This is a small selection of some of Rodge’s short stories, mostly published in The Herald in 2007. Also included, a couple of rare and unpublished pieces.

A Fight With My Memory
The Mandela Thing: Kingston, London, 2007
No Bagels Here, Rabbi Bengelsdorf Mini Story for The Herald
Extract from a Life
A Streaker Spoils Christmas for Everyone by Mentioning Jesus

A Weekend of Freedom
Why Nothing Works
Healthy Behaviour
In June 2008 Rodge was invited to attend the Kikinda Short Story Festival in Serbia, alongside Sophie Cooke and Alan Bissett.  This section begins with a piece Rodge wrote for The Herald newspaper in Scotland on his return, explaining the festival. Below, it features a selection of work by writers who attended the festival from Serbia, Hungary, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzigovina, and Macedonia. Many of these pieces are translated nowhere else in the English language and can be downloaded here.

Hitler is Dead and He’s Not Coming Back
A version of this piece was commissioned for Flash magazine, published in May 2009.

 

A Fight With My Memory
by Rodge Glass

They sat together in his room.  Carlyle looked out of his window, searching the grey sky as if looking for clues.
“I miss my daughter,” he said. “Why doesn’t she visit?”
“You never had a daughter,” replied Shaw, taking out her notebook.  “You had a son once – remember?”
“Ah yes.  His name?”
“You never said.”
Carlyle thought for a moment, tied his dressing gown tight, then replied in a business-like tone:
“Next time I ask you – his name, I mean – will I remember this conversation?”
“Probably not.  We had it yesterday, and the day before; you’ve forgotten.”
“Hmm.  And do I always begin by asking after a daughter?”
“Every time.”
“In that case, when I ask you next, tell me her name is Ca-ssi-dy.  I’ll be fascinated.  I'll insist you say more, but tell me you know only her name and one other thing: that she’s coming to see me.”
“Why Cassidy?”
“Because that’s what my doctor’s called.  Look - ”
He pointed to the board on the end of his bed and the name in big black letters.
“You shouldn’t confuse yourself.  It hinders your progress.”
Carlyle became agitated:
“Progress!  Ha!”
“Mr Carlyle – ” 
“No, you listen.  When you tell me about my daughter Cassidy, if you do it cleverly, I’ll recognise the name, feel excited that I remember something and mistake recognition for happiness.  Briefly, I’ll be convinced I’m in a fight with my memory – and I’ll think, I’m not on the canvas yet.”
“You know yourself very well,” said Shaw sympathetically.  “Do you hold no surprises?”
Now Carlyle became upset.
“I’m a solved puzzle,” he said, plunging his head into his hands. “I’m nothing.”
Then he got up and prized the window open roughly with both hands, letting in rain.
“The glass,” he murmured, watching fat droplets crash onto the carpet.  “I don’t like it.  It keeps me from the hills.”
“Yes,” said Shaw.  “The hills.  Do they represent something natural?”
“My daughter,” replied Carlyle.  “Why doesn’t she visit?”

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The Mandela Thing: Kingston, London, 2007
by Rodge Glass

Doctor Somasunderam finished his shift and went to the cinema with a friend who worked at the same hospital. Afterwards, they went to a nearby pub for a drink and a relax. Both men were owners of UK Passports, graduates of UK Universities, treaters of UK patients. On the walk home a small group shouted after them, swearing and calling them Paki’s: the doctors didn’t reply by saying they were descendents of parents from Sri Lanka and India, but neither felt like keeping quiet either. They had done that before. It hadn’t stopped it happening again. So they pulled up and asked what the problem was. At which Doctor Soma was punched so hard that he hit the pavement, clutching a broken jaw. Soon he was back in a hospital.

