Part five

It's all going far too slow. i added another 2,00o words last night, but I somehow have to up the rate. One person has already scrawled 30,ooo words! Anyway, here's the latest installment:

�Provided the world exists�, said Socrates. �Prove it�.
�Gah, give me enough beers and I�ll prove anything�, Plato retorted. �Talking of which�?�
�James! James, me good lad�..another pair of whiskies if you will�.bless you..�
The barman poured out a pair, and Socrates turned to me again.
�We were just having a good laugh at your friend�s expense here�, he said, breathing wheezily.
�Yes, I heard Plato here shout �Socrates!� and I couldn�t help laughing�, explained Taylor, �then they ask my name and hail me as the poet�.
�And what�s your name, if I may enquire?� asked Plato.
�Dan Thompson.�
�What�s that?�, roared Socrates. �Dante?�
�No, Dan T�.�
�Oh yes, oh yes, that�s good!�, laughed Plato. �Look here, will you Socrates, Dante and the dead poet!�
They both chuckled and wheezed, while Taylor grinned into his drink. When the laughter had subsided into the wheeze that old men reach after a while, Socrates turned to me, wiped a rheumy tear from his eye, and asked,
�Well? Is it true then? Are you following your guide through Hell?�
�Em, well, I thought we were just going for a few beers myself.�
Plato tugged Socrates sleeve.
�If that is true, that means we�re in limbo, does it not?�
�Well, if so, at least we won�t be toasted by the big fellow, you know?�
�And anyway,� said Taylor, �This is Dan�s town. I�m a stranger here.�
�Only in the physical sense, maybe,� muttered Socrates. �There is the sense around you that you know where you�re going, young man, whereas you,� he pointed his bulbous nose at me, �are somewhat lost. Am I right?�
I gave a shrug, but he had discomfited me. Was it so obvious?
�Direction. Always have a direction in life, that�s my advice,� said Plato.
�Our direction, for example, has led us to here�, said Socrates, and they laughed.
�Yes, yes, we�re all of us philosophers of the pub, poets of the pint, and crapulous pundits of the world in here,� Plato chuckled, to a murmured �yes� from his companion. �For most of us, we never saw the light properly, mainly because it was being seen through the bottom of a pint glass, see?�
He pointed at the various piles of old men sat around in the twilight.
�The one with the wooden leg and the row of medals? War hero � lost his wife a few years back. That chap in the tan cap used to be mayor of Reading, don�t you know��
Someone started singing. Badly.
�..he�s a folk singer, that one, and over there is a very great gentleman.�
Socrates snorted into his drink. �Great, my arse! A good reporter as was, more like�.
Seated at the far end of the bar was a rotund, short man with heavy jowls, eyes that stuck out somewhat, a few strands of hair on his round head, and jaundiced skin.
�Newspaperman. Reported on conflicts and whatnot,� said Plato. �Of course, his liver�s gone, hence the colour on him. And he�s blind � blind drunk!�
As we watched, the man knocked back his beer in one go, then slipped off his stool. The barman came round, propped him back on, and he nodded forward until his head touched the bar and he fell asleep.
�Ah, there we go, he�s nodded off,� said Socrates. �They�ll leave him be till the wife comes in and picks him up�.
�In a wheelbarrow.�
�Speaking of such, Plato, what time do you have? The wife�ll be after me before long.�
�Time for a few more, time for a few more.� He turned to us. �Poor Socrates here has a hard time in store for himself later, you see. His other half doesn�t comprehend that philosophising requires refreshment frequently.�
We finished off our beers and made to go.
�A pleasure to meet you,� said Taylor.
�And you, O poet�, beamed Socrates. �And you, young man. Stop looking so downcast. Things will get better soon. Off with you.�
�Bye.�
We came out of the pub into the dusty light. Office workers were beginning to stumble from their offices, either heading for home or for the bars. We crossed the road towards the Town Hall, an edifice of gothic styles in red brick.
�That�s quite a funky building,� commented Taylor.
�Yeah, the guy who built it also did the Natural History Building�there�s the 3 B�s in it, but unless you want to repeat the drunk pensioner experience I suggest we leave it for now.�
�You know best.�
We walked past it to the square that leads to Market place and the Forbury. St. Laurence�s was, as ever, closed, and from its tower medieval gargoyles leered the length of Friar Street. We stopped under the statue of Victoria while I tried to make up my mind which way to go. The pubs along Friar Street didn�t appeal at this time of day; Generally, they�d be filled with weary shoppers and perpetual drunks. As I was debating with myself, we suddenly heard a great roar and screech, and around the corner came tottering a group of young women, yelling and giggling. In the middle of them was a twenty-something woman, wearing a bridal veil, a pair of fake tits, furry handcuffs and an L-plate.
�It�s a bit early for a hen night, isn�t it?� asked Taylor.
�This is Reading on a Friday,� I replied. �It�s never too early for anything.�
There was another shout then, but this came from the alleyway between the church and Blandy and Blandy�s offices. A troupe of young men staggered into sight, half-carrying one of their number; He too was wearing an L-Plate, and he feebly waved a plastic ball and chain.
�Dave! Dave!� bellowed one. �When�s the �Oneypot open?�
�Not �till seven�, yelled Dave, who was lanky, spotty and red-faced. �Let�s go to Burger King and get something to eat before we go on.�
The two groups saw each other.
�Alright ladies? Going anywhere nice?� drawled one of the party.
A few of the women giggled, the one bellowed, �Sod the chat, get it out!�
�Yeah, show us yer cock!�
�One at a time and later on, yeah?� someone else shouted back, and the two parties slipped laughing past each other. The women walked straight past us on their way towards O'Neil's, the Irish Bar. The bride-to be slipped and fell right into me with a loud �whoops!� I helped her back up onto her feet.
�There you go,�
�Ta. I�m getting� married tomorrow�, she said.
�Really?! I�d never have noticed�,
�Yeah�, she replied, with the sudden seriousness of the very drunk, �My Gary. Met him at school .�
She looked directly into my face, and gripped me at the elbows, as if trying to make me comprehend entirely what she meant, her face serious, her brow buckled. �I love him! I really, really love him!�
And then she started crying. Her friend peeled her off me, saying �Come on Fran, yeah, let�s have another drink�� She turned to me. �Sorry �bout that.�
�That�s OK � tell her to be careful, yeah?�
And then they whirled away and were swallowed by the pub�s dark mouth.
�Well, They�re off in that direction. Let�s try this way, it�s probably quieter,� said Taylor, and he turned left towards Market Place. I followed on.

