayfield.
She's got me
where she wants me
she thinks.

Over her shoulder,
a shooting star
sears the face
of a harvest moon.

Strip The Willow on Ink Sweat and Tears

Strip The Willow

I want to watch. I want to watch you dance with me, and we are the perfect couple. Synchronised. Fiddles and accordions...

Read the rest of the story on Ink Sweat and Tears

Source Language

It was not a delusion. The fact that he could articulate the thought and stand outside it, appreciating it in all its complexity, was proof. For months he had been picking up signs, which he had come to interpret as signals, as gestures of intent. He was the target. That was his interpretation. All he had to do was reciprocate, but that was the problem, one of the many. Recklessness was not in his nature. It would have been easy to say it had been beaten out of him, stamped on, squashed; we look for people to blame. He had never been a blamer, if it came to looking for culprits he had always come back to himself. But now he was flailing at the bottom of a pit before he had even dug it, as if a censor had requisitioned the best part of his brain and was controlling him, controlling his imagination, the only thing that was keeping him sane.

They Made The Effort by Andrew McCallum Crawford

He tossed and turned till his wife told him to sleep downstairs. The rest of the night he spent on the couch, the lights switched off, the television tuned to the comedy channel, although he only caught fragments; it was difficult to concentrate on the screen. Too many things were running around in his head, disjointed images jostling for attention before shooting off on absurd tangents. Nothing made sense, after a while the scenes began to overlap, there was so much going on, too much information, all of it punctuated by the incongruous mirth of a laugh track.

His eyelids were closing. He fumbled for the button on the remote. It was time to get ready.

To read the complete story, go to the McStorytellers site.

At The Astoria - from a work in progress

I walked down to the square. Tam was on the corner, leaning against his barrow and affecting the worst Irish accent I had ever heard:

‘Get yer loovely toilet paper here – all de way from ould Doublin!’

‘All right, Tam?’

He ignored me. Someone had just picked up a sample. The transaction was completed, much to Tam’s delight.

‘What’s with the brogue?’ I said.

‘Ever seen green bog roll?’ he said. ‘Course ye have. This lot, however, haven’t. Call it a Celtic sales pitch.’

‘But they can’t speak English,’ I reminded him.

He jingled the coins in his hand. ‘Away wichi!’ he said. ‘Dey loove de ould blarney. Interested?’

We still had half a family pack at the flat. I was about to explain this when my attention was seized by the sight of two men in leather caps pushing a barrow, larger than Tam’s, into the square. They took a furtive look round, parked and carefully removed the tarpaulin that was covering their wares.

‘Now there’s something ye don’t see every day,’ said Tam, and scratched his head through tartan.

A periscope was lying inside an inflatable dinghy.

‘I hope their patter’s good,’ he said, and looked at his own merchandise. ‘My stuff’s more household oriented,’ he added.

I left him to argue the toss with the competition, who were nudging their barrow closer. Tara was sipping a gin tonic outside the Astoria. She wasn’t alone. I sat at the next table and ordered a coffee. Maybe I’d chance a beer later. I’d be staying off the retsina, though.

‘All right there, Tara?’ I said. No reaction. I reached over to the old man who was parked next to her. He was fiddling with the rims on his wheelchair. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said. He mumbled something into his toga and looked at Tara, who patted his hand.

‘There, there,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to know who it is.’

‘Hnn?’ he said. The old boy was addled beyond repair. It must have been frustrating for Tara, who, at fifty, had needs that couldn’t be fulfilled by her husband.  She had a fucking big house, though, so maybe it was worth being married to a cripple.

‘How are things, Tara?’ I said.

She was still stroking his hand. ‘Don’t try to ingratiate yourself with me, you cad,’ she said. ‘You can forget about the exams.’

I had to smile. Did she really think I was holding out for employment at her bribefest? And I’d never been called a cad before. It sounded totally ridiculous. ‘I was just being civil,’ I said. At this point, I lied. ‘I usually stay on speaking terms with women I’ve...’

‘Oh don’t say it!’

Her husband raised his hands quickly to his ears. ‘Hnnnnnnn?!’ he went.

‘Does he speak English?’ I said.

‘What’s it to you?’ she said.

‘Thought not,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t like the sound of raised voices, though, does he?’ He reminded me of Priam for some reason. Fair enough, here we were in the land of Homer, and there was, of course, the toga. I felt that he wasn’t as articulate as he could have been, however. We plumb the depths of human degradation...

