Very First Writing

(word count 6018)

It was the night that they set the river on fire that Robert Spieswinkel died and came back to life. He had spent the better part of that evening wandering around town, thinking dark thoughts, and wondering why the world had in turns been so good and then so bad and then so good and bad again.

It was late evening, the city's revellers starting to head out in their hordes, when Robert Spieswinkel came upon what he thought was his saviour. There in the gutter, where he himself had ended up more times than he cared to remember, was the unmistakeable face of the Queen staring up at him from the front of a slightly crumpled and damp ten pound note. Robert picked it up and without even putting it in his pocket he immediately did a u-turn and began striding back swiftly in the direction from whence he had come. OK, it was only ten pounds, not enough to see a dealer with, but it would do to  to buy half a bag from the users in Black House, and that would get him by until morning, get him through into the new mullenium, when Jean-Baptiste would call around and repay the money he owed him and give him 200ml of methadone. So Robert Spieswinkel got into gear, picked up his stride and hurried past the crowds who all seemed to be going in the opposite direction to him.

(Last paragraph between blackhoudose and narrative of events which Spieswinkel has no recollection of. ) 

 at just gone midnight Robert spieswinkel left this world. he had been ill a long time but his illness had taken on severe tones the last 20 minutes. he went to great celebrations, of Roman rockets and champagne sparks in the sky. the flames chased along the river and for a while that was the end of that.

After being dumped. When his eyes opened he hadn't any any real cognitive functions. 

 ILL.

He staggered down the deserted highsdtreet, his half folded form half illuminated by the shop displays and blue neon sickness across his face. Ill. He staggered past a cruising police control car, the radio only in his head a a lost vfeeling of warmyth and comfort from when hs father had been arrested and he hd once sat in the back of such a car ad smelt the radio. On the bridge. Trying not to look down into the river, a dark expanse leading into nothing, something tortued in the distance, in the deserted and quiet wastelands of the outskirts of town, something tortured in his minds eye; a razt crept away to die. He kept his thoughts on the middle of the bridge, a marker of sorts, somewhere to aspire to, to reach, thinking of the downhill slope and the little acceleration it would afford him not of his own volition He walked through the dead streets now, cursing his illness, groaning in self-pity. The bars were all closed and midnight loomed, that lonely touch of time as TVs flick off across town and people climb stairs to bed and the last lights flicker in living rooms. As he walked past the old school he though he was crying. It was one tear and then another and then blob, plop of heavy rain tarting to come down. The city was aromatized around him. He could smell scabby, ulcerated mongrel dogs, the water on concrete and for a moment the word was a his of slapping rain. Beneath the wet he was sweating through and a cold was on his chest and freeing his chest cavity. The ran slapped down and brought a faint refection of him into the road, a dark, shiny presence in the rivulets of water making their way to the gutter and sewer. He tried to hasten his pace, wanting now just to be home, to suffer down and get on with this wretched illness that was now in him. But any comfort, even of the mildest notion, wa unattainable He had surrendered so much that the rain cut right through him, soaking him to the bones. His hair was curled against his head, his clothes cold against his body, water dripping off his nose; his shoes squelching past old haunts which somehow now screamed out to him and imbued him with a profound and irrepressible feeling of sadness and history, a loneliness that only a man adrift in the universe could understand, floating off to nowhere on memories of home.

 By the time he turned into the front path of the house he was soaked and drained through. He slodged along the path, walking the faint light down into such darkness that he was eaten up by his own shadow. As he painfully searched for his key he now regretted reaching home, reaching a place where there was no more hope just surrender. He dropped his key and it jingled twice and then fell silent in the wet yard. With no will at all he swooped down and gathered it p, scraping his knuckles on the enough concrete yard? A drop of blood rolled across he top of his hand and dripped and burst like ink in the rain. He opened the door, and in the dark, he climbed the stairs, the smell of the empty house and foul kitchen overpowering him. he entered his symbolic room. without turning on the light he walked over to the bed and for in, boots still on his feet. he pulled the cold blanket up around him and lay shaking in the dark, the tears falling and shadows jutting out *

