A touching novel about three people dealing with their own forms of isolation, all are from different walks of life and yet their lives are strangely entwined. Monique, who runs her own publishing house is tired of writers who write only for money, John, her company accountant, is coming to terms with the death of a marriage, and Barry is trying to cope with life on the inside. The ensuing narrative is a triumph of the human spirit and an ever present reminder that in spite of our obvious differences as people, we have more in common than we think.
This manuscript was the recipient of a Certificate of Merit in the 1997 Opus Magnum Discovery awards (USA) and will be submitted for publication this year (2000).
 

Written by Alastair Rosie. Feb 1997. ©

The light flickered briefly as the figure at the desk squinted at the shade. His eyes blinked nervously, as if he expected the light to disappear altogether. Barry stared briefly at the fluorescent light perched high above him; the wire mesh around it had been dented at some stage in the past, probably by the previous tenant. He smiled, sarcastically, yes that was what he was, a tenant in the hotel from hell. The light hummed and he frowned, just his luck there would be another power blackout tonight in this hot sultry city. Yet another summer storm threatened to roll over the city, big black thunderclouds had been hanging listlessly all day. The threatened deluge would as likely wipe out half the city, and right now, as welcome as the rains would be, there was work to be done. Tonight of all nights, he prayed the light would stay on, just long enough for him to make sense of the letter lying before him on the stained bare wooden desk.

It had came that morning as he prepared to take his daily constitutional as he called it, the only exercise he got these days. Like a light from the heaven the letter had come bearing news from a distant world, an alien planet far removed from his own. With trembling hands he had fondled the envelope feeling the characteristic bulge inside, what secrets did it hold? Carefully he had slipped it inside the pocket of his jacket; taking care not to crease it lest he damaged whatever precious jewels lay inside. With the letter safe from harm's reach, he had continued his daily chores, stopping every now and then to daydream as he stared at the drifting clouds.

Maybe it was from a woman. Not just any ordinary woman, but a beautiful screen goddess, he tried to picture what such a woman would look like in real life but only got as far as buxom, pulsating breasts. That was all he thought of these days, sex, and the thrill of the chase, and as to where it led no one knew and nobody cared, so long as the urge was satisfied and the appetite filled.

But now, as Barry stared at the open envelope with its contents spread out over the desk he found that he couldn't make sense of the words written across the page. The handwriting was beautifully done, that settled it the writer had to be a woman. The proof lay at the bottom of the page, Yours sincerely Monique.
 
 

Dear Mr Hancock,

A poem of yours was passed onto me by a mutual acquaintance and it moved me to tears, I must confess that I do not find many poems like that in this day and age.

You do not know who I am and I am loath to divulge my identity in case I raise your hopes, only to see them dashed again, as they must have been so many times in the past. Such a thing would be too cruel and you seem to have suffered so much. But I am in a position to help, being a writer myself, although I have not published anything myself for many years now.

I am prepared to look at your material and exchange ideas with you, if that would help you to develop your extraordinary talent, and please be assured, your talent is too rare and precious to let it just wither and die. I know we are from different worlds with little in common save our abilities as writers, but I would be willing to help in whatever way I can. All you need do is send whatever material you have, and I will gratefully advise you on the best way to go about seeing more of your work in print. I leave the decision in your hands and thank you once more for sharing your precious gift with the world.

Yours sincerely,

Monique.
 
 

Barry shook his head in wonderment as he read the address at the top of the paper, a post office box, that figured, he thought moodily. A woman who refused to tell him who she was or where she lived. The familiar ache in the small of his back began throbbing, as it did whenever he was entering unknown territory. His first instinct was to fold the letter up and hide it in the bottom drawer of his desk. There was no need to reply to someone he'd never met, after all, hadn't she left the matter in his hands?

Visions rose in his mind's eye, the blurred images of the past, the woman in the black chiffon blouse who worked behind the bar. Wasn't her name Monica or something? He closed his eyes and shook his head-no, she was; dead, caught in the crossfire between feuding bikie gangs. He stared again at the paper, the language was too slick, and too polished to be anyone he'd associated with.

