My Dearest Jonah Read online

  Matthew Crow was born in North Shields in 1987.

  During his teens, Matthew moved to London to work freelance writing articles and reviews for online blogs, magazines and national newspapers. He quickly secured a literary agent and his debut novel Ashes was published by Legend Press in 2010.

  Matthew is one of the most exciting young authors on the literary circuit. He currently lives in Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

  Legend Press Ltd, 2 London Wall Buildings,

  London EC2M 5UU

  [email protected]

  www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © Matthew Crow 2012

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  Print ISBN 978-1-9082482-5-1

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-9087755-8-0

  Set in Times

  Printed by Lightning Source, Milton Keynes, UK

  Cover design by Tim Bremner

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Praise for Matthew Crow:

  ‘There is an assured precision to Crow’s observations that cannot be learned. Novelists who have been honing their craft for decades might justifiably begin to dislike him: sometimes writers are just born. Begin enjoying Matthew Crow now and then, when he’s discovered, you’ll be able to smugly let slip that you liked his early work... ’

  JONATHAN TRIGELL,

  AWARD WINNING AUTHOR OF BOY A

  ‘I was blown away by Crow’s debut novel, which managed the rare feat of being authentic and poetic, lyrical and believable. Ashes is a raw, rip-roaring depiction of life.’

  MARK PIGGOTT, AUTHOR OF

  FIRE HORSES AND OUT OF OFFICE

  ‘Nestling somewhere between TV shows Shameless and This Is England, Matthew Crow’s debut novel takes us into the heart of the Meadow Well estate, a grim inner-city jungle dominated by thugs, drunks and drug addicts... all told in a fluid style peppered with fine moments of gallows humour.’

  RICSREVIEWS

  It was more than a blowjob, Jonah, you pig – we were in love!

  PS. Due to circumstances entirely unforeseen, I am in the process of imminent relocation. My new details will be forwarded forthwith. Until then I would appreciate a swift and appropriate response. V

  Dear Verity,

  I am truly sorry if you interpreted my previous missive as in any way accusatory. I can assure you this was not my intention and for any upset caused I apologise. That is not to say I entirely condone the recent tangent you seemed to have happened upon. From your description these men sound more reptile than human and their line of work appears - in print alone - questionable at best. That said I have faith in your morals and strength of character (though how I worry for them all the same!) and for what it’s worth your burgeoning affiliation has my acceptance if not my approval. With that I hope we can carry on our correspondence as normal, or at least allow regular service to resume.

  This morning in the cafe that same old man sat alone once more in his preferred window seat, his ledger placed at a perfect right angle with the edge of the table, his left hand resting gently on top as though swearing oath. A gold pen rested to the left of his cutlery as rigamortis took hold of two untouched waffles, which formed the altar of his arrangement. Behind him two girls chatted in church tones, every so often craning their necks in a bid to disguise the regularity with which they perused his limited actions.

  Unusually for mid morning, two trucks were parked in the driveway along with a long black car whose appearance brought on that insatiable itch of déjà vu. I ignored it and sipped my coffee despite it still being a little too hot. The measured pain as it passes my lips is a sensation I have grown to enjoy. After all these years - and believe me when I say it is many since I was considered a child by even the most mature of acquaintances - the adult thrill of enjoying hot, caffeinated beverages is still one I hold dear.

  Eventually he stood up to leave with the languor of those unemployed through choice. I can’t say I wasn’t a little relieved. His presence made me feel observed and vulnerable even with my back to him. I have no basis for my prejudice, it was simply ever thus.

  The waitress kindly raised the pot of coffee but I declined her offer. The old man, making no attempt to neither hide nor excuse his uneaten breakfast, packed his ledger into a wide pocket of his coat and proceeded to the counter where, as per usual, he produced an immaculately crisp coupon from his top pocket.

  As he left, the girls who had been eavesdropping with all the subtley of a sledgehammer began a panicked fumble to collect their belongings. They threw down a handful of crumpled dollar bills and trotted off into the daylight, inexplicably enthralled by the obsessive routine of that geriatric loner.

  The waitress placed the coupon in the till (for all its one-off-small-town-intonations the coffee shop is, in fact, part of an ugly conglomerate. Look to page six of your newspaper today, I’ll bet my last dime there’s a perforated voucher for free waffles when you purchase their bottomless java bucket).

  “Poor old Levi,” she muttered, ostensibly to herself, though loud enough so that I, the only remaining customer could hear. “Richer than God and tight as a duck’s ass.”

  I nodded and left.

  Two men looked up at me through the tinted windows of the long black car as I emerged from the coffee shop. They shared a glance before driving away. I know I’ve seen them before but can’t quite say where or when.

