part nine.

more drivel for your delectation.

To read the entire story of someone else, it is necessary to become that other person in their entirety, from beginning to end � is this possible? I would suggest it is not: In which case, each person, apart from, possibly, ourselves, is essentially unknowable. Do not, I beg of you, place me in a pigeonhole; I flatly refuse to conform. Accept only this: that I am having fun doing this as I write, and I hope I have set you an interesting maze of ideas in which to play. Of course it is limited: haven�t I just said I am fallible?

Fifteen: Back on track?
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awaken.
James Joyce
In which our drinking buddies try to negotiate their ways through a Reading that has suddenly become a more sinister place, both bereft of and gravid with meaning and connotation; they saunter into the next watering hole, wondering if they have arrived at the correct place; they encounter more high weirdness.

You could tell that evening was drawing on apace � more and more the streets were drained of normal people and being replaced with either the drunk, the weird or the weirdly drunk. A pack of twenty-something lads, in tight casual trousers and shirts, came blaring and charging past, heading towards Jongleurs; in their wake was another hen party, this time all done up in Bunny Girl costumes, aiming for the same place; a tramp was pushing along his dilapidated Asda trolley, stopping at each bin in search of either food or particularly interesting specimens of the day�s flotsam, which he would add to his mobile mound. We strolled past Smelly Alley and its fishy reek again, casually observing the unrolling scene of incipient riotous partying.
�Where do you reckon The Wood Of Suicides would be, anyway?� , I asked.
�Not sure � according to Weirdo, it�s probably along here, somewhere. Let�s think � looks to me like we�re headed towards somewhere pretty lively � does that sound like a suicide-prone place to you?�
�Only if you�re a Billy No-Mates.�
�There must be somewhere along here that is filled with an empty, bereft, lonely atmosphere, somewhere you�d rather die than own up to drinking in��
�Taylor, I think the answer�s just ahead of us.�
There was the picture of a military man in a solar topee, blowing upon his wind instrument; A neglected, sorrowful bar on a corner:
�The Bugle. This must be it.�
We went in through the low door into the low-ceilinged room of a bar that had died about twenty years previously. There were a few locals inside, who were instantly hushed by the presence of strangers in their midst. The carpet was mostly held together by spilt beer, fag ash, and most probably sputum. The atmosphere within had probably not been changed since the previous year. It was a ghostly, rancid, unloved hole. A middle-aged bar woman with a bubble perm and large glasses stopped wiping pint mugs and composed herself in front of us, one hand on an ale pump, and her face frozen in a semi-welcoming, semi-threatening rictus.
�Good evening, what can I get you?�
This was, I noticed, the first time all day that any one in a bar had actually asked me what I wanted rather than wait to be told.
�Two pints of best, thanks.�
�We don�t have any.�
�No bitter at all?�
�None.�
�OK then, two pints of lager?�
�Sorry.�
�What have you got?�
�Cider or gin.�
�Nothing else?�
�No. We�re having problems with the suppliers. If you don�t want those, you�ll have to go elsewhere.�
�No problem, we�ll have two ciders.�
�Do you want ice in that?�
�Er, no, I think we can live without it, thanks.�
�That�s just as well,� she said, �as we don�t have any ice either.�
I gave her the money, which she took with a vehemence that surprised me, then slammed the change on the bar. Taylor and I took the corner seats near the window, facing onto the street. A very large man with a dark beard and a mullet haircut stared down at us, silently threatening us to challenge him over what was indisputably a pint of bitter in his large mitt.
�No doubt we�re in the right place,� I muttered to Taylor.
�It would appear so.�
�What next?�
�I don�t know. I don�t think we�re meant to do anything. If something�s supposed to happen, it just will.�
�Then how the hell do we know that we�re doing whatever it is that we�re supposed to be doing. Fuck it, Taylor, this is bollocks!�
�Yes, but interesting bollocks, don�t you think?�
�No, it�s bloody not! I don�t mind doing the pub crawl thing, but I never expected, in my whole lifetime, that I�d end up in the sodding Bugle!�
The large man at the bar growled. I mean, he actually growled, like a large dog or bear. He obviously didn�t like me denigrating his favourite watering hole.
