RADOX
by Nick Dockerty

�Why didn�t you go?� she is screaming now.

He looks in anguish. He shrugs.

�Look, you need help, it�s no big deal you�ll see a counsellor or get put on some pills or something look it�s no big deal, you�re so fucking useless.�

�I did go,� mumbling.

�What?�

�I went to the doctors.�

�Really?

�Yes!�

�Well?�

He pulls out two dissimilar crumpled pieces of paper from his jacket, one a cool blue the other a stark yellow.

�They gave me these.�

Candy looks like she might ignite if placed next to a leaking gas oven.

�Oh for fucks sake�.why didn�t you fill them in there and then?�

�It was too busy I got claustrophobic.�

Calm. Calm. I am not upset.

�You got claustrophobic, ah really it can get a bit like that can�t it?� says Candy soothingly.

�Exactly all these people sitting there just waiting and looking at you, wondering whether you take drugs or something�� ah, big mistake.

Candy moves toward him quite steadily but with an obvious torrent raging in her. She takes his right hand and flips it over, veins upward. Job is badly scarred, with fresh wounds forming a neat trellis all the way up his skinny wink arm.

All plants tend to need a little helping hand, even in the wild.

�Whhattttt! You do take fucking drugs! Everyday of your pathetic life and then you mutilate yourself when you come down from them. I can�t believe you sometimes! YOU NEED HELP!�

I don�t believe myself either, Job almost says in reply.

Candy is leaving, she always leaves like this.

I am going to tell her, it�s all over I�m finished with it all. I�m going to get a real job and look after her.

Dishes in sink. Plip plip plip plip. Several different owners and too numerous lovers. It�s like I�ve found somekind of routine. Candy was around, hands full of good fruit and vegetable, hands full of him.

I�ll make sweet, sweet love to her. I�ll make promises and kiss her toes. We�ll kiss and paper over the cracks and the we�ll slip back under the bed clothes and kiss again.

�Inherited suit baby�, half remembering some line I liked in school, I proffered her a better line. What else is there?

In suit, bespoke combination fly, opens like gutting a fresh trout. This is the smell of my business, of suburbia if you like but it wouldn�t be my choice.

All over shower gel, detergent tablets I�d take them any time over this. Coming out in spurts, another day succeeded, a quick fire Spanish lesson the boys face out of place against the canvas.

Sound bites

Seven evangelists the dark angel exists. She had wandered over to him through a crowd of people, all PR crisp tight top, and after sticking her tongue in his ear for what seemed liked an eternity she delivered the line as easy as you would pop a cork.

Pop!

His last job had been in Coffee where he had hoped to meet a producer, or just someone, anyone, who might cradle his thoughts into the spine of the theatre. Still, he did meet so many men eager to source his downfall with their complex wills.

�You throw an egg at a politician nowadays and he or she will ask you how you want it. Fried, boiled or scrambled. It�s your choice.�

But still, sitting astride this business figure meant that he could visit the centre and walk the Oxford street fare. His thoughts meandered serenely. Stopping, only when by chance his languid stoop did allow his contact time to deliver his awkward blow.

I laughed almost as if someone had flicked a switch and my comedy came with me.

He lit another cigarette, and coughed, enjoying his hunger for the first time today.

I produced an iron from within the chair and he recognised this as a signal to go. Within minutes I was creating the receipt on the back of a Gucci bag, I saluted him out of the door.

�ooooaaaahhhh�

Mindful of the Scorsese rain and the soup can warning I zipped up to Camden and approached the lock yawning. Through these tired eyes I sensed an illusion, but it was an all too timid apprentice, as soon my disquiet for this dawn did approach with a sickening rage.

My mother always peeled the potatoes with her left hand as she did not think her right should stoop so low.

I laughed as I stoked her nipples to attention. Mouth watering, almost unprovoked I ventured inside her.

My father was always too hungry, and nervous before meal times, I remember him always furious as we sat with our elbows in; patiently keeping his company at the table.

Body slumped over armchair, so tired.

�This is the last time. From tomorrow it�s back to the wife and kids, roast dinners and car trips.� I sensed a certain brouhaha within my clients complex mind. It brought me closer to him.

I dropped the peel one by one into the chocolate custard, and prayed for the safe passage of my soul down the river.

�Severity!� she cried.

My Father put down his paper and retrieved one half of the slipper duo, and talked to me with it like he was Matt Munro administering his trade.

Candy

Candy did Flash. Or rather Flash did Candy. Whichever way you looked at it it meant that she had a half-life inside a monitor.

She lived on Tulse Hill. A shared house, landlord was a civil servant who enjoyed his gravel drive and keeping all his properties in disrepair. She had an admirer across the way who, night after night would stand with his penis in his hand just looking at her whilst she laboured at her workstation.

She had long since minded. �Sometimes I find it hard to live within the present. I seem to carry the burden of myself and the burden of what I believe is the perception of myself by those who encounter me. I am never more relaxed than when I am alone. Whenever I see some one from my window in my bedroom, I don�t really see them, I see myself looking out of my window in my bedroom.�

Creating Flash adverts for large IT ignorant multi-nationals. Not ideal but they paid well as any old shit seemed to impress them.

