My Tower
Hi; my name’s Joe and I’m taking it upon myself to write this tale for whoever cares to read it. No-one has to read it of course; it could be burned, discarded left under a dusty pile of Reader’s Digest books or used as makeshift toilet paper. I need to get it down though otherwise I feel a part of me will shrivel and die for good. Very dramatic I know, but there really is no other way to describe the feelings I’m experiencing. This all started in 2011 in the early spring; that nasty, shadowy fingernail began digging into the back of my mind and exerting the foul influence of its owner upon me. I chose to ignore it at first and my work colleagues certainly didn’t seem to notice, with regards to friends well, I’ve not had many close friends over the past couple of years, they all seemed to have greyed out somewhat. Well I’m waffling now so without further ado I’ll tell you how I simultaneously became the most important and yet most haunted man in the world. Let me tell you about my tower.
The town I have lived in throughout my life could generously be described as drab; it was once known primarily for making rugs and is now known for making precisely sod all. Like many “employers” the carpet companies thought that moving their factories to countries where labour was cheaper and easier to bully was the fashionable thing to do. No matter, I hated that process but it isn’t part of my narrative. The tower as I have come to call it is not some ancient stone monument to some bloodthirsty king or prince of the Church; it isn’t even particularly old or fastened together from old stone. Nor is it known for being a local landmark; if my memory serves me correctly (something I can’t always rely on these days) it was built sometime in the mid-1960’s by a morally ambiguous developer who was later found riddled with bullets near a local canal. But I digress and I apologise; individuals with my gifts should not muddle important narratives with ultimately pointless interjections and facts. The tower lies fairly innocuously over the top of a decrepit old post office; to its anterior is a parade of shops, one of which has my flat in its attic. To its posterior is a prostitute ridden car park that sits like an upright scab on the landscape; I tend to avoid it, it reminds me of being fifteen. The filthy litter choked canal runs immediately adjacent to the tower; it’s a haven for rats and indeed the occasional homeless corpse is found on its foul banks. I’m sorry, I’m doing it again; please don’t think any the less of me, back to the tower that has sunk its cancerous foundations into my soul and left me half a person. I began to suspect earlier this year; prior to that I’d been running flat, bereft of any cheer or energy, people at work had started to look at me in an odd way. Idiots, all of them, but some of them were idiots with the power to reach into my mind and pluck my thoughts as if they were trout in a stream. The tower had sent its agents to harass me at every turn; for some reason it had chosen me for its evil purposes and intended to use me as its murderous finger puppet. Its multiple windows were eyes that stared into the pit of my soul and filled with malevolent knowledge; I didn’t want to become its indentured servant and I took it upon myself to fight its demonic influence. My quest is a sacred one; that appears strange to me as I write it, I have always treated religion with sneering indifference, but I know that this is different. I have neither partner norfriend in this quest but I must complete it for the sake of my soul and the future of mankind. The following is a running account of my struggle and I hope this can act as a manual for others should I fail.
Before we go any further, I have no idea why the tower is the way it is or what if any entity resides within it. It is just there and there it will always be unless it can be defeated. I have no idea why it chose me either; I am a twenty eight year old boring man who works in an office whose sole purpose is to sell vacuum parts. My job is unfulfilling but then, how many of us truly enjoy our work? It was whilst shuffling some papers from one pile to another on some grey and dreary day that an emissary of the tower first approached me. I call them emissaries and as such will refer to people sent by the tower in this way from now on. Anyway, it came as a bit of a shock when Linda, whom I had always had a bit of a soft spot for (but by virtue of me not being a muscle bound wanker she wasn’t interested) approached me and asked if I would like to look at working in the tower with her. I knew by then that the building was evil but I didn’t know its powers extended to sending its own humanoid emissaries out into the world. No decent, normal person would ask another human being to accompany into the very rectum of hell. I recall vaguely staring at her with a half smile on my face; she had some poor, weak lie about two rewarding and fulfilling jobs that had arisen within the innards of the tower. The stark, earth shattering revelation thrust its filthy hand into my brain; I could not trust Linda and she was a physical manifestation of evil. She was not human, could not be, as I’ve already said what normal person would wish to draw another into the bowels of the tower? The most savage and deranged of history’s monsters would not do this; it was surely a fate worse than any snow bound gulag or torture cellar. I sat at my desk the rest of the day staring blankly; the horrified torpor that poisoned me kept me from my work and earned the mightiest of bollockings from my corpulent twat of a manager. I do hate that fleshy idiot but at least he wasn’t an emissary, though even the tower must have some standards. His attempt at publicly humiliating me failed but did serve to deepen my contempt for him; I walked home early and drew the blinds, staring through a sliver at the tower.
