Untitled by Francis Skelton

By Francis Skelton

"It's the work of someone experimenting, finding their range, voice and subject matter......the writing itself shows passion, energy, wit, commitment and insight." - Irvine Welsh

This story doesn’t have a name. It’s about two "frustrated artists". The narrator, deep in writer’s block, chances upon a bin bag full of scribbled notes under the bed of his newly rented room. Determined to make something out of nothing, he immerses himself in desperate tales of unemployment, misdirected passion, frustration, loneliness and fear at the end of the eighties and the beginning of the nineties. But the narrator forgets to consider the effect of his trespass or the consequences of travelling into the fragile mind of someone else.
A gentle warning; this story contains explicit language and adult themes.

ePub Version - read it on your eBook reader, smartphone or tablet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781471783296

Book preview

Epilogue

Prologue

I’ll be honest with you. 

I am totally out of ideas.  I’ve been trying like hell to come up with something that is worth putting down on paper but I’ve come up with jack shit.  So I’m going to give up and try an experiment: or just cheat…..

Geordie B. Hammersmith, 2005.

In February 1993 I moved in to a room in a rented house in Olde Towne.  A long period without any original ideas had made it impossible for me to live with my erstwhile flat mates.  In all honesty, after several months of me drinking to all hours of the morning and sitting around waiting for one of them to say something that would allow me to start an argument, break bottles, break windows, etcetera, etcetera, they told the landlord that it was either them or me.  The final straw was when I threw my malfunctioning Smith Corona typewriter out of the window at three o’clock on a Sunday morning.

Fuck ‘em.  I moved out and moved away to Olde Towne.  The new place was okay and the rooms had locks on the doors so I could live apart from my new flat mates if required.. 

The landlord was quite a cold fish.  He told me, any trouble and I was out.  Any bothering my other flat mates, the neighbours or any damage and I would be on my arse.  I was taken aback.  So I asked him if he had had any problems like that before.  He was most forthcoming:

You’re not fucking joking, I have!  The last cunt who had your room smashed the place up when he left!  And when he disappeared he was two months behind with the rent!

Oh?  Have you tried to track him down?

No.  He paused. To be honest with you I don’t think he was right in the head.

Why do you say that?

Well, for one thing he left all his stuff.  And none of his flat mates know where he went.  He didn’t talk to them much you see.  He was one of those quiet types.

What did he do?

Well he didn’t have a job.  I don’t know.  I think he was some kind of writer.

(Really?)

So they don’t know where he went then.

Well that’s what they say.  But I think he’s still around somewhere; somewhere close by.  Out of his mind with drink no doubt.

Heavy drinker was he?

I should say!  He paused again.  He didn’t use to be.  I wouldn’t have rented the place out to him if I’d known.  He paused again.  He looked perplexed.  I don’t know.  He seemed like a canny lad to me.  He was one of a few of these studenty types who you could have a normal conversation with; cheerful like, always had a joke or something funny to say.  He was likeable because He was always interested in what people had to say.  But saying that, he always seemed like his mind was somewhere else.  Like he was sad about something.

Hmm.

So anyway.  I’ve sold all his stuff that was worth anything.  He stopped and looked at me.  But I haven’t emptied his room entirely.  He turned around to leave.  If you can’t use the stuff that’s left, throw it out.

But what the hell was he talking about?  I turned and started to climb the stairs.  There wasn’t anything left in the room.  I opened the door and started to check again.  Nothing in the drawers.  Nothing in the cupboard. 

Stupid cunt.

I was tired from the move, so decided to have a lie down.  My bags were all over the room, I hadn’t unpacked, but I couldn’t be arsed at the moment.  I took my boots off and went to push them under the bed.  But they wouldn’t go under.  I pushed, but something was in the way.  Something was stuck under the bed.  I pushed the boots a bit harder but no joy.

Stupid cunt.

I pulled them out and, though I really couldn’t be arsed with this shit, I got down on the floor to have a look at what was under there. 

