Hook Nitrospective

1. Auflage 2011
ISBN: 978-1-907133-63-3
Verlag: Dog Horn Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 280 Seiten

Japanese school children grow giant frogs, a superhero grapples with her secret identity, onions foretell global disasters and an undercover agent is ambivalent as to which side he works for and why. Relationships form and crumble with the slightest of nudges. World catastrophe is imminent; alien invasion blase. These twenty slipstream stories from acclaimed author Andrew Hook examine identity and our fragile existence, skid skewed realities and scratch the surface of our world, revealing another-not altogether dissimilar-layer beneath. Nitrospective is Andrew Hook's fourth collection of short fiction.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hook, Andrew

Leseproben

Nitrospective She resembles a hare caught in traffic. Beautiful, skittish, terrified, authentic: simultaneously. She’s lying on my bed. Beyond the window is the ocean. If I look out to the horizon that’s all I can see. The line between sky and sea is pretence. The time for action is past. I have aged. The time for reflection has come. Faith is on her front. Her naked back bears scars, only some of which are inflicted by me. To add to them is easier than creating marks on unblemished skin. I told her I loved her. It was the truth. Vérité. Vert. Green. How simple it is to make links from one word to the other. From one ideal to the other. Even now I don’t know who she is really working for. * My orders were to bring her to Southwold for a holiday. The way Gregory said holiday made me shiver, although I kept it inside. We have information, he said. But didn’t reveal it. Because of this, I never knew if I was fighting for the right cause. But of course, is it possible to fight against a concept rather than an enemy? Sometimes I wonder why I’m here. There are some who regard the planes flying into the World Trade Centre as the catalyst. When I saw it, I thought it was performance art. Thirty years later I am in my mid-fifties. Faith hadn’t been born. If I question my own methods, then I question her ideals even more. Nothing she has told me makes any sense. I leave her on the bed and take a walk. What was once a beautified semi-tourist town has become a barricade. Everywhere we are hiding behind barricades, against threats which we can no longer see. Everyone has an enemy, everyone is the enemy. Seagulls glitter the air. The sky is blue. The light here is fantastic. Magnificently wide and pale. Under a topless sky I sit by the cannons and look out to sea. I’m not worried about Faith. She can’t escape when she’s tied. The first time I saw her she was handing out pamphlets. Not political treatise, no one did that anymore; it would be tantamount to handing out pieces of paper containing the words kill me. Hers were for the new hairdressers in town. People still liked to look good. Her mousy-brown hair framed her face, long at the back, short at the front. When her lips were slightly parted, as they usually were, I could see four of her white teeth. Her blue eyes, accentuated by thick black mascara, were an invitation. I accepted it. She could have been anyone, but I wanted to make her someone. I wished I could light a cigarette. The first time I was tortured I immediately told everything I knew. I was respected for that, and enlisted for the other side. When I was captured and subsequently tortured I told everything again. Even now I have no understanding why anyone would keep the truth inside them and accept pain. Let it out, release it. What does any of it matter anyway? On the bench I wondered whether Faith was holding anything back or whether she genuinely had nothing to tell. I was a calm torturer. I told her my truths and waited for hers. It gave me no pleasure to see her cry. It was like telling someone you loved that you no longer loved them. Which is why I told her I loved her as I marked her supple skin. Nowhere there is danger. Everywhere there is danger. It all depends on what you believe, and I believe in nothing. * Everyone talks about ethnic minorities but no one talks of ethnic majorities. In 2007 I committed my only political act. On a wall less than two-hundred yards from the American Embassy in London I graffitied a Chad. Familiar half-face, hands, peeping over a wall. Always peeping, semi-hiding. War On Terror. WOT NO TERROR. War on terror no terror. Even as I drew it I was being drawn into it. I chose allegiances on a whim. Because really none of it made any difference. It might well be determined that Faith and I are on the same side. Although we won’t always have been on the same side and we wouldn’t always remain on the same side. Gregory called me a chameleon. He knew my past which is why he could trust me. You can’t trust anyone with ideals. They only do stupid things. Faith carries a photo of herself in her purse. A full head shot. Maybe she keeps it to retain her identity, to remind herself of