Third Writing Prize Winner –
SUMMER 2023
is David McVey
of East Dunbartonshire – UNITED KINGDOM
THREE MINDS WITH ONE THOUGHT
By David McVey
To everyone in the hall – and the hall was full – John McFarlane was Mort the Slayer. After all, he had now played Mort in five Superlords of the Universe films; overblown, effects-dominated blockbusters based on American comic books, albeit filmed at Pinewood. The contract demanded that he attend fan conventions when required. Usually, they were trying experiences; this one, at least, was in Glasgow, his native city.
‘Now, John,’ said the interviewer – and even he was a twentysomething man-child in jeans and a Superlords of the Universe t-shirt – ‘can I call you John?’
‘Aye, call me John. Or Mort, if you like.’ This brought an approving susurration from the fanboys. A few questions about his view of Mort the Slayer followed and then the interviewer asked, ‘Most of us only know you as Mort the Slayer. Perhaps you could tell us a little about any other acting you’ve done?’
Any. Other. Acting.
John McFarlane breathed, maintained a practiced actor’s smile, and began. ‘Well, I trained here in Glasgow, at the RSAMD as it was called then. Afterwards, I had spells at Dundee Rep and the Citz back in Glasgow, before I went south for a season with the RSC. On TV I’ve guested on Lewis, Midsomer, New Tricks, Broadchurch, and Line of Duty. I also do a lot of work in disadvantaged areas, helping with theatre and acting workshops…’
‘Moving on, John, tell us about the atmosphere on set when you’re making a Superlords of the Universe film!’
Later, John McFarlane sat at a desk signing Superlords of the Universe merchandise. The queue reminded him of photographs taken on the beach at Dunkirk in 1940; he was familiar with these through research he’d done for a part in a stage adaptation of Atonement. Someone asked him, ‘Will Mort the Slayer get his superpowers back in the next film?’ Someone else asked, ‘Who do you think is the coolest Superlords superhero?’ and other people asked other things. Eventually, they and the buzz in the hall, and everything else, all the other data gathered by the senses, became white noise.
He felt compelled to surf that white noise, so he ignored the autograph-seekers and walked out of the hall, provoking wails of confusion and disappointment, left the building, and stepped into a cold, breezy Glasgow afternoon.
Page1
A few fanboys saw him and stopped, wondering whether they could try speaking to Mort the Slayer, wondering why he was leaving. He didn’t worry about them. This was all he had now, yet what was it for? It was empty; empty posturing yet he was supposed to be enthusiastic about it, empowered by it. But it meant nothing, and it meant less than nothing to him.
Out here in the cold damp air, the white noise ceased. Things became clearer, the world as it was could be seen whole. But all still felt hollow in the midst of an even greater hollowness.
The river ran past the conference centre. He walked over to the railing and leaned over. The dark, oily water slipped easily by like rippling funeral silk. He seemed to imagine it calling to him.
He was about to make the move when he sensed that there were people on either side of him; on the left was a young man in Ellesse trackies and a matching hoodie; on the right was a dark-haired young woman, stylishly dressed in black jeans, boots, and a grey coat. They looked at each other. There was a recognition, a consciousness of secret sharing.
*****
Jackie usually just bit his tongue when Gillespie acted like an arse. Honestly, it was a pub kitchen, not Gleneagles, most of the food was delivered in frozen packs, none of the staff was qualified and certainly none got more than the minimum wage. They were all there because, at the moment, they could get nothing else and would move on whenever they could. Jackie was now in a homeless unit, which was better than the street, but he needed this job or he might end up back there. So, when Gillespie tried to bully him, or his pal Ryan, or one of the lassies, he just tried to calm himself. It wasn’t worth getting involved.
And then today. Kasia, the Romanian lass, is washing dishes. There’s a crowd of football supporters in and they need a lot of plates for their pizzas and steak pies. Gillespie is roaring at her to get a move on when something slips between her fingers, a gleaming white disc is caught in the strip lights, and then shatters into hundreds of tiny white stars. There’s a brief second of silence and then Gillespie hurries into the kitchen and starts bawling at Kasia, who dissolves into tears. It’s clear Gillespie is about to raise his hand so Jackie shoots across the floor and smacks him one on the face before he can hurt the girl.
‘Ye wee shite,’ Gillespie splutters as he spits out blood and teeth, ‘I’m gonnae leather ye before ye go.’
