Drive Wheel

This is heaven, she thinks. Flashing lights. Bass pounding in her chest. Several hundred writhing bodies all moving to the beat. Sweat pouring off of her body. Hips moving. Arms flailing. Booty shaking. Everyone cheering in pauses of the relentless rhythm. Who needs the gym when this the only cardio vascular activity you will ever need? This is vital. This is living. This is all there is.

Time loses meaning here. Who cares how she got here? This is where she is. And if you are happy with where you are at any moment, you can’t regret any decision that put you there. It’s the wrong turns that take you to unexpected places. She had always lived for the moment. The moment that seems to last an eternity. Like Sartre’s idea of the perfect moment. Like now.

Worshipping at the church of sound. That’s what someone called it once. And she had bourne witness to the beat all over the world, on every continent, even a party boat off the coast of Antarctica. Now the bright lights have led her here. To the apotheosis of rave culture. Ibiza has nothing on this place. She loves it here. She could stay here forever.

I hate it here. Why am I here? I hate clubs. Clubs are the crystalisation of everything I despise. Enclosed spaces. Bright lights. Noise. Sweaty herberts. Other people’s music. Other people. Not to mention dancing. The sight of people dancing makes my genitalia retreat inside my body. Someone asked me why I wasn’t dancing. Self-awareness, I replied. Dignity. Basic self-control. Take your pick. No-one looks good dancing.

Why am I here? It can’t have been my choice. Too much to drink perhaps. I don’t remember drinking anything, but the aftertaste of lukewarm lager from the half empty plastic pint glass on the sticky table in front of me seems to contradict that memory. Did someone drop something in my drink and drag me here? Don’t remember being in the pub. Last thing I remember, I was driving. Undipped headlights on the road ahead of me. Then nothing. Then here.

So many regrets. So many wrong choices. So many wrong turns. So busy closing myself off to new opportunities; new experiences. And for what? To end up here, sat alone in the worst place I can imagine, while people enjoy their lives all around me. This is sadistic. This is torture. This is hell.

 This is heaven, this is hell.
This is living, this is tale to tell.
This is drive wheel, this is cog.
This is master, this is snarling dog. 

Chumbawamba, Bad Dog, Good Girl

 

Somewhere in Venice

If you had the time to lose, 

An open mind and time to choose, 

Would you care to take a look, 

Or can you read me like a book?

October 2004

Nighttime. Sea salt and engine oil. Low light above me. Soft chatter and revving gears. Wake waves lapping gently to our port. Maiden. Late. Time is always on my side.

I have no idea where I am. Not exactly. Somewhere in the Venice lagoon. That much is certain. Beyond that I can’t say and I lack the language to ask.

I boarded this waterbus from the airport with some vague idea it would take me to the main island. This is not, I begin to suspect, a direct route. We seem to be going around the houses. Or rather, around the islands. I have a hostel bed booked somewhere in the city, but it’s exact location is also a mystery at present. One problem at a time.

My only anchor in this sea of uncertainty is the music playing from a yellow tape deck hanging from a yellow handle on a rusty nail in the pilot’s small, plastic sheeted cabin. It took me a moment to recognise it. Iron Maiden. Somewhere in Time.

Haven’t heard this album in years. One of the few 80s Maiden albums I don’t seem to own on CD. I wonder why. It’s one of their best. I own most of the others from that decade. Killers. Piece of Mind. Seventh Son. Why not this one?

The only album I don’t like from this era is Number of the Beast, but that’s more about the production than the actual songs. Actually, it’s probably because I heard most of those songs first on Live After Death (also the first Maiden album I heard) and the album versions sound too slow by comparison. It’s like Bring the Noise. It’s impossible to listen to the original once you’ve heard the beefed up version Public Enemy recorded with Anthrax. Yeah boy.

I caught the tail end of the opening track, Caught Somewhere in Time, as I boarded the boat with everyone else. The size of a small bus with the amenities of a third class Victorian railway carriage. Hard wooden benches arranged in rows. Sat perched on the inner edge, rucksack wedged between my knees, one foot spilling out into the aisle. The music penetrated my consciousness, but I felt too disorientated and tired from travelling all day to register it right away. By the time the opening lick of Wasted Years kicked in, I knew where we were.

 

The sad thing is, I know how long these songs run, so I know how long we’ve been chugging along at walking pace through the waters at the tip of the Adriatic. Heaven Can Wait is nearly over, which lasts seven minutes on its own. The two before that are five minutes each. Add that to the end of the opening track and we’ve been moving for at least twenty minutes.

I should have been at the hostel hours ago. But my plane from Gatwick was delayed and then we landed late due to storm weather. Frequent cracks of lightning seen through the cabin portholes. The captain apologised over the Tannoy, declaring it the worst storm he’d seen in years. So we circled Venice Airport for three quarters of an hour; the cloud cover too thick to even catch a sight of the Venetian lights blinking below us.

There must have been a quicker way to get where I need to go. But it’s late and my Italian is limited to ciao and grazie and so I followed the crowd and boarded this waterbus with everyone else. And now I’m stuck here. The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner plays with mocking irony. I really don’t want to be still sat here by the time Alexander the Great begins. And yet I kind of do. I’m late anyway. May as well be late to a good soundtrack.

This is the end of a whistle stop tour of three cities. Three days in Dublin, following the trail of James Joyce. Then a couple of days in London with trips to the Tate and an all female production of Much Ado About Nothing at the Globe. Now four days in Venice. I’ve spent too much money in the capital cities and it’s the end of the working month. Venice is going to be a frugal experience.