A black bin bag.  I reach around behind it to pull it out; it looked a bit tatty and I didn’t want to pull it in case it split.  Then I paused.  For a second. I thought about the fact that I wasn’t sure that I wanted to put my hand under the bed.  I didn’t know what might be under there, in the dark, in this as yet unknown room; there could be a mouse, or shit, or anything.  Stupid: the feeling left me, and I shoved the bag out.  It was a bit dusty but not very heavy.  I sat back down on the side of the bed and looked down at the black bag between my stocking feet.

It was knotted at the top.  I went to open it, then paused again.  Maybe I shouldn’t open it?  I know the landlord said I could do whatever I wanted with whatever I found but, at the same time, it wasn’t his stuff.  What if the previous occupant of this room wanted his stuff back at some time in the future?  What would I do if I was some drunken, somewhat violent nutter and I came in to my old room and found some cunt going through my stuff?

Hmm.  That said, the landlord has probably changed the locks.  And it’s probably just a load of old shit; it’s in a fucking bin bag after all.  I could always through it out later and if fuck head comes back asking for it I can always plead ignorance. 

So, fuck it, I opened it.  It’s probably only old porn anyway; the landlord certainly thought this bloke was some kind of wanker.  Mindful of the state old porn is sometimes in, I sniffed the open bag before putting my hand in it.  It didn’t smell too bad but there was definitely some old paper in there.  Still feeling like something of a thief, I carefully and sheepishly took each item out, placing them in a pattern across the floor.  There wasn’t much.  I pushed the bag back under the bed and looked at the things that I had spread out across the floor. 

It was mostly old note books.  There was one large red book, about A4; like the sort of thing a shop keeper would use to keep his accounts.  There were three smaller siblings to the red book; a red one, a blue one and a black one; they were cheaper and had shinier covers; the sort of thing you would by from a cheap shop.  Then there were three quite worn spiral note pads; the sort of thing a secretary would use; what are they called?  Shorthand notepads.  The last paper items were two ratty looking open letters, still in their envelopes.  There was something written on the envelopes that wasn’t an address: I’ll look at it later.  The rest of the stuff was what is called, in modern parlance, other media.  Four brightly coloured floppy disks (remember them?), blank cassette tapes (antiques!) and a video tape.  I picked one of the cassettes up and opened the box.  The title was written on the tape. 

Fucking Hell!  Billy Idol!

I looked through the others; The Smiths, Various 90s Rave On and the last one was untitled.  I put these on the bed and reached over to pick up the video.  On the label, someone had crossed out Apocalypse Now and written The Doors underneath.

Hmm.  I sat.  Poised.  Ready.  To do something.  But I wasn’t sure what it would be.

I picked up the big red book.  I opened it.  It was full of writing.  I skimmed through, noting that the passages, all written in blue, were headed with dates.  I skipped back; it looked like this had been some kind of diary which had been started in, where is it, 1985?  23rd October 1985.  Some of the passages were headed with titles; Anal, Oral; perhaps it is porn after all.  About three quarters through the book the writing stopped abruptly.  I looked back for the last date; Sunday, 1st February 1987.  Well, what do you know?  I really know how to put my nose in where it’s not wanted.  A fucking diary.  I looked back and something caught my eye; is that?....yes it is!  Fucking hell, poetry!  Hoo hoo.  I was giddy; aren’t we all voyeurs in some shape or form? I picked up the little books and thumbed through them quickly looking for more indicators.  They were written latter; early Nineties?  It looked like these were less diary and more ordered prose; there were structured passages with continued themes; London & Manchester, Work.  The spiral books were similar in structure to the small books but they were a bit scribbly; the handwriting was erratic.  These pads would take longer to transcribe.  (Believe it or not I wasn’t conscious of what that last idea meant; unconsciously I had already decided to do what I was about to do.)

I quickly pushed my bags out of the way so I could get to my laptop and my stereo.  Driven by enthusiasm, it only took a few minutes, a few harsh expletives shouted at the top of my lungs, to set up my comfortable surroundings.  I turned on the stereo and the lap top and reached over to pick up and put on the untitled cassette while the lap top booted up.  The tape started and it was some kind of classical thing.  I put one of the floppies in to the drive.  And there was a file called Anal, and sure enough, and motherfucker, he had started to type some of this stuff up!

