Swan Pedalo – Edwin Stevens

December 9, 2021

LOST AT SEA AGAIN. The lazy, half-coughed moan of the Romanian gob shite kicking off at the counter pings and spins behind my eyes. I get dizzy. The girl at the til, mid argument, demands I pay for the Double Decker I crushed in my hand. I didn’t notice. I wave it over my head and nod as I catch my breath. An old lady’s dog barks at my legs. A little girl skims past. The withered blank sleeve of a Dead Clone stalks her down the pet food aisle. Naturally I’m concerned so I turn to chase it. Its pinned red eyes rise to meet me and I’m stuck. I vomit all over the Doritos. The til girl screams from behind. My head clunks off the floor. The stink of bleach and fish spins in my guts and I retch. The Romanian leans over and taps my hernia girdle. He pulls my top up over my belly. He roots through my pockets. His dead stink-breath chants medication medication mate you have medication no? I tense to shout fuck off but it’s stuck in the burn in my throat. My heart heaves blood pathetic down my arms. A few blank heads pop into view. Blurred like bad signal. Nothing familiar. Lost at Sea again. The dog barks in my ear. I rage to stop it. It licks the sick off my neck. An English voice on the radio. I reach to grab it.

MARK DROPS ME OFF. He grabs my arm as I leave, asks if I need anything. I tell him no, but thanks for the lift. Reminds me that the Doctor said I should take it easy for a week or so. An attack, even a small one, needs to be taken seriously, he says. Especially at your age. ‘My age.’ He’s three years younger than me. I tell him I know, that it’s not my first rodeo. He smiles politely and nods, looks ahead. His flat cap drips off his scalp, weighed down by a Dalek badge, a Danger Mouse patch. Sad act. His mouth twitches like it’s about to say something else. I wait. Nothing. See ya then. Thanks again. Ta ra now. See ya. Bye-bye. All the best. Tap his car. Drop my keys. Kids scream behind me. Wendy knocks on her window. She pulls a face and I jump. She opens the door. Cross armed and swaying. A power position. Hairy legs ask where I’ve been. Seeing friends, I tell them. Wendy scoffs into her hand. Rent? It’s more of a threat than a question. Weekend, I tell her. Fakes a cough. Weekend, she says, mimicking my voice, swamping her way back into her flat, burping, rolling her eyes like we’ve been here before because we have been here before and it’s boring. It’s so fucking boring. Wendy pops her head back out. What was that? Have a good morning, I tell her.

NO REAL POST. Menu’s, obviously, but nothing noteworthy. Computer warms up. Love that hum. Kettle on. Milk out of date. No surprise. Been gone a week. Smells fine. Kids scramble outside. If I die, I die. Take a gulp. Not bad. Milk in first. Always. Racket upstairs. Sigh. Stir. Slurp. Something crosses my mind. Can’t think what or why. Half a daydream. Emails. One from Dan. Asking for footage from last month’s sting. Another apologising. Didn’t know I was in hospital. Tells me to take some time. Mark told him, he says. Little snake. Says Kim will film on Thursday. Says he’ll see me next month If I’m healthy. Tonight is Thursday, I tell him, and Kim can’t spell her own fucking name. Delete that. She’s dyslexic. Grab hard drive. Skim the files. Last month’s sting. Sean Robert Lloyd. Cold red eyes. Upload. Burning toast. Leap to the kitchen. Scrape clean. Butter. Bite. Smoke outside. On the hill. Across the park. Broken bench. Swing bent off its chain. Embarrassed landscape. Dog runs down the slide. Next door’s sad mutt. Ugly for a dog. Daydream: Bent over a tree stump. In the woods again. Whipped for blood. In a fly mask. So is she. Panting underneath. Filling it up. Drips warm off my balls. Dead Clones chanting. Racket from upstairs. Slap the ceiling. More racket. Not listening. 

DAN: Is there anyone else inside the house, Sean?

SRL: No. Yeah. My Mam. Why?

DAN: You might want to step outside then, Sean, if you could…

SRL: Why? What’s going on?

DAN: For your Mum’s sake you should step outside, Sean. Put your slippers on and step outside for us please…

SRL: Why you filming for?

DAN: It’s for your safety as much as ours, Sean. Step out please, mate…

KIM: Step outside and come and have a chat with us over here, Sean…

DAN: Step outside so we can have a chat in private, Sean…

SRL: W-what’s this about? You! Turn it off, you!

DAN: Sean, please. You know why we’re here…

SRL:  Off! And I don’t know what you’re on about, mate…

MARK: Keep your voice down, Sean. Think of your neighbours and your Ma…

DAN: I’m not your mate, Sean. And for your Mum’s sake you should step outside, cos…

KIM: Sean! For your Mam’s sake, please, step outside…

PAUSE. Skip this bit. 4 mins 24 secs. There’s a nice, steady shot. Sean R Lloyd. Pleading with us. In one’s and zero’s now. Pinned red eyes watering on his door step. No one noticed during grooming. You can’t see it on the screen, or in the pics. Encrypted. They barely, hardly ever send ones with their face in anyway. Cock and balls. A minge. An arse hole. Things like that. Screen grabs. Fake flesh. The bowel of the internet. Face to face you see it. I see it. PLAY. Here’s his Mum. Asking what’s going on. Asking me to turn the camera off. I tell her sorry, love, but I can’t. I’ll blur out your face, how about that? What? Dan fills her in; Police on their way, etc. Mums face is dangling. Doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Juggling thin air. Sean’s hyperventilating. Hopping on the spot. Faking it. See you in court, bud. PAUSE. Computer stinks. Fan’s fucked. Photoshop running in background. Too hot. Quit Photoshop. New email. Mark. Wondering how I’m doing. Says I’ll be missed tonight. Says Kim will send over footage later. Yeah, good luck with that. Delete. He means well. Sad act. Says Dan’s asking if I can send over the transcription of the groom from last week. Get fucked. Delete that. Sure thing. Racket upstairs. Good luck tonight. Racket upstairs. All the best, Tim. Racket upstairs.