If I ever get there. The last whistle-stop tour earlier this year was more successful. Flew into Paris for a couple of days, rolling around the Metro system reading Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden and seeing the sights. Then a long train ride to Zurich on the first day of February. Reading from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man at the side of Joyce’s grave on the occasion of our joint birthday. Frustrated by all the museums being closed on a Monday. Tuesday bored in Geneva. Half six flight to Amsterdam on Wednesday morning. Sat in a coffee shop by nine. Finding the American Book Exchange. Spending too much money on second hand books.

I reach into the inner pocket of my green Parker jacket. Nestling there is a Penguin Classics copy of Dostoyevsky’s Notes From the Underground and The Double. Black cover. For a moment I wonder if it’s one of the refugees rescued from Amsterdam. But all of the books I bought there are American press. And second hand. Left there by American backpackers. The Dostoyevsky is new. Must be from Waterstones. Manchester. Deansgate branch. Swapped it out for the Raymond Chandler, Philip Marlowe anthology I’ve been reading since John Lennon airport. Silver cover. Also Penguin. Also purchased on Deansgate. At least now I can listen to the BBC radio productions of The High Window and The Little Sister that I’ve been saving until I read the novels.

Another stop. People board. People alight.

The album moves on to Stranger in a Strange Land. I remember the video being one of the worst examples of lip synching I’ve ever seen. Not Bruce’s fault probably. Screwed up in post production with the audio track being out of phase with the images. Not by a lot but enough to be noticeable. But then it doesn’t help that it’s a live performance overdubbed with the studio version of the song. Looks instantly fake. Ironic given the lack of live recordings from that tour. Three live albums released from the Fear of the Dark tour (a particularly weak album), but nothing from Somewhere on Tour, which is meant to have been one of the best. A live album from that period would rival Live after Death.

And yet Stranger in a Strange Land is one of the album highlights. Steve’s chugging bass intro. The Smith penned lyrics that contain many of the same themes as Wasted Years (his other main lyrical contribution to this album). Also the notes of Adrian’s soulful guitar solo stretching out like the decades elapsed since the eponymous stranger perished in the Arctic and was preserved in ice (apparently based on a true story and not, as some think, named after the Robert Heinlein novel of the same name – it’s not a Steve Harris song after all). Having sat here for more than half an hour, slowly losing the feeling in my legs as each minute passes like an hour, I know what the slow passage of time feels like. It’s the uncertainty that does for me. If I knew where I was going I could sit back and enjoy the ride.

God I love this album. Next pay day I’m going down to HMV at lunchtime and buy a copy. Slip the naked CD into the CD folder I carry for playing music on my Sony CD Walkman. A far cry from when I first went travelling on my own. An extra bag in addition to my rucksack just to carry around all of the tapes I wanted to listen to. The millennium. Four years since, but seems an age ago.

Déjà Vu is starting. Probably the weakest song on the album, but it does always remind me of the Monty Python sketch. At this point Alexander the Great can no longer be avoided. My only hope is that once it starts I don’t end up at my destination before the song ends. At about nine minutes, that is a distinct possibility. Mind you, I could still be sitting here by the time the next album finishes. And knowing my luck it will something by Oasis or Coldplay or something equally hateful.

My son, ask for thyself another kingdom,

For that which I leave is too small for thee.

I mouth along to the speech that opens the song, wind howling in the background. I wonder who the actor that performs this is. The voice is vaguely familiar but I can’t place it. Wonder if it’s the same guy who did the reading from Revelation on Number of the Beast. Bet it’s some famous Shakespearian who didn’t want to tarnish his reputation with being openly associated with Iron Maiden but secretly a massive fan.

This is one of Steve’s book report songs. Like Rime of the Ancient Mariner or To Tame a Land, here Harris does the life of Alexander of Great in Cliff Notes form. I mock, but the aforementioned are some of my favourite Iron Maiden songs. The overlong words and complicated cadences with which Steve likes to torture Bruce. Bruce virtually rapping during the final section of this one. Another great Adrian Smith solo in the middle there. Eastern European mode . 7/8 time signature in places. Immensely silly in places, but metal is silly. That’s why we love it.
 

The song barrels along even as the boat ambles at the same frustratingly glacial pace. It’s over far too soon. See? This is of what I was afraid. The tape ends and the pilot eventually replaces it with a fresh one. Poison. Look What the Cat Dragged In. I have to get the hell off this boat. This now constitutes abuse.

I’m about to stand up and attempt the British equivalent of causing a fuss when I notice something in the near distance. An arrow tipped square tower piercing the sky that I recognise from Canaletto’s paintings of Venice. The must be St Marc’s Square. To quote the Cat from Red Dwarf: Hey, hey, hey, we’re moving in the right direction now. 

 

I mount the gangway with my rucksack slung over my shoulders. Humming snatches of Maiden songs, I walk the short distance to the entrance into Piazza San Marco. It’s late and low lit. Water from the lagoon seeps up through grills in the floor. The outdoor seating of the expansive cafes are virtually deserted at this time of night and this late in the season. In my left hand are clutched several sheets of A4 paper, on which are printed my hostel reservation details. I hope that even with a lack of Italian, I can point at the address and ask for directions. I hope it isn’t far. I hope it isn’t too late. Time is always on my side, I hum without much conviction.

For the next quarter of an hour I flounder from one café bar to the next in a kind of alcohol-free pub crawl. At each stop some friendly Venetian points me in the right direction, but I understand too little to get much further than the next square and have to start the process all over again. At this time of night the cafes are about the only places still open and the language barrier coupled with the inebriated state of my Good Samaritans make for slow progress. Lots of shouting between the groups of men that huddle around the printed sheets in my hand. No doubt laced with anti-English slurs and graphic insults against tourists. I only hope one of them isn’t sending me down a blind alley.