‘Call yourself a man?’ Tara huffed. She was talking to me, not him.

‘You should be thanking me,’ I said. Priam leaned forwards until his face was hovering above a soup plate of brown liquid. He vacuumed froth through a straw.

‘You don’t know how to satisfy a woman,’ she said, and wiped his chin with a tissue. Again, I assumed the remark was directed at me. Oh, dear, I thought. It was turning into one of those conversations. The ones where no holds are barred.

‘I’ve never had any complaints,’ I said. ‘Lots of moans, though.’

‘I’ve never seen a smaller one in my life,’ she said.

Oh, please, I thought. ‘I almost saw your anus,’ I told her.

Priam, with the straw in his mouth, turned to me and Hnnnnned.

‘Yes,’ I said to him. ‘Her arse is so flabby I wasn’t sure if it was her bumhole or her belly button.’

‘Hah!’ he went; the straw flew out of his mouth and sailed over my shoulder.

This wasn’t me. It was as if someone was making me say these things. But she was asking for it.

‘You’ll never work in TEFL again,’ she said, and wiped her eyes with the tissue. ‘I’ll make sure of that.’

‘Oh, don’t threaten me,’ I said. ‘Who do you think you are?’

‘You’ll find out if you ever apply for a job with the Council,’ she said.

Tam threw his barrow into the bushes. He didn’t bother to chain it up. ‘That’s me fucked,’ he said, and crashed down into a chair. ‘Ever had a pistol pressed to yer ribs? Awright there, Stanley?’

‘Ooh, aow’s it goin’, Tam?’ It was the old man. The accent was more Stoke than Troy. I felt like a complete idiot. He poked me on the forearm. ‘Aow’s it goin’, shaggah?’ he smiled.

‘Get this,’ said Tam. ‘That’s the Commies moved in. Tell me this. How’s me selling toilet paper going to affect sales of Russian Navy knock-off? Eh? Tell me.’

‘Tara,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you.’

‘.....’

‘I mean it,’ I said. ‘I didn’t come here to make enemies. I’ll be gone in a matter of days...’ She wailed into her gin tonic. Stanley gripped my forearm. His knuckles looked like polished marbles. ‘You want to stop ’ere, lad,’ he said. ‘She likes a good...you know...’

Tam looked at me and closed an eye, like a camera shutter.

     ‘No, Stanley,’ I said. ‘But I think I know the man to help you out. You’ll be meeting him shortly.’

Costas Lapavitsas - his concerns about the Greek 'extension'.

Costas Lapavitsas, a professor of economics at SOAS, London, and a newly-elected SYRIZA MP, has written a blog post expressing his concerns about the Greek government's handling of negotiations with the Eurogroup. Towards the end of the post, he makes the following points:

'In light of the Eurogroup statement, I ask -

National Reconstruction Plan

How will the National Reconstruction plan be funded when the 3 billion euros from the Financial Stability Fund is now outwith Greek control? That these funds have now been removed puts all the more pressure on recovering large amounts from tax evasion and debt collection in a short period of time. How feasible is this?

Debt Write-off

How will a debt write-off be effected when Greece is committed to fulfill - fully and promptly - all its financial obligations to its partners?

End to Austerity

How will Austerity be ended when Greece is committed to achieve 'appropriate' primary surpluses in order to make the current massive debt 'sustainable'? The 'sustainability' of the debt  - as evaluated by the Troika - was what caused the mad chase after primary surpluses. As the debt will not be significantly reduced, how will we put an end to primary surpluses which are destructive for the Greek economy and which are the very substance of austerity?

Inspection and Fiscal Cost

How will there be any progressive change in the country when the 'Institutions' will implement strict inspections and prohibit unilateral actions [on the part of the Greek government]. Will the 'Institutions' allow the implementation of the 'Thessaloniki' pledges, given that they may have a direct or indirect fiscal cost?

Future Negotiations

What exactly will change in the next four months of the 'extension' that will improve our negotiating position with our partners? What will prevent a worsening of the political, economic and social conditions in the country?

These moments are crucial for society, the nation and, of course, for the Left. The democratic justification of the government is founded on the SYRIZA manifesto. The least that is required is an open discussion amongst party cadres and within the Parliamentary Group. We must give immediate answers to these questions if we are to maintain the huge support and dynamic given to us by the Greek people. The answers we give over the next few days will affect the future of the country and of society.'