I didn’t know what the tower was of course when I moved into my one bedroom flat; it is directly opposite the tower with a roundabout forming a physical barrier between us. Upon leaving home to start work with the vacuum parts firm (no, I never went to university) I wanted somewhere central and close to the meagre services that exist in the town centre. The flat was advertised in the local rag as being “reasonably priced and close to the vibrant town centre”; to this day that still makes me laugh so hard my bladder fails. It lies directly above a barber shop run by an ancient and exceptionally cheerful Serbian man named Jovan; he used to cut my hair for free provided I handed out his business cards at work. I haven’t had my hair cut in a while; Jovan seems to avoid me these days. I can honestly say that when I went into the flat for the first time, the rather attractive lady owner handing me the keys without a trace of a smile flirtatious or otherwise, I barely gave the tower a second glance. Of course I had seen it throughout my childhood; my family and I however lived in the network of tiny villages that embroider the countryside around the town. As such we didn’t often come as my father, a gnarled and saturnine man who owned the local mechanics shop, disliked “townies”. My mother was a librarian in the tiny, crumbling library in the village and rarely ventured outside the village unless it was entirely unavoidable. We came in intermittently to purchase items that were unobtainable in the village hardware shop and occasionally for hospital appointments; the tower was always there but it must not have a fondness for youthful souls. I walked to and from work for three years in a monotonous rhythm of labour and drudgery. I slept, defecated, smoked, drank and very occasionally had sex (the latter being a rare pleasure); I walked in the golden brown of autumn, the icy steel of winter and the balmy days of summer. Of course I walked to work in spring, but I imagine you get the general idea. I am not particularly remarkable in my current employment though I am always described in odious performance reviews as “consistent”. I have never known whether this an indication of me being consistently average at my work or a snide remark from my overbearing prick of a manager. It is widely common for people to dislike their work I suppose; we sell our labour in order to live and a corpulent, privileged few become rich beyond their wildest dreams. WAFFLING! I do apologise once again for my virulent verbosity; I will do my utmost to prevent it from happening again. I must get to the period that triggered off this festering evil gradually sinking its claws into me so that I may explain my current plans, please bear with me.
The Tower Beckons
As you read these words there is a good chance you’re getting pissed off with me apologising but I feel I ought to apologise for the little sub heading “The Tower Beckons”. I sat in my underwear racking my brains for an appropriate way to introduce the next chapter in my story and it was all I could think of. I am quite sure you will forgive my taste for melodrama but I have always been somewhat of a literary soul. I sit here with an open foil packet of ambiguous takeaway food (couldn’t summon the energy to cook) and laugh at myself for being so stupid as to think that the Tower would be purely content with gradually caressing me with its evil, like the waves of some stinking, polluted sea. I had nurtured the perverse hope that the tower’s presence was some sort of cyclical, hibernating beast that awoke every so often and would eventually sate its cravings enough to sleep again. Perhaps I’ve read too many Stephen King books (apologies Steve, no plagiarism intended); nevertheless the Tower made a public display of its power in a naked act of aggression that sickened me. I know now that isn’t going to sleep or leave me alone until it makes me do something terrible in its service; I have never been a violent man, indeed violence horrifies me. I had been walking home from work, conscious of the fact that my glancing towards the tower repeatedly would prompt people to think me mad. I saw a man of around fifty years peaceably walking about twenty yards to my left, holding a couple of bags of miscellaneous shopping. He was fairly slight but seemed a pleasant enough fellow judging by the smile he wore on his slightly worn face, as he went to turn towards the town, I saw a young lad, heavily built and around twenty years old, look up to the Tower, fix his gaze upon the other man and move towards him. What happened next happened fast; the young man slipped a brawny right hand into the bomber jacket he was wearing and pulled out an evil looking cosh. He then moved towards the older man and brought the cosh down hard on his head; I swear to you now that I heard his skull crack like an eggshell dropped on a marble floor. He then tore the shopping bags out of the man’s limp hands and charged through around two people in the direction of the canal. The elder man’s blood flowed as though it had a life of its own; tender hands held him, mobile phones rang the emergency services. I knew, I just knew, that the tower was responsible, even without the automaton look the thug had given it prior to assaulting the poor man. Why else would someone commit an act of such senseless violence? It was then however the Tower revealed its hand completely; as I backed away towards my flat with nausea tearing apart my stomach, I heard its voice. It came from (I think) a fourth story window of the Tower; it wasn’t a grating, evil sounding voice, in fact it sounded a little like Ian McKellen. It only said one sentence but it was enough, especially when that sentence was,” The next time, the thug will be you.” I turned on my heel and ran, through the barber shop with the owner shouting at me in Serbian, up to my room, where I ran a steaming hot bath that scorched my skin red when I climbed in. I stayed in the bath, heating up as needed, for two hours.
Midnight and my flat stinks of sweat and takeaway; on the telly some scantily clad “artist” gyrates on a bed saying that she can be somebody’s love joystick, whatever that means. I have heard the Tower again; it didn’t speak but laughed, again not an evil cackle, rather a gentle, musical laugh that you might expect to hear from a favourite Grandfather. Needless to say I wasn’t able to finish my fast food and it now sits in a puddle of grease at the bottom of the foil container. I have now come to a crossroads in my life; up till now I have been an inoffensive, mild mannered bloke who has more or less ambled through the world. Now an evil force wished to use me as its vessel and I had to do something about it; I was determined that if necessary, I would die first before I was used as a puppet to harm another living soul. I eventually manage to lie in bed after drawing my curtains tight to shut out all view of the Tower.
