{"id":17623,"date":"2025-04-18T16:48:57","date_gmt":"2025-04-18T15:48:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/cassandravoices.com\/?p=17623"},"modified":"2025-04-18T16:48:57","modified_gmt":"2025-04-18T15:48:57","slug":"fiction-the-text","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/2025\/04\/18\/fiction-the-text\/","title":{"rendered":"Fiction: The Text"},"content":{"rendered":"

Saturday morning and Lil\u2019Johnny was on his way to work on the Market. He walked along the long curve of street that ran along the bottom of the hill bordering the old marshes where now stood council estates. The tall towers stood like giants against the clear cold blue sky where the first rays of orange-golden sunlight lit up the morning sky. The road was shiny and quiet, anticipating the monotonous roar of traffic that was sure to follow. A pair of skittish wood pigeons leapt from the ground at Lil\u2019Johnny\u2019s approach, the heavy beat of their wings breaking the silence.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Lil\u2019Johnny walked the long road until the bend where he turned into the park. The park too stood at the bottom of the hill, a great field ringed by trees. Up on the hill the close-knit silhouettes of Victorian facades looked down into the park and out over the marsh. In the park the sky opened out as if one looked up at an ocean above, a great blue expanse. He crossed the park, entering the walkway beneath the railway line and from there along a long sliver of park-lined path. Then abruptly right heading cross-country to the gate on the far side of a grassy green playing field.<\/p>\n

As Lil\u2019Johnny turned right the Singing Bush tweeted and chirruped making him smile. The Singing Bush is a large undistinguished shrub that emits the sound of chirruping finches although not one of the little birds can be seen, completely invisible in the thicket of branches and leaves. Looking at the Bush one sees and hears a spirited shrub singing.<\/p>\n

Through the gate onto a little path along a row of houses, across the road, down a backstreet and then up the grafitti-ed cobbled alleyway onto the Market. The metallic clink of poles of stallholders erecting their metal-frame structures, greets Lil\u2019Johnny. Boxes litter the road, vans parked across, the movement of bodies, soul music from a radio, a cluster of chain-smoking locals sitting outside the cafe. Lil\u2019Johnny walks briskly down the street, looking neither left nor right, dodging the assorted obstacles living and inanimate.<\/p>\n

Lil\u2019Johnny arrives at the Shop, just one of the hodge-podge of shopfronts lining either side of this mile-long medieval street that acts as Market on some days and High Street on others. \u201cRobert Walkers\u201d is written in large golden letters over the Shop. Below the sign is a large plate-glass window and to the right a single doorway leading inside. The Shop consists of a long wide corridor bordered on either side by high shelves overflowing with cut-price groceries and products \u2013 an Aladdin\u2019s cave.\u00a0 At the far end of the Shop is a wooden table with cash register. Out the back is a vast storeroom.<\/p>\n

Outside, Raja patiently sets up the stall, his slow thoughtful movements speak of his three decades performing this ritual. He turns his old lanky frame and smiles at Lil\u2019Johnny\u2019s approach, revealing a set of brilliant white teeth set against his dark Tamil skin, a sharp hooked nose and streaky black hair combed over his shiny pate. As usual he is smartly turned out in shiny dress shoes, sharp suite trousers, button-down shirt and overcoat. Lil\u2019Johnny salutes him as he passes though the door into the Shop.<\/p>\n

As Lil\u2019Johnny is about to head into the back he brushes against the corner of a shelf inadvertently and CRASH! An avalanche of junk falls off. \u2018Fucking, fuck, fuck \u2013 Big Johnny you bastard \u2013 clean your shit up!\u2019 he curses to the empty shop. He hastily clears up the fallen boxes, dirty plates, cups of mouldy rotting tea-bags and assorted out-of-date packets of god-knows-what. He heads out the back into the storeroom, down the rickety wooden stairs and dumps the smeared crockery in the small sink. \u201cYou can clean up this bloody mess yourself,\u201d Lil\u2019Johnny says to the Boss who is not there.<\/p>\n

Thus his workday begins. Lil\u2019Johnny leverages the weighty front door off its hinge and drags it into the\u00a0 back; he hoovers the floor with the trusty but mutilated Henry patched up with masking-tape; he fills baskets with nuts and, bending over the stall outside, flips the bags expertly into rows. In the middle of his routine Lil\u2019Johnny spies Big Johnny, the Boss, sauntering towards the Shop. The Boss\u2019 belly sticks out before his tall wide ageing frame, his white button-down shirt falling out of his baggy trousers and comfortable shoes adorn his feet. \u201cHere comes Johnny!\u201d calls Lil\u2019Johnny to the approaching figure. \u201cMornin\u2019\u201d the Boss says by way of return.<\/p>\n

