Week 12 - Andrew - Mystery

A man buries a sealed box in his back garden.

A woman put a dark wig over blonde hair in a train station bathroom.

There’s a red Toyota Carina. The front door is open. My best friend is slumped over the steering wheel, his brains leaking onto the vinyl dash. In his hand is a toy gun.

The man sitting next to me on this aeroplane is sweating. He’s wearing a bulky woollen jumper, unusual, in June. He’s staring dead ahead, blank. We roll towards take-off. He starts to pray, quietly.

My mother was dying. Holding my hand, she told me there was a secret in our family. She said it went back to my grandfather. She said I was the only one who would understand, and that my brother must never know.

It was the first summer we rented the beach-house. This was before it got bad, before we started to see the boats come in. Your sister still had both her feet…

The voices would come late at night. They came through the streets, past the church, and the small school, to the house. They came up the stairs, and down the hall. They would wake the children, always with the same insistent tone. The children cried - they did not like to be reminded of what happened on The Darkest Night (the children always called it The Darkest Night, when they whispered about it). The voices did not care. They continued to ask - what happened us? where did we go?

Sgt. Velasquez opened the hatch between the two ships. The cooling systems hummed. The dashboard twinkled in soothing green. All four EVA suits were stowed in their compartments. A warm vac-pot of coffee stood on the table, with the remains of four rehydrated meals gently steaming. The life-support systems showed that the ship was completely empty. Velasquez stood still. The mayday signal still pinged through his headset.

Joanne’s father showed her how to listen to the numbers stations - secret broadcasts from Moscow, London and Washington, beaming coded messages over the airwaves to lonely agents, far from home. The numbers station on LW205.4 had broadcast the same pattern for thirty years;  A recording of a woman with a light Russian accent would read out twelve numbers, then there was a burst of recorded waltz music. The woman would then call out twelve letters ‘yankee, echo, zulu...’  and finally more waltz music. For thirty years, through boarding school, college and the lonely times after she moved to London, Joanne would tune in most evenings to hear the faint, authoritative russian voice cut through the static. She was dozing gently, when the waltz cut out, and an unfamiliar man’s voice, live - not recorded -  started to call out urgently - numbers, letters. The same sequence of three, over and over.

I turned sixteen the day Dr. Schneider shot himself. It was a golden Buenos Aires summer afternoon, and we were on the avenida, us guys and some girls from my class. The guys smoking and passing around a bottle, the girls - my god, the girls - giggling and dancing. Not yet the women they would become.  Juanma had his transistor radio, and we were listening to American rock and roll. We heard the shot over the music. It was weeks before we remembered the fidgety Austrian, who had asked around the neighbourhood - looking to make an appointment with the doctor.

I opened the fridge - inside, my tupperware. I knew as I picked it up - To be honest, I knew before then - the chicken fillet was gone. A sarcophagus of rice and congealed curry sauce kept an imprint of where it had been. My note, authoritative in biro on post-it, stating: ‘Niamh’s lunch’ now a mockery. I looked around. They were no longer my colleagues. They were my suspects.

Adobe Acrobat reader hasn’t changed functionality in at least ten years. The upgrade requests arrive without fail. I have decided to ignore them. No bad can come of this.

Week 12 - Laura - Mystery

I had originally planned another piece involving death for this week, but I just didn't have the stomach to write it. Instead, inspiration for the storyline of a children's book hit. Ideally it would have some great illustrations. I've been busy covering the local election count (and re-count - the gift that just keeps on taking!) though, and I'm not much of an artist, so you'll have to use your imagination for those.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

My mam always says it's a mystery how so many socks go missing in the wash.

It's not a mystery. She just doesn't know. But I do.

Every washing machine has a secret escape hatch high up in the corner at the back that socks can just about wriggle through.

If socks have been hanging out with cool shoes they'll sometimes stay and be washed.

But if they're bored, or if they've been worn with boring goodie-two-shoes, they'll escape for some fun and do things socks normally don't get to do...

...like go for a walk on a sandy beach
...or put on flip-flops
...or go paddling
...or even get tucked up under the duvet and go for a snooze.

Most of the time the socks crawl back through the escape hatch in the washing machine before my mam takes the clothes out to dry.

But sometimes they're having too much fun and forget.

And that's why so many socks go missing in the wash.

Week 11 - Laura - Something that annoys you

Audi AG,

International Customer Service,

85045 Ingolstadt,

Germany

11/05/14

To whom it concerns,

You've been making the A4 model since 1994, and while I think you've really nailed it on most aspects I'm disappointed you still haven’t managed to perfect - or even drag up to a passing grade - its in-car cup holder. Would you perhaps consider extending some of your famous ‘vorsprung durch Technik’ to the matter?