Cigarette ash tumbles onto the pages as I write the narrative of the next few days; I have called in sick at work as I am unable to cope with the drudgery of the office wed to the evil across the way. My mother rang me earlier; she politely enquired as to my wellbeing and if I was staying healthy and work was making me happy. A joke of course but mothers will do these things; I couldn’t help but think she was doing her best to broach a difficult subject with me yet never quite managed it. It was probably about my consistent lack of a girlfriend and hence no prospective grandchild that was perturbing her, never mind. I have not dressed today as I fear that any activity, even something as simple as dressing, would alert the tower to the fact that I was awake. Perhaps my dirty, dishevelled state prevented it from locking onto my mind somehow which was all to the good as I have not really given showering a thought. I have smoked so much today my mouth tastes like an ashtray that has been used to bale out a flooded sewer and my hands are stained and foul with nicotine. I am of course addicted to nicotine; when I smoke certain bits of my brain light up and produce wonderful chemicals, I have been hoping that these chemicals can also serve to block out the Tower’s mental powers. So far it has only served to dull them a little; the Tower does not yet inflict a constant narrative upon me however the rate of its chatter appears to be increasing daily. Nicotine will not do it seems; I have bought a wonderfully expensive bottle of single malt whisky which normally I would not have in my possession unless some family member bought it for me at Christmas. Single malt whisky has never been an unwelcome gift I must admit, though on my paltry salary it’s not really a luxury I can afford, ironic that the Tower would make me shell out for something so expensive. I will close this paragraph after downing two tumblers of beautiful highland liquid gold, the Tower’s whispers dull and slur but they’re still tapping at my mind.
When I returned to work I had a confrontation with the worthless parasite known as my “line manager”; I have also found that term hilarious, particularly as any line that cretin managed would likely be grey and devoid of warmth, rather like the twat known as John Fanshawe. Tall, blonde and crisply good looking; he spends much of his free time in the gym so has a muscular frame, on others it would look healthy but on him just gives an overwhelming impression of an oversized playground bully. He used his looks and physique to attract, seduce, screw then ultimately emotionally cripple women; it was widely known that several women had resigned or been forced out by this odious prick after he had used them for his own gratification. The union had fought (and fought hard) the cases of these women but so far the bastard had proven to be completely Teflon coated; Fanshawe had been leaning over the desk of Bob Carragher, a craggy, heavy set former miner who had joined the company around five years after the last pits had closed. For some reason Fanshawe had always had it in for Bob, ever since he joined the firm around three years ago; he demeaned him, ridiculed him and took any opportunity to bring his work under unjustifiable scrutiny. It may have had something to do with the fact Fanshawe was the son of a wealthy businessman and Bob had been an active member of the NUM. Whatever the reason, Fanshawe hated him and was delivering one of his “admonishments”. “It seems to me that you are slipping Bobby lad eh? You submitted a report that failed to impress a potential client, which costs us some coin, do you get that?” Bob murmured something that was neither agreement nor any form of riposte, always keeping his eyes slightly averted from Fanshawe at a point slightly above and to the left of his head. I knew the sale the odious prick Fanshawe was referring to; Bob’s report had nothing to do with the buyer pulling out and had a lot to do with a shady deal the company directors had tried to pull off that would have enriched them and ripped off the buyer. Fanshawe had gotten his testicles burned somewhat as it was rumoured that he, during a party that had involved more than a little cocaine, had let the details slip. “Listen very closely Bob, I know it’s hard,” continued Fanshawe,” you had better start bringing your reports, your attitude and your general work up to the high standards we expect at this company, or the consequences you will eventually face will be severe, do you understand? Or do I need to say it in simpler language an old coalie can understand?” Bob stared hard at Fanshawe and just for a second a look of pure rage crossed his face; it was brief, like a spark that crackles and fades from a burning log, but it was enough to make Fanshawe twitch and raise a nervous hand to his neatly slicked hair. “I understand perfectly Mr Fanshawe, it won’t happen again and I’ll get it sorted, I promise”. The smirk that crossed Fanshawe’s smooth and cretinous face was enough to make me want to staple the bastard’s lips together.” Make sure you do Bob; this isn’t the pits now eh? Maybe work on that horrid South Yorkshire accent of yours, I’m certain it puts customers off.” Fanshawe spun on the heels of his two hundred pound Italian leather shoes and clocked me immediately; if he despised Bob then I am quite sure he thought me worthless, something that he would wipe from the corner of his nose after the wilder of some of his parties. His eyes traversed the length and breadth of my form and quite obviously found me wanting; he walked a few steps closer to me and sniffed haughtily, “Now then, we’ve been off sick a little haven’t we?” Yes, he is condescending as well as a sexual predator, bully and well heeled psychopath. I managed to meet his eye without spitting, “Yeah I’ve been a bit under the weather, not so bad now though, I’d best get on.” My hands tighten as I write this, I had tried to move past him but the prick stepped in front of me, blocking me with his muscular frame. “Whoa there, I hadn’t finished talking to you my friend, when I talk you listen ok? Your work has been somewhat slipshod of late, you look like you’ve been tumble dried in compost and you’ve been going off sick. All of that suggests to me something is amiss dear boy, something is terribly amiss even. I wonder if this line of work is really suited to you anymore?” I had to hold my breath to keep from shouting and screaming; this overbearing twat was bullying me and with the Tower digging its claws into my brains I didn’t need it. “I’ve only been off for one period Mr Fanshawe (yes, you guessed it, he insisted everyone call him that), it isn’t a crime to be ill and I’m back so if I could just get on….” Fanshawe stepped so close that that the stench of his aftershave made me nauseous, even now the smell is on my skin