Big Johnny is vexed as usual. \u201cCome on, come on, we\u2019ve got to get this stall out,\u201d he says impatiently, pulling out a box here, dumping something out of another there, rearranging one corner then another in a seemingly pointless haste. Raja gesticulates wildly at the Boss and shouts something about buying too much junk which the Boss ignores. Lil\u2019Johnny smokes an insolent cigarette, watching the passing scene of early shoppers and day-trippers. Lil\u2019Johnny hears the beep-beep of his phone. He pulls out the little brick of plastic and looks into the archaic screen which reads:<\/p>\n

\u201cHow was the DJ gig last Saturday? (heart)\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Yes, there was a gig last Saturday, and yes Lil\u2019Johnny had DJ-ed. But who was the text from? Lil\u2019Johnny hates it when people did not sign off their texts with their name. It made for the situation that had just arisen. The number, ending 611, had not been saved to his phone. He had no idea who had sent it. \u201cCome on, come on,\u201d orders Big Johnny, \u201cGet me a barrel out the back.\u201d Lil\u2019Johnny snaps to attention and rushes out the back leaving the Text till later.<\/p>\n

The stall consists of a long low table out in the street, piled with goods \u2013 herbal teas, 2litre olive oil, boxes of latex gloves, bags of sweets, 3kg brown sugar, packets of broken biscuits, nuts and dried fruit, bars of chocolate, spaghetti and lasagna sheets, dried chickpeas and tins of powdered milk. The stall\u2019s flank is protected by a wall of blue barrels. On a stack of yellow crates sits a round battered Quality Street tin which acts as the cash register. Looking behind, Lil\u2019Johnny can see through the door and into the back of the Shop where Raja and Big Johnny stand serving customers; there\u2019s an animated conversation going on Lil\u2019Johnny can\u2019t hear. \u201cAh \u2013 that Text…\u201d he remembers.<\/p>\n

\u201cSat woz good fun. Sorry u couldn\u2019t make it. What u up to 2nit? Lil\u2019Johnny\u201d<\/em> he punches into the keypad – Send \u2013 thinking, thinking – Sent.<\/p>\n

This gets Lil\u2019Johnny wondering who it could be. Marta \u2013lovely long legs, wide strong back, cute bob? Sally \u2013 older, tresses of long golden hair, a subtle bust he hasn\u2019t quite figured out yet? Or one of those random meetings in the pub which had lead to a conversation and exchange of numbers? It puzzled Lil\u2019Johnny. \u201cStop slacking and serve that customer,\u201d barks Big Johnny pointing to a woman at the end of the stall holding out a box of tea. Yikes! Lil\u2019Johnny pulls out a blue plastic bag and slopes across the stall with a servile \u201cMadam…\u201d.<\/p>\n

Thereafter the trade begins. \u201cYes sir, that\u2019s \u00a31\u2026.4 for \u00a31 on those Madam\u2026.Would you like bag?\u2026…The price of the oils? \u00a37 for the Extra Virgin, \u00a36 otherwise\u2026..Oi kid stopping hitting that packet\u2026..What\u2019s it like? I am afraid I can\u2019t eat it for you sir, you need to decide for yourself\u2026…That\u2019s \u00a33.50, you\u2019ve given me \u00a310, \u00a36.50 change coming\u2026.No Madam we don\u2019t take cards, only cash\u2026..A bank transfer? Sorry we only take hard currency \u2026\u2026Price for that? Let me check\u201d – Lil\u2019Johnny holds the item high in the air and shouts into the back of the Shop; Big Johnny signals with his fingers \u20184\u2019 which Lil\u2019Johnny repeats verbally to the customer. \u201cIt\u2019s cheaper in the supermarket,\u201d gripes the customer and walks off. \u201cYeah well buy it from there then\u201d Lil\u2019Johnny imagines himself saying.\u00a0 Things quieten down and Lil\u2019Johnny pulls out his phone. There is a message waiting. It reads:<\/p>\n