The cup holder in the A4 is one of the most ineffective I've ever seen. Its arms are just too low, offering little to no support to any container with a centre of gravity that’s higher than that of a tea cup. 

Your Irish website - www.audi.ie - describes the interior of the Audi A4 as being of ‘top quality and functionality’ and says the model is not just a car, but ‘a mobile personality’.

Functionality claims aside for the moment, ff that’s the case then my car’s cup holder is a particularly vindictive part of my car's personality.

Just this morning it launched half of my super healthy green smoothie out of its container and let it dribble down next to the gearstick and handbrake as well as onto the passenger seat...just because I’d driven round a slight bend. I'm not sure what effect it will have on the coke that went the same way last week.

The UK Carbuyer Guide suggests that the A4 ‘could be more fun’. It certainly could have been yesterday morning anyway.

Figures from last month show that Audi is the tenth most popular car brand in Ireland after VW, Toyota, Ford, Hyundai, Skoda, Renault, Kia, Nissan and Opel. The A4 is the country’s 19th most popular model of car.

Clearly the terrible cup holder is holding the A4 back, and I can’t but think that by rectifying the matter the otherwise very attractive model might gain a few more points in the popularity stakes.

Please give this issue the attention it deserves. I will look forward to a progress report regarding advances in the area in due course.

Warmest regards,

Laura

Week 11 - Andy - Something that annoys you

“These damned greenfly are back!” In front of me, Sir Alex Gilheath is inspecting a rosebush. He’s calling to his wife, Ann, who is twenty feet away, on the patio. “Ordinarily, she’d be taking care of the greenfly, but the grass is too damp.” He tells me about the car accident twenty years ago that confined her to a wheelchair, and left her prone to seizures.

Sir Alex peers back into the rosebush. Despite being 75, he still carries himself like an athlete. He tells me he walks five miles each day, to the village and back. On Tuesdays, he says that a girl comes in, so he will take the train up to London. He takes lunch at his old club, and comes home in time for supper.  

I’ve travelled down to take a look at the man myself. For five years, I’ve interviewed drug dealers, warlords, and gang leaders. To interview these men (and one terrifying woman), I’ve had to wear masks, I’ve been bundled into the back of Land Cruisers. I’ve not yet inspected rosebushes in Surrey.

There are a couple of things in common with most drug dealers that I’ve spoken to - paranoia, ego, a need to justify what they do (you see this when they start funding community groups, and talking about the area they come from. They start wanting to believe that they are Robin Hood). You’ll see slimy charmers, hippies who got in over their heads, and sly thugs.

It’s not normal that they retire old - and when they do, they’re not ordinarily annoyed by greenfly in a nice, normal four-bed detached in Surrey.

I haven’t mentioned any of this to Sir Alex. I want to meet him. As I found out more about the history of heroin in the UK and Europe, during the 70s and 80s, I started to feel there was a huge black hole.

Drug numbers are always fudged - reported street values are always higher, Addict numbers are always lower, and the volume of heroin reported as coming into a country will either be higher or lower depending on the election cycle. Gangs were bringing in heroin from Afghanistan through Amsterdam, but the reported supplies didn’t even come close matching the reported demand.

When I arrived, Sir Alex walked me through the living room out to the garden. There are pictures of him, young and squinting in military uniform, in deserts, and later, as an officer in Northern Ireland. Then his wedding to Ann. There’s only one other picture, taken in Hong Kong, in what looks like the early 90s. He still has some colour in his hair, and he’s standing in front of a half-completed skyscraper, wearing a hard hat. He’s standing with two chinese men, and a man I later find out, through some tactical googling, to be David Wilson, the Governor of Hong Kong at the time.

The more I asked around about the supply of heroin in the 70s and 80s, the more cagey people became. Anyone who might have been able to tell me anything was either dead, or too paranoid to give any worthwhile information.

A few years ago, I ghost wrote a book - the autobiography of an East End hitman, just out of 25 years in jail. The book made him out to be an old school gangland enforcer, well dressed and vicious. He appeared on chat shows, opened nightclubs, and even starred in a rap video. In reality he was a broken man - when he was arrested at twenty three, he hadn’t known anything else, then he had spent his life in jail. Outside, and completely alone, he called me when he was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. I ended up sitting with him during his chemo.

Work was slow during those months, and as we chatted, I told him I was working on a book, and i’d seen this gap in the figures during the 70s and 80s. He looked at me in suprise. He said the real problem was regulating supply. “We had so f’cking much of the stuff, we were hiding it in lockups all over the shop’.

