Skive

By Paul Adam Levy

When ‘Al’ is offered a promotion to a job he despises and is accused of a crime he is unsure if he’s committed, he flees.

Suffering from paranoia and delusions of stomach dwelling eels hell-bent on destroying him, ‘Al’ negotiates his way through the winter streets of London where he meets the mad, bad and noble.

Skive is a black comedy novella about one man’s search for hope, meaning and himself.

Reviews around the web:

★★★★★ The Reading Bud
"A brilliantly written book."

★★★★★ Laura of Lurking eBook Reviews
"This book was a fantastic metaphor for something I have yet to figure out, but also peeling away the layers we use to cover our lives, to give little things grace and meaning. It really captivated me."

★★★★ Sandra's Book Club
"Brilliantly candid and down-to-earth with a splash of humor! You can’t help but relate to it every step of the way."

3 out of 4 - Online Book Club
"Skive is a good fiction with dark humor that makes you laugh and also compels you to ponder over the bitter realities of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Adam Levy
• Release date: Dec 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370962839

Paul Adam Levy

Paul Adam Levy is an award winning playwright and author from North London. He holds a degree in Film from the University of Wales where he majored in screenwriting. Along with his passion for British and Irish sitcoms, his love of film has hugely influenced his writing style and storytelling techniques. In 2016 he won the NDFA Playwriting Competition for his satirical play Thank You for Protesting about the housing crisis in London and the public's right to protest.

Book preview

SKIVE

Paul Adam Levy

Copyright © 2014 by Paul Adam Levy

Cover art by Kate Broadhurst

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All rights are reserved to the author. No part of this ebook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All situations and mentions of business establishments and/or organizations are made in good faith and no negativity is aimed at them.

Chapter One

Pears

The rain streamed past the glow of the street lights as I listened to my steel toe boots pound against the pavement. Thud. Thud. Thud. It was 5am on a Sunday and even the birds weren’t up to greet me. I threw my hood up and buried my face into the tube collar of my jacket, breathing on the zipper to relieve the chill against lip. I had already padded out my top half with five layers, but my work-issued nylon trousers did little to stop the January wind against my legs.

At this time of the morning you don’t see a soul. Not a pet scurrying around, nor the lonely bedroom light of an insomniac. I’d often imagine, maybe even hope, that I was the last man on earth, walking these abandoned city streets. I’d live in that big furniture store off the North Circular and prepare tinned rations in make-believe kitchens and sleep in bedrooms without walls. I’d wander the lonely towns in a thousand pound suit and try on equally expensive lingerie, just for kicks. I’d be ruler of the wasteland. A king with a subject of one. And I’d be happy.

Thud. Thud. Thud. In the distance I could make out a figure that broke into the orange glare bouncing off the pavement. Who in God’s name was out at this hour? A willing subject for me to rule over? Or a threat to my throne of solitude? My heart began to race. My breathing became heavy. I squinted my eyes in a desperate attempt to make out who and what this figure was doing before I reached it. The downpour hadn’t fazed this 5am phantom as it darted between parked cars with military precision.

Be prepared for anything, I thought. Only the insane, the desperate, or traffic wardens would be out at this hour. In my pocket, I clenched my keys and positioned one to spike up between the knuckles. Aim for the neck, show no mercy. The adrenaline kicked in and I hadn’t noticed how fast my legs were carrying me nearer and nearer to the figure. Thud-thud-thud. I was only a few strides away. Be prepared. Aim for the neck. Take no prisoners! The figure spun round at the sound of my sloshing footsteps and I was surprised to see a chubby hippie in her fifties. She had a lonely, featureless face which stared back at me with total indifference. I stopped in my tracks and we both gave one another a sizing up. Rain splashed off her badly dyed black hair which was moulded to her scalp. The wool kimono she wore had soaked up all the rain it could, and now seeped dirt-tinted water. The parked cars she had busied herself with all had their windscreen wipers flicked out and pointed toward the black sky. She obviously did not consider me a threat and continued to flip the wipers out on the rest of the cars.

The rain drummed against my hood as I stood transfixed by the cars saluting the heavens. It was surreal. The atmosphere it created perfectly punctuated the isolation of the morning. But why? Why would anyone bother to do this? A petty grudge, perhaps? A political statement? Maybe I had just witnessed a notorious gorilla street artist at work and this was her masterpiece? Or maybe she was just insane? I had questions that needed to be answered. But before I could speak, she hurried down the adjacent cul-de-sac with her kimono sliding through the puddles.

I grew paranoid about the owners returning to their cars so headed to the bus stop, making a bet with myself that the driver had fucked me over once again.

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I got to the top of the road to discover that my nemesis had indeed got the better of me. Only a few meters from the stop, my bus was waiting at a red light.

Son of a whore.

I looked at my watch to accurately measure how enraged I should be. 5:18. The bus was meant to be there at 5:30. Every Sunday, for the last three weeks, the fat headed driver had been early, leaving me stranded for the 6am service, making me twenty minutes late for my shift.

