Concrete

By Ian Dyer

The Triangle, three giant concrete monoliths, filled with poverty, decay, hate, addiction. Once a place of tranquility, now it’s a burial ground of human excess, of raw human emotion, where no authority is welcome. You have seen these places, these cities in the sky. You’ve driven passed them, frowned at their residents, dodged their shadows, and have been offended by their way of life.

In this place of harsh realities, there are no happy endings, there is no light at the end of the tunnel, there is no way out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Dyer
• Release date: Jun 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311114396

Ian Dyer

What to write here..... Well I am English, I am in my thirties, a child of the eighties, though I really grew up in the nineties. An inhaler of books from an early age, though my eyes were blinkered so that I only saw the main stream books and not the off piste works that I have come to love. European authors offer so much more, I quickly learned that books don't have to have starts and middles and ends and plots and twists and smoking guns and all that jazz. A good story, well written, is all a book needs. So that's what I try and do. I write what I enjoy, I do not conform to what the people want, what's the point in that? I have learnt that this world in which we live in, this authors world, is hard, unforgiving, and full of negativity. It is full of people telling you to change this and change that, to make it fit into this genre, or to that genre, and to write this type of book for these types of people. If, in the past, writers had undergone that type of scrutiny, then we wouldn't have the likes of Selby, Burroughs, Asimov, Palanuik, Steinbeck and many more. Anyway, that's my bio. Either read my stuff or don't. To me the joy comes from writing, not from reading peoples blinkered approach to what they think writing should be.

Book preview

CONCRETE

IAN DYER

This book is the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author. If you enjoyed this book then please encourage others to purchase their own copy. Thank you for respecting the authors work. ©

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and events are all from the authors mind. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 Ian Dyer.

All rights reserved.

‘The face of evil is always the face of total need. A dope fiend is a man in total need of dope. Beyond a certain frequency need knows absolutely no limit or control. In the words of total need: Wouldn’t you? Yes, you would. You would lie, cheat, inform on your friends, steal, do anything to satisfy total need. Because you would be in a state of total sickness, total possession, and not in a position to act in any other way. Dope fiends are sick people who cannot act other than they do. A rabid dog cannot choose but bite.’

William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch.

‘If the misery of the poor be caused not by the laws of nature, but by our own institutions, great is our sin.’

Charles Darwin, Voyage of the Beagle.

Table of Contents

Foundations

A Passing Stagnation

Craig Shaw

Addict

Little Extra Won’t Hurt

The Cut Stuff

Penthouse Crack

Broken Mirror

Bleach

Wild Boys

Not Today

Just For Show

Ruined

Daylight Through A Smeared Window

Downward Spiral

An Apology

My Fathers Eyes

Reinforced

foundations

There is a lake. Its waters are clear and full of life. They seep into the foundations of the earth. Surrounding the lake, trees grow tall, uninterrupted, their ambitions know of no boundaries and their harsh tips tickle the birds, they scrape the clouds. Behind those tall trees, encircling the lake, the earth rises up, grass all the possible shades of green you can think of. Weaved into that grass are dark red bushes that look like scabs on the face of Mother Earth. In between the trees and deep inside the bushes and running amuck in the detritus of the forest there are creatures both great and small. You cannot see them, but their scurries and twittering’s can be heard all through the day and into the night. There are no monsters here, only those that you bring along for the journey. From the top of the hill, looking down upon it like a god, it is as if you are standing atop a giant bowl, the hilltop acts as the rim and the lake the liquid that sits within it. To drink that liquid is to taste divinity.

Today the air is still, as sharp as a knife. One cannot tell where the land and water separate such is the calmness upon the lake. The blue sky is both above and below and for each bird that swoops in, be it a kingfisher, a swift, or a jackdaw, they have a twin reflected upon the silvery glass surface.

No clouds spoil the day. The sun arches across the sky as it has done for a millennia, its beams of light bring life to the world and that life in response breeds its own life and will try to keep on going until something else comes along and puts a stop to it.

A lone dragonfly lands upon the water. For just a split second, a sliver of time, the silver sheet is broken. A fat trout tries to grab the dragonfly, but fails, and then in natures great irony a kingfisher plucks the hunter fish from the water and now the silver sheet is destroyed and the kingfisher flaps hard as it scurries away across the lake and into its nest carrying the distressed trout in its spear like beak. The dragonfly buzzes on, unaware of recent events it weaves its little body through the pollen air without seemingly a care in the world.

