The red man turns to green E-Book

Dickson Telfer

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

When The red man turns to green,walk yourself into a world where killing a spider triggers vivid flashbacks; where unrequited love is never forgotten; where a shopping trip to Asda is a form of counselling; where filming for YouTube leads to more than mere voyeurism; where the sheep are very often blue; and where tea is the answer. In this enigmatic debut collection, Dickson Telfer plunges his characters into profound and occasionally unsettling situations and watches them stew, fumble, thrive and flourish. Quirky, funny and alternative, his observations on everyday life make this collection eminently enjoyable. A debut short story collection by Scottish author Dickson Telfer. His stories reflect an observational nature and a liking for the weird stuff hidden below the surface of us all. Dealing with day to day happenings in a sometimes quirky, sometimes shocking way.

Leseprobe

the red man turns to green

dickson telfer

© Dickson Telfer 2013

The author asserts the moral right to be identified

as the author of the work in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication

may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system

or transmitted in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of

Fledgling Press Ltd,

7 Lennox St., Edinburgh, EH4 1QB

Published by Fledgling Press, 2013

Cover Design: Rachel Cartwright, ECA

Graeme Clarke

[email protected]

www.fledglingpress.co.uk

Print ISBN: 9781905916634

eBook ISBN: 9781905916641

We read to know we are not alone

C.S. Lewis

I don’t know the key to success,

but the key to failure is

trying to please everybody

Bill Cosby

contents

Fast Motion

Miners

Cake Mixture

The Opposite of Nathanael

Jack & Abby

Tuesday Afternoon

Socks

McSnap

Memories of a Sweet Heart

Come Together

The Red Man Turns to Green

Worth Every Penny

43 and in Asda

Britain’s Answer

Killing a Spider

Thank You

Dealer’s Choice

The Hard Way

Bacon

Sympathy Eye

Sympathy Eye #2

Metro/Sexual

Tam’s 3rd Counselling Session

Christmas Issues

Retail Therapy

Blue Sheep

Summer’s Extra

I Think I Love You

Megan and the Wall

Pop

Martha Delgado’s Little Green Pill

fast motion

“That’s time, guys!” Frank shouted.

Gerry stopped what he was doing, put down his tools and removed his goggles and hardhat. Frank looked up at the blue sky, scrunching his eyes against the rays.

“Fancy a pint?” he said. “I mean, I don’t think you really deserve one, but I don’t want to drink alone.”

“So, what you’re saying is − you need me there so you look like you’ve got pals?” said Gerry.

“If I wanted to look like I’ve got pals, you’d be the last person I’d go drinking with. So, you up for it or not?”

“Yeah, why not? That place round the corner’s got a little beer garden, hasn’t it? Let’s go there and make the most of this weather.”

“Hey, Harris!” Frank shouted. “Me and Gerry are going for a pint. You coming?”

Harris bounded over like an excited puppy. “Yeah, a pint sounds good, guys, but see before we go . . . I want to go up there,” he said, pointing up at the crane.

“Eh? Why?” asked Frank, “Work is done, man. It’s beer time.”

“I don’t mean in the crane, Frankie, I mean on it. I want you to film something for me,” Harris said, his face lit up as if it was Christmas and he was five.

Harris was one of the fittest guys on the site. Gerry and Frank thought he overdid it, but that was just jealousy. They didn’t have six packs or bulging biceps. They liked beer, Irn Bru and bacon rolls too much, and had no interest in the gym. Earlier in the day, when the sun was at its strongest, Harris had his top off and was wolf-whistled by a group of girls in skimpy outfits and flip-flops. “Woo-hoo, it’s the Diet Coke man!” one of them shouted. If it wasn’t for his gormless, cartoony face and awkward, gangly walk, Harris could easily have been the Diet Coke man.

“Let me just check I heard you correctly there, Harris. You want to go on the crane?” Frank said.

Harris, eyes wide and mouth open, nodded so vigorously it looked like he was having a fit.

“But . . . why? And what the hell do you want me to film?”

“It’s for my You Tube page, Frankie. You know, the one I’ve got with me doing my exercises.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, a couple of the boys from the gym have started doing extreme press-ups.”

“And what the hell is an extreme press-up?” asked Gerry.

