Eternal Return 1&2

The Hidden Art of

Eternal Return

1

         To see him you’d think that he was some kind of common lout up to no good, leaning with his back against a gravestone, busily rolling up a spliff.  But the truth was that the gravestone belonged to his Uncle Ernie and young Billy Frankson was sharing a personal moment with the only member of his family with whom he could share absolutely anything.
         He finished rolling the joint, lit it and then stood up straight and walked around to the front of the grave, where he sat down cross-legged opposite the gravestone.  “Hi Uncle,” he said, taking a drag on the spliff and blowing smoke out from the corner of his mouth.  “You know I can still picture you puffing on that pipe of yours and sharing your stories about life at sea.  I still don’t know if half of them things really happened or not.  I don’t much care either.  They were your stories and they made you a special and much loved person in my life.”  Billy took another drag on the joint.  Then he looked down at the ground sadly.  “Mum and Dad still argue,” he said, “and Mum works long hours at the hospital.  So Dad takes out his loneliness and frustration on me.  I’ve got a painful bruise on my arm now. I had a black eye last month.  I know if you were here you’d have defended me.”  He looked up again at the gravestone.  “I know you’d have lectured him, told him to go easy on the drink.  But you ain’t here no more.”  Billy lowered his gaze again and took a third puff on the spliff.  Then he heard a noise.
         A dog was yelping and whining in distress and a voice was shouting in alarm.  It was a guy’s voice.  He sounded like he was about the same age as Billy.  “No,” the voice cried out, “leave her alone, don’t hurt her!”
         The dog was growling now.  Then it barked and there were sounds of running footsteps and leaves crunching and twigs breaking underfoot.  There were also the unmistakeable sounds of fighting and the grunts and “oofs” of pain.
         Billy stood up, dropped his spliff and stubbed it out with his foot.  Then he went to where the commotion was, to see what was going on.  He picked up his skateboard and tucked it under his arm and then walked through the graveyard, past gravestones and trees, through the mist and drizzle of an autumn twilight, crunching orange and yellow leaves beneath him.
         Billy stopped  and crouched down, peering through branches to spy a group of five or six teenaged boys kicking the cowering form of another boy lying on the floor.  Billy heard the words “lard butt” and “asthma lungs”.  Eventually they stopped kicking the frankly overweight boy on the ground and turned and ran away.
         Billy didn’t know what to do.  Should he see if the chubby guy was ok?  He didn’t know him.  Should he get involved in something that didn’t concern him?  For some reason he was hesitant to come out of hiding just yet.
         The fat guy slowly picked himself up and began to limp his way through the cemetery.  Billy shrugged to himself.  Well, the boy’s alright now, he thought and so he began to walk back to his Uncle’s grave again.  As he started to walk away however, Billy suddenly stopped and thought.  What happened to the boy’s dog?
         Feeling intrigued and curious, Billy found himself surreptitiously following the chubby guy while remaining hidden.  He crept behind trees and bushes, following the overweight teenager as he limped his way along open pathways in the graveyard.  Billy thought he recognised him from college but he wasn’t entirely sure.  Whoever he was, he was crying to himself.  What a wimp, Billy thought, I’ve experienced worse from my own father.
         “Chomper,” the boy called, “where are you, girl?”  And he sniffed back some more tears.  Billy felt a bit more sympathetic then.  It’s never nice to lose a favourite pet.