A post office box, so she wanted to hide from him. He scowled. Maybe it was just some cruel joke, the last act of ridicule. She'd known where to find him, maybe she wanted to taunt him, humiliate him, laugh at his rage. She'd written so smoothly and smugly, knowing full well that he could never approach her in the midst of his powerlessness. He was alone and tainted in this city of hell and madness, its streets and alleys filled with hatred and decaying spirits. The ghostly men who walked in the netherworld, their world isolated from the high society rich bitches like this Monique O'Shannesey. Maybe she was some high society slut who got a cheap thrill out of writing to someone like himself. He cast his mind back over the years trying vainly to remember what it was he'd written that had moved this Monique but try as he might it was impossible to place just what the piece was. For all he knew she was probably just some old acquaintance he'd met years ago, he stared angrily at the wall in front of him as he went over the shrapnel that was his life. She'd mentioned a mutual acquaintance, but who? What the hell was the matter with the damn woman? It almost seemed as if she was frightened of him. So she wanted to hide behind the skirts of a friend, probably some great hulking boyfriend or some tart he'd known from the old days. Maybe she was just some weird woman who got a thrill out of writing to someone like himself. He sighed and shook his head, the name was lost on him anyway and what the hell, she obviously didn't give a fuck for him anyway.

"Who the fuck are you Monique?" He stared at the paper and shrugged nonchalantly, he hadn't known any writers who could write as eloquently as this woman. For an instant, he considered the possibility that someone was playing some kind of practical joke on him, and in that case, he clenched the edge of the paper, the best place for it was the toilet.

His hands refused to obey him however, hands that had served him faithfully all these years, and yet now when he wanted so dearly to rid himself of this mysterious woman, they had seemingly stuck to the desk. He wanted to cry out loud, scream his rage at the blistered ceiling, and howl at the moon and stars. He ran a shaking hand through his greasy hair and stared at the words on the paper each word, each sentence burning itself onto his brain, as surely as if she had taken a branding iron to his forehead. The lump in his stomach rose to his throat, threatening to choke him, and he brushed aside the sob.

Christ!

The frightened eyes of the child stared back at him through the shifting fog. The rags that hung from her thin emaciated body added a twisted barbaric nobility to her. He had only known her as the Bradley's kid, a fourteen-year-old with nowhere to go and no chance of getting there if she tried. She'd hung listlessly about the cobblestoned alleyways of his teenaged years, playing amongst the empty wine bottles and syringes.

Yet one day, she had stood for a moment in time, as he'd paused at the door of his flat. There had been something different in the way she walked, the hunger in her eyes seemed almost to have been satisfied. Barry stared fitfully at her, and it occurred to him with a start that the ragtag teenager had become a woman. The type of woman who did not belong in the filthy city streets, with her bright clear eyes, high cheekbones and a rapidly developing body. She stood apart from her peers, alone and almost aloof.

She smiled at him.

He stared for a moment longer at the young woman in the tailored business suit. Dimly remembering the words she'd spoken the day before.

"I've got a job."

"You start today?" The words were plucked from his lips before he knew they'd escaped.

She smiled shyly and turned to go.

"Don't come back to this shithole," he called out.

Her laughter tinkled back down the alleyway as he turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, shutting out the hope¼

It was some time before he opened his eyes and when he did, the tortured look was gone from his face and a strange calm had come in place of the haunting memories. So she wanted him to write? Well what the hell, nothing ventured nothing gained and she hadn't promised him anything now had she?

With a shaky hand, Barry Hancock cleared away the letter placing it reverently to one side. Years of hatred and bitterness flowed through his veins as he penned the first line...

"When I was young, I was given a box of lies and told to treasure them the rest of my life." Anon

He grinned at the words scrawled untidily across the page, there that should satisfy her! But as he stared at the words, a strange numbness that had begun in the pit of his stomach, started inching its way slowly through his body. Working its way up until it reached his head, and Barry realized the subtle truth behind the words, he had written out of bitterness and anger. Lies! That was what he had been sold all his life. Caught in the otherworldly mists of the dream, the tortured young man began to write the story of a girl called Ridicule and how she found her rightful heritage.

