William Stafford [Stafford - Poor Jacky

Title Page

POOR JACKY

by

William Stafford

Publisher Information

Published in 2013 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright 2013 William Stafford

The right of William Stafford to be identified as the Authors of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Disclaimer: Publicly available sources confirm the attribution of these credits, however the authors will be happy to correct any errors. All quotations are subject to applicable fair use laws.

Dedication

For Pavel

1988

Theres somebody here! Paul looked concerned. Steven shrugged. He said he hadnt seen anyone on his way back from his fourth fag break of the morning. He had only left the cellar because it wasnt raining. The day before he had lit up right there, despite Miss Beamishs warnings.

You should take a break, get some fresh air. Steven yawned and stretched. Paul glanced up from the stack of papers he was boxing up and sent him a quizzical look, as if to ask what on Earth would Steven know about fresh air; he was a walking ash tray. Working too hard. Making me look bad.

This comment made Paul look away. He doubted anything could make Steven look bad. Steven, aware that Paul fancied him, strutted around, enjoying his workmates discomfort.

I did see someone! Paul insisted, keeping his eyes averted as Steven adjusted his trousers.

The old bitch checking up on us?

No... This was someone small. Over there. Just for a second. Paul waved across the room, where the vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadows. Steven glanced across.

Youre a fucking idiot, he twitched his shoulders. Paul blushed.

We get this finished today, we dont have to come back tomorrow. And theres a bonus.

Whoopee cack. Steven pulled out his walkman and pressed play. The hiss of the music cut off when he hooked the headphones over his ears. Paul watched him amble to a stack of ledgers and begin to toss them unceremoniously into a tea chest.

Paul recalled Miss Beamishs admonitions about treating every item with care. She would go batshit if she saw the way Steven chucked stuff around. To compensate, Paul took extra care with each document. He got quite a rhythm going and was making headway but, given Stevens slacking off and careless approach, Paul doubted they would complete the task by the end of the day.

He coughed. The air was close and musty. Some of the papers were mildewed and others were sopping wet, but all were to be saved and transported from the Hall to the spanking new archive across town.

The light bulb flickered. Paul frowned at it, willing it to behave itself. If that blew, they would be plunged into total darkness. He glanced across the room to where Miss Beamish had left a torch. Paul decided it would be prudent to have it closer to hand in case of a sudden blackout. Although, being alone in the dark with the gorgeous Steven might not be all bad...

There was something about the shape of his neck that Paul found fascinating.

Stop staring at me! Steven snapped, perhaps a little louder than he had intended. Paul blushed again and was about to stammer a denial when the light went out. Fucks sake! Steven wailed. Paul clutched his way across the room to the torch. His fingers closed around the rubber casing. He snatched it up and switched it on. He turned the beam towards Steven who was screaming, Get off me! The weak light fell across him. Steven screwed up his face and held up his hand as a shield.

The light bulb hummed and flickered back into life. Paul dropped the torch.

You fuckin- Steven was livid.

Pauls mouth hung open. He raised a hand to point at the space just beyond Stevens shoulder.

What the fuck? Steven glanced around.

Right there, Paul breathed. A child!

What the fuck are you on about?

Right there. A little boy. All white. Staring right at you.

Steven made a face and looked around. There was no one there.

Youre a twat, he shoved Paul roughly. Trying to scare your way into my pants wont work. Fucking poof.

***

Miss Beamish picked them up half an hour later in her Morris Minor. It was older than the Ark, complete with wooden flashings. She seemed unsurprised by their lack of progress but that was students for you, she supposed.

Paul, in the back seat, trying not to get dog hair on his clothes - even though he was covered in dust and dirt already - watched as the faded grandeur of Dedley Hall shrank away in the rear window. He dreaded the thought of returning the next day. Not just because of the child. The work was smelly and tedious, and Steven, despite his good looks, was terrible company.

They travelled in silence. Miss Beamish squinted through the thick lenses of her spectacles, focussed on the road ahead. Steven, in the passenger seat, beat time to the diss-diss-diss of his cassette, slapping his thighs. His jeans were almost spotless, testament to all the work he hadnt done. But there was his neck again. Paul had to tear his gaze away.

The car came to a halt. Miss Beamish jerked the handbrake with a whiplash-inducing vigour.

Until the morrow, boys, she smiled thinly. Steven was already climbing out. He slammed the door.

Paul caught the archivists eyes in the rear view mirror. He felt like he should say something.

Good afternoon, Mr Beecroft, Miss Beamish said with emphasis. Paul fumbled with the door release and clambered out onto the librarys staff car park. Steven had already gone, picked up by a neer-do-well mate in a Ford Capri for an evening of driving around, drinking and, no doubt, womanising. Paul made his way down the road to his bus stop. What did his evening hold in store? Very little. Apart from a long, hot shower.

Good enough.

There was no one in when he got home at last. Great! He could take his time in the bathroom without his sister pounding on the door and accusing him of playing with himself. He peeled off his grimy clothes and put them directly into the washing machine, stopping himself from pressing the on switch until after hed had his shower. Hed been caught like that before: suddenly scalded or suddenly frozen as the machine clicked through the cycle. We live and learn, he supposed.

The shower was divine! To see the dust trickle away in a steady stream towards the drain. To feel the aches and pains of the days labour being soothed away by the pounding water. Lovely!

Paul found himself whistling as he applied a generous handful of his sisters conditioner to his hair. After a few choruses of Heaven is a place on Earth it would be time to rinse it out. Paul got into his rendition, using the long-handled brush as a microphone substitute. Ah, the luxury of having the place to himself!

A sudden bang got his attention. He froze mid-pose, like a pop star in a waterfall. The bathroom was full of steam. The plastic of the shower curtain was opaque with condensation. Paul peeled it back to see.

And there was a face! Looking right at him!

He screamed and threw the brush.

Ow! the face screamed in his sisters voice. Paul stumbled, and fell in the bath tub, pulling the shower curtain down on top of himself.

Whats going on? said his mother, arriving with his father, in the doorway.

Its our Paul, the sister, Jenny, sneered. Playing with himself again.