Ken Duncum

Excerpt from ‘The Dark’

Silhouetted, a hooded body plummets down, jerks, and hangs twitching. Holloway Prison. A little moonlight through a high window. Hannah sits in her cell. A female WARDER watches the hanging taking place outside.

That’s a terrible thing to see.

But skilled. He weighed her up beautifully, calculated the drop. Not enough and her neck won’t break. Too much and it might pull her head right off. You want to be eating regular now you’re next in line. No upsy downsy in your weight. No surprises. You don’t want him having to swing on your legs. Unseemly. Not ladylike. Nor’s making all that fuss like she did. You won’t, will you? You’re a quiet one. All that wailing and calling on God and Jesus — where was all that when she did for those kiddies with a knitting needle? Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth — that’s in the bible. I reckon if there was a God then she should hang five times, ‘stead of just once.

She climbs down.

No doubt about it — you’ve got the best view of the courtyard here.

Hannah has a mark on her face.

What’s that — rat bite? Get bold, don’t they? When they see you can’t move round.

Hannah’s hands and feet are manacled.

I can’t abide them. Little red eyes. Soft bodies. Cold little bare feet.

Sweet dreams.

She moves off.

Sweeter for your sister I reckon. Silk sheets over there in Yankeeland. Brekky in bed. And that’s not all in bed, eh? Honeymoon Delight.

Hannah looks up sharply.

Whoops, that’s right — she wrote to the Governor, said she didn’t want anyone saying, on account of it maybe upsetting you.

Alarmed, Hannah tries to stand, chains rattling through their iron hoops.

Siddown.

Siddown!

Hannah slumps back. The Warder regards her sardonically.

Upsetting you. That’s rich. Tear a man’s heart out with your bare hands.

Got hitched, didn’t she. Mina Price she is now.

This hits Hannah like a ton of bricks.

The warder goes. The door clangs shut. The moonlight angles up and disappears as a cloud covers its face.

Scrabbling and scuffling in the darkness. Rats.

Excerpt from Janet & John

Janet Frame’s OSE — Overseas Sexual Experience — in which a 31 year-old virgin takes on the world.

I was so far behind everyone else, and so self-conscious.
It wasn’t till Ibiza — under the Ibacanthan moon — that a man held me.

And put his hands in clever places.

                                (American)
I’m a poet too. I’ve written several poems since I’ve been on the island.

Do you know Shelley?

Sure.

And Yeats?

Yeah, he’s good.

I prefer the early to the late, don’t you? The lyric voice — the cloths of heaven …

Oh no, oh no — I mean I hardly know you. I’m not that kind of — it would be simply ridiculous.

Huh. Ok, see you round.

All that night I felt his hands as if they still pressed on me, for days felt wrapped round with something, couldn’t write in the hard white light of an empty island that just before had been full of voices.
Then I woke early, rose and bought some pastries. And walked to his house on the seashore.
I’ve brought you breakfast.

I’ve just been writing. I write best on an empty stomach.

Unintentionally funny. Ignore.

My poem is called Spring In Idaho. I’d love to show you my Spring.

I’d love to look at it. See it.

It’s warm, long — and green.

Don’t laugh.

Full of singing birds that fly out —

Kiss me.

There were many shocks and surprises — as nothing I’d read implied anything beyond the missionary.

But the attendant pleasurable sensations helped offset any sense of startlement.

                                    (himself)
Weren’t you engaged later that year?

Not to him, the bad poet of Ibiza. No, it was my swarthy Italian smuggler in Andalucia who distinguished himself by being the only man ever to put a ring on my finger.

His grandmother’s gold ring.

Why did you say yes?

I didn’t — exactly.

But you didn’t say no.

There was a language difficulty. A cultural misunderstanding. Early on he’d taken me for a walk on the mountainside. With a picnic.
Oh, it’s so dramatic here. Would you like some more —

Oh no, oh no, you’ve got quite the wrong idea.

I didn’t realise that’s what a walk and a picnic meant — being alone with a man. I told him I was not that sort of woman.

Hypocrite.

I didn’t know the Italian for ‘I am when it suits me — but it doesn’t suit me now, here, with you.’

Even English falls short of that subtle concept.

My intention was to let him down lightly.

Avoid possible open-air rape.

Instead I had given him to believe I was a woman of honour.

Fatal. He brooded on that.

He was very intense.

And decided to take you to wife.

Now a refusal was bound to offend.

Refuse to fuck him, refuse to marry him — he’s going to see himself as the common denominator in both situations, and take it personally.

It was a very small village, it was a very small house we were both rooming in.

And half the surrounding district had their ear to the keyhole.
Si, mia Janetta? Si?

Well …

How do you get yourself into these things?

I’ve no idea.

How did you get yourself out?

Taxi!

You keep the ring, I wouldn’t want to lose it, just until I come back.

Mi cora, mi cora.

Yes, hmm, me too.

I see him lonely on a mountaintop, still pining for you to come back.

Dalliances — not important — not compared to Bill.

All the artists’ colonies in the world, and he had to walk into yours.
                                          (Bill)
Quite a set-up. Where are you?

Down that trail, in amongst the trees.

I’m tucked in by the stream. Neighbour.

Something tried to get into my cabin last night.

Raccoon?

It sounded bigger.

Bear?

Man?

Lucky you.
I’m a painter.

Writer.
There’s some quite famous people here, aren’t there? Isn’t that — ?

A brahmin novelist named Cheever
Couldn’t stand the sight of a beaver
But he rolled up his socks
To make his wife a cock
And then he was able to please her.
Your turn.

The trope of Norman Mailer
Was to swear like a drunken sailor
He did it until
He made his editor ill
And gave his publisher fugging heart failure.

Bill Brown.

Janet.

Do me.

William Theophilus Brown
An artist of some renown
Gave me his sweater
To make me feel better
As he waved and rode out of town.

A south seas writer named Frame
Felt a deep unaccountable pain
She’d loved being alone
And having no home
But suddenly all that had changed.

I’m wearing your sweater to shreds.

Come out to the coast.

Baltimore seems so dreary now. Even the gunshots are stale.

I want you to see the house. I want you to meet Paul.

Whom the gods wish to destroy
They show the shiniest toy
By all that’s above
When I fall in love
Why is it always with ‘one of the boys’?

I’m Paul. Bill’s told me all about you. I know he loves you.

To lie not just with one warm body — but between two.
I don’t remember laughing so much since I slept with my sisters in the same bed.

I was concerned for you when that ended.

You haven’t had the talk till you’ve had it from two men at once.

                                         (Paul)
The whole thing is, Janet —

                                          (Bill)
It’s not you —

It’s us.

We’ve thought about it —

And slept on it.

You slept on it — and snored like a pig. I tossed and turned all night.

And we just don’t think we can give you the level of —

Intimacy.

— intimacy that you’re hoping for.

Maybe we’re commitment-ophobes.

Are you kidding? I told you that twenty years ago.

But that’s a lot of intimacy you want.

It could take five, maybe ten guys to give you that much.

But let’s stay friends.

No, really, we’ll —

We’ll call you.

At least you didn’t make any hysterical threats of suicide.

I wrote them a letter. ‘This time alone will be very profitable I hope — I’ll be making decisions about whether I’ve lived long enough or can or want to continue.’

A beautifully calm threat of suicide.

More befitting a woman of my age.