Everyone’s Favourite Albatross
‘Coming up on Sunrise Over Britain we’ll be remembering those lost in the Bramwells tragedy as today marks the 15th anniversary of that fateful day’. Somehow transmitting a sombre tone past all too many teeth, Kate Kaye struggled. Naturally pretty, her face had been melted down by the monotone delivery of whimsical news items while her colleague was left to handle the serious stuff. Ian Whittle-Moore always sat sideways, one arm diagonally cutting across a gut inflated with complimentary ales. He wobbled with agreement as that morning’s ‘experts’ spoke with wild hands about climate change, plummeting house prices, a shock cricket score or a monarch’s hairline. Throughout, Kate looked through the guests, rocking gently through apathy, subsiding only on Ryvita and low-cal spread. Together they were the neutered force which welcomed Britain to its latest grey morning. As was increasingly common, Kate’s clothes mattered more than the topic they discussed, Ian’s half-hearted opinions have more prevalence than the three minute segments on war torn slums which were flushed out between updates on supermarket profits. Every morning, on trains, at office desks, people discussed the length of Kate’s skirts. She’s had surgery, they’re shagging y’know, there’s fifteen years between them. This was put to one side only once a year when ‘Bramwells’ was mentioned. A local tragedy, that had grown into a regional one, that soon billowed into national news. Every soft word spoken was wrapped in a black armband. Whittle-Moore’s jowels slid to what he deemed an appropriate level of respect and warned those viewing, ‘the following report contains images which some viewers may find upsetting’.
As was custom the footage came from a ground level camera, looking up towards the factory gates where heaps of coloured flowers piled high. Multi-coloured petals folded in the February wind as a line of workers in fluorescent yellow vests hung their heads. A man that looked like a walrus in a suit spoke with rehearsed sympathy, having not even lived in the town at the time of the tragedy. Formal Walrus fidgeted in the wind while slurping through the high notes – ‘community’, ‘coming together’, ‘respect’. The report beamed into the country’s marble topped kitchens and smoky bedsits. An annually programmed deluge of grief would follow.
From the sinking mound of his sofa, Lou knew he would be bearing the brunt. Three years ago, Lou had mistakenly urinated on the Bramwell memorial. He still hasn’t found out who took the picture, yet it made its way into the Coppington Gazette, front page ‘exclusive’ with a follow up on the second page. At the centre of the image ‘In Memory Of’ carved into the breezeblock. One hand on his Johnson, one held aloft with a clenched fist. A golden spring of urine found its way into the grooves of the letters and dripped to the concrete. That first month was a tough one. The sideways glances and the louder-than-whispers he could handle but death threats were unexpected. He’d received strongly-worded letters from flapping pensioners and scrawled crayon messages from kids, each one lettered over an outline their parents laid out for them. His favourite though, the one he framed, was a plain sheet of A4 paper a message in printed capitals – YOU ARE DEAD. Bit obvious, thought Lou, presuming the death threats he’d read about were the ramblings of real psychopaths, brimming with biblical references on paper that smelled like cheese. While the report still rambled on, he received another.
With a flat palm he straightened the paper on the kitchen table before stepping back, waiting for it to explode or talk. He made a cup of tea and continued to look at the paper. Contacting the police wasn’t an option; his neck still hadn’t recovered from where Officer Gallagher had plunged his knee when taken in ‘for questioning’. Hard to forget the pressure of a sixteen stone man leaning onto your neck and screaming ‘You’ve broken hearts, lad. Broken the nation’s hearts!’ Lou soon realised that taking a different route back from The Withered Hand the flat and being absent minded for a moment had awoken a beast of outrage. He’d taken a sword to everyone’s favourite albatross, from the wound poured pure vitriol. Between their questions, the police took turns to mock the size of his penis. One of them even called it a ‘pecker’, Lou’s least favourite of all the dick names. They interrogated him for three hours. Throughout, all he could think is that they must have watched a lot of television between them. Trying their best to shoehorn a treasonous, almost terrorist, angle to simply having a piss outdoors. He should have looked, he admitted that much. But eight pints to the good, he didn’t notice. Oh he noticed alright, the police said, they reminded him of the spearhead of the Bramwell Trust, the leader of the annual memorials.