like some sort of perfumed fragranced leprosy, “I don’t like you little prick”, his voice low, “I am watching your every move and the first opportunity I get I’m going to fuck you in every hole until you squeal, yes? Then you can fuck off over the road and join the rest of the no marks in the Tower.” The words hit me harder than a sledgehammer; Fanshawe was an emissary just like poor Linda but I guess the Tower would have found it much easier to enslave this slime. You must understand how I felt at the time; not only was my employment in danger, but my very soul. The Tower was infiltrating every part of my life with its suppurating tentacles and pulling me apart; I had to get out of there, stop looking at Fanshawe’s evilly grinning face, his teeth looking more like fangs over his perfectly formed lips. “Back off Fanshawe, right now, get out of my way.” The emissary’s face took on an ugly, twisted look, like the painted masks of ancient civilisations I have seen in museums, its biceps flexed under the silk shirt it had chosen to clothe its vessel in. “Ha, there really is such a thing as digging your own grave eh? Well, perhaps we should go see the dir-“ Its sneering, spittle laden rant was interrupted by a booming female voice that made it visibly jump and step away from me. “Mr Fanshawe, couldn’t help but overhear, you wouldn’t by any chance be attempting to bully a sickness returnee would you? A sickness returnee whom I might add is well within the limit of his sickness before he can be seen by you. “It was Emma Rosenberg, a short, dark haired fiery office clerk who also happened to be the union rep for this branch of the company. Her dark, sparkling eyes bored directly into the emissary’s; Fanshawe (as it was then) had once made a very groping pass towards her and had received a split lip for his troubles. As is often the case witnesses wouldn’t back up Emma in any form of complaint but would also not back Fanshawe in throwing Emma out of the office. The union cases against the Fanshawe-emissary (I’ll use this term from now on, they’re interchangeable anyhow) I mentioned had all been worked on by Emma. “Not at all, just managerial support, no need for your good self to come spoiling for a fight.” The Fanshawe-emissary straightened itself and, with one quick, sharp glance at me, strode away to the small office it/he had always referred to as the “command centre”. Emma crossed over to me; the fire was in her eyes still but the smile she displayed towards me was filled with a different kind of warmth. “That man really is a special kind of arsehole, are you ok? I’d be happy to help you take things further.” Oh yes, that would be very effective, a bullying and harassment complaint against a Tower emissary? I might as well pelt a Challenger tank with grapes and laugh while I did it. “No Emma, it’s fine really, the bloke’s a twat but I really haven’t got the energy, thanks though.” Emma crossed two olive skinned arms and looked at me thoughtfully,”Well, I think that’s the wrong decision, but you know where I am if you need me. That dickhead was right about one thing though, you do look a bit of a mess, are you sure you should be back here? I could walk you home if you wanted”. Although Emma was full of concern and affection I was now struggling to look and talk to her; the Tower was whispering again, laughing softly at if at some perverted joke. I had to struggle not to place my hands over my ears and scream;I had to find my corner of the office and attempt to blank out. “Seriously Emma I’m fine, just been a bit under the weather but I’m on the mend now. Thanks for your concern but I can manage, yeah?” Emma wasn’t convinced, I chew my pen now and wonder still what she really thought, but she let it go. “Ok, well, you know where I am if you need me, take it easy.” With a swish of her long skirt Emma headed for desk, further down the corridor in a small side office while I smoothed my unruly hair back. With the Tower mocking my every step, I walked to my desk.
The Tower Creeps
The Tower creeps. Yes you read that correctly; I am more than cognisant that it is an odd way to describe the activities of a large lump of concrete and glass, but I’ll try and elaborate. Following the confrontation with the Fanshawe-emissary and speaking to Emma, I somehow managed to limp and drift through the rest of the day. I remember fielding a call from some arrogant, supercilious bastard who vacillated between oozing charm and what he obviously thought was slick city speak. The Tower’s whisperings cut through most of it; I had looked at my colleagues (the Linda-emissary was on a short holiday) and wondered why me, useless, worthless me had been chosen out of the mass of humanity around me. I had not been chosen for any mythical grail quest or a journey into a land that looked suspiciously like New Zealand; I was being stalked and tortured by a presence so malevolently eldritch it made my bowels loosen. There have been times in my life when I have believed myself to experience terror; a car accident that nearly killed my father when I was 11, a knife wielding thug on an inner street I had once inadvertently wandered into. All those situations had been merely fear I now realise; true terror is akin to being frozen inside out and having your brittle body smashed into pieces and those pieces made to endure the worst agony imaginable. The reason for this terror is that my weather beaten nemesis has upped the ante in its campaign against me; when I arrived home, sweat soaked and smelling of the cheap whisky I had bought and supped from a corner shop, something happened. I had leaned against the wall, vaguely wondering why Jovan had attempted to stop and talk to me before I hurried past mumbling excuses about being tired, when a feeling of slow, dreadful advancement came over me. It felt as though a rusting ship hulk, long abandoned and turned into a floating necropolis was steadily gliding towards me over some oily sea. I was pinned to the wall; fingernails digging into the old plaster so hard the soft flesh under my nails began to bleed. I knew in that instant that the Tower was revealing its strength, no longer toying with me in delicate whispers. It spoke clearly this time, still in the favourite Granddad style but with an ugly, perverted undertone, “It’s time for you to come out you little cunt, you’re my little cunt, you do know that yes? Come out and see me, work with me”. I screamed out loud, the first time I have screamed since I was a teenager, sobbing between howls. The laughter came again, once more a deceptively pleasant chuckle; I heard Jovan shouting at me in broken English (which only happens when he is agitated, a rarity), asking what was going on, I shouted incomprehensible assurances. He isn’t part of this and I’ll be damned if I’ll let the Tower get him, I’ll die first. I’ll die first.
