Stonebridge Park: NW10

                                         Stonebridge Park; NW10

                                                        by

                                           Chris Sullivan ©2017

Can you see me? That's me, lying on the concrete.

Funny! I thought people would rush out of their front doors to see me.

But nobody seems bothered apart from those kids.

At least I stopped them playing ball.I am laying here now and I don’t know why I did it; I don't even know how I am talking to you.

Is it my voice you hear?

Or is this going straight onto the page or into a magazine?

I know I’m communicating with someone - somewhere; it might even be going

straight onto somebody's computer screen.

Computers and mobile phones; tablets and apps - the wonder of the age; all those exciting people sitting on the trains or in Starbucks with their tablets.

The only tablets I ever have are pills: green ones and red ones; uppers and downers; tranquilizers and Mandrax.

At least I never took acid.

I saw a bloke the other day; he was sitting in Starbucks with the thing on his lap. Then he stopped typing and looked up, with his mouth open; I thought he was dead; his eyes were staring at my newspaper so I moved it slightly to see if he really was looking at it, but as I moved it, his eyes just starred straight ahead to where the paper had been; his mouth was still gaping and I thought something had happened to him; then something must have ignited inside him and he started typing again.

As I walked out I looked over his shoulder to see what he was doing and all I

could see was the word complaints; I thought about it later and realised that he probably never stops work; starts again when he gets home.

Why does he bother with the journey?

I saw a film once when a dead body talked to the audience; just like I'm doing

now. It was Sunset Boulevard with William Holden who played a screenwriter who was shot by Gloria Swanson. He lay in a Beverly Hills swimming pool, face down, talking to the audience in voice over whilst the fire department and the police tried to fish him out.

I often wondered how they did that shot: he was being photographed from the bottom of the pool and, in the background, you could see the cops standing at the side of the pool clear as a bell.

You can't usually do that as you can't see people clearly when you are submerged. Then someone told me: it was shot from outside the pool in to a mirror so you could see all. Don't ask me to explain it that's all I know.

I thought I would be lying face down; it's my fault: when I jumped I should

have dived head first; I wasn't even sure if I would hit the concrete or the grass - or

what's left of the grass.

I didn't actually aim for anything; as soon as I reached the top floor I more or less

leapfrogged over the side.

If I'd have thought about it I wouldn't have done it at all.

I wish I hadn't done it now.

Oh no! Here comes a dog. I hope he doesn't . . . it's okay somebody has sent him

away; it is a 'he' - I can see that very well from down here.

I wonder what I look like.

It didn't hurt; the funny thing, on the way up I went past a few teenagers sitting on the stairs; a few frightening looking roughnecks. Why they wanted to sit there is beyond me; maybe they were dealing in drugs? I don't know, but they actually frightened me; I thought they would try and mug me or something. It's strange that I should be scared of them when I was contemplating the ultimate act.

The first thing I noticed about the apartment building was the stink; I don't know

what it was: shit, piss - who knows? but it wasn't very pleasant. Why would those kids would want to hang around on those stairs in that smell?

I had passed this building many times; often wondered what kind of people lived

here; still do. Nobody has come out yet: why don't these kids tell the grown ups what has happened?

At least someone might cover me up.

When I landed my feet, or legs, must have been pushed up through my body

making me three feet tall - ha ha!

But there was no pain.

I was really out of breath by the time I got to the top, as the lift wasn't working and I thought there would be a lock on the door to the roof; it might have even put me off.

But there wasn't; twenty four floors and I was almost depleted.

I was talking to a man earlier: I was trying to walk along the street and he stopped

me; wanted to talk, well not talk, he wanted to complain. Complain about everything; he told me he was eighty three and had a false leg; he said he knew somebody else who had two false legs and I wanted to ask him if his friend had the height on his passport with or without legs; it would be funny to go into another country and your passport reads that you are three feet and there you are standing at a normal height; they might even . . .

I think there's a bit of movement from one of the flats; yes one of the kids has

knocked a door and pointed me out to them; the woman went back in again maybe to use the phone.

It's very quiet; I'm surprised at that. It may be because I'm not used to it yet; it might be like buying a stereo and learning how to control the sound. I didn't even think I'd be able to communicate but I am communicating with you! I know I am communicating because I feel it; I just don't know who you are.

What will my family say? If I'd planned it I would have left them a note; but I was

driving past this building, had the thought and here I am. If I'd have really planned it I would have gone somewhere famous; maybe The Shard; not this dump; maybe even the Empire State Building: 'Man jumps off Empire State Building;' mmn.

I don't think anybody's ever jumped off The Shard.

That woman has dragged somebody out and they're coming across; good job

you’re wearing underwear, missus; here they come!

Oh no! They've put something over me; I can't see too much now.

Hey! I can hear and they've called an ambulance.

There's a carriage clock in my car; my stinking old car. Forty years work for a carriage clock ; it said so on the inscription? Who would want to steal someone’s retirement present? The lowest of the low I should think.

The man with the one leg must have worked somewhere for forty years; he got a

little emotional when I told him that if he fitted a sponge like material to the top of the false leg and lay back on it that it would be like sitting down all day when he was actually standing up.

He said he'd been trying to tell them that at the hospital for a long time but they

wouldn't listen to him.

I was really trying to go to the post office and all he wanted to do was talk and

complain.

He complained about the people that parked outside his house and said it was about time they were towed away. He told me that if a car vacated a space outside

his building he would get his car from his garage and park it in the street.