�Freedom is but a word; and has been misused by culture to such a degree that the most accurate appropriation is afforded to us via a television set in between programmes.� She loved doing ads, it meant a certain amount of concentration and distraction.

She liked drawing, painting at school but gave it up on the advice of her now dead father. What the hell. She had had an affair with her art teacher and long since fallen out with her.

�Business is the new art.� he would proclaim, forgetting, for once his own rapid demise and subsumation.

Ms. Pac Man

Two player Ms. Pac Man in the fish shop under the arches. Candy enthralled, he less so.

Gobble Gobble

�Spoke to John yesterday.�

Gobble Gobble

I never liked John, those sculptures of pelvic bones were all too human. If only I knew the truth.

�He wants to meet up.�

Gobble Gobble Gulp.

She looks at him, eyes wide.

�Wants to take me to see the Boetti exhibition in Whitechapel.�

Looking at her through the corner of his mouth.

�What did you say?�

�No fuck off freak or something, I told you what he did to me.�

He had the munchies and ordered some chips.

Slumped again

Body slumped over the bonnet, just off the A5. Watching the crisp packet unfold in the baking sun as the pleasure increases.

That�s the fifth aerial done for in as many weeks.

Body slumped into the river with me, a slow exit downstream past services and stations, all night bussle and baritone loin.

At the grand age of twelve I had won an award for writing the best poem in our year. I had written it on the bus that very morning and had lifted it�s theme from some lyrics I had found reproduced on the back of an LP. �Fool proof!� I thought, for I was fully aware of the fact that the sound that came forth from the mouth of the singer never corresponded with what was written. I always assumed some feckless finger bob from the record company had been involved in the decipher of such a code.

I came with a short gasp. �Call me The Provost.� he uttered.

So sure was I of my ingenuity I even found time to name the piece after the bands original name, the one used and so easily discarded before they hit the big time with a big band white noise explosion.

The peel all gone I scrunched the paper bag into a ball and placed it in my jacket pocket, I didn�t want to confuse it with the money I so readily meant to spend on my favourite boulevard run.

I approached her orgasm.

�I don�t understand it.� said the reluctant bus driver. That was a good sign, and soon I was scribbling my name at the bottom of the paper. I dated it sometime later.

Harvey Casino

I had been waiting for half an hour, and it was only after I saw who came out of the room that I understood why. �Next.� I wandered in and announced myself as if I meant to conquer America with the spirit that so endowed me. Ten minutes later I was to leave, slightly less, brazen but nonetheless sure that I had been misunderstood and that this man had just not travelled.

The third satellite has landed somewhere in America

�Movement displacing time, moments replacing time. A paradigm has emerged as real as situation, kicking and screaming as if in consternation. Jesus is from Venus. Cosmic guardians. Spiritual healing. Operation sunbeam, give back cosmic energy to the mother earth. It is up to us, famine is a crime, we are being punished for this. The Third satellite has landed somewhere in America.�

These are a few of my favourite things.

I wanted this

�I want to be a writer, and in between novels, to help pay the rent I will work for a record company as a decipherer.�

The antihistamine steal

I saw myself as Jupiter, like a hoover, but instead of comets or space debris I would snaffle up the cards with one mighty inhale. The serious man at the end of the table looked down beat and swore under his breath as I took his money and his cigarettes. The bet had been arranged by Cruelty, the man with the ginger hide, however I expected no friction this night, just punctured pride and a smile saying �Next time.�

You have the whole world in your hands, why don�t you use it?

I slid through the gates of the school and practised the spend on the rails as I tiptoed quite high. Several people did approach, but all, save one, did pass me by. If only they knew the value of my skin tonight, hell they might stop and ask for more than a light.

I entered the dance hall and ordered my drink, careful to remind my server �No slim line. I want real tonic this time.� The band struck up a familiar tune and soon I was on the floor chanting, �I am the Client.� in sequence with the singer. I liked this hall, it reminded me of the time my mother must have walked this earth in her salient and sequinned youth.

So as not to get pinned down or pigeon holed in anyway, I left soon after my genuine waltz and after discussion with my manager, headed toward the building I cared for most.

Soon enough I found myself beneath its cool embrace.

A new day.
Ignition in fleet car.

And away, morning radio, bottle necks and time checks. Fumble for the cassette, remember the approach learnt in Stoke, your lines like a politician.

This building had everything, save a prescription for antihistamine. I loved most its texture and second its serpantine detail. �I am the architect.� I chanted, as yet again I succumbed to the want of my mind.

I would arrive at work around noon and calm my careless clerks with a graceful chide. I would survey the final drafts with a cat like eye, so mindful of the hidden detail that might cause an extra tier to appear in the engineer�s crude and final appropriation.

Plan the silence between you as easily as it occurs between you and your child.

Ten years old. Fathers been away for most of them, mother�s been drunk the rest of the time.

