Peeping Tom 4-1-2-3 [3]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 3

It’s empty, then the little girl is in there with the dude from next door whose hair is blue(?) this time. She’s braided her locks: there’s little strings of hair all streaking down her face. The two are giggling . . . looking about the room as though they’ve lost something. Do they know the little boy is next door? The dude lifts up the bedsheets and . . . pulls down his trousers. She laughs at this. Whatever is he up to? Why would he . . . oh. A few blobs of excrement now mark the sheets. The girl collapses with laughter.

He pulls the sheets back over then slaps hands with the girl who he lifts up, spins around, and kisses on the cheek. Then he kisses her, slower, on the lips. Honestly, what’s going on here? These people are truly a strange bunch. He drops the little girl whose face is beaming with happiness. Oh well. It’s so delightful to see the young so happy, regardless of their mischief. Still, I hope the boy doesn’t get too much of a shock. Maybe he’ll find it funny.

END

Peeping Tom 4-1-2-3 [2]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 2

The lady, bathing the boy, stroking his hair. She really is so saint-like, so precious. To stoop to kid-watching when she could be out there, ruling the world, shows a kind heart. She speaks to the boy, asking him questions while soaping his back with a sponge. He shakes his head at most of them. She rubs her hands on his chest and lifts him out the bath, into a towel. Drying him off, she grabs a tube of ointment and massages his bruises. “You really are a clumsy little boy on that bike,” she might be saying.

The child’s body trembles—is he cold?—as she rubs the ointment along his chest and pulls down his pyjama bottoms. With the back of her hand she strokes his little chap: perhaps he bruised himself down there too. Good to see she’s not afraid of rubbing the delicate places. Now she’s lowering her head and . . . is she kissing the little boy’s? Is she putting it into her? Using her tongue to? Well. That’s certainly unexpected. But I’m sure she’s only trying to soothe his pains, that’s why he’s crying: he’s moved.

Peeping Tom 4-1-2-3 [1]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 1

Ex-husband-to-be is in there this time, talking to the lesbian over a green liquid in upright glasses. Limeade? Odd choice of refreshment for guests. The man is saying serious things, as evidenced by the woman’s careful reactions: her face has that dowdy downtrodden look as before. She can’t retain the same graceful beauty as the lady, life is always shown on her face. Giving his side of the story, no doubt: “Wasn’t my fault, she betrayed me, she not me, etc.” The lesbian loves this. Ammunition for seduction.

Smiles now. The serious words are over, green liquid is consumed. Some strange witches’ brew. The man kicks back on the sofa and looks around: let the small talk commence. Clearly, with the lady next door, he doesn’t want to sit there, talking to this weaker specimen of woman, but he needs her for something. Needs her to pass on lies to the lady, to worm his way back into her affections before his incompetence as a husband kills the marriage stone dead. The sooner the better, the lesbian thinks, and I think too: the lady needs a gentleman, not this pearly white New Man. He leaves summarily.

Peeping Tom 4-1-2-3 [4]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 4

The blind man has his cane in the air and he thwacks it against the fridge as the student looks on in . . . amusement? That banana smile again. I suppose there is something absurd about the old grizzler standing there in his vest with his slacks pulled up to his ribs shouting and swearing like a madman. He’s sure giving that poor fridge a walloping. No doubt the student, making some extra money babysitting the old man, has to put up with this daily. He seems to have learned to deal with it: he’s got his phone out now and is texting while the man waves his stick around. Good for him!

Now the fat man is here! Stereo persecution. The two men talk and the blind man pokes the student, smacks his phone out his hand and gets aggressive . . . the student fumbles in his pocket for . . . his wallet and takes out a note. Is the blind man robbing him? He’s ruthless! The fat man does nothing of course. What if the poor student is trapped in this horrible job, funding his way through college by putting up with this sort of abuse? There really are no easy rides these days, it’s harder than it was in my day, now everyone wants to make money, get wise, get themselves good jobs. Hopeless. The fat man slips the student a note from his wallet when the blind man leaves. Idiot.

Peeping Tom 3-1-2-4 [4]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 4

The dude’s up to his old tricks, though why does he spend so much time in the kitchen? He closes his laptop and places it inside a rather large holdall, along with a few tins from the counter: tomato soup? beans? There’s red dye in his hair now, even worse than the green. It looks like tongues sticking out his head. Very “cool,” I suppose. He opens the cupboards and takes some packets and tins, does the same with the fridge, lifting pots and bottles and tossing them into his bag. A large bar of chocolate is glimpsed, along with a two litre bottle of lemonade/water. With a sheepish face, he leaves the room. Perhaps he’s packing for a road trip? Common at his age.