\u201cHey – that\u2019s great. At the Bolton Arms tonight. There is a good band lined up. Hope to see you down there?! xx\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cBah! Sign your name!\u201d thinks Lil\u2019Johnny aloud. He wasn\u2019t really planning on heading so far from his usual stomping grounds. The Bolton was an old Victorian pub someway along the path that runs beside the Great River. Would it be worth it? It all depended who it was on the other side of that number \u2013 611. The number started to fascinate him. \u201cWho are you Madam 611? I\u2019ve got to find out. I\u2019ve got to know,\u201d he concluded with a determined air.<\/p>\n

The day proceeded in its timeless routine. Come 4pm Lil\u2019Johnny starts packing up the stall, moving its constituting parts into the back of the Shop. By 5pm he is supping on a can of beer. By 6pm Raja has surreptitiously handed Lil\u2019Johnny a little bundle of cash that constitutes Lil\u2019Johnny\u2019s wages. Lil\u2019Johnny carefully deposits the cash in his secret pocket. Then there passes much banter and familial conversation between the three as they wait for the last of the custom to evaporate. At last they vacate the darkened Shop and lock up. Raja\u2019s nimble fingers weave the weighty metal chain through gaps in the shutter and with the \u2018snap\u2019 of the lock, Lil\u2019Johnny feels released.<\/p>\n

————————————<\/p>\n

The Oxford Arms sits on a forgotten corner between a busy road, a raised railway line and the Creek. It\u2019s a spit-and-sawdust, no frills live music pub. Lil\u2019Johnny decides to go there first. At the end of a road coming off the Market sits the handsome, lonely building acting as a beacon for pirates and other ne\u2019r-do-wells.<\/p>\n

Lil\u2019Johnny enters, orders a lager and slips back outside. He sups the clear pishy liquid quenching a thirst more mental than physical. He takes a deep pull on a spliff and breathes a deep sigh of relief.<\/p>\n

Inside the pub there is a band playing some of sort of naff pseudo-punk. One of their songs is called \u201cWisdom of the Blues\u201d. Lil\u2019Johnny goes in. The lead singer struts his stuff on the dance floor while an older crowd bop to the music. It\u2019s boring music – a mish mash of everything and nothing at all \u2013 a noisy mess, played overloud. Two sexy older ladies dance, mobile phones in hand. Members of the band strut off the stage whacking people in the face with their instruments. \u201cThank you, good night\u201d. \u201cOne more\u201d the crowd shout. This last song has a terrible guitar solo.<\/p>\n

Phil Sick \u2013 critic, DJ, music nerd – arrives. He is short with a great bush of ratty white hair; he wears glasses, long shorts, canvas Converse trainers and a black-and-white polka dot shirt. \u201cOi oi, Sick\u201d calls Lil\u2019Johhny. Phil starts waxing lyrical about the \u201corgasmic\u201d female noise artist he has just seen at a bar at the end of the road; he describes the dry-ice and strobe in the dark basement. \u201cIt was loud,\u201d he says looking up at Lil\u2019Johnny with a glow of euphoric bliss. Sick then goes to stand in front of the speakers waiting for the next band looking like an untidy teenage girl.<\/p>\n

The pub is busy. DJ Toffee is playing between sets, a munchkin of a man peeping out from behind the decks. There the crackle from his overworn records. He plays an eclectic mix of: \u201cThe Israelites\u201d, \u201cI want to hold your hand\u201d, \u201cDisco inferno\u201d, \u201cLeader of the pack\u201d, \u201cHow long has this been going on…\u201d and \u201cBlack Betty\u201d in succession. The Soundman moves about the pub like a malevolent force, vexed because he can\u2019t play HIS playlist of neurotic trance. Will \u2013 patron saint of the Oxford Arms \u2013 is at his usual seat at the bar wearing a camouflage baseball cap, pint in hand, looking on blankly.<\/p>\n

Lil\u2019Johnny looks up at the clock on the wall \u2013 it reads 8:00pm. \u201cTime to move on me\u2019thinks. Don\u2019t want to be too late, just fashionably\u201d he says to himself. The Coyote Men, a four-man Newcastle rock band, its members dressed in tutu\u2019s and Mexican wrestling masks, come on stage. They start playing a surfy caveman rock with a funky rolling bassline; Americana rock-and-roll with a Mexican twist. As Lil\u2019Johnny leaves through the side door, he catches a line from one of their songs: \u201cLoopy Loopy Lopez \\\\ Break my heart, I break your legs..\u201d. \u201cGeez! Just when the bands were getting good. Oh well, it can\u2019t be helped.\u201d<\/p>\n