FIVE: a vision

Report of activity recorded on CCTV in Reading Town Centre, July the --, ----.


3.55 p.m. camera 5, Station Hill: The view outside Forbuoys Newsagents. The number 137 bus enters the picture. It stops, and several people alight from it: An elderly woman, with white hair, walking stick and floral print dress; A woman of approximately 30 years of age, with a young child in a pushchair, wearing a yellow top and white shorts; One middle-aged Asian man, approximately forty to fifty years of age, wearing a light grey suit; Two teenage girls, wearing light-coloured tops and shorts; An elderly couple in beige; And last, two men, in their thirties, one of whom was approximately five feet eleven inches tall, with greying dark brown hair, wearing a dark t-shirt and jeans, and the other several inches taller, with long black hair, white shirt and dark trousers. These latter two walked towards the station.

3.58 p.m. camera 7, station concourse: The two men enter the picture via the station entrance of W.H. Smiths. They are seen to stop briefly in front of the information board, apparently to check the time. A man carrying a suitcase can be seen falling over behind them, but they do not appear to notice. They walk towards the far end of the concourse, past the Reading College and School of Art and Design Pavilion. The taller man turns and smiles at a woman in her mid-twenties wearing a short blue dress. She returns the smile. The shorter man walks on. He is apparently talking, although about what is not clear. His companion smiles and nods. They leave the concourse via the southeast exit.

3.59 p.m. camera 8, station and railbus: The two are seen coming down the stairs. The shorter one slips, but regains his composure. They walk around the side of the 4.15 railbus departure and are lost to view.

3.59 p.m. camera 11, corner of Station approach and Blagrave street: the two men walk slowly towards the corner. The shorter of the two gestures in front of him; his companion smiles and shrugs. Having passed the corner, they enter The Blagrave public house.

4.32 p.m. , camera 11, corner of Station approach and Blagrave street: The two men are seen leaving the Blagrave public house, and heading up Blagrave street. They cross the road towards the Old Town Hall, then walk up to the square. They stop under the statue of Queen Victoria, and are the seen to look to their left.