Which is exactly where I find myself. On a street which is apparently the one I’m looking for but I can’t see any sign of a hostel. I wander along the length of the narrow passage of cobble stones that end at the edge of the nearest canal.

A shadowy figure emerges from a doorway. I screw my courage to the sticking place and approach him. “Scusi.” The old Venetian points me halfway back down the street. With a little bit of effort I find the place I’m looking for. I ring the bell and answer the soft Italian voice emanating from the intercom. A buzz releases the red painted door to reveal a passage and a staircase.

It’s long since midnight as I’m greeted at the top of the stairs by a tall blonde man in his late twenties who instantly makes me feel overweight and underdressed. Marco takes my passport and books me in and before long he is leading me down a short corridor to a dorm room maybe forty feet long by twenty five feet wide. The only light comes from flashes of lighting issuing from the sky. I have made it just in time. Rows of single beds line the room. Everyone else is in bed and asleep. I store my luggage under the bed and quickly undress. Claps of thunder explode in what feels like right above the building. My head rests on the pillow. My eyelids are heavy.

A Jeremy Hardy Speaks to the Nation CD plays in one ear, the CD player whirling gently beneath the pillow. Someone snores somewhere below. White light illuminates the back of my eyelids. Tired. Late. My son, ask for thyself another ferry boat. For that which I leave is too glam for thee. I have this terrible feeling of déjà vu. Much ado about nothing really. Time is always on my side. 

 

 

Interrogation

The long corridor yawned high above her. The olive green paint of the imposing walls was cracked and peeled in countless places. A rough smell of disinfectant hung on the air.

She leaned uncomfortably. They'd made her wait now for more than twenty minutes. One cheek had gone to sleep from sitting in the remoulded plastic seating. She heard they did this on purpose. It injected a sense of sombre reflection into the Attendee. Made them pliant to the intensive questioning.

Scattered on either side of the never-ending olive peel were other expectant Attendees, all sat in the same uncomfortable seats in ones and threes and fours. She furtively checked no-one was looking and rubbed the tender cheek, shifting the weight to her other side. She readjusted the pattern dress about her knee and replaced a strand of jet black hair that had come free in the move.

She touched the corner where her Aye-Budd would usually be. They made you surrender all electronics as you entered the building. She felt alone without the constant projection of other people's thoughts and creations into her field of vision. Naked even. This also served to a purpose.

"Ms Meagher?"

A woman in a suit stood over here, consulting a DABB in the crook of her arm. She envied the woman her skin. Her eyes were brown though. Not green like hers.

"That's Meagher."

"If you'd like to follow me."

She followed red pumps and ankle chain down the olive corridor, through a door in the wall to another olive corridor, smaller and more foreboding, then through several more doors and corridors, each the same immutable shade of green and dread.

Finally they arrived at one door in particular.

"In here please. Mr Strike will see to you." She made to object. The woman smiled thinly and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Just tell him everything he wants to know and you'll be fine. Ok?"

"Ah, Ms Meagher, is it? Take a seat. I'll be with you in one moment."

A man sat behind a desk. About her grandfather's age. The way he manipulated that DABB though. Sharp operator.

"Now a few preparatory questions. Your name is Serena Meagher, is that correct?"

"It's pronounced Meagher."

"And you turn 18 in two weeks."

"Wednesday, March 3rd, yes."

"It says here that you identify as female. Would that be a fair assessment?"

"It would."

"It also says that your father is of Irish origin and your mother Iranian."

"Is this relevant?"

"In the grand scheme of things, perhaps not. But it does help to calibrate the results you see."

"Fine. My dad is Manchester born and bred from Irish stock. My mother's people were forced into exile for fighting for political reform in Iran. They're still at it to this day. They've just moved on from Iran. Does that answer your question?"

He placed the DABB to one side.

"You know, sometimes I get bored with this job. I can see this one's going to be a lot of fun. Shall we begin? Other Interrogators have their methods for leading the Attendee into the Interrogation. I find it's best to just crack on. The sooner we begin, the sooner the unpleasantness is at an end."

"Sure. I'm not arsed."

"Now come now. Let's not begin with a lie."

And so it began:

