This page contains my scribbles. I, as everyone probably has, have a quarter completed novel on the go, George and the Rabbit, but I also get diverted and write the occasional short story. Please feel free to comment: I can be contacted at daniel@danploy.com.

Also have a look at these two sites for more aspiring, (and successful), authors, http://www.ukauthors.com/, http://writers.wikia.com/wiki/Main_Page.

The page was last updated on 27th September 2007.

Chapter 1 Barna

Chapter 2 My Honey, Bee

Chapter 3 The Death Rattle

Chapter 4 The Broken Doll

Chapter 5 Pretty in Pink

Chapter 5: Pretty in Pink

She sits on the steps in the shade of a tree.

The moistness in her dark brown eyes makes them look even larger than normal. The moisture forms into a salty tear which first slowly, and then with greater speed, trickles unnoticed down the side of her nose.

It must be love. Love unrequited. Love lost. Nothing, not even the death of a parent or of a child, can bring such despair. True love invades every corpuscle of the body, but when it leaves it mortally wounds those very cells. Love as a presence warms and comforts; love as an absence leaves one cold and alone. The heart that had once excitedly pulsed vibrant red blood around the body was now tired and heavy. The brain that had once sparkled with firing neurones was now dulled and filled with hopelessness.

Pretty in Pink throws back her head and tries to breath in the air but her lungs will not let her. Her lungs are filled with the smog of despondency.

Another tear drops on to the concrete step. Her body slowly rocks to the rhythm of a tune only she can hear.

She stares out along the road, but she does not see the young couple holding hands as they walk, or the burrowing squirrel, or the Labrador dog bouncing around the garden. For her these things do not exist; she is excluded from their happiness, alone in her painful solitude.

Time heals they say, but for Pretty in Pink, time has stood still.

Chapter 1: Barna

I am sitting on an uncomfortably hard bench in a cool dimly lit room. Before me is a painting of mine, painted 626 years ago if I am not mistaken. My memory is not what it was. A painting about retribution, about absolution for crimes; it was the last painting I had made before I was murdered.

The last time I had seen the painting it was hanging in the drawing room of signor Arighetti. I remember because signor Arighetti had so profusely thanked me, and had then spent the next twenty minutes staring at it, tears rolling down his cheeks. How long he stayed like that I don’t know as I had quietly left, leaving him absorbed in his thoughts. And I had never seen him again.

I find myself in a country I didn’t know even existed at the time of my painting. I wonder how the painting got here of all places. So little of my work remains, and some little shits, going under the guise of art historians, even try to attribute my art to Memmi, a has-been who didn’t have an original thought in his head and shouldn’t have been allowed to paint the side of a horse. Experts eh! Some things don’t change.

A heavily pockmarked youth wearing a blue uniform several sizes too small for him appears. His peeling white taped on moniker announces him as a Gallery Assistant. “Gallery is closing in ten minutes mate.”

Mate! How I hate that term of familiarity. Where is the respect today? Doesn’t he know who I am; I guess he probably doesn’t and it’s probably better I don’t tell him. He’ll probably think I drive a DeLorean and have travelled back in time to shag my grandmother. Or I’m a Terminator sent back in time to kill his dog that is going to, some time soon, lead a revolt against humans who keep making them do stupid things in toilet tissue adverts. Yes, best not to say anything; I’ve kept stum so far.

He presumptuously sits down beside me, close enough for me to be forced to sidle such that my bottom is uncomfortably half on, half off the bench. The yellow half light that bathes the room seems to accentuate his zits; why doesn’t he have a go at them, or some of them at least? I look back at my painting, suddenly aware I must have been staring.

“You like this sort of stuff then.” I must admit I was torn for a second or two. Between spending the time and energy to describe what the painting looked like in its former glory; to describe the remarkable story of Saint Catherine of Siena, or Saint Michael and Saint Margaret; to describe the family feud that this painting had laid to rest. And between choosing to say, “Yeah, it’s not bad,” which I said, thinking it more appropriate to the youth’s apparent mental capacity.

