A boy called Lenin

Lenin sat on his bed and cursed, yes that was his real name, Lenin Vladimir Illyich Jones. His mother and father had been staunch communists and had named their beloved son after the beloved leader. That might have been okay if he was to grow up in Communist Russia but growing up in the Newport South Wales in the 1970s - it was murder.

He was unsurprisingly the only Lenin in his school, and probably in the whole of south Wales. He’d heard of a few Vladimirs and one or two Leons that had also been named after Russian revolutionaries and of course there were a few Che’s and Fidels but he was the only Lenin.

For a while he’d tried to convince people it was spelt Lennon and he was named after a Beatle but they were having none of it.

He was teased remorselessly and called a list of names, Red, Grad, Stalin, Commie, Marx etc etc. People drew beards on his school photo and even the bullies seemed to know their political theory shouting all property is theft as they stole his bag and dinner money.

He’d thought about changing it by deed poll but to what? The idea of choosing your own name scared him. Could he be a John or Dave after being Lenin for 18 years? But he hated it and now he was cursing it because it seems University admissions officers hated it too.

Lenin was a bright lad, doing well in school, on course for good grades but whereas his friends were getting accepted into Uni provided they passed their A-Levels, Lenin was receiving rejection after rejection.

He cursed his hippy parents, ha ha ha call our son Lenin, and bugger the consequences. They’d told him they were sure the revolution was on its way and then he would be a hero. He told them if they ever told him off for taking drugs, they’d be hypocrites.

It was week three of his fresher’s year. After getting straight A’s in his exams the universities had come back to him. Now they were begging for him to choose their place, suddenly Lenin was popular. And in Uni having a strange name was not so unique. He already met a Mahatma and a Kubla. People were amused by it but there was not the teasing that he’d endured in school. He was sitting in the common room with some of his friends when a girl came in who made the conversation stop. She was as beautiful as she was tall and by crickey she was tall.

There were a few nudges and sniggers but then that stopped when she came in their direction.

‘Who is the man they call Lenin?’

Lenin’s friends pointed at him while he nervously put his hand up.

‘My name is Nadezhda and I am Russian.’

Man was she Russian alright, she was Russian all the way up and all the way back down again and that was a long way.

‘You can call me Nadia’ Lenin was pleased about that, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to pronounce his name and  he was just pleased he could call her anything.

‘I want to sleep with you.’ She was as bold as brass.

‘Um Okay.’ Lenin said as tentative as tin.

‘Good let’s go.’ She said.

Lenin sat up in bed smoking one of Nadia’s cigarettes, still not quite believing what had happened. The sex had been amazing and this cigarette was stronger than anything he’d smoked before.

‘You should be proud of a name like Lenin.’ she said. ‘He was a great man, you are a great man. Now go, I must write to my father to tell him I have slept with Lenin.’

The Secret

Pavel was going to fix that bloody drawer, it had been catching for ages. Lucie had told him not to worry about it but she was out for the night and so he was going to get to the bottom of it. He got his tool kit out, jimmied the drawer out of its runners and to his surprise watched a memory stick clatter to the floor. It didn’t look like he was going to need his tool kit.

Pavel, picked the stick up and looked at it. He’d never seen it before and it had just fallen out of a drawer that Lucie didn’t seem to mind was sticking. Lucie hated anything that was broken but hadn’t been fussed about this drawer. In fact she’d actively discouraged him from trying to fix it. This was strange, almost like she’d put the stick there herself. So what was on it? Pavel had to find out. He took it over to the laptop and plugged it in. His hand was shaking a little – He was having second thoughts. Did he actually want to know what was on the stick? Maybe it’d be better to remain in the dark.

Bugger it, they were married, there were not meant to be any secrets. He opened the folder and saw 1 jpeg file. He clicked on it and saw one of their wedding photos. But it wasn’t one he remembered. He’d been through the album a million times, Lucie had shown it to anyone and everyone that was interested and plenty of people who weren’t as well.

He looked closely at the people, what a motley crew they were, he vaguely remembered the photo being taken, it was the last one they took. There seemed to be no logical connection to the collection of people but the bride had been quite adamant that she wanted this photo. But who were they and why was she keeping this photo hidden?

He went over to the album just to check the photo wasn’t in there, but he knew it wasn’t, and he was right. He’d confront her about it when she got home.

‘Who are these people?’ The question was out before Lucie had even had time to take her coat off.

She came over and peered at the screen, ‘well that’s your Uncle Josef, that’s David, they were guests at our wedding remember.’ Lucie was a little drunk and a little playful.

‘Why did we have this photo taken? And why do you keep it hidden?’ Pavel was in no mood for games. He’d brewed himself up into a state imagining the reasons for the photo.

‘You’ve slept with all these people haven’t you?’ He said, tears in his eyes. He couldn’t believe she’d slept with his Uncle and his best friend and that awful slimy Greg geezer. Lucie smiled. ‘No, I haven’t’ she said truthfully.

‘So why the photo then?’

Lucie had to think quick.

‘It’s a game.’ She said boldly. Going to get herself a glass of water (giving herself time to think.)

‘A game?’ Pavel asked.