Statistics suggest not all crime is reported, but this one took place in a modern metropolis with thousands of cameras on busy streets designed to record violence. So both doctors gave statements and asked if the all-seeing-eyes had got a good view of their attackers. But sometimes cameras are operated by humans, and the police said these operators were distracted by three black men acting suspiciously on the other side of the road at the crucial moment. On this occasion anyway, those men didn’t go on to commit a crime. Instead of complaining, Doctor Soma wrote to his local newspaper with the story; it printed a photo of him holding up his purple, bruised arm next to an article where the police appealed for help – though they had already had two kinds.

This afternoon Doctor Soma phoned me to explain how he ended up with two metal plates in his face:

“I thought about doing the Mandela thing,” he said. “You know, winning them round. Making them see the light. But you can’t always do that. Anyway, I didn’t get the chance!”

And then he laughed in a way that showed he was not bitter, or angry, or a conspiracy theorist.

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No Bagels Here, Rabbi Bengelsdorf Mini Story for The Herald
by Rodge Glass

"Welcome," said the king. "And what were you?”
"What’s that? Don’t you mean who?"
"I ask the questions."
"Well…" said the old man, trying to compose himself. "I was a great leader! I lived for my congregation!"
"Oh, I don’t know about that," said the king, chuckling. "Are you sure?"
The old man considered the vast blackness underneath him, chilly temperature, cold reception, and fidgeted in his big chair, legs dangling. This reminded him of sitting in synagogue as a boy. He wondered if he was being mocked:
"What’s going on?" he asked, pointing. "And who’s that?"
The soldier to the king’s left stood up.
"Ah," said the king, "I was going to mention him. You Jews – always butting in!"
At this, the old man experienced a heavy sinking in his chest. He became dizzy. He felt sick:
"That isn’t – your son?"
The king became irritated:
"Say hello to Rabbi Bengelsdorf," he snapped, turning to his companion. "Explain where he is."
"This is your own netherworld," said the soldier, kindly. "We run things here."
"No! It can’t be!" screamed the old man. "I am one of the chosen people!"
"Yes, we thought you’d say something like that."
"But I lived a good life! What’s my sin?"
"Vanity. You may soon take that very seriously."
Sweating, shaking, tearful, confused, the Rabbi dropped to his knees:
"But what about everlasting life – in your Great Land?"
"If you mean where I think you mean," said the king, "we fight about that place here too."
The old man thought hard, then spoke once more:
"Is this the same for everyone?"
The king answered with a smile:
"All who forget Me find their nightmares here. You should have seen the Archbishop’s face when he was greeted by Mohammed!"
The old man sighed. That was no consolation.

 

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Extract from a Life
by Rodge Glass