I have called in sick again; I’m laying widthways across my creaking bed writing this with the pad lying on the floor. I’m writing one handed while I smoke a cigarette, make that multiple cigarettes. I haven’t eaten today and it is now one in the afternoon; I have pangs and growls of hunger in my stomach but I don’t dare go out and buy food. I haven’t dressed and have only moved from the bed to shit and piss, plus the occasional glass of water and to get my spare cigarettes. My mother rang me again; I don’t think I reassured her anymore than the last time, she said something about visiting me at which point I attempted to put her off by saying I was terribly busy with work and couldn’t accommodate her. She was disappointed, I could hear it in her voice, but I don’t think I could live with myself if I let her come anywhere near the Tower. Better she stays in the countryside in her pleasant, bucolic existence, concerned only with the local library opening hours and her gardening. I have to make a plan of action against the Tower; the being within will surely not stop at destroying me and everyone I love.
I have tried to do some research oh yes indeed; I attended the town library and headed for the local history section, determined to learn all I could about the Tower. I scanned through old newspapers on microform, read about the development of the town from its days as a partial swamp, through to a wool manufacturing area and to its present incarnation of decaying shithole. I spent six hours in total in a cramped booth, would you like to know what my research yielded about the Tower? Nothing. Fuck all. Devoid of answers. The Tower was built in the early 1960’s by a building firm and architect from the closest big city; no workers died or suffered horrific accidents during its construction and it was in no way built on some ancient burial ground or the site of a brutal murder or tragic suicide. The Tower was constructed, opened and filled with workers who I can only assume became emissaries; whatever presence that occupied it now, like a fat, blood engorged spider in the middle of a decaying web, had obviously come from somewhere else. As I write this now, smoking heavily again and drinking cheap supermarket brand vodka, I realise that it doesn’t matter where it comes from or why it is exerting its twisted influence on me. It’s there and it won’t go away until I’m dead or have killed in its name, which I will never do, even if it eviscerates me and leaves me as bloodied scraps of meat on the cracked pavement. I have thought about taking the fight back to the Tower; loading up with cans of petrol, some long matches and burning that evil bastard down to the foundations. That could hurt other people though, fire has a nasty habit of spreading and consuming everything in its path, and the Tower would love that sort of devastation, would feed on it. I also believe that the presence that resides within the Tower would not be touched by flames, would in fact simply depart as a parasite may depart its host and sinks its decomposing roots into somewhere else. No, I’m going to take the only option available to me; I’m going to run away, as far as I can go. I have some money set aside, my Mum always encouraged me to save for a rainy day and I’m going to use the money to get the hell away from this festering hell hole. Perhaps the Tower’s influence won’t be so strong if I’m far away; if it was truly all powerful it should easily have forced me into doing evil on its behalf by this stage, yet I have been able to resist it. I have some preparations to make, money, where to go, and the rent on the flat and my crappy job, but I’ll expedite these issues as quickly as possible. I just hope I’m right, I also hope the Tower doesn’t somehow grow stronger and take control of me before I leave this place. I hope.
I am soaked in sweat again, crammed into a corner of my bed with this journal and pen in an oversized foetal position. The Tower has humiliated me beyond words today; not content with controlling my mind it has to destroy every other aspect of me as well. I don’t feel as though I can go out anymore; the thought of stepping foot out of this building makes me want to vomit in fear, all I want to do is crawl into a deep hole and pull the darkness over my head like an old blanket. Hot tears of shame are rolling from my eyes and staining the paper as I write this, made worse by the carcinogenic smoke from my cigarette; I will try to finish this account because it’s further proof of the Tower’s monstrous capabilities, bear with me and try to read through the smudges. Further to my plan to escape somewhere; I had decided to load up on food supplies as I had a vague notion that I could rent a caravan somewhere up on the coast, hoping the crashing sea would also help to block out the Tower. I managed to get the items I wanted, tinned stew (old favourite), tinned vegetables, some packs of ham and bread cakes, tinned fruit. Yes alright, some bottles of beer and packets of fags as well, I’m only human. I had decided to pay for my goods via the self-checkout machines; I couldn’t face talking to any bright eyed checkout assistants and wanted the pleasant drone of the machines. The machines are arranged in three ranks of six, clustered together, all polished aluminium and smooth plastic, bags hung from their sides. I had gone to the end checkout of the middle rank for no other reason than that it was free; I was sweating a little with the weight of the two baskets I was carrying for I have always hated trolleys. I had scanned through roughly a third of my supplies when the Tower, which up till that point had been quiet, began to laugh, constantly, rising and rising in pitch and volume. All around me the robotic checkout voices droned, “Unexpected item in bagging area/please place the item in the bag/please select your payment method… YOU’RE MINE BOY.” The Tower of course, right in the middle of the electric symphony; the machines continued their chant, the Towers laughter and taunts spreading through them like black ink dropped into clear water. My hands tightened on the till and fat, oily sweat beads dropped onto the scanner, the infra red light shining through them and giving the effect of diluted blood. I couldn’t take it anymore, my head was a cacophony of noise and the sneering remarks of the Tower dragged jagged fingernails across my brain. So I roared; roared in fear, anguish and desperation left my supplies at the checkout and ran out into the car park, where a fine rain had begun to fall.
