Storymania - On Daimons by Ian McLachlan

On Daimons
Ian McLachlan

Prologue

I'd got myself a little post, high on a hill, from which I could see in all directions, North,

South, East, and West. It was just an ordinary looking post made of clay and wattles and I

lived alone there. It was a hut with four doors, one in each wall. It was a place where I sat

and thought and waited. Sometimes I would go out and fetch water from a stream on the

side of the hill. And sometimes I would fetch honey from the beehives. But most of the

time I just waited.

He came upon me in the evening. It was my favourite hour. I liked, when the evening was

coming on, to stand and look out over the valley at the trees waving darkly in the summer

breeze and the quiet hills. That night, the sky was red. The plain lay wide and still and

desolate before me. I could hear the stream. I could feel a shadow on my face. And I

looked up. Later, newly weighed down, I walked off down the hill away from the hut,

afraid, wondering at the new weight on me, unable to speak. I never went back there.

Chapter One

Debs is waiting for me at the gate. She's on her own. The only black girl in our year, she

stands out. I walk up to her, she nods, and we both just stand there. After a few minutes

of just standing there, I feel up to saying something.

'Hi,' I say. I plan to say more and my mouth remains open for a bit until it becomes

evident that nothing else is coming out. Then, I close it.

'Good opener,' she says dryly.

'Thanks.'

'That's okay,' she says. She's smiling. She's gauging my mood with a professional eye. The

telling smile reveals what kind of mood she's in. I consider backing off.

'So,' she starts up before I've had time to get clear. 'How are you?'

We take a moment's silence. The question forces me back into myself, forces me to think

about my breakfast, about my weekend, about my life. I nearly hate her for it.

'Jesus Christ! I've told you not to ask me that!' I finally explode. And it's just me and her.

The schoolyard no longer registers.

'I know,' says Debs. 'Vindictive, aren't I?'

'Why the vendetta?' I inquire curiously.

'Oh, no particular reason.'

'Problems at home?'

She nods.

'Was the starter-home raised again?'

We take another moment's silence to consider this. Debs's parents are committed to her

saving up for a starter-home. God knows why. It's not as if they're likely to let her leave

home till she's about thirty. But it's something they've become increasingly fanatical about

after a double-length special of "The Money Programme". Gasps of stormy boredom

follow.

'Gotta take it out on someone,' she replies glumly.

'I know,' I say and look down at my shoes.

'Hm.'

Some first-formers run past us screaming. Further down the road, older kids are getting

out of cars at a discreet distance from the school. Their parents wave them shameless

goodbyes.

'It could be worse,' I say, but lack conviction.

'How could it possibly be worse?'

'I don't know. It could though.'

'How?'

'Well, you could be living with Ted Bundy for example.'

'Yeah, I suppose.'

'Well, there you are then.'

'Hm,' she says. I haven't clearly convinced her.

'You could be living with Ted Bundy and your parents.'

'Hm.'

'Come on, Debs, you've got it good.'

'Have I?'

'Course you have.'

'Yeah, I s'ppose,' she says and smiles frailly. We look out down the road again, away from

the schoolyard. There's something helpless about the way our heads keep turning in that

direction.

'Never mind, Debs. You'll be happy in your starter-home one day,' I venture.

'Oh, fuck off!'

The first lesson of the day is maths. I've been trying not to think about it up till now. I

amble into the classroom, sling my bag down on the nearest desk and am reasonably

content when Dave and Mick get settled in the two chairs next to mine. They give me

cover. Dave and Mick are tolerable creatures; thieving, acquisitive, covetous of bright,

shiny objects, but generally alright. They're talking about last night down the pub. They

always are.

'I got so pissed last night!' says Mick.

'Yeah, you were really out of it,' says Dave, running a hand through his deliberately

crested hair. 'How much did you have?'

'More than you can take!'

'Fuck off! I could drink you under the table!'