         Suddenly the chubby kid turned a corner that led in the opposite direction to where Billy stood hiding.  The chubby kid disappeared behind the trees and bushes on the other side of the path and so Billy had to come out of hiding in order to continue following him.
         As Billy pulled himself out from the foliage however, he suddenly heard a loud, blood-curdling scream from the boy.  Then there was a loud shout of “No!” and some more sobbing.
         No more creeping now, Billy broke into a run and then as he turned the corner he saw a sight that nearly stopped his heart.  The chubby lad knelt before a grave with his head in his hands, sobbing bitterly.  The grave he knelt in front of had one of those big stone crosses on the tombstone and nailed to the cross was a small dog, possibly a jack russel or crossed with some other breed.  Its bloody paws were impaled on thick, rusty nails but it no longer suffered.  The poor animal was quite, quite dead and most sickeningly of all, its belly had been cut open and all its bowels and entrails had been ripped out to hang revoltingly in the cold, autumn air.  There also seemed to be a significant open wound on the creature’s head.  The dog stared lifelessly, its tongue lolling grotesquely out of its mouth, its teeth bared in aggression.  Steam rose from both tongue and innards, fresh blood poured and dripped onto the ground nearby.  Flies were already buzzing around it.
         Billy stood transfixed, as disgust and horror twisted his face into a grimace of revulsion.  The boy just sobbed heartily.  “How could they do this to poor Chomper?” he said at last.  Then he wept bitterly again.
         Slowly Billy walked up to the poor lad and patted him gently on the shoulder.  “They must be sick in the head,” he said sadly.  Then he stooped down to try and lift the chubby lad to his feet.  “Come on,” he said, “you can’t just stay here like this.  We need to bury your dog properly.”
         The chubby guy stood up and wiped his tears.  Then the two of them set to work, carefully removing Chomper from the rusty nails and carrying her to a deserted spot in the graveyard.  Then they used both hands and sticks to dig her a small grave and bury her there.  They put the earth back over the grave and then tied two sticks together with an elastic band to make a cross and they put the makeshift cross into the ground where the poor dog lay.
         “Thank you,” said the chubby lad, sniffing back some tears and holding out his hand for Billy to shake, “thank you for being so kind.  The name’s Tom.”
         “I’m Billy,” said Billy.
         Tom turned back to look at the grave.  “How could they be so cruel to a defenceless animal?” he asked.
         There was no answer to that question.  “Bullies can be cruel,” was all that Billy could say.  “Why do they pick on you?”
         “Because I’m fat,” said Tom, “because my family’s poor, because Dad is stupid enough to think I should do sport at A level when I’m actually crap at it.”
         Billy let out a grunt of recognition.  “Lowlifes with no personality of their own always pick on those who are different,” he said.  “Don’t let it bother you.  It’s better to stick out from the crowd than be like one of those numbskulls.  They’re scum!  They haven’t even got the brains to think for themselves.  They’re heads are too full of commercialised pop and what the latest trendy trainers are.  There’s no character to them, they’re just idiots.”
         “Yeah,” said Tom, “well, that won’t bring back Chomper will it?”
         “No,” agreed Billy, “that’s sad.  You go to Bedford college, don’t you?”
         “Yep,” said Tom.
         “I’ll look out for you,” said Billy, “we should stick together.”
         “I’d like that,” said Tom, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
         Then they both went their separate ways.  Billy was glad that he’d made a new friend.  The truth is that he’d found it hard settling in at college himself.  All his friends from school seemed to have moved away.
 

