Henry Fuckit Kills Time

By Ian Martin

When Henry Fuckit takes a job as storeman in the Simonstown naval dockyard, he has no intention of doing any work. This would debilitate him through the onset of chronic existentialist nausea. But to his surprise, he finds that no one there expects him to lift a finger. In the absurd world of the dockyard there are only two requirements: Henry must be physically present, and must pretend to be busy working on an important task.

To alleviate the boredom of a futile existence and to stave off waves of existentialist nausea, Henry doctors himself with Turkish Delight tobacco and his patented Vrotters elixir while he and his indolent colleagues while away the hours, engaging in pseudo philosophical discussion and quasi scientific research.

It’s all as ridiculously absurd as ‘Waiting for Godot’, but it’s on this platform that Ian Martin is able to explore ideas and play the fool with his off-the-wall alter ego.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Martin
• Release date: Apr 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458045706

Ian Martin

Ian Martin has led UN human rights and peace operations in countries including Rwanda, Timor-Leste, Nepal and Libya. A former Amnesty International secretary-general, in 2011–12 he was Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon’s post-conflict planning adviser, then UN support mission head, for Libya. His publications on UN intervention include Self-Determination in East Timor.

Book preview

Henry Fuckit Kills Time

PART THREE OF SIX of THE LIFE OF HENRY FUCKIT 1950 – 1980

IAN MARTIN

HENRY FUCKIT KILLS TIME

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IAN MARTIN

Discover other titles by Ian Martin at

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POP-Splat - http://www.pop-splat.co.za

Kikaffir: a Black Comedy - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/34561

Copyright © Ian Martin 2011

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Contents

1 He takes a room at the Olympia Residentia and applies for a job at the Dockyard

2 From Kalk Bay to Arles, with assistance

3 Henry’s first day at the Dockyard

4 He and Alf Whitehead get to grips with fundamental reality

5 Dear Kaye

6 Learning the ropes

7 Henry meets Harry and is told about the existence of Oxyaston

8 A preview

9 The relative importance of passing time

10 They visit the Dockyard's own subterranean conduit

11 Driven to distraction

12 Bergson prepares Henry for his expedition to South West Africa

1 He takes a room at the Olympia Residentia and applies for a job at the Dockyard

From Observatory Station he caught an empty mid-afternoon train to Kalk Bay. It stopped at every station on the way: Mowbray, Rosebank, Rondebosch, Newlands, Claremont, Harfield Road, Kenilworth, Wynberg, Wittebome, Plumstead, Steurhof, Diep River, Retreat, Steenberg, Lakeside, False Bay, Muizenberg, St James. No one got on and no one got off, but at each station the conductor called out all the remaining stops right through to Simonstown. He seemed to enjoy his job and shouted in a loud unhurried voice. When he came to clip Henry’s ticket he did it with enthusiasm, causing the punched-out little cardboard snippet to fly into the air. Henry marvelled at the way people were able to make something out of nothing. And they couldn’t all be dismissed as idiots. Take Jack Ponchielli.

Kalk Bay harbour looked deserted and a chill wind blew off the sea. Funnelling through the subway under the railway line it smelt of sea spray and human piss. He climbed the stairs to his room in the Olympia Residentia. These stairs were dirty and smelt of fish and chips and cat’s piss. In the room it was already dusk and as he lay down on the bed it was as if he was sinking into desolation and squalor. The narrow cramped room opened by way of French doors onto the east-facing covered balcony which ran the length of the building. By early afternoon the sun dropped behind the mountain and Kalk Bay lay in shadow. This is going to be a cold cheerless room, he thought as he kicked off his sandals and pulled a blanket over himself. This is going to be a terrible place. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to the wind bumping doors, the southbound evening traffic in the road below, the rattling commuter trains filled with stupefied catatonics. It depressed him to think of all those people going home. How dreary their lives were, and yet they were trapped, without any acceptable alternative. And what of his own situation? What options lay open to him? If he didn’t find some money soon he would be chased from this miserable hole out into the street to scavenge in the dustbins, to fight over bottles and cardboard. To beg and to steal. Not nice to contemplate. The horrible reality was beginning to haunt him. What a disgrace it would be if he was forced to become a Common Man and join the rest of humanity!

Jesus fucking Christ, what am I to DO?!

As if in answer to this prayer he heard a stealthy scratching at the door and then silence.

Huh! Bloody cat, or rats. Shit, I cry unto the Lord and He sends a rat to tell me to get fucked.

Faintly amused Henry relaxed and fell into a doze. The events of the past weeks drifted in and out of his consciousness in a blur of disjointed scenes. Although his pigeon loft had been spared from the flames that nasty, unforgiving landlord had refused to allow him to stay on. To their horror, he denied all culpability and, worse still, laid the blame for the fire squarely upon the shoulders of his suffering tenants. Luckily this room had come vacant at the Olympia, Ivor’s old digs, and Henry had taken it as a temporary measure until he could arrange something more befitting. On account of the metaphysical torment he was experiencing Ivor had decided to take a sabbatical and accepted the position of Assistant Farm Manager on his uncle’s maize and cattle farm in the Eastern Cape. Just for a year. Trevor had quickly fallen into the butter by meeting a thirty-six year old divorcee, of independent means and a secluded mountainside property at Constantia Neck. Of robust good health and with a hearty appetite, she was quick to distract the young student from the tribulations which had befallen him of late. Mike had surprised everyone by moving in with Guinevere, WB O’Keefe the librarian, Marie-Lou, sister to Guinevere, and the shaven-headed paroled convict, Guy Worrall. From Tel Aviv had come Kaye’s letter entrusting anything salvageable to Henry. Her letter had left him sick at heart. She was a self-centred bitch. He resolved to forget about her. The arguments with the landlord, the packing and unpacking, the transporting of sundry items to Kalk Bay, the storing of books and clothing, had all merged into an unpleasant jumble of experiences.

When he awoke he felt cold and fretful. There was a foul taste in his mouth and his eyes burned. What am I to do? Damn it! I must stir myself, get up, put on the light, go down the dark corridor to the toilet, piss, go to the bathroom, if it’s free, wash my face. Go out and buy something to eat. A pie and chips? A drink? Maybe walk through to the Robin Gordon.

He got up in the dark and switched on the light, screwing up his eyes against the dingy forty-watt bulb. With a sneer he spied the letter which had been pushed under the door. So much for rats. His prayer had been answered by post, distributed by the shadowy shuffling figure of the janitor.

Admiral VD Cockburn RN (rtd)

Room 13

Olympia Residentia

Main Road

Kalk Bay

It was addressed to the old alc who had occupied the room before him. Henry had met him once, soon after moving in, when he had knocked on the door and introduced himself. He was in search of his spare arm and they had found it, covered in dust and fly droppings, on top of the wardrobe. The old man had insisted on relating an unlikely tale of heroism and sacrifice culminating in an amputation. The story was extravagantly romantic but too garbled to be really entertaining. You get gifted liars and you get atrocious liars and you get pathetic liars. Admiral Cockburn fell into the third category. When