Today I thought I’d catch him. Today I had left ten minutes early to accommodate the fat headed driver’s timetable, his own unique timetable which was forged on a whim and impossible to predict. I sprinted towards the bus held at the lights, cursing the driver’s existence, and thumped on the door. The fat headed driver stared dead ahead, ignoring my frantic lashings at his window. He focused every fibre of his body into wishing the red light to turn green. My fists banged and banged, but he was too busy praying to Jesus, Allah, the stars, the automated signal system, anyone, anything, that would turn the red light to green, just so he could again leave me out in the rain and late for work.

On the first week of this ongoing betrayal, he explained through the closed door that he could only let passengers on at designated stops. It broke protocol, he said. Health and safety, he said. He was only doing his job, he said.

The exhaust pipe tipped the edges of the bus stop markings painted on the road. The whole situation was ridiculous.

You made me late for work again, you bastard.

I sized up the emergency button on the door. I could press it and the doors would fling open to the sound of a deafening alarm. I could commandeer the bus by brute force! But I didn’t. I just stood in the middle of the road, humiliated. The bus drove off and all I could do was salute it with a middle finger and an endless string of curse words. It took me only a few steps to get back to the bus stop where I sat down and waited for the 6am service, which would be ten minutes late.

*

There were hundreds, possibly thousands, of carbonated bottles of soda. They five, six, maybe seven metres high, all flung together in a valley of mayhem and neglect. This was meant to be the soft drinks aisle of the warehouse, where the stock that couldn’t fit on the shop floor was stored. Now it was just a travesty. The surplus Christmas soda had been lobbed down the narrow aisle by the seasonal staff. Maybe it started out organised? Maybe the intentions of these temporary workers were good? But when the supply stream outnumbered demand, the stock continued to build until it couldn’t possibly be shelved in any logical way. All they could do was keep piling on the units - Cola on top of Pepsi, Fanta under Dr. Pepper, Sprite next to Ginger Ale. There were units of soda anywhere it could fit. It didn’t matter to the Christmas staff how this could be all organised, that would be someone else’s problem in the New Year. It was my problem.

The two litre bottles came from the suppliers in groups of six, with a thick plastic wrap binding them together. This equalled one single unit. Each one of these units contains twelve litres of soda, or approximately 23 kilos, of fluid. It was now my job to count, make a record of, and reorganise each one of these units.

"How long is this going take you, Al? Can you get it done by lunch?" My boss, Trevor, was standing next to me, hands on hips. He was clearly unfazed and unconcerned by this impossible task that was solely my problem.

Trevor was two years and six months away from retirement, something he would reminded me of daily, updating the countdown on a monthly basis. He had worked at this store his entire life, starting his Stock Managing career as soon as he left school. The poor bastard was probably counting down to his final shift in minutes.

I hated that he called me ‘Al’. He didn’t get to call me ‘Al’, he hadn’t earned the right. ‘Al’ was too chummy, it was as if he were asking me to hand him a beer as I flipped the steaks at his wedding anniversary. I’d worked in this warehouse ten years and he had always called me ‘Al’. ‘Al’. As if that was my name.

Trevor scratched his liver-spotted dome with a chewed-up biro, then went off to look busy elsewhere. This soda task was far too much for 6.30am. I’d only been awake for two hours, I still had hopes, dreams and self-respect. I needed to knock myself down to a self-hating drone with all the fight chiselled away before I could stomach a morning of manual labour. Maybe the final organised shelves of soda would be my great masterpiece? It could be an indictment on consumerism and individuality. That’s the sort of bullshit they go crazy over, I imagined. Maybe I could invite the hippy from this morning to critique my work and I could comment on her car windscreen piece? We could start an art club and I’d be discovered as a genius. This deranged daydream gave me energy and an odd feeling of hope. I grabbed the first unit and tallied it: Pepsi Max - one unit.

Martin, the store manager, approached me with his regularly mimicked smile and over-enthusiastic ‘good morning’ which meant he wanted you to do something not in your job description. It was usually met with mumblings of hatred and murder from employees, but today I could have hugged him for getting me out of this task which had instantly lost the glamour I’d foolishly assigned to it a moment ago.

Chris came in drunk and threw up on the pineapples. I had to send him home. Can you help produce finish dressing the store? He wanted me to get the rest of the fruit and veg out on the shop floor, something that normally filled me with dread. The shop floor was a battle zone of morons and time wasters who’d ask you questions about soup, cloves, bread, coconuts and God knows what else. They’d train their ugly children to be both visually and acoustically annoying while the little bastards ran under your feet. They’d occupy the aisles with their trolleys, creating an assault course designed to infuriate you. Normally, the shop floor was to be avoided at all times, but it was 6.45am on a Sunday and the store didn’t open for another two hours and fifteen minutes. For now, it was safe to adventure out to the killing fields.

I put down my clipboard and headed towards the swing doors. The very sight of them had always flooded my gut with an unsettling sensation. I would picture a swarm of black eels surging through my intestines, filling my soul with nausea and hate. They’d be clumped there, down in my gut, and pump me full of volts until I made it back into the safety of the warehouse.

Trevor bustled over to me in one of his familiar panics. Stress pumped through his veins like lava and they throbbed to the rhythm of his erratic heartbeat in a way that only a lifetime of early starts and a severe coffee addiction could do. I’d imagine him exploding in a violent gloop of blood when his veins boiled