I stand up and start to move towards the arched façade through which you entered the Medieval Art gallery, appropriately decorated in a frieze from the late 1970s. “See you again tomorrow?” says the youth without caring whether or not he does. “Maybe,” I say without turning back or caring if I see him ever again.

I walk down the steps of the gallery into the cool evening air. The sky had clouded over and there was a threat of snow in the air; how different from the crystal blue skies of my native Siena.

Night times are the worst. I close my eyes but sleep does not come and never has. I wander the streets of Boston, never getting tired, never getting cold, never getting hungry. This is how it has been all this time and I guess is how it will always be.

I walk until I should be exhausted and sit down on a bench looking out over the sea. The greyness of the sky is echoed by the greyness of the sea and greyness of my thoughts. Behind me a colourful fresco declares ‘Bush is a Wanker’. It is good to see that even after six centuries frescos are still serving their didactic purpose.

What is it I am supposed to find, or do, or put right? Or is there anything to be put right or is this it, for the rest of my time; for the rest of all time. A few flakes of snow fall and I instinctively pull my coat closer but I don’t feel anything different. I don’t feel anything at all. I just feel tired.

I can feel the raised skin of my wound through my shirt. The skin is hard like a crust on a two week old pie. The memory of the searing pain has gone now. Without my crusty memento I would not remember anything. The confusion I felt at the time is slowly being unravelled, resolved, and understood. But I still do not know why, or who.

It is snowing harder now and a soft white blanket coddles the grey earth. The dreamy lullaby of the waves starts to be replaced with the disturbed sleep of an impending storm. I decide to shelter in an old Victorian style bandstand, painted red and cream, and now with a white frosted topping. I close my eyes and will myself to see the painting again. My eyes roam over every detail, looking for the clue that may free me from this living hell. I resolve to return again tomorrow. Maybe I can get access to the gallery archives. Maybe there is something there.

The wind starts to moan and it blows through the trees, pushing against them like a playground bully against a weakling. I listen to the scurry of the shingle on the tiny beach and wait for the yellow of the dawn.

Chapter 2: My Honey, Bee

I listened to the lullaby of the waves breaking on the beach. I closed my eyes, feeling rather light headed. In one hour I would be leaving to catch the bus back to Bangkok, and then for the long flight home, to the cold, to the unfeeling, to the emptiness.

I was jolted back into the light. “Teeruk, you buy a bird for me?”

Those warm dark vowels, a sort of cross between Barry White and Paul Robeson, were what first attracted me to Bee. The intense light seared my eyes and I blinked. “Lucky for us,” she continued. “Thirty baht, one bird,” said the vendor, and as my eyes slowly became accustomed I saw a small boy carrying what must have been fifty small bamboo cages full of twittering birds. “Choose one,” Bee said excitedly, so I did, and within a few seconds my thirty baht flew out across the sea. “That boy must be very unlucky,” I commented, but Bee failed to understand the irony.

The boy left to be instantly replaced by two others, one selling beach balls and one yet something else to eat. I gestured for them to go away and practiced the Thai that Bee had taught me, “Mai Ow, Mai Ow”, but it had little effect. I wondered what it meant. Bee bought some of the food on offer, which turned out to be what looked liked live shrimps. “Try, Try,” she excitedly said pushing the blighters towards me. I put my hand up, but too late, and my mouth was soon full of wriggling things, followed by an intense sour heat. “Goong Mao,” she said, which I think is the name of their prime minister. I wondered why she said that then.

Bee sat back in the deck chair. I looked at her and smiled and she smiled back, that beautiful white smile. My heart felt lifted and sad at one and the same time. Soon I would be leaving my sweetheart and I didn’t know when I would see her again. Bee scratched her legs; I laughed, it was so unusual to see a girl with so much hair on her legs. There was even a shadow on her chin as if she hadn’t shaved this morning; oh how she reminded me of my mother.
She had laughed about it too the first time I tried to kiss her. “My father the same,” she had said. “You give me money I can fix”.

