Creative Work
Extract from The Last Act
The throbbing roar of a police helicopter slices through the damp morning air above my house. It is hovering over our rain soaked cul-de-sac for the third time this week. And for the third time this week the noise of its screaming blades dissects and rejoins the same thoughts inside my head. I have but a short time left on this earth. But before I go, I must teach these arrogant pigs who have unleashed death and destruction in the land of my ancestors a lesson they will never forget. I must talk to them in the only language they understand. Let them add another date to their 9/11's and 7/ 7's.
A few days ago, I was sitting in on my own, in my usual smoky corner of Hardy's Well, sucking on my false teeth, staring into the frothy residue of a pint of bitter, searching in its fading bubbles for the lost memories of the world I once wanted to build. The bubbles jeered back at me. You cannot regain the desires of youth by searching amidst the embers of bygone dreams.
Where did my dreams go? I asked the jeer inside my head, not raising my eyes lest someone read my mind. Did you not know a dreamless man is but a corpse? And why, why loneliness, did you embrace me? Or was this your curse, youth? There was complete silence inside my head for a moment, as though the world had been drenched of sound. I lifted my tired eyes towards the window overlooking the Wilmslow Road. The head lights of passing cars lit up a sleeting autumn shower.
Two people, who I had not seen here before, a middling ginger haired man and an older, blond haired woman were sitting on the table next to me. They looked more suited to the wine bars of Didsbury then here. They sat in silence, staring at a flat screen television on the wall opposite. She stole a glance at my white Afghan hat, which was hanging off the backrest of a chair. She turned to the man, exchanged a worried eye conversation with him and both of them turned towards the TV screen.
The man looked at me. He held his blue-eyed gaze for a moment and then turned to the woman. She yawned falsely showing one gold molar in an otherwise perfect set of white teeth. She wore an expensive low-cut silk dress. Her large breasts itched to burst out each time she moved. She pursed her lips and continued watching images of veiled Muslim women on the television.
She looked at me again. I heard her thoughts inside my head, ‘Don't you think it is hypocritical of you to drink and yet make your women wear the veil?'
‘Women should wear no clothes, let alone the veil,' I thought back in reply, ‘I used to think they looked great with nothing on.'
‘The veil is so intimidating,' She spits into my thoughts.
‘How can a bit of cloth be that?'
‘It is oppressive.'
‘And the bruise under the mascara around your eyes?'
‘That's my problem.'
‘And the terror under the mascara?'
I closed my eyes, hoping to chase away the new demons of hate that were racing around in my head. Memories started skating inside on shoes made of razors. Why did you raise your children in a lie? No, I never lied. I tried to fight back the slipping thought. I had to beat it back. I have a mission to complete. You will not stop me. You are the creator of the embers. My mind began to be battered by images: veiled Muslim women; a bombed out street; rows up on rows of bodies; a smoldering helicopter.
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