All stories

The clock hand clunks creakily onwards to 11:00pm. A wave of silence washes outwards, muting all sound; conversation, music, the rattle of money, someone crying, someone singing, someone’s sickly cough, the cry of a croupier, and then further out, engines, gunshots, the sigh of an old man remembering. Silence. 60 seconds.

Then it fades back in, first out here on the edges, the opening lines of the city orchestra plucked by the frail fingers of the fringes, then growing, swelling, picking up volume, heading back to the centre, until the full roar of Vegas is recalled.

People go on about their business.

In the city, fortunes spin, tumble, flash past and drop. Stakes raised. Lives razed. The absence of noise barely noted in the onslaught of every day acoustics. Only a few even remember now, why it tolls, but they aren’t here in the heat and fever of the city. To most it’s just another show; The 60 seconds of silence.

But some still do. ‘Old, grey eared fools’ as they’re called. In the lonely unwashed fringes of the city they come and gather by the last real tree in the state. Hoping to see one last Cherry appear. A fruit, bright and beautiful. And though no one remembers the taste anymore, they bring pictures, or draw a Cherry in the dust. If you look closely you may even find a faded X here and there. The tree of course does not bare fruit. But they gather still, to remember.

For those 60 seconds they can sit in absolute silence and let their thoughts drift back, to that evening when Rylan, the Blossom of Nevada, lit by a single spotlight, on the final night of his 6000 day run at the Bellagio, in front of the gathered thousands, sang out, one last single pure note, held for 60 seconds, before dissipating, into a shimmer of glitter and fake cherrry blossom.

It was said to be a performance so beautiful, a final note so distinct and pure and absolute, that no other sound would ever recapture the beauty. Of his evaporation, some claimed Nevana, others PR, but the great minds of Vegas did not miss a beat and set to work creating the scientific marvel that is the silence clock tower; to honour a moment that could never be recreated.

Of course never is a dirty word in Vegas and honour, just a fallacy. Eventually the 60 seconds of silence became the attraction itself. Then a nuisance. Then it was another unnoticed part of the daily routine. A pause in the synthetic symphony, nothing more.

But, still these many years later, when others have forgotten why the silence sings, and though those that do have been discarded to the small edges; too poor to retire to the coast, to tired of the flash of the lights and the dance of fate, they meet here. A quiet little suburb. Nothing special. With a small garden. Near where a young man from England once came. They sit, in the muted bliss, under the original Cherry tree that inspired his hit song ‘You can be my Cherry and I’ll be your tree’ and remember that moment that changed the face of music.

We escaped here.

Down the duel carriageway to the side street of semis. To the lines of Cherry trees whose blossom covers the spare car.

This land is Paul’s land, This Land is my land

From the tanning centre to the teeth of Rylan!

To the very best in barbeque equipment and hen and stag nights in Vegas!

And we’re not ashamed of who we are, we’re not ashamed of our big coloured nails!

If we want a tatt we’ll have a tatt, and if we want a tatt removed, we’ll get it removed!!

And now like a ghost you walk into my salon and ask for a haircut!?!

And part of me still wants to impress you but I’m angry at myself for that.

The teachers liked you at school, and the boys did too. Paul did.

I think you went out with him as a fashion statement, “go out with a footbally buildery type”, more street cred,….. for five minutes.

And I was so jealous, then you got bored and dumped him after two weeks!!!

And now you don’t recognise me. Or if you do you aren’t letting on. Fair enough, it is over twenty years ago now!

Paul said your name in his sleep once, a weird dream I suppose.

And I hear all about you, cos mum still lives in her terrace in Splott. And you live five doors down, with Stefan your folk-singer boyfriend!

Amber, our daughter was fourth in the X Factor and has sung in the West End! Stefan probably earns peanuts and dresses like a tramp!!

But if I talked about her you’d dismiss her as beneath you somehow!!!

If you actually talked at all!

I have tried to mention the weather three times!!! And you are just sitting there with your eyes closed!!

And you turned down the free cava we offered!!

I’ve got to say I’ve no idea how of all the salons in all the world, you came here, to Cut and Dried!?!?

