Leverage

by Joseph Clegg

They keep turning the lights up. Four TV studio cameras are trained on your teenage face. Cradled in your right hand, slippery with sweat, is the handle of a yellow lever. Perched on an ejector seat, suspended over a swimming pool of gunge, is your maths teacher.
     The game show host repeats your name again. He’s said your name so many times today, it no longer even sounds like yours. The audience echoes his encouragement: dunk, dunk, dunk. Your teacher’s smirk wriggles into life. Can’t do it, can you, sonny? Course not, you can’t even bloody well count!
     You take the lever in both hands. Smile, the producer shouts. You’re on telly. Your fingers clench as you pull—

Mum has her lucky days, then she has these other days. So far you’ve mostly left her to her own devices. Sneaky peek at her bank balance now and then: once a month is okay, more than that is admitting you think she has a serious problem.
     But today you came down the arcade to collect her, because dinner’s been waiting near on an hour. Her eyes are captivated by glowing fruit, the one-armed bandit has her heart in his fist. Make her chuckle; that’s how you’ve always brought her back to earth. No matter what had happened, with her job, with Dad, you could draw one out.
     If we don’t get a move on, you tell her, that vindaloo will have grown up and moved to its own place. Mum does laugh, small and inside her mouth, but the lights keep swirling. You place a hand on top of hers as she nudges—

Work. That’s what you’re up to, whatever the weather. There’s a puddle on every tarpaulin, a frown on every face, and strong demand for the compactor. A queue backs out to the road, impatient folk with belongings to crush.
     You beckon the next customer into the layby, a frothing gammon in a Range Rover Sport who cries I didn’t have to wait this bloody long to see the Queen Mum’s coffin! As he hauls an ironing board from his boot, the new lad calls down to you, mousy panic on his drenched face. Hear that racket? And now he mentions it, you do. Metallic grinding, low but insistent. The lad winces like it’s hurting his ears.
     You climb the steps to the gantry, slippery steel under your feet. A coffee table has jammed the apparatus, ugly blighter with twirly-whirly legs. More cars are crawling into the yard, indicators ticking. No use dwelling, the compactor won’t stop by itself. Important we stay calm in minor situations like these, you remind the lad, as you lean past him to deactivate—

Your neighbour perches sideways at the well, winching. You’re in the field behind the social club. Her bucket swings under the weight of water, rising up with each turn she makes. Cool air and tick-tock of droplets. She won’t let you do it for her, never mind you’ve still got one good weight-bearing arm. If you want to help, you could always—she slows to a stop.
     When the project was announced you thought it was barmy. Village well restoration? Some politically correct madness the council dreamt up. You went and signed a petition against it. Accidental falls, anyone? Now you’ve sacked off quiz night to come down here and you don’t care who sees you, hanging round like a lemon.
     Your neighbour flip-flops across the road, her soles dusty, on a late summer evening when her garden is just clinging to life. With loving care she aims her watering can and drowns the lot. You tap the well bucket with a knuckle, wobble it on its chain, reach idly for the crank and rotate—

This is the one you want to stay in. Not only is it Christmas time but you’re living the dream. Throwing the switch on the town square light display. In the crowd beneath the stage is your glowing family. Wife, twins, new baby who has your mum’s eyes. Spots of wet snow on your toecaps.
     After the compactor accident, your mates nicknamed you the one-armed bandit. Well that’s fucking Werther’s Original, lads, you told them. Ten years on, here you are, a captain of industry in a season free of worries. Those don’t come round so often.
     When the countdown hits five, you smile, for real and for the local paper. GENEROUS DEPOT BOSS ILLUMINATES SPIRITS. Double-page spread, maybe? Four. Three. You remember maths lessons. Two. Easy once you know how, sir, this counting lark! One. You grab the handle and—

You hear the runaway train before you see it. Signal passed at danger, couple of miles up the line. Your twins play hopscotch on the tracks. The points flip back and forth, back and forth. You try to yank the lever to safety, but your youngest daughter clutches it, holds it stiff. Sweety, you shout, this ain’t a game. There’s no time to teach her what that means. You groan and strain, sweaty palm stinging. How did this little girl get so strong? All the sway you once had now dwells in her.
     She laughs, mineshaft deep, then releases. You stumble back. Cogs whirr, points pull straight. Train carriages growl past. A floodlight beams. Your children are chanting something too loudly for you to hear. One word, one single syllable, over and over. A trapdoor opens and you plunge.

Joseph Clegg writes stories, poetry, some things that might be both and some that are probably neither. He is an enthusiastic co-organiser of two literary critique groups in Amsterdam and a regular contributor to BRICK music magazine. His published pieces can be found at www.cleggjjg.com.