Ten minutes or so later, a man walks in and feels the surfaces, fumbles in the fridge. He feels around until he falls back against the cabinet, staring at nothing. The man is either blind or so dumb he can’t use his eyes. From the expert way he navigates his surroundings, walking in mental grids around the kitchen, he’s probably not a spastic, or “mentally challenged” as they say nowadays. He runs over to the fridge and starts flinging things at the walls, collapsing into tears on the marble floor when it ends. Odd.

Peeping Tom 3-1-2-4 [2]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 2

An empty bathroom. Empty, empty, empty, until a little girl runs in giggling and climbs into the panelling beside the bath. Her tiny body slots into the space with ease, and she closes the panel with a few crooked fingers. A minute later the moody boy from next door comes in along with the husband who’s soon to be down one sexy heavenly wife. Together they scan the bathroom, the boy pointing to the panel in a bored way.

The husband is full of beans, really making an effort: babysitting no doubt, though if the mother is in next door, why? Does she want the little tykes out her hair while the fat man is mending the plugs? He lifts the panel and does a peekaboo, shouting at the girl “found you!” or similar. She climbs out the bath panel, bursting with laughter, her face a picture of happiness. The boy folds his arms by the sink, a picture of anything but.

Peeping Tom 3-1-2-4 [1]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 1

She sits on his chair where he’s farted and sweated and dribbled down himself, corrupting her delicate buttocks with his emanations. She’s in a summery blue dress, not unlike a Roses tin: little red flowers enlivening the fabric. One—deliciously— rests near her lower pubis. She’s sipping a cup of tea or coffee and talking to the greasy one, who’s not looking too bad today, no doubt rescued from the dowdy doldrums by the real woman. Her hair has been washed and her skin looks shinier, cleaner: faintly rouged cheeks and a slick of lipstick make her more presentable, maybe even . . . pretty?

They nod their heads, talking talking talking. The lesbian has made herself more desirable to her prey, and today she hopes to swoop in. Her body language is stiff: clearly she lacks the sexual vocabulary to take on a specimen as exotic as the lady. Together, they stand up and the lady reaches for her handbag and pulls out some makeup implements and doodles on the lesbian’s face. She must be wet with excitement. There’s laughter, a little shoulder touching, then they collect their handbags and walk out.

Peeping Tom 3-1-2-4 [3]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 3

A strange sight: the fat man standing! Well, half bent over half slouching. He probably never stands upright, his body couldn’t take the sheer physical strain. He’s holding a wrench and a range of tools adorn his belt: who knows if they’re practical work tools, or additional fasteners to keep up his massive trousers? With a great heave, he pushes the TV table aside then drops to his knees, shaking the whole building. He’s messing with plugs and wires: so, he’s an electrician? Explains why he’s bone idle.

The tall mother enters, her hair let down this time. There’s something fierce about her, not unattractive, but no doubt she works with men in tough men’s work. Police? Doctor? She’s got a cup of tea in her hand and leaves it for the fatso, along with a digestive on a saucer. Words are exchanged. No doubt: “Could you bring me a whole box of biscuits?” She points and gestures at the plugs and wires, explaining something: what she wants done. The fat man smiles and gives his neck fat a workout. Disgusting.

Peeping Tom 2-1-3-4 [4]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 4

Dude is back in the kitchen again, this time unwrapping a ready meal, tossing it in the microwave. Very studenty approach to cooking. Must be on his own, or sharing with a friend. He’s got his laptop on the work surface and he’s typing furiously and smiling a big banana grin. Probably on one of those “social networking” sites on the internets, writing in text abbreviations about something perfectly daft. He’s got green dye in his hair, it looks absurd.

When the meal is ready, he lifts it sloppily from the microwave, dumping the rice and chicken on a plate, not mixing up the components. He must like them separate: most people mix the rice and sauce together, though it is served separately in restaurants. He takes it through to the main room: pitch dark save for a TV beaming in the distance, hard to make out. A minute later he grabs a knife and fork, types on his laptop, then takes them through. The kitchen door closes again and he resumes his typing. And laughing.

Peeping Tom 2-1-3-4 [3]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 3

A dark bedroom. Dark for a long time until a light goes on, blinding bright. The child blinks his eyes, turns the lamp away so the bulb shines into the wall. He pulls back his bedclothes and slides out, limping to a mirror. He rolls up his pyjama leg and studies his calves, where bruises mottle his pale skin. An accident while out on his bike? Play fighting that got out of hand? He takes some cream out a drawer and squirts a blob on his finger, dabbing it onto the bruises: he prods and pokes the bruises, winces. It clearly hurts.