1

When Robert next came to the world was sick. He could smell it and feel it, a clogged sensation of absolute agony and malaise in every cell of his body. His clothes were still damp and a vile and uncomfortable chill had marinated right through to his bones. He knew the sun must be up because of the perspiration over his body but he didn't have any idea of what time it could be. He felt lethargic, drained, in an indefinable way.  He was bereaved by something but it was not a death. He groaned. He thought of the day, of this new year, new millennium, of the worldwide party which had gone on without him. He threw himself free of his covers and let his sweating body air for a moment on the bare of the mattress. Almost immediately he was besieged by freezing temperatures and chills. He wriggled his eyes in their sockets, rubbed them down with the backs of his thumbs, and then peered out. In the dull bare room there hung an empty  sadness which made him  feel wretched and  pained.  He lay there crying internal tears and the most terrible illness was now upon him.

.

The room seemed ultra real, like so real that life and noise and air irritated and tortured him. He was running a high fever and just being alive seemed too much. He knew as soon as he opened his eyes that there was no beating the pain by escaping it. For a moment he lay there feeling out his illness, taking stock of what level it was at and dreading each passing moment as he knew this was nothing yet, that all hell's fire and suffering would be gradually unleashed upon him, that before this was over and he crawled out into the street crying surrender that he would be taken down to his essential being and made to suffer his own self in the coldest of sober lights. ESSENTIAL SUFFERING. Robert thought of them words and then groaned in agony.

*

In the agony of the first shock of illness Robert Spieswinkel was taught a lesson by time. He learnt that time only passes by unnoticed when you're not really living. At any other time, whether through fear, excitement or apprehension, whether time passes too fast or too slow, it nevertheless means you are living and existing more. When you are so streamlined to life, by habit or stability, time passes over you without the faintest touch and before you realise it you are 50 years older and wondering where the hell your life went. Robert Spieswinkel was not 50 years into a passive life but he did wonder where time went, and as he lay there he also wondered why he only felt like he existed when he was in pain, why his standout memories of these past years were of suffering and hardship?  Half sitting up in bed he groaned, thought of desperate things and then looked at the clock. It was not even 8am and illness was setting in good.

*

 Robert Spieswinkel lay, propped up on an elbow, his head bowed, suffering in silence. He was mightily conscious of every second which passed, knowing that being condemned to eternity would feel something like that. His eyes were burning and bleared and his emotions swelled so much that tears were almost always on the verge. He back-swiped the snot from his nose and groaned and cursed and then he thought of those young days when he was wrapped up in bed snivelling and feeling rotten and mum was nursing to his needs. But that was different. In that discomfort there was also some pleasurely gain, some rewards. It wasn't all suffering. Oh how the world seemed so fresh and young then. And just as he was laying there, warm, the TV a humdrum in the afternoon and the dinner-ladies whistles shrilling out as the kids from his school finished lunchtime and whistles blew and they had to make their sweaty way back to class.

 He didn't hurt like toothache, or someone with a broken leg. It was something much more profound, an aching of his existence, a pain disease in every cell of his body. Though just now he was uncomfortable, but an uncomftobaility that gets progressively worse with each minute and afforded him no respite.

 Now and again he'd catch himself thinking of things, but

Mucus. He couldn't get his mind of it. It was that girl, the Spanish one he'd had the name on the tip of his tongue for over 20 years now. …. Valeria... Valencia... Valerça.... A small, bullish girl with gymnasts' thighs, her sexual allurement only her youth. How when he had first gone down on her she had passed through a moment of shock and nervous horror before realizing she liked the sensation of the devil's tongue in her cunt. After that sex would become something habitual and boring, her forcing his head downstairs, pushing his face hard into her thick bush, his nose slipping and sliding around in the valleys either side of her clit before she released the pressure and let him breath, finding the clit with his tongue and whiplashing her into fits of pleasure that can only come from sin. In the dust beams of the low afternoon in summer, where sex replaced boredom for a time, he'd shiver as he saw the reality of what had until then took place in the dark, her excited cunt with a build up of mucus in its folds. He had to buck and hold his stomach and withot fail his erection would limber oiut

