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Steve Finbow
Author: Steve Finbow
  Oliver Harris, author of William Burroughs & the Secret of Fascination & editor of The Yage Letters: Redux, Junky: The Definitive Text of ‘Junk’, & The Letters of William S. Burroughs 1945-1959 asks Steve:

How much of your writing/ideas – & what kind of writing/ideas – come(s) to you in that special interzone just before sleep?

I fall asleep quickly. I sleep well but I don’t sleep for long – six hours – it used to be four or five. But there is that period just before sleep – & also just before going under a general anaesthetic – where reality blurs, & that is an important source of images – after all, Andre Breton claimed a hypnagogic experience as the basis of Surrealism. I’d say about ten percent of my interzone experiences make it into my writing: that vision of a city which is always New York City, Liverpool, & the Thames at Staines. The roads leading down steep hills to the river. But the majority of my writing comes to me on walks, daydreams, snippets of dialogue, overheard conversations, strange sights, things found in the street, matter reconstituted into anti-matter – the very stuff of ideas. I’m an “autistic realist”.
Submission Date:
06 Dec 2008 Category:   Short story In Podcast and Chap-book
down among the dead - part eight

To listen to Steve Finbow reading the final part of his story, click the play button click here to play now.

I open the front door and walk past Mrs. Quinn’s flat. Where is she? I’m not gonna knock. I cough. Nothing. I put my ear to the door. Nothing. Not even the television – she leaves it switched on sometimes when she goes to the shops. I’m finding it hard to breathe and I take my time climbing the stairs. I feel tired. I need a nap. Forty winks will set me right. Forget about those fucking eejits. Bullies. Ach, like all Brits. Light is streaming in through the window. The room is warm. I look out from behind the curtains onto the street. People going about their business. No sign of those fellas or their car. Probably winding me up, so they were. My chest aches and I sit down on the bed. I can feel a pulse beat in my neck. Hear it. I open the bedside table drawer looking for something but I’m not sure what. I hear the front door close and I listen. Keys. A door closes. Mrs. Quinn. I take out a mobile phone and turn it on. I never use it. There are two numbers in its memory. I get up and look out of the window. The sun is shining. I pull the curtains to and turn on the light. I pull books from the shelves and look in the indexes: O’Connor, Bernard; O’Connor, John; O’Connor, Joseph; O’Connor, Laurence; O’Connor, Pat; O’Connor, Thomas. Book after book after book. And I’m looking through them at the photos of men in berets and sunglasses; army patrols on Belfast streets; photos of dead bodies covered with jackets lying in cold puddles. I pull all the books onto the floor. They look like building bricks in a child’s bedroom. I remember a small café in France. Tired after two weeks of driving along Spanish roads, over mountains, not stopping anywhere I’d planned to stop, just driving, sleeping in the car, driving again. Using a mixture of bad French and Irish charm, I’d asked a waitress for change and if I could use the telephone and she’d pointed to the back of the café. I’d dialled the number and a phone rang hundreds of miles away and a man I once knew answered and said, If that’s you, Michael, and if it’s your wife and daughter you’re after, you can forget them, they’ve gone away, leave them be now. And if I were you, and I’m glad I’m fucking not, I’d not be coming back, you hear me, Michael? And I’d slammed the phone down, jumped in the car and drove on through France, crossed the Channel, kept on going until I’d reached Liverpool. The closest I’d ever get to going home. I rub the side of my head. I never... Never planned. Scared. Always. Always a lickspittle, a flatterer, a yes man. Then the phone call. The phone call to Mrs. Quinn’s. Six months ago. A woman’s voice. I didn’t recognize it. Not saying how she’d found me. And I’d asked her questions and she wouldn’t say anything, just stayed quiet. We’d spent a while just listening to each other breathe. And I’d asked if she wanted to know what had happened. She’d said nothing. I’d changed the subject and asked after her. Did she have any children? She’d said it was best to wait. To take it slowly. And she’d said, Is it you, Da? Is it really you? And I couldn’t say anything, just broke down in tears. She’d waited for the crying to stop. Then she’d hung up. Always the same, the more I talk the more I have nothing to say. I’d taken everything away from me and mine. Given it a-fucking-way. All of it. Ran. Had nothing. Lost it all. None should be mine. Talked it all away. Never learned the lesson. Head up my own arse, mouth al-fucking-mighty, mouth full of my own shite, full of lies, full of leave-takings and longings. Mighty fucking mouth. Damage done. Couldn’t keep it shut, keep it quiet, keep it in my head. Ask and I’ll tell you. Whatever you want to hear. Michael’s got a story to tell. Listen to me now. Here’s a good one. What do you want to know? Want it with knobs on? All done up with ribbons? What colour? Have your cake and eat it? Ach, no, I’m a salesman, a traveling fella, a shooter of the breeze, a wisecracking son of the emerald fucking isle, the craic, ach, none better, I’ll make it up as we go, in the wink of an eye, a nod of my head, the tip of my hat to a stranger, here’s one before you go. I jump as the doorbell rings. It rings again. I close my eyes. Ignore the ringing. Downstairs, Mrs. Quinn’s door opens. A pause and I hear voices. I turn out the light. The front door closes. I hear footsteps on the stairs. There’s a gentle knock on the door. My breathing heavy, a cough crackling under the surface. Who is it? I say.