The radio is always on.
That's the news again - I can almost recite it by heart. A drop in interest rates, the Prime Minister in America, some girl's body found in the bottom of the Thames - why don't they mention me? There was an item about lay-offs at a car factory as well, but they're not doing that now - it mustn't be news any more.
He's talking again.
Is it to himself or me?
Unless he speaks up it's hard to hear him over the radio. I need to say something.
Hello? Are you there?
Anything on telly tonight?
It's the only thing I can think of.
There must have been something, tell me about it. What's happening in the soaps?
Silence. I know he's there though.
I have to wait. Seconds pass.
He speaks:
That pregnant girl finished with her man from the garage. Caught him kissing the barmaid.
Really? The blonde one?
The brunette.
I don't know what to say next, and he doesn't have to speak if he doesn't want to. The conversation ends.
More time passes.
The news turns into adverts and then music. Something happens. Is he laughing? I strain to listen, hold my breath, try not to move, but the sound is already gone. Maybe just a cough. I can hardly move in here, but when I do the rubbing makes a noise and I miss things because of it. My skirt catching, my feet brushing against the inside, it's all so loud. The blackness makes the air heavy, it's difficult to know what's happening.
I have to move a little or a get cramps in my legs.
You learn quickly.
Clunk-click, clunk-click. Clunk-click, clunk-click. He's pacing; the floorboards shake with his movement. I shake as well. Clunk-click, clunk-click. I am his now. He sounds so steady, so self-assured. Not at all like when we met, he hardly even spoke. More like a nervous child then, pitter-pattering around behind me, as I tap-tap-tapped confidently ahead in my high heels.
We toured the house in virtual silence, up and down the stairs, in and out of bare rooms. A quiet family man, I thought. Dull but polite, harmless, no different from a lot of my clients. Everything on him was grey. Suit, shirt, tie, even his eyes. He walked awkwardly. I imagined him two grey, dumpy daughters and a little grey wife, washing his pants on a Sunday, making his sandwiches for work. As we walked he was nervous, hands shaking, rolling them over each other. Always cold, he said, runs in the family, weak blood. But it was warm, I'd put the heating on myself before he arrived. I suppose that makes sense now. But I was too busy, too confident of making the sale to notice:-
It's a bargain for what you're getting, sir. An immaculate property like this is a true investment.
And then, so quickly, it all disappeared. I smelled plastic and suddenly the bag was over my head, my legs swept from under me. Everything has been black since. If I hadn't turned my back…well, you wonder.
I know all about him now, when he talks I have to listen, but other people don't interest me any more. I have to think of me. Between the drifting moments of half-sleep, snatches of radio, the nightmares, the hours of darkness after intoxicating darkness, I need all my energy.
The news again. They identified that girl's body.
When he takes me out of here he covers my head - doesn't want to see my face, he says - but it doesn't matter, I don't need to see. I know what he looks like. The grey man, dead-eyed, passive, incapable. And that's why we're here. So every time he flips me over to teach me a lesson I'll never forget, again and again he's a hero.
A door closes, he's gone again.
He keeps saying he'll kill me.
But I'm still here.

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A Streaker Spoils Christmas for Everyone by Mentioning Jesus
by Rodge Glass

I was five months in when I did it.  Could still see my toes when I looked down.  But I was definitely pregnant enough for people to notice my bump.  Or at least, they might have, if they weren’t distracted by the fact that I was naked, or that my stomach was covered in black ink.  The teams were in position waiting to start the game and I remember thinking, as I dropped my one-piece to the floor, that if I was quick I might make it to the centre circle before the television cameras noticed and panned away.

Over the barrier and onto the pitch, running, arms out wide, I hardly felt the cold at all.  But I did see one of the players; his facial expressions as he saw me coming.  First, shock.  Second, laughter.  Third, unease – maybe when he realised how young I was – that there was nothing sexy about this – and finally, horror.  I’m sorry he never got to read my message.  I was still some way away when three women in yellow brought me down and cheers went up round the ground.  But he didn’t need to be closer.  I was dragged from the pitch, screaming, crying.  Telling him why I was there.

The police let me go before the game was finished: I could hear it playing in the pubs on my walk home.  Once in the flat I undressed again, showered and scrubbed the letters off my skin one by one, thinking that maybe, once the season of goodwill was over, someone might listen.  Next time I would shorten my message.  Make it big enough for everyone to see.  Hope that 2000 years after Him, something had changed for people like me.  What else could I do?

 

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A Weekend of Freedom
by Rodge Glass

This time last year I was in a pretty bad way. I’d grown to hate the job I used to love. My marriage was dying. All I ever wanted to do was get rich but recently I felt poorer than ever. Nearly all the fat banker’s salary my Dad would have killed for got sucked away from me on an over-ambitious mortgage, on bills, on five different-but-apparently-all-thoroughly-essential types of insurance, on taxes, two cars, a pension: the rest was wasted on things I didn’t need. Expensive wine I didn’t appreciate. Meals in restaurants I didn’t like. Heather said I wasn’t excited about anything anymore. Even my only hobby wasn’t really mine. I searched out old war memorabilia, First and Second World War mainly, a habit and a collection I’d inherited from Dad. They’re my little containers of history, he said.Not always beautiful, but then, things of value rarely are. His favourite was a regimental cigarette case with an engraving explaining it had been presented to a by the Princess Mary Christmas Fund in 1914. I kept that one in a special locked glass case, for safety. Heather often asked: What happened to the man she fell in love with? Well, you don’t notice it happening. Life just gets gradually narrower and narrower, until a bit of sun is enough to make a good day and rain is enough to make a bad one.

