By Max Dunbar
Location: Salford Crescent
Dubious T lies in the tangled humidity of his bed at half twelve on a Friday afternoon. He is not, naturally, an early riser. Even hearing the others go to work is irritating. Can take a little while to go back under. And that fucking light from the car park keeps him awake.
Tom normally rises – if that’s the word for this grudging abandonment of sleep’s possibilities – about two. Today must be different. George will be here at half five, Alan might be back even earlier. Say this for Carrack, he does have the capacity for surprise.
It is the sixth of June, and summer has officially begun. He looks out onto the dappled tarmac of the car park underneath his window. But Tom’s mood doesn’t match the weather. For long now he’s been feeling a prickly resentment, coupled with a nagging fear and frustration.
Which begins at the bathroom mirror. There are lines on his forehead that cannot possibly be his. A spatter of crow’s nest around the eyes, and two nasty dope-coldsores that turn every yawn into half a scream. The skin itself has a sallow, unhealthy look, perhaps due to lack of exposure to the air.
Loads of munchiefood downstairs, not much of it his. George goes to the supermarket every week but Tom hasn’t put in for a while. Got into a row with Carrack, that twat, because he’d eaten his chicken drummers. Carrack said he’d break Tom’s jaw. Tom would have thought, if Carrack was a high-flying reporter like he acted, a few chicken drummers would be nothing to him. Accused me of nicking his wine when I hadn’t touched it. Carrack and his suits and the voices of his women in the night.
It’s his last meal here, so he makes the most of it; a massive fry up with eggs, bacon, beans, mushroom and toast, plus what’s left of George’s Cumberland sausages and Alan’s sun-dried tomatoes. Stick the plate and pan in the sink – Alan could take care of that shit.
Runs up and gets his Nike rucksack. Packs the tin of hot dogs, some of George’s ready meals, packets of pasta, bottles of Corona, cans of beans. Most of it will keep, and hopefully he’ll be near a fridge soon.
There is a cubbyhole in the bedroom that provides good storage space. Yet most of his wardrobe hasn’t been unpacked from when he moved in, what was it – two weeks, three weeks? Tom’s sense of chronology is not good.
By Paul Capewell
Location: The Deaf Institute, Grosvenor Street
Illustration by Abi Milnes - www.abimilnes.com
In the bar of the venue I am sat. Waiting. Watching. Concentrating really hard on not sweating. It’s an impossible task; it’s so hot outside. Uncharacteristically so, but it’s the city, and when the weather is hot, the city is hotter.
I’m trying to contain my excitement whilst keeping myself to myself. It’s not easy doing both, and all of me wants to tell everyone why I’m here. The thing is, everyone else is here for the same reason as me, and none of them are running up to me to tell me how excited they are. I bet they’re excited deep down though. Just too cool to show it. I feel like the least cool person in the building.
I turn the pages of the magazine I had in my bag. I haven’t read it yet, but none of the words are grabbing my attention. Beads of condensation are beginning to group on the side of my drink in such a way that they appear to be making a run for it. Deserters.
Before long I’m on my second attempt at the magazine. Maybe I’ll get into it this time. Somehow, having not paid attention the first time, everything now seems old. Passé. I’ve seen that photograph before. I know what that woman is saying.
A guy sits down in the booth opposite. He’s strangely well dressed for this time of day, this establishment. His suit — not an expensive suit, but a suit nonetheless — is an oasis in this land of Converse shoes and checked shirts. He is wearing glasses. Spectacles. A designer pair. All clean lines. He sticks out like a sore thumb. I wonder why he’s here. Perhaps he’s wondering that too; He keeps checking his phone. Is he waiting for someone?
I look over at the glass panel and the hallway beyond. The girl I walked past on my way in is still there. She’s my early warning sign. My silent comrade. She doesn’t know about her role, of course. But if she’s not there, it’s time for me to move. At this moment in time, she is still there.
The girl by the glass panel is on her own — at least as far as I can tell — and she’s undoubtedly waiting for the same thing as me. Why don’t I go over and talk to her? No. It wouldn’t do. As much as it would feel chivalrous, brave and exciting, she would see only a creep. Possibly even a threat. No, best that I stay here.
I’ve finished my drink now. The ice is teasing me and rapidly melting into a tasteless puddle. I don’t want to drink melted ice. I get up and go to the bar.
On my way back, the girl by the glass panel has gone. My pulse quickens. I look around. I look at the time. No; too early. I was told 5pm. I sit down with my drink. As predicted, the girl returns to take up her position by the glass panel. She must have gone to the loo. This is ridiculous. Why do I know that? I shouldn’t know that. I try to forget it.
I get out the magazine again, this time determined to find an article to read. Not to skim, or to jump ahead every few lines. But to actually get stuck in to. That should take up some slow minutes. Then maybe it’ll be time to go upstairs? Maybe I’ll bump into the girl by the glass panel? Not yet though.
Paul Capewell is a student from the home counties, studying to be a librarian at MMU. He was the online editor of MMU’s student magazine last year. He likes photography and books, and he is growing very fond of Manchester. http://paulcapewell.com
By Cathy Bolton
Location: Broom Lane, Levenshulme
The back yard after rain: a blackbird singing in the overgrown
forsythia and a Tibetan prayer flag of women’s underwear.
Beyond the thigh-high fence, identical white shirts pegged
shoulder to shoulder: table footballers shooting the breeze.
A man on Broom Lane wants to know if you’ve seen his fiancée;
a diamond fat as a knuckle. You don’t trust his tattooed hands.
Tramping through snow in Highfield Country Park, rusting
suspensions bleached from sight – sudden stink of fox.
6.30am at the bus stop, conversation thin, the moon huge
and silver, helium filled, drifting over Burnage.
Two Asian men in white hairnets sharing a cigarette
outside McVities, the rain sweet as a biscuit.
Foggy morning, a one woman police cordon
at the end of the street, no blood, no front page news.
Cathy Bolton is a founding member of the A6 Poets. She lives in Levenshulme – a surprisingly fertile source of inspiration. Her poetry and short stories have been published in a wide range of literary journals and anthologies. She has just completed an MA in writing and been awarded the Ictus Prize from Sheffield Hallam University.
By Alex Keelan
Location: Weaste Metro stop, Salford
Weaste not blessed with colour
Industry fills its heart.
With often a funny odour
Yeastie industrial fart.
I took a photo of my sister by the met stop on our way into town
I used my new four-lens camera and snapped as she turned around.
Action shot with light streaming through the newly planted tree
The four images made Weaste look beautiful to me.
It revealed nothing of the grey industrialness
Nothing of regeneration, old meets new broken community mess.
It looks beautiful and bright
No flat-pack new development flats in sight
No gated communities to keep out the masses
No shopping trolleys in the street and broken glasses.
Just a colourful image for your eyes to feast
No waste and yeast equal Weaste.
Alex Keelan works for Manchester City Council and writes in her spare time.
By Nabila Suriya
Location: St Mary’s Park, Bury New Road, Prestwich
I am in the park,
holding myself.
My thick fleece
Is your arm
Wrapped around me.
I look around
And I see
Every child, every girl
With a father,
Complete.
I fix my eyes,
Concealing five years
Of tears and I see
My child looking
At you.
Her curls have stopped
Bouncing. Her almond
Eyes are still, as is her
Tiny body.
She looks at me,
points at you
and asks
‘mummy, is that my daddy?’
Nabila Suriya is a teacher who is studying for an MA in creative writing.