Dave and Mick speak a primitive language. The basic symbols are: "drink a lot of beer"

equals "very good"; "drink beer" equals "good"; "teetotal" equals "complete tosser".

Inventing a couple of heavy nights down the pub is usually enough to allay their

suspicions. This done, we chatter away amicably, and by the time Mrs Braun arrives,

we're just one big happy family.

Half an hour later, we're less merry. Mrs Braun is writing on the board. Dave and Mick

are flicking pencils around. Under the desks, feet scuffle. Occasionally, a knee bangs a

desk or, more spectacularly, someone falls off their chair. To keep myself awake, I

dutifully copy formulae off the blackboard into my exercise book, without really having

the faintest idea what I'm writing. Then, like a wounded animal, I stumble out into the

sunlight and walk around. I unwrap a sandwich.

Since direct sunlight troubles Debs, she'll probably be hard to find; holed up underground

somewhere, no doubt. I decide to look for Olie instead. Olie makes no secret of his

whereabouts at lunchtime. Over to one end of the school grounds, by the temporary huts,

there's a patch of grass where a few girls mortify their bodies with autumn sunbathing.

This medieval practice involves lying on the grass and perhaps taking off their blazers if

the temperature makes it above nought. Though considered a thoroughly decadent activity

by the headmaster, a closer examination reveals it to be more like a physical endurance

test. Here, Olie is a conspicuous figure, sitting cross-legged on top of one of the

temporary huts and writing his English essay. Every so often, he picks up a pair of

binoculars his father gave him, and takes a long look at those girls. He's not remotely

subtle about it, but that's because he's got no shame.

Not that it's entirely Olie's fault he's like this. As far as I can make out, he's just a disciple

of his father, whose worldly philosophy includes such lines as, 'Son, it's not how many

girls you've got, it's making sure they don't find out!' Not a very noble dictum.

Occasionally, I've inquired if his mum's an equally enthusiastic advocate of the family

code, but Olie doesn't really seem to understand the question. He seems to think of his

mum as an old, familiar animal that shuffles about in hairpins and slippers and is

unusually privileged to look after him. Perhaps he's right. I've never met his mother.

Anyway, since Olie's obviously busy with his essay and his "ornithology", I go and look

for Mick and Dave instead. One of the temporary huts backs up against the old school

fence, but leaves enough space in between to create a dark, moist lair, the haunt of

polecats and weasels. They will be there, I think. And they are there, smoking and guilty.

They always seem to be guilty about something. My approach startles them, but when

they see it's only me, they relax and don't disappear over the fence.

'I'm going to get really pissed tonight!' says Mick awkwardly, head down, shoulders

hunched.

Dave laughs, coughs, keeps laughing. Mick coughs too. Both of them seem to have

permanent colds. 'What, again?' says Dave. Then, turning to me, 'Are you coming down

the pub tonight?'

'I might.'

'Go on, it'll be good. Olie's coming. And so's Anna.'

'Olie's going?'

'Yeah.'

'Oh well, perhaps I will come.'

'You sure you won't be missing any royal appointments or anything?' he asks slyly.

'Nothing to trouble yourself about, Dave!' Dave doesn't really know what to say now. He's

good enough at thinking of witty analogies, but never really up to sustaining them. Two

seconds of inspiration, that's all Dave is.

'Meet at my house at eight-thirty, yeah?' is his eventual, considered response.

'Alright,' I say coolly.

I stand with them while they finish their cigarettes, leaning against the fence, shuffling my

feet in the vegetative slush that lines the fence, inhaling the smell of decay. After a while,

I float away from the cigarette smoke and pale faces and humming traffic and muted

shouting, but go too far so that, at first, there seems no way back. And now, my life no

longer seems my own, but some quite separate thing which holds my attention. However,

I don't stay there long, but force my way back in a bit of a panic. These disembodied

journeys can get too exciting.

