The Wandering Goy

By Nick Miles

Wandering Goy, encompasses a life of friends, of fears, and of footsteps.

Traversing countries, breaking hearts and bones, this gritty, real story shows a life, not a pretty one, but a lived one, and reveals the hopes, dreams, desires and loves, in the context of growing up in a turbulent, strange and dangerous world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nick Miles
• Release date: Mar 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301430338

Nick Miles

Grant Gage, by Nick Miles. a man ruled by emotions: love, lust, fear, anger. a man blessed by friends, family and love. a man grateful for experiences, both shared and secret. a man like you, like yours, like them, like no one, like everyone.

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WANDERING GOY.

A Novel by Nick Miles

Published at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Nick Miles

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

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The fly lands on my hand. It’s just the two of us, here, trapped in this room. It looks at me through its myriad of eyes, and I can feel its pity. Its thinking: you’re fucked, mate. You’re going away for the rest of your life. You’re going to sit in a small concrete box until you die. You’re looking down at me, thinking you’re better than me, because I fly around shit all day. But from now on, you’re the shit, mate. And there’s fuck all you can do about it.

I’d kill it if I could, but my hands are handcuffed to the table. That’s because I’m dangerous, they said, I’m a bad apple, a hard core criminal. That’s true, I suppose, people have died at my hand, and by my side, I’ve committed crimes in more countries than I can name, I’ve willingly hurt people, destroyed people’s lives, so, yes, I suppose I am rotten to the core, I suppose I am a fucking psycho.

To anyone who reads this, understand one thing, right here, right now: It’s true. I couldn’t change any piece of it, nothing happened that could have been avoided, so despair, ye who turn these pages, you who wake up each day, thinking you’re safe, that you’re so far removed, because, but for a twist of fate, it could be you, sitting here, in this hell hole, scrawling your life onto pieces of toilet paper, because that’s the only paper I can get without having to suck some guy’s cock.

The heavy, battered, metal door behind me swings open, and I can smell my shrink as he comes into the room. He’s fucking disgusting. Dark sweat patches under his arms, cracked, cigarette stained teeth, a fucking policeman’s haircut. He comes around the table, kicks the plastic chair away from the table, and lurches into it. Without looking at me, he pulls out a pack of John Rolfe, pulls a cigarette out with his teeth, and lights it from a box of matches. He throws the pack onto the table, next to the heavy, blue file with my name on it.

So, you think you’re a fucking heavy guy, hey?

I just look at him, imagining how badly his teeth would cut my hands if I punched him.

So, the silent type, eh? It doesn’t matter to me anyway. The kaffirs in the cell will make you talk, fuck; they’ll make a pretty boy like you fucking scream, boy.

God, grant me one wish: take these shackles off, let me remove this disgusting filth from the human race, here, now. Please.

I wait.

No, nothing. Once again, it’s just me.

He opens the file, cigarette ash falling on the papers and photographs inside.

"So, Mr. Pretty Boy, let’s take a look, shall we?

Yes, let’s take a look at this life, encased in a thick police file. The life of Grant Gage, murderer, international drug dealer, general miscreant, and all in all, just plain fuck up.

The fly takes off, he doesn’t care. It’s fitting, I suppose, I mean, being deep in the shit is nothing new to him.

The light overhead flickers, the damp, stained walls exude a dank, heavy smell. I can hear the guards talking to each other outside. There’s no fresh air in here, just this smell of sweat, cigarettes, and wasted opportunities.

The shrink blows a cloud of acrid, brown smoke in my face from across the table. He’s looking into my face, so close; I can see the burst blood vessels and veins in his yellow eyes. Fuck, this man is filth.

Hey, pretty boy, you may as well talk to me. What else are you going to do, for the rest of your life, fuckhead? You killed three people, you’ve been found guilty of dealing drugs across borders. Using fake passports to enter countries, and you’ve been sentenced to 35 years, with no parole, you’re fucked, man, you’ll be nearly seventy when you get out of here, if these fucking psycho’s let you live that long. Trust me, there’s no point being a tough guy in here, that’s what they want, they lust for hard nuts like you, they’ll pick you apart like a fucking naartjie, man.

What do you want to hear?

At last, the caveman speaks. Let’s start somewhere unrelated, tell me something nice, your happiest Christmas memory, for example.

