大象传媒

It was an excellent half hour all about Clifton and the Clifton estate. There were snippets from locals who have lived there since it was first built and I found it really fascinating, especially as my gran and grandad first moved onto the estate in 1954.

I love writing and inspiration comes at the strangest times, sometimes it can be something someone says, or a fleeting image and thats all you need to spark you off.

Literature:
Alison LR Davies is a poet, horror writer and storyteller.

She is the author of books such as Whispers in the Garden of Dreams and Beyond the Fey, and has had numerous stories published in magazines like DarkMoon, Terror Tales, Redsine, Scribe and the BFS's very own Dark Horizons.

In the last year she has been nominated for a Predators and Editors award for her poetry, and her short fiction has featured in hardback and paperback anthologies such as Tourniquet Heart (alongside Ramsey Campbell, Steve Rasnic Tem and Christopher Fowler), Darkness Rising and The Best of Redsine.

She has recently been selected for inclusion in the forthcoming anthology Fresh Blood, where she appears with such greats as (yet again) Ramsey Campbell, and Joe R Lansdale. She is currently putting together her first short story collection entitled October Eyes.

She also runs her own website.

Below is the short story:

Clifton
She sprawls; this lazy southern arm of the city; her pendulum swing covering a vast, bald patch of land. And that聮s how they found her and made her into something of use. But always she had that cool, grey ease about her, that certainty that comes with age. I guess that聮s what drew so many of us. We were lost until they made good of her, and then it was like home in a smile. Of course the building continued and she grew. Nurtured by the fat veins of commerce we watched her fingers spread; house after house, road after road, and all with such modesty. The shades of stone they used reflected something of the spirit of the place. We had never seen such class, such a field of opportunity at our feet. And so it was that we moved, I moved, to the outskirts of this cold city. To a place called Clifton.

That was back in 1953. It seems a thousand years to my sandstone brain, but then memories become foggy, eclipsed by something they call age. Today she thrives, but then I never expected anything else. She was made to last, to endure the things that we could not. Of course the faces change. The houses become hard, clean receptacles of society. They reflect the times as clear as any mirror. And Clifton has an edge to her, something of her feminine charm lost in the splurge of graffiti, or the towering sameness of derelict flats. I should be glad that she still exists, but instead I feel guilty; perhaps if we had done something, if we had held on to those values of the past? But regrets are of little use to her now.

I worked deep in the belly of the earth in those days; my eyes heavy with dust, my back anchored to the swollen ground. I was a miner, one of a dieing breed. And it was hard, certainly not a job for the weak of heart. But there was something pure in it, something raw and unhampered that kept you afloat, kept you busy with life. I can honestly say I found my peace in the suffocating still of the rock. And then at night in the loving arms of my Mary, I found a different kind of solace. The warmth she gave me cannot be measured in words or deeds. She filled me like fire and water, like a man should be filled. Of course we only ever had each other, we never heard the cries of the young in our house. It simply wasn't to be.

When I look around now the house is different and I am the stranger. But then it was only ever home with Mary there, and she slipped away some ten years ago. I lingered on, pulled by my sense of place, by the foolish sentimentality of this old heart. I've seen them come and go upon our street. I've seen the families over-run, the anxious faces worn and flustered as they spill the contents of their miserable lives for all to see. Voices are raised, teeth clenched, and children, lots of children rampant in their desire for new adventure. It's quite a picture parade for one as weary as myself.

"Its not bloody rocket science!" I hear the man shout, his voice travels well through these magnolia walls. And then comes a softer voice, smoothing over the edges of another insult.

"Don't shout. The neighbours will hear."

"Bugger that!" He comes again. "I don't care if the whole bloody street hears!"

And he roars, the sound an ugly imprint in my mind. I do not like to hear them argue. I do not like to hear such animosity from ones so young. And the child, the poor boy who listens to such ranting every day. What will he learn from this? I dread to think.

"Can you not get anything right woman?" He shouts again.

And I wince, suck my teeth in tight and try to relax in the folds of my chair.

This is what has happened to her. My Clifton has lost her soul because of this. It makes me angry, but then I am aware that this can only add more fuel to the flames of destruction. Slowly I sit back, feel my weight absorbed by the plume of cushions. I let my eyes close, my mind drift back to the year we moved in, to the glorious sun that drenched the lawn in apple-green haze. And then to the sounds that rattled from the small wireless, the buzz and hiss as it fired up and the first few notes of rock n' roll hit the air. I think of Mary, the strawberry sunshine of her hair pinned back as she dusted the side board, knee deep in boxes and still more concerned with the shine of the wood. And me standing outside, drinking in the place, my eyes welcoming the rows of houses, the curve of our street; it held so much promise then.
Our thoughts were never veiled in fury or abuse. We looked only for the blessings, and we were happy in each other. Isn't that what life's about?

"They're fighting again. Mummy and Daddy are fighting again."

The voice comes quickly to my side and I look down. The boy is standing there, shivering. He often comes to me. I wonder what he sees in my face, but whatever it is it offers some comfort. I want to put my arm around him, but know that it would not be right. Everything has changed today; displays of emotion are kept to a minimum. I place a finger to my lips, a graceful movement to calm his fear.

"Why does he do this? Doesn't daddy love us anymore?"

I wish I could answer. I wish I could find the words to warm the chill of his huge brown eyes, but I am lost in this world. There is nothing I can do, except聟

I ponder for a moment. Except I could show him, remind him, who he is and where he came from. Slowly I stand; old bones that move in silence, they still harbour the pains of those days underground. The walk into the kitchen takes me longer than I thought. The room is large, untidy; Mary never kept it that way. The man and woman stand at arms length. He has her wrist in his hand. From the pull of the air I know he is about to push her, slam her hard against the wall.

"Stop!" I shout.

He doesn't hear me, but he sees me all right. His face slackens. His hand falls. Something comes out of his mouth, some embryo of a word cascading to the tiled floor. The woman spins around, she screams.

Yes, yes, that is right. I am a ghost. There is nothing left of me to go around, and no-where to go. I wonder if they see me as I really am or as I died, crushed and bleeding, caked in dust from the pit? I wonder if he realizes who I am at all? I bet he didn't bother to find out who lived here before, and why should he? This is not a generation that cares a deal about the past. But I do. That聮s why I'm here. How could I leave? For years I stayed by my Mary's side, watching her grow old and silent. Kissing her in the night, though she never felt it. And then when she went I could not follow. I had become a part of the place, a part of the street, of Clifton and the expansive estate that she has become.

For a while I have stopped them. I have quelled the discontent that festers in this house. The little boy is sleeping; uncomfortable silence provides a blanket. The adults sit in shock. There are questions in their eyes instead of accusations, disbelief at something otherworldly coming into their house. But there will always be other days. I am tired. I am growing colder, like this place. Sometimes I see snippets of hope; streets that remind me of how she used to be, strangers who smile without reason. But I wonder how long that will last. I'd like to see her rise again; a phoenix paying tribute to the stars, her gentle landscapes opening up a wealth of opportunity for the young. I hope to see it, for maybe then I can find some peace. But whether I do is another question.

Alison Davies 漏 2002