�The point is,� I continued, somewhat more quietly, �there are more salubrious places to go than this. Is there any point in following round some mad whim? It�s not as if we really know the story, anyway. C�mon, let�s neck these and go somewhere better, eh?�
Taylor was only half-listening to me. He had his fingers to his temple and was trying to squeeze a thought out.
�From what I recall, don�t Dante and Virgil end up at the very centre of Hell, on a frozen lake where all feelings die? Where do you reckon that could be?�
�Oh, Christ knows! Anyway, it�s sodding July! And Reading is not noted for its ice-skating facilities! Come on, let�s go!�
�Yes, Go!� roared the large man. �Get out of my pub, since ye find it so offensive!�
He lowered his pint and lurched over towards us.
�We don�t like newcomers here.�
�That�s right,� piped up someone else. �Piss off.�
�So why don�t you drink your drinks, RIGHT NOW, and get out of here. Leave us be.�
The barmaid said nothing, but judging from her stance and the look on her face, she was about to order us out anyway. I took a quick swig of the cider, then decided to forget it.
�Come on Taylor, this isn�t it.�
�I�m inclined to agree with you,� he said. �Good evening.�
So we beat a hasty retreat from there.
Back on the street, all of a few minutes after we�d left it, there was still the steady stream of incoming revellers. There was also the Weirdo, across the road from us, looking very pleased with himself, and jotting something in his notebook. He caught sight of me and legged it down towards the junction of Friar Street and Station Road before I lost sight of him behind a crowd of people.
�I saw the bugger again!� I said.
�Me too,� replied Taylor. �He was looking very content � do you reckon we were in the right place for his mad little scheme?�
�But nothing happened!�
�Perhaps it wasn�t meant to.�
�Ah shit, Taylor, I can�t handle this crap. Can�t we just go back to discussing my miserable life?�
And I was feeling miserable as well. On top of the alcohol, on top of Taylor�s �metaphysical disquisitions�, I was now trying to deal with what the Weirdo had said, and it was doing my head in. We came to the junction, filled with bustling crowds of all sorts of people, some dressed in weekend finery, others more mundane, and some in strange, canivalesque get-ups. The splendid Victorian baroque brickwork of the shops and offices that lined Victoria Street was lit up, something that Taylor pointed to, fascinated by the extravagant amount of work that had gone into it. Suddenly, rock-solid, red-brick, dumb old Reading had become something else, something I didn�t quite understand. Taylor was game for traversing this strange maze; after all, not having been here before, it was all new for him � what the place was, and what the place meant, were one and the same thing. As for me, it was my home town, and that meant tedium, boredom, sameness, mundanity. But now it was as if it was trying to escape that set of definitions and become something rare and strange, as exotic as a far-flung desert city, a fabled Samarkand. Either it was changing as I moved through it, or I was being transformed under the influence of Taylor and the Weirdo. These were the thoughts going through my head, I swear: I tried to express this to him, but all I could say right then was,
�My head is feeling fucking weird. I think we need a proper drink.�
�Lead on � I follow your bidding.�
�Let�s try the 3 B�s - it should be clear of pensioners by now.�
We walked towards the town hall, another confection of whimsy in brick, past the glut of bars at the end of Friar Street with their slowly increasing queues and shaven-headed bouncers. The sound of music from the various places was gradually increasing, a series of heavy thudding beats that contested with each other for dominance of the street in a grand cacophony that underscored the shouting, yelling, laughing and yelping of the partygoers. From the town hall itself came the noise of a band, along with cheering and applause.
�They must have a live set on tonight.�
�Let�s see.�
There were a couple of bouncers on the door, but it was a free event � according to the poster on the wrought-metal gates, a �blues and boogie night�. We went through, and were immediately hit by the heat � a terrible, humid fug, composed of sweat vapour, beer, and copious cigarette smoke. The place was absolutely heaving. In the tiny stage area next to the front windows, a blues and rock combo were thumping away, and their lead singer, an early middle-aged woman in a tight leather dress and wild, straw-blonde hair was blasting out a version of a Meatloaf song. We squeezed our way through the crowd to the bar. Everybody was clearly feeling the heat; people were waving theirs hands in front of their faces to try and cool down, or tugging at their clothing. Next to us, three guys were having an animated and very noisy discussion as they waited to be served.