I wanted to know why he did this and he said he did it to stop others.

As I looked at him I wanted to give him a smack on the side of his jaw and go;

every time I started to go he put his hand on my shoulder like a cop would, and then he would complain about something else: the government, the European Union, modern pop music, immigrants.

He said he had been to the post office that morning but there was a huge queue - I

only wanted stamps, he said, and I told them they should hire more people as I didn’t have all day.

He told them he was going to write to their supervisor as soon as he got home and

said they were very nice to him after that.

That's the way I'd end up, I suppose; just like him; complaining and moaning. I'm

better off lying here - or laying here I think it should be, but what does it matter?

What's the good of an ambulance to me now? I know they have paramedics on

board these days but they'd need Jesus Christ Himself to do me any good . . .

- will they have to scrape me up?

They've covered my face and legs but they've left my left hand exposed: if that

dog licks me will I be able to feel it? But they've sent the dog away; if the dog licked me on my face would it wake me? I am awake; awake and dead!

Somebody has just noticed the ring on my finger; I hope they don't steal it.

Stealing from the dead is nearly as bad as stealing a presentation box, with a carriage clock inside, from an old timer.

Here come the cops.

- Hello mister policeman.

He is using the tip of his finger and thumb to lift the blanket from my face.

- Hello.

Only a young pup not more than a kid; bit too much for him. He didn't look at me

properly; just a quick glance and away.

- Who saw him jump?

Oh look! All the kids saw me jump and the old lady who was inside watching TV

saw me jump too. How come I was lying here for five minutes before the old lady came out? That's what I want to know; and the kids carried on playing ball for a while; what were they waiting for?

I wish I could see if the carriage clock in the car is okay; it's inscribed. I locked the

car so it should be okay.

Here come the paramedics; they're flashing the light and everything. Why should

they do that? I'm not going anywhere; well I am when they pick me up - scrape me up or whatever.

The man with one leg said he'd been a dancer for forty years. I suppose it's ironic

that a man who needs his legs for work should lose one; rather like an actor losing his voice. He told me he didn't like Strictly Come Dancing; they're not proper dancers, he said, they overdo everything. They should do it this way, he said, and he started doing some kind of fox trot and, as he had a stiff leg, he looked like somebody who was having a fit.

People started to look.

- They should be doing it that way, he said.

Swish swish - with the head this time.

- They should be doing it like this; a smaller swish with the head.

That's when I found out he was a professional dancer. I couldn't see him getting a

carriage clock for being a professional dancer; not unless it was a prize . . . .

- Hello paramedic; halloooo!

This fella’s having a good look; he knows his job. He likes his job I can see that;

he likes looking at dead bodies.

- Look at me, folks, he's saying to them, I'm not scared of dead bodies: I've

scraped them off the motorway before now.

His partner is getting the stretcher out - and the shovel I should think.

There is no address on the presentation box - just the man's name; oh it has the

name of the company that presented it and the date so they might be able to trace it.

The man with the one leg said he had automatic transmission in his car as it was

easy to drive that way.

He told me that he met somebody in a hospital who went swimming and would leave their false leg on the side of the pool; nobody would take any notice of it; not the kind of thing anybody would steal. I don’t know; he hadn’t met me.

I am now being lifted onto the stretcher and I can't feel any sensation whatsoever.

Wheel me away, folks!

Now they have covered me up completely with some sort of blanket and I can't

see; nothing to see.

When I was talking to the one legged man a young girl came walking past us; I

couldn't see her, at first, as she was approaching from behind.

- Look at this, he said, she needs some treatment!

He said it loud enough so she could hear him.

She was wearing a pair of very tight shorts and a flimsy top. When he said 'look at

this' I automatically turned around and she must have noticed. He followed her with his lascivious leer until she was gone.

- Shouldn't be allowed, he said, walking out like that.

Too late mister, I said to myself as I walked away.

- See you, he shouted after me.

I put my hand up without turning around; Montgomery Clift did that in one of his

movies; everybody tells me about it but I have yet to see it; don't suppose I will now.

As I walked away from him I saw the presentation box in the front seat of a

parked car. I was never sure what I was going to do with it or even how much it was worth, but I put it into my bag and carried on walking as if nothing had happened. The car should have been locked; the window should have been closed. What can you expect leaving cars unlocked?

I took the clock to an antique market to sell to one of the traders and when I took

it out of my bag I noticed the inscription.

Forty years work for a carriage clock; it had been presented on the day I stole it; who would steal such a thing? The lowest of the low.

It seems they're going to take me to the morgue; I don't even know where that is.

Won't really need to know from now on. I'll just have to see what happens; no one will miss me so who cares; no one ever misses the lowest of the low.

I am being lifted into the ambulance but now things are different; now I can see

myself and I am a cadaver; can you see me? Can you still hear me?

As they lift me into the ambulance I am going higher and higher.

Where am I going, I wonder?

It seems to be up but that could mean anything; I'm glad they covered me up.

I don't think I would like to see what I did to myself.

I'm not sorry any more. I don't regret anything; apart from stealing the carriage clock.

I hope you get it back.

                                                          THE END

I wrote this about twenty years or so ago. It has appeared in many on line mags and things and in 2010, when I was in Edinburgh at the festival, after the performance each night, we would go to the Captain's Bar just off Nicholson Street where poetry and short stories were being read. I read this, amongst other things, and there wasn't a sound in a full pub –               hey man! That's some weird story, I would hear.