Local hero and media darling Julian Spencer had initially found local fame in the ashes of the factory fire. Within a year he had stepped into local limelight before the release of his first book Clocked In: Carried Out On A Stretcher Of Flames had found a national following. Seemingly, there was a crowd waiting for every detail, not only of the moment that the reaper jammed the extinguishers but also the misery of the families that followed. In fact, no detail was too grim. The more graphic the description of an eighteen year old amputee’s skin graft, the better. The book became an easy to find, easier to buy symbol of sympathy which housewives ensured faced out from the bookshelf. The conversation starter that always ended in ‘terrible, terrible do’ before getting back to the cost of flights to Cyprus. In the years that followed, Julian Spencer himself took on a change. He lost weight, became tanned and his teeth were whitened. All of the sure fire signs of a boosted bank balance, Lou thought. At the peak of the book’s publicity he sat in on panel shows discussing topics completely unrelated to Bramwells, speaking of ‘today’s Britain’ as if he embodied all the Britains, the ones of years gone by and the future Britain to be forged in his image. On one particular occasion Lou remembered him pointing at and talking over frightened young women, barking out points of ‘decency’ against public breast feeding. He slammed on the weak desk façade of the show’s set – ‘It is plain wrong!’ – applauded by audiences made of bread and corned beef. He’s been through so much, they said to one another as the presenter solemnly nodded along.
Never too far from his sofa, Lou watched the transformation from the portrayed shop floor brush boy to media savvy voice of reason but couldn’t shift the image of Julian Spencer from Double Maths. Double Maths was the official name of hellacious Tuesday afternoons at St.Catherine’s. Thick textbooks made up of thin pages which if you were unprecedentedly lucky, may contain a triangle which had been drawn on to look like a mouse. While flicking through to find himself a rodent isosceles, Lou heard crying from the back of the classroom. By the radiator, Stephen Osman was heaving sobs of snot into his palms. Not just a bout of tears, a full on wail. As a fellow ‘big lad’ Lou feared for the strain on his shoulder blades. Next to Osman, Julian Spencer smirked while twirling a compass before catching Lou’s stare, “Fuck are you looking at? Turn round, lard.” Lou turned round. At the front of the class Mr.Wolfenden stopped talking for a moment, looked towards Stephen, saw him crying, then carried on. Less than a fortnight later, Osman was found hung from the bunk beds at his step dad’s. The belt had snapped under his weight albeit too late to stop it from happening. Lou wished he hadn’t turned round.
It was only when the officers had mentioned Julian that Lou had made any connection. Unlike many of his peers in Coppington, he didn’t go to work at Zeus Insurance, wasn’t fixed in a nostalgic spasm. Nevertheless he wondered if he was subconsciously pissing on Stephen Osman’s behalf? Was he hoping Julian would somehow step out from behind the memorial cenotaph and a scrap would break out? He thought it was none of those things, it was a genuine accident, surely. The officers had thumbed in a seed of doubt. The footage reeled on, black and white photographs of a younger Julian scrolled left to right. When it cut back to the harsh lighting of the studio, he was sat across from the presenters, shoulders back and hands cradled. Kate smiled for five beats as he was introduced, on the fifth beat she moulded into concern. It was time, the annual public address. Fortunately, this was the first year it hadn’t been prefixed with his charge sheet although from his living room he could hear a thousand tuts as people recalled his ‘malicious’ error of judgement. Being the male of the operation, Whittle-Moore took over the interview when it got to the gruesome recollection. His eyes widened as Julian described the smell, the falling pillars, the thick smoke. Kate Kaye winced. There were rumbles throughout the interview, Lou could hear them, he shovelled a heap of Shreddies into his mouth. Something wasn’t right, the rumbles grew louder with each description, every shake of Whittle-Moore’s head. And with the familiarity of an uncle’s only joke, it arrived.