He looks to the door, sits bolt upright like a gazelle. Leaps back into bed, switches off the light. A moment later the door opens and the tall mother(?) with the tight ponytail looks in, her stern face shaded by the dim hallway lights. Checking he’s in bed as he’s supposed to be! She must have her hands full with that one. The mother stands there for a minute, unmoving: is she going to catch him out, a peeping eye under the covers? She slinks out the door, closing it a little too forcefully: a little joke to show she knows he’s awake?

Peeping Tom 2-1-3-4 [1]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 1

Two men holding beers or lagers before a football game. The fat one’s in his usual chair with usual cushions, the other one’s only visible from behind: a thick crop of black hair, skinny frame. Fat man makes hand gestures: explaining in his own rambling way the game’s strategy, no doubt: “See, he should’ve played so-and-so and used a 4-4-2 defence, etc.” The compelling whatever-it-is of football takes over and the men sit rapt for five minutes until the skinny one leans forward, waves his beer then leaps up.

“Goaaaal!” is probably what he’s saying. He’s not crying out in pain or having a stand-up orgasm. When he spins around and “pumps the air” it’s clearly the man next door, the one who wept on the toilet, like his lover(?) did tonight, unknown to him. While she cries he celebrates, chinking beers with fatso, who’s remained seated throughout the whole goal ordeal. Rapid words flow—convinced of a victory for their team?—and the man next door goes to the fridge and pulls out a few more beers, as though he lived there.

Peeping Tom 2-1-3-4 [2]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 2

The woman enters the bathroom and pulls down her skirt, smooth along her vase-like hips and thighs. She sits on the toilet and urinates, her arms cupped around her knees. She sits there awhile, tilting her head until it hovers above her legs—a difficult bowel movement? Soon she starts to shake . . . it becomes clear she is shaking with emotion. The window is open. A few minutes pass and she responds to an outside noise, a knock at the door, perhaps? She rips some loo paper, dabs herself then shimmies up her skirt: for a second her genitalia is exposed, buried in a shrub of ginger pubic hair. She dabs her eyes then checks her perfect face in the mirror, steadies her enormous rock of hair.

It’s her from the flat opposite: what is she doing here? Her bland shiny face, as though smeared in Vaseline, withers beside the soft skin of the woman, the lady. Both are in the bathroom now, talking. Now she’s sobbing again and her next door is consoling her, kneading her greasy fingers along the lady’s sensuous shoulders, muttering things. Manipulating? “He doesn’t love you. Why don’t you leave him?” Or: “You’d be better off without him.” Soon it makes sense: she’s a lesbian. “Why don’t I move in for a while? I’ll help you through it, honey, I’ll always be there for you, unlike him.”

Peeping Tom 1-2-3-4 [4]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 4

Some dude with a trendy haircut—sort of wavy sides and spiky slicks, half-army half-punk—stands cutting a carrot, bobbing his head to music coming from the white rectangle tucked into his belt. Behind him a pot bubbles over quite quickly, sloshing hot water down the cooker and onto the laminate floor. The dude chops rhythmically, pleased with himself. He reaches for his belt and pushes a button to skip a track. The water pools around his feet and he looks over at the pot and shouts, clearly: “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

He minces around the monster pot, still spitting water, grabs an oven glove and lifts the pot off the hob. He turns his head and shouts something into another room, reaching for a dishtowel to mop up the water. As he bends down, the white rectangle drops out his belt and dangles from the headphone cables in his ears, saved by a swift grab as he stands up again. He tosses the dishtowel in the washing machine then checks the pot. He calls through to the room again and pokes the contents of the pot with a wooden spoon.

Peeping Tom 1-2-3-4 [3]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 3

A child in a room with three lamps—big bright bulbs in each—sits on the floor before a video game. On screen, a car zooms around corners faster than the eye can process, but the child takes control and passes a big blue bumper car. A young girl walks in with a teddy bear clutched to her chest, fiddles with her long brown hair. The boy shouts across to the girl, his sister? Could be: “Get out, I’m trying to concentrate!” The girl, to her brother? “Can I play?” A car streams ahead as the track straightens out towards the finish line. The race ends, the boy seems distraught and throws down the pad.

