Paul Kavanagh ~ debt

January 8, 2007

“I’m waiting for the bus,” said Havilland.“Been waiting long?” asked Faireysword.

“I don’t know how long for I posses no watch,” said Havilland.

“A man must always have a watch upon his possession,” said Faireysword.

Faireysword was dressed in a fine pinstripe suit. Havilland was dressed in a more expensive pinstripe suit, but was micturating. Faireysword with his peripheral vision witnessed the opprobrious act. Just below where the zipper ended the fabric lunted in the hot weather.

Faireysword witnessed a spasm within the countenance of Havilland. Faireysword swallowed a cough. He endeavored not to look upon the fuliginous swirl that was emanating from Havilland’s trousers.

“The war’s going good,” said Faireysword.

“Somebody’s making out on it,” said Havilland.

Havilland was taciturn usually.

Faireysword was known to be verbose. A bore.

A taxicab flew passed the busstop. Havilland was oblivious, Faireysword wished he had flagged down the taxicab. It was a blistering day.

“The sun’s out today,” said Faireysword.

“It’s not too bad,” said Havilland.

Faireysword inhaled the reek of piss and thought of food. It had been a busy day at the office. Around the leather shoes of Havilland a warm puddle was forming. Faireysword surreptitiously watched the puddle morph into a little cascade that undulated from the busstop onto the road.

“How was the office?” asked Faireysword.

“Busy,” answered Havilland.

“Really,” emitted Faireysword.

“Singapore lost us a few million,” informed Havilland.

“Not too bad,” said Faireysword.

“Hell no, small fry,” said Havilland.

The piss was a hebetate ecru. It was foamy and the reek was pungent. The looming edifies were futile in their endeavor to block out the peripatetic sun. The two men were baking, perspiring, and clammy. Faireysword did most of the talking, while Havilland micturated.

The cascade had reached the white lines in the middle of the road. Cars sporadically passed through the undulation, splashing the piss all over the road.

“The wife?” inquired Faireysword.

“Just wonderful, we are going to Melbourne next week to see the kids,” said Havilland.

This was incongruous of Havilland. Havilland had begot three children, two had gone off to Oxford, the same as him, and were now making a living in the city, the other, the girl had married an Australian had three kids and moved to Melbourne. So, when Havilland used the word kids he was implying grandchildren.

“How was the dollar?” asked Faireysword.

“The USA?” corrected Havilland.

“Y y y y y y y y yes yes yes yes,” stuttered Faireysword.

The reek of piss was like glass upon his tongue.

“Low,” stated Havilland.

“That’s not good for the Americans,” said Faireysword.

Need more wars,” said Havilland.

The cascade of piss had now reached the other end of the road. Havilland lifted his right leg slightly off the ground and gave it a firm shake. The piss still flowed. The reek still invaded the nostrils of Faireysword.

A groan, a long, guttural groan.

May Vaughan rushed into the study. For some unknown reason she always thought the worst. The sound of a cup hitting the floor meant a heart attack, death even. She haltered, panting heavily and surveyed the room. Her husband was sat before his desk; in his hand was a pen. He groaned again.

It’s no good

He almost broke the pen

Why don’t you try to write a children’s story

Hector Vaughan bolted up so quickly he nearly toppled from his chair. He turned towards his wife and smiled as though she had just presented him with an expensive gift.

Say that again

Why don’t you write a children’s story

I thought you had just said that

To help him relax and dull the ennui Hector Vaughan had taken up writing. Each night after tea he sat down in the study and wrote endlessly. He had once been a manager at the Royal Mail. He had been in change of the Deliveries. Twentyfive years he had been there, fourthirty every morning, Monday to Saturday, hardly missed a day. Now and again he went back and worked during the Christmas madness, some of the postmen laughed at him, thought he was sad case, but for Hector Vaughan it was fun, he didn’t do it for the money, he did it because it stated that he was still worth something.

May Vaughan was once a solicitor.

The Treasury estimated the cost of Black Wednesday at £3.3 billion for the Vaughans it meant a little more, but they gleaned much.

The study was in a nondescript house. The Vaughans’ garden was precise, two lawns surrounded by flowers and a path that cut through. In the back garden was an apple tree. During the summer months kids from the Council estate climbed the wall and stole apples. At first he would dash out and yell, but over the years he lost interest, if it weren’t for the grandchildren he would have cut the apple tree down. The grandchildren would walk through the front door, say their hellos and then run out into the back garden and pick apples from the tree. They never took them off the ground, unlike the Council estate kids, because their Grandfather had warned them of the maggots.

The Vaughans had three children, two worked for the Royal Mail and the other the girl had married a Dublin man. All had children, though not all were married.

On Sundays the whole family got together and they had roast chicken, roast potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, carrots and gravy. Hector wins Scrabble with fez. There was a challenge. But fez is in the dictionary. The men walk to the local pub and play darts; women and grandchildren clean up and watch a movie.

