Stones in the mouth, breathing through straws.
Whatever the treatment, it had helped. He had been able to quit the classes, leaving the stutterers behind with their smashed words.
Yet Parry imagined he knew what was causing the hold up ahead. Words, he guessed. Unsayable words.
All Parry wanted was a morning paper. He had waited outside the supermarket until 7am.
He liked the idea of a routine that a newspaper created. Also, the unbroken bundles of newsprint that could be glimpsed at such an hour. Newspapers he never otherwise saw, Irish and Polish titles, racing papers, red - topped bales. All possessed a seductive urgency.
But the man ahead who was guilty of the delay was no stammerer. Rather, he was counting out change from a succession of moneybags.
None of the aisles was yet open, only the kiosk working. The man had asked for a bottle of the supermarketâs own - label vodka, Krazy Kremlin , £3.53 for 500mms. Now he was telling the assistant to count it again.
Youâre over 50 pence short, the girl explained. Do you want a miniature instead?
Canât be, the man explained. Added it up this morning. Spot on.
But conscious of the queue for newspapers and lottery tickets behind, he decided to abandon the purchase.
Back in the street, Parry caught him up. The mist was raw, the morning black. And as Parry was pocketing his own change, a figure pushed past, a man who loomed suddenly out of the junction with Cato Street. Out of and into the fog.
Look, have that, said Parry. He proffered a pound coin. Itâs only a quid.
It was all there if that idiot kid had been able to count, the man said. I added it up this morning. It was perfect. Counted it twice.
Donât teach them anything these days, do they? laughed Parry. Look, go back and get it.
And he pressed the coin into the manâs hand and walked past. A cold coin on a cold morning, the man with no jacket or hood but jewels already in his hair. A man dealing with the dayâs first shame, a first ignominious encounter and dawn not broken. Something not even Krazy Kremlin would put right.
Not made for this, were we? the man said. I said weâre not made for this.
Youâre not wrong about that, said Parry, turning for home. He had bought milk, in case anyone called round. And both Glan and Serene needed it in their tea. Their coffee. Parry had also bought three bottles of red wine, on special offer.
Not such a giveaway as Krazy Kremlin, he considered. Nor had the girl in the kiosk blinked at his purchase. She was too young to serve him but experienced enough not to worry.
In the kitchenette at 33, Caib Street he made himself black coffee. Then set to thrashing the porridge.
VI
Eventually Richard Parry had found employment in The Works. The job was offered for the August holidays, with the chance of more hours any time he wanted.
More hours, he soon discovered, might last for weeks. Maybe months. There were workers on the payroll still considered temporary or casual after serving years. Some of them preferred it like that.
Indeed, it occurred to Parry, that whole working lifetimes spent at The Works might be passed that way. His father outlined certain practices he would encounter.
Youâll see, said Jack Parry. And laughed. And shrugged.
No matter how weird you think itâs going to be, it will always be much stranger still.
Listen, to understand The Works, you need to learn to think like everybody else. But by the time youâve learned to think like everybody else, itâll be too late to get out. Too late to save your skin, my son. Youâll be paralysed. All part of the great myth.
What great myth?
The myth of work. By the time you understand that, theyâve got you.
But itâs good money, said Richard Parry.
Oh yes. Good money. Thatâs the trap.
What trap?
The trap of life.
Myth of work? Trap of life? Thereâs no trap.
Beware, laughed Jack Parry. There were pastry flakes on his tie.
But it
Whatever the treatment, it had helped. He had been able to quit the classes, leaving the stutterers behind with their smashed words.
Yet Parry imagined he knew what was causing the hold up ahead. Words, he guessed. Unsayable words.
All Parry wanted was a morning paper. He had waited outside the supermarket until 7am.
He liked the idea of a routine that a newspaper created. Also, the unbroken bundles of newsprint that could be glimpsed at such an hour. Newspapers he never otherwise saw, Irish and Polish titles, racing papers, red - topped bales. All possessed a seductive urgency.
But the man ahead who was guilty of the delay was no stammerer. Rather, he was counting out change from a succession of moneybags.
None of the aisles was yet open, only the kiosk working. The man had asked for a bottle of the supermarketâs own - label vodka, Krazy Kremlin , £3.53 for 500mms. Now he was telling the assistant to count it again.
Youâre over 50 pence short, the girl explained. Do you want a miniature instead?
Canât be, the man explained. Added it up this morning. Spot on.
But conscious of the queue for newspapers and lottery tickets behind, he decided to abandon the purchase.
Back in the street, Parry caught him up. The mist was raw, the morning black. And as Parry was pocketing his own change, a figure pushed past, a man who loomed suddenly out of the junction with Cato Street. Out of and into the fog.
Look, have that, said Parry. He proffered a pound coin. Itâs only a quid.
It was all there if that idiot kid had been able to count, the man said. I added it up this morning. It was perfect. Counted it twice.
Donât teach them anything these days, do they? laughed Parry. Look, go back and get it.
And he pressed the coin into the manâs hand and walked past. A cold coin on a cold morning, the man with no jacket or hood but jewels already in his hair. A man dealing with the dayâs first shame, a first ignominious encounter and dawn not broken. Something not even Krazy Kremlin would put right.
Not made for this, were we? the man said. I said weâre not made for this.
Youâre not wrong about that, said Parry, turning for home. He had bought milk, in case anyone called round. And both Glan and Serene needed it in their tea. Their coffee. Parry had also bought three bottles of red wine, on special offer.
Not such a giveaway as Krazy Kremlin, he considered. Nor had the girl in the kiosk blinked at his purchase. She was too young to serve him but experienced enough not to worry.
In the kitchenette at 33, Caib Street he made himself black coffee. Then set to thrashing the porridge.
VI
Eventually Richard Parry had found employment in The Works. The job was offered for the August holidays, with the chance of more hours any time he wanted.
More hours, he soon discovered, might last for weeks. Maybe months. There were workers on the payroll still considered temporary or casual after serving years. Some of them preferred it like that.
Indeed, it occurred to Parry, that whole working lifetimes spent at The Works might be passed that way. His father outlined certain practices he would encounter.
Youâll see, said Jack Parry. And laughed. And shrugged.
No matter how weird you think itâs going to be, it will always be much stranger still.
Listen, to understand The Works, you need to learn to think like everybody else. But by the time youâve learned to think like everybody else, itâll be too late to get out. Too late to save your skin, my son. Youâll be paralysed. All part of the great myth.
What great myth?
The myth of work. By the time you understand that, theyâve got you.
But itâs good money, said Richard Parry.
Oh yes. Good money. Thatâs the trap.
What trap?
The trap of life.
Myth of work? Trap of life? Thereâs no trap.
Beware, laughed Jack Parry. There were pastry flakes on his tie.
But it
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