 war

Robert Spieswinkel lay on the bare warm matress. Sickness had flopped his limbs out in such a way so as they were a less a burden as possible. He lay still like that is a comatose state of indulgent self pity, suffering internally and knowing that time was pinned to the clock. Robert Spieswinkel knew that the illness was still getting progressively worse, would do so for an unspecified period, and with no measure of rehabilitation time had nothing to move against and trickled by in a feeling of unbearable pain. Robert Spieswinkel just kinda watched the room, laying there burning up in the heat even the tears which rolled out his eyes hurting. In his minds eye he kept seeing flashes and explosions, the drone of planes overheard, faint, indistinct cries. Some terrible suffering was overcoming him, but not a personal suffering, more something that his generation had felt, something he had lived through as a time a group, a collective memory of war and burning oilfields and mayhem. Now in his inner mind the lit up fire sky and a city of smouldering remains silhouetted against it. Now and again there would be an explosion and a plane would be in the sky, veering off on its return. Robert Spieswinkel could feel the furnace of the city. It was a war. But not a war he had fought in, rather some general memory which traumatized and gave a sense of distant lands and time. Robert Spieswinkel lay in this unconscious state, not moving, not meaning to think, living off his brain and the images which were at least a distraction from the hands of time. The city now was razed to the ground, a glowing ember with black scorched figures burnt into black effigies of their greatest torment. He saw wide open mouths, smouldering remains, all to a backdrop of hell. In the wasteland of death men stripped of all clothes and belongings hopped and screached around, turned insane by the destruction and panic, like crazy monks in hells inferno. He saw motrhers carrying dead babies and children walking around dazed with their hand outstretched to be reunited with their parents. On pavements, a scene mixed between summer and warfare, he saw children frazzled on the pavement like eels, people with liquiified eyes and the jellies running down their faces like a bizarre output of extreme emotion. the sky in minutes, seconds, became so hellish that it is impossible to describe. There wezre fires breaking out, billowing smoke everywhere, loud roaring waves of explosions, all broken up by great cathedrals of light as the blast bombs exploded, cascades of marker bombs slowly drifting down, stick incendiary bombs coming down with a rushing noise. It was like the end of the world. One could think, feel, see and speak of nothing else. People just caught on fire. People burned to death with horrible suffering; some became insane. Four storey high blocks of flats were like glowing mounds of stone right down to the basement. Everything seemed to have melted... women and children were so charred as to be unrecognisable. Their brains tumbled from their burst temples and their insides from the soft parts under the ribs.




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Robert Spieswinkel never looked to the future, certainly not with any plans or advanced desires. His main thought of the future was just being well, for him that was the starting point of everything. No, his main philosophisizing was done in the past, in that whiuch had already happened and was already set down. In many ways he aspired top live up to the past, repeat it. The good days were markers to measure agaiunst and he was forever trying to recreate certain moments to relive. In the past his mother was still alive, he still had his youth, the day of April the 23rd of such a yar was always full of that walk through the cherry blossom, the late night walks with his father concluded in a catherdral of peace as the evening went down and their lives split off into separate rooms. The past was everything and nostalgia had become a real emotion to him. Laying on his back with his body malfunctioning under a confused metabolism the past crept in.