Then two things happened in the same week: first, I got made redundant. Cutbacks due to ‘challenging economic circumstances’. In a month’s time I’d be jobless. Nothing personal, they said, though my boss’s expression when he broke the news suggested he was pleased to be rid of me. The second thing to happen was Greenie phoning to say he was emigrating. He’d been offered construction work in Dubai – a five year contract. Well, he couldn’t say no. Nobody gets five year contracts these days do they? God knows what they wanted him for but hey, who was he to argue? It’s wild out there, he said. Seriously. Those bastard Sheiks are shitting money.

Everyone else seemed to be getting offered exotic stints abroad. Even Greenie, who we used to tease for being stupid, was jetting off into the sunset, while I was still stuck here in the cold. He explained he was having a lads-only going-away party, abroad. Where’s the destination? I asked. He replied: Doesn’t matter does it? Some hole in Eastern Europe. Smith’s coming. Finn too. Even Tommy. Though they saw each other all the time I hadn’t seen any of that old school lot for two years, maybe three, maybe longer. I couldn’t think of an excuse so I said, When do we leave? My November just freed up…Greenie was really excited. Great –.it’ll be good to have everyone together again. Finn’s been before so he can show us the best spots. He reckons the birds out there are well hot - no fatties. Not enough food to go round for that.  And they’ll do anything for a Euro!

I expected Heather to complain about me going away without her, but she was pleased. Go out there and have fun. But bring me back something nice, she said, flashing a rare smile. Something little, like you get at those lovely European markets. I told her: I don’t know about that, I’ve heard this place we’re going to is a real dive. I still packed my best suit though. Finn knew this fetish club that was strictly members only (unless of course you looked loaded), which showed a hardcore live lesbian sex show on TV in the toilets. You can get off on the action going on in the next room while you’re taking a shit, he told me at the airport before we left, as if that was a perfectly ordinary thing to say.He and Tommy had been planning this for a while, and said they were determined to give Greenie a send-off he wouldn’t forget.

We arrived on the Friday morning. Tommy had booked us all into this cheap hotel (well, cheap for us but too expensive for the locals) with a special suite in a separate building out the back. Not glamorous, but perfect for our needs. We dumped our stuff and hit the bars straight away, the first toast to Greenie’s new life coming just before midday. There were many more after that. We drank heavily all day and only bothered to eat one meal where we ordered steak, told the waiters to speak English, stood on the chairs between courses and belted out football chants to the tune of the traditional folk music being played by the restaurant guitar player: his face was a picture. I felt like I was eighteen again, centre of attention, forgetting myself. Forgetting everything. I sang till I was hoarse, ignored prices and bought drinks for the entire place. Lying outside on the road after that meal, the night sky spinning above me, I considered hooking up with a local girl and never going home. Then a car nearly ran me over, we swore at the driver as we escaped, ran away like kids into the next street and I forgot about the idea. Finn ushered us into a nearby club.

Call me naïve, but I only realised what kind of place it was when I ordered our drinks and noticed the girl dancing nearly naked on a pole attached to the bar, her high heels at my eye level, getting in the way as I tried to hand over the money. I burst out laughing. Right then, everything was funny. The girl on the bar was laughing at something too. We all clinked glasses, cheered our weekend of freedom and took the piss out of Tommy while he got a lap dance, right there in his seat, still holding his beer. Finn and Greenie paid for a dance too, with the same girl, who was maybe eighteen, maybe nineteen, but looked like a pro who’d been doing this all her life. She was obviously far away thinking about something else but didn’t complain until Finn felt her arse while she was waving it so close to his nose that she was virtually touching him anyway. After we’d been chucked out by the bouncers we all agreed she’d basically been asking for it and we moved on, looking for another bar. Nothing mattered except chasing our next drink. Why had I wasted so many years being sensible? Why hadn’t I spent every weekend like this? Greenie marched on up front, Tommy and Finn a bit behind him, singing, with me and Smith at the back, just taking it all in.