The time had come; Bee said, “We go now, bus come soon.” I had to go back to the hotel and get my bags. Bee said she would come to the bus station with me but she had to work tonight so I would make the journey home alone. Always working, I thought. How different to the skivers back home. It was so lucky we had met at that bar, the one time a month she wasn’t working, she had told me.

As we waited for the bus I could feel a tear well in my eye. It felt like everyone was staring at me. “Don’t forget to send money,” implored Bee. “I won’t I promised,” and I meant it. As soon as got back I would go the bank and borrow money to send to her. It sounded a lot, but there was a lot to be done, a house to be built, a new motorcycle that her brother so desperately needed to keep his job as a rice doctor, a sick buffalo to replace, and those operations that Bee was so coy about. How strong she was. She never mentioned what was wrong, just they were expensive and that she had to travel to Bangkok to have them. “I cannot explain,” she shrugged when I had tried to talk to her about them. I tried to convince her to have them in London, but had just said, “No, cannot,” and did not explain further. “You see different Bee next time you come,” she laughed.

Bee was not her real name; everyone here has a nickname she had explained. She had given me one, ‘Toon’, everyone laughed when she called me that and it made me laugh too. “It is small animal,” Bee had explained. Bee’s real name was Bert, which I told her was a man’s name in the West. She didn’t seem surprised when I told her this. “Bloody right it is, and a good’un too nipper,” she had answered in that gruff voice. “I try learn English so speak to you,” she continued, seeing my surprise.

I sat on the bus looking down at my love. I had only been here two weeks, but I knew my life was changed forever. She waved at me as the bus pulled away and blew me a kiss. I blew one back, and as the bus turned the corner, my last sight was of her giving a good tug on her groin; a Thai gesture of good luck so she had told me. I breathed deeply trying to rid the mist in my eyes and the heaviness in my heart. My new life had just begun.

Chapter 3: The Death Rattle

It had all come back to him. He swallowed hard; he could feel his eyes watering.

He squeezed the parchment thin skin gently. I’m here. I’m here, love.

Oh God! I am so sorry, So sorry. So helpless. So guilty. He wanted her to die. She shouldn’t be like this. A moan left her lips. He didn’t know if she was in pain or not. He had already increased the morphine more than the doctor said he should. He was killing her, he knew that. But she wasn’t going to get better. Nothing he could do would make her better.

Her breathing was laboured. The death rattle the nurses had called it. They cheerfully told him the details, the fluid build up, the weak respiration, the additional burden on the heart. It was a good name. The death rattle.

Her eyes were still open but there was no life to them. They were the colour of milk where once they sparkled blue. All of her had sparkled. He never knew her have a bad day. And George had never had a bad day after he met her. They had married just five months after they met. It’s too soon, his mother had said. I won’t have time to make a good cake. They didn’t wait for the good cake.

They went camping on their honeymoon. It was all they could afford. They came home early after the tent collapsed in the rain. The car got stuck in the field and had to be towed out. And she had laughed about that too.

Why did it have to be you? Give it to someone else. Fucking God. He is either a malicious bastard or he doesn’t exist. George preferred the former. It gave him someone to hate.

She was the only one in the ward. Mr Jenkins wasn’t here when he came in this morning. He could hear the nurses walking quickly somewhere outside in the corridor but the only other sound was her breathing. Her drips had all been taken out. Just a matter of time they said. She doesn’t feel anything. How do they know?

He stroked her arm, but he was so frightened of adding to her pain he stopped. He so wanted to hold her, to hug her, but she was so frail. He had helped the nurses lift her off the bed and had nearly thrown her through the ceiling. She was feather light. As they lifted her she had cried out. George had never heard anyone cry out in so much pain before. I’m sorry honey. They made me do it. He hadn’t helped again and just stood helpless at the end of the bed. It was them doing it love, not me. I didn’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.

He had always thought tumours were heavy. They should be heavy. Why was she so light, what had happened to her? Where had everything gone? It was as if the thin white smock she wore was pushing her body down, making her breathing more difficult. He stared at her. He knew every inch of her, but he did not recognise her now. He remembered the first time they had made love. He waited in bed, scared, excited. She came in from the bathroom, her body wrapped in a towel. She tried to get into the bed with the towel still wrapped round her, but as she turned off the light the towel slipped. She stood frozen before her, naked. And there was that giggle. Oh, how he loved that giggle. Every joy in the world was encapsulated in it. He touched her skin, it was soft and smooth and warm.