A children’s story

It will be fun

It could be

Think of your grandchildren


A good children’s story must start with Once upon a time, it has to start this way. A children’s story must not be too long nor must it be too short, there should be no obfuscation, the sentences should be concise, concrete, with no more than two clauses. The story should follow the Aristotelian beginning, middle and end rule. There should be no digressions, no large words, no complicated syntax; the semi-colon should never been used. Adverbs are good, they roll off the child’s tongue, gives cadence to a sentence. There should be a good person and a bad person. The mirror image, the antithesis of each other. The fight between good and evil, black verses white. A moral, even. Hector’s mind was racing. He could hardly sit still. There has to be an innocent little boy or girl, there’s got to be a big bad wolf, an evil witch, a heinous step-mother. He couldn’t write; his imagination was blazing. A strange world, magical, animals that talk, chairs and tables that dance, but most of all the story has to have a happy ending.

May Vaughan put the children to bed; she would read to them, pray and tuck them in. Hector would be at work doing overtime and if not at work he would already be in bed. May Vaughan’s office became Hector’s study after she retired. When the children left May used one of the rooms to do her crafts in. The girl’s room was never used, their daughter forbid them to clear it out. It was till her room, there were still posters of T-Rex, Bowie and Gary Glitter on the wall.

Hector Vaughn ripped the sheets that he had written on from the notebook; he folded them neatly and placed them into the waste basket. A clean sheet lay before him. He gripped the pen and wrote in a ornate style

Once upon a time

May Vaughan seeing her husband settled, not on the precipice of a heart attack, smiled, she bent down and picked up a feather that had escaped from one of the pillows her husband used.

Cup of tea

That would be lovely


No dear

There was a knock at the door

Hector Vaughan heard his wife turn off the kettle, leave the kitchen and open the front door.

Love there’s a man at the door for you

Just a minute

Hector Vaughan put down his pen and went to the front door. At the door was a man that Hector had no recollection of. The man did not smile at seeing Hector, his was marble. He didn’t look like a salesman; he didn’t possess that sycophantic smile, that feigned affability that vexes. The man was nonchalantly leaning against the door frame; he was almost inside the house. He was tall, well built with a heavy moustache.

Can I help you

Mr. Vaughan



Now he smiled. His teeth were grey and yellow. Hector did not invite him into the house. He took out his hands from his pockets. His hands were big and were covered with rings of gold.

May Vaughan seeing the man smile at her husband went back into the kitchen and turned on the kettle.


Yes, good

Hector’s perplexity was ostensibly intangible for the man presented himself unabashedly without an introduction.

You owe me Mr. Vaughan

Owe you

The man’s impassivity exacerbated Hector’s confusion. The man’s behavior was indeed uncouth. It was unconjecturable.

Are you all right dear

Tell her you’re going on an errand


You heard me

The man removed himself from the door frame. Hector took a few steps back. The light barely illuminated the man. Hector thought about shutting the door in the man’s face and calling the police. The man was threatening, the way he looked at Hector, the way he stood, the tone of his voice.

Does your friend want a cup of tea


I might

You can’t

You owe me


The man didn’t look crazy, but he was acting crazy. Hector didn’t appreciate the man’s domineering manner. He was a con man, that’s what he was, Hector had him figured out, he was on the scam.

Listen there’s nothing here for you be off before I call the police

Don’t make me laugh

You won’t get any money out of us

I don’t want your money

What do you want

I want you to come with me

Come where

On a little trip

Hector started noticing little things about the man, his nose had been broken numerous times, there was a scar under his left eye, a few teeth were missing and he was dressed in all black, black slacks and black leather jacket. A few grey hairs were spouting out of the moustache.

Listen mate we don’t want to involve your old lady

Hector acquiesced. Not for himself, but for his wife. The last thing he wanted was to have a stranger upsetting her. He tried to close the door but the man’s foot stopped it.

I need to get my coat

Leave the door open

Hector turned and picked up his coat.

Dear I’m going on an errand

Don’t be long

I won’t dear

Hector closed the door behind him, locked it and followed the man down the garden path. The man kicked open the garden gate and led the way to a jaguar that was packed.

Get in the car

Hector did as he was told. The car was big and clean. It smelt of woman’s perfume. Hector’s eyes smarted. The perfume was too much. He felt as though he was asphyxiating. The man started the engine. Slowly, the car rolled into the road. Hector turned and watched his home fade into the night and become another flickering light.

Don’t forget your seatbelt we don’t want the Bill stopping us

As the car speeds up Hector watches the night pass him by, his thoughts come and go but do not register, he finds himself comfortable, dislodged from the reality. The man smokes, stubs out the cigarette, smokes again. The radio is turned on the man groans and switches the radio off.


Excuse me

The radio

The man whistles. Nods his head, smiles, offers a cigarette, Hector declines with a shake of his head. Red light. The man taps the wheels, the gold coruscates. The engine roars. First gear, second gear, the car careens, veers, sways in and out and passes slow cars. The man turns on the radio again groans again and again turns off the radio.


A car pulls in front, cuts of the jaguar.

What the

The man puts his foot down, turns the wheel and draws along the car.

I’ll have you

The man is pointing at the lady in the other car.