The Scotch Family Grillparzer - An Introduction

...find themselves washed up on a desert island. They have no recollection how they got there. Sylvia, the ageing Matriarch, lies on the beach all day stroking a pair of worn tap dancing shoes. The abundance of sand makes tap dancing impossible, which is just as well considering she suffers from advanced osteoporosis in her left leg. Her eldest son, Sigmund, has strung a length of vine, like a washing line, between two trees and spends his time drying out sheets of tracing paper, which he packs neatly in a leather suitcase every evening. Every morning he wakes to find this suitcase bobbing in the surf. Sigmund has delusions of musicianship - his ambition is to play the comb professionally. Unfortunately, he spends so much time drying out tracing paper that he has yet to fashion a comb out of the driftwood which litters the beach. The middle son, Wilbur, wanders the island incessantly while clutching a tubular metal bed-head. More - much more - about him later. Grant, at twenty-five the baby of the family, is the only Grillparzer to realise that their situation is a mere figment of someone's imagination, even though he is aware that they as people are very real. He sits all day at the fire, which he managed to light by rubbing two sticks together, thinking of ways to come into contact with whoever put them in this position.

Knife by Andrew McCallum Crawford

The knife screamed when I pressed it into the grinder. I soon had it squealing. 2000rpm, that’s what it said on the plaque next to the On button. There was nothing I didn’t know about this sharpening business. I’d been doing it all week, since they took my driving licence off me. I told McCabe straight away. I think he appreciated it. Maybe he forgave me, although it struck me that he didn’t quote a line of scripture. He had a verse for every occasion. So did I. It was usually a total non sequitur, but it managed to shut him up. I knew he liked a drink. Perhaps there’s something in the Bible that says too much whisky is good.

Another perfect job. I pressed the Off button and laid the knife on the pile. Someone was standing in the doorway. I couldn’t make out who – sunlight was streaming over his shoulders. He just stood there, perfectly still, the silhouette of a statue. At first I thought it was McCabe, or that mate of his, Sergeant Bilko, who was always turning up unannounced.

‘Alright?’ I said.

The figure stepped inside. It wasn’t McCabe. It wasn’t Bilko, either. I didn’t know who it was. He looked like Jack Nicholson – no, younger. Oddbod, but taller. That was it, a tall, adolescent Oddbod. His eyes roamed the workshop and fell on the pile of knives. He licked his lips.

I was sweating.

‘Is Mr McCabe here?’ he said, slowly. He sounded like he had memorised the question.

‘He’s not in here, mate,’ I said. ‘Have you tried the house?’

He came closer and started prodding near the grinder.

‘You’d better not touch that,’ I said. ‘It’s a hair trigger.’

‘Is Mr McCabe here?’ he said.

I gathered up the knives and placed them behind an oil drum in the corner, taking care not to damage the blades. We’d had a few Youth Opportunities kids coming round. Time wasters. This boy was something else entirely. I’d noticed the lump in the top of his forehead.  It was like a baby’s fist with a ladder of stitches in it. Post-op. I wasn’t taking any chances.

‘Have you tried the house?’ I said. The door was on the other side of the workshop. Having put the knives out of reach, my aim was to get to it.

‘I’m here for a job,’ he said. ‘They told me about a job.’

What were those fuckers down the DHSS thinking about? Fair enough, everyone was supposed to take care of everyone else, but what were they doing sending the likes of this to a farm? Didn’t they realise it was a hazardous environment?

‘The laddies are up the field,’ I told him. ‘Maybe Mr McCabe’s waiting for you.’ I managed to get to the door, and air. ‘Come with me,’ I said.

McCabe was round the side of the big shed, fixing a window that had recently had a ball kicked through it.

‘Mr McCabe,’ I said. ‘Someone here to see you.’ I didn’t bother hanging around to explain anything. I knew nothing, and that’s the way I wanted it to stay. I went back to the workshop. A minute later, McCabe marched in and started poking about on the bench.

‘Dang things,’ he said. ‘Where are those blessed knives?’

‘Eh?’ I said. I’d just put them on top of the oil drum. McCabe spotted them. He picked one up and ran a thumb across the blade, like a true professional.

‘That’s a bit blooming sharp,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you before...’

Oddbod was in the doorway. McCabe handed him the knife.

‘You have got to be joking,’ I said.

‘Folk come here to work,’ said McCabe. ‘Not to footer about.’

Oddbod began slashing at shadows. I gave him plenty of room. ‘Mr McCabe,’ I said. ‘I really think you should reconsider.’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘He’ll be careful. Look, he’s a fully grown man.’

