Punishing Routines.
Samuel was unimpressed with my sleuthing skills. He wanted to know why I didn’t ask more about Alex Reeves when his name came up with the candlelighters.
“Ask what?”
“What he’s doing here? For a start.”
“Same as everybody else, isn’t he. Wants to know what Arthur Enright’s got.”
Samuel’s point was that he took a beating from Reeves’ men before Enright found his stone. He was still angry about it when it came to our training, although he did apologise. I have a bruise on my leg now, the shape of Australia and the size of a leaflet on domestic abuse.
I went to see Rocky after that, so I’ll know what the guys are talking about, if they liked it. I went to Meadowhall’s cinema, which seemed the best bet to get away from all things magical. In The Brown Bear I heard how one of the once-magicians got burnt on Tuesday Midnight. The loss of magic wasn’t like a switch, it took some spells first and others seconds later. A bottle of flaming liquid burst on his shelves as the bottle lost its ability to cope with volcanic heat – the liquid fire spilt over his room and through his clothes, burning the skin off his chest. After skin grafts and therapies his body is like patchwork plastic. The makeup in Rocky was reassuringly fictional.
Meadowhall doesn’t stay open late on a Sunday – its glass domes aren’t cathedral like enough to get away with it. I stayed as long as I could though, and grabbed a burger on the way home to avoid another teatime. Yesterday, Chris told Norman he’d make someone a lovely wife one day, because he’d made an effort over the food. Norman was understandably upset. Angela told Chris to apologise. When we’d finished eating, Chris said “Thanks Mum.”
Meadowhall is one of half a dozen American style malls that cling to the motorways like septic piercings. I sat, having no money to spend, and watched as the clumps of similar faces, and similar clothes, talking in similar tones about similar needs, wandered along. It was like being at an open audition for a play about thickos. Enough has been said about the evils of consumerism to fill a trilogy and sell all three volumes for less than the net book agreement. I don’t care about that. If I ever have enough money to buy toys of no consequence then I’m glad they built a theme park dedicated to that pursuit. I just wish it wasn’t filled with mallowy, unshaven fathers in tracksuits, dissolving wives with hysterical eyes, sugared up girls with jammy faces, Boudica’s pushchairs, and impatient laughter. I won’t even start on the skanks and their chain-link boyfriends – I’m just glad I’ll never go to school again. At least in Castle Market there was an honesty – no one went there thinking it was the ripe fruit of democracy. No one bought anything there like it was the beating heart of Jesus. I miss it, a little bit. I wish I had reasons to go there.
Angela wanted me to tell her all about Enright’s again when I got back. She wanted all the details this time:-
“Not just the mechanics. Not like it’s a quiz question.”
I didn’t have anything else to tell her though. Besides which, I knew she’d only come in to talk about her own problems.
“Maybe I should go back with Chris.” She said, to herself. “Maybe it’s time to grow up.”
I let that go, but there’s been nothing childish about what I’ve seen and heard for the last three months. Grow up to what?
No word from Challoner yet, nor Enright for that matter.
“Ask what?”
“What he’s doing here? For a start.”
“Same as everybody else, isn’t he. Wants to know what Arthur Enright’s got.”
Samuel’s point was that he took a beating from Reeves’ men before Enright found his stone. He was still angry about it when it came to our training, although he did apologise. I have a bruise on my leg now, the shape of Australia and the size of a leaflet on domestic abuse.
I went to see Rocky after that, so I’ll know what the guys are talking about, if they liked it. I went to Meadowhall’s cinema, which seemed the best bet to get away from all things magical. In The Brown Bear I heard how one of the once-magicians got burnt on Tuesday Midnight. The loss of magic wasn’t like a switch, it took some spells first and others seconds later. A bottle of flaming liquid burst on his shelves as the bottle lost its ability to cope with volcanic heat – the liquid fire spilt over his room and through his clothes, burning the skin off his chest. After skin grafts and therapies his body is like patchwork plastic. The makeup in Rocky was reassuringly fictional.
Meadowhall doesn’t stay open late on a Sunday – its glass domes aren’t cathedral like enough to get away with it. I stayed as long as I could though, and grabbed a burger on the way home to avoid another teatime. Yesterday, Chris told Norman he’d make someone a lovely wife one day, because he’d made an effort over the food. Norman was understandably upset. Angela told Chris to apologise. When we’d finished eating, Chris said “Thanks Mum.”
Meadowhall is one of half a dozen American style malls that cling to the motorways like septic piercings. I sat, having no money to spend, and watched as the clumps of similar faces, and similar clothes, talking in similar tones about similar needs, wandered along. It was like being at an open audition for a play about thickos. Enough has been said about the evils of consumerism to fill a trilogy and sell all three volumes for less than the net book agreement. I don’t care about that. If I ever have enough money to buy toys of no consequence then I’m glad they built a theme park dedicated to that pursuit. I just wish it wasn’t filled with mallowy, unshaven fathers in tracksuits, dissolving wives with hysterical eyes, sugared up girls with jammy faces, Boudica’s pushchairs, and impatient laughter. I won’t even start on the skanks and their chain-link boyfriends – I’m just glad I’ll never go to school again. At least in Castle Market there was an honesty – no one went there thinking it was the ripe fruit of democracy. No one bought anything there like it was the beating heart of Jesus. I miss it, a little bit. I wish I had reasons to go there.
Angela wanted me to tell her all about Enright’s again when I got back. She wanted all the details this time:-
“Not just the mechanics. Not like it’s a quiz question.”
I didn’t have anything else to tell her though. Besides which, I knew she’d only come in to talk about her own problems.
“Maybe I should go back with Chris.” She said, to herself. “Maybe it’s time to grow up.”
I let that go, but there’s been nothing childish about what I’ve seen and heard for the last three months. Grow up to what?
No word from Challoner yet, nor Enright for that matter.
posted by The son of Edward Fold at 12:32 am
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