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The murder of...

PAT R I S GORDON 1976-


The murder of... Patris Gordon


This is not a true story, but a story with a lot of truth. You know what I mean...


Š Copyright 2011 Patris Gordon The rights of Patris Gordon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted or saved without written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage. Printed in the United Kingdom Published by Blank Screen Publishing First edition was published in 2008 blankscreenbooks.co.uk E-mail: info@blankscreenbooks.co.uk

ALSO FROM BLANK SCREEN PUBLISHING Sitting quietly alone in the corner... An Anthology: with stories by Martin Friel and others Life without Mirrors by Patris Gordon Crazy, sexy and cool-er? (An anthology) by various authors


The murder of...


Patris Gordon

Introduction

From looking at the title of this book you’re possibly thinking who the fuck is Patris Gordon? Well, Patris Gordon is me. But who the fuck is me? Well, I’m the author. Yeah. But who the fuck is the author? Well… it’s me, and yeah, we could do this forever. And hopefully, by speaking to you (and myself), I’ve answered all the ‘who the fuck’ questions that you may have had about this book and its title. But then again something tells me you probably didn’t give a fuck about ‘who the fuck?’ in the first place. And if you did, well thank fuck for that, because I was beginning to think who the fuck would need an introduction about an ‘invisible git’ – the author: me – who gets murdered the fuck up anyway. I mean, fuckin’ hell. Talk about give the fuckin’ story away or what. Introduction – fuck off!

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Patris Gordon

First chapter

T

here I was – with a group of friends pretending like we knew each other. Or perhaps we did. Or perhaps I didn’t know them like I thought I did, which sort of explained

why I was questioning myself and questioning why I was questioning myself in the first place. See, it’s not hard to figure why I’m seated in a fashionable wine bar at a table shaped like a rhombus, occupied by our drinks, with the same group of guys that I’ve known for ages, years even. I’m seated with them because

I feel that I know them, but on the other hand, I’m seated with them because I think they’re the only ones who know me. Or maybe they don’t know me. Shit, I don’t know. Hi. My name is Patris Gordon. Or Flash ‘Ahh, ahh!’ Gordon, as my so-called friends have characterised me. But yeah, Patris Gordon is the name. The product of a father from St. Kitts and a mother from Jamaica, merging me into a full-bodied and blended West Indian. I’m 35-years-old and I’ve been made redundant at my place of work, and I’m drowning my sorrows with my so-called friends (I’ve repeated the term ‘so-called’ for reasons which should explain themselves later). This London bar we’re in is called Funky Rosemary, near Ladbroke Grove tube station. I think it’s called Funky Rosemary. Hold on, a sec, okay. I’m just popping out for a minute to see. As I’m doing this, my friends (no ‘socalled’ term used here, you may notice) Brian, Calum, Jordan and 5


The murder of...

Richard are watching me confusingly but acceptingly, given the circumstances that has brought us together again after almost three years. Well, I haven’t seen them in three years, but I have spoken to them over the phone and blah, blah. Their looks appear upbeat despite trying to downplay their concerns for my arrival back to London. I wish they would really say what they were feeling instead of ‘good luck’ and ‘you’ll be alright, man’ . I don’t need all that sentimental crap. I just want the real. Hardcore terms. The gangsta talk we were raised on and shared in our peer groups. Jargon, slander, slurs, obscene gestures brandished in the name of youth. I can recall when we would play football on the concrete pitch in the small play area around the corner from where I lived, and if you were rubbish at football, oh, you heard about it. ‘Patris, you long-legged freak! Stop toe-punting the ball, you’re gonna flatter the bloody thing!’ Yeah, that’s what I needed, but as I catch their wandering gazes, and they’re all looking at me as I puzzlingly stare at huge name plaque above the bar’s entrance, it’s not what I’ve been given, yet. Oh, and yeah, it’s called Funky Rosemary and yep, I looked like an idiot because I could have just asked one of my so-called (used it) friends what the bar was called instead of absentmindedly stepping further into the bar, across a sea of steady bar hoppers and regulars, skip past the bulky tins of steel - otherwise known as bouncers - and looked into space (for the bar identification) as if I was crying for help at God’s expense. Who really knows what they thought, but with my dismal attitude to things lately, I was probably on the right track if they thought I was insane. It was the storybook of my life: insane. Never the normal. And if you looked at my friends, all sitting there in their top-of-the-range suits, white collars without a brim 6