“My most vivid memory is of one of the older fellas dragging people out of the building, getting them to safety, and heading right back in there. He didn’t bat an eyelid. Through the smoke, the flames, getting as many of his workers out of there alive. He was a leader, he had that real blitz spirit, a true Brit. All in it together. I offered to go in and help him on his third trip, he told me to stay out. On that third time,” Julian took a deep breath, “He entered the building. And never came back out. That was Ian all over.”
Lou could faintly see his reflection in the television as he waited for Kaye and Whittle-Moore to react. They nodded, said how brave Julian was and began to talk about the Bramwell Trust. Lou stood up, where was the reaction, hadn’t they noticed? He held both arms wide, “What the fuck?” Milk dripped from his lips as he rattled through kitchen drawers, looking for his ‘documents’ – a shoebox in which he kept the information about the tragedy, about the arrest. He took out a newspaper clipping from the 10th anniversary, the edges were tattered and it had begun to yellow out. Behind him, the interview was ending. Whittle-Moore gobbled into his closing statement.
“Thank you for coming along this morning, Julian, we appreciate how difficult it must be for you to relive those moments. All the best for the work with the Trust.” With business handled, the autocue then prompted The Woman to speak;
“To find out more about the Bramwell Trust and how you can donate head to the website which should be at the bottom of the screen now. Julian’s new book, Factory Gates Of Fire is available at all good bookshops priced £12.99”.
On the newspaper clipping, there was a picture of Julian at the unveiling ceremony for the memorial cenotaph with the mayor, firm hand in firm hand. Lou scanned the article – two Steve’s, a Dave, a Karen, a Sharon, Linda and a strange toal of five Garys. No Ian. “No fucking Ian!” Lou shouted, waking up the dog.
Four words circled Lou’s mind: Pigeon Mike was right. Still laughing to himself when he stepped off the 14 at Healy Road, Lou made his way into the infamous Healy Road Park. Infamous for being the domain of Pigeon Mike, a local outcast whose white beard scared children and adults alike. Small town rumours were stated as fact when Mike was mentioned; the tattered blue hat he wore had belonged to his first victim, he was actually a millionaire that chose to sleep rough, one of his estranged daughters went on to be a Miss World, that he had once eaten a whole pigeon – head and all – on the centre circle of the football pitch. Like entering a high flyer’s office, Lou kept a straight back and slowly set himself on the picnic bench. Without looking up, Mike spoke.
“If you’ve come to give me a bible, I’ll tell you what I told your mate yesterday – swivel.” He had the calm delivery of a man who had been through a lifetime of judgement from strangers. Beneath the stained blue hat his face looked pickled in apathy. Lou didn’t doubt that there were deep lines beneath that white beard.
“I’ve come to ask you about Bramwells. I know you’re right, about Julian.”
“You’re not a journalist are you? Let’s see some credentials.”
Lou understood his wariness. All he had in the form of credentials was a Library card which he waved helplessly.
“That’ll do I suppose,” Mike grumbled, “You’ve heard most of it, I take it? Good. Well, I’ll reiterate the main point – Julian Spencer did not work a single day at Bramwells. I swear on my mother’s shabby grave. Hand on my heart. Needle in my eye. I’d never seen that snivelling shit.” It was easy to tell that the memories had been regularly watered by Mike himself, growing into justified bitterness year on year. “It’s as it’s always been, son. It’s how it’ll continue. It’s on television, it’s law. Nothing we can do about it.”
“But if we could find a way to wake people up, show them he wasn’t even there. We could reverse all this.”