Chapter 2

Dave's house is in the old quarter of the city, near the railway line. It's an especially grey

area. Damp, grey washing droops over the balconies of shabby apartments. A little girl's

dress is swinging rhythmically on a line as if it's just hanged itself. It's dark. There never

seems to be much light round here whatever time of day it is. From inside one flat there

are raised voices. 'I thought I told you two to shut up!' A mother's voice. A plastic bag

tails me down the street.

At first, I can't seem to find Dave's house. I spend ages wandering up and down the road

looking for it. On the way, I pass an Indian man and his family who just stand there in

their front garden, watching me. I don't know what they think I want from them. Then,

further up, there are little kids who pursue me on bikes. They yell out insults and do

wheelies to get my attention but I just smile and ignore them. Silly little kids. Do they

think I give a damn about them?

When I finally locate Dave's house, I wonder how I could have missed it; after all, it's

really very like him. It's small and dirty and rough-looking, with a welcoming light in one

window and an oppressive gloom in the others. I ring the doorbell but it doesn't seem to

be working, so I hammer on the door for a bit. I try to look respectable because an old

woman with iron-grey hair is staring at me through the window of the house next door.

Obviously not one for playing hide-and-seek with the curtains, she just stares grimly

down. What the bloody hell are you up to? say her pursed and angry lips. I give her a

dangerous look back, but she doesn't flinch.

'You made it then?' says Dave when he finally opens the door. In answer I just nod. By

now, my mouth's wedged full of silence; it's packed in there like polystyrene. Dave smiles

back and leads me through. 'Make yourself at home,' he tells me coolly. 'And don't mind

Skipper.' Skipper is a small, dirty, rough-looking dog that comes padding up to look at me

suspiciously. I pat him affectionately on the back and he goes padding off upstairs. 'Oi,

where are you off to then?' shouts Dave, staring after him.

'I expect he's gone to take a look out the window.'

'A piss more like,' says Dave jokily. And then, in patriarchal mood, 'Skipper's a good dog.

He knows who's boss round here.'

I raise an eyebrow cynically. 'Quite a place you've got,' I mutter.

'It does for us.'

In the kitchen, Dave, a self-styled biophysicist, has been genetically engineering new life.

The results of his experiment are most plainly visible in the living room; a week's worth

of unwashed plates on the table; food arranged in small heaps on the carpet; empty beer

cans stashed in one corner as a monument to "free-living"; pizza boxes sitting quietly on

the sofa, some still half-full of flabby pizza, now apparently incubating inside. I surmise

his parents have gone away.

'Beer?' inquires Dave.

'Yeah, please.'

'Do you want that in a glass?'

I slide an eye over the carpet, where several glasses lie upturned and moist. I look at the

damp patch that the glasses are lying in and suspect the worst. So, Skipper or Dave?

There's no immediate evidence to swing it one way or the other. But then I think of

Skipper's unobtrusive manner and discreet padding and suddenly feel ashamed to have

included him in the hypothesis. Meanwhile, someone's hammering on the door outside.

'That's the door,' I say. 'Do you want me to get it?'

'Yeah.'

Mick comes in, looks indifferently at the biological war, goes to sit down, finds the sofa

occupied by the biological war and remains standing. 'Tidied up before we came, did

you?' is his eventual, dry-witted comment. He says it half to himself and little else

afterwards. Mick's economy with language has always been his strong point.

'Think I enjoy living like this?' says Dave, querying indulgently. 'No, mate. This is for the

sake of science!' We all laugh. An opened tin of baked beans is discreetly making for the

back door. Perhaps its occupant feels threatened by the laughter. But Mick and Dave don't

seem alarmed, so I surmise it's a perfectly normal occurrence and don't point it out to

them. In any event, they're much too busy cracking open beer cans and joking about the

time they got Skipper drunk. As if on cue, Skipper comes padding back into the living

room, snuffles round Mick for a bit, before jumping up onto the sofa. Pizza boxes fly in

different directions, Mick and Dave exclaim indignantly, and Skipper barks joyously and

starts pissing on the sofa. I'm sorry to have been wrong about Skipper.