In a bar, on an evening, back in time, Robert Spieswinkel sat in the dark shade at the back and waited for someone. It was a weekday and the evening clientèle, apart from him, was an old boy with a dog, a dusty middle aged builder with a flattened nose and the barmaid who stood doing her nails while talking to the worker. Spieswinkel sipped at a whisky and coke and smoked. He played with the beer mats and watched the doors and hoped she'd arrive soon. He rose and put some coins in the jukebox, choose six songs, two the same, and made back to his chair. As he walked away two arms caught him around the waist, and in the same move a pair of lips were biting into the bottom side of his neck and she was there. And the song played, and he didn't know this moment would be the most haunting of his life, and as he fell under her spell and his fuck got hard in his trousers against her theré came the words... By the factory wall... Dreamed a dream by the old canal... I met my love by the factory wall... Dirty old town... Dirty old town....

 Robert Spieswinkel was crying. It was a dirty old town and today all the scum of the world felt camped in his head. He felt terribly ill, but even worse, emotionally broken like something huge had just happened which he couldn't remember. Somewhere there was an enormous pain. But it wasn't a new pain, it was something he had felt long ago and was now snaking back into his reality. He remained like that on his bed for the better part of the morning. He ached and groaned. In his bed he tossed. He pulled the covers on and off and by what could have been 11am he was a burning, soaking lump of man, laying in the heat of the day with the sounds ringing out around him.

 In the bar Robert stared hard at her beauty. It was still hard to believe he had rights over this girl... That he could touch and excite her at will, that she would remove her knickers or suck him in a park or shop or on a bus. It was impossible to understand how he had that right and he knew there that to lose it would to be to lose himself. Her name was Nuran. She was Turkish and slender with Mediterranean skin, silk dark hair and a frame that held a dress so provocatively, as if it was held up on her nipples and bush of her cunt. Her eyes were large and full of something which many interpreted as tragic sexuality but which was not. They were eyes which offered worlds of obsession connected to a heart that could be ruthlessly callous. But she was not callous, she just had that propensity. Robert looked into the depths of her eyes, her light smile, the beer already loosening her up, the ariole of her nipple playing peekaboo over her loose bra. Robert kissed a cigarette, handed it to her and lit it staring deep into her. She shivered and drew on the cigarette and blew out the smoke and said "I'm wet!"

 When he first rose it was on one arm. He looked off the side of the mattress at the floor and his pouch of tobacco and then at the mess. Since his mother had died  the house she had kept in relative good state was now falling down around him. He rolled a thin cigarette and tried to smoke. The fumes somehow emptied his stomach and made him even worse. There was a smell up his nose and in the bed and he couldn't quite figure what it was or where it came from. It smelled like nothing, like death.

 He looked over at the window and cursed the day. It was too bright, too warm, too tranquil, too uneventful. Yet somehow in the nothingness of the room, in the full existence of pain, everything was happening. It was like there cannot be a massacre on such a low day, only people were getting blown to pieces all around. There was something so real in the day that it didn't feel real at all. As he looked through the netting to the brightness the other side he heard screams and yells and children's voices. There were adult shouts and whistles. It was play hour and the sounds now floated out in the day and Robert Spieswinkel remembered other things and he wasn't sure if they were good memories or not.

The school sat directly across from Robert. It was the first thing he was aware of each morning. It blocked out the sun and was like a huge unwanted presence surveying, spying in on his life. It was good because it was so near, and that for him was precisely why it was so bad. Distance is nothing in youth and he would have rather travelled twenty miles than walk across the road each morning or have the other kids, the entire school pass his window twice or more each day. Robert listened without questioning whether the sounds were outside or in his head. They were there, that is all. His illness froze in the moment. H e thought of a lifetime of school. It kinda passed in a single swoop only some memories hung behind like a soldier crawling on with his leg held on only by the veins. There was something sad in the images, and something lonely, and at the same time something very calm.