I was left to get on with it. I leaned on the oil drum, thinking. I heard the Subaru getting fired up. A couple of seconds later it flashed past the window. I went outside. The yard was empty.

I’d been keeping myself to myself in the workshop. There was a lot of stuff that needed fixing, a lot more stuff than there had been the previous week. The summer was only three months long, and I knew it was in my interests to make myself invaluable. Unsackable. A lot of broken machinery was lying around. I’d broken most of it on the Monday when everyone was up at the field. McCabe just nodded when I told him about the dire state of affairs. ‘It’s a good job you lost your licence, then,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get Chas to do the driving.’  He had warned me about oversharpening the knives; they were for cutting cabbages, but the laddies knew the risks. Chas, the only one who had facial hair that didn’t look like a burst cushion, had shaved his chin with one of the thinner blades as the boys looked on jealously. They were more impressed with Chas’s stubble than with my skills at the grinder, but that’s teenagers for you. Working on the farm was something to keep them busy. More than that, it gave them thirty two quid to blow in the Auld Toll on Friday nights.

I was bored. I looked at the machinery. There was a lawnmower that I’d told McCabe was well and truly knackered. All that was wrong with it was the spark plugs – I’d unscrewed them. And there was a disc harrows that needed greasing. As far as McCabe knew, the discs needed replacing. I’d told him I would save him a packet by sharpening them. His face had lit up. I still hadn’t worked out how to remove them from the frame.

I was turning into a compulsive liar.

So what? It was only for the summer. Next year I would be in full time employment in a bank somewhere, wearing a suit and making a fortune. But there was something going on in the back of my mind, something to do with conscience. I didn’t like lying. It had nothing to do with damnation and Hell, which were McCabe’s points of reference, but I knew it wasn’t right. Maybe I had spent too much time studying Philosophy; Philosophy loves hypocrisy, and McCabe was full of it. You could find him and his crowd down the precinct every Saturday morning outside Boots, giving it maximum New Testament Repent to the shoppers. It was difficult to tell who was the leader, McCabe or Sergeant Bilko. You wouldn’t have wanted to sign up, it all looked very curious indeed. That was the point, though. It was a strange kind of proselytising. They were spreading the word, they were telling everyone about the Way, the Truth and the Life, but they didn’t want you in their gang. The Bowhouse Brotherhood, that’s what they were called. I don’t know if that was their real name, but everyone in town called them that. They were famous. Notorious. Of course they were – the precinct was stowed at weekends. They used to bring their kids to work beside us. I’d been coming here since my first year at Uni, and there were always new faces. Young faces. They brought them here to instil the work ethic, while in the evenings Sergeant Bilko introduced them to the adolescent delights of Famous Grouse at McCabe’s house, a grand old pile round the back of the workshop. An infidel breaking bread in front of them was not to be countenanced. They ate on their own at dinnertime. McCabe once went into a spasm when I opened a crisp poke next to him.

The Subaru was back in the yard. McCabe came into the workshop. I was blowing on a spark plug I’d just had time to pick up.

‘How’s it going with the repairs?’ he said.

I tutted. ‘Bit difficult, chief,’ I said. ‘But I’m getting there.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Eh, can you come with me a minute?’ He took me to the far end of the yard. ‘There’s something wrong with this,’ he said. It was the John Deere. Nothing to do with me, nothing malicious, at least. It needed diesel. It had been needing diesel since Friday, when I parked it. I climbed inside and turned the key in the ignition. The fuel gauge said ‘E’.

‘Just leave it to me,’ I said. ‘I’ll fix it.’

The laddies were playing football next to the shed. It looked strenuous. The grass was up to their knees. I noticed that iron bars had been fitted over the window. Chas was sitting on the roof of the diesel tank, smoking.

‘You want to watch that,’ I said.

‘What?’ he said. ‘Diesel isnae flammable.’

‘Not that,’ I said. ‘You’re supposed to be driving.’

Chas laughed. He put the spliff to his lips and toked hard. He held it. He looked at the sky. It was getting cloudy. ‘I think I’ll take the afternoon off,’ he said.

‘Where’s the new guy?’ I said.

‘What new guy?’

‘The boy that came round this morning. I thought McCabe took him up the field.’

‘He must have taken him up the Overflow,’ said Chas. ‘He didn’t bring him anywhere near us.’

He had been left up there all by himself. He was probably one of those slow lunatics who did whatever you told them until you told them to stop. Or broke them. Like a machine. Whatever. It wasn’t my problem. I went back to the workshop. I was flicking through an old copy of the Sun when Chas staggered in, giggling. He sat on the floor in front of the oil drum and got his tobacco pouch out of his trousers.