Anyway Shelagh I’m all done,

“Have it on me love! I hope you enjoy the bald look!!??”

You stare at yourself dumbly and then hurry from the shop, still without a word, but maybe in tears …and I feel a little bad.

But still angry!!!

---

Shelagh got home, having run back to her car crying. She’d forgotten the Pergola she’d gone all that way to get.

She’d realised who it was straightaway but couldn’t remember her name. She should have left then.

But instead she had pretended to be asleep.

Why?

She had been subjected to out and out physical abuse, the kind of thing that would have incensed her when she had worked at the women’s refuge.

Now though she got her woolly hat out and put it on.

And after much gnashing of teeth and impotent outrage from Stefan they had both just decided to accept what had happened.

Because deep down she felt guilty that her differences looked so much like entitlement.

They flock to the cemetery, artfully clad in their black rags, gaunt with youth. For a few short hours the pastels and privileges of their parents’ homes are brushed briefly aside in a haze of cheap cider and perfume, unwashed hair and fag ash. Here they are misunderstood. They are artists.

She sits apart slightly under the laden branches of a cherry tree. It is spring and the tree is nauseous with blossoms that float and swirl around her like a shower of confetti. She is writing lyrics in her notebook and drinking mouthfuls of cider from the bottle when it passes her.

She looks up through lowered lashes to see that he is still watching her, shovel in hand, sleeves rolled up, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

His face is lined and smeared with greying stubble, but his arms and his back are strong and his dark eyes flash with a brightness that is catching. He is smiling at her and she is blushing.

When the others leave to go home for their TV teas with mum and dad and Rylan and David Jason she lingers. He sits. Soon the grey dusk gathers and settles like a blanket around their shoulders.

He asks distractedly about school. She tells him about her songs instead and he offers her a fag that she is too afraid not to take. She tells him about wanting to go away, to leave behind her childhood, to see America; Las Vegas, New York, the whole wide world. The cigarette tastes vile and forbidden and deliciously adult.

When he kisses her his mouth tastes of the cigarettes and stale food. His hands slip quickly beneath her top, batting away her feeble protests and groaning blurred promises to take her away - to show her a world he has no more understanding of than she does.

Her mouth is sticky with cider sweetness and bitter with smoke. Her head swims, and the world is a flurry of hands and hot, wet lips and heavy desperate breaths. His hands are dipping inside her knickers. It is not like the films. It is not romantic. This, she tells herself, is real. And she screws up her eyes and waits for it to be over.

He is turning her around, bending her over. Her knickers are around one ankle and the bark of the cherry tree digs into her palms. He is labouring behind her now, and she can smell him; the hotness of his breath, the stale sweat of his body. He is moving faster and before she knows it it is done. He is buckling his trousers and the moon is high in the sky. She pulls up her knickers with a shyness that feels absurd

He lights a cigarette, but this time he does not offer one to her. Instead he turns and walks away without a word and she is alone again, hidden behind the veil of cherry blossoms

This time Steve took the deeds along with him, and there it was, clear as day – the fence between him and Edward was a shared fence. Equal responsibility.

With a roll of the eyes the evidence was dismissed.

‘Posts, old boy. You have the posts, so it’s your fence. And of course, it’s a wood fence, matches all the new builds.’

Edward had one of the original red brick detached built on the sensible flat, not like Steve’s yellow brick semi scrabbling for a grip on the lowest rung of the housing ladder on these steep slopes above. Most of the red brickies were nice folk, but Edward. The man bought wines by the case, and he laid them down in his wine cellar that was just the dead space beneath the decking cut into the slope at the top of his garden. The same slope topped by their shared fence that was now wobbling.

Steve said, ‘One good gust will bring this fence down, and they’re forecasting storm of the century tonight. So if we-‘

Edward grinned suddenly. ‘Your namesake was on the idiot box this previous evening.’

Bloody Edward. And bloody handsome Rylan off the telly, but mostly bloody Edward. One single misdelivered letter gave it away that Steve had been christened Rylan and now the man didn’t miss a chance to rub it in just how much of a craggy and interesting face Steve had been born with.

Edward sighed. ‘Such a trial, for both of us. Your namesake, my facesake. But don’t forget I had the beard first.’