*************<\/p>\n

Along the Creek and over it, through the busy town centre and onto the path that runs alongside the Great River. The almost-full moon hangs high and bright in the inky-black sky; Lil\u2019Johnny salutes it. The Great River is at high-tide and tonight it has a flat, reflective surface like a field of mud \u2013 smooth and defined. One can just hear the rushing river like the rustling of paper over the mournful drone of the air traffic above.<\/p>\n

Beams of light shine across the River, shimmering pillars. On the other side skyscrapers are lit up like constellations organized by bureaucrats, geometric glittering anthills. Its dark by the river and people cut figures against the glowing skyline. Cylindrical metal buoys pockmarked with raised ridges make black patches against the luminescent river as if mines waiting for contact. A river bus pulls out of the quay and rides gracefully up the river trailing waves in its wake. A few seconds later the Great River speaks: the lapping of water, gurgle \u2013 slap \u2013 wash \u2013 the elemental crashing of waves.<\/p>\n

Lil\u2019Johnny stops along the path, leans against the balustrade and looks out over the Great River, that still molten pond of glass. It exudes its primal silence. Lil\u2019Johnny gets to thinking: \u201cWhat the hell am I doing? Does it really matter? I wouldn\u2019t be out this evening if I didn\u2019t have this mission to fulfill, this mystery to solve.\u201d \u201cMy little manor,\u201d he thinks panning from the hills behind to the Great River before him. \u201cI hardly ever leave this place. My little corner of the Earth. Some people want to travel but I just want is to follow my little circuit, see me old muckers, listen to music and dance the night away. In short \u2013 to party. Am I looking for love tonight? I don\u2019t know. I\u2019m looking for something\u2026.I\u2019m just not sure what it is yet. An answer, a sign, an auspice, destiny?!\u201d<\/p>\n

The stupid clump of a jogger and their loud rasping guttural breathing disturbs Lil\u2019Johnny\u2019s train of thought. Then the gabble of voices in the dark, moving forms. Lil\u2019Johnny pulls himself together and continues along the river path, gazing dreamily up at the evening star stuck up in the sky like a brilliant satellite.<\/p>\n

Off the river path, halfway down a side street, a corner pub sits \u2013 a dumpy Victorian relic \u2013 painted black. It\u2019s the Bolton Arms and Lil\u2019Johnny quickens his pace because he knows he\u2019s late. In through the door and straight to the bar; he\u2019s gasping for a drink. The pub is packed.<\/p>\n

Lil\u2019Johnny looks around making a visual inspection of the punters. While he is never good at remembering names or numbers, Lil\u2019Johnny has an uncanny memory for faces \u2013 he knows that if Madam 611 is there, he\u2019ll know. She is not there in that mass. While Lil\u2019Johnny waits to be served he surveys his surroundings. The pub is painted in a dark coat; there in one corner a raised stage stands with a cut-glass mirror behind and neon-red lights spell out \u201cBolton\u201d above \u2013 the red light reflects off the black ceiling and splashes across tables. A discoball, small and lonely, hangs high above the stage. There is a band setting up. Fairylights strung from the ceiling reflect in the large handsome windows creating a starry infinity. A big stuffed fish sits in a glass case above the bar.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat you having?\u201d asks the young barmaid. \u201cPint of the pale ale please\u201d. Pour \u2013 clunk \u2013 \u201cCash or card?\u201d \u2013 beeeep! Lil\u2019Johnny takes a long sip and returns to surveying the pub. People wearing leather jackets and denim shirts, young men with long hair, quiff\u2019s black and grey, blonde bobs, pates, leopard print, glasses of white wine, teeth, smiling faces. There a mobile phone so sparkly that a magpie would be off with it. At the bar long blonde hair frames an angelic face with long eyelashes. A wealthier set than Lil\u2019Johnny is used to. They talk and eat and generally look bored.<\/p>\n