�Yeah, well, fuck God,� said one of them, a lanky boy of about eighteen. He puffed at his fag, and brushed some ash off his clothes. �It�s not as if he exists, anyway.�
�You wouldn�t say that if He struck you dead, would you?� said another. �It�d be the other way round!�
�Yeah, like fuck,� lanky snarled. �Look. Come on, God, here I am, take your best shot! Twat! See? Nothing.�
� I bloody hate God-botherers,� said the third kid, a short, dark-haired and spotty specimen. �We had some of those Jehovah�s witnesses, or something like that, banging at the door the other day. You�ll like this � They�re giving me all the old chat about being saved and joining them and all that shit, then they ask me if I believe in Jesus. You know what I told them? I told them �I believe that Jesus and Peter were fucking bumchums�. That shut the fuckers up. Then I start telling them how I�m a Satanist and I�m cooking a couple of babies at the moment, and would they like to come in for the orgy? And so on, till they fucked off.� He looked on triumphantly as his mates hooted with laughter.
�That told �em Chas,� said the second character. �Ere, Bri, what do you do if you get any coming round?�
The lanky one said, �I feel like punching the fuckers, but I�d tell you what I�d love to do � this�d be funny � have a pair of devil�s horns, you know, the type they sell at Halloween � and a pitchfork ready by the door, then when they come, I�d put them on, open it and say,� and here he put on a deep, satanic voice, � �Yes? Welcome to Hell!�� The others laughed at him. Coming on after all that had been said over the past hour, it made me feel edgy, even though I knew that these were a bunch of eighteen-year-old prats breathing teenage rebellion and defiance. Somehow, Taylor had managed to squeeze his way to the bar and, over hands waving money and bellowing orders, get a couple of drinks.
�Come on, let�s move away from this squeeze,� he said. We carefully threaded our way towards the stage, where there was at least a little bit of standing room. No one was paying any particular attention to the band � rather, they would reach the end of a song and reap a bit of cheering and applause before launching into the next. I watched them rip into a cover of a Tina Turner number, absently tapping my foot as I listened. The number came to an end; cue clapping and whoops.
�Someone�s waving at us,� Taylor said. He nodded towards a table in a dark corner. Sitting there were two figures � one was on the large side, and wearing, of all things, some ridiculous confection of a hat, something like an oversized trilby. His companion, who was waving in a limp way, was shorter and slightly less fat, with receding blonde hair and a diamond earring that must have been big, considering how it glittered. The latter pointed at us and waved us over. It was only when we got nearer I realised who it was.
�Hello Dan, long time no see, hun,� he said.
�Hi, Simon! Well, bugger me!�
�Only if you insist, love.�
Simon More, quite possibly the gayest person in my class at school, years ago. A man so camp, you could have put scouts on him and called him a Jamboree. He hadn�t changed much, apart from a few extra pounds and the hair. He had never been my favourite person, but we�d got along OK, and I hadn�t seen him since then. We shook hands, and I introduced him to Taylor. He introduced me to his partner, who so far hadn�t said a thing.
�This is Oz. Ignore her � she�s being a terrible old queen tonight and not speaking to anyone. Not that you�re the most talkative, are you?�
Oz grunted.
�Never mind, he�s a sweetie, really. Hasn�t long been out of jail � he was a terribly naughty boy, weren�t you?�
Another grunt.
�Sooo,� he said, turning back to me and raising an eyebrow, �what are you doing here? The last I�d heard, you�d run away to foreign climes. I thought you�d have stayed there, away from this dump.�
�Yeah, I was, for quite a while. I�m back for now. Taylor and me travelled together quite a bit.�
I filled in a bit of what I�d been up to, to which Simon listened politely, but without any real interest, a typical and depressing reaction that I�d gradually grown used to over the past few months.
�What about you?� I asked him eventually.