  Like you I’ve been feeling forlorn of late. I don’t know how long you have to be somewhere before it begins to feel normal, before you start to feel as though you belong. I’ve lived here for longer than anywhere else bar one since the age of eleven, yet can’t seem to lose that feeling that I’m a latecomer to a party, and no matter how many drinks I take I’ll still be playing catch up with the masses. You can feel a town’s routine, its ebb and flow, the way the light moves across the water throughout the course of the day, the dip and peak of pedestrians on Main Street, the general consensus on so-and-so; how She used to be pretty until she lost the weight, and how He was always a little too involved with the softball team during his tenure as coach. These things are the familiar, they provide you with a framework, an empty hook on which to hang a life. But to feel involved, to feel part of the machine you observe from the periphery, is a skill that seems to be forever out of reach.

  Despite this, I have decided to become the driver of my own fate. And, you will be pleased to hear, have formulated the most basic of plans.

  You see, this morning’s mutterings of disgruntlement rolled through the cafe like tumbleweed as I went head to head with the ceramic over two final drops of coffee. The same whispers that had been heard yesterday morning, and the morning before that and, were my memory what it used to be, no doubt the morning before that too. The latest bone of contempt has for some time now been the building site, which has hung like limbo for over a year. Two schools, a small church and a nature reserve which houses, we are told, a butterfly so rare that its existence is still questioned by many zoologists are being demolished in favour of over two million square foot of soulless concrete and glass. ‘Everything you could need under one roof!’ the flyers read when they were sent out during the formative stages of the mall’s fabrication.

  A stout Virginian with a s
ilver tongue and the Midas touch promised to give this town the elixir of life in the form of cut price denim and chain restaurants. The day he arrived, the storm that had already claimed three lives and two pickup trucks subsided, and the sun began its long and strenuous programme of recovery. Rumours were spun so fast I often wondered whether or not their orators had written them in preparation, and had merely been waiting for a blank canvas onto which they could smear them. Apparently he was an orphan who owned his first pair of shoes at thirteen and his first bank at twenty-three. Others pointed out with glee that his moneyed ancestors had pressed their initials onto the declaration of independence. Were I a betting man I’d say the truth lay somewhere in the middle.

  In the beginning we were in his thrall. His rhapsody was infectious and soon every hard hitter in town was investing in what appeared to be a licence to print money. Of course within four months the bombastic demigod performed a non-too-glamorous midnight run. Two cranes, half a city’s worth of scaffolding and the dusty remains of two schools, a small church and a nature reserve were all that was left of his promise. In his hotel room they found a pair of spats and a half drunk bottle of whisky. He has become our most cherished legend; sightings of him are more frequent and detailed than those of Big Foot himself.

  All wasn’t lost though. Soon a conglomerate from upstate heard the news and, checking facts against figures, decided that such an investment may in fact be a hit. Before long it was Virginia be damned – think local and you can’t go wrong. So the landed gentry now continue to slowly construct a reality upon the skeleton of a stranger’s fantasy, and in the time it seems to be taking animosity has crept back into the common accord like acid reflux.

  We’ve give them our God and our education, is the general consensus. There best be some mighty fine bargains to be had in their place.

  My plan, if you can apply such a grand title to such simple actions, is to take a walk out to the building sight tomorrow. I’m not a proud man, nor am I workshy, and if there’s one thing that project seems to be in need of its labourers.

  I think I’ve talked for long enough, tonight at least. By now the rooster outside is filling his lungs and a milky residue is beginning to swirl in the sky like the first drops of cream in well-brewed coffee.

  God I hate morning.

  I hope you are no longer upset, Verity, and that your next letter will intone as much. I hope, too, that for your sake you’re in control of whatever situation you have gotten yourself into, and for what it’s worth you’re forever in my thoughts.

  If possible - and not too much to ask - please keep your fingers crossed for me tomorrow. As well as financial reasons (a pressing matter in themselves) the solitude of unemployment in an alien town is beginning to take its toll. I sometimes forget where my thoughts stop and the real world starts. Only yesterday I walked into the town’s general store and instinctively went to open a beer straight out of the fridge. It’s the company I miss. Nothing quite as grandiose as camaraderie. Even an occasional pleasantry with a day-to-day face should just about do it. And sadly it seems that paid and regular employment is the only way I will achieve this small luxury, at least for now.

  Thank heavens we have one another, is all I can say.

  With love,

  Jonah

  Dear Jonah,

  Four days ago I woke to total darkness.

  I pounded for what seemed an eternity; though common sense suggested no answer was forthcoming. To my side I felt an object whose texture seemed familiar yet without the appropriate senses to hand its specifics remained uncertain. It was about the size of a withered bunch of grapes and vaguely lifelike, with a coldness running through like a tiny prosthetic limb. As time lapsed the air became thick and gelatinous within my grave (and how certain I was that I was witnessing my own burial), until finally a moment of calm took over. I remained immobile, cocooned and oddly safe. Echoes of an outside world entirely separate from me played on like I was falling asleep to a movie I was desperate to see the end of. My memory of events is foggy at best. My one moment of clarity came when I searched for your face in the darkness. It wasn’t there. Even if it was I’m not entirely sure I’d have known. I could see you a dozen times a day and, quite frankly Jonah, pass you as though a stranger.