The supermarket horror doesn’t quite end there dear friends; no-one had followed me despite my outrageous performance, which I suppose is the typically British way. I had ducked behind a large, unoccupied Ford Transit van and leaned against it, panting heavily. I was just fumbling for a cigarette when a familiar voice cut across the tarmac like a throwing spear, “Bloody hell, you look fried shit on mouldy bread, what’s up with you?” Emma Rosenberg of all people; I gazed towards her with my sweat stung eyes and tried to gather myself sufficiently. The Tower’s taunts had faded to soft whispers that never the less made my skin crawl and sphincter twitch; I tried to focus on Emma and put the Tower aside but it was hard, so very hard. “Yeah, er, not been feeling so well lately, could really do with getting back home and getting some kip.” I tried to smile, yes, a weak, pathetic, everything-is-fine smile that wouldn’t have convinced a statue. Well, it certainly didn’t convince Emma, not one bit, oh no. “Bollocks, you’re easily the worst liar since Guy Fawkes said he was putting on a kid’s firework party. You’re off sick again and I know that horrible bastard Fanshawe is gunning for your hide. So tell me what’s wrong for fuck’s sake, yeah?” Emma has never been one to mince her words and those dark eyes, beautiful in so many ways but almost deadly in many others, bored into the back of my skull. “I’ve just been stressed lately, not feeling myself you know? Let’s be brutally honest, I’m hardly a high bloody flyer in the office and I think I’m feeling a bit burnt out. Don’t worry about me eh? When I come back we’ll bust Fanshawe’s nose and things will go back to normal, or as normal as they can be there.” As I had been talking to her the Tower had begun to up the volume of its sinister chatter; I was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on Emma and I needed to escape. I don’t have a car (though I do have a licence, believe it or not) so couldn’t just blast off, but the flat wasn’t far from the supermarket so I could fast walk. Something happened then that sent a powerful, non-lethal electric shock through my body; for once, such force didn’t emanate from the Tower, but from Emma. She laid her right hand, small but full of strength, onto my left forearm. Her olive skin contrasted sharply with my fairer tone yet to me looked as if it belonged there, as if her touching me was the most natural thing in the world. She had fixed me with her 60 watt stare again, but there had been concern in her eyes when she spoke to me in measured tones, “You’re not being honest with me, but that’s fine. I’m guessing that you’ll tell me what’s up when you’re ready so I’ll not push things. But I know something’s wrong, more than you’re letting on; so that end you and I are going for dinner tonight. Don’t worry, I’m not a crazy stalker, but you look awful so I’m buying you some decent snap, no arguments right?” Her stare had held me; I so desperately wanted to say no, that my just being near her would put her in danger that could destroy her, which I could never live with. But that part of me that still held hope, some spark of my old self, couldn’t refuse, “Alright,” I said uncertainly, “but I warn you in advance, I am bollocks company at the moment.” Emma smiled; it had been so warm, so full of affection that I nearly melted to my knees, which would have been embarrassing. While I’m not made of wood, I am definitely no poetry writing Casanova, “I’ll meet you at 7 tonight,” Emma chirped, “I’ll be outside your flat so be ready eh? See you later.” With that she had strode off and now I am here waiting for her at half six in the evening, still reeling from the humiliation inflicted upon me by the Tower yet burning with unfamiliar feelings of longing for Emma. All my plans to run have been smashed into pieces by a smile, a smile that I can’t wait to see again.
I smell of wine and food that has been properly cooked; I feel somehow uplifted and a little warm, as if the evening has put an invisible blanket around me. I had met Emma as we (well, her really) had arranged. She was wearing a simple green dress and light jacket, hair curling naturally in dark ringlets and with a subtle perfume emanating from her delicate neck. I had managed to find a shirt and jeans that weren’t as crumpled as a five pound note that had been through a tumble dryer, like most of my clothes these days. I had even managed to splash on some aftershave that had been given to me as a Christmas present by an aunt about three years ago. I’m not sure if the bottle nearly being full says anything about me or not. “Very smart dear, you scrub up well.” Emma had said with that slightly flirtatious, slightly mocking smile; even as I write this the memory of that smile sends a chill down my spine that finishes up somewhere in my toes. Emma had her back to the Tower but as I am at least five inches taller than her I could see it clearly enough. It had miraculously been quieter today, the whispers being just under my hearing range, nor had I seen any emissaries (though I was starting to see more and more walking the streets) checking up on me. “Don’t just stand there you muppet, I’m starving and I intend to eat a lot, so let’s get on with it.” So that’s what we did; we went to an Italian place that had been around since my parents were children. The elderly Sicilian owner, tall and saturnine, had poured us wine himself, a quirky smile on his face throughout. I had managed to eat and the food was excellent; Emma had done most of the talking but I had least managed to interact without sounding like a better class of zombie. Emma had piled in food whilst I had eaten moderately; the Tower must have decided to be a gentleman for one evening only and had stuck to small, intermittent whispers which still managed to pluck at my mind. We had walked back and she had linked my arm (people still do that apparently); I can’t help but feel that when we walked past the Tower she clocked me craning my head to see if it was vomiting up its emissaries. Despite all my fears, the intimidation that was heaped upon me like layers of black, sodden earth, I found that I was actually enjoying the evening. Being close to Emma was intoxicating in a way that was more potent than alcohol or drugs; she stirs something in me that I haven’t felt in a very long time and thought I would never feel again. The Tower continued its usual whispering though at that point it was more of a sullen mutter, no more easily ignored however. Emma walked me to the side door I used to the flat when Jovan had shut up for the day and had squeezed my left hand (it still smells of her perfume) before looking me up and down in that knowing way of hers. “Well, thanks for a great time, it’s nice to see you smile once every so often sunshine, I’ve always said cracking your face was good for you.” The muttering had at that point decided to become more intense, as if the Tower was waking up from a deep sleep; I couldn’t therefore stop