“It’s not the press-ups that are extreme, Gerry. It’s where they’re done. So, some guys have vids of them knocking out sets at the tops of cliffs or on train tracks. One guy even did a set of 20 underwater. He tied bricks to his wrists and ankles and then cut himself free once he was done.”

“That’s just insane,” Frank said.

Harris laughed. “It’s just a bit of healthy competition between the lads.”

“So,” said Gerry, “you want to take it a step further and knock out a set of 20 on top of a crane with a 150ft drop? And you want Frankie here to film it for your page?”

“40,” said Harris.

Gerry clapped his hands and laughed.

“I’m not doing it,” said Frank. “Forget it.”

“Aw, come on, Frankie,” Harris pleaded. “Look at the weather! There’s no wind and the sky’s totally clear! I’m not going to get a day like this again while the gaffer’s still off sick. It’ll be fine . . . honest. Let’s just get up there, I’ll quickly knock them out and then we can go for a pint. Come on, please!”

“Why can’t Gerry do it? He looks game, sitting there grinning like a Cheshire cat.”

“Well, ‘cos you’re really good with a camera, Frankie. Those vids of your trips to Egypt and the Dominican Republic were superb. No offence, Gerry.”

“None taken,” Gerry said, holding his hands up.

“ . . . ”

“He’s right, though, Frank. As much as giving you a compliment eats part of my soul, you are bloody good with a camera.”

Harris’s pleading blue eyes shimmered pathetically in the sunlight.

“For fuck’s sake . . . Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Brilliant!” Harris blurted, thrusting his fists into the air.

“But you’re coming too, round boy,” Frank said, prodding a finger into Gerry’s belly. “And Harris, before we go up there, I had nothing to do with this, okay? If the gaffer happens to see the clip, one of your mates did it for you. Don’t put my name anywhere near your page and if you can hear my voice on any of the footage, you need to promise to edit it out before uploading. Deal?”

“Deal!” said Harris, firmly shaking Frank’s hand.

“And, eh, the same applies to me,” added Gerry.

“Deal!” he said again, with equal enthusiasm, shaking Gerry’s hand too. “Thanks, guys!”

Harris showed Frank how to work his camera and gave him five minutes to mess about with it while he did his warm up.

“Seems straightforward enough,” he said. “Right, are you ready?”

Harris took off his top. Gerry sucked in his gut.

“Yip, I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

Once they were up there, Frank and Gerry clipped themselves to the crane and watched Harris, topless and with no safety harness, clamber towards the crane’s peak, like a kid on a climbing frame. The air was still and the sky was as blue as it was endless.

“What a fucking loony, eh?” Gerry laughed. “It’s like he’s got no sense of danger. I mean, does he think he’s in a computer game or something?”

“Yeah, but he’s no Lara Croft, eh?”

“Now she is one tidy bit of software!”

“You need to get out more, Gerry,” Frank said, matter-of-factly, clicking some still shots of the expansive view.

“I’ll tell you, I’d be shitting it if I wasn’t clipped in, though, wouldn’t you?” Gerry said, glancing down.

“Yip,” Frank replied, continuing to click.

“Okay, guys! Ready when you are,” Harris shouted, sitting near the peak of the crane, as calm as if he was sitting on a park bench waiting for a pal.

“Two seconds,” Frank said, adjusting the zoom and checking the focus.

“Do you want me to do anything?” Gerry asked, feeling surplus to requirements.

“You’re here to support me,” said Frank. “And because there was no way I was letting you go the pub while I came up here to film this nutter!”

As Gerry’s chuckling faded, Frank steadied the camera and pressed record.

“Okay, Harris, we’re rolling!”

Harris, without apprehension, extended his body across the breadth of the crane and held the plank position, allowing the sun to bleed through the gap under his ripped torso. He looked at the camera with a gormless grin, his floppy blonde hair partially covering his eyes, his body comfortably firm like a gymnast’s.

“That’s actually really cool,” said Gerry, admiring Harris’s shape cast against the blue sky. “And it’d be even cooler during a sunset.”

“Don’t give him any daft ideas,” Frank said, concentrating on holding the camera steady.

“Okay, guys, here we go!” Harris yelled. “Press-ups at 150 feet, unharnessed! Woooooooooo! Yeeeaaah!”

Harris knocked out ten perfect press-ups in quick succession.

“What do you reckon, guys? How about ten on the knuckles?”

“Yeah, go for it, man! Easy peasy!” Gerry yelled back.