‘Two spliffs at dinner time?’ I said. ‘Are you going for the record?’

‘Me?’ he said. ‘No, I’m a Scotsman reader, me.’ He burst out laughing then got back to building his joint.

Footsteps in the yard. I looked out the window. ‘Hey up,’ I said. Chas ran into the toilet and stuck his head under the tap. McCabe was examining the Subaru. He gave each tyre a perfunctory kick, then looked over at the workshop. At me. I turned to see Chas lying on his back in front of the oil drum, his arms and legs splayed out. He was making stuttering noises in the back of his throat.

McCabe walked in. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he said.

‘I had a dodgy Pot Noodle,’ said Chas.

McCabe looked at me. ‘A what?’ he said. At first I thought he was joining in the banter, but banter wasn’t his style, not with the likes of us. Maybe he was, actually, unaware of the existence of Pot Noodles. I knew televisions were anathema to him, he’d probably never seen a commercial in his life. Well maybe accidentally, down the precinct; Radio Rentals was round the corner from Boots. But didn’t his lot go shopping? Right enough, shopping was women’s work. They seemed to have that kind of thing worked out.

‘It’s dehydrated food particles,’ I said. Chas made a small yelping noise. He tried to turn it into a groan. I managed to keep a straight face. ‘Loads of salt,’ I said, ‘something which, as you know, is really unhealthy.’

‘It jolly well looks like it,’ said McCabe. ‘He’d better take the afternoon off. Clear a space for him up the back there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I haven’t had my dang lunch yet,’ he said. He looked at Chas. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive the laddies back to the field.’

Chas coughed at the ceiling. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.

I ducked into the toilet and turned on the tap. Hopefully, it covered the sound of my laughter.

I didn’t clear a space for him. I watched him skin up. We spent the afternoon shooting the shit, until we heard footsteps in the yard. We knew it wasn’t McCabe. He didn’t drag his feet. It was Oddbod. He stood in the doorway. He was grinning. He had the knife in his hand, buffing it up on the leg of his jeans. ‘I cut myself,’ he said. He showed me. The back of his left hand, all the way across to the base of his thumb, was hanging open like a tin of salmon. A ripe bead of blood plopped onto the workshop floor. The dust hissed.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Chas.

‘You shouldn’t say that,’ said Oddbod. Metal scraped denim. ‘You shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.’ McCabe had wasted no time with the brainwashing, it seemed. Whatever, I wasn’t going to argue with him.

‘Have you looked at your hand?’ said Chas. ‘The Lord would be taking his own name in vain if he saw that.’

‘I cut myself,’ he said. He sounded proud, like he’d just passed an induction test instead of proving what a useless bastard he was.

‘You’ll be needing a jag,’ said Chas. I was impressed. Despite the two joints, he was still capable of connected thought. Oddbod raised his hand to his nose and sniffed the wound. Then he licked himself. ‘I’ve seen dogs do that,’ said Chas.

‘If you want to lay the knife on the bench,’ I said. Oddbod did as he was told. Of course he did. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’ll see if McCabe’s in. He’ll take you up the hospital.’

‘Aye, get it seen to,’ said Chas. ‘Before Lobotomy sets in.’

‘Eh?’ said Oddbod.

‘Come on,’ I said. Oddbod was smiling a lot, but I didn’t want to find out how far his sense of humour went.

We walked round to the house. I’d seen lots of cuts on the farm. I’d suffered a few myself. I knew the score. The dull thud, the shock, then, after a few seconds, the blood. It was when the bleeding stopped that the pain started. His hand must have been gowping.

A car passed us in the driveway. It glided to a halt in the parking space. Sergeant Bilko got out. He clocked the boy, then the hand. ‘What the blazes happened to you?’ he said.

‘We’ve had a bit of an accident,’ I said, and was ignored. Oddbod’s shoulder was gripped and he was pushed up to the door. Bilko rattled the knocker.

After a moment, McCabe’s head appeared, immersed in a halo of soup fumes. ‘Alec!’ he said. ‘Blessings to ye.’

‘And to you, Graham,’ said Bilko. ‘Sorry to get you up from your lunch. Scotch broth?’

‘Aye,’ said McCabe. ‘The woman makes a rare pot.’

‘Though not Pot Noodle,’ I said, and was ignored.