my eyes darting over to its decaying hulk about five times before Emma inevitably noticed. “What’s up with you? That steak you order giving you the trots?” Her usual, irreverent manner, but I noticed a faint trace of concern in her voice, lingering like smoke from a burnt out match. I somehow managed to fix my eyes on her, sweet, beautiful face, “I’m fine, just hardly get out much these days, I’m just glad I didn’t bore you daft.” The smile again, still some concern but with far more warmth and something else I’m too afraid to name. She then proceeded to douse me in petrol and set me on fire without harming me; she leaned forward and kissed me delicately on the lips, soft, fleeting, but more intimate than anything I have ever experiencing. “Don’t get any ideas mister, I’m off home now before I miss the rugby highlights, but I’d like this to happen again, so don’t go anywhere eh?” I had stuttered some assurance that I wouldn’t (as if I could’ve done at that moment) and with one last hand squeeze she was walking away. I nearly screamed when she skirted around the front of the Tower but she seemed safe enough, the muttering didn’t include her at that point. Now I’m lying here smoking and wondering when the fire will go out, or if I even want it to.
It’s been argued, argued indeed, that life balances its positives and negatives with the occasional unbalance, so they say. Or another way to put it, something wonderful happens which is then balanced out by something awful. Fucking, fucking awful yes indeed; the fucking awful thing fucking happened the day after the fire was lit, that beautiful burning. I had been walking aimlessly about town until the shadows lengthened and the early chill had set in (I have barely noticed summer draw to a close and the autumn fading in), wondering what to do. I barely noticed the ginnel I had cut through, aiming for nowhere in particular; I had just lit a cigarette and was about to put it to my lips when a troll-like shadow suddenly appeared in front of me. Before I could defend myself (I’m no pushover despite everything) one ham sized fist crashed into my nose; as the cartilage crunched and the blood sprayed I knew that this had to be The Tower’s doing. I hit the ground hard, tried to get on all fours before a boot crashed into the ribs on my right flank. I didn’t think at the time that my ribs were broken but they bloody hurt all the same; I managed to crawl under the sickly light given out by a lamp mounted on the wall of an abandoned loading yard I had found myself in. The figure, huge and shadowed with its breathing more or less easily measured stepped into the light. It was Fanshawe of course; as he stepped over me I could see the twisted, gargoyle look that dominated his normally handsome features and the flushed brick red in his cheeks. I could smell the sharp aroma of whisky on the crisp air, his very pores seem to ooze with the stuff; the light from the wall bracket gave him a zombie look, adding to the Notre Dame gargoyle that had seemingly taken residence in his face. Even from my position on the ground I could smell the reeking alcohol on Fanshawe’s breath, fetid and skin peeling. Hatred and contempt blazed in his drink filmed eyes, given the impression of a car headlights submerged under polluted water. “Been fucking with little Emma have you, you mangy little cunt?” I had gurgled a reply that only earned me a kick in the tender portion of my thigh; I was scared, scared, scared and worse still, the Tower’s laughter had begun to boom in my ears, making it difficult to spit a reply at that evil giant that was intent on knocking the shit out of me. “Don’t answer eh? Mouth all glued up? I wonder what with? I’ve been after her for a while you know, I’ve screwed most of the women in that building but not her, oh not her the little slutty bitch, but I’m betting you have eh?” The Tower boomed and boomed and I now knew that Fanshawe had to be its prime emissary, my thoughts seemed chained to its walls as I couldn’t reply to Fanshawe properly, “Wait…” That was as far as I got before his Italian leather shoe, no doubt expensively made, crashed into my testicles with roughly the same force as a flying sledgehammer. Laughter, laughter, laughter, in between the demonic chuckles the Tower sneering, “He’s getting punched, kicked, oh yes”. Who would find me out here before this emissary, this spawn of concrete and pipe, killed me and tore me to pieces? I would be dragged, twitching (though not for long) into the bowels of the building, consumed and violated, Fanshawe would laugh but with the Tower’s sound this time, all would finish. “I’m going to have her you little cunt, I’m going to photo every last detail then play it in front of you again and again, understand? No-one’s out here, you aren’t getting out of this, so try to enjoy a quality kicking eh?” This was it, the Tower had won, and I was finished and couldn’t even pick myself up off the litter strewn floor. Inwardly I screamed for help but I knew none would come; I braced myself for the boot coming towards my face, eyes closed….. But then nothing. Except a sickening thud of knuckles meeting flesh, flesh that wasn’t mine as expected. I managed to prop myself up on an elbow in time to see craggy, thickset Bob Carragher step into the sickly light. Fanshawe was weaving like a drunken boxer (more drunken than he actually was) with blood pissing (I took pleasure in that) from his rapidly swelling nose. “You know, you never know what you’ll see when you step out of the pub, in this instance your grubby little self following the lad here and I knew you couldn’t be planning to give him a kiss, so I thought I’d tek a look, like, good job I did, just wish I hadn’t followed from quite such a distance.” Bob’s pleasant Yorkshire drawl seemed so out of place amidst the stink of sweat and beer with the Tower’s gibberings, but it was reassuring. Fanshawe looked even more enraged than before, he steadied and fixed Bob with a rage filled glare, “You silly old bastard, fucking sticking your nose in eh? I’ll teach you a fucking lesson that the coppers should’ve taught you coal sucking inbreed”. Despite the booze, despite the fact his nose was now pointing at a decidedly unnatural angle, Fanshawe moved fast and with a lethally feral grace. That feral grace however didn’t stop Bob kicking Fanshawe in the knee with a solid boot, resulting in a sickening crack. Fanshawe howled and collapsed like a wounded bear; Bob wasted no time and brought his left boot in a swinging kick into Fanshawe’s groin. He collapsed sobbing and moaning, Bob turned to me, “Can you walk lad?” I nodded or muttered, I don’t remember which but Bob understood, “Get yourself to hospital lad, I’m just going to have a bit of a chat with Mr Fanshawe, nice and friendly like, we’ve a few years to catch up on. “ I got to my feet and staggered, hurt and wheezing into the night. It seemed to me that the sound of Bob’s Yorkshire drawl, punctuated by intermittent thuds, took a long time to fade.