Questions about her education, politics, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, hopes, aspirations and ambitions. Questions about policing. Questions about the homeless. Questions about public transport. Questions about the rate of taxation and the division between education, health and military spending. Questions about sanitation and refuse disposal. Questions about sport and the arts. Questions about space exploration. Questions about space tourism. Questions about immigration. Questions about her attitude towards other women. Questions about her attitude towards men. Questions about her attitude towards the trans and pan communities. Questions about her attitude towards the disabled. Questions about prejudice. Questions about homophobia. Questions about racism. Questions about paedophilia and paedophiles. Questions about rape. Questions about sexism. Questions about public works and mass transportation. Questions about childcare. Questions about provisions for mental health care. Questions about genetic research. Questions about religion. Questions about belief in an afterlife. Questions about the many world's interpretation of quantum dynamics. Questions about technology. Questions about literature, film, TV and music. Questions about crop rotation, organic and sustainable farming, and chemical pesticides. Questions about irrigation and agriculture. Questions about reproductive rights. Questions about justice and the criminal prosecution system. Questions about punishment. Questions about the death penalty. Questions about the elderly. Questions about culinary tastes. Questions about social structure and upwards mobility. Questions about unemployment support and financial assistance for nascent artists. Questions about adult literacy. Questions about animal welfare. Questions about meat eaters, vegans, and vegetarianism. Questions about the countryside. Questions about cities. Questions about megacities. Questions about the moon. Questions about Mars and the outer planets. Questions about gynaecology. Questions about murder. Questions about theft. Questions about guilt, regret, broken promises, broken hearts, unfinished assignments, and unfulfilled dreams. Questions about sleep patterns and recurrent themes when dreaming. Questions about colours, flowers, fragrances, and scents. Questions about alcohol; wine, beer, and spirits. Questions about drugs; opiate, synthetic, and weed. Questions about interest rates and the borrowing rate. Questions about reparations for crimes committed by historic regimes. Questions about disaster preparedness and prevention. Questions about the nature of reality. Questions about zombie apocalypse. Questions about precious metals and stones. Questions about language, spelling and usage. Questions about pornography. Questions about advertising. Questions about tattoos, piercings, and genital mutilation. Questions about individualism versus interdependedness. Questions about fight or flight. Questions about flight versus the hyperloop. Questions about her expectations for life. Questions about her personal ambitions. Questions about her career aspirations. Questions about her idea of perfection. Questions about utopia. Questions about nirvana. Questions about hell. Questions about redemption and self-judgement. Questions about being a responsible a citizen. Questions about answers given in answer to questions asked in earlier sessions. Follow up questions about answers given in answer to questions asked about answers given in answer to questions asked in earlier sessions.

For days it went on like this. Weeks it seemed. How long, she never knew. Even when they told her. Even later, when she could work it out for herself, it still seemed unreal. There were no windows. No clocks. Even in the canteen. Even when they guided her to the banks of cots where Attendees fell exhausted into instant sleep.

(and even here the questions followed them, like a continually moving panorama burned onto the back of the retina from a day spent in continuous travel - questions about the borrowing rate of child poverty, questions about mauve repatriation to u-taupia, questions about the way to west a wren with wrath).

Then:

Questions about love. Questions about hatred. Questions about recycling. Questions about dairy products. Questions about the virtual word. Questions about imaginary numbers. Questions about printed media. Questions about IVF. Questions about adoption. Questions about mega corporations. Questions about self-sacrifice. Questions about suicide. Questions about guns. Questions about the famous. Questions about passive consumption. Questions about the Undead. Questions about fascism. Questions about communism. Questions about socialism. Questions about capitalism. Questions about anarchism. Questions about Existentialism. Questions about Platonism. Questions about freedom of choice. Questions about equality of choice. Questions about social justice. Questions about slavery. Questions about madness. Questions about eternity. Questions about the abyss. Questions about the past. Questions about the future.

"Finally Ms Meagher, we come to the final question that I have for you for now." She nodded out of relief and that he'd finally got her name right. "What do you know of what's gone on here? What do you know of what this is about?"

"Is that not two questions?"

"No, it's the same question stated in two different ways." He leant back in his chair. "Still not bowed. I said we'd have fun. No come. What's this all about?"

She thought for a moment. "It's preparing us for good citizenship."

"Good. Go on."

"You test us to see what we like and what we believe in and then you feed that into the cloud and the cloud makes decisions about what's best for the country based on the average of whatever everyone says."

"It's a little more sophisticated than that, but yes. Once upon a time important decisions were left to what were called 'Elected Representatives'. These Elective Representatives were elected to represent communities, often tens of thousands at a time, and to vote on important matters at a centralised location on behalf of those people."

"But how could one person accurately reflect the wishes and beliefs of so many people?"

"They couldn't. The system was open to mass manipulation and corruption and the majority of elected representatives behaved in exactly the way in which we now know human beings are programmed to behave."

"You mean they abandoned the communities wishes in favour of their own desires?"

"Often exploiting the people they were meant to be representing as they did so, yes."

"What changed?"

"The cloud. The cloud brought stability, after many a shaky start. Elected representatives became obsolete once human beings could transmit their every thought and opinion to the entire solar system in real time at the speed of light. Earlier versions of Nephocracy (from the Greek, meaning to rule through the cloud) were stormy. Decisions then were made based on opinion on social media. The result was pandemonium, and led to at least one gruesome incident where three men were found guilty and publically executed for the crime of being what were back then known as 'Hipsters'."

"I've seen people cloud that they used to have organised groups back then."

"You mean political parties. Yes, well they were a very backward people. Not nearly as independently minded as today's population. Which is why the present system was devised. Shortly before a person's 18th birthday they are brought in for Interrogation and subjected to rigorous questioning in order to build up a 4-d map of their life choices and moral centres. This is added to the Wise Owd Cloud, the central map of all preferences across the system, and it is this master brain that ultimately regulates everything that we do today. It has maintained stability for more than two centuries, granting freedom of equality and choice to all, whilst being able to accommodate, facilitate even, most life choices that don't actively involve harm to others."

"But surely my opinions and interests will change?"

"Which is why everyone is retested every nine years.

"What if my ideas change so radically that I want to be retested right away?"

"You can request a retest at any time."

"And you'll grant that request?"

"It shouldn't present a problem. Retests are common. It's only the vexatious retesters that we have to turn away."

"What if my ideas are subversive?"

"Subversive? I don't understand. If your ideas are out of step with the general consensus, they will be too ineffectual to alter very much. And if they're in step with the general consensus then they can't be subversive now, can they?"

"No."

"I wouldn't worry. It'll take a few days to get the results back, but you seem like a good person. Not everyone is so conscientious; another reason why we drag people in here for days at a time. To show and remind them that there is quite a bit of the universe that doesn't revolve around them. That actually water doesn't just fall out of the sky, or spaceships just rise into the air. Our decentralised society didn't just happen. No one individual is more important than any other, but it couldn't operate without those individuals having some sense of the whole and finding their place within it."