HE’S A ‘COMEDIAN’. No idea what she does. I feel them in the lift sometimes, stuck to the back, rubbing their jeans and sniffing. Her pointless arse clacking against the rail, giggling. Comedian? Pfft. I used to write for Lee fucking Evans, mate. The best of the best. I could tell him that – I could tell him upstairs all about it. I won’t, but, if I did, I’d tell him I worked with Lee for twelve fucking years, son. Right up until Manchester Arena. AKA The big one. Right before the attacks. Attacks? Yup, had to call it a day, bud. Lee said to me, he said, Tim, you’re the best in the biz but I need you alive. Thank you for all you’ve done for me, he said. Don’t mention it, Lee, I said, the pleasure is all mine, mate. And it was. A class act. I know people, mate, basically.  You’re a comedian, right? Right, well, best advice Lee gave me was, he said to me once, he said; ‘Tim, the secret is inhibition, or lack thereof; It’s not about punching up or down with a joke, it’s about punching yourself right in the fucking face as hard as you can with it: They want naive, Tim, they want idiot, they don’t want an opinion. They need relief. We all need relief’ That’s what I’d tell him upstairs. You think you’re it, mate, that’s your problem, I’d tell him, but you’re not it. I’m ‘it.’ And you stink. What? You heard.

I HAVE POWERS you wouldn’t believe, son. Powers that would make you shit yourself. That’s right. I have the power to make people shit themselves. Shit their pants. Shit their pants so bad the person next to them shits themselves so bad that the person next to them shits themselves. And so on, forever and ever. Just like that. Your bravado is boring, little man. That’s what I’d tell him. You bore me. And you stink. The things I’ve seen. What I’m capable of. Hah. You shat yourself thinking of me. I can smell you from down here. You’re arguing over who shit their pants first. Though we all know it was you. You worm. Stop lying. Your girlfriend has no arse and she shat herself. It’s all up her back. Right after you shat yourself, thinking of me down here, arguing with myself, shitting my pants. Excuse me? Pardon et moi? Speak up boy! Yes, that’s right. I’m a seer. A fucking oracle. A G-O-D. How did you guess? Ah, of course, my huge fucking cock. Hah! Look! Your girlfriend is coming! She’s having  an orgasm. All because I shat myself. When you shit yourself she’s disgusted. When I shit myself she squirts all over the telly, convulsing, biting her lip and shitting herself. You may think you’re it, but you’re not it, I’m fucking it. Say it. Go on. Say it. It’ll save your life. That’s what I’d tell him.

RACKET UPSTAIRS. My hands are sopping. They slop around the keyboard. Cold thoughts make me think of dying. My daughter texts me. Asking for coffee. ‘Will you be bringing the boy?’ ‘At his dad’s.’ She has her mothers mouth. Her dads arse. Poor sod. Flat and wide. Asks where I’ve been. Out, I tell her. And it’s none of her business anyway. ‘Have you spoken to your mother?’ ‘Have I fuck.’ That’s what I like to hear. ‘See you tomorrow’. I do love her. And I know what she’ll say. The usual routine. And it’s fair fucks, sometimes: How I need to exercise. That I need to get out. To put the past behind me. That I need to understand I’m not a vigilante. That we’re doing more damage than good. And I’ll sit there and I’ll pretend to listen. I’ll pretend to take it all in. For her sake. Because you know why. Because it’s a cruel and random world she pretends to not live in. But I do love her. With her head in the sand. And I love the boy. He has her blue-green eyes. Like they’re cut out of the sea from a magazine. The ocean off a beach or something. Like jewellery. A handsome chap. Just like his Grandad. She could be a lesbian. I’m not sure. I’m not sure if I care anymore. As long as she’s happy. As long as she doesn’t ask for money. I don’t have any money. 

DAYDREAM: I’m Scrooge McDuck. I’m in the woods again. I’m bent over a tree stump. Whipped for my blood. Her mother’s underneath me. Screaming-crying. She’s being forced to piss into a cartoon kettle. It’s queer looking and cheeky. Pink and frilly. Smiling. Dead Clones chant something or other. They take turns punching her in the back of the head. Coins drop out of my feathers. Quack quack quack. That’s all I have left! Quack quack quack. That’s all my money! Quack quack quack. Some of them laugh. Red eyes follow a slave-dwarf with a speculum. He’s bored. He forces it inside me. Quack quack quack. The kettle boils by itself and pulls a face. Steam from the lip becomes a gigantic love heart. A smoky arrow shoots through it. Quack quack quack. The kettle drops me a knowing wink. It giggles like a ponce. Quack quack quack. The heart explodes. It turns into a skull and crossbones. Quack quack quack. Dead Clones applaud some more. All the trees are watching. Some cunt in a United shirt tips the kettle down my tiny dick hole and I scream. Quack quack quack. The rest of my money rolls into the fire. Quack quack quack. All my money is gone. Quack quack quack. Racket upstairs. Respond to Dan. Plot to kill the comedian. Racket upstairs. And his wife.