Smith’s pretty quiet most of the time, but when he does talk, you don’t forget what he says. As we staggered through the dark main street he whispered to me: You know my favourite part? Tipping big. There’s nothing like watching their eyes light up when they realise you’ve put a week’s wages in their pants. They try and hide it, sure, but they can’t. That night we sat up later than the others, smoking and talking. I work hard, said Smith. I live in a boring suburb. I look at teeth for a living – when I was a kid I wanted to be Superman, you know? Now I can’t even see my kids. So if I want to come out here and have fun, no-one’s gonna make me feel bad about it. I don’t hurt anybody. Besides, the girls out here mate, they’re nasty. They ask you to do the filthiest things to them. And the stuff they want you to say while you’re doing it….It’s like they hate themselves. He grinned. I fucking love it.

We got up late on Saturday, ate, then hit the bars and clubs again. In the evening Finn took us to that fetish club – I swear, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. It felt like we were on a different planet. A better planet, worth living on, where guys like us were kings. And yes, before we left I did check out the toilets. Then we went back to the suite and Greenie got tied to a chair. We played music, danced around and poured bottles of dirt-cheap spirits down his throat. The Saturday had started off like Friday, but we were all still drunk from the night before so it got messy, fast. We could hardly believe it but nobody at the hotel complained. We threw beer bottles out of the window, pissed onto the pavement, and even bought coke in the reception area from a taxi driver calling himself Dave (but who was really called something else – Radko, or something like that). He obviously smelt money and gave us his phone number, promising he could get us anything we wanted, anytime.

Apparently the locals expected this kind of thing. Tommy said the area was becoming the new hotspot for Stag weekends, the government were encouraging it, and even the receptionists would do what you liked as long as you slipped them an incentive. Serious, he said. There’s like, no moral code here. Later on Greenie dared Finn to ask this poor thing behind the desk how much she’d want for a blow job and I swear to God she considered it. I went back to talk to her later. High shpirits, I said, slurring my words. Nuffin more. Shorry about that. Finn’sh a sholicitor you know. Divorsh, mainly. He’sh good. I don’t think she understood. The rest of that night was lost. The last thing I remember was phoning Dave and asking what he meant by being able to get us ‘anything’. How about a giraffe? A clown? A corpse? Eventually, he hung up.