Its the \u201cMagic City Trio\u201d playing tonight. Lil\u2019Johnny knows them. A husband and wife outfit who sing and play guitar. The band includes a double bass, brass and drums. There are lots of pairs of glasses in the band. The husband wears a floral-print Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, tall with big lips and long greying hair; she is short and wears a glittery silver dress. They start off with \u201cSpoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you…\u201d. Their sound is a vibrant country honky-tonk with drawling vocals and twangy guitars. A mother with a snub nose sitting near the stage covers her young daughter\u2019s ears with her hands; the child has a big unhappy look on her face. The young child looks askance at an older lady dancing wildly in front.<\/p>\n

Lil\u2019Johnny decides to go out into the garden \u2013 a strip of gravel on which sit rows of wooden picnic benches. He lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag and watches the curling of smoke rising and dissipating into the sky. Looking up he sees the sweep of new build flats. From the flats emanates a dull green-grey light punctuated by chaotic, disjointed, angular shapes of the stuff inside;\u00a0 there the flitting light of a large TV screen. \u201cSorry, the girls are coming with me\u201d says a lady to some leery lads chatting up her friends perched on the benches nearby. Lil\u2019Johnny surveys the garden and no Madam 611.<\/p>\n

The reader may ask why Lil\u2019Johnny doesn\u2019t just text Madam 611? Why not just ask who she is and where she is? That would be unthinkable to Lil\u2019Johnny. He believes in fate, in chance \u2013 what adventure would there be if we just got all our answers from pressing some buttons on a phone? Its a matter of principle. If Lady Luck should favour him tonight he will meet up with Madam 611. She will appear from around a corner, they will recognize each other, embrace and sit down to talk; they will move closer to one another and nuzzle. Lil\u2019Johnny must continue on his mission until the battle is won or lost.<\/p>\n

The beer has loosened Lil\u2019Johnny\u2019s hips and inhibitions. He joins the throng of dancers inside. \u201cBurning ring of fire…\u201d plays from the stage. Being the hill-billy he is, Lil\u2019Johnny slaps his thighs and keeps time to the music with his stomping feet. He sees the back of bobbing heads and heads and heads behind which the band can just be seen. Closing his eyes the rhythm runs through him and into his moving body. Things become fuzzy, ephemeral and euphoric, the spirit of Dionysus unleashed. Around him bodies pop, shuffle, jiggle and jive. Shaking hips, dancing bums, tossed hair and furtive glances. Lil\u2019Johnny is carried away, lost in the scene.<\/p>\n

Time passes and the band has come to an end. The Strokes plays softly off a playlist. Lil\u2019Johnny falls into a large leather armchair and once more surveys the pub. The crowd has thinned and empty glasses fill the tables. Lil\u2019Johnny strikes up conversation with a pretty lady sitting nearby. They get to talking about how they each came to be here this night. \u201cWell, I got this text from a number ending 611 and I had to see who she was…\u201d. The lady looks at Lil\u2019Johnny biting on her curled finger, laughing. \u201cI was just being honest…\u201d protests Lil\u2019Johnny feebly. She leaves shortly thereafter and he is alone once again. An old couple trundle out of the pub, fingers intertwined in a caring embrace.<\/p>\n

Lil\u2019Johnny gets his things and pats his secret pocket to see that his wages are still safe \u2013 all is well. He does one more circuit of the pub. Just as he thought \u2013 Madam 611 is not there. He knows the routine \u2013 she won\u2019t text him again, he won\u2019t text her, a stalemate of obstinate wills \u2013 such is the way in this cosmopolitan dump. He will now never know who Madam 611 is, she will be just another unsolved and soon forgotten mystery of his life. Despite his inebriated state, Lil\u2019Johnny He takes his leave of the Bolton and joins the darkness of the river path. The moon has shifted round and the tide on the Great River has dropped. Lil\u2019Johnny is drunk, happy and alone. He walks along the dead quiet river path homeward bound with an uneven swinging step, singing that classic reggae song out loud: \u201cI got money in my pocket \/\/ But I just can\u2019t get no love\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

Feature Image: Katerina Holmes<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Saturday morning and Lil\u2019Johnny was on his way to work on the Market. He walked along the long curve of street that ran along the bottom of the hill bordering the old marshes where now stood council estates. The tall towers stood like giants against the clear cold blue sky where the first rays of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":17624,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[26],"tags":[1385,3262,3265,8363,8914,8922,9135],"class_list":["post-17623","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-cassandra-voices-fiction","tag-fiction","tag-fiction-based-in-london","tag-short-fiction-the-text","tag-text","tag-the","tag-the-kid-the-text"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17623","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17623"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17623\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17623"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17623"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17623"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}