Monthly Archives: September 2022

In two days, you will be twelve. That is when your dæmon will take its final form. You look at Petronella, the large brown bug attached to your shoulder with a short length of cotton and sticking plaster. You secretly wish for her to become a mongoose, but you think any creature will be OK so long as she isn’t still a bug.

“Hurry up, Josh, you’ll be late for school”, shouts your mum. You are already dressed.

“Don’t forget dad’s picking you up tonight. You’re spending the weekend with him. Remember, we agreed? I’ll see you on Sunday for your birthday.”

You nod, more concerned that your dæmon is in the proper position not to get squashed when you put on your rucksack.

Friday is your worst day at school. Year seven football. Like always, you stay well clear of the ball. The others call you names like “batty boy” and “sissy queer“, but you only care about your dæmon.

You sit alone through double maths until the last bell finally comes. Outside the gates, your dad stands waving. A younger woman is at his side. Your dad bends to greet you; her hand stretches towards your shoulder. You see it coming. With lightning speed, like deflecting a snake, the arm is knocked aside.

“That’s not very nice, Josh. Apologise at once“, demands Josh’s dad.

You shrug. “Doesn’t she know a human must never touch another person’s dæmon?” you think in anger.

Something wasn’t right about this woman. You must be on your guard. But you feel very tired. Hardly touching your dinner, you ask to go to bed early.

Come morning, you lay under the covers, half dreaming of what your dæmon might become. A sickly scent hits your nose. The woman is in your room. She pulls back the curtains and opens the window.

“What a beautiful day. Your dad and I have a little surprise planned for…“

As she speaks, a large black bird perches on the windowsill. You were right; she’s a witch. You scream. Petronella is in its beak. You scream and scream and scream.

Cradled between your dad’s arms, your tears slowly subside. On the eve of your twelfth birthday, you wish you were dead.

TO DO

SUNDAY 5 NOVEMBER 1989

• The Wall

MONDAY 6 NOVEMBER 1989

• The Wall

TUESDAY 7 NOVEMBER 1989

• The Wall

THURSDAY 9 NOVEMBER 1989

When I got home, the cockroach would be waiting for me on the arm of my chair. And come bedtime, just before I could say goodnight, it would disappear. I felt sure it must have friends and family of its own kind, but every evening it was there alone.

It wasn’t long before I discovered that the cockroach was rather partial to both wine and beer. It was good to have someone to drink with. I started to leave little snacks for it while I was away. Nothing fancy, a few Madeira crumbs, a smidgeon of jam, that sort of thing. For entertainment, I left the radio on – Classic FM one day, Radio 3 the next.

We’d been together for one month, so I thought we would celebrate with a bottle of Tesco’s best. But when I got home, we were not alone. Two cockroaches were sitting on the arm of my chair. My intuition told me to leave. Maybe there was some innocent explanation; a visiting relative, a neighbour from next door? When I got back, everything would be back to normal. We could enjoy a nice glass of wine.

But what if the other one was still here? Putting on my bravest face, I sat down, poured a glass of wine for myself and sprinkled a few drops on a saucer for my guests. As the evening went on, we were all getting merrier. My friend seemed to have fallen off the chair and was climbing back up. This was my chance. My heart raced, and my hands were covered in sweat. Just grab the interloper and flush it down the loo. Even if I could get away with it, surely the guilt would be too much to bear?

Feeling the need to make amends for the previous night, I purchased a small strawberry tart for us to share. I opened the door, fearing the alien was still there, and my heart almost stopped. Hundreds of them, crawling everywhere.

Less than half a mile to the West, the Queen sleeps snugly in her bed. As dawn breaks, the treeline sways beneath a rushing sky. Green and white striped deckchairs lay stacked, chained firmly to the ground. Leaves dance in formation across the foot-worn grass tossed and jostled by a fickle wind. Blown hard against a bush is a cardboard sheet with traces of a vaguely life-size human form imprinted upon it.

A crow, seemingly the first to rise, pulls a McDonald’s bag from a near to overflowing bin. Ripping the paper with great ease, the bird discards the soggy bun. All it wants is the burger meat. Scanning left to right with beady eyes, it takes the morsel in its beak and flies up high up into a tree.

Below, amongst the bushes, broken branches, torn blue packets, Extra Safe. Small brown capsules, amyl nitrate. Old school ravers sent from Heaven. Tinsel, feathers, dressed as angels, caught together in full flight.

Cigarette ends congregate beneath the benches beyond the reach of keepers’ brooms. White filters, lipstick-stained, mock cork – gold bands, cardboard roaches, extra slims – smoked right out, stubbed and twisted, left to burn – and some with still a puff or two to smoke.

An empty wallet tossed, abandoned. A young man wanders phone-less, card-less, surrendered to a Romanian camper, out of fear, without a fight.

No.

Never mind the benefits payments didn’t cover the 40 cigarettes a day I needed to keep sane; I finally had a roof over my head. The AA meetings weren’t so bad, and I felt strangely good about going straight. They placed me with one of those landlords who specialise in the hard-to-house – high rent, small room, collect their money straight from the council. This all-bills paid arrangement suited me fine. The odd roach intrusion and occasional mouse didn’t bother me much. Nor did the man who thought we were aboard a ship or the girl who tested out prospective partners for the shower sex record every night.

These things became a source of comfort, the reassurance of a routine, a sense of place.