“What the fuck are you playing at, Gerry?” Frank snapped. “Remember our voices aren’t meant to be on this! If the gaffer finds out . . .”

“Oh, lighten up, Frankie, will you?” Gerry interrupted, raising a thumb in the air and nodding towards Harris. “He can edit them out later, can’t he? This is, like, really quite amazing, don’t you think?”

Harris quickly knocked out another ten on his knuckles. Frank noticed him grimace on the last few as his skin scraped against rusting metal.

“Wooooooooooo! Come on!” Harris hollered at the camera, sweat dripping from his brow. “How about with claps in-between this time, yeah? You guys reckon I’m up to it?”

It was at this moment that Frank and Gerry ceased to be a team. Gerry clapped and whooped like he was in the audience on an American chat show.

“No, Harris, too dangerous!” Frank shouted. “You’re pumped up on adrenaline, man. You’re not thinking straight!”

“Aw, come on, Frankie! Look at him! He’s the fucking Diet Coke man! He could do ten of those with his eyes closed. Go for it, Harris!”

“Gerry, I don’t think . . .”

“Just imagine when it’s slowed down,” Gerry interceded, excitedly. “It’ll be so cool seeing only his boots on the crane while he’s mid-clap, don’t you think? Come on, Frankie, he knows what he’s doing.”

“Keep rolling, Frankie,” Harris shouted. “Here we go, guys!”

“Fuck’s sake,” Frank muttered under his breath.

Harris started well and was almost hitting 45 degrees before clapping and landing. Frank felt sick. In awe of Harris’s accuracy, Gerry’s whooping and cheering became louder.

Once he’d completed his seventh rep, Harris paused. His breathing was deep, his hair matted and face wet, but he still wore the same innocent grin that made him so likeable.

“Come on, Harris, three more, man. You can do it!” Gerry yelled.

“Look, will you please stop encouraging him?” said Frank, tempted to give Gerry a poke in the ribs. “If you’re done, Harris, you’re done. You’ve got plenty footage man. Come on, that’ll do.”

“No way! I said 40, so I’ll sure as hell be doing 40. Three more of these, and then straight into a set of ten one-handed, five with each hand, the other behind my back.”

“Wooooo-hooo!” Gerry exclaimed. “That’ll be a walk in the park for you, Harris!”

“Gerry, I’m going to unclip you and punch you off this fucking crane if you don’t shut the fuck up!”

“Yeah, whatever you say, party pooper.”

Harris knocked out the final three with hand-claps and plunged straight into a set of five with his left hand. He was groaning with the exertion but still had everything under control, until he changed hands. A seagull decided to be inquisitive, baffled at Harris’s presence where before it had only seen other birds. This innocent inquisition and Harris’s fatigue, being a mere five press-ups from his target, caused him to falter. Gerry’s cheering cut like someone stopping a CD.

People say these things happen in slow motion. In films, they always happen in slow motion. But here the gravity was ruthless. And with the sweetest and most innocent of yelps, Harris’s perfect body plummeted like a lead weight to the ground below.

William Pollock had a laugh so hearty, his whole body oscillated. He was overweight, possibly even obese, but the townspeople spoke highly of him because he was such an excellent doctor. He knew he should take better care of himself, but he’d always been chubby and had come to accept it. His wife, Greta, adored his bubbly demeanour and the way his face lit up a room when he laughed. She did worry, however, how red his face became when he laughed, and often reminded him that he should consider taking his own advice.

“Greta, darling, I’m just popping out for a walk, okay? I’ll be back in about an hour.”

“Okay, dear,” Greta replied from the bedroom where she was dusting. “Pick up a couple of pints of milk from the shop while you’re out, will you?”

“Okay, will do. See you later.”

On his walk, William spoke to several locals. Edith Chambers, head of the Women’s Guild, who thanked him from the bottom of her heart for his donations; Ryan Cutler, who couldn’t thank him enough for his recent treatment, claiming it was the first time in ten years he had been pain-free; and Thomas McCarthy, who said the osteopath he had referred him to had significantly improved his quality of life.

“Cracking day, Dr Pollock,” said Ruthie Frederickson as the rotund physician approached the counter, red-faced and sweating, clutching a two-pint carton of whole milk.

“Certainly is, Ruthie. It’s been a long time since we’ve had such lovely weather. Long overdue if you ask me.”