2

         The next morning Tom got up early to go about his paper rounds.  It was another bright idea of his Dad’s to help him to lose weight.  He had to study sports alongside CDT and business, even though it got him bullied, and he had to do a paper work in the mornings even though getting up so early always made him sleepy in college.
         Tom left his house on Stanley Street and after stopping at the local newagents for his papers, he slowly started doing his rounds.  He walked down all the little roads near Stanley Street and then along Foster Hill Road, delivering papers all the way.  Eventually he was delivering newspapers along De Parys Avenue at eight o’clock in the morning.  Oh, how he envied the people on De Parys Avenue!  The houses looked so big, the people who owned them must be rich.
         At one particular house on the avenue there was a young lad, about Tom’s age, acting most eccentrically in the front courtyard.  The young lad had short dark hair in a trim looking bowl cut.  He had a fit, lean body, which was very noticeable at the moment, seeing as how he was outside on a cold autumn morning wearing nothing but his underpants.  He also seemed to be lying on his back with his full weight on his elbows and shoulders with his legs straight up in the air.  He was moving his legs around as if riding a bike.  Then he lowered his legs and stood up on his feet and immediately started doing star jumps.
         Tom stopped at the door, where he was about to post the newspaper through the letter box and simply stopped and stared at the mad looking person in the courtyard.  Eventually the crazy young man stopped exercising and stood and looked back at him.
         “Yes?” he said, questioningly.
         “Are you crazy,” said Tom, “it’s freezing and you’re outside, hardly wearing anything.”
         “Physical discomfort feels like a minor problem to me at the moment,” the young man said, walking over and taking the paper from Tom.  “Still, what is it to you?”
         “Oh, nothing,” said Tom, turning around sheepishly, “sorry, it’s none of my business really.  I shouldn’t pry or judge.”  And he started walked back up to the gate.  “I’ve got enough problems of my own, without taking on other people’s,” he added, almost under his breath.
         “Wait!” called the young man behind him.  “Please don’t go.  No one ever talks to me at college and I’m all alone in this house.  I’m going stark, staring mad, if you want the truth.”  Tom turned around again.  “Stay here,” the man said, “I’ll go inside and put some clothes on.  Then we can talk, yeah?”
         Tom didn’t know what to make of this.  The guy sounded desperate.  “I’ve got a paper round to do,” he said.
         “It won’t take long,” said the strange young man.  “I’ll help you.”  Then he left and went inside.
         Tom shrugged to himself.  His paper round was nearly finished anyway.  So he waited.  Soon enough the posh young man emerged from the house again.  “The name’s Paul,” he said and he walked along with Tom, helping him to carry his satchel of newspapers.
         “I’m Tom,” said Tom, “how come you do your exercises outside and nearly naked?”
         “It takes my mind off things,” said Paul.  “My gran left me this house when she died.  I was in a home for a while before that.  My parents have disowned me.”
         “Disowned you,” said Tom, “what for?”  He was honestly shocked that parents would ever disown their son.
         But Paul didn’t answer the question.  “I get very lonely,” he said, “stuck in this big house with nothing but the memories and belongings of my grandma to keep me company.  And no one talks to me at college because they think I’m weird… and posh.  People think I’m posh, so they can’t relate to me.”
         “People rip on me because I’m poor,” said Tom, “and because I’m overweight and no good at sports.  Were you close,” he asked, “you and your gran?”
         “Sort of,” said Paul, “but seeing her picture staring at me every day and the smell of her still lingering in the air, and all her belongings everywhere, it makes it hard to escape her.  The sadness and loneliness is suffocating sometimes.”
         “I know how that feels,” said Tom, “my dog died, my beloved Chomper.  And everyone picks on me all the time.  What are you studying at college?”
         “History,” answered Paul, “biology and religious studies.  It’s a weird mixture, I know.  But it interests me.”
         “At least you’re doing what you like,” said Tom, feeling a very real regret about his own subjects.  “Everything I’m doing for A level is because Mum and Dad think it’ll be good for me.  Craft Design and Technology, Business Studies and Sport.  I’m rubbish at all of it and I don’t like any of it.”
         “Still,” said Paul, “at least you’ve got family.  Look at me, alone in that house of mine.”
         “We should hang out,” said Tom.  “Why don’t you come join me tomorrow?  That’s if you’re not doing anything.  I don’t have any classes on a Thursday and my Dad checks over houses where the resident has died, clears them up and that.  You should tag along with us.  It’s well fascinating and pretty gross sometimes too.”
         “Sounds fun,” Paul said with a twisted smile, “I’ve got a class in the afternoon, but I can tag along for the morning.  Where shall I meet you?”
         “I live on Stanley Street,” said Tom, “number fifteen.  Meet me there at 9am.”
         “Will do,” said Paul, “nice meeting you Tom.”
         “And you,” said Tom.  And then they both went their separate ways.