Synopsis:
Identity fraud has hit its pinnacle as the diary of Jonathan Derek Hayes is released into the public domain. Labelled by the author, narrator and real-life protagonist as ‘The Chronicles of a Word Martyr’, the diary has been recovered and put into an accessible format. Detailing the events and reasons behind his actions from an early age up until his death, the
account illustrates one man’s crusade in alerting people to the dangers of language, especially words that are misguided in terms of content and location. Culminating in what may be construed as a unique confession or a beacon of hope for future generations, the man commits suicide. With causality achieved in the highest regard, and the ultimate price paid,
Martyrdom seemed the obvious means to extenuate his purpose; that is to say, he said he was going to do it, and was true to his word.
1 Public Display of Information
(Beginning of)
The pub he was in was drenched in thick smoke and dimly lit. It had low ceilings and the entrance was only a matter of feet from the bar. This short distance meant that whenever a new patron came in, it was common knowledge. Huddled, more often than not shoulder to shoulder, this particular public house was a breeding ground for loosely spoken words and in it lived many naive individuals constantly fuelling others ears with private information. Tonight was not going to
disappoint.
“My mum and dad are away this weekend, again, Lake District this time,” said one overly loud voice as he remarked to his friend. It seemed so crisp and clear over the Friday night hum-drum. Another voice in another location of the inn, with a
distinct out-of-town accent that was most probably Geordie, said:
“The goal was never offside man. A ridiculous decision made by pompous individuals who think that they are bigger than the gaaaame.” His one-man audience responded in-kind.
“It was offside. You could see daylight,” the response was accompanied with a shake of the head and an objective chuckle. The northerner continued his argument with unbridled partisan tones:
“Aye man, daylight alright, daylight robbery!” and with this remonstration over he clutched his pint glass fiercely and walked away.
Neither variety of conversation had held enough weight. This type of wispy tête-à-tête continued for some time and was
becoming arduous to the point of clichéd. The epitome of this predictable dialogue came only minutes later when a lady, who had had more than she could handle in terms of alcohol, drowned the rest out and slurred to the barman:
“I had twice as much as this last week. Come on, give me the grog or I’m going.”
The place mellowed quickly as the young woman was escorted out. For a time the atmosphere relaxed and returned to
normality as words resounded through the building, rising and falling as if to some melodic tune. Then it came, as if from
nowhere, like symbols crashing at the end of an orchestral masterpiece, instigating a change in mood.
“We have heard nothing from Number seven for the best part of a week now, paper and milk still on the doorstep.” burnt his ears. As any good listener will tell you, it is that one must concentrate before, during and after the words have been
spoken; he had seen them come in; concentrated subtly during their greetings; and now was glued. The dialogue just heard was the breaker. The term Number seven made it distinctly heavier than the previous two. As a result he was hooked. Like a man or woman waiting for their next cocaine hit, he lusted for more. For more words, for more inexcusable slips of the tongue,
Number seven stuck in his mind and he listened intensely, he knew it was coming, it always did.
Come on, come on! he thought, the words screaming in his head, the anxiety building, Number seven where? I know the
surrounding area , he said to himself. I have been a constant figure in pubs, village halls, schools, streets, and shops for a
fifteen mile radius .
But still nothing; no concrete hint at a location. After a short period of time, equating to ten minutes since the man first
became transfixed on the space where the words would appear to him as if in a cartoon bubble, his eyes and mind began to wander. He began to look around for other unsuspecting citizens, he was in no doubt he would find them, he always could. However, such were his skills of oral observation he needed no fresh angle, just the correct amount of patience.
“Rutten Lane Tim, Yarnton, just three doors down from me.” resounded a voice, as if conforming to the man’s earlier plea of a location.
Oh you silly fools, always appraise the room first. Do not let out that information without due diligence . The man raised a smirk, the information, as he predicted, had arrived.
The man got up from his sombre position as soon as he had acquired that careless knowledge. With a pretext ordained, the man pretended to slip onto the bar via a ladies handbag. There was no handbag. In fact, there was no lady, but he had
managed to wedge himself between his two new acquaintances, David and Tim. Tilting his head towards the path he had
un-gainfully trodden, the man said:
“Sorry guys, tripped over the old hag’s make-up bag, she must have the entire Boots cosmetics department in there!”
Before allowing a response, the drunken nobody added. “I didn’t spill your pint did I mate?” said the man, pointing as he did so. However, he knew full well that the liquid swimming on the bar was incompetent pouring on behalf of the barman.
Responding with a nervous chuckle prime target David said: “No, no, you’re ok. No harm done.” and his gaze returned to the bartender who he had believed when he had told him that he’d be 'straight back with his change'.
“Oh I did spill some look .” said the man, slurring his words and pointing, firstly to the bar, and then following a tiny drip from the wooden edge to the cobbled stoned floor. “Let me buy you one to negate my error.” As he said this his arm went around the shoulder of David, thus caging his latest victim. David felt uneasy. In fact he had felt unsure since he began
conversing with this stranger. However, David soon realised it was Friday night and who was he to turn down free beer. It was not as if the sentiment would be repaid.
“Stella was it?” slurred the man.
“Ummmm yes it was, thank you.” replied David, slapping the man on the back and believing he was getting a good deal.
“Number seven in Yarnton you say, is that not the Holloway house?” remarked the man as he handed over £2.50 in return for the bargaining chip. Confused, David frowned and took a sip of beer, the cool amber nectar and felt it run down his
gullet.
“Who’s asking?” said David; enjoying more and more the refreshing taste of a free pint. But the question dispersed into the air. Instead the man wanted an appraisal of his purchase; widening his eyes and following the fresh pint of beer from tap to mouth, as if to provoke conversation, the man said:
“Nice beer?” and without hesitation or thought David appeased the customer.
“Yes, very. It always tastes better from a good English tap”. The tangent was exhausted. Time to move the conversation
forward thought the man.
“I live in the Spears you see.” The man returned to the priority topic and continued at pace. “Just off Rutten Lane and I thought I heard you say that a house I know has muted tenants. Is that correct?” The man spoke clearly, enunciating every word and its stresses to the optimal degree. David noticed that the man was remarkably sober given a few seconds earlier, but did not object.
“Yes the house is quiet, very quiet in fact. Maybe they have gone on yet another weekend break.” At this point a frown
materialised on David’s brow as if he was attempting to solve the riddle, but he pressed on. “It’s not the Holloways, it’s the Hollins' who live there. It is as quiet as a mouse. Anyway, cheers!” and David, with free pint in hand, walked away.
The man smiled and watched his victim fade into the crowd. As if planned the noise level in the pub rose as the
conversation ended, eventually settling at a decibel that depicted a sub-urban pub.
Walking back to where he was originally seated the man recalled an old proverb, but thought it only right to correct it:
It is not who you know, but what you know about the who that matters . The necessary details had been drawn out in a
matter of minutes and in exactly one hundred and eighty-four English words.
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