"So the Wise Owd Cloud is not all."

"Even the most perfect instrument can only enhance life, not replace it. All the Wise Owd Cloud can do is store your beliefs and choices to allow you to travel away from them. It does not abnegate personal responsibility. It is not a short cut to intellectual enlightenment. All it really does is tell the Wise Owd Crowd what actions need to be taken to clear a path for your particular world line to move forwards unobstructed. The rest is up to you."

She nodded. "What next?"

"You go home and get some rest. In a few days the results will come back and we'll be in touch to make a follow-up appointment to come in and review the results and see if there's anything with which you disagree."

"Will it be you reviewing the results?"

"It will."

"And then I'll be a full citizen?"

"You will. With all of the rights, responsibilities and privileges to match." The possibilities were endless. "I'd bring a night bag. There's still a bit to go, but we're through the worst of it. And first time is almost always the longest session. Ms Levoulle will show you out. Oh, and Happy Birthday."

Red shoes and ankle bracelet seemed a lifetime ago from first crossing these corridors. Personal items returned in a brown legal envelope. Harsh sunlight. The first in eons. A towering city skyline slowly resolving into outline. The sheer enormity and complexity of it all. She rolled the Aye-Budd slowly between finger and thumb, delaying its reattachment to her cornea for an instant or an eternity as she relished the sound of a single voice inside her head.

Then with barely a conscious thought it was done and her left eye felt heavy under the extra weight. She held her breath for a moment, then closed hers eyes and looked hard down to the left. A shudder in her skull told her the Aye-Budd was resetting itself. It told her to wait. She waited.

Exhibit 9A

Today's post is a short story that I wrote four years ago and has been sitting on the hard drive of a broken laptop since then until I finally bought a piece of kit on eBay to turn it into a USB drive. It arrived today. Best £3 I've ever spent. Enjoy...

Exhibit 9A: Initial interview with Ian Murray 21^st July 20--

D.I. Henderson: Ok, the date is 21^st July [inaudible]. The time is 17:37. This is a formal interview being conducted with Ian Murray. Interview is being conducted at Cairndow Police Station, Argyllshire. Present are myself, Detective Inspector Henderson of Strathclyde CID, and Sergeant Anderson of Cairndow Constabulary. Before we start, Ian, can we get you anything?

Ian Murray: No.

D.I. Henderson: Good. So, why don’t you give us your account of the events that led up to this morning’s incident. Take your time, we have as long as it takes.

Ian Murray:  Er, ok, well, it were all Jacob’s fault.

D.I. Henderson: This would be Jacob Levi, yes?

Ian Murray: Yeah. Here, have you found him yet?

D.I. Henderson: We’ll come to that in a while. Continue. How was it Jacob’s fault?

Ian Murray: Well, he were one said we should go for a walk. Were his fault we got lost.

D.I. Henderson: I understand you’re on holiday here.

Ian Murray: Yeah.

D.I. Henderson: Camping, is that correct?

Ian Murray: Yeah. By a loch like. Not this one. Another one.

Ser. Anderson: Loch Long. Ardgarton Campsite. We’ve spoken with the owner, he’s confirmed two births rented for three nights.

D.I. Henderson: And you’ve been in Scotland how long?

Ian Murray: Drove up four days since.

D.I. Henderson: Where were you before Loch Long?

Ian Murray: Er, Loch Lomond I think.

D.I. Henderson: Ok, just a couple more questions, so I can get everything clear in my mind. You are from Leigh in Lancashire, is that correct?

Ian Murray: Me and Carl, aye. Jacob ain’t though, he’s from somewhere in’t south.

D.I. Henderson: Do you remember where?

Ian Murray: Nah. I mostly zone that cunt out when he starts speaking.

D.I. Henderson: Ok so, I’d like to understand the dynamic between you.

Ian Murray: How’d ya mean?

D.I. Henderson: I mean, how do you all know each other? From your tone, I assume no love is lost between you and this Jacob.

Ian Murray: Do you blame me after what he’s done? Well me and Carl, we’ve been mates since we been lads. Carl met Jacob at uni.

D.I. Henderson: Durham, yes?

Ian Murray: Yeah.

D.I. Henderson: Thank you. Ok so, you decided to go for a walk. Continue.

Ian Murray: So, yeah, we went for a walk. Late setting off ‘cause Jacob wanted to take a shower. Couldn’t have one when we got back. No, course not. So it were like four o’clock before we even set off. We drove up road to this Forestry Commission place and had a look around and found out where we were going.

D.I. Henderson: And how was it?

Ian Murray: It were good. I hate walking, but at the start there I was actually enjoying it. We’d been watching Withnail & I before we came up and we’d been quoting it all week. Y’know the kind of thing, ‘We want cake.’ and ‘I demand to have some booze’ and ‘Monty, you terrible cunt’, that kind of thing [laughter]. Getting some right looks from straights coming down path, but we didn’t give a shit. And then climb started. Could have carried on up path, but them two wanted to go up hill and gay it up on’t scenery.

D.I. Henderson: Sorry, what’s gay about scenery?

Ian Murray: Scenery’s fine, for a bit. Me and Carl were knackered half way up, but Jacob’s rushing off up hill. Can’t wait to get his journal out and write down all his feelings about the grass and the heather and mountains and all that gay-arse shit. Course, then Carl gets his journal out too. Jesus, Carl were a top bloke, but he were always a bit funny, were always reading books and studying and shit. He were always one out of our lot that were going to go to uni.