We woke late Sunday morning with killer hangovers, checked out, left bags in a heap by the entrance and crashed out on sofas in reception. After a while, conversations started up about ways to waste time until our flight home in early evening. What do you say we sample some local culture? said Smith, who’d disappeared at one of the strip clubs the night before and only surfaced an hour ago, wearing dark sunglasses. Greenie cut in: Not sampled enough already?, and a dirty laugh rippled round the group. But no-one had any better ideas, and no-one could face more booze. So we set off walking through the city, Tommy leading with map in hand. There was an old church apparently. A market the receptionist had told us was ‘quite good’. A place the guilty can buy presents for their girlfriends, said Greenie, and Tommy coughed. What goes on in Vegas...he said. Know what I mean boys?...Not that this dump is anything like fuckin’ Vegas...We were all tired but Greenie was still upbeat. Come on, you never know what treasure we might find. I wasn’t sure if he was joking but on any other weekend I would have been pleased to find myself in some strange European city with a few hours spare to explore so I said, Sure. Let’s go.
After a couple of wrong turns and a lot of walking we arrived at the church we’d heard about, and it really did look impressive. Under the vast gothic entrance I noticed a message translated into English on a sign by the front door. Most of the words had letters missing, but it was still possible to make out the meaning. The building had been pieced together, it said, thanks to the money, dedication and hard work of people from all over the world, to celebrate the liberation of this proud nation from the Ottoman Empire at the end of the 19th Century. Never again, thought the labourers, as they heaved brick upon brick, stone upon stone, would this place be ruled by outsiders. Future mistakes would be their own; future glories too. It was built in hope of what a new century might bring. I stood back to take in the whole building, brain still fuzzy with last night’s mixed drinks. The beers that started it all. The shots that finished it. It was nice to know this place existed. I took a photo on my phone to show Heather when I got home.
We decided to go in for a look around. In the echoed near-darkness of the old building there was a real sense of that powerful, haunting feeling you only get in some Eastern European prayer houses – ones that have survived crimes so bad no one talks about them. A mournful priest to our right with long dark beard and black robe looked like he’d been transported from a different century. He swayed in front of high, thin candles, muttering underneath his breath, a guide nearby explaining the history of the city to her group of tourists who took photographs of the stained glass windows as she talked. I stood in silence, listening in. I don’t know why but this suddenly struck me as the most beautiful place I’d ever seen, and standing in the centre of the floor looking upward into the bright light above I imagined what it must have been like for the builders, proudly putting the final touches to the ceiling. I felt totally at peace in this wonderful space. Outside of myself, but at the same time more truly me than ever before. Perhaps I could take a break from work and live here for a while. Maybe Heather would come with. Would she understand if I told her I knew what to do with my life, and this was it? Standing in this spot, looking up? I began to feel slightly sick. When I joined the others outside the church I noticed a market in front of us. It was modest, just twenty or thirty small stalls stretched out before us on either side of a path. But I felt we’d discovered something precious.
At the first stall Finn called me over to show off an antique he wanted to buy. He held up a fine, perfectly operating pocket watch on a chain. Nice, I said. You sure it’s not fake?  But Finn just said: This is it, man. There’s real life here, you know? I felt I knew what he meant. After a little haggling over the price he bought the watch and chatted to the stallholder for a few minutes afterwards. Not about anything in particular, just being curious. Finding out how many years the market had been going. Whether he’d been busy that morning. How long he’d lived here for. Finn played the part of the respectful tourist every bit as well as the arrogant arsehole who’d said over dinner on Friday, I’m not leaving this shithole until I’ve seen some local tits!
At the next stall a selection of knives were laid out in rows, ranging from blades the size of my index finger to the size of my arm. Most were blunt, but in amongst them was a shiny one in good condition. Not interesting, said Smith, seeing me look. Never been used. Display case only. He seemed quite excited by that. Next to the display knife was a much smaller specimen which looked like it could no longer slice a tomato. Now there’s a battle knife, he said. I wonder how many people that one killed. I stepped in closer to examine the little weapon, and found it hard to believe it had ever been dangerous. At the base, in the centre, was a darker blotch than the light grey surrounding. I thought I could make out an emblem, but that had worn away years ago. Probably in the hand of the man who held it.