The tears ran down his face. He wiped them away, he should be strong. He needed to blow his nose but he didn’t want to let go of her hand. He wanted her to know he was there, would always be there. He tried to reach his hanky, but it was in the wrong pocket. He pulled it out and his change fell on the floor. He blew his nose, once, twice, and then tried to fold his hanky to find a dry bit. He blew again. He tried to put the hanky back, but gave up the contortions and left it on the bedside table.

A nurse came in. “Everything O.K.?” She checked the morphine pump and left. Everything O.K.? Yeah, everything’s great.

“Do you need a hand?”

“No everything’s O.K.”

She came upstairs anyway and burst into laughter as she looked at the massive hole in the wall.

“You do know the shelf fits on the wall, not in it?” she said through tears of laughter.

“It’s not my fault, it’s these plasterboard walls. I told you we should have got someone to do this.”

“You’ll be fine. When the shelf is up no-one will see it.” She was still laughing. But the shelf was still up. It even had books on it. And no-one could see the hole.

Something was different. There was no sound. He could hear the nurses still walking briskly in the corridor. But in the room there was no sound. He had lost her.

Chapter 4: The Broken Doll

She looked like a broken doll.

Her face had the same smile as when she had started to fall, a mixture of knowing and surprise.

George sat down on the top stair and looked down at his mother.

She was wearing that pale yellow cardigan he and his father had bought her: when was that? It must have been twenty years ago now. The memory ached inside him.

She had on beige coloured slacks. Who wears slacks today? And slippers that she would also wear as she popped down the road to get the local evening newspaper: door on the latch, thin mackintosh flapping. She never really looked at the paper; it was his father that had read it from cover to cover. But she still bought it.

“I’ve bought some raspberry ripple ice-cream for you. I have a tin of pineapple already; it will be nice after your tea.”

She was actually quite pretty. Not beautiful, but pretty. He hadn’t noticed that before. He could see what his father would have seen in her. He knew why his father had left though. He had felt it himself. The claustrophobia. Everything always just so. The notes in his sandwich box. ‘Don’t forget to buy those batteries you wanted.’ Up to me. If I want to buy batteries, I’ll buy them. What business was it of hers’? Leave me alone, I’m not a kid anymore.

And that bloody Hoover. Why did she have to Hoover just then. The house wasn’t dirty. How could it be, it was only the two of them. Fuss, fuss, fuss. Straighten the books on the coffee table, label the videos, wash the net curtains, sweep the pavement outside the house and halfway up the bloody street: little piles of coins holding down shreds of paper, for the pools, tip for the dustbin men, change for the telephone box.

It was better now. She wasn’t happy; he had done her a favour. He knew once his father had left that she hadn’t anything to live for. He was alright; a decent enough job, a bit of money in the bank. She had done all she could for him. The house would be his; there wasn’t anyone else to give it to. ‘Should anything happen, everything you need is in the box George. Don’t forget will you love?’

Love. Do you really love your parents, or is it one of those things you are expected to do? Expected to say. Expected to write in a Christmas card.

He would miss her, but he didn’t really know why. They didn’t have anything in common. He read books; she read magazines, and stupid ones at that. Woman’s Weekly, and that Scottish thing: People’s Friend, that was it. She wasn’t even Scottish. And that God awful music she listened to all the time. Jussi Björling, Franco Corelli, hour after hour. Well I can ditch all those CDs now. I bought most of them anyway. Trudging round shop after shop at Christmas, getting confused stares from teenage shop assistants that intellectually couldn’t challenge a hamster. And his reward: being able to listen to the CD for the entire bloody Christmas. Sat in that crappy old chair with the rumpled covers, eyes closed, glass of sherry in one hand, the other undulating in time with the music.

Well, no more. No more.

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