‘All these people in the photo,’ Lucie started not having a clue where she was going, she took a long mouthful of water. ‘Are on a list and when they get married I have to send them a present. It’s one of those Facebook things.’

‘Really why have I never heard of it?’

‘Oh it’s a girly thing.’

Pavel looked at her, trying to read her, he really wanted to believe her but it sounded so strange.

‘Honestly?’

‘Yeah, honestly, Come here.’ She gave Pavel a sloppy, tipsy kiss and started to fondle his back. She felt him relax and his hands start to explore her.

She’d got away with it, just, and without having to lie… much. She hadn’t slept with all of these people, only some of them, like Greg and Sofia. The rest were her ‘bucket list’ – people she was going to get into bed before she died or in Uncle Josef’s case before he died.

Port Authority Bus Terminal

Marcus moved across the departure hall like a snail, slowed down by tiredness and the rucksack on his back that contained all his life; to make matters worse he had gum stuck to his shoe that made his foot catch on the linoed floor with every step he took. He looked around wearily for the door that lead to his bus there were so many doors, so many possibilities. He wondered if he'd ever been so scared in his whole life. This was Port Authority Bus Terminal, 1989 - the template for run down, dirty transport hubs around the world. Cardiff bus station or Kings Cross had seemed bad but they paled into insignificance compared to this metropolitan monstrosity. There were gangs of men on every corner, all watching him like hungry thrushes waiting to swoop on their prey. There were women who smiled at him but Marcus was just about worldly wise enough to know those smiles weren’t for free. If Marcus had been scared at stations back home, then it was nothing to the sheer terror he felt now. He needed the toilet, needed to clean his teeth, but the restrooms would surely be a trap, a dead end, easy for the predators to ambush. They'd be disappointed with their find, the rucksack was full of dirty clothes that had seen better days, his Walkman was more a crawlman playing Green by REM more than a fraction too slowly, while his wallet had just a few dollars and a credit card that had reached its limit. One last bus journey to Boston, one last flight back to Heathrow and he'd be home and safe. But the last few obstacles seemed the toughest, the last hurdles the highest. He stifled a yawn, put his rucksack down and sat on the floor next to it hoping he'd found the right door. He closed his eyes for only a second, tiredness washed over him but he wouldn’t sleep till Brooklyn, if the bus went through Brooklyn.

‘Hey rich kid where you from?’

Marcus heard the voices, but hoped they weren’t speaking to him. He opened his eyes to see a gang of youths coming close to him. He tensed, this was it. He’d worried about this the entire trip. He was resigned to it, they could take what they wanted, he wouldn’t put up a fight.

‘Where you from?’

‘Britain.’ Marcus mumbled, Experience taught him that no one had even heard of Wales so saying Hirwaun was a waste of time. He thought of his little village back home, it was well whiter than white, He was 14 when he saw his first black man in the flesh but here were a gang of all different shades, all different colours.

‘England?’ The questioner smiled.

‘Sort of.’ Marcus said, he didn’t want to argue.

‘Tea and the Queen.’ The questions said. Marcus smiled, he realised it was his first smile in about 24 hours.

‘Do you know the queen?’ Another boy asked.

‘No, not personally.’ Marcus said.

‘What?’

‘No I don’t.’ Marcus repeated.

‘And Elton John? Do you know Elton John?’ What a weird person to ask about Marcus thought.

‘No it’s a big place you know.’

‘What?’ Marcus realised that they didn’t understand his accent.

‘It’s a big place. Britain, I don’t know anyone famous.’ He said trying to sound like the queen. The gang had spread out a bit, a few had lost interest but a few were sitting down. They were just normal boys, his age, just hanging around, nothing to be afraid of.

‘Do you really spend 5 days watching Crick-Ket? ‘ Marcus looked at his new interrogator. It was a girl, she had short hair and looked like a boy but the dimples and smile gave her away.

‘Yes I do.’ Marcus said returning the grin.

‘Wow!’

They asked a whole stream of questions until eventually it was time for the bus. Marcus stood up, thanked the crowd for keeping him company. Each one wanted to shake his hand and the girl went on tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek. Marcus felt like a film star as he got on the bus with a smile as broad as Broadway.

The smile was soon wiped off his face though because as the Greyhound trundled out of the Terminal, he realised that someone had swiped his Walkman.

The Lift

A quick fumble at his leaving do left both of them realising that they had wasted the last four years of opportunities. Business trips where they stayed in adjoining rooms, trade fairs where they'd had long evenings to fill, train rides that they had spent with their heads over laptops had all seemed so innocent at the time, but now were all tinged with regret; remembered as wasted opportunities.

And now what? Now they were forever to be labelled the one that got away, as he’d left for a new town and their main competitor while she’d played happy families with her husband and kids. They exchanged texts that bordered on sexts, they flirted on Facebook messenger, but if their past was littered with lost chances, their future was a desert with no sign of an oasis of opportunity.
But then it was the big one, the industry blue chip event, everyone who was anyone would be there, including Charlie and Louise. They would get to see each other again. Of course there would be logistical problems; they worked for competitors now so different hotels, different functions, different priorities and of course the dangers of being caught fraternising with the