{"id":1333,"date":"2008-08-08T16:05:00","date_gmt":"2008-08-08T16:05:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/ink.verticalplus.co.uk\/archive\/?p=1333"},"modified":"2008-08-08T16:05:00","modified_gmt":"2008-08-08T16:05:00","slug":"new-short-fiction-by-malcolm-bray","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/new-short-fiction-by-malcolm-bray\/","title":{"rendered":"New short fiction by Malcolm Bray"},"content":{"rendered":"

Two Letters<\/span>


When I lower myself on to the cold park bench, Doctor Kaldor\u2019s letter crackles in my pocket like fire. I look around me in mute desperation. The old man is there again, on the next bench, wearing the same army coat and tattered woollen hat. I can smell him easily at that distance, with every small breath of wind; a bitter-sour cocktail of booze, old sweat and damp wool. He is human though, more human than me, and I get up and walk over to him.<\/span>
\u2018Paddy,\u2019 I say, \u2018I\u2019m going for a sandwich. Will I get one for you?\u2019<\/span>
\u2018I\u2019m not focking Irish,\u2019 he says.<\/span>
\u2018Well,\u2019 I tell him, \u2018I\u2019ve lived most of my life there. Kerry, Clare, Mayo.\u2019<\/span>
His eyes widen, and I can see their watery blue.<\/span>
\u2018Mayo,\u2019 he says, and grins, showing me the last of his teeth. He sings it then: \u2018May-o, May-o.\u2019<\/span>
\u2018You\u2019re from Mayo, then,\u2019 I say. <\/span>
\u2018I\u2019m a Boyle from Westport. There\u2019s a lot of us out there.\u2019<\/span>
\u2018I\u2019ll go and get those sandwiches then, Mister Boyle,\u2019 I tell him, and he mumbles something.<\/span>
\u2018What?\u2019<\/span>
\u2018P.J.\u2019<\/span>
\u2018Oh. Right. P.J.\u2019<\/span>

Three days later, I\u2019m back in the park again. I feel better today, and for a very simple reason. Jackie is beside me. She is a true, bold seven year-old, with eyes like mine. I introduce her to P.J., and she offers her hand. Eyes wide in panic, he says:<\/span> \u2018Don\u2019t touch me, you don\u2019t want to touch me!\u2019<\/span>
Jackie smiles at him. \u2018We\u2019re going for cakes, P.J. Do you want to come?\u2019 He looks up at me, and I nod.<\/span>
The cakes in the window of the tea-shop are brightly coloured, like Christmas decorations. Jackie and I go inside, telling P.J. to choose something from the window. Two women behind the counter spot him and begin muttering. One is louder than the other:<\/span> \u2018If he touches that glass, I\u2019m calling the cops.\u2019<\/span>
I say: \u2018Jackie, go and ask P.J. if he\u2019s chosen yet.\u2019 <\/span>
The women stare in horror as she goes outside. They are waxworks. Jackie comes back in and gives the orders; hers, mine and P.J.\u2019s. The loud woman wraps the cakes in silence, and we leave.<\/span>

Two years have passed me by, despite Dr. Kaldor. Today there is another letter, but this one is welcome. The writing on it is small and neat, and I open it impatiently. Jackie is fine; she can swim twenty metres now, and her friend is from Romania. Mrs. Talbot, the English teacher, has shown the class a newspaper article. It is Discussion Day. The article has a photograph of a dead homeless person, and Mrs. Talbot is asking the class about morality in society. Jackie puts up her hand.<\/span>
\u2018I know that man!\u2019 she says. \u2018He\u2019s a friend of mine. P.J. Boyle. Dad and I used to have breakfast with him.\u2019 <\/span>
The teacher, she says, and the whole class too, went completely silent. Like women in a tea-shop. <\/span>



\u2022 Malcolm Bray says “I'm from Kent and live in Ireland which I love. My twin obsessions are short fiction and wild things.”<\/span>

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Two LettersWhen I lower myself on to the cold park bench, Doctor Kaldor\u2019s letter crackles in my pocket like fire. I look around me in mute desperation. The old man is there again, on the next bench, wearing the same army coat and tattered woollen hat. I can smell him easily at that distance, with […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1333","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1333","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1333"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1333\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1333"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1333"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1333"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}