4.35 p.m., camera 13, St. Laurence�s and Market Place junction: A party of women, all aged between approximately eighteen and forty, are seen to enter the square from the east. It could be said that they are in high spirits, and it may be surmised that they have been drinking. Shortly after, a party of men, all aged approximately in their twenties, enter the square via the alleyway that runs between St. Laurence�s church and Blandy & Blandy, solicitors. One young man is apparently the worse for wear, being supported by his companions. The two parties converge and converse briefly, but without any incident of note. The party of men then proceed westwards up Friar Street, while the group of females heads towards the Irish Bar on the corner of Friar Street and Blagrave Street. One woman, aged approximately in her twenties, stumbles and falls onto the shorter of the two men being thus far observed, appears to talk to him briefly, before being assisted into the bar by her companion. The taller of the two men then heads eastward and turns the corner into Market Place, followed by his companion.

And all the while this narrow view is going on? Men and women walk through the streets, living, working, crying, whatever; A few pigeons roam the square, and are chased by a delighted two-year-old boy; there are beggars on the corners, lazily asking for spare change; a traffic warden writes out a ticket for a badly-parked car by the church, and a woman comes racing toward him, screaming curses before getting in her vehicle and driving off; a woman in her forties looks out of the window of the solicitors and sighs; three girls, two Slovaks and a Pole, come out of the private language school on the corner and chat as they walk towards Marks & Spensers; And all the time there is bustle and movement and life and God knows what that a single eye can�t take in or understand.

Six: The well-worn quote
If I�m drunk on forbidden wine, so I am!
And if I�m an unbeliever, a pagan or idolater, so I am!
Every sect has its own suspicions of me,
I myself am just what I am.
Omar Khayyam, Ruba�iyat LXXIV
In which the Author continues to interrupt the narrative; He comments briefly on the action thus far and what may be expected later; And discusses the use of prefatory quotes and summary paragraphs, as well as authorial interruptions, for their ability to pad out and impart greater gravitas to even the weakest of stories.

It would appear that I am still on the bus, it seems � or at least, my presence in the town has not been commented upon by Dan. This poses a problem: If I am not there, who�s writing the story? It resembles something out of Zen philosophy, does it not? You see, it does not matter how clever the writer is at disguising him- or herself, the Authorial Hand is still present and detectable in even the most well-written internal monologue. Just as the single word can contain multitudes of meaning, so the text can be pared back, layer after layer, to reveal the writer and their naked mind.
This is why I have decided to jump into the narrative as a character (or, perhaps later, characters) in my own right; I may be in the background, but I�m the idiot waving and jumping, the boy pointing out that the Emperor has no clothes on, the clown pointing the obvious fact: this is a fiction. Likewise, being the fool in the court, I may safely wade into the middle of the action and bring it to a crashing halt while I pontificate on what I like. And the joy is, this too is fiction! Yes, I admit it; I am a character myself, and one that is increasing in strength as this tale unfolds. So who�s pulling my strings?
You also have to decide something, dear reader: Which is the real narrative?

I don�t know about you, but Socrates� outburst about Dante took me by surprise. Is this whole story really just a gloss on Inferno from The Comedy? Is it, in short, blatant theft? Well, I am going to deal with the pernicious, mendacious nature of tales in a later interruption. If it is a gloss, why? Is Reading a comic version of Hell? Is the story a comedy? Of course, comedy in its original sense meant a story with a happy outcome. Right now, I�ll settle for Dan managing to get back home safe and unmolested (unless, of course, he wants to be molested), which technically means it�s a comedy. I�m not intended to have dead bodies all over the place, although it may inject a bit of zest into it, don�t you think? Let�s face it, two men on a pub crawl is hardly enthralling is it? And I must say, I�m not particularly impressed by my own conjuration of the town and environs so far � there doesn�t seem to be much detail. Must try harder. And Taylor Coleridge is somewhat of a mystery still � he seems rather taciturn, despite Dan�s assertion that his friend was back on form while talking with the bar sages. However, we must take into account the fact that the narrative is from a personal perspective, and it could be that Dan is not a particularly observant chap. Let us see what happens next � I daresay it will involve more pubs. They have added one more beer each to their respective tallies, and it isn�t even five o�clock yet. I hope they can last this kind of pace until two in the morning, but then, what does it matter! This is fiction! And, by the way, I�m not too sure about this use of a CCTV�s perspective � contrived, maybe, and for what purpose?

