xx saw xx xx xxx xxxxxxxx. x thought xx xxx xxxxx xx xx x xxx crash xx cancer. xxx xxxxxx news xxx xxx xxxx harrowing. xxxxxx? Oh xxxx xxx xxxxxxx xx xxxx xxxx another xxx? xxxx xxx xxx xxxxx xxxxx xx xxxxxxxx. xxxxx xxx all xx us, xxx I xxxx. xx xxxxx xxxx shared xxx xxxx xxxxxx. x xxxxx xxxxxxx xxx. xx xxxxx xxxx xxxx xxx years ahead xxx. Why xxxxx xxx speak? x xxxxx xxxx listened. xx loved you xx xxxx. XXXX. xxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxx xxxxxxxx. xxx xxxx xx xx xxxx xx this? xxxx xxx xx xxxxxxx? xxxx?
I do not remember Franco’s death. The first transatlantic flight of Concorde, perhaps. I remember the coming of Mike Tyson as if it were someone else’s story, not mine. The withdrawal of Thatcher from the leadership race, smothered in feelings of a time and a place…
a bank of television screens in a shop window, baggy jumpers and long hair, oranges for Christmas, a cold dark house where woodlice and mold would triumph…
There is almost nothing. Almost. Nothing to fix a thought upon. No true memory. No one idea. Just a twinge, an ache, that something happened, once was.
Jim fished for imaginary salmon, out in his back garden with a rod and live bait. We watched him and laughed as the line got caught in the fence between his shrubs and the fields.
Jim smoked a pipe and spoke wryly of the old times and how nobody understood his intentions. He always wore a hat.
Jim liked the children to come round on bonfire night with their lanterns made from turnips and bright smiles, but the mothers always moved them on. Jim was eccentric, creepy, strange.
Jim mourned his mother’s death and never got married. Jim died yesterday.
Archeologists discovered signs of large buildings here, perhaps a temple. Remnants of weapons were also found, including traces of what might have been poisons. Certainly battles were fought here. A small camp seems to have existed, with broken pots, pans and temporary shelters found all across the hillside near where a river once flowed. We can only guess what calamity wiped out all of those who lived in those times, and at the extent of the destruction, but, what we do know, is that it was the end of an era – of an empire – and of the start of another.
‘Pipes’ connect countless channels of overflow from East to West, Agencies say. Politicians have dubbed it a ‘super sewer’ and ‘filtrations’ are due to commence – the cost already upwards of £400m.
A communication from a group calling itself Stop the Shaft claimed, using Securities language, that the channels were only responsible for a tiny proportion of ‘human waste’ dumped into the ‘river of humanity’. The cost to the taxpayer is unjustifiable, they said, and the cost to Rights…
Agencies said the claims were ‘misleading’ and joked that the rest of the world would be ‘piped’ to hit their latest target.
We always went running in fog, early mornings at six, six thirty, at just that time of year when the fields become obscured by the weight of water in the air, so heavy it clung to your face in the pallid light and ran down it like tears, dripping from your nose and chin, and the wet grass licked your shins like a sopping tongue and the birds whispered that it was beyond dawn, their sound so close in the thick low sky, as if perched on your shoulder, but with nothing to be told about who won, who lost.
Your arm around me like you say my belt and braces, oh but I feel the opposite, I say an open hand, the merest brush of a tip of a finger that leads me on, could take me anywhere and we do, we do go anywhere and everywhere.
Your arm around me you say everything you say like a best man’s speech, so witty and warm and I say no, you are feeding warnings like a my old dad, a head boy eyeing me in the corridors of everywhere and thiswhere, herewhere.
Where-erity you go I go, you and me.
From Siberia and the cold continent they arrive, to make home, however temporary. To eat. To survive. The Great Northern Diver. The Arctic Skua. Waxwing and Redwing. Snow Bunting. Short-eared Owl. Guillemot. Brent Geese in their tens of thousands, huddled in the cold mud of the grey estuaries, arcing over forlorn skies. Oystercatchers from Norway, stabbing the clay with flaming bills; Curlew, somewhere, it is rumoured. The great migrations of the world. While humans forge papers, dignity trafficked and stripped, never to be accepted, caged in a caravan, paying with their lives to survive and eat the carrion carcass freedom.
Field medics report, come in? come in? [crackles]
We are hearing you. What medicines do you require? Over.
Command suitable retaliation. Use aggressive force. Come in?
Use aggressive medicine? Over.
There has been an interstitial interruption between spaces of matter.
There are holes blown. We cannot hear, clear…
Receiving. Medic coordinates? Over.
10th parallel. There is a…
What medicines do you require? Over.
There is a, jesus [crackles]…
Actioning reinforcements. What medicines do you require? Over.
There is a… action aggressive, come in?
What medicines? Over.
There is a hole, jesus, all the way along.
10th paralell, over?
There was a flickering on the screen: a small dot heading towards the mainland. Intelligence said the dot came from Africa, but intelligence wasn’t everything. The dot was uncontactable – recognised signals were not received. Codes failed. Some said it was coming as part of a deal, a contra agreement with certain military or government agencies. Its looming shadow headed for the heart of the countryside. Grey warplanes shot through East Anglian skies – a deathly escort. But all was safe – the dot Nigerian and allied.
For the rest of the world, the buzz of rolling news, channels upon channels of silence.