 He could hear the children playing and he hated them. He imagined they.were having a better time without him, without the insanity and violence he brought to each day. It was the same as when they had earlier passed the other side of the road on their way to the swimming pool, when Robert had hid from view from the window so as not to be spotted in the decrepit house with the weeds outside and the bare walls and the socks and cheap mangoes peppered along the windowsill either drying or ripening. He knew they knew it was his house but as long as he wasn't seen in it then it didn't feel too bad. When the class had passed Robert looked after them and one boy looked back and waved and smiled and Robert smiled too. He would always tell people the same. "Oh, we're in the middle of doing the place up. We've the main TV and video room out back." But there was no TV, or video, or washing, or dryer. There wasn't even carpet. The house was a doss-house, falling to pieces and crumbling, bugs in the kitchen, dirty plates, filthy beds, whole rooms full of rubbish and books and bike parts and old clothes. He despised so much living so close to the school. 

Tears sat on the lip of Robert Spieswinkel's eye but didn't fall. They felt like they had been there for years and he felt right with them there.

They said his heart had stopped, that he'd turned blue where he lay. That officially, medically, he had died and this was now his second chance.

Great second chance, he thought,.I've been born with even less than the first time around. 

 They appeared at the top of the hill like they had arrived from nowhere. There was three of them led by a rickety mongrel dog which hoovered around, stopped, looked back panting happy, waited for them to get closer then hoovered on some more. Them they made no better straight line. The First Came on a kind of foot dragging stagger and the one behind veering while unbuttoning his trousers and looking for a place to piss. Robert Spieswinkel leant calmly against the wall of his front garden, sucking his lip and looking like he was waiting for no-one. As the dog approached he clicked his mouth and called it and held out his fingers as if he held something, knowing the dog was hungry and would slobber his fingers for a trace of salt, sugar, blood or cum 

"OI! Gedd owta' it!" screamed the first man cracking the dog on its bony hind and sending it off in a scampered circle, it's ears and nose now more alert but from a distance. "stay!" warned the man, his finger stuck out and firm, staring down the dog in his drunken state. The dog stared back, let out a whimpering whine and approached a length. The man held steady, his fiery pathetic drunken eyes, and the dog came no closer. 
 "Don't give it nothing," the man now said, his words falling to Robert. "If it gets a taste now the things stomach will not forget until its been full and there's nothing doing for it until this evening when the butcher will give me some scraps. The bastard!"
 Robert wasn't sure if it was the dog or the butcher who was a bastard. He didn't really care. 
"You still workin' at that, er... Rug place, then?" 
"What rug place?" asked Robert, looking past the man's shoulder and down towards the second man who was now buttoning his fly up and tripping towards them. "noooo 

 Robert Spieswinkel lay on the bed. For a moment he was still so as not to agitate the illness anymore. He didn't need to move to agitate it, but it was true that if you abandon yourself to the pain, curse how hard it is, it becomes even more intolerable. It was still only the second day. The illness hadn't even peaked yet and Robert knew that there was an undefined amount of suffering to come his way, that even if it was hell right now, in two more days he'd willingly return.

Anything is hard to swallow during heroin sickness, even water. The stomach can keep nothing down and it lets the entire body know. It's,like love sickness, where every cell in the body is gaining and rebelling against the reality of the day before it. Nevertheless Robert Spieswinkel popped six paracetamol out a strip and swallowed two then two then two. He wretched from the sensation of something dropping into his stomach and the sweet taste the coated tablets had left on the back of his throat.

 Outside it must have been at least 30 degrees. Inside the apartment it was unbearable, like stuffed oven. Robert stared miserably at the brightness of the life beyond the nets. He was soaking wet and his stomach was knotted. It was impossible to forget his sickness even for a moment. Due to the constant knowledge that the smallest shot of opium would be a miracle cure. It was also for that same reason that he couldn't abandon himself to his suffering. He was in fuckland one way or the other and the ticking of time was the greatest torture and yet the only other road out. Robert rolled over and groaned, felt deathly on his stomach, propped himself up on his elbows, looked out off the end of the mattress. His eyes were streaming and an absolute fatigue had brought existing right down to the pain of it. Now along with his eyes, his entire face burned and weighed heavy. His skin leaked oils and dirt and he was so ill that he groaned and made crying sounds even though their was no one around to hear them. After some moments he flipped violently up and around, and off the side of his bed he began retching and dry heaving, mucus and snot and tears and dribble coming from his head. He hung in its aftermath, bent over in agony, his mouth open and drips of thick viscous saliva stringing from the hole of his mouth. He just left it there. Then the retching came again. Each heave and strain rasping through him like a grater being pulled up and down the canal of his chest and throat. He barely had the strength to stay alive on the most minimal basis. Now the violence of his illness was a torture in itself.