There is also the matter of these interludes, the absurd chapter titles, the introductory quotes and the chapter summaries � why? Well, and I answer � why not? I�ve already explained that I can do as I like in terms of narrative interruption, and I won�t explain that further. The other stuff � can it be explained or justified? Well, the chapter summaries have an ancient and noble history in the rise of the English novel, and have been of immense value to those people who are generally far too busy to read any given novel in full � in short, those whose lives are so ostensibly rich and varied that they do not need the vapid joys of a novel or a soap opera on TV. They merely need to flick through each chapter heading, get the gist of the thing, and claim to have read the book from start to finish. This is why, and only those who have actually read this will know it, that from now on the chapter summaries will be unfaithful to what is actually in each chapter: some may be accurate, but you will not be able to rely on them hence. There, that�s you warned.
As for the quotes � well, they give a bit of class, don�t they? I must admit, they�re more of a continental affectation, but anything to puff the whole story up. Quotes, preferably by foreign writers and preferably in foreign, are nothing more than a delicate bit of gilding, an ornate and unnecessary adornment to the text. For that reason, I have added them � they just look good, and give the reader the impression that the Author is far more erudite and well-read than is the real case. For example, take the quote at the head of this chapter � taken from the Ruba�iyat of Omar Khayyam. Let�s see- what buttons does it push? Foreign writer � good; Islamic Sufi Mystic � good as well; verse number written in Roman Numerals � excellent. And what is its relationship to this chapter? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not a sausage. Not even a small pork chipolata on a cocktail stick. With a bit of pineapple. And a cheese cube.
But it still looks good. Why is this? Because you have been conditioned, dear reader; conditioned by the types of book you read to believe that, if there are quotes regularly sprinkled in a text, it must necessarily be LITERATURE. The fact is, these fripperies, these added-on extras, rather than being seen for the nonsense they are, somehow convey an added factor to any book � that precious and August thing, Gravitas. A book fully decked out in its costume of summaries, notes, and quotes grasps the attention. Quite possibly, it also has an introduction, which may written by someone who isn�t a friend of the Author. It may even be required reading in schools and colleges, and for which reason, it begins to resemble the Queen: Admired from afar, but never touched.
This is obviously nonsense, and, like the summaries, from now on expect the quotes to become equally unhinged from the story �they may be relevant, they may have an inner truth pertaining to the tale, they may be arrant nonsense � but just don�t rely on them. I might even make some up and attribute them to non-existent Great Foreign Writers.

Seven: The hungry and the spent
The best lack all conviction, whilst the worst are full of passionate intensity.
W.B. Yeats
In which our heroes do something. Or not, as the case may be.