�Well,� he began, sighing theatrically, �I�ve stayed here, in good old Reading. I�ve got my own place now, a little flat in the ab-so-lutely appropriate Queen Street near the canal. I work for the Prudential, in their IT department.�
�Do you still see any of the others from school?�
�Oh yes, all the time!� And he proceeded to fill me in, in excruciating detail, on who was doing what and where. It seemed that almost all of them had stayed here, married each other, worked in almost identical jobs and lived in identical houses. As I listened, I said a silent prayer of thanks that I hadn�t ended up like them.
�You must come and join us at our next meet,� he gushed. �We�re all getting together next week at the Gardener�s Arms for Richard�s birthday. Look, here�s my number,� he continued, scrawling his phone number on a beer mat, �give me a call and say if you can make it. It�d be great to see you � they�ll all be so interested to see you again.� I took it, but I had no intention of hooking up with them. Most of the people he mentioned had been smug little arseholes while we were at school, and I didn�t particularly feel the need to reacquaint myself with their lives � especially if conversation would revolve around children and mortgages.
During all this, Simon had ignored Taylor completely, but this seemed to suit the latter. He silently smoked his cigarettes, drank his beer, and looked around the bar. At one stage, he was watching the band with what appeared to be a deeply mournful, pensive air; the next he was grinning at nothing in particular, perhaps at just a sudden thought. I drained my own pint.
�Move on?� he said.
�Let�s boogie,� I agreed.
We said goodbye to Simon, me promising to stay in contact, and Oz grunting a farewell, then we got out into the relative coolness of the night.
�Well, I don�t know if we�re still on Weirdo�s course,� said Taylor, �but that was hot enough to be Hell.�
�You�re not joking.�
�Dan, what the Hell is that?� he exclaimed suddenly, pointing at a gleaming metal drum, somewhat taller than either of us, that had risen from the ground next to Queen Victoria while we�d been in the 3 B�s.
�That,� I announced, �is Reading�s contribution to town centre, late-night sanitation. It�s a pissoir. It rises from the depths late at night in order to stop revellers slashing over the queen.�
�God, so it is�, murmured Taylor, going over to inspect its gleaming steel surfaces. Someone had been busy with a knife or a key ring or something; scratched into the surface were phrases like �poof parlour� and �gay bar�, and, deeply and determinedly gouged, �I FUCK ARSES�.
�That�s actually a good idea. Are there any more?�
�No, that�s all.�
�I�ll use that on the way back. But for now, where to next?�
�Christ, I don�t know � which way do you reckon?�
�Well, how about back this way again?�
He pointed towards Market Place once more.
�Didn�t you say there�s a good pub up here?�
�The Coopers? Yeah, alright, let�s go for that.�
So we staggered round the corner and towards the Coopers. As we were going in, I saw a few women in front of the cash machine outside Barclay�s. One of them was smashing it with her shoe, which she had taken off, and was aiming the heel directly at the screen.
�Give � me � my � fucking � card � back � you � fucker!� She screamed, while one of her friends was doubled up laughing.
�Leave it be Leticia,� shouted another, �I�ll lend you some.�
�Fucking machine!� screeched Leticia, before slipping her shoe back on and tottering off with her friends.
�I will say this for Reading,� said Taylor, �you�re never at a loss for entertainment, are you?�

Texts
Where ru?
In da 3Bs innit
How ist?
Gr8 U comin?
L8r U wit NE1
Me & Chas & Bri. Wot bout U?
No 1 @ the mo. U stayin there all night?
No goin to Ice L8r @ 10
Ok M8 cu @ Ice
OK cu l8r bye

Sixteen: Reading is Heaven
Oh beautiful world!
Oscar Wilde
In which the Author, well pleased by the fact that his characters appear to be back on track, goes into another ramble, this time about the joys of reading.