how she looked when she takes it out at the point of her death. Outside of her face, the only discernible image is a round ceiling light over her right shoulder. For a while it bothered me that I would never know where that photograph was taken. Or who took it. Love does funny things. I left the bench and continued into town. If I pay attention I remember that the burnt-out husk of a building was once a second-hand bookstore. Pieces of paper aflame would have twirled skywards like reverse sycamores or jigsaw phoenixes. Everything else is much the same. I enter the grocers and buy an apple but even that is a political act. The apple, of course, is green. Never give power to someone who doesn’t know what they want to do it with. Never give power to anyone with ideals. Those without ideals never want power. I am a pawn. * There’s a phone box on the corner. Unlike in 2001 when mobile phones were sounding amongst the rubble, calling to the dead, no-one carries one any longer. No one wants themselves to be available at any time. Sometimes, listening to a telephone ring in an empty room is solace. I dialled Gregory’s number and waited. “Anything?” “Not yet. Are you sure?” “Can anyone be sure?” I shrugged. Even though he couldn’t see it, Gregory must have known. “I don’t know anything anymore.” “You never did. That’s why I like you. You’re a black screen which refreshes itself every single day. You know it, and you embrace it.” I nodded. “I am essentially passive.” “That’s why people like me need you.” “Is there anything else?” “Just continue.” Gregory’s voice was always cool and calm. But underneath I knew that a bear was roaring. I bought cigarettes for the home, some fruit juice, a couple of microwaveable meals for dinner, a box of matches, an old postcard faded by the sun, a newspaper. By the time I had walked one hundred yards I had discarded the newspaper. To my right, as I passed the green outside the pub, a house exploded. * “You don’t mind that I’m older?” She shook her head. It was 2029, two years ago. I touched her breast through her sweater. Even though she wore a bra I could feel the nub of her nipple. “Have you heard about the New World Order,” she said. “I’ve always heard of it. It comes around and around and around and has been around since St George killed his first dragon.” She smiled. “But if you look at the proof.” I showed her the proof. NWO. OWN. WON. NOW. It was only a matter of semantics. I traced my fingers from her shoulder, along her neck, up to her right ear. “Language can only be a lie because we expect language to offer explanations. But there are no explanations. There is only what we see.” She took hold of my hand and placed my index finger into her mouth. “Sometimes there is no need for language.” She said it clumsily. Little girl clumsily. Maybe it was the naiveté which appealed to me. Maybe it was because she was a blank canvas. But more likely it was because I hadn’t had anyone for a long time. Afterwards: “Are you an idealist?” I shook my head. “An ideal is like perfection. It doesn’t exist. All that you can do is fight for it, and all some people want to do is fight.” “Surely you have to fight for what you believe in?” “And if you believe in nothing?” Whilst the question hung there I entered her again. * I ducked as bricks and tiles flew my way as though on invisible strings, threw myself to the ground as a white picket fence almost speared me. Its tips dug into the grass around me, enclosed me. There was the usual screaming. The gulls overhead flew and kept their distance for maybe a minute. Then returned as though looking for the pickings. How easily restoration becomes. A neighbour emerged from her property. Began shouting about the Arabs, the French, the Germans, the Greens, the Terrorists, the Maoists, the English, the Christians, the Muslims. She shouted about everyone other than herself, but she was just as guilty as the rest of them. I stood up. Thought of taking out my gun and decided against it. Instead I brushed grass off my trousers, watched as community services arrived and put out the small fire, giving instructions on making the building safe. It appeared that the family hadn’t been at home. In the big scheme of things, for me, that made a difference. My purchases were in a brown recyclable bag which miraculously hadn’t been torn as I threw myself to the ground. Clutching it to my chest, I made my way back to our holiday home. By the time I reached the cannons, another house had exploded. Then another, probably. I heard it but no longer looked. If it seemed random and pointless then so did the rest of life. But even then you could just stand there and enjoy it. There are no puppets. We all have free will. Some of us choose to be freer than others. Freedom from choice is what we want, but freedom of choice is what we’ve got. Everything is internal. I walked across the dunes. Even though I wore trousers I could feel the stiff grass whipping my legs. Bending down I pulled up a clump...