“You know, we’d all be a damn sight healthier if we had more weather like this, don’t you think?”

“Well, as long as we could all get used to putting on sun cream every day, then yeah!” William laughed, his sweaty forehead glistening in the clinical gleam of the strip lights.

“86p for that please, Doctor. And how’s your lovely wife?”

“She’s doing fine, thanks, Ruthie. Busy getting things prepared for the annual food festival,” William replied, handing over a pound coin. “Just put the change in the jar for the guide dogs.”

“Thanks, Doctor,” Ruthie said, dropping the coins through the slot in the dog’s head. “And I take it you’ll be hoping to retain your crown for best dessert this year? That key lime pie was to die for − I can’t wait to see what you’ve got planned this time round!”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Ruthie, but I won’t be entering this year. Greta wants me to try and get some of this weight off. And she’s right, you know, I could do with slimming down a touch.”

“Oh, well, good on you. You’ve got to take care of yourself as much as you do the rest of us.”

“Yes, very true, very true . . . I’ll maybe switch this for semi-skimmed on my way out then,” he said, raising the milk in the air, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter.

“By all means. See you later. And give my best to Greta.”

“Will do, Ruthie. Bye just now.”

William swapped the milk and walked out into the sunshine. He stood a while, until the shop door’s wind chimes fell silent. The sun had cast a shadow onto the pavement and William grimaced at the shape he had become. He decided to take a longer route home to burn some calories, but not so long that the heat would turn the milk sour.

On his journey, he met a few more locals and spent a bit of time with them, always ending the chat on a positive note with his trademark hearty laugh. But before long, the heat became exhausting and he began walking with his head down. He had anticipated a dip in the temperature as late afternoon became early evening, but the sun hadn’t relented. He noticed his shoelaces had come loose, so decided to take a breather, sit down and retie them.

He placed the milk on the ground and prepared himself, but his attempt to sit gracefully was not achieved. Once his bum cheeks met concrete, he rolled backwards, almost cracking his head. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the layers of fat around his neck and upper back, he might have knocked himself out. He lay there, belly in the air and began to chuckle, picturing his situation from another angle, like a clip on You’ve Been Framed! He closed his eyes and guffawed, his whole body in motion, until Harris crashed into him and the carton of milk exploded.

Click Click Flash! Flash!

Click Flash!

Flash! Click Flash! Flash!

Click Click Flash! Click

Click Flash!

Flash!

Flash!

“Harris McIntyre, how does it feel to know that your careless risk-taking behaviour killed one of our town’s most respected citizens, and, for that matter, one of the country’s most proficient doctors?”

Harris looked nervously at the invading microphone. It was millimetres from his healing jaw, which had been broken in two places. His childlike blue eyes strained into the lenses of the flashing cameras. Reporters were poised with notebooks and pens, ready to twist his responses to suit their buying public.

“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill him,” he said, his damp eyes darting from lens to lens, searching for a flicker of sympathy.

Harris’s choice of words was no doubt influenced by the newspapers he’d read in hospital:

RESPECTED PHYSICIAN FLATTENED

BY BRAINLESS PLEASURE-SEEKER.

JACKASS KILLER MAKES WIDOW OF DOCTOR’S

WIFE.

LOVEABLE DOCTOR MASSACRED BY DIMWIT

GYM-BUNNY.

RECKLESS PLANKER KILLS DOC DEAD.

All of these suggested Harris’s actions were intentional. That he had timed his fall perfectly so that Dr Pollock’s fleshy frame would cushion him from his imminent demise. That he had actually wanted a shattered pelvis, a broken jaw, a broken collarbone, two broken legs and a dislocated shoulder. That his motives were identical to those who slay in cold blood for kicks.

“What about the other guys who were up on the crane? Were they involved in this too?” probed a tall man with a side parting, his frown deep and condescending.

“No,” said Harris. “They were up there working on a few rivets that had come loose. They had nothing to do with what I was doing. In fact, they both tried to stop me.”

“But how could they have nothing to do with it if one of them – a Mr Frank Swanson – was your cameraman?”

“Look, this has nothing to do with Frankie!” Harris blurted, saliva dribbling onto his chin. “I insisted he film me. Okay? You happy? Otherwise, what would’ve been the point? Leave him out of this, alright. None of this was his fault.”

A few reporters eagerly jotted down some notes.