He’s furious, kicking his legs and shouting. The girl backs out the door, upset but gone before the tears start. A minute later a tall mother(?) in a business shirt and skirt towers over the boy, switches off the console and wags her finger. The child sits and sulks, the mother repeats a question: “Is that clear? Do you understand me?” A little nod of the head. The mother leaves, he sprawls across his Spiderman bedclothes and buries his head in the pillow. Is he sad at being told off or upset that he didn’t save the game?

Peeping Tom 1-2-3-4 [2]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 2

A man and woman in their late thirties early forties, one sits on the toilet, another the bath’s edge, backs turned. The end of an argument? The man sits in a white vest and blue shorts, the woman a black nightdress. For ten seconds their bodies remain still, no fidgeting or shuffling. The man moves his lips, mumbling. Perhaps the woman is speaking? “Yeah. Hmm. Yeah,” the man seems to be saying. He gazes into the street, his look one of profound boredom. Is she going on too long? Her head bobs, she turns around.

The woman is beautiful. Wide, passionate eyes and hair like flowing magma. The man is, frankly, lucky to have her. She twirls her knees out the bath, shuffles along the tiles and rubs the man’s shoulders. The man resists her touch then loosens up and turns to her. If this were TV, he might be saying: “I know, honey, it’s just so-and-so.” Or: “I’m scared, baby, scared about such-and-such.” The woman’s long fingers knead his bony shoulders like cooking dough, swaying gently as they lapse into silence.

Peeping Tom 1-2-3-4 [1]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 1

A short fat man, thinning on top, sits in an easy chair flipping channels and eating kettle chips from a funsize bag. From the precision tilting of his chair and the cushions at his back and bum, one might assume he suffers from lumbar discomfort, brought on by too many nights before the TV in stiff-backed chairs or upright leather sofas. And to counter his back problems, he chooses to perpetrate the very act that brought him the pain, oblivious to the irony as he pops open a Coke and stuffs in more kettle chips.

Then a woman walks in, younger than him by twenty years or so, greasy skin and overalls. A daughter living with her father, or vice versa? Soundlessly, she pegs her pinny on a coathook and glares, hands on hips, accusatorily. One can imagine her thoughts: “Still sitting there, you fat slob? Why don’t you get some exercise, fatty?” Her body language shows disdain: stepping around his carpet crumbs, over his fat ankles and into a chair. She reaches for the remote then makes a face at his greasy fingerprints all over the plastic. The image on-screen changes to a singer “pumping the air.”

The Peeping Tom Project

I started a novella inspired by Georges Perec’s Life A User’s Manual a few months ago—a grand statement about the importance of collaborative and fragmented narratives in a virtual world (a statement a decade or two out of date, since we’ve been living in that world since I was a zygote)—but my ambitions crumbled under their own weight. A sub-OuLiPo extravaganza was the plan, to be authored by ten or so different writers. Each writer would play a voyeur observing various shenanigans in a tenement block opposite, the purpose something to do with focusing intently on the minutiae or boring bits of life to achieve a more transcendent narrative (cribbed from David Foster Wallace). This despite the fact each paragraph was plump with unusual or suspect antics: a series of interlocking narratives with manic plots, like what standard fiction is sometimes, so not particularly original.

The novella had its own complex structure where the narrator(s) would describe the actions in each window in groups of four (each group standing for 24hrs). I added a further complication by making each group include a character from a different window in the sequence 1-2-3-4 at all times. So if the order was 2-1-3-4, a character from window 1 would appear in window 2, a character from window 1 would appear in window 2, and so on. Already, you see the utterly unnecessary complications involved, and I’m not sure I understand them myself. The map looked like this:

Story Map

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

1-2-4-3 → 2-1-4-3 → 3-1-4-2 → 4-1-3-2

1-3-2-4 → 2-3-1-4 → 3-2-1-4 → 4-2-1-3

1-3-4-2 → 2-3-4-1 → 3-2-4-1 → 4-2-3-1

1-4-2-3 → 2-4-1-3 → 3-4-1-2 → 4-3-1-2

1-4-3-2 → 2-4-3-1 → 3-4-2-1 → 4-3-2-1

This unfinished piece seemed like a shoo-in for a brief blog series. Hence my plan to stuff this blog with regular excerpts from the permanently unfinished novella. I don’t expect anyone to read this (people reading stories on blogs? don’t be ridiculous!), but it’s either on here or in the wastebasket. I only completed the first four sets up to 4-1-2-3, so that’ll be our new story map. If I upload one window per post, I can generate sixteen posts over a few months. Go me! I hope these posts don’t upset my one reader. Love you Joe xxx.