Jeremy Boyce lives in the south of France, working in a variety of fields including French – English translation/re-writing, authoring three instruction books about Kitesurfing and Power Kiting, in addition to many years of experience writing copy for press promo, marketing and sales in the music, leisure sports and tourism industries. More recently he’s ventured into creative work, some flash fiction singles and series, short stories, concrete poetry… Don’t try following him on social media, he’s not there ! Just read his stuff where you find it, starting right here, right now.  

Can I get you anything ?

The little cushions were rising and dropping as the machine did its silent duty, un-noticeably gently humming and hissing as it compressed the air and moved it to where it was needed. It was mostly about maintaining a welcoming softness, supporting the load and avoiding pressure points that could result in sores and discomfort. At which it was much better than its predecessor, the memory foam mattress, now lying in a shed outside.

We all knew the old fella was getting on a bit, but there had been secrets, between him and the doctors. And later there’d been difficulties, mostly as a result of the weakness of his stick-thin legs, so they’d taken him for his regular treatment in an ambulance this time, there was no way he could have walked to or from a car. He had a bed for a couple of days, so he could get over it. But it came as a complete bolt from the black when the phone call came.

“Given his situation we’ve decided to keep him in longer. Would it be possible for you to come here for a meeting, tomorrow, Friday at 5.30pm ?”

That put heads in a total spin. We all understood, you never give out good news on a Friday afternoon, or bad on a Monday morning.

“Thank you for coming in, I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you here. To be blunt, we are no longer able to continue his treatment, nothing we do has any effect and we need to keep our resources for people who are still responding. I’m sorry to tell you that we have arrived at the final stages, it could end tomorrow, in a month, next week, so it’s now a question of making the end as comfortable as possible. I hope you understand.”

“What are the options ?”

“He can stay here.”

No thanks, we’d all seen enough of the grim walls and grey soup, and heard the poor lonely man in the next bed groaning all day and night in a foreign tongue.

“Can we take him home ?” 

“If you can accommodate him that would be the best solution, for him and for us, it will free up a bed for someone else.”

“So is it now, today ?”

“It will take a few days to make all the arrangements, he will need a medicalised bed, regular nursing visits, and we will need to arrange transport….”

“But you just said he could die tomorrow. We can be ready any time, the sooner the better. He might not make it to a few days. Can’t it all be done quicker ?”

It was all done quicker. Monday midday, grey and cloudy, the convoy left, car-ambulance-car, wondering if the journey might not finish him. Nerves well and truly wracked. Forty minutes and we’d be ok.

“Can I get you anything ?”  “Do you need a drink ?” “Shall I put the telly on for the rugby ?” Days passed, and gloriously turned into a week, more, under azure skies and warm sun. From the medicalised bed in his own home, pushed close to the French windows, there was a view of the terrace, pool, and garden, some hills beyond, the sound of birdsong, chainsaw, and children playing in a nearby garden.

One Sunday the french windows were opened and a table set on the terrace just outside, family gathered and a decent spread. His bed was pulled forwards and the back-rest raised, he smiled

“This is lovely, thank you…”, the most words he’d said in a while

But by this time it was all liquids, soups, compotes, there were no jaw muscles left for chewing, or teeth come to that. Which didn’t stop him, or us, making sure he had a nice drop of wine with his soup, he’d always kept a good stock of quality drink, Fixin, Margot, the lot. Never mind what the visiting nurses said.

Everyone had taken turns, sitting, talking, reading, holding hands, sorting out a drink on those little sponge sticks when he couldn’t swallow any more, saying hello to the nurses when they came, leaving them to it, and enjoying a few minutes down time.

He was quiet, for a man who’d always had words to say, and never afraid to say them, bugger the consequences, but you could tell there was something on the tip of his dried out tongue and cracked lips. It wouldn’t be long, long enough for some final word closing wisdom.

“Is there anything you want ?”

“I want more life” he croaked, wheezed and struggled “But I can’t have any…”

Hearing and ignoring his words, the little cushions hissed, hummed, rose and dropped, faithful to the last. Soon, the pressure would be off.

Gobshite at the OK Coral

Acid madness, bad mind music, fast and slow, grunting, grinding all night long, boys and girls all together now, wishing in and out each others pants but only out of their minds, incapable. Long strange trip all night gone and new day dawning, sun rise and shining through bad heavy curtains of strange suburban first floor flat. Smoke, dust, acid hanging in the air, heads and sunbeams. Whacked out on microdots, is there a joint going ? All night banging it up and not finished yet. Strange sounds and stranger times, greasy carpets, mouldy cupboards, Jock’n’Arry down below. Dodgy speed dealer with homemade gun. Shit brickhouse Ford Zodiac underage girlfriend roofing man, “Split ‘er from arsehole to breakfast time.”  Knew ‘is way, in, an’ aaahhht.

Coming down. Slowly fast, rushing and sliding in and out. It was that and now it’s this, or is it ? Into the uncertain. Kettle on, let’s be friends, and have some tea. Coming up. Bish-bash, door smash, footsteps pounding. It’s rabbit teeth ‘Arry, ‘H’, bare chest very big and pumping, veins and eyes bulging, not an ‘appy man. Happy comedown vision. Acid dawn morning maybe, but already High Noon.

“Woss’ all that bangin’ ?”

“Hi Harry. Sorry, is there a problem ?”

“I ‘aven’t slept a wink, all night long, bangin’ an’ noise,  “Euughhh-Euughhh-Euughhh”, all night long, wot fuckin’ music is that ? (Pink Floyd, Animals, on repeat, volume 11) ‘Aahhhm I supposed to work livin’ under that ?”

Sphincters slam shut…

“Sorry H, we were just having a bit of a party with some friends……”

“Don’ fuckin’ ‘H’ me.”

Strong acid, still twisting, minds and guts. Lysurgically shitting ourselves.

‘H’ surveys through bulging blood vessel eyes, throbbing neck veins, buck teeth, huge muscles and all. Wasters and wankers. The shooting starts….

“I don’ like you, I never ‘ave….”

One down, in through one ear, out the other, no mistake.

“An’ as for that fat cunt, I’ve ‘eard ‘e thinks ‘e’s ‘ard. I like ‘ards.”

Two gone. The fastest joint roller in town. Not even time to draw his first skin…

“But as for you, Jerry, I fawt you was awright, but naah I can see you’re just a piss’ole.”

The killer blow, ‘ard, right between the eyes, brains splattered all over the wall..

The sun was streaming in and beating down. Blowing the smoke from his shooter, H glared, very hard, then clanked off down the dusty stairs, spurs jangling as he made his way back to his jailbait breakfast maker. “I ‘ope there’s some bacon wiv them eggs….?”

In the debris and damage of the not-so-ok coral, among the acid-raddled corpses, one thing was certain. The kettle had boiled long ago. Time for tea and let’s be friends