“Yeah, ‘cause they’re going to listen to the guy who eats pigeons.” Buses continued to stream past the park. Groups of children pointed down from the top deck, laughed at Pigeon Mike and threw the torn off crusts of their sandwiches towards him. Each driver blinked forwards with their wide hammy forearms hanging out of the window. Grey faced workers nodded forwards, rocked backwards.
“There’s got to be a way. Look at these people – they need waking up.”
“Think it’s you who needs to wake up, kidder. Hey, aren’t you that bloke who pissed on the memorial? I liked that.”
Frustration seeped through Lou’s movements at work, launching recently chopped branches over hedges, narrowly missing oncoming joggers. He snapped through a conversation with his mother after she called concerned for his mental health after seeing him kicking a bin outside a newsagents. Feeling helpless, days later Lou walked the forty-five minutes up Hedgeway Road, from the centre of town to its outskirts. Here stood a Victorian hospital annexe that had been converted into expensive office space. An upright hulk of red brick and black slate with towered corners that once provided hospice care to those on their way out. Now, the floors were separated and divided amongst local businesses and organisations that could afford the rates. Of these, The Bramwell Trust was one. Lou flicked his cigarette to the gravel as he stood on the wide steps. He thought of the celebrities pictured on those same steps, garish cheques in hand, leaning them over to Julian and maniacally grinning towards the cameras. The actors who had done their only good deeds in public. The regionally famous footballers who shifted uncomfortably next to Julian. The pop star who’d released a single to touch the public nerve and remind them where their wallets were. He spat on the steps. He waited for a voice to frazzle through the intercom, he coughed as he spoke, “I’m from the Gazette”. With those words the door clicked open. He could smell the smoke on his jacket collar, that and the state of his beard made him feel as odd as everyone had thought him to be. There was another security door to get through when he reached the second floor. It dawned on him that he didn’t have any line rehearsed, years’ worth of anger pent up into this outing of Julian. The grand reveal, the curtain being pulled back, and he hadn’t prepared a snappy line to go with it. A tanned young guy in a suit pushed the door open and burst into the corridor with purpose, he frowned towards Lou, who without any better excuse prepared said, “Cleaner, mate.” While he wormed into the Trust’s office he wondered if anyone did indeed walk around the building stating their job titles to each other. Regardless, he was now on the inside.
Lou stood in the doorway. The walls were white and propped up photographs of Julian accepting awards from councillors, linking arms with politicians’ wives. His six bestselling releases stood side by side on a small bookshelf.
Words bubbled up in Lou’s throat “There is no fucking Ian.”
Julian slowly looked up from his desk. “I beg your pardon, sir. Can I help you?”
“There is no Ian.” He held the ragged paper aloft. Julian hadn’t recognised him through his beard. He rustled some papers before picking up the phone.
“Hi Naz, can you ask Martin to bring someone with him to my office please, it’s urgent.”
“You weren’t there, were you?”
“Excuse me, I think you’re in the wrong building. We can get you a taxi, if you’d like, to the hospital…”
“You weren’t there!” Lou bent his knees and rocked his head back into a laugh, the rest of the office had stopped what they were doing. The endless interviews, the one-hour TV specials, the books – the endless bloody books – the panel shows, commemorative plates on pensioners’ mantelpieces, the midnight vigils. How long would it have gone on for? Lou doubted the hypnotised public would even wake up, aside from the competition of public righteousness, did they know how else to spend their time? Televised grief had become a hobby through people like Julian. Thin necked, liver lipped cowards who cast the reflected glory into a handmade halo. A well in which to catch other’s sympathy. On the desk were stacks of paper, each with cheques written out to Julian stapled into the top right corner. Lou looked at the figures, thousands of pounds. The look on Julian’s face pleaded him not to, Lou ignored him. He unzipped his jeans, thought of Stephen Osman and began to urinate on the cheques. It soaked into the paper, rolled on the coated wooden surface and dripped to the carpet.