He had worked for the big oil company but things just hadn�t worked out as they had planned. I would delight in telling little Andre just how many barrels of oil I used to sell. Of course it wasn�t really true but Andre liked the spiel. I had fucked reality a long time a go and he sure wasn�t coming back to pay the bill.

The heat

London seemed to be cracking just as one would an eagerly awaited lobster. Seven months of relentless heat followed by a cold snap that would last a further three appeared to be taking its toll on the capital city.

Just time to stop, a new aerial, a new reception another receipt.

Publish and be damned

I know half a dozen or so people like me, we were professionals, never meaning no harm, just making it (whichever way how) and spending it (whichever way how). Morality is a cat that purrs when it is sitting on your lap and then doesn�t show up again for another three weeks. I am not hurting the innocent, I don�t mug any old people. I never champion my way of life for there is no-body there to really listen; just quietly going at my business day-to-day.

My clients are all business men, most are business like but some are emotionally involved with me. The latter are my bread and butter as they just keep coming back week after week, receipt after receipt. Of course I never get involved, some people just don�t, Candy said to me one day that some people are just on this earth to observe, she used some French word for it but I can�t remember what it is. I likened it to surfing; either the web or a wave it doesn�t matter which. Candy writes more than me, she is freelanced, apart from this thing I have not written for years now although if someone asks I always claim to be a poet. When asked if I am published, I just throw back my head and laugh, �Under-published my friend, under-published.�

I add.

His eyes like oysters

God they are poor; in fact I am sure it has to be God that puts food on their table each and every night.

Her husband had left the flat in high spirits some four years ago and was promptly hit by a bus; he�d been drinking Gin all day so it would have been almost painless.

The driver was a good friend of the family, he came running up the stairs in tears; she didn�t blame him, she couldn�t. He had just wandered out into the road like a child.

Last I heard he had moved in.

Every Thursday the youngest of the six would come knocking on my door. I would let him in and we would sift through the dictionary together, delighting at all the interesting words we found within.

After a while we would leave the flat and head toward the side-walk to begin our search.

I would stand by his side and wait for his order like a bodyguard. Soon enough I would hear his excited cry �Thetwolenses � thetwolenses.� Upon this command I would reach into my coat pocket, retrieve the lenses and pass them to him. Poor kid could hardly see but he never missed the red blob of a bus. He would put the lenses to his eyes so as to read the registration of the bus, and then carefully write it down in his notebook. Sometimes, as is the way of buses in this city, they would all come together, one, two, three, four all trundling along the same tired route like a cattle train. When this happened he would be jumping up and down his eyes like oysters trying feverishly to remember each one.

Novel

Candy said she wanted to write a novel without any horizon.

I wanted Candy but I had no idea if she wanted me.

Candy said she wanted me to stop fucking business men, business like.

I loved Candy more than that.

Candy asked if I took protection.

I nod.

London changes, we don�t

The city is a jackal. I mean it�s a Jackal, a JACKAL. Come by me now.

She danced with a black rhythm.

Fuck me she was good, better than me better than you.

�Fifth one in as many weeks, always in this area! I�m getting to know this guy.�

The camera follows, the broad man.

Much laughter, these two DO know each other. Money does not change hands � they�ve had too much fun. Michael hands him a complimentary chamois and slaps him.

The camera man smiles and comments.

Back on the road, smooth waves of sound lap upon the dashboard. Cigarette is extinguished. Exhale. Pastry is consumed.

30 minutes to destination and all is well again.

Even the camera crew in the lead car are happy, last nights euro demise and lager consumed is chewed over and sandwiches are passed around.

Candy wants him, and wants him to stop.

He knows this but prefers to beat himself up about it. Sigh, is this the case with all people?

I don�t know. He doesn�t either.

In her dream Candy is trading lines with her old art teacher.

�Paint to portray,� she said,

�Don�t lose yourself in abject disarray

And all this televisual chaos.

I am not buying any of it

And neither should you �

My pulsing beauty.

Go lie on the bed

And wait for me.

While I shout for heaven

And fill in the gaps.�

My love came down for Christmas.
Slipped her wrists real crisp in a deep fresh bath.

He is drunk again and feeling sorry for himself. He had been in love, once. He had had a job, a career, in short: a life. They used to play tennis and go to the gym together. He would write poems for her on the back of shopping bags.

But haven�t we all loved? Just once.

The sound of tyre and gravel, in the usual embrace. Car door opens, and is closed, m-o-m-e-n-t-a-r-i-l-y, ah yep, he�s forgotten his gun.

Job was watching the media unreel itself live on TV, a hit and run on a small betting shop in Brixton had really captured the imagination of the afternoon audience. Bets were mounting up in real time, most favoured a swift execution. Job went for his mobile phone, but before he could punch a digit, one of those annoying ads popped up in the display �Radox: Known to aid tranquility.� He spent three frantic minutes trying to�

In the meantime the boy had been caught and safely escorted back to a van. The newsman seemed apologetic and Job breathed again and said �Thank fuck.�

He left the flat soon after.

� Nick Dockerty

Reproduced with permission

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