 The two men were brothers. The youngest, the one with the fake eye and a problem walking in straight lines was Tootsie and the other, the more sober looking drunk, thick head of hair brushed across in rivulets of the same toothed pattern, a forehead an inch too shallow to conceal any great intellect, went by the name of Rodney. The dog was called Skip and where you'd find one you'd not far find the others. Robert Spieswinkel walked at a trot always managing to fall behind and then having to run to catch the brothers up. He didn't understand; the haste of the journey. What did it matter whether one was anywhere in 8 or 9 minutes? He would understand soon enough, within weeks he would acquire the junkies trot as well. That was the first time Robert had actively sought heroin. It was the first time he had hung about for it and the first time he had tasted the underfloor of that life. It was hard to believe he was walking back through his place of birth, passed his old school with two junkies and heroin in his hand. In a way it was incredible, unbelievable and yet it was thrilling, it was two fingers up to the school, they had finally fucked up; the lack of understanding for his needs and shyness and for not seeing his behaviour came from poverty and a need yo impress anf make friends without possessions. 

Robert Spieswinkel lay shaking. Not through fever but intentionally. It seemed to help, but not much. While shaking at least he had something to concentrate on, something to stop the relentless tossing and turning and moving about groaning with a pillow, searching out cool spots in the summer day, before having sweat runs and really feeling like death.

 When the first cramp struck Robert was flat on his stomach kicking his feet against the warm bare mattress. It wasn't a stomach cramp but a leg cramp. It began as compulsive stretching and tending of the entire leg, all of a sudden an overriding sensation to lock his leg straight down and grip the toes together as tight as he could. He'd hold like that for a moment, then release and then repeat over and over a weird sensation to fit shuddering through him each time he locked and crunched. He'd had this before in his life, during those restless warm summer nights when he could find no peace or sleep at all. The kicking continued for an unknown period of time. Indeed, after a moment it was as if Robert had been doing it all his life and as with any motion thus so it ended not as a distraction but as something one could think and work around. It was at that point there that the real spasmodic kicking began. Then it wasn't long again until Robert kicked to a tense, light air rising from the fluff where his foot hit the mattress and then a tight pain bit into his lower leg, it cramped and locked and with energy he couldn't afford to lose it went into spasms and ended with the leg locking straight and a pain rising up his left leg and piercing his kidney. Robert remained locked in pain, sweat raining down his face and breaking out all over his body. Tears built up on Roberts eyes and rolled at as pure pain.

Robert Spiwswinkel rolled over on his side and manipulating his penis relaxed and pissed off the side of the bed onto the carpet. Then he let his cock go and the ladt dribbles of urine to run fown his thighs. He lay back like that, flattened by gravity, naked,sweaty, a limp penis hanging wArm and heavy on his thigh. His stomach had collapsed inside him and his awkward ribs were laid bare.

On day four the pain was so bad that Robert couldn't even rise to the toilet. Instead he turned on hid side and filled two glasses and when he needed to go next he pissed straight off over the side of the bed and even later didn't bother to turn at all just let the piss loll out and pool between his thighs and then under and around him. It was while pissing that Roberts dick not only distended by filled with blood and slightly hardened. Robert felt it right through him, laying in his own wet, his cock sat long and sensitive on his thigh, then hardening into am incredible hard and excited erection. Robert did nothing with it for a moment. He lay there in the agony of illness, his feet still kicking slightly, his arsehole wet thinking of a girl, a cunt... Nuran was over him.