So Dan and Taylor have made it to the Cooper�s, meaning that they have completed one circuit of the town this evening. I thought at one stage they weren�t going to make it. I have to say, however, that the whole Dantean conceit thing is starting to go a bit awry; In theory, they should be riding the monster Geryon down to the Eighth circle where fraud is punished, and their next stop should involve panders and seducers. How that�s going to happen I haven�t a clue. Well, I�ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it, I suppose. Of course, by now they are both pretty drunk, so whatever they do now may make no sense whatsoever; However, I think I�ll follow them some more tonight and see what happens. I think their pace is beginning to lag somewhat, and who can blame them? They have, after all, been on the go since two o�clock this afternoon, and now it is coming towards ten, with another four hours of boozing ahead of them � plus a late-night kebab and how to get back home. Of course everything�s going to be on the woozy side. Dan has already commented on this � the suggestion that Reading is slowly turning into something unrecognisable as the evening progresses. Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn�t.
The observant, interactive reader may have already enquired to him/herself as to the validity of using two voices in this story: Mine as Author, and Dan as narrator. Why on earth two voices? Why not one? Why not many? Why don�t we hear an interior monologue from Taylor, for example? Who knows what mysterious, wonderful worlds of thought are going on in his head? Then again, there could be nothing at all. Therein is a problem with any given character, a subject that we touched upon earlier; the eternal presence of The Writer, making His voice known through His mouthpieces. Just as the setting of a tale tells us something about the interests and preoccupations of the Author, so what the characters say and how they say it, or rather how skilfully they are made to say it, reflects the writer�s psyche, concerns, hopes and fears. Too often, the silent character is an empty one, a pawn waiting to be activated at the appropriate point of the tale. What story arc do characters follow when the spotlight is not on them? This is, of course, a question Stoppard asks in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. But have you ever applied the same question as you have read a novel? When the plot follows one set of characters, what are the others doing? Are they left to, as it were, lay in the dark, in the same place as they were left, until they are needed once more? Do they live outside the plot? Likewise, have you ever considered this of the people you see and meet every day? Do they have an existence outside the narrative arc of your own story? Your nearest and dearest do, yes; perhaps also the man in the corner shop, or your work colleagues. But what about the woman who sat opposite you on the bus into work this morning? How about the young local couple you once saw when you were on holiday that time, the two of them strolling arm in arm along the beach? What about the lonely, sad-looking old lady you spied sitting on the train platform? Were they, are they, real? Day after day, we encounter thousands of people, some more, some less; they enter our personal stories for perhaps a brief moment, like glimmers of light on dark water, and are gone, as if they never existed. Yet exist they do, and each has innumerable stories within them, countless tales that you are unlikely ever to hear. The interactive reader, however, can infer tales and myths from everyone and everything he or she meets; For the world itself, our mundane, plodding world, is glittering with unread stories, just waiting for the right person to come along and understand. And hence the title I�ve given this interlude � Reading is Heaven.
Now, just as in a previous chapter I said that the real, brick-and-mortar Reading that our heroes find themselves in is not Hell, so equally it is not Paradise � I don�t think anyone in their right mind would ever claim that. Besides, descriptions of heaven are notorious sketchy; consider that the Divine Comedy loses steam the minute the Pilgrim and the Poet climb Satan�s shaggy flanks and leave Hell. This is because we are immeasurably better at imagining the worst possible things that can befall us than thinking of the best. No, despite claims to the contrary, Heaven is not a place on Earth. But reading can be heaven, or as near as it is possible for us to imagine. When we pick up a book, the minute we open it to the first page, we enter another universe, another cosmos, created for our pleasure and delectation. It may be limited in scope, breadth or vision, but it is still complete by its own terms. And if the whole of anything is good, how can it be anything else but Heaven? And just as the physical world we move in is both replete with and devoid of meanings coiled within meanings, so can a book, and as such is a potential source of endless pleasure; and that, I think, is just about as close a definition of paradise as is available to us. You see, unlike Dan, or even Taylor, you don�t even need to travel beyond the confines of your armchair in order to see what there is beyond � a good book and a readiness to read in an attentive way are enough.

Seventeen: saints and slappers
There is no such thing as society.
Margaret Thatcher.
Oh Fuck off.
Most right-thinking people.
In which our two chums take a well-deserved opportunity to relax in a quiet corner; they chew the fat in a way only the terminally drunk can; things seem to get stranger.

