Taming the Alien

POETRY

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So he sent it off.

‘Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.’ The psycho Dex used to say it all the time. Dex, they found him in a bin liner on a heap in Walworth. An old copy of The Big Issue down his Y-fronts. Liked to read, did old Dex. And talk. But talked too much. A black chick took his throat from ear to mouthy ear.

She was dead ’n’ all.

Since Derek Raymond died, so did all the characters.

He sent the poem.

They replied:

Dear Ronald,

If we may be permitted the liberty of addressing you thus …

Fenton thought, ‘Uh-huh, watch your wallet,’ but read on:

Our panel of specially selected judges have chosen your poem to go forward to the Grand Final. The winner receives a thousand guineas.

All entries will be published in a lavish volume that all good book stores must have. As you’ll appreciate, the cost of printing is high for a book of such quality. For a stipend of fifty pounds, we can reserve your own engraved copy. Please hurry as demand is limited.

Of course, your donation in no way affects the outcome of the Grand Final which, as we stated, is for ONE THOUSAND GUINEAS!

We eagerly await your prompt reply.

Yours,

P Smith, Co-ordinator

The World of Poetry Inc.

He wrote back:

Dear P. Smith,

Take my end outta the thousand large.

Yours,

R.Fenton

Convict

If you turned right on the Clapham Road, you could walk along Lorn to the Brixton side.

Few do.

Brant had his new place here. The irony didn’t escape him.

Lorn … forlorn.

Oh yeah.

Since he’d been knifed in the back, he’d been assigned to desk duty, said: ‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers.’

His day off, he’d go to the cemetery, put flowers on PC Tone’s grave. Never missed a week. Each time he’d say, ‘Sorry son. I didn’t watch for you and the fucks killed you for a pair of pants.’

What a slogan — Trousers to die for.

The Band Aid couple had gone to ground or Ireland. No proof it was them. Just a hunch. Some day, yeah … some day he’d track ’em.

Only Chief Inspector Roberts knew of Brant’s hand in the murder of the boy. He wouldn’t say owt. Brant’s own near death had somehow evened it out for Roberts.

Odd barter but hey, they were cops, not brain surgeons.

Chief Inspector Roberts was aging badly. As he shaved, he looked in the mirror, muttered: ‘Yer aging badly.’

Deep creases lined his forehead. The once impressive steel grey hair was snow white and long. Clint Eastwood ridges ran down his cheeks. Even Clint tried to hide them. Wincing is cool … sure … maybe till yer dodgy forties, but after that it comes across as bowel trouble.

Roberts loved the sun, nay, worshipped it — and cricket. Too many summers under long hours of UV rays had wreaked havoc. Worse, melanomas had appeared on his chest and legs. When he’d noticed them he gasped, ‘What the bloody hell?’

He knew … oh sweet Jesus did he ever … that if them suckers turned black, you were fucked. They turned black.

The doctor said, ‘I won’t beat around the bush.’

Roberts thought: Oh, do … if necessary, lie to me — lie big — beat long around any bush.

‘It’s skin cancer.’

‘Fuck!’

After he thought, I took it well.

Was ill as a pig when he heard about the treatment.

Like this: ‘Once a week we’ll have radiation.’

‘We? You’ll be in there with me?’

The doctor gave a tolerant smile, halfways pity to building smirk, continued: ‘Let’s see how you progress with the ‘rad’, and if it’s not doing the business we’ll switch to laser.’

Roberts wanted to shout, ‘Beam me up Scottie! Signpost ahead … The Twilight Zone.’

He let the doctor wind down. ‘Later on, we’ll whip some of those growths away. A minor surgical procedure.’

‘Minor for you, mate.’

The doctor was finished now, probably get in nine holes before ops, said: ‘We’ll pencil you in for Mondays, and I’d best prepare you for two after effects:

1. You’ll suffer extreme fatigue, so easy does it.

2. It leaves you parched — a huge thirst is common.’

He had a mega thirst now.

Right after, he went to the Bricklayers. The barman, a balding git with a pony-tail and stained waistcoat, chirped, ‘What will it be, Guv?’

‘Large Dewars, please.’

‘Ice … water?’

‘What, you don’t think I’d have thought of them?’

‘Touchy.’

Roberts didn’t answer, wondering how the git would respond to rad. As if abbreviation could minimise the trauma. Oh would it were so. Dream on.

Robert’s other passion was Film Noir of the forties and fifties. Hot to trot. Now, as he nursed the scotch, he tried to find a line of comfort from the movies. What he got was Dick Powell in Farewell My Lovely:

I caught the blackjack right behind my ear.

A black pool opened up at my feet.

I dived in. It had no bottom.

Yeah.

He’d given the git behind the bar a tenner, and now he eyed the change. ‘Hey buddy, we’re a little light here.’

‘Wha …? Oh … took one for me. I hate to see anyone drink alone.’