In a land far over the eastern horizon there lived a family in an old wooden shack that was situated on the outskirts of town. They were simple folk, whose grandparents had emigrated to the kingdom of Historia many years ago. His forebears had drifted in from the icy wastes to the North, the warring states known collectively as Hardship. Her ancestors on the other hand, had arrived from the western plains, the vast undulating grasslands called the Land of Hope. Because they were strangers in an alien country, they felt drawn to one another. The Historians were well known for their xenophobic attitudes.

Eventually a daughter was born to them. Her skin was dark, much darker than even her mother's, with jet-black hair and deep brown eyes. So different was she from her parents that the two of them feared for her safety in Historia.

"We must do something," the father said one night. "If the others see how different she is, they will tease her."

They resolved to keep her from seeing the outside world. They thought that only under their loving guidance and care, would grow up to be a normal and healthy young woman. As the years rolled by however, to their dismay they saw that not only did she look so much different to the others, but she was also beautiful.

It was too much for her parents to bear.

"There is only one thing we can do," a despairing mother said. "We must take all the mirrors out of the house, lest she sees her beauty and becomes so vain, as to draw attention to herself and us."

So the couple took all the mirrors out of the house, breaking them into tiny pieces. Their daughter must never be allowed to see her reflection. From then on, they called her Ridicule, and told her how ugly and useless she was. No man would ever want her, and if anyone looked at her, she was told to look away lest they saw how repulsive she was.

However Ridicule grew ever more beautiful. With long shapely legs, well-rounded hips and ample breasts. The long black hair tumbled down her shoulders and lay soft against a nut-brown complexion. Ridicule's most prominent features were her eyes, dark and soulful, which served to enhance her exquisitely formed features. Her parents were horrified. Where had they gone wrong? They had raised her to believe she only deserved shame and degradation, and now look at her! Eventually she would draw attention to them. The Historians would ill-treat her, perhaps even, the gods forbid, send them all into exile!

After a late night discussion, they decided to send their only daughter out of the kingdom. It was a difficult decision, but it was for the overall good of the family.

So they set about preparing their daughter for her long journey. From her grandmother's glory box Ridicule's mother began making her traveling clothes, choosing the material with the utmost care.

From the plainest silk she made a petticoat of Ugliness, next came the skirt of Humiliation, lovingly edged with Rejection. She made a blouse of Condemnation from the coarsest material available, the collar carefully stiffened with Frigidity. A waistcoat was cut from the most frightful Fear imaginable. The buttons were cast from the purest Panic. A hooded cloak of Shame completed her mother's contribution to the outfit. Her husband helped with the rest, making worn out boots of Drudgery, laced with Failure. From the woods of Despair, he cut a staff of Uselessness. With the oldest leather he could find, he cut a belt of Sadness. Patiently, he hammered out a buckle of Debasement, which he fixed to the belt. When all the preparations were complete, they called Ridicule before them. Fearfully she bowed her head as they'd taught her. They placed a heavy chain of Poverty around her neck. The food and drink for the journey were solemnly packed into a bag custom-built from abject Misery.

With much weeping and wringing of hands, they explained that for her good and theirs it was best that she leave, before she brought shame and ruination upon the family.

Ridicule wept openly, begging and pleading with her parents that she be allowed to stay. But they were firm and resolute.

"Neither of us can allow you to stay here; if the others were to see your ugliness they would ill-treat you and us. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

"But why do I have to go?" she wailed. "Why can't I stay here with you?"

"We are doing this for your own good Ridicule," they said. "See, we have covered up your wickedness, so no one will see your ugliness. You must promise never to remove any of the clothes we have made for you, it would only break our hearts if you were to suffer rejection as a result."

So Ridicule was sent away. The clothes, pack, and staff, were all that she had to remind herself of tranquil childhood days, spent within the sanctity of the cottage. It was a bitter blow for the young woman to take, but worse was to follow. As she trudged along the road, people turned to stare at her; for the colour of her skin was so dark, not even the hooded cloak of Shame could disguise her. Ridicule averted her eyes from the passers-by, just as she had been taught, terrified.

At the border however, the guards who stood sentry demanded her pack along with its contents as a poll tax. A stunned Ridicule handed over her provisions to the sullen guards. The Historians then sent her over the border, with orders never to show her face around these parts ever again…
 

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