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An extract from Gareth Abraham's
Ettiko
(First of three in a disordered and partial serialisation.)
6
The man from the Inland Revenue came back to the house.
He was carrying a baseball bat.
I asked him very sternly to go away.
He hit me in the arm with the baseball bat, employing immense dynamism.
So much so that tiny fragments of wood became embedded into his fingers.
My arm is rather sore.
He told me he needs recompense.
He explained how angry his employer is with me.
He told me not to bid on the company.
He dropped his baseball bat. In my kitchen.
Employing immense dynamism.
Before he left, the tax-man killed the pigeon.
Arthur.
He set it on fire.
I told him “thank you”. He shook his head and left.
I wonder when he will come and pick up his baseball bat?
I still do not think that he works for the Inland Revenue.
I went upstairs to look for your Grandmother.
She was on the floor.
She said that she had slipped. She asked me where I had been.
I told her about the tax-man.
She asked me to help her up.
I took her hand.
It is very wrinkly.
She is a very old sort of a person.
I couldn’t lift her up. Her legs are very heavy.
I went into the bathroom.
I assumed that I could have a shower.
I turned on the shower.
And took off my clothes.
My penis is very peculiar.
I think something bad has happened to the shower.
Instead of water, it is full of moths. Tiny moths, pouring out of the nozzle.
With vigour.
They are stuck to my skin. They keep fluttering.
Why do they think that I am a light bulb?
The naughty cunts.
To disperse the moths, I rolled around on the floor next your Grandmother.
She won’t stop shrieking.
I placed a fist full of moths into her mouth.
She has gone very quiet.
I asked her what the fuck she had done to the shower.
7
The moths have gone.
They were attracted to the light. The orange light of the burning pigeon.
Arthur.
They burned them selves to death.
My saliva has turned orange. It has become very sticky.
I spat some of my saliva onto a wall in the kitchen.
I have stuck a poster of Mariah Carey to the wall. It is secure.
She seems very happy there.
I walked to the front door.
I spat on my Gauguin. The one that had split in two.
I held each part together.
I have just completely devalued my Gauguin.
I do not think I am very well.
I decided to get dressed. There were some blue trousers in the cupboard.
I decided to put them on to my legs.
The pockets were full of moths.
Overflowing with little moths.
They keep writhing.
It is very unpleasant.
I put one of the moths near to The Dog.
The Dog is very tired. It barked. But sounded hungry.
Bless it.
Someone has taken my kitchen door off of its hinges.
They must be very quiet.
I am a very diligent young man.
Now, there is a man at the door.
The door frame, rather.
He is wearing a black coat and black gloves.
He looks like a very dismal man.
I hit him in the teeth. With that tax-man’s baseball bat.
I swung it, employing immense dynamism.
My fingers have become embedded with splinters.
The man wailed like a small, dying boy with broken legs.
I hit him again.
In the face.
He was quiet.
I dragged him inside of the house. Now he is keeping The Dog company.
Good old The Dog.
8
I went outside. For the first time in days. My retinas are very sore.
The throbbing pain in my stomach made me vomit into the bird bath.
Moths fell out of my trouser pockets into the bird bath. As I retched.
The bird bath is full of sick and birds and moths.
Wallowing around.
I think something unusual has happened to the bird bath.
I walked to the road side. Some children tried to set me on fire.
They set my jacket on fire. I took it off and threw it at them.
I hope that it burnt a young boy’s hands.
There is a van parked at the roadside. My kitchen door is inside of it.
I thought:
‘It must be that man’s van. That man who is keeping The Dog company in the
lounge’.
I opened the van using a stone and my hands. The man is called Dale.
It says so on the van: ‘Dale’s Repossession’.
I took the door out of the van. Back to my kitchen.
I managed to reattach it to the frame.
It took an awful lot of saliva.
I tried to drink a glass of water. But the moths have eaten all of the glasses.
When I turn on the taps, moths come out instead of water.
In the lounge The Dog is wailing.
The man is lying next to The Dog.
He is covered in an awful lot of blood.
I think that The Dog might have eaten his glove.
I asked the man if he was alright. I asked the man if he had a sore leg.
But The Dog had eaten his lips and tongue.
I patted it.
On the head.
9
This morning I opened the kitchen cupboard. Some flies have begun to lay eggs.
A tiny tapestry of little eggs.
All in my cupboard.
I closed the cupboard door.
I am concerned about the flies.
Will they attack those moths?
I am not sure.
Will they form a moth alliance with the moths?
I cannot possibly say.
Could I feasibly win a battle? Against the moths and the flies?
Only if The fucking Dog gets up and helps me.
I think it has taken a disliking to the moths.
I took The Dog some dog biscuits.
It is still full of the man’s face it seems – Dale.
I walked towards the man – Dale.
I offered him some refreshments.
The situation with the water and the glasses has limited my options.
Somewhat.
Perhaps, though, he would have enjoyed a nice empty space full of moths.
I recalled that he was possibly unconscious.
I tapped him. On the head.
He didn’t move.
The Dog barked.
I checked the man’s pockets. Dale’s dusty pockets.
They contained his wallet and twelve pounds sixty-eight
pence. In pounds sterling.
And a black filofax.
The wallet contained his driver’s licence.
Dale’s driving license. So that he could drive his big van.
It turns out that his name is ‘Peter Swandre’.
He works for Charles Dale as a man. A man who
repossesses men’s doors.
And houses.
It said so in his filofax.
I shuddered.
I was embarrassed.
To have tarnished him with an incorrect name.
For all of this time.
But what can I say?
Embarrassment is the price of misinformation.