The third stall was a more professional version of the first two. It had knives but also other trinkets too, and piles of pictures just lying on the table, loose. Good, good, said the stall holder, pointing. Look. So I picked up a batch and flicked through a series of old black and white photographs. These were mainly posed portraits of aristocratic families, but also some written-on postcards and a few official Government-issue images from as far back as the 1930s, including, strangely, one of Adolf Hitler pictured in front of a black background, as if in a studio set up especially for the event. I’d only ever seen images of this man looking ugly, or crazed, or sinister – but here he looked like a handsome winner. I returned the batch and before I could think about what I’d seen, something else took my attention. At the back of the stall a collection of army uniforms were hung on a rail, originating from several European countries, and several eras. Some of these uniforms were sets, others just a pair of ripped trousers, or a dirty helmet. What were these things doing here? And who would buy them? I was beginning to think I wouldn’t find anything for Heather after all.
At the very front of this stall, between two ordinary sets of candlesticks, I was drawn to a shiny silver hip flask more beautiful than anything in my collection. The five Olympic rings were imprinted on side facing out, at the top, and underneath was the label: BERLIN 1936. At the bottom was a dark grey circle: a swastika stared defiantly out at me. I’d never seen anything like this before, in perfect condition. I was disgusted, but excited. Could I buy it? Would I be able to get it out of the country? What if airport security noticed it and thought I was a fascist? How could I explain I was just a collector? What if they put me in prison? For sale, good price, for you, said the stallholder, sensing my interest. Where did you get these from?  I asked. Austria, he said. We pick up in markets. For souvenir, yes? Original Nazi – seventy years old! He kept talking but I wasn’t listening. I stayed looking at this hip flask, wondering who had owned it, for how long, and how it had come to be here, now, waiting to be picked up by me. Maybe it was never used. Maybe it was display case only, like the knife. Or maybe it had been the most prized possession of some soldier who needed a shot of courage before going into battle. I looked closely at the stallholder, knew he had no idea what it was worth, and a trickle of cold sweat began to make its way down my back.
I’d forgotten about the others for a while, but looking round now I saw them at different stalls, inspecting some strange piece as closely as I was. Finn and Smith were looking at items from the Communist era here. Greenie and Tommy were nearby looking at some coins, two or three old guns, another smiling fatherly face – Stalin this time, reclining at home. What was this place? The dregs of every dead regime who’d conquered this country and sucked it dry was represented here at the market. Every one since the church was built. But it also attracted dictators from elsewhere. In amongst the Nazi’s and Communists was a clutch of old defunct Iraqi money, laminated, with Saddam Hussein facing outward from the paper. The stallholders were as happy to sell a Nazi helmet as a Communist badge as an Iraqi note. No distinction was made between country, or leader. All were shit. All were the same. Another stallholder sold a mix of Russian doll caricatures. Next to the other politicians were figurines of Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, each painted on a Union Jack background, grinning dumbly, just like Hitler and Hussein. Everyone was in the pot together. It was at this moment, looking at all this junk, that I was sure. I went and bought the hip flask, checking the others weren’t looking at the moment I handed over the few paltry coins the stallholder asked for. Then I stuffed the thing deep into my jacket pocket, hand tight around the cold exterior.
I looked back at the church as the five of us walked away from the market. I hadn’t noticed before, but it looked like no one had been by to clean it in years. The whole area now looked like that – like someone had been meaning to tidy up for a decade or more but never quite found the time or the funds to finance it. On the church steps old women with faces like crumpled tissues sold single, half-dead flowers to the odd pitying tourist; if the flowers were rejected, they dropped the act and just asked for cash. Once the place was out of view, Tommy said to Smith: What did you think of that then? And Smith surprised us all: It makes me feel ill, he spat, ferociously. They should be ashamed.
The rest of the afternoon dragged. We were all exhausted so we went into a nearby hotel and watched the football – everywhere shows English games here. It wasn’t even an important match, we’d just had quite enough culture for one weekend. Tommy spent ages on the phone to his fiancée, Smith kept going off to vomit and even Greenie said he was ready to go home. He was leaving for Dubai in five days and had lots to do. I kept my jacket on all afternoon and didn’t let go of my little container of history. In some moments I thought about selling it. In others I thought about throwing it away. But really, I knew I’d keep it.