After the heaving scrum of the three B�s, the Cooper�s was a quiet haven in comparison. It was still quite full, but not so bad that we couldn�t get a seat. It was a relief, to be honest; I was feeling the strain of the day, and just for a few minutes at least, I just wanted to be somewhere relatively calm and relaxed. We got a couple of beers and took up seats near the wide open windows so we could enjoy the balmy night air, filled with the scents of petrol fumes, cheap colognes, vomit, and people shouting at each other.
�I used to come here a lot before I went abroad,� I said, apropos of nothing. � It was pretty good then � bikers, punks, Goths, and lots of noisy music on the juke box, as long as you could handle �Bat Out of Hell� and The Doors being played at least twice each evening. Then they tried to change it into a winebar, with a smart clientele and bouncers on the door. Thankfully, that fucked up, and now it�s starting to get back to what it was.�
�Looks pretty old.�
�yeah, I think it�s one of the oldest buildings still standing in the centre � then again, I think all this timber is probably all mock Tudorbethan crap.�
Taylor pulled out his pack of fags, and dropped the last two on the table. We lit up, and gazed blankly out into the night.
�This view�s not a patch on Beirut.�
�No.�
Three men sprinted past the window, going hell for leather, closely followed by a police car with its siren blaring. In the background, someone, possibly some remnant from the old Cooper�s days, had put on The Door�s �The End�. I looked around the bar; a couple of sad-looking fat blokes were propped at the bar itself, smoking roll-ups; a girl was crying in a corner, being comforted by her friend; the barmaid was discussing something earnestly with a couple of people in a language I didn�t recognise; four office workers were roaring their heads off and slopping their drinks over the table; and Taylor was still looking, somewhat sadly I thought, into the night.
�Dan, have we changed?� He asked suddenly.
I shrugged. �I don�t know. Don�t think so, not really.�
�yet we do, don�t we?� he continued. �Look, this afternoon, I saw you and thought how miserable you looked, how weary of this world. Now we�re here, and I already notice awkward silences. Why?�
�It�s �cos we�re pissed, mostly,� I replied. �We�ve drunk far too much. Besides we haven�t seen each other in four years, and that�s a long time of travelling in different directions, you know. I�ve been my place, you�ve been yours. And we shall tell each other what we have done and what we have seen, the minute we can speak and think coherently. But we haven�t changed, not really.�
�Places change people,� Taylor said, slowly. �They, well, they impinge upon them. If you stay in one place all your life, you stay as one kind of person, thinking in one kind of way, having one set of opinions. But when you travel, then something alters, something in the soul.�
I considered this.
�Not necessarily,� I started. �I reckon it depends on the person. If you want your eyes opened, then they will. Perhaps you don�t need to travel for that, but then again that movement is the key to it. You know, what you said earlier � change perspective and all that.�
�Thou hast said it�, he grinned, then flashed a smiling look at me. Suddenly, he was reanimated. �It�s perspective that�s the thing, then. You�re down because of what, exactly? Just being here?�
�Well, yes. No. I don�t know.�
�I�d say that it�s all down to what you see this place as � from what you said earlier, I reckon this is your jail. Am I right?�
I didn�t say anything, but I didn�t need to.