D.I. Henderson: You don’t approve?

Ian Murray: Nah, it’s not that. Fair play to him, I couldn’t wait to get out of school and get earning, but he were good at that shit, I got a couple of Cs ‘cause of Carl. He changed when he went to uni though. Changed when he met Jacob. Wanted to be like him, went all pretending he were middle class. There were nothing wrong with who Carl were, he worked hard, his old man worked hard to make sure all his kids got a decent education. Jacob’s kind never had to work at anything, he had everything handed to him on a plate his whole life and look where it’s got him.

D.I. Henderson: Ok, ok I think we’ve gone off track here. So, you went up a hill and the others were jotting things down in their journals.

Ian Murray: Yeah. So we led around for a bit and chatted some and it were fine. And there were me thinking, we’ll be heading back down in a minute. We’ll be climbing down the hill and back along the path and getting in’t car and driving down to village and spending rest of day in pub. And then we’ll stagger back to campsite and have a few smokes and get the midges stoned and that’ll be that. And instead this. ‘Cause that pompous Jew cunt has other ideas. He’s making himself a walking stick out a branch he found. Cutting twigs off it with his penknife and giving it all, ‘Oh Chaps, now come on, one simply must enjoy the bounty that nature has provided us with. We’re on vacation, surrounded by all this wonder, I simply insist that we make the most of it’.

Ian Murray: Was then I got to thinking how much he sounds like fat one in Withnail & I. Which tells you everything, right! Prick. And I’m thinking, fuck’s sake, I just wanna get pissed, but of course I can’t say owt, ‘cause Carl gets all protective over his bum chum, that’s why I ended up getting my own tent, so I could get some peace from pair of ‘em talking about poetry and shit. Anyway, Jacob races off wrong way, down other side of hill and Carl goes after him, me standing there a sec, wondering whether to tell ‘em both to go fuck themselves and head back on me own. And then I remember Carl’s got car keys, so I followed them. Slowly as possible just to fuck with ‘em.

Ian Murray: T’other side of hill were half as high as way we came up and it led to a kind of field, tree line off in distance ahead of us and more heather and bushes and shit like that all around us. Ground’s a bit squelchy. That should have been our first clue. I tried telling ‘em but Jacob’s blathering on about some butterfly he’s seen and Carl’s too distracted to listen. And this butterfly he’s going on about, well it flies off towards trees don’t it and he goes running after it, Carl in pursuit, me thinking, nah fuck it, let ‘em wait for me to catch up, I ain’t running, I’ve already climbed a fucking hill today.

Ian Murray: Must have been twenty minutes before I saw either of them again. There were a path through trees, but were obviously only that way ‘cause trees had been planted that way. Forestry Commission, innit. Were like walking in a ditch, firs or pine or whatever they were on either side of me on’t high ground and I can’t see more than a few feet ahead of me ‘cause of the way the ground moves. I had to get up near the trees ‘cause the ground’s getting more squelchier. Then at last I hear happy couple up ahead of me and I’m thinking, fucking hell, finally decided to wait for me, eh? I gets to them and I see, no, they hadn’t been waiting at all. We’re now not only deep in’t forest, we’re in middle of a fucking peat bog. And that was when I lost it.

D.I. Henderson: Lost it?

Ian Murray: Yeah, had a right go at them, didn’t I. Felt bad after of course, but right then I were fuming. Running off, leaving me, not even caring if I got lost. Were like they were surprised to see me, like they were both thinking, oh yeah, Ian were with us. Well I told ‘em what I thought of ‘em right there and then. Carl’s kicked off with me, not getting it, not getting why I’m angry, but Jacob, fair play to him, he’s apologised, said it were all his fault and asked me to forgive him for being thoughtless. Too busy chasing butterflies. Says he gets all single minded with things like that. Well it right took wind out of me sails it did, ‘cause I couldn’t stay angry with him after he said that, no matter how much of a prat he is. Fuming with Carl though, we’re supposed to be mates. Supposed to mean something where we come from.

Ian Murray: And, well, like dynamic, like you call it, changed at that point, ‘cause like I say, we were in the middle of a bog then. And I’m saying we should go back, but Carl’s saying how we’ve come this far, we should just keep going. Well Jacob agreed with him for a while, but after we’d been walking for over another hour and we’re still surrounded by trees and bog’s getting worse and we’re having to take detours through the trees to keep going, well even then he starts saying we should turn ‘round. But Carl always were an arrogant fucker and he’s determined to see it through to end. Says it’s Forestry Commission land, has to be a way out eventually. I think he saw it like as a personal challenge by then and the worse things get, the more determined he gets to keep going. He’s marching ahead of us and me and Jacob keep giving each other looks.

Ser. Anderson: Looks?

Ian Murray: Well, like we were both shitting it that we were going to die out there, but Carl’s getting all macho about it, like the forest’s his enemy and he has to defeat it. I reckon he’s watched too much of that Ray Mears survival guy, him. I’m pissed off cause it’s been hours and I should be in’t pub, not out in the middle of fucking nowhere and there’s one bit where we had to climb over this tree that’s come down and I slipped and me foot sinks in the peat up to me knee and me boot came off when I got pulled out. So I got shit all over me jeans and I have to put me hand in’t bog to get me boot out and then Carl has a go at me for washing peat off me arm with water we had, ‘cause we don’t know when we might need it. Oh, says me, I thought you reckoned we’d be out of here by now. If we’d turn ‘round when I said, we’d be in pub by now. But no, too fucking arrogant to know when you’re beat and look at us now. So he had a pop at me.