I leaned back in my chair.  And pondered.  This did in deed present me with an opportunity.  It was so surprising, so unlikely, I found that I just could not consider not doing what I was about to do.  It was the animal in me you see; the fight of flight; the two options I am always faced with: face the fact that you have no idea what you should do next, or embrace anything, without thought of consequence, that will stimulate the mind and emotions.  The following ideas streaked through my head, travelling from justification to unassailable fact:  this bloke fucked off without paying his rent and I have decided that he won’t come back and this is my room now and the landlord said I could have anything that I found so this all belongs to me and no-one else wants it and its mine now and he’s never coming back.  I scrabbled through the pads for proof of my ownership; no name, no address, nothing on front or back covers.  No names anywhere.  So why not, why not?  What harm can this do me?  If it’s shit, if I can’t use it, it might at least inspire me.

Suddenly the music changed.  It was quite startling; unusual and loud.  I recognized it.  It’s from the film with all the clouds and cars andh people shooting around at high speed.  It’s that minimalist music, it’s that Philip Glass, what’s it called, funny name; I’ll find out latter.

I looked at the stuff strewn around the room, the books and disks on the desk, the books on the floor and the tapes on the bed.  He had an interesting taste in music.  It’s like his taste has developed from Billy Idol, to the Smith’s to………Hey wait a fucking minute!  That’s an idea………

Part 1: Eyes Without A Face

COMING OUT OF THE WOMB

Pre-natal

Monday, 23rd September 1985

00:28 - Soon I’ll be on my way to U and I’m quite apprehensive, not to say scared shitless, about the prospect.  I hope that there is no hassle.  Aaaaaaarrrgggghhh: Extreme Fear.

Unless something happens soon the prospect of getting closer to Cath seems to be disappearing.  Not only do I not have much time, I also think nothing would come of it anyway.  I don’t know how to handle the situation, i.e. whether to remain friends and ensure a long relationship (I think that’s what would happen) or go for it, which I am dying to do (Ah.  The old in/out.) The latter would result in either (or all) of the following: -  a) making a fool of myself when rejected, b) losing friendship through sexual desires, i.e., too fast too much, c) being pissed off/jealous through going away.  The worst thing is that if I don’t decide soon I can see me losing touch entirely with Cath and Stella.  I am too egotistical to keep phoning Cath.  I want her to phone me.  I don’t want her to think of me as some lap dog who can be teased or treated indifferently because I’ll keep coming back.

If only I was sure about what she felt.  I wish I had tried at Morticia and Lilly’s party.  This situation plus the unknown of U has put me in a stasis field.  Goddamit it girl, respond!  Love me!  I can’t do much at the minute through all of this.  The two girls are coming around tomorrow so we will see.

Must go down to sign on on Wednesday, complain about no money and tell them about U.  Stop the world, I wanna get off!  (at least for awhile.)

Wrote to Tilda last night.  Droned on about Universities. 00:55

10:37 - I feel knackered.  Just as I was drifting off to sleep the dogs started barking.  Cherry’s going on as if there was a war, and it’s only the old man over the back doing the garden.  I got some literature from U this morning.  No accommodation forms however.  I bet I get stuck in some shit hole of a room with a fucking Rah.  Before I go I’ve got to get a rail card, rechargeable batteries and a recharger - consider getting a beer making kit (could leave this until Xmas).  Also must!!! get new headphones.  What else?  Pens & Pencils etc.  Get some passport photos.  Just remembered, I must get a student rail card.

What should I take?

Shoes & Clothes - most of them

Walkman – essential

Box of tapes - re-record Smiths

Glasses - both pairs

Comics - A/F, Spi, Grimj, C.B.

Hairdryer + brush

toiletries bag + contents

(2 Plates + k, f, s, ts, 2 cups)

A Quilt?

(Record Player + records)?