Collapse
It’s been several days since I’ve written anything, what do you think about that? I’m not sure it really matters anymore but who am I to say I can’t even get home straight work has gone a little funny lately, haha yes. My body is broken, never went to the hospital, emissaries would love a hospital oh yes. No option, no option to go anymore, I know the Tower the Tower will follow follow, oh yes it will, I can’t stop it. The Tower. The Tower. It’s making its final play for my soul and mind, its filthy hands are reaching, cracked nails, bleeding skin and festering sores. I sit and sweat and retch, Jovan knocks and I ignore him, can’t involve him in this, too good a man to be possessed. I will go willingly, my last card to play in this crooked game of sorcery; I will walk into the mouth of the Tower and be willingly devoured, maybe it will be kinder to me? I don’t know what will happen to me now but the time has come, yes yes. I smoke my last packet of cigarettes and the nicotine swims through my blood, not strong enough to fight the Tower’s poison, poison eating my organs. The cigarette is burning my fingers to blackened twigs; I feel in many ways liberated and shorn of fear now I have made my decision. I pace and pace, writing as I shuffle across the floor, oblivious to Jovan’s calls and smoke smoke. I will put the pen down now and hope for the best, yes I will and take the most liberating and yet the most deadly walk of my life. One last look at the Tower in the sun staring, staring so hard into my soul; one last chance to wander out into the world and be free. One last chance……………
An Ending of Sorts
Funny how going back to something you think is going to be painful turns out not to be painful at all. It’s been roughly two years since I last wrote in this fraying, ink blotched journal and I had expected just the sight of it to turn my stomach. It didn’t though and I’m not sure it ever will, at least not too badly. I write this amidst packed bags and bare floors; I’m back in the flat, albeit not for long this time. Winter sun streams through the open window, carried on an icy yet refreshing wind. I sit here now in freshly laundered clothes with a smoothly shaven face and wonder how I can bring this to an end? I suppose I had better start by telling you what happened to me then and directly after, though no doubt all but the daftest of you must have guessed. To put it bluntly, I was ill, very ill in fact; the consultant psychiatrist (a superb woman by the name of Francesca Okudo) diagnosed me with something called paranoid schizophrenia. That last wander you read about? That turned out to be wandering the streets and cursing the Tower loudly with a frantic Jovan calling my Mum who in turn called the police. I was picked up on Section 136 of the Mental Health Act 1983 and taken to a place of safety, which was a special unit at the town psychiatric hospital. Two psychiatrists and an AMHP (that’s approved mental health practitioner to the uninformed) found me to be suffering from mental disorder, the nature and degree of which warranted detention and treatment in hospital. So there I stayed; initially I was medicated, but the symptoms stubbornly persisted until a better combination was found after several false dawns and some horrendous side effects. After my symptoms were under control I underwent some long overdue psychological therapy; I alluded to some nasty things in my past when I was writing this when unwell. I’ve decided not to disclose those here, some things I just have to keep to myself and closer company. Then, when all had calmed and I began to feel like myself again, I was discharged home. Not to this flat; Jovan bless him kept it open but understood why it wouldn’t be that great for me to come back here. That man has cared for me like another father, I owe him a lot and I intend to repay that debt in full. I stayed with my parents initially until finding somewhere better, also under the watchful eye (though that’s unfair, they’re a good bunch) of the locality community mental health team. I intend to pass on this manuscript, to whom I don’t know yet but I’m sure it’ll be of use to someone. I have my job still, it was fought for and a certain Mr Fanshawe no longer works there. I guess he decided a savage beating from a man three decades his senior was his cue to leave. Carragher, happily, remains at his desk.So if you’re reading this and feeling out of sorts, remember, it can work out. Best go now, someone’s waiting, you can probably work out whom. Oh, and the Tower? It’s just concrete and glass, awaiting benevolent demolition.
END