D.I. Henderson: You mean he hit you?

Ian Murray: Nah, cunt just grabs me by jacket and tries to tell me what were what. Gobbing in me face, he were shouting so loud. Says how I’m jealous of him, cause he’s gone off to uni and I’m stuck in Leigh working for cunts I hate. Says he doesn’t know why I came up here when all I’ve done is moan and sulk and slag off scenery. Reckons I reckon I’m too good to sleep in his tent, which were why I went an’ bought me own. Real nasty shit yeah, says I’m always lounging around and leaving him to do all work. It’s only a couple of fry ups and some soup I tell him, I were expecting to eat in pub and chippy and that. And that’s another thing, he says, we’re on holiday, if I love pub so much, I should have stayed at home and pissed me holiday up with t’other wasters in’t White Horse. Or gone to fucking Marbella. I tries telling him to calm down, but he won’t hear it, just kept going on and fucking on.

D.I. Henderson: And where was Jacob when all this was going on?

Ian Murray: Oh, he’s just standing there, speechless like. He were as shocked as me.

D.I. Henderson: Then what happened?

Ian Murray: Well this went on for a good quarter hour like, ‘til Carl just blew himself out and let me go. Then he seemed to sag a bit and went sat down on this boulder and got right quiet. Staring off into space. What space there were. I were red in’t face, fuming with him, but I know well enough what he’s like. I ain’t about to mess wee him. When we were lads maybe, but not now. Not then.

Ian Murray: So we just sat there, three of us like, rock each, everyone dead quiet, just some birds singing and water running off in’t trees somewhere. I wanted to see what time it were and were then I noticed I’d dropped me phone somewhere. Not that there were any reception up there, that were the first thing we thought of when we saw we were lost. I were looking around for it, skenning whether Carl had knocked it out me pocket. And he’s skenning ‘round and looking at us, with that look, not saying owt.

Ian Murray: Then Jacob pipes up, giving it all, ‘Can I make a practical suggestion? It’s getting late’, he says, ‘it’s going to start getting dark soon, and while we should obviously keep going for as long as the light holds, we should maybe think about gathering firewood’. Carl heaves a huge sigh and says, ‘Good idea Jacob, we should do that’. All praise for his boyfriend, innit. All the good it did him.

Ian Murray: So anyway, we got up and moved on and Carl’s darting into tree line, picking up wood on’t ground and Jacob’s got his penknife out and slicing bark off trees. Kindling he reckons. I helped a bit and found a couple of carrier bags in me pocket to carry it all in. Bog weren’t getting any better, but it weren’t get no worse neither, which were good. I were tired, me legs were killing me like, but weirdly it seemed a bit more fun now we were, y’know, resigned to be out there all night. Were adventure like. Even so, I had that song stuck in me head. Place Called Home. Y’know, P. J. Harvey. And I were dying for a pint.

D.I. Henderson: Go on.

Ian Murray: Well, there’s ain’t much more to tell. It got to like ten, who knows, and we came to a bit of clearing and made decision to stop for night and get warm. Me and Jacob got fire going and Carl took placky bags and wrapped them round some branches, for the moisture like, and we just sat there for ages, staring in’t flames. Everyone were exhausted like. Then Carl turns ‘round and he says, he says to me, ‘Ian lad, I’m sorry ok. It were myself as much as you I were angry at. Was just pissed off, ‘cause I knew you were right, we should’ve turned ‘round when you said we should, and well, I’m just sorry, ok’. I said it were nothing. Not to think about it, we’ll be in pub by lunchtime, I said. He just laughed. Then he says something about being upset to see me the way I were. Knowing I were a clever lad like and struck in’t job I hate. Think it were last thing he said to me.

Ian Murray: Me eyes were stinging off smoke and I thought best close then a mo. All that Scotch air, must have knocked me right out, ‘cause next thing I were dreaming. Running through trees, ton of ‘em everywhere I looked, everywhere I ran, just mother fucking trees everywhere. Didn’t know where I were going or how to get home, but I knew somewhere there were a place called home. And then I could hear it, that song playing and I knew if I just followed the sound I’d find White Horse. Could almost taste first sip of me lips.

Ian Murray: And then all this grunting started. Distant like, muffled. Well it must have been loud ‘cause it woke me right up. It were getting light, but were this mist everywhere and it felt like I were in’t shadows. Summit were wrong but it took me a minute to figure it out. Then I twigged. Jacob. Jacob’s standing over me. Oh God!. Jacob were standing over me and he’s covered in blood. Got his knife in his hand. I had sleep in me eye but I can see it’s got blood all over it. He’s got this manic look on his face and I can see he’s about to go for me, so I rushed to me feet, as he rushes at me. Don’t ask me how, but somehow managed to grab wrist with knife in and we’re struggling and I look down and Carl’s just lying there, dead, covered in stab wounds, fucking blood everywhere.

Ian Murray: Well that did it. Soon as I saw that I screamed out of anger like. Summoned up all me strength, throwing Jacob to the ground and I just fucking ran. Anywhere, didn’t matter, I just ran for me fucking life.

Ian Murray: I could hear him behind me, shouting, screaming my name. I just kept running, wheezing, chest hurting, fear keeping me going, crazy look in’t crazy fucker eyes. I were running downhill, which I reckoned were good, until I took a tumble and went flying. I figured I were done for, that if fall didn’t finish me off, that crazy Jew cunt would. But the heather and shit on’t ground slowed me down. I got up, me ankle hurt, twisted it when I fell, but I kept going.