Edward climbed down to his wine hole. Steve remained stood at the fence. He could just replace the fence himself, but no, this was principle.

A gust of wind ruffled the papers in his hand. Steve nudged one of the fence posts. The fence shivered, a wave rolling along the sagging boards before bouncing from either end and returning to meet in the middle with an ominous creak. Another light gust of wind and the fence murmured once more.

There was a storm coming. The sensible thing was to take down the fence in a controlled manner. Last Christmas the Johnson’s cherry tree came down in the snow and smashed up the neighbours Las Vegas themed koi pond with miniature pyramid and gaudy neon light.

Steve’s handful of papers spilled over the fence to the decking below.

‘Oh. Dear me,’ Steve said.

He called for Edward until the man’s questioning face appeared above the lip of the decking.

‘Papers, old boy. The wind took them. It’s really gusting.’

Edward looked. He sighed, and rose tiredly, coming up the four steps of his decking as though this was some vast mountain he was being asked to climb. He knelt to gather the papers.

‘Hey Rylan,’ Steve said.

Edward looked up at him. There was something of a resemblance to the guy on the telly, though maybe it was coloured by the eye of the beholder who’d spent twenty years being nicknamed after the funny looking one from the movie Fargo, played by – wait for it – Steve Buscemi.

Who needs the wind when you have twenty years of rage building up inside you?

The removal van pulled up on Cherry Tree drive and Rylan ran out.

“Where have you been?” Rylan shouted to the van driver as he climbed down from the cab.

“Sorry mate. I took the wrong turn at Dartford tunnel.”

The driver walked around to the back of the van and opened up the door.

“Hello, luv!”

Rylan looked around but couldn’t see anyone there.

“It’s only me. Cilla ‘ere!”

Suddenly, a head popped up from behind a bay tree.

“Oh my God. You’re Cilla Black!”

“You alright, chuck?”

“I’m alright, but I think your bush needs a trim,” Rylan grinned as Cilla continued hacking away.

“Welcome to the street. I think it would be lovely for you to meet some of the others.”

“Others?” Rylan’s smile dropped and he looked confused. “What others?”

“People like us.”

“Us? What, like utterly fabulous celebrities you mean?” Rylan replied.

“I mean ….” Cilla was interrupted by the telephone ringing. “I have to go, but I can get the gang together later.” Cilla ran into the house shouting “We’ll be around at 8!”

Rylan sighed and walked away.

After making sure most of his dining room furniture was correctly placed, the doorbell chimed and Rylan looked at the clock; it was 8.00pm.

Opening the door, he was greeted by Cilla Black who held a bottle of champagne in each hand. She moved to the side to make way for a line of people who proceeded to march into the hallway. One by one, Rylan recognised some of the faces as they walked in carrying gifts and nodding a quick hello to as they passed.

Rylan smiled a wide-toothed grin as Freddie Mercury, Esther Rantzen, Shane McGowan and Janet Street-Porter shuffled into the house.

Cilla was the last in and turned to Rylan as she handed him the champagne. “We’re gonna have a lorra, lorra laughs chuck!”

Rylan couldn’t stop smiling. Had he finally found a place where he really belonged with like-minded people?

The night was going amazingly well as Rylan chatted to Janet about Celebrity Jungle and Freddie told him all about how Brian May slept with curlers in his hair everything … it was great!

The doorbell chimed and Esther pulled the curtain aside and peeked to see who was at the door.

“Oh no, don’t answer!” she sounded very worried.

“Don’t be daft,” Rylan walked towards the front door.

Shane stood behind Esther and moved the curtain aside to see who was outside.

“Rylan, don’t!” he slurred, in between knocking back his bottle of gin.

“We thought we’d got rid of him as he NEVER fitted in and never will,” said Esther.

Rylan waved his hand to dismiss their comments and opened the door. He gazed open mouthed at the wooden boy with the long, pointy nose.

“Pinocchio!” Rylan turned to look as Shane, Esther, Janet and Freddie shock their heads.

The group shouted out in unison, “You’re in the wrong club!”

Pinocchio turned and dropped his shoulder as he sadly walked away.