CLiFF HANLEY

 

 

The Last Supper                                

 

REPLAY> It started, really, in the interstice between the morning chill and the first yawning of the sun, as the honeysuckle gas clouds filled my garden; the palpable fragrance drifting in through my window.

The whole day seemed nostalgically back-lit. Difficult to be sure about this, as we tend to remember our memories, which in turn call up their memories: memory fleas piggy-backing ad infinitum.

But later, As we climbed up and out of the traffic-choked city, it began to rain; a warm light rain, hardly more than mist, really, but enough to tamp down the city dust and cool our skins.

As we sprawled carelessly on the wet grass up on the Downs, the red sunset over Wales endlessly fed our endlessly lustful appetites. Our salad of anchovies, seeds, olives and peppers with sun-dried tomato bread had not deadened our senses with that satiated feeling that might come after, say, a winter vindaloo; by a miracle of packaging technology we were able to enjoy hand-made Italian ice cream next. The chianti sparkled in our guts and in our minds and cleared our palettes in readiness for the strawberries.

The strawberries, red in our mouths and never-ending, as the picnic cloth became bed sheet. Your tongue became another fruit as we joined together , sighing under a red sky. Far up and away in the top edge of that sky flew a tiny plane, catching a flicker of sun. The lights went off.

REPLAY> It started  

 

 

 

Flatulent for Fifteen Minutes

 

Ronald Parkview, whose family of humble roots in Workington prospered under the Rule of Quango in the early years of the Third Millenium, found that no amount of inherited wealth would render him impervious to cancer, although that ailment was on the very edge of being consigned to history. He was forced to undergo treatment which culminated in surgery; an arsehole transplant.

 

To his incalculable relief, the operation was a success, and after a considerable time recuperating in the best hospital that money could buy, he was able to return to his home in Kent, South London.

 

It had taken Ronald some time coming to terms with utilising his new and alien body part but he was glad to be able to witness its regular efficiency -in fact if anything the new aperture was perhaps a little more efficient than he would have preferred.

 

This minor inconvenience, however, was soon eclipsed by a baffling new phenomenon. On rising one morning and making his way into his bathroom, Ronald was puzzled to hear a muffled muttering - perhaps, he thought, from outside his bedroom door. He froze. The muttering stopped. He crossed the bedroom and threw open the door.

There was no one there.

He continued attending to his toilette. In the bathroom he could hear once again that strange incomprehensible muttering. It seemed now to be coming from below. He bent down to the floor. It got louder; but now its source was somewhere behind him.

 

For several weeks Roland was tormented by the mystery voice. Eventually he was forced to admit that not only was it not an intruder: it was not, as he had subsequently hoped, an auditory hallucination caused by some shift in perception, or (not that he would hope for such in normal circumstances, but any explanation built on accepted norms of pathology and logic would have been a relief) a neurological short-circuit. The sound was emanating from Ronald's own rectum.

 

His doctor, when summoned and informed of the problem, was so sceptical as to be angry despite Ronald's haggard and unshaven appearance, but as soon as the victim walked across the bedroom to which his world had shrunk, visited only by his manservant, the good doctor apologised profusely  and immediately set about calling the surgeon who had performed Ronald's operation. He avoided giving out too many details on his Ristfonetm , but was able to communicate a sense of urgency to Mr Bahooky, who appeared early that very evening. Of course the surgeon went through the same litany of reactions: bemusement, anger, embarrassment and astonishment.

 

"Well, Mr Bahooky, do you think you could throw some light on this?" asked Dr Hujum.

 

"Perhaps, perhaps. Let's see. We could summon up the facts right here."

 

Mr Bahooky sat down on the edge of Ronald's bed and brought out his laptop.

 

"Ah...yes...here we are. The donor. Male. Um... Yes. Nothing pathological; died of old age."

 

"But...Does that mean there is no explanation?" trembled Ronald.

 

"Who was the donor anyway?" asked Dr Hujum.

 

"Ah yes that's possible." replied Mr Bahooky, "Right. Here we have it."

 

A few more stabs at the laptop.

 

"He was an artist, of some sort."

 

"Anyone, famous?" asked Ronald.

 

"Well...his name...Antony Gormley. Famous? I couldn't say. I really couldn't say. I haven't heard of him, anyway."

 

 

 

 

short stories