“Do you feel any remorse?” asked a woman with long black hair.

“Of course I do!” Harris blurted, breaking down. As he cried, his injuries smarted and the cameras flashed. It was important to record his misery. The public would want to see Dr Pollock’s killer in pain.

“What’s wrong with you people?” he cried, but the questions kept coming and the cameras kept clicking and flashing: click click flash flash click click flash flash, until he could take no more. He fumbled with his crutches, his vision distorted by tears and, grimacing in pain, he forced closed the door: click click flash flash click click flash flash.

Harris received regular hate mail from Dr Pollock’s patients and friends. The letters contained horrendous accusations, from people he never would’ve thought could use such vocabulary. He became a recluse and suffered from depression. When he ventured out, the townspeople hissed at him like a clowder of cats. One time, Ryan Cutler even spat at his feet.

Gerry and Frank had held low profiles since the gaffer sacked them. Frank had managed to get work at a site 30 miles away, but Gerry had also become a recluse. And even though Harris insisted he was solely to blame, Gerry couldn’t help feel partly responsible for what had happened on that fateful day. They phoned each other regularly. Gerry was the only friend Harris had.

The town mourned. Initially, Greta had taken the news badly, but with the support of the townspeople and the passing of time, she was slowly coming to accept her loss. Immediately after learning what had happened, she’d threatened to kill Harris, only seeing sense once Edith Chambers had reasoned with her. Now, she was numb. Numb from the hours of crying every day, but at least she was beginning to see her life without William as something she’d eventually be able to cope with. She was sitting in the kitchen when she heard the knock on the door.

“Dr Richards, hello,” she said.

“Hello, Mrs Pollock. How are you, my dear? My sincere condolences for your great loss.”

Greta nodded. “Please, do come in.”

Dr Richards looked around the living room while Greta made a pot of tea. He admired how pristine it was, and noted how many photographs there were of William; in some he was alone, in others with Greta, their arms round each other, grinning at the lens.

“He was a fantastic practitioner, Mrs Pollock, one of the best in the country,” Dr Richards said, lifting his tea to his lips. “You know, some of his patients referred to him as ‘The Magician’. And believe me, the other doctors in the practice could see why. I’ll never forget the time a patient of mine, Mrs McFarlane – I can tell you her name ‘cos sadly she’s no longer with us − demanded a second opinion. It was William she spoke to, and he changed her quality of life for the remainder of her days. And you know, to this day, I still don’t know what he did.”

“That’s a lovely story, Dr Richards, thank you,” Greta said, almost automatically.

“Listen, if there’s anything any of us at the practice can do, Mrs Pollock, please don’t hesitate to contact us. We understand that this must be a most difficult time for you, so, like I say, anything at all, just pick up the phone.”

“That’s very kind, Dr Richards, thank you. Everyone in the town has been exceptionally supportive. Would you like more tea?”

“No thanks. Actually, Mrs Pollock, the reason I’m here, other than to offer my condolences of course, is to collect the practice laptop. The other doctors and I will be picking up William’s patients until we find a replacement. That’s not to say, of course, that he’s replaceable. Oh . . .” Dr Richards fumbled, perspiring slightly at the awkwardness of the situation.

Greta wiped away a tear and finished her tea. “It’s quite alright; I knew what you meant, Dr Richards, and I know the laptop you’re referring to. Even though Wednesday was his day off, William always brought it home on a Tuesday night, despite me telling him not to. The whole point of having a Wednesday off was to split up the week, to give him some family time, or some ‘him’ time, but he’d often be up there doing something on it. He was just so dedicated to his work.”

“He certainly was,” Dr Richards said, patting the arm of the chair.

“If you just wait here, Doctor, I’ll go up and get it,” Greta said.

“Thank you.”

Greta had only been in William’s office once since his death. On the walls were photographs − fishing with friends, on sun-soaked holidays, and town events like the food festival and his best dessert award for his key lime pie. Two laptops sat on his desk, one on top of the other. One belonged to the practice; the other was his own. Greta hadn’t noticed they were the same size and colour before − after all, she didn’t use either. She picked up the top one and, after drying her cheeks, made her way back downstairs and gave it to Dr Richards.

“Thanks, Mrs Pollock. And please, remember what I said.”

“Thank you, Dr Richards, I will. Goodbye, now,” Greta said, closing the door and walking back into silence.