  The surprise of my surroundings seemed to repeat itself a number of times - each time with the same thump of fear like a blow to the stomach - as to suggest that I was slipping in and out of consciousness with an alarming regularity. When I awoke one final time I pressed my cramping feet against the solid mass above me and pushed with all my might. I felt the invisible texture - metal, I had concluded, hollow, but coated in fabric - give an inch or two with each press. I felt the shape shift beneath my feet and heard something to my right move out of itself, like a bullet from a silenced pistol. There shone a glimmer of light to my right-hand side that disappeared like a shy ghost. Another kick. Another tease of light. My desperation mounted until I was pressing upwards, back arched, with every ounce of power my body had.

  The trunk of the car flew open and an arid warmth surrounded me like fire. The tears from my eyes flowed freely but were extinguished on impact by the sting of heat and the sandblast of the desert around me. I crawled out of the car, knock-kneed and gelatinous, before hitting the ground in a withered mass of limbs and gravity where I unfurled gradually to my body’s own timing, like a crumpled receipt in a wastebasket.

  I scanned the endless horizon; sterile and scorched in every direction, with barely a cactus to observe my ordeal, and then found myself crawling frantically back inside the trunk of the car, no longer so sure of the possibilities or even the benefits of an outside life. The roof of the trunk I kept gaping at all times, like I was the commanding tongue in a dislocated jaw, eager not to let a change in wind and an obliging mechanism yank me screaming back to the point at which I awoke.

  Two large, solid furrows flanked my buttocks and a slight discharge had begun to seep from the roof. Brown, Jonah, like drying blood, and almost exactly the same colour as the scarf you once sent me, which I treasure to this day. Wires hung frail and uncertain; stripped bare at the point of insertion from what must have been decades of shoddy workmanship. The overall impression was that this car had been solely maintained for situations such as this; the quick and effective removal of hazardous waste, i.e. myself.

  I suspect I would have remained in that car for the rest of my natural life, until sand and starvation petrified my corpse into some ancient ruin, had it not been for my natural curiosity and an ever prevalent gag reflex. Were that the case my previous letter would surely have been my last; a fact that would have been high up on my list of regrets.

  With little to occupy myself with save the swirling sand dance that stung my exposed ankles I felt that same object pressing against my leg. It reminded me of something though still I couldn’t claim what. Leaning forward - tricky, given the excitement of the preceding events I was only just beginning to realise the severity of my physical condition, which was unpleasant at best - I went to pick it up.

  I screamed Jonah, God knows I screamed. First just the once. And then again with the force in which I threw myself against the back of the trunk causing the roof to slam down onto my already tender head. The third time I screamed at the thought of being held captive next to something so awful. I kicked the roof open, easier this time, thank God, and fell back onto the sand, this time my insides retching until a steady stream of bile, intersected with occasional fragments of tortured food, began to mix with the dust and form a sour smelling gloop not entirely dissimilar to breakfast oats.

  It was a hand. Human. This in itself was apt to induce shock. But the true horror was that I knew it to be Eve’s. My sudden ejection from the car had caused it to bounce upwards and hang grotesquely across the bottom lip of the trunk like the final strand of linguine of a giant’s feast. It had been severed above the wrist, allowing perhaps three or four inches of that sweet, slender arm to change so suddenly from it
s once glowing china white to a crueller hue – older, almost, and damaged, like a well thumbed novel left out in the sun. Her fingers were still splayed, with each nail painted a sophisticated purple. Around the wrist the bracelet was wrapped - gold; cold and mocking - as much a warning to me as anything else.

  I steeled myself over the next half hour. The only indication of any real timescale was the increasingly lingering prickle of heat at the back of my neck. I had been granted the dignity of my clothes, a gentlemanly final touch that no doubt saved my life, and eventually managed to prize the bracelet from Eve’s severed limb.

  Your apology was characteristic and appreciated Jonah, but in hindsight I fear slightly misplaced. Your original misgivings were perhaps more acute than my blinkered notion of events. That said I ventured onto this path not as innocently as I would have led you to believe. Honesty, above all else, is what I prize between us, and I know you do too, yet for the past few months I have been inhibiting this unspoken code, yet plan to rectify said misdemeanour if only you’ll grant me the chance. J was not simply a gentleman with a shifty eye and a questionable entourage whom I met in the coffee shop, nor were my dealings with him strictly of the heart or flesh. There was calculation, on my part and his, and I fear that they are far from over. I had planned to tell you this all along, though feared... well, I just feared, Jonah. You’re the only unmoving positive I seem to have ever had. The thought of losing you pressed heavily on me and so I perhaps omitted certain details which I felt might displease you. And now feels as good a time as any to begin to fill you in on the previous two months which culminated in me being left for dead in the trunk of a car with only my best friend’s severed hand for company.

  But first things first.

  I write to you now from a peeling back room in the type of motel where married men show poor young girls the real value of money, and where accented drug dealers begin empires that will go on to terrorise communities for years to come.