                                                                                                                      ***

At 12:50, a man in a white Renault pulls into the assembly area and parks. He sits in the car for a few minutes then gets out and heads down Winston Churchill Road. I follow him for a bit. He’s jittery, keeps looking over his shoulder. I decide to wait. He’s not going to do anything without the others. What was your man thinking? Course they weren’t going to come across together. They’re fucking professionals not idiots. Maybe he’s got someone watching this fella. Ach, no. Don’t start that again. It’s the paranoia. Always the paranoia. Am I being left out? Do the lads not trust me any more? I can do that, I says. Leave it to me. Nah problem. Brits are gobshites, the lot of ‘em. I return to the café, order coffee this time, and continue to watch. It’s nearing 2:30 and I’ve had to order food so as not to look suspicious – I’m waiting for someone – what’s the problem? A sandwich – if that’s what they call it. The bread is so dry it crumbles as I bite into it, showering my book and dusting my coffee. I pull out a thin strip of ham, wrap it in a sliver of sweaty cheese and eat it in one go. As I’m swallowing, I see the two others walk though the border control, past the Customs House and into the car park. Fuck, they’re on foot. The first fella’s returning from his jaunt around town. The three of them stand and talk, occasionally glancing at the white Renault. I look at the motor. It doesn’t look out of place. Just like an ordinary car. The fellas look suspicious to me and in my mind I urge them to move on or at least split up. It’ll make my job more difficult but we don’t want them getting fucking arrested already, do we now? They look at the car some more then walk towards the town. I pay and leave. I follow them at a distance. I remember to put on my sunglasses. They walk south along Winston Churchill Road and then cross onto Winston Churchill Avenue. They stop at an intersection and start talking. They’re nervous. I’m fucking nervous. I stop and take out the map I picked up at the hotel reception. I hold it up, peering over the top of it to get a look, like some fucking B-movie spy – Jesus, get a fucking grip, Michael. Ach, what the fuck are they doing now? They’re playing pass the fucking parcel with newspapers, so they are. They’re splitting up, the first fella peeling away and heading south towards the tunnel, the other two turning north again up Winston Churchill Avenue. They’re only fucking walking towards me. That’s all I fucking need. I walk on south. I’ll walk past them. They’re not gonna be looking out for some old Irishman when the place might be swarming with police and army, now, are they? The first fella keeps looking behind him, as he does so he nearly walks into two men walking north. He brushes shoulders with one of them. I’m sure the fella is about to say something – Get out of the way, you fucking eejit, would be my guess – but he doesn’t. He walks on. The two men increase their pace, they look like they’re trying to catch up with the man and woman who have just passed me. I see another two men cross the road and follow the first fella heading south. What the fuck is going on? Not fucking now. Not fucking already. Shit. Mary mother of fucking God. I look across to the man and woman as they walk towards the Shell petrol station. The man looks over his shoulder. He’s clocked them. I turn and walk back. I want to shout. I want to warn them. There’s nothing I can do. Not now. Not then. There’s nothing I’ve ever been able to do. Not then. Not ever. I walk on. I walk towards the border. Toward my car. I hear Pop! Pop! Gunshots. They sound puny, not capable of heat and light, not capable of piercing flesh, sheering bone. I hear one, two, three, four. I lose count… eight maybe nine… ten, eleven, twelve… thirteen. Then sirens and the screech of car tyres. From further off – echoes. But it comes again, again the pop. Pop! Pop! One, two, three… and I’m still not sure if the sound is real. And then six, seven, eight, nine. People running. People hiding. I walk back to the assembly area. I get into the hire car. I wind down the window. I put my forehead on the steering wheel. Quiet. I open my camera bag. I check I have my passport. I flick through the pages and stare at the photograph. I am fifty years old. I look at the name. My name. I turn the ignition. I put the car in gear. I swing the car north. I head for the border.

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