On the western shore of the lake, under the cover of an ancient willow, a girl stands with a baby in her arms. She is holding the baby tight to her ample bosom. Her face is pale, it has not seen that many summers, her skin is soft, it has not yet begun to sag under the weight of age. Her eyes are closed, you would think her asleep. Beneath her eyelids are spheres of blue sapphire, lights of life, black holes orbited by blue rings. She’s a pretty girl and that’s the problem, pretty girls attract boys like they always have and always will and those boys have urges, ancient desires, ones that cannot be simmered down or left to broil for they are dangerous, flammable. Boys are like flowers that are ready to seed, and only an act of God can stop them from doing so. Some girls have them same urges, shunned upon but not extinct, and Gwen, the girl we are watching now, is one such girl. The baby in her arms is testament to that.

A soft breeze blows, the leaves rustle, the lake ripples, the pollen dances like spring fairies, and above Gwen the branches sway, caught in the rhythmic beauty of the day. It is a cold wind on a hot day; the Wind of Summers End her father calls it, and even though he is a poor farmer he knows the weather but cannot sow or reap to save the family no matter how much he prays to his silent God. The soft cool breeze that delicately caresses Gwen’s face as it floats by does not take away the heat that surrounds her and the baby.

When she finally opens her eyes she looks down to her sleeping child, It’s hot again today, she tells it, for the baby has not yet been named, The water will be cool though, she coos to it and Gwen unwraps the baby from her shawl and lays it upon the ground. The baby stirs a little but does not wake and Gwen undresses, her pale skin glowing in the sunlight, and she is not shy about being naked and does not look to see who may be watching because even though she is young she can get the boys looking and the men sinning. She piles her clothes onto the floor behind her, falling leaves come to rest upon them. Gwen picks up the baby, kisses its forehead, for not only does it not have a name but is was born cursed, wretched like, with both a boys and girls sexual organs. She holds the baby in her folded arms and walks into the lake. The cool water laps at her feet, then her calves, then cools her thighs. She shivers as the water touches her vagina, then her navel, and then her nipples harden and Gwen starts to breathe hard as if her body is recollecting the sweet joy and inner pain she had gone through during the act to make this poor child. She keeps on going, deeper into the water, her feet sink into the mud and it becomes harder to walk but still she goes on because she can’t go back because if she goes back with it still alive then there will be hell to pay and she doesn’t want another punishment because the bruises have only just gone from the last one. The baby starts to stir, she tries to calm it, and she does well for the baby falls back to sleep. Gwen’s wrists and fingers become wet and soon the water is covering her arms and now just the baby’s head is above the clear waters. Even though Gwen senses that the water is there, that the baby is in danger, she keeps on walking into the lake and does not look down, just keeps looking ahead to the shore over on the other side. The water is now up to her neck, it is impossible to walk, and so she lets go of what she is holding and swims across the lake. She is a good swimmer, better than her three brothers, and quickly she is stood on the other side, her body dripping wet and her young chest heaving. Her hands are empty.

Gwen looks up and sees the kingfisher bury its beak into the fish it caught. Wet pink meat is torn away from white bone, rainbow skin flashes in her eyes. Gwen takes a deep breath, smiles, and even though two of her teeth are blackened with rot, she has a beautiful smile. Once the kingfisher is done, Gwen turns and swims back across the lake. At the point where she let go of her baby she does not look down or turn or feel any pity, for she is young and doesn’t understand what she should be feeling but instead fears the wrath she would have had to have faced, she fears the loss of the pink meat she likes up inside of her and the power it gives her over the men and the boys.

Under the shadow of the willow tree she dresses, picks up her shawl, and without a mirror she makes herself look smart, respectable, but she is still a child really and so picks a daisy and places it in her thick and youthful hair.

Gwen climbs the hillside and heads toward her small village where her parents await with a Preacher Man who holds a Bible and a Crucifix in his just and fair hands.

a passing stagnation

The world moves quickly along, summer comes and goes, autumn is bypassed like a forgetful birthday and soon winter claws and grabs at the earth. This year’s winter is harsh, the nights are long, the hours in the sun are short. People wrap themselves in more and more layers but it does no good; the cold air has a blade this year and it is sharp and it digs in, bone deep. Farm animals cannot survive outside so they are led inside. Soon the ground is covered with frost, then snow, and then ice as the northern winds whip up like the screams of the dead haunting the living. The villagers have never known it so cold, wood supplies run out, mouths get hungry as the food starts to run short. They did not know that such weather could exist and so did not prepare. Men go out to cut trees and they fall ill. Their axes and wood saws grow blunt for the trees are hard with ice and do not want to fall. The men become angry, violence awakened to their own pathetic uses. A man’s violence is like fire, even the coldest winter cannot smother it.

Women cook the food until there is nothing more to cook. Animals