'Oi! Not on the sofa, you stupid mutt!' shouts Dave, flying into a fond rage.

'Manners, Skipper,' I say, shaking my head sadly.

'Dirty dog!' says Mick disapprovingly, and we open the back door and chase him out into

the garden.

The garden is too oppressively desolate to stay out in for long, so the next five minutes

are spent listening to Skipper whining and scratching at the door to come in. Dave and

Mick chuckle guiltily with sadistic delight, but I don't really have the heart to join in.

Then, the doorbell goes.

'That'll be Olie,' says Dave knowingly.

'How did he get the bell to ring?' I inquire curiously.

'Dunno. Always was a jammy sod!'

'What a wanker!' says Mick after some moments thought. This is Mick's standard

judgement on everyone. I never knew him give a different one.

We decide to punish Olie for getting the doorbell to ring by not answering the door. But

our few seconds quiet sniggering are interrupted by Olie hammering on the back door.

'How did Olie know we weren't going to answer the front door?' I inquire wonderingly.

'Must've guessed, the mind-reading bastard!' says Dave bitterly and opens the door.

Olie comes in slowly to avoid tripping over Skipper, who is bouncing delightedly around

him. He's wearing his sister's anorak. 'Here, got something for you,' he says to Skipper,

reaching his hand into a pocket and producing a hard, dry biscuit.

'Don't spoil him!' says Dave angrily. 'He'll only start pissing on the chairs again!'

'Sorry!' says Olie laughing as he sets his charm to maximum. Always late, constantly

letting people down, never straight with anyone, all Olie's little vices get drowned out by

his easy, laughing manner. Dave relaxes and starts laughing too. 'Get back out in the

garden, you stupid mutt,' he shouts, pointing to the door. Skipper jumps up and down

ecstatically and goes running off upstairs.

'Got anything to drink round here?' asks Olie, kicking one of the empty glasses on the

floor under a chair. Dave wanders into the kitchen to fetch him a can of lager from the

fridge. Meanwhile, Mick takes his coat and just stands there, holding it, as if awaiting

further instructions.

'Did you bring your binoculars?' I ask Olie while we're waiting, more by way of a

conversation opener than out of any real expectation that he has.

'No. Should I of?' he replies, puzzled.

'Never mind,' I say light-heartedly. 'I suppose I can always borrow a pair off Skipper.'

'Skipper? Binoculars?' says Dave, returning with the beers. 'Skipper's a dog for Christ's

sake! He doesn't need binoculars!'

'He does if he wants to spy on the Indian family next door.'

'What? And have those bloody Pakis calling the police? Not likely!' says Dave, warming

to his favourite theme.

'I think you'll find they're Indians,' I reply sweetly.

'Same thing, isn't it?'

'No.'

'Oh well, they all eat bananas,' is Dave's considered reply. 'Now come on, let's get out of

here.'

We're supposed to be meeting Anna down the pub tonight. I don't know why. I don't

particularly like her and nor do the others. But we always meet Anna on a Thursday night,

and routine is the axiom around which our lives revolve.

'How much are you gonna be drinking tonight?' Dave cheerfully demands of Mick.

'A fuck of a lot,' I whisper under my breath; just testing the bars.

'A fuck of a lot!' says Mick with a grin. His audacity's greeted by laughter.

'Hope Anna doesn't bring any of her weird friends!' says Dave, expressing the same hope

he's been expressing for months now.

'Yeah,' says Olie, heartily. 'I wish she'd leave her dogs at home! Especially that Zoe. I

mean, she's even got a beard for fuck's sake!' It's about time for one of his father's famous

anecdotes, but, mercifully, there doesn't seem one readily to hand for bearded women.

'Yeah,' says Mick in his placid, self-effacing way. 'Frightens the living daylights out of

me!'

'All Anna's friends should be exhibited in a zoo!' says Dave decisively. This raises a

laugh.