Ian Murray: Fall probably saved me life, cause the tumble brought me near the path down to here. I could see water and houses and got angry ‘cause I saw how near we’d been to safety, that if we’d kept going half an hour more Carl’d still be alive. I hobbled down and found here, the police station and raised alarm. That’s it. That’s what happened.

D.I. Henderson: Well it’s certainly an intriguing story you’ve told Ian. Of course that’s all it is isn’t it? A story.

Ian Murray: I don’t get ya.

D.I. Henderson: Ok so, me and Sergeant Anderson have been making enquiries with the campsite owner, a Mr McGraw. He remembers you, but states categorically that only you and Mr Calhoun signed in. He remembers noting that the two of you weren’t sharing a tent.

Ian Murray: Right. Wait, what? Jacob was there too. He were asking where showers were. Me and Carl were shaking our heads at him.

D.I. Henderson: Officers in Lancashire also spoke to Mr Calhoun’s mother. She was upset, naturally, but she doesn’t remember ever hearing the name Jacob before. In fact Naomi Calhoun, Carl’s sister, says that she waved you off when you left on Saturday morning and is adamant that not only has she never heard of a Jacob Levi, but there was definitely only two of you in the car.

Ian Murray: But Jacob were there, he were riding shotgun, boring the ass of me playing his fucking classical music. Why are they saying this? This a fucking set up.

D.I. Henderson: And why would anyone be trying to set you up Ian? Durham University have no record of anyone called Jacob Levi studying English in the last five years and when we rang genuine university friends of Mr Calhoun, kindly supplied by Mr Calhoun’s mother, none of them could recall ever hearing the name. You yourself say that you are unable to recall where he is from. All of which leads me to one inescapable conclusion: That there were only the two of you that came on this trip. You went for a walk, you got lost, you argued, and at some time in the early hours of this morning, you yourself Ian, you stabbed your friend to death as he slept.

Ian Murray: [sobbing] What’s going on? It’s a lie. I wouldn’t kill Carl like, he were me friend, we were mates from when we were lads. What about his journal eh? You must have his journal. His journal must say about Jacob, Carl were so in love with him.is HiHis Hi

D.I. Henderson: Oh we have Mr Calhoun’s journal and it certainly mentions a Jacob.

Ian Murray: Oh thank fuck.

D.I. Henderson: No Ian. We haven’t had time to go through it all yet, but it would seem that all of the references to Jacob are in relation to your incessant complaining about someone at work. I understand that you told Mr Calhoun that Mr Jacob Levi was your boss’s son and had been employed by his father as foreman over the summer. Some kind of holiday job. Yet when we spoke to your employers, they told us that no such person exists. In fact I understand that your employer is Muslim rather than Jewish.

Ian Murray: This is fucking ridiculous. Jacob were Carl’s uni mate, Jacob had been staying with him all summer, they were joined at hip like. Jacob murdered Carl.

D.I. Henderson: Now come on Ian, don’t you think that this charade has gone on long enough? We have the murder weapon and it has been sent for forensic analysis. When the results come back I fully expect them to show that your DNA is all over the weapon.

Ian Murray: No.

D.I. Henderson: Ian Murray, I arrest you for the murder of Carl Calhoun. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not reveal something that you may later rely on in court.

Ian Murray: No. No. No, it were Jacob [screams] NO!

D.I. Henderson: Ok so, I can see we’re not going to get anywhere else this evening. Take him back to the cell Sergeant. I’ll arrange transfer to Glasgow in the morning. Interview suspended at 19.05.

[TAPE ENDS]

Exhibit 9B: Carl Calhoun’s Journal

18/07/--

First full day in Scotland and I feel brilliant. 22 years old, why the hell has it taken me this long to make the journey up here? Woke at dawn and wandered down to the water’s edge. A thick fog was lying on top of Loch Lomond, the cool, still waters indistinct through the fug. I closed my eyes instead, got a lungful of pure Scotch air, that also brought an array of early morning sounds.

I heard birds chirping and children laughing and couples bickering from too little sleep and too long spent together in cramped conditions. I was glad to be single for the first time in a long time. A light breeze rippled through the trees, a noise rich in nature, that also brought the aroma of frying bacon and I thought, this is it, this is what it feels like to be alive.

I opened my eyes, and there in the distance, Ben Lomond loomed out of the murk, over-towering and ancient. I saluted it, the beacon with two backs as I have renamed it. The beach here is all rocks and stones smoothed out by the ebb and flow of generations. I skimmed stones for a while, absorbed by my own thoughts. Then I removed the book of Burns poems from my pocket, sat on the bank and become lost in the density of dialect.

I am increasingly glad that Ian chose to buy his own tent. Not only is it relaxing to have my own space, but all he’s done since we set off yesterday is bitch and moan about EVERYTHING! We’re supposed to be on holiday and yet all he’s done is go on and on about his boss’s son. If he hates working for Jews so much why doesn’t he just quit? Jesus. Go somewhere else then I told him. I’m sick of hearing about it and I told him so, started giving him the mantra of A.A.: Accept the things you can’t change and change the things you can’t accept. Put up or damm well shut up. Cheeky get didn’t even offer to do any of the driving up here, had to do it all myself. And the cooking. Too used to his mum doing everything for him. Ian’s a clever lad, he just need to apply himself. Either that or find a woman that’ll whip him into shape. Give him a good kick up the arse.

Do like this camping lark though. I like the idea of carrying your home around with you, like a tortoise. Camping’s changed so much since I were a lad. God, I feel old saying that, but it’s true. Can remember having to come home early from one family camping trip cause the tent pole snapped in the night and we had to pack up in the night and head

P.T.O.

Get it done.