You know something I knew this copper, he’d drive around, doing his job, a car would cut him off, he’d follow the car, radio in the plate, find out who owned the car, if it was a man he’d pull the car over and give whoever a ticket, now if it was a lady, he’d allow the lady to drive on, get on with her day, the copper would knock off work, but first he’d have the info of the lady in his notebook and he’d go home and phone the lady up and he’d sexually abuse her, a mean sick stuff, real crazy, the ladies, he did it thousands of times, anyway, some of the ladies went crazy, had to lock them up, he eventually was locked up, get into it a wee bit too much, started phoning from the station.

The moon rules the night and the night allows the sun

You’re in debt


Debt, you owe me

Hector nearly choked the enigma was lodged in his windpipe. It was all too much, the depth too much to fathom, the opacity too thick to scratch through, like a children’s story here was a puzzle, and Hector felt he was bogged down somewhere in the middle, there would be a dénouement, there had to be.

Stop the car I want to get out

You’re going nowhere

Stop the damn car

He laughed at Hector’s tenuous attempt at pugnacity. The laughing manifested the futility of rebellion. Hector wiped the sweat that had congregated upon his brow, sat back and watched the road. It would be otiose to fight.

You’re a dirty man

You’re got the wrong man

Bollocks, I saw you, you owe me

Hector thought about biting off his tongue. If he bit off his tongue and his mouth filled with blood and he spat out the blood then the man would have to stop the car. Hector was being fatuous.

Listen I saw it all. I saw what you did to little Jane. You dirty bastard. I was shocked and believe me it takes a lot to shock me. I’ve seen a lot. But you made me wince

What are you talking about

They drove deep into the city. The darkness of back streets enveloped the car. What pusillanimity Hector experienced dissipated. He was too perplexed. He just drifted into the center of himself and allowed this journey to unfold like a nightmare. Hector did not have the will to shake himself from this fictitious deep sleep. He passively watched the prostitutes, the pimps, the johns, the junkies, the thieves flittering pass the window in a prismatic electric blur.

Now what she did to you I’ve no problem with. But what you did to her was out of order. Understand? It was out of order. So I need you to do something for me

The man was speaking euphemistically. Hector was being black mailed.

How’s your cock old boy

The car pulled up to a nondescript house. The man turned off the engine.

Does it hurt? It must do. Right knock on the door. I’ll wait here. Don’t let her close the door on you

Hector walked up a garden path. The garden was a jungle, parts of toys, beer cans, cigarette packets, sodden cardboard boxes lay scattered about the overgrown weeds and bushes. A stale odor filled Hector’s nose, the odor was emanating from the council house. Hector knocked loudly on the door. A young, emaciated girl answered. She looked puzzled. It was as thought Hector was staring at his own confused physiognomy. Suddenly with alacrity the perplexity was superseded with a horror. She tried to slam the door in Hector’s face but the man had his huge foot in the doorway. Knowing that she couldn’t close the door she ran into the hallway screaming. It was a sepulchral scream, Hector shuddered. The man pushed Hector out of the way and chased the girl into the house. Before she could escape through the back door he dragged her to the floor by her hair.

I’ve got kids upstairs

I don’t give a flying fuck

She was weeping hysterically, but it was pointless, all this weeping stirred him not. The man dragged her by the hair into the front room. It was an untidy room. There were dirty plates and such things everywhere. Hector closed the front door behind him and followed them. The reek of the house disturbed his senses. The man was standing over the girl. He had his foot placed upon her breasts. She could not move.

See this man here he likes whores to shove tubes down his japs eye


He can’t get off with a leg over. He needs something else. Just like you. He needs a tube inserted down his piss pipe and you need junk. You’re a match made in heaven

Bloody fucking hell

She was now looking directly Hector. She cut through him and elucidated his balding head, the glasses, the rosy sagging cheeks, the ramification of many pandial orgies. Hector was that bank manager, he was that solicitor, he was that judge. He could feel her venom. The cadaverous bitch was judging him.

Not only does he like being fucked with a tube he likes to beat girls up. He likes to hit them, punch them, kick them, fuck them and sodomize them. He’s a sick fucking puppy he is

The girl started to shout, the shouting turned to pleading, begging and collapsed into a pitiful weeping. She tried to escape but she couldn’t move. The man nodded at Hector. What emotion or desire impelled Hector to move he could not fathom. But the next thing he knew he was standing above the girl. It was now his foot that was pressing down upon her ribcage.

Do this and the debt is forgotten


paul kavanagh was born in england 1971. he is happy. his wife is happy. together they are happy.


2 Responses to “Paul Kavanagh ~ debt”

  1. What so disagreeable as the dismal, gloomy, disastrous stories, with which melancholy people entertain their companions? The uneasy passion being there raised alone, unaccompanied with any spirit, genius, or eloquence, conveys a pure uneasiness, and is attended with nothing that can soften it into pleasure or satisfaction.

  2. Carrolls Merriman said

    hi,nice jeans in your post,I love thatnicejeans,I need to find one for me,bill

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