We reach the pub. There has been no metamorphosis. It's just the same as it always is, the

usual shabby brick and flaking paint. Stooping to pass under the low door, we enter, pull

up our favourite table and set about our usual argument about whose turn it is to get the

drinks in. Mick's hands seem to be full of cigarette packets and lighters and coins.

'You can put your little stash of things here,' I tell him kindly. He gratefully deposits them

in a small, untidy heap on the table.

After the first couple of pints, I loll my head back against the wall, disappear down into

the sofa, and start watching the people. That way, I don't have to participate in the

bitching that forms the stock conversation on a night out down the pub. Instead, I observe

some girls in heavy make-up and platform shoes preening themselves in front of the

mirror. They shriek and cackle and chain-smoke. Their handbags seem very important to

them.

I am not the only one to observe them. Some over-groomed men are slowly moving into

range. They are doing a great deal of laughing. Ha, ha, ha, ha goes their booming

laughter. It seems to carry on for hours. Occasionally, a few words are thrown in.

Awkward and straight-backed, they stop a few feet away from the girls. The girls ignore

them. Cigarettes are lit. There are looks. When a kind of meeting between the two parties

does occur, it happens in the mirror.

Anna arrives. She's brought the fright-dolls. They're all battery powered. Anna ushers the

fright-dolls into a row of chairs and gets them each a drink and a cigarette. One hand to

drink the drink, the other to smoke the cigarette. Left, right, left, right, Anna manages to

talk as well as keep time. Her shrill voice, loosened first by nerves and then by lager,

acquires a sort of monotonous grind that shows no sign of running down. As there don't

seem to be any concepts included in what she's saying, I get to feeling that she's somehow

bluffing and not actually using a known language. This perplexing thought keeps me

occupied for a good ten minutes. After that, I just get resigned and end up hoping

someone will drop a nuclear bomb on the pub.

Eventually, I'm forced to act; I spark a conversation with Olie. Thankfully, Olie proves

responsive.

'You know there's some new bloke coming to join our class next week,' he tells me

chattily once I've got him started. 'American too, I think. I heard old Fletcher giving Mrs

Braun the run down this morning.'

'Oh?' I say, wondering how it is that Olie always seems to hear these things.

'Yeah. Fletcher was all over her again, of course,' continues Olie enthusiastically.

'Lecherous old bastard!'

'Do you think he'll be very religious?'

'Who?' asks Olie, puzzled.

'This new American.'

'I suppose he could be some kind of Mormon,' says Olie dubiously.

'Or the son of a famous film director.'

'Hey, that gives me an idea,' says Olie, getting suddenly enthusiastic. 'My dad's getting me

a video camera for my birthday.'

'Oh?' I inquire cautiously, fearing that Olie's taste for hard-core pornography might be

about to birth itself yet again in the world.

'Yeah!' says Olie breathlessly. 'We could make, like, a documentary of his first days at

school, and then sell it to his pop. Make a right old profit from that. Might end up being

world famous too.'

'But his pop's not,' I point out placidly.

'Not what?'

'A world famous director. That was just one of my brilliant conjectures, remember?'

'Oh, yeah, right,' says Olie, suddenly deflated.

Our conversation is momentarily drowned out by Anna, who's encouraging some of the

fright-dolls to join her in the rendition of a favourite song. It's not that we've stopped

speaking, just that we can't hear what we're saying. Meanwhile, the batteries of one of the

fright-dolls seem to be running down, for she is frozen, cigarette midway to mouth. The

other two are still going strong though. Mercifully, we're spared a second rendition of

"Stand by your Man" because Anna has to take all three fright-dolls to the bathroom.

In the interval, we try to restart our conversation and fail. Something's changed. I shrug

my shoulders uneasily and wonder why the room seems to have shrunk. I examine the

ceiling, noticing how damp it is, trying to remember how high it was when we came in.

Then, Anna returns from the bathroom. Whatever happened in the bathroom, it seems

there'll be no more "Stand by your Man" tonight. Instead, flanked by the fright-dolls and

curiously insulated, she starts on Mick.