Cath

Posters (if necessary - buy some)

MONEY!!!! - lots of.

A folder with paper

(Stella Glasses [take with beer kit])

MORE MONEY

Video Recorder

Porsche

Motor-way

House

All friends

The World

Wanker!

I’ll see if this takes up much room and then think about some more swag. 10:59

25th September

3:11 P.M.

Happy Birthday to Me, Happy Birthday to Me,

Happy Birthday Dear Saviour,

Happy Birthday to Me!  N-n-n-n-nineteen!

Bill N’s address in M

Flat 19,

Block 3,

Garside House,

Whitbread Park

M.U.

Shit, I’ve got no excuses for not going now.  N goes tomorrow. 3:20 P.M.

Sunday 29th September

1:15 P.M. - N is gone, Pie is gone, Holly is gone, Winny is gone and Birdy is gone.  Oh, wow!  It’s like conscription.   I’ve got my accommodation  - self-catering, shared room in a student house.  Exactly the opposite to what I wanted, however, it’s very close to the U which is extraneously good.  On Thursday night went for a meal with Cath.  I had to eat hers (wishful thinking) and it was all quite nice.  Then to The Wine- Pie pissed out of skull.  Went to ‘Ave’ then ‘Park’ - saw Almond and Bono and Erico but no Bill (hooray!).  ‘Jahnny!’ came.

Yesterday - Wedding went all right.  The night wasn’t so good.  I must stop causing trouble with Cath; if I’m not talking about what’s on my mind I can’t really blame her for not knowing. 1:30

4:30 - Same day. MERDE!  I can’t be arsed.  I’m too knackered to move.  Cath is the same.  She’s so tired she can’t walk.  God, I’d like to be fooling around with her now.  Nowt!  4:33

4:42 - I’ve got to make a list of the swag I need for University (a serious one this time).

Clothes & Shoes (see later*)  1) Walkman + both pairs of headphones  2) Box of Tapes,  3) Hairdryer + both hairbrushes  4) Both pairs of glasses  5) 2 sets of sheets  6) Quilt + 2 covers   7) 2 Pillows  8) 2 plates  9) 2 bowls  10) 2 forks  11) 2 knives  12) 2 cups  13) 2 teaspoons  14) 2 large spoons  15) Toiletry bag  16) toothbrush  17) tooth paste  18) soap 19) Apri  20) Shampoo  21) sponge  22) Talc  23) deodorant 24) razors 25) Shaving cream  26) After shave (why?)  27) Record Player + records (if there is enough space) 28) sowing kit  29) cooking cards (and book?)  30) Comics - Am. Flag, Spidey, Grimjerk, C.B. + others if necessary.

Stuff still to be bought - 1 pair shoes (?), 1 pair of trainers (?), Battery recharger + rechargeable batteries, Healthy cook book (ones with a cold will not be accepted).

31) Medicine things (?)  32) washing powder  32) Food?  33) Washing up liquid  34) Get some books 35) Pens + pencils + paper  36) paints + equipment  37) me.  Come back later. 4:57

5:00 - 38) 2 small towels  39) 2 large towels  40) 1 beach towel  41) 2 tea towels.  5:03

Friday, 4th October

1:05 P.M. - Last day of civilisation.

10th October

12:00 - Welcome to  U.  I’ve been here six days now and everything is good.  My house is full of good people and I’ve met some good Meat.  Anyway, this is just a note.  A more full entry will follow soon.  12:01

Friday, 11th October

11:56 - Got very pissed last night.  Went out with Attila, Toyah, Ocker, Rachel and Gen.  The last two are from Wales (oh, the shame of it!) and the others are Southerners.  I have found that Southerners aren’t all bastards.  Tried some ‘Bob Hope’ last night (‘Canvas’).  Didn’t do too much for me (I later found out that I didn’t know how to inhale).  Tried to get ‘really chummy’ with Gen last night.  She didn’t like it.  Ahhzuhfuckinahhh!

Thinking about going home tomorrow and taking Attila and Toyah.  I’ll phone ‘Jahnny’ to see