Excerpts from lost novels
11 March, 2008
Sunlight burst throw the dirty metal-framed window and
illuminated the plain coffee table that stood in the middle
of the room. A young man lay sprawled on a beige sofa,
pock-marked with cigarette burns. He stared absent-mindedly
at a small television that sat squat on the floor in a
corner by the window. Join us after the break when we will
be talking to a put-upon mother and her drug-addict
prostitute of a daughter, the host announced, wearing a
carefully rehearsed expression of concerned disgust while
the audience booed and then clapped.
The young man glanced at the blank walls of the room and
then back at the television. Have you got debts that leave
you with a headache at the end of every month? Do find it
hard to keep up with all the different payments you have to
make? With one of our special loans, you can consolidate
all of your debts into one, easy payment that will leave
you enough money left over so you can enjoy a new lease of
life…
A thought tried to force its way into the young man’s mind,
but gave up and sank back into oblivion. Something about
debts, maybe something about drugs. He considered changing
the channel, but he couldn’t summon up enough energy to
reach for the remote control a few inches from his hand.
Hungry. Nope, can’t be bothered to go to the kitchen.
What’s there? A couple of slices of bread and a half-eaten
pizza. No butter for the bread. No plates, just one dirty
knife. Can’t be bothered to clean it. Applause. Welcome
back. Now, Jessie is a hard-working single mum, making ends
meet with a job at a call centre and spending all her spare
cash on making sure that her daughter, Nikkala, has all she
needs. She sacrifices everything for her daughter, and
hasn’t been out for a drink with a friends for months.
Aaah, intones the audiences, muttering approval. And, she
hasn’t been on holiday for, well…let’s find out. Can we
bring out Jessie? Let’s get her out. Applause. An
overweight, depressed-looking woman with greasy hair and
wearing a tracksuit wanders out onto the stage. Welcome to
the show Jessie. More applause. Take a seat. Great, thanks
for joining us. That’s all right, Jessie said, making
herself comfortable in one of two armchairs at the front of
the stage. Okay, so when was the last time you went
on…click. Silence.
The remote control bounced on the sofa and landed on the
floor, the cover opening on impact and scattering two
batteries across the laminate floor. The young man listened
to the echo resonating around the room, and then the
silence. There was nothing, not even a bird singing
outside. Just the faint whirring of a truck far, far below
and the distant rumble of the city. He looked at the blank
walls and then back at the blank television before slowly
pulling himself off the sofa. He thought about having a
shower, but couldn’t be bothered. Quick check in the
mirror. Yep, hair looks okay. He pulled up his T-shirt and
looked at his sunken stomach, feeling the hunger within.
Soon sort that out, he said to himself, pulling on a pair
of battered trainers and reaching for his key on the floor
by the door.
Soon, he was riding down in the urine-stinking lift,
watching the numbers change rhythmically. When they reached
10, the doors opened with a rattle and he trudged along the
walkway, not looking out over the edge at the ragged mass
of South London, not feeling the sharp wind tugging at his
T-shirt and pushing onto his skin, not noticing the puddles
on the bare concrete. Number 1042. He stood at the door and
thought about what he would find inside. He felt a little
nervous. It was only a few hours since he had sunk into
blissful emptiness, letting all thoughts and concerns slip
into the murky blackness, drifting into calm stasis, but he
felt as if it was the first time again. He thought back to
the clear, simple days when he didn’t go to the flat, when
it all seemed to exciting. It wasn’t exciting now. It was
necessity, and he knew he shouldn’t go back in. But he
feared not going in more, and pressed the bell with steady
determination, pulling himself together, gathering his will
to force himself on, into the blissful emptiness. A noise
from within and a couple of footsteps. A bolt shot back and
the frame creaking slightly as the dirty, graffitied,
peeling door began to open. This is it. His heart pounded
in anticipation. This is it.