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 Also included, a couple of rare and unpublished pieces.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 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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