He talked about the heroin arriving in packages covered in Chinese script. He said he once went out to Heathrow to pick up a load, and it was like signing for cargo “Might has well have been f’cking library books!”. He saw crates being loaded off a Cathay 707 and put onto lorries. Then he was handed the key. Security waved him out.

From this, I started to dig, and it all led to Sir Alex Gilheath. Sir Alex - former para, alleged MI6 during the early 70s. Sir Alex, who received his knighthood for services to the crown in Northern Ireland. Sir Alex, developer in Hong Kong. Sir Alex, global supplier of deniable Chinese heroin and Chinese Type 56 assault rifles.

Sir Alex, still talking about greenfly. We talk for another half hour. I’ve told him I’m a writer looking for stories about the Hong Kong handover. We chat about land prices, and the good and bad of Chinese rule. He hasn’t been back since ‘97. He makes the three of us some tea, Ann falls asleep, and he moves her out of the sun.

I never ask him anything about his life. I don’t know what I would ask. I say goodbye, and he warmly shakes my hand. He walks me to the door, and says to get in touch if I would like any more colour. He apologises that he’s lost touch with his old contacts in the administration.

When I was growing up in Hownslow in the ‘80s, we lived under the flightpath at Heathrow. I remember lying in bed, listening to the planes coming in. Big jets, thundering in on approach, bellies full of heroin for Brixton and Guilford, and rifles for loyalist Belfast estates.

Week 10 - Andy - Death

This week, I conducted an experiment - I wrote this weeks' thing when I was just back a night out. I was under the influence, and wanted to see how that impacted on my writing. The below has been edited for grammar, but is as I wrote it in my hotel room in London.

When I think about death, here’s how it goes: I look out the window of the A320 on takeoff. The view is familiar to millions - Grass, runway, wing, engine. As the engine spools up, we start rolling down the runway. The pilot (I can’t see him, but I feel the effects) pushes the throttles all the way forward. The turbofans (Seattle alloy grey) start straining against the airframe. The engine pylons - one on each side - carry the full force of the engines, and drag 138 passengers, their luggage and tea, coffee, heated meals and perfume along the runway.

As we rotate (when the plane leans back on its wheels, the nose pointed towards the sky), one of the pylons starts to shear. Alloys aren’t perfect - thousands of take-offs and landings have taken their toll - an imperfect alignment of microscopic defects are a losing lottery ticket.  There’s a lurch - kicking awake from a half-sleep - and I look out the window. The right (starboard?) engine has sheared loose from the wing. The nacelle is spinning back, over the wing, towards the grass, The fan is slicing through the thin aluminium skin. The wing, now free of both the weight and the thrust of the engine, starts to lift.

I know we’re going to smash into the ground - the same movement as flipping a pancake. No oxygen masks descend, no one looks at the flight attendants. Everyone is riding a rollercoaster, rattling around a barrel roll after a slow climb. There’s a clear instinct to this movement, the wing lifts, we flip over, and out the window, after a brief flash, the overcast sky is suddenly underneath the green grass.

I’m conscious for the entire rotation. I don’t have time to think of my wife, or the problems i’ve left behind. All I can think of is dove grey alloys, clear, well maintained green grass and perfect, bright overcast skies. I have irrelevant thoughts - overcast skies are perfect for photographers; how do they maintain the grass in airports - and then we’re falling.

In imagination, planes crash in slow motion, gracefully stepping out of the sky- picturesque, slow motion fireballs. In reality, you miss a step, trip, and fall down a flight of stairs.  Gravity is a constant - 9.81m/s squared.

Four forces act on an aircraft; lift, gravity, thrust and drag. Wings are designed in such a way as that a certain amount of thrust (enough to overcome drag, and then some) will provide enough lift to overcome gravity. Once the mechanics of thrust (engines) and lift (wings) are taken out of this mathematical equation, the result shifts towards drag and gravity.

At the apex of the loop, 95 metres above the ground, the Airbus A320 has lost all lift.

Seen from a distance, the colours are complimentary - silvery gray skies, green fuselage, mist coloured wings, and emerald grass -  an orange bloom of flame, and black smoke, after the impact.

I’m gone. I don’t see the Sky news reports, the terrible phone calls, and the frantic drives to airports and hospitals.

I saw an upside-down wing strike the ground, and felt the man next to me grab my arm. I heard screaming, and wasn’t sure if it was me.

I was alive for longer than I thought - I felt the crash, then it was darker than I thought it would be, for longer than I thought.

Week 10 - Laura - Death

“She’s not going to be happy with me,” I think, as I wait for Mary to pick up the phone.

I met Mary, oh, it must have been six years ago now, at a GIY meeting, but she quickly became more than just a fellow hobbyist and we've been thick as thieves ever since. I tell her pretty much everything, and though I promised to tell her if anything like this happened again, I'm not looking forward to this call.