Once we got round the corner, I suggested the Cooper�s, but Taylor said,
�Let�s lay off for a bit, shall we? We�ve got all evening ahead. Is there a coffee shop hereabouts?�
�OK, there�s one right ahead.�
We walked past Nino�s, the Italian restaurant that had been in Butter Market ever since I could remember. The door opened and a gush of aromas, of tomato and olive oil and herbs and hot bread raced out, then disappeared quickly as the door was shut behind two diners entering the fragrant maw. Under the plane trees, pigeons vied and fluttered over bread crumbs that were being flung by an elderly Indian woman. A couple of drunks were sat on one of the benches, with cans of cheap cider between them. One was dozing, the other muttering to himself and taking great thirsty gulps from his drink. Suddenly, a huge dog came out of nowhere and dived among the pigeons, barking and snapping. I�m not sure what kind of hound it was � something like a pit bull terrier, but much, much bigger and darker. The pigeons scattered and whirled into the trees and the dog began looking for something else to chase. Fortunately, its owner came chasing after it � the thing had slipped his grasp. Not surprising, really; Like many people who own huge dogs, he was a rather weedy specimen in a tracksuit and baseball cap.
�Trevor! Come �ere!� The man chased Trevor, who took delight in running around him in circles and knocking over some of the cider cans by the drunks� feet. Finally, the man grabbed hold of it.
�Trevor! Heel! Bloody dog�! Stop it�STOP! Stupid sodding animal�.sorry �bout that, mate, no �arm done, yeah? Great�Trevor!�
And off he was dragged by Trevor.
We walked past the old cafeteria: for a Friday afternoon on a hot day, it was surprisingly full. It smelt, as ever, of warm milky coffee and hot vinegar and fatty fried things, which was its speciality. Inside, people wolfed down their food, although they didn�t seem to be getting much pleasure from it. Outside Costa Coffee on the corner of Broad Street and Butter Market, there was a spare table which we blagged. A waitress, a Polish girl I guessed, judging by the name (Agnieska) on her nametag, took our order. I pulled out a cigarette and squinted the across the street at the crowds flowing like so much seawater into and out of the Oracle.
�Why is that shopping centre called the Oracle? It�s a bloody stupid name�, said Taylor.
�There used to be a poorhouse cum slave labour factory called the same around there during the sixteen hundreds or something�, I replied. �If you go to the museum, it�s still got the doors in it�.
Taylor�s eyes glittered and a grim smile worked its way across his face.
�And now it�s a temple selling the products of slavery and sweat.�
�Well, irony has never been something the good citizens of Reading have ever appreciated, especially when it comes to money�, I said. �Most of the riots we�ve had here historically have been about profits and who controls the dosh. A Reading version of a dictionary would probably define irony as something that resembles iron.�
�Now imagine�, he said, �Imagine that this really is a temple, say a modern version of something at Delphi. And inside it is some mad priestess woman, crazed on purchasing consumer delights, frenzied as the prophetess of Pythian Apollo after drinking from the sacred well, and she�s giving all sorts of mad pronouncements. Buy This! Don�t Buy That! Special Bargains! Imagine all these people going in, receiving her wild talk and coming out dazed and terrified by what they had encountered!�
�Well, there�s the information counter.�
We both laughed, and Agnieska brought us our coffees.
�dzien koye�, Taylor said in Polish. The girl smiled broadly and said,
�Oh, you know Polish! Very good!�
�No, only �thank you� I�m afraid. Oh, and �kapuska��, to which she laughed, then went back inside. �That means cabbage�, he explained.
�So how did you know she�s Polish?�
�And you mean you didn�t? I took an educated guess, as you did, I suspect. Besides, if I�d got it wrong, she�d have gently disabused me at best or ignored me at worst. Look around you, Dan! Don�t just guess at stuff: act upon what you know, or think you know. What have you got to lose?�
�Yeah, alright. I�ve done it before � you know that, that�s why I went abroad in the first place. Just to see what�s out there, see if I could do it, you know, work, live abroad and so on. Alright, so I don�t have your way with languages, Taylor, but I did it, didn�t I? And now I�m back here.�
�You say that like you�re disappointed to be back. And that attitude means you never went away. You know Dan, I seem to remember a conversation we had like this before � do you recall that coffee house in Cairo, all those Hookahs outside and we too getting merrily stoned on them?�
It came to mind then; a sunny afternoon in late January or early February in a small street in that city, and Taylor and me sitting on small stools, a hookah each and tulip glasses of sweet, hot tea.
�We were swapping tales, and talking about what we mean by �home� and �away��, I said.
�And remember, you said that home is something that is always in the heart and soul � you can�t escape it�, he said. �Then we decided that the level of pessimism of the soul decides whether home is a good thing or something to try and run away from, but that you cannot run away from your heart, and so you carry home with you wherever you go�.
�Christ, we must have really been puffing on those hookahs by then!� It was a weak joke, and just bluster really.
�Don�t be so feeble. Look you�re complaining about being here, but why? You said yourself, another time, that going abroad was like leaving a cage didn�t you?�
I shrugged my assent. It was true; Like many British people who escape this island, abroad had seemed an incredibly liberating action.
�Now you�re back in the cage. But I�m here asking: Is it really a cage, or is that just the way you choose to see it?�
He sipped his coffee and watched me.
I laughed, but an exasperated laugh.
�Well, what the Hell do you expect me to say to that, man?�
�Nothing, Dan. Nothing at all. Relax, enjoy the coffee and look around.�
And so I did. It had gone five by now, and I watched the world carefully over my coffee and cigarettes. Next to us were a couple of men with olive-dark skin, arguing in what sounded like Turkish; the waitress was talking animatedly in Polish with another girl; A man with short dark hair and glasses walked by, carrying a copy of El Pais; A pair of middle aged women, dressed in shalwar kameez walked within earshot, chatting and laughing in Punjabi. I saw a group of Chinese students, obviously coming back out of the college, shouting and laughing, then three girls speaking French. Over our cigarettes and the next five minutes, Taylor and I watched the world go by. Such a rush of people, and so many nationalities. I counted fifteen different languages in that time.
Taylor put out his fag.
�So why go out into the big bad world�, he said, �when it seems to be so eager to come to Reading?�
He grinned.
�I�m getting to like this place. How many people live here, then?�
�I�m not sure. Not that many. About a hundred and seventy thousand.�
�A medium sized town, then. But did you just see how many languages are being spoken? That�s quite something.�
�I can�t say I�d really noticed before�.
�Then it�s time you opened your eyes and ears a bit!�
He drained his coffee.
�I need a piss. Shall we proceed to the next watering hole?�
�Why not? The Hobgoblin�s next door.�
�Sounds good to me.