Patris Gordon

of dirt on them, cuff links and trouser creases all in the correct manner, jobs to die for (Brian – the accountant; Calum – the investment analyst; Jordan – the housing solicitor; and Richard – the IT manager), and then there’s me: the (former) wannabe newspaper journalist with faded jeans, cheap Peacocks pullover, eight-year-old watch, chipped glasses (they fell on the floor last week) and battered sneaks (trainers, shoes, whatever!), it’s just the typical Patris: insane. And then they all tried to compensate the morbid tone of the night I was implicitly initiating with subtle (ahem) glimpses and hints into their fulfilling roles of employment. Knock yourself out and take a pick – I’m sure you’ll be floored with the comments of their unimpeachable, if sometimes thrilling (!), occupations. Brian: ‘BACS or cheque? We don’t do Paypal, I said, and we certainly don’t forward payments via cash couriers. Check your bank receipts and instruct a positive way to send the money to you.’ Calum: ‘I recently calculated that the FTSE 250 is about to go bananas. My firm is estimating a rise in its share price for the next quarter and this means a marginally profitable increase in gross figures, yields and price earnings. I’m going to get paid, my friends!’ Jordan: ‘Home Information Packs are going to drastically change the situation for first-time homebuyers. It could mean less people taking on bigger properties because they don’t want to pay the fees that these packs will cost to make. I could lose, potentially, customers to advise.’ Richard: ‘The content management system is only a small part of what makes online businesses the wave of the future. With 7


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Microsoft Vista in place, there’s massive scope to ensure larger data can be transferred without the current hassles and will be free from a virus outbreak.’ All impressive – yes. And clearly, these positions, for which they studied long and laborious hours to reach through the hallowed halls of university, college, secondary and primary schools (all in descending order), come with enough zeros on their wage slips to keep their prospective wives, current mistresses and landladies happy. So, should I take on board their insinuations for a better life? It could mean a way to alleviate myself from this sluggish demeanour I have happily welcomed recently. Calum stared wimpishly back at me upon my return to the group’s table. He raised a smile then lost it as his mouth opened, displaying no cavities in his perfectly layer section of white-thanwhite teeth. No, I’m not envious. ‘Patris. What are you doing, man?’ I stared momentarily before answering. I could tell it had already been discussed - my latest short burst activity in the past few seconds. ‘Just checking the sign.’ ‘Sign?’ asked Calum, trying to get the others involved with a simple hunch of his shoulders and disparate flick of his arms toward Brian. ‘What sign?’ I wanted to huff but I knew my pointless slip across the bar would squeeze some attention and here I was, debating my movements. I thought we were here to enjoy ourselves. Nope. However, every time I left the group to either go get a drink, rustle to the toilet or (you guessed it) look at bar signs, the guys seemingly perked up. But my return, though, displayed a different atmosphere, 8


Patris Gordon

a despondent acknowledgment of what I was going through. I should have just huffed to show my discontent, but hey, who am I to spoil the gang’s night out, huh? It’d been three years since I last… oh, yeah, said that already. But you know what I mean. Life makes you insane sometimes. Doesn’t it? Calum waited for an answer. His rigid jaw line and short, tidy haircut flooded his handsome structure and perfectly trimmed eyebrows, with one line stroke in there (for his street credentials) gave him a professional yet evasive pimp stance, if I ever saw one. I’d already spotted five girls playing with their hair and biting their lips as they strolled past our table and caught eye contact with him. The guy was a magnet. And when he earlier slid his way to the toilet, I’m sure it was no coincidence that two fine looking young ladies appropriately had to go to the toilets at the same time. No, I don’t think so. So, Mr. Handsome, what is the answer you seek? ‘Funky Rosemary, that’s all.’ ‘Huh? Funky Rosemary?’ I guess that wasn’t the preferred answer. ‘Yeah, I was looking at the name to remind myself what this place was called.’ ‘Oh,’ he said.’

I could still see Calum’s sanctimonious expression roaming across my mind as I sat on my mum’s crinkly crouch. I wanted to punch through the thought balloon and land a perfect right hook on his perfect set of teeth. The guy just bugged me. But I knew that if the situation were reversed I would have been just the same as he was. Not really giving a shit about your 9

The murder of... Patris Gordon  

A sombre, yet amusing, tale of author on the edge of his sanity...