�Well, let me give you my view. I travelled by train early on this morning, travelling through landscape that lay under a sultry haze, through a landscape that gleamed silver because of being chalk land. The train arrived in the outskirts of this town, and I had to wonder, because it seemed like a Midlands industrial city and I had come too far north. But no, I then saw these fine buildings over and around the river, and towards what I now understand to be the centre, and a phrase from Daniel Defoe�s tour of England came to mind. True, it wasn�t that promising, especially being greeted by that grey lump of a building opposite the station, but definitely no worse than many other places I�ve been. Having found a bus that would take me to Emmer Green, I had a pleasant lunchtime ride up, crossing a river full of life and heading towards a place that, at first sight, seemed to be a forest with a few houses interspersed. Oh yeah, it�s not like that for real, but at a distance that�s how it seemed. The same happened after I�d met you and we were coming back down; I looked into the bowl that holds this place, and saw a city mainly composed of trees.�
�Try seeing it in winter, then,� I muttered
�But I didn�t, and probably never will, and just saw this place on a bright warm day, when it is possessed, even superficially, of beauty. And now, staggering round here as we are, I see that this town is stark, staring mad � it�s full of drunk eccentrics and people who not only wish they were somewhere else, but also that they were someone else. That�s why they indulge in houses that are too extravagant and cars they can�t afford. I quite like it. And now, to add to the mad fun, we have your fucking weirdo, insisting that we are in Hell, and that all this is some kind of metaphysical concoction for our pleasure. So far, you must agree, we�ve been massively entertained, and apart from the ale, we haven�t paid for any of it�.talking of which�.�
He lumbered to his feet before I could even begin to frame a reply, and headed for the fruit machine, which someone was just walking away from with a look of resigned disgust on their face. I realised that Taylor must have had his eye surreptitiously on the guy for a while, and was waiting to pounce. He was talking arrant balls, of course, I thought, then rapidly unthought it. This was still old Taylor, my friend, and his discursive, argumentative, inquisitive ways. Alright, he could be seen as a bullshitter, but that was only in a certain light � the same that cast a dreary, judgemental light on where I lived. Was he right? Was where I was having an effect on what I saw and perceived?
Just then, I got an image of Beattie in my head, and my heart and guts lunged with desire for her. I realised how much I missed her; seeing Taylor, and knowing that he�d actually talked with her only a matter of fourteen days ago, triggered everything off : You know, all that maudlin clich�d crap, of first meeting, going out, the last time I saw her, and so on. The fact is, we never quite got it together, for one reason or another; We always wanted to, but work commitments and circumstance always prevented us. The truth is, I�d begun to doubt her feelings for me, even after the last time we�d met, but Taylor�s appearance and comment had renewed hopes and feelings I hadn�t felt for months. She was still thinking of me, still had feelings for me. I clung to that idea like some lovesick teenager � but that�s the way I felt! It was, on the face of it, somewhat ridiculous, and I told myself so: we were on opposite sides of the planet, after all. But so what? I had begun to give up hope of ever meeting someone again after my first marriage, done and finished while disastrously young, and the catalyst for my travels abroad. Then I had met her while at a particularly low point, and it was as if the sunlight had pierced a fierce gloom of cloud. I lost myself in a reverie of her now. I found a last cigarette in my own pack, lit up, and looked out into the street. People were walking along in various stages of inebriation, shouting out instructions to go to this place or that, or laughing, or doing nothing much more than a slow amble. And in the midst of them all, standing under the market obelisk, was The Fucking Weirdo. He was grinning at me, and giving me the thumbs up. I gave him the finger, but he carried on grinning, and pointed to his left, towards the town centre. He mouthed the words �keep going�, then moved off himself. I put my head out the window, but he�d already disappeared into the gloom. Now that was another thing; his insistence that we were in some kind of story. Well, from a philosophical viewpoint, I could kind of understand that. From the point of view that he was in some way manipulating my actions and I had bugger all to do except follow on passively, speak only when required, move only when desired, that was unacceptable. Who the fuck did he think he was? It was glaringly obvious he was following us around and backfilling a story for us wasn�t it? Then again, in my drunken state, I started pondering how many people had watched us today, how many sets of eyes and street-corner cameras had been trained on our movements. Indeed, I�d noticed the unobtrusive CCTV cameras in this pub, and grew, I admit, somewhat paranoid about who might be watching me even now. My nervous train of thought was broken by a triumphant �Yes!� from Taylor, and the merry chinking of money from the fruit machine. He scooped up his winnings and came back over.
�Look at that,� he said, �I reckon that�s our evening nearly paid for, along with what I got earlier. See � chance favours the well-prepared mind.�
�Good for you. The Weirdo�s back � I saw him outside while you were unburdening that thing.�
�Fuck him, who cares? More beer?�
�Let�s make it a short, and get out of here. And fags.�
�Of course.�
He went to get some cigarettes, just as a group of lads more or less fell through the door, shouting and laughing. They picked themselves up, and rushed for the bar, yelling for beer.
�All right, all right, don�t panic!� the bar manageress said curtly. �You�ll all get served � who�s rattled your cages then, eh?� She poured them beer, while they continued their conversation at full volume.