“I've killed another one,” I blurt out, as soon as she picks up with her usual sing-song “Hello, Mary speaking” greeting.

“Oh Nuala,” she says, but I press on before she can continue. If I don’t tell her all the details straight away the shame will stop me going on.

“I left my precious baby alone when I went away for that conference this week,” I explain quickly. “I really couldn't miss the conference,” I add, pointlessly trying to build some sort of defence for myself.

“I thought I’d left her enough of everything to make it through the week, but boy was I wrong," I rush on. "You remember how I killed her older sister last year by smothering her? Well since then I've maybe been trying to balance those tendencies by really holding back with the basics like food and water. I just didn't want to overwhelm her. I thought she’d been looking peaky of late, but I never for a second imagined that she’d die!

“When I came back late last night I went to see her straight away, but I knew immediately it was too late - there was no saving her.”

“Oh Nuala, we've been over this a million times,” Mary says, and I can tell she’s annoyed even though she’s trying not to sound it. “Orchids are really particular. I can’t stand by and let you kill any more of the beauties; perhaps from now on you might just accept you and orchids are not compatible and stick to spider plants and peace lilies instead.”

Week 9 - Andy - Advice

I am not qualified to give advice on any subject save one. It’s unlikely that you are looking to run a national advertising campaign to launch a new mobile phone tariff. The following, therefore is some advice that (while I am absolutely unqualified), I feel comfortable sharing.

1) If you are furious with someone or something, drink some water, wait ten minutes, and then react - Irritability is the first sign of dehydration - you’d hate to be half way through a blazing row and discover that the only reason you’re so worked up is that you forgot to grab a bottle of Volvic with your lunch.

2) When cooking, go with your gut, when baking, follow the recipe - I am bad at accurately following instructions, so my baking is awful. I am good at on-the-fly repairs and adjustments, my cooking is passable.

3) Technology will not go backwards - SCART will never be a standard you’re likely to use again. Throw those leads away. Minidisk, on the other hand is a technology that will never die.

4) If you learn to fix things yourself, you’ll have a huge amount of guilt when you don’t have time to, and are reluctant to pay someone else to do it instead. The object will go unrepaired and you will feel bad. It’s better than being ripped off.

5) I hang on to all important-looking post. No one has ever asked me for any of it. I’m scared to throw it out, just in case. Don’t be me. I will die, crushed under a pile of promotional mailouts from my insurance company.

6) Sharp knives are safer than blunt ones.

7) You can’t ever completely win an argument with someone you care about. Find a way that works for everyone, and stay focused on the one issue you’re dealing with. Arguing sucks, but capitulating, so as to avoid it, ultimately breeds as much resentment as forcing someone else to give in. It’s probably best to avoid any resentment with people you love.

8) Some quick rules for air travel: a) Never check luggage unless absolutely avoidable. b) Sit as far towards the front of the plane as possible. It’s quieter, and you can disembark first. c) Pack and dress, knowing you have to go through security. d) It’s ok to drink at ludicrous times if you’re spending more than 10 hours travelling. e) Charge your phone and computer when you have the opportunity.

9) That thing you haven’t tried could be the best thing in the world. And you won’t know if you haven’t tried it. (The Chicken Teriyaki principle)

10) Getting rid of possessions is more fun than acquiring new ones.

11) Learning anything new is always good. People who see life differently have more to offer you than people who see life the same way. Therefore, don’t discount anyone on the basis that you don’t share interests.

12) If you are going to cook duck breast, trim and score the fat, season, and put it skin side down in a cold pan on a hot hob. Periodically drain the fat and use this to make amazing roast potatoes. You’re welcome, weightwatchers!

13) If you are going to meet new people, and want to come across well, bring some breath mints. You will be more confident - your breath will be one less thing to worry about.

14) Buy nice glasses. It’s no fun drinking cocktails from a wine glass, or a nice Malbec from a tumbler.

15) Make room in your freezer for ice cubes. Buy big bags from the supermarket- ice makes any drink feel like an occasion. Also - you can use ice cubes to coagulate the fat from roasting juices, to speed up gravy-making.

16) Ikea furniture is easy to build, but difficult to keep looking well.

17) It’s hard to find the perfect cafe for reading. If you do - don’t tell everyone about it.

18) Life is too short to finish bad books.

19) Eating alone in a restaurant can be a lovely way to spend an evening in a foreign city. Bring a good book, order a demi-carafe of wine, and relax.

20) Buy new socks to feel like a millionaire on the cheap. Iron your underpants as a special treat. Keep one or two shirts you only wear for special occasions.