'Christ, Mick, you're always so bloody miserable!' she says, seeming to notice him for the

first time. Mick, who hasn't been looking particularly miserable up to this point, starts

looking miserable now. 'Why are you here?'

Mick goes red. Caught off his guard by an attack of this kind, he just shrugs his shoulders

in embarrassment and stares down at his pint.

'I mean, like, I could forgive you for always being a miserable bastard if you didn't wear

your hair in that stupid fringe!' says Anna, seeming to find a rhythm. 'Well? Are you

going to answer me?'

Mick shows no sign of wanting to answer and nor does anyone else. We all push our pints

around and consider bolting. It suddenly becomes tremendously important to be

concentrating on the music. Then, there's that familiar laugh and a 'You know, Mick, I

think she fancies you!' to break the tension, and Olie's off on one of the old favourites

about how his dad once had three women in the ground floor ladies' cloakroom at the

local department store. It's useful timing.

Half an hour's worth of improbable close scrapes in the ladies' locker room later,

everyone's in a good mood again and it's getting on for last orders. Still, whatever's

nesting in the urban soul hasn't really gone away and presently, lubricated by lager, it

slides out into view. As usual, Dave seems to be the most convenient vehicle.

'I'm not racist, right,' he's telling us with mock sincerity. 'It's just, like, I mean, what's

wrong with having a laugh? It's their problem if they can't handle it.' A little

encouragement from Olie, who's also good breeding ground, and the target changes.

'Why do you all wear so much make-up?' says Dave, gesturing to one of the heavily

made-up fright-dolls. 'It doesn't make you any prettier!'

Olie and Mick laugh hysterically, like people who've just discovered half their body's

disappeared. Dave looks my way and smiles hesitantly. I fiddle with my pint-glass in

order not to have to look at him.

'Try looking in a mirror yourself, you ugly bastard!' retorts Anna. 'Because make-up's

what you need. Or more like plastic surgery!'

'No, you see, love, we're blokes, alright?' dismisses Dave. 'We don't have to sit around all

day, all tarted up, doing nothing, just trying to look pretty. I mean, not trying to be

offensive or anything, but it's a man's job to do, alright?'

'What do you mean, do?' says Anna indignantly. 'You never do anything. Unless you

mean sod all!'

Dave ignores the retaliation, as he's now ready to unfold his philosophy more completely.

'I mean, what use are birds? They can't drive, can't play football, can't even change a light-

bulb. No, listen, right, the only thing a bird's any good for...' here he breaks off to make a

crude gesture. 'You know what I mean?'

Anna's indignation has now outgrown her capacity to articulate it. Her mouth just opens

and closes uselessly. The fright-dolls seem to have responded to the shock by collectively

shutting down on idle. So the last ten minutes are passed in silence. Then, it's time to go

home.

Hostilities are put aside on the walk home. We laugh animatedly and for no particular

reason at everything. We ignore the discarded bits of newspaper and empty polystyrene

packages and dogshit that litter the streets. We pass a couple of kebab vans but, for once,

no one wants to stop. One of the kebab van owners shouts out after us and Dave shouts

back to him to fuck off. Further up, we do stop, so that Olie can take a piss. Meanwhile,

Dave starts snogging one of the fright-dolls. The others circle, restlessly. Then, we're off

again. Apparently, we're going back to Dave's house for some top quality vodka.

I suddenly decide I've had enough. 'Right,' I say. I say it a couple of times until the others

notice. They know what it means. They remonstrate with me to stay in a touching display

of solidarity, but I won't be argued with. Eventually, there are high fives and I walk off

down the street. Now I'm alone. I'm walking quickly, overtaking anyone in my path,

passing street-beggars installed under cashpoints for the night. 'Got any change, mate?'

Cars pass. Sometimes the passengers crane their heads to look at me. Sometimes, I crane

my head to look at them. Sometimes I don't. As I round the corner, it's raining lightly

through the warm air.