Why the fuck do you want to hear that for? What fucking good will that do?

Bear with me, pretty boy. I know you are angry, I can feel that you are frustrated, scared, pissed off with yourself, with us, with life. I believe that if we can understand the motivations, the reasons behind your actions, we can understand the actions better, and then make adjustments and help you come to terms with the fact that your life will be completely different from here on in.

Sounds like a waste of fucking time to me.

Time’s all you got, you fucking dumbass.

I was silent after that. Imagine realising that for the rest of your life you’ll be trapped in a heavy, stinking metal box. I’m a child of Africa; I’ve slept under the stars, climbed mountains, swum in oceans. I’m so very, very scared.

That night, I’m sitting in my cell, writing in the journal the shrink gave me that morning. I’ve written my name and cell number in the top corner. He wants a Christmas memory, a time of happiness, of family, of carefree abandonment. I can remember a Christmas once.

I’m not sure how old I am, but I must have been around ten, maybe twelve. My family; my parents, my brother and I are heading to our regular Christmas function. I was raised in a French household, with a huge emphasis on community and large social occasions. My family were sugar cane farmers, along the north coast, and we would all go to my uncle’s farm, with its panoramic stoep, overlooking the cane covered hills, flowing down to the sea. I loved watching the wind move through the cane; it looks like waves, sweeping through a toy ocean.

We were late, and my father was speeding along the dirt roads. The roads were rough, corrugated from the heavy vehicles moving through the recent heavy rains. My family was quiet, each person caught in their own thoughts. They were strange dark times in South Africa then, fear, uncertainty were rife, friends and family packing and leaving, social unrest, violence spreading across the country.

We turned a corner, the back of my father’s truck sliding out in the gravel, and slammed to a halt. In front of us, a sight that to this day scars my memory. A young black man stood, his back pressed against the dirt wall of the corner. A yellow police car was pressed against his legs, holding him fast against the wall. There was no one in the car, and no one around. The man didn’t look up; ask for help, he just stood, head lolling on his chest. A second later, and my father sped off, just making it between the back of the car and the steep slope on the other side.

No one said a word. They were strange times, people disappeared all the time, and no one knew the truth, who to trust. I remember my face pressed against the window, the cold of the glass, squinting into the sun.

We arrived at my uncle’s house. No one said anything, we just carried on. Aware, of course, but scared. I remember my uncle pouring brandy over the cake and lighting it, I remember running through the cane, grabbing hold of a stick, and cutting my hand on the edges.

The sugar cane fields were places of mystery then. Growing up in Zululand, I was surrounded, immersed in local folklore and ancient tales. Animals were strange and large. Places were ominous, loaded with history and meaning.

My shrink says that those fears would have shaped my life, would have created certain behavior patterns that would have influenced the decisions and actions I took later on.

He asked me to write about those fears. He asked me to detail an instance when the environment caused me to feel something, to react. It’s hard for me to separate these things. In my later years, I took so many drugs that my memory is shot; all I can remember are snap shots, isolated moments in time.

Come on, there must be one instance, at least.

There’s a couple; my father and I on holiday, trapped by a cantankerous kudu. He had come between us and the car. His leg was in plaster, and he was tossing his horns, and snorting. My father and I were fishing, and the buck was moving closer, pushing us into the water. I remember thinking how brave my father was then, trying to draw the kudu away from me, so that I could move the other way, and reach the car. I miss my father, but I feel distant from him now, as if the person I’ve become is so far removed from the dreams and aspirations they held for me. We spoke just before he died, and I told him I loved him, and he squeezed my hand. I’ll always remember the childhood I was given in Zululand, as an exciting, scary time.

There’s a different sun in Zululand. The sun burns you, but you don’t feel it on your skin, you feel it from the inside out. The sun seems to hang pale, weakened. Maybe it’s the vastness of the blue, the sweeping expanse behind the glowing orb. The heat just lies on everything. It’s still, the sun doesn’t seem to move, the heat just lies, quiet, impassive, eternal. All you can hear is the incessant, loud buzzing of the insects, all you can feel.

That’s what I remember, that’s the setting to my memories, that huge blue sky, the sun, and the bugs. I remember the other things, the places, people, the moments, the stuff that’s lasted. But when I think, when I lie back here, on this bed, shut out the tight walls, and towering fences, I think of one day, one half hour meeting, by chance on a