Page 2
But he doesn’t get the chance. Jackie tears off his apron and storms out, briefly touching Kasia’s hand before he leaves. The streets are busy, what with the football and that convention thing out at the Conference Centre.
That’s how it happened. He hoped Kasia was all right and had the sense to walk out too. She was a bright lass, she’d get other work, better work. She wasn’t like him.
This was the end, then. No job and on the bottom rung of the ladder for somewhere to stay. How would he explain things when being interviewed for some other dead-end job? ‘I got sacked because I decked my supervisor.’
There was only one place to go. The river seemed to draw him, rather than him actively move towards it. When he got there, a slim, pretty girl, slightly foreign-looking, stood just along from him. She looked a bit like Kasia but with an aura of despair that resembled his own.
Then another man arrived and gazed into the cold welcome of the river; he was expensively but casually dressed, in his late thirties and wearing a badge from the convention. He looked familiar, but at first, Jackie couldn’t figure out why.
*****
Polina almost felt like she was being love-bombed. Everyone in the hotel said the same; ‘Never mind about that daft Brexit vote. Scotland voted to stay. Everybody here loves you, we need people like you, we want you. Nicola will make sure folk like you can stay here.’
And she believed them. She felt like she belonged in this hotel, belonged in this city. But there were still some customers who, when they heard her accent, gave a double take, and looked as if they might say something but didn’t have the courage to. And now that she’d been promoted to reception, there were some customers who recognised her as Polish or foreign or different and showed that they didn’t approve.
‘Don’t you think you’re preventing some local boy from getting a job?’ said one very old, very proper English lady one day when she was being handed her key. Just straight out, without embarrassment. Polina hadn’t been able to say anything. After the woman had gone the tears had come, though. They often did.
Of course, it was more than just the Brexit insanity. There was Pavel. Or, now, there wasn’t. He was the reason she’d come to Scotland, found work, and made a life here. And now she was expecting his child and there seemed no hope, no light in any corner.
Page 3
After her shift, she said goodbye to everyone, clicked on her boot-heels through the lobby – packed with inadequate-looking comic book fans today – and made for the river.
The water looked cold and dirty. How long would it take to drown you? Or would you die of cold first, or from bugs or chemicals? What if someone saw you jump and attempted a rescue? There were few people here right by the river, but the hotels and Conference Centre were busy and people were strolling slowly across the bridges. Was it too much of a risk?
A young man – just a boy, really – came and stood nearby. He looked at her and then looked down into the water. Polina had a feeling that something linked them, some unknown shared thing. And then a rather older man came and leaned on the railing between her and the boy. It was becoming too crowded.
*****
‘I think I know why you two came here,’ said John, to the boy and the young woman.
They looked at him. Something dawned on Jackie.
‘You were in that film…’
‘Aye, I’m Mort the Slayer, that’s who I am. That’s all I am.’
‘Eh? Are you in them as well? I saw the first one. Nae offence, but it was shite.’
‘None taken. They’re all shite.’
‘Naw, the one I mean is that one where you played the priest. You know, that helps the waitress whose father gets refused care…’
John McFarlane said nothing. He thought hardly anyone had seen that film, one of Ken Loach’s less successful efforts. But he was still proud of it.
‘Aye, they showed us it at school. They bleeped out aa the swearing but it was still good.’
Page 4
‘You’re an actor?’ said Polina.
‘I was, until twenty minutes ago. What about you two?’
‘Homeless kitchen worker,’ said Jackie. ‘I’m pure “Buddy spare us a dime”.’
‘Hotel worker,’ said Polina. ‘None of us are going to jump now, are we?
‘We can either all do it at once when no one is looking,’ said John, ‘or we can walk away. Look, it’s after two. I bet neither of you has eaten’
‘I was making lunches,’ said Jackie, ‘but something came up.’
‘Not me.’ said Polina, ‘Why eat, if…’
‘Neither have I. Let’s go over to that hotel and have something.’
‘Are you paying?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
‘We are a strange three to be eating together,’ said Polina, as they walked past the Conference Centre towards the gleaming glass-fronted hotel.
‘We all had the same thought at the same time’ said John, ‘we have a greater connection than most.’
A few stray fans paused and gazed, slack-mouthed, at Mort the Slayer. But within seconds, John, Polina, and Jackie were swallowed up by the glassy foyer of the hotel.
Outside, the river flowed on, dark and cold and imperturbable.
# # #
~a short story by David McVey
