Short story: Soldiers

A leap into the unknown here for me. Having written a few stories for private viewing only, here is a short story I wrote about my locale, or close to it anyway, that I’m sharing with the net.

It’s a bit of urban horror, with a sprinkling of psychogeographical angst thrown into the pot.

http://bit.ly/ql6Ac0

Some background info:

In July 2007 I had an interview with my future boss, someone I had a happy working relationship with until 2010 when I left to go travelling with my wife. The interview was somewhat unconventional in that it was based in of all places, a pub. We sat down over Diet Cokes and she interviewed me as though we were in her office. Question 13 was “are you evil?” (Come now, admit it, that’s a cool question). This venue was chosen as a result of awkward logistics, eg, the building where her company is based gets locked up at 5.30 and since I was already working in central London, arriving there in time wasn’t a realistic option, as I didn’t want my then- present employer to know I was job seeking.

So we agreed the venue, the Britannia, in Barking, East London, also known colloquially as the titty bar because of its stone mouldings of bare breasted sea nymphs outside. The route to the pub took us through a subway and into a housing estate, which is pretty much described in the story as the portal and the flats respectively, though obviously I’ve never been inside any of the blocks. My imagination was captured by this unusual underpass, as the main character Burton is too – what is the purpose of the lighting? I never got to find out whether the installation was ever given a name or was just one of those ways to splurge some end of budget money on the arts. I’ll add a picture to the blog if it still exists these days. I also sensed the bleakness around this locale, atomisation and isolation built right into the fabric. The ideal setting for a short story of urban malaise, I thought, somewhat cheerfully, since if there is one place I feel comfortable writing about, that's it.

few days later, I’d written about one quarter of the completed piece. It got abandoned when I couldn’t think of a decent way to end it which didn’t involve huge amounts of death; never a bad way to end a story, but I wanted something different to try; a bit less predictable.

The locations are most definitely where they purport to be, the rest of the story comes from the author.

Hazel is the name of the mum-in-law I never had (because me and her daughter split not once but a rather careless three times. What an encyclopaedia of London knowledge Hazel was. In fact she was possibly the most knowledgeable Londonist after Peter Ackroyd, or at least more clued-up than anyone else living in Battersea at the time. So a wee doff of the cap to her.

My formal knowledge of psycho-anything is not so hot, but my experience of human nature isn’t so bad. So any psychologists reading the final part, who thinks “fuck, that’s wonky bullocks” – you’re right, I know, so please correct me on the “isns’t and I’ll thank you profusely and in public on this blog.