Falling in Love Across The West Midlands

Birmingham, UK - a disturbed young man - Tuesday, May 10th, 2005 : goo

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Carla was noticeably agitated as she attempted to navigate us around Birmingham’s sprawling hinterlands. The M40 became the M42 somewhere south of its shadowy perimeter, and westbound seemed a natural choice. Map reading does not appear to be one of Carla’s strengths, though this accusation could arguably be leveled at the majority of women. It has often occurred to me that navigational aptitude is tightly coiled up within the Y chromosome. In retrospect though it was perhaps a mistake voice my theory as an icebreaker.

Defeated by the continuing silence, my imagination began to wander. I fancied myself in the place of Carla’s recently departed brother-in-law. I tried to imagine what must have gone through his mind in those sharp final moments. I tried to imagine the concoction of fear and concession he must surely have been party to on his long dark journey into oblivion. I pictured the wide-eyed flailing panic he would have exhibited as he was brutally dragged from his stuffy car boot into the cold moonlit milieu of wet lakeside woodland. His hands were ziplocked so harshly behind his back that the nylon cut cleanly into his flesh. Not that he noticed this as he was forced to his knees with what felt like a baseball bat to the back of the knees. I felt his unequivocal surrender as he was plunged further into the darkness. His head and shoulders customarily veiled with a musty potato sack. This was an archetypal gangland execution. It was a justified punishment and in such circumstances a bullet through the rear of each kneecap is a popular precursor to the main event. Ultimately, the poor bastard had no choice other than to accept his tragic fate. It was his own doing. Both Eadie and he must have known it would end this way. If he was honest he always knew that this night would come, but he could never have imagined how stark the cold reality would be. Some people will follow their heart no matter what the consequences. What remains of Carla’s brother-in-law is now steadfastly anchored to the bottom of Lough Neagh; another enduring testament to the fact that love doesn’t conquer all.

I thought about the fish feasting auspiciously on what was left of Steve’s face; a man I had never known. What troubled me more greatly though were the council estate chavs loitering on the footbridge. I spied them from a fair distance away. The Elizabeth Duke gold chains that they so proudly flaunted amplified the suns rays toward us, leaving persistent yellow speckles in my immediate field of vision which faded slowly to mere retinal bruises. The blistered stick-on sun visor offered minimal protection as we began changing lanes. I convinced myself that they were planning to deposit a brick through our windscreen as we passed beneath. You see that sort of thing on the news all the time. Evidently though, their intentions were entirely benign. They were simply killing time; time that should have been spent gaining an education. Gathering knowledge with which to haul themselves up from the lowest rung of society. The taxpayers will pick up the bill though. The DSS will pay their rent, and buy them booze and fags until, left to the mercy of the NHS, they die of lung cancer or liver failure. That is if the smack doesn’t claim them first. It’s a sad and vicious circle that is widening with the passing years.

Carla was raised in similar such environs. She is a typical example of what the tabloid press refer to as a geezer-bird. Her rugged demeanor undoubtedly stems from her somewhat ghetto upbringing. The streets of West Belfast are unforgiving custodians of youth. I have felt the wrath of her keen left hook on more occasions than I care to remember. I brushed Carla’s hostility aside, gratuitously clearing my throat and checking the mirrors. I am a careful yet confident motorist, but our circumnavigation of the west-midlands was an entirely haphazard affair; due partly in fact to Carla’s indirect refusal to cooperate. My directional instincts, coupled with a fair degree of guesswork led our stricken motor north onto the M5 for a junction or two. My stolen glances at page forty three suggested that the A5 could be followed all the way into Holyhead. I concluded that I should perhaps have briefly planned our route beforehand, but a last minute exit neatly secured the final leg of our journey to salvation.

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Peter: good stuff! but whats ##Elizabeth Duke##?

Jamie: no, i'm still plumping for the pikey thing

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