‘Anyway,’ said Alec. Sergeant Bilko. He jerked a thumb at Oddbod. ‘Have you seen the state of this?’

McCabe stepped outside. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘It’s another of these DHSS referrals.’ He shook his head. ‘One tries to do the decent thing.’

‘It’s Brother Daniel’s laddie,’ said Bilko. ‘Didn’t he phone you?’

It took me a second to get it. McCabe seemed to be struggling. He scratched his head then patted the linen napkin that was hanging from the throat of his shirt. There was still no mention of a first aid box. Protection from soup stains and positive employee identification seemed to be more important than industrial injury of a criminally negligent bent. ‘Well, I’ll be...’ he smiled. ‘The last time I saw this yin he was sitting on a po!’

Oddbod raised his hand to his mouth and licked the flap of meat.

‘Holy God in heaven!’ said McCabe, and reeled back against the door jamb. It was at this point that my presence in the company was acknowledged; my employer’s eyes.

‘Now, now,’ I said. ‘No need to take the Lord’s name in vain.’ Oddbod nodded, which I found encouraging. I was in need of allies. I could see where this was going.

‘You cheeky..!’ said McCabe. ‘I...I told you about those knives. I’ve been telling you for weeks!’

‘Oh, come, now, Mr McCabe,’ I said. ‘I’ve only been on the grinder since Monday.’

‘You know what I mean!’ he said.

‘I take it you’re the student,’ said Bilko. ‘You mouthy young so and so. I’ve heard about you.’

‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘And we’ve all heard about you.’ I swear his glasses steamed up when I said that. Maybe it was the soup fumes.

McCabe made to put his hand on Oddbod’s shoulder, but stopped short before contact was effected. His front teeth were nibbling furiously on a stubborn grain of barley. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me,’ he said. ‘Mark 10:14,’ he added, his voice trembling.

Sergeant Bilko Hmmm-Hmmm, Hmmm-Hmmmed his endorsement.

‘Aye,’ I said, ‘And too many cooks spoil the soup.’ It wasn’t quite the non-sequitur I was going for, but it did the trick. The conversation was over. McCabe, his napkin flapping, ushered Oddbod into the sanctuary of the house, and Savlon. Bilko followed. The door slammed shut in my face.

McCabe knew I was lippy. That’s why he employed me. I was a foil for his biblically barbed comments, he regarded me as a challenge. But was being cheeky a sacking offence? It all came down to who exactly Brother Daniel was, and McCabe’s relationship with him. Could he risk sacking me? Any idiot could learn how to sharpen a knife, maybe even Oddbod, but I was the only one on the farm who knew how to fix the broken machinery. By the end of the afternoon, there was a lot more of it. Most of it was lying in bits, strewn over the area in front of the oil drum; Chas had, in the end, decided to go home. The damage was rather more substantial than loose spark plugs.

Who was I kidding? The problem – the real problem – was that I was beginning to believe my own lies.

     Oddbod’s knife was on the bench. I gave it a good wash under the tap. I pressed On and pushed the blade into the wheel. It didn’t scream; it didn’t even squeal. It whined. It was still sharp. Sharp as a razor. Too sharp by half.

*     *     *

This story first appeared in Gutter. 

Tartan by Andrew McCallum Crawford - published in Ink Sweat and Tears

Tartan

She rubs the end of the cigarette around in the ashtray. She is alone at the bar, perched on a stool. Getting drunk won't help. It will just complicate matters further. She will make sure she leaves before the office workers come in. They think she is a prostitute.

To read the complete story, visit Ink Sweat and Tears.

Oh, Freedom by Andrew McCallum Crawford - published in B O D Y

I do all of my writing in the local cafeneio. I call it the Caff, athough no one else does, not as far as I know. It's strange how stories come at you. You might be reading a newspaper, or walking down the street, or doing one of a million other things. But when inspiration comes calling, you grab it. That is the first rule. After that, it is entirely up to you, the writer, to make something of it.


Oh, Freedom

She gave me money, just like every Friday. She did it without a word, as if it was – what do you call it – a transaction, as if she was buying something. It had nothing to do with pity, or love. She wanted me out of the house so her friends could come round, eyeliner this time, they were bringing samples. Eleftheria was in a buying mood. She called Fridays ‘Ladies’ Night’, arranged over the internet, the kids had already been packed off to their granny’s. I said nothing. Things had been tight since I got laid off. Two weeks notice, no compensation. And now that my stamps had run out there was no dole. We were living off the pension her father got.

You can read the complete story in B O D Y