And I did, until last week. Divorce, recession, travel and twelve months unemployed had cleaned me out, so I had to sell off the whole collection. There’s a big black market out there: the Nazi hip flask sold to some mug in South Africa and the money paid for return flights to Dubai. As I told Greenie as we sat in his plush apartment, stoned, overlooking the water and multi-coloured skyscrapers stretching off into the distance, I’d realised I had to look forward now. Soon I’d return home and begin again. Live clean. Live right. But not quite yet, he said. Then we went out on the town.


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Why Nothing Works
by Rodge Glass

It doesn’t matter that my wife doesn’t listen to me. As I tell her some mornings when she’s rushing off to her two-days-a-week vanity job in town, trying to find her handbag or phone, checking the time all the time, packing toast into her mouth as she rushes to make that train, nobody tells me what to do. I tell her that as I’m sitting at our big new breakfast table, in our big new house, tucking into the mountain of hot scrambled eggs the housekeeper just made me. Even though she’s not listening I remind my wife that after a long hot shower I can read every article that interests me in that day’s newspaper, if I feel like it, before I leave the house. I can read the funnies, though they never make me laugh. I can read them at my leisure, coffee going cold in my palm, morning hard-on making a tent in my dressing gown, because I know that when I arrive at work, whatever time that is, the only words out of my 23-year-old secretary’s tight little mouth will be: Hello Charles. Usual tea and biscuit? And my reply will be: Damn right Cheryl. And fast. I want to see smoke coming off those high heels of yours. Then she’ll force herself to laugh, as she always does. Then I’ll walk in my office, shut that door, lay back in my leather chair, close my eyes, picture those high heels digging hard into my cheek, picture the foot the shoes are strapped tight to and the bare leg they lead to, and I’ll undo my belt, very slowly, letting my stomach spill out. I’ve earned it. I love my country. And you don’t get a country working – a big slow heaving colossus the size of a whole nation – by being polite to Cheryls. Most citizens of this not-so-great nation are stupid, and most really hate themselves for that. They want to be kicked around. They don’t know they want it, but they do.

As I drank the tea and crunched the biscuit Cheryl brought me I watched my workers through the slats in my office window, typing and talking to each other. What did they have to worry about? They didn’t know how it felt to sign a cheque knowing it was going to bounce, like I did in the early days here. Or what it was like to beg the bank manager for a bridging loan. To ask for just for one more month please. Just one tiny month. Most of the guys in this place don’t appreciate their freedom. They don’t even know they’re free. They just get up, come into work, leave, maybe have a couple of beers at the pub, roll home and, if they have the energy, try to get their husbands, wives, girlfriends or boyfriends to agree to one more sleepy fuck. The way most of the people here walk around all miserable on Friday afternoons, it’s like they don’t even want a weekend. As I said to Cheryl in the meeting: You love it here. You love me. Admit it!  She smiled. She had to. We both knew it. I could have thrown her on the conference table, pulled up her skirt and smacked her arse with a tablespoon and she still would have had to take it. This morning could have gone better though.

Not everyone is easy to deal with. It’s harder with the ones near the top, the ones that want your job. You’ve got to make them grateful, or at least resentful. So when they presented the new Winter Catalogue to me I said: I hate it. The faces around the boardroom table reddened. Then someone stood up and said: Charles, this is exactly what you asked for. And you’ve already changed your mind three times. That young man is tough, like I used to be. I felt like him promoting him on the spot. But instead I avoided looking at him, taking in all the young strong people around me – the sharper suits than mine, the more determined looks, the smaller bellies and broader shoulders. Then, without speaking, I left the meeting. As I stormed out of the room, down the corridor, out of the front door and over to my car, I wondered if I was finished. If I should sell up before I blew all my money. The thought passed as I put the car smoothly into gear. It was so beautiful, so comfortable and it still smelt brand new. As I told my wife when I got home, I’d worked hard to get it. She doesn’t listen to me, but it doesn’t matter.


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Healthy Behaviour
by Rodge Glass

If I was in charge then this heavy train home would ease off the tracks and get sucked into the sky. These thick clouds would be thin and wispy and they’d peel away to reveal a house next to the sun, the one we talked about building when we were young. As my empty carriage slowed to a stop I’d see two chairs on the porch and you sitting in one, waving, your face lit up by the orange glow around you, warm but not too hot on your skin. Finally, you’d say, standing up to greet me. Brother! You’re here! As I walked towards you I’d notice you’d become old, and how much that suited you. Sit, sit, you’d tell me, taking great pleasure in ordering me around, speaking in a language at once both yours and mine too. You’d say, It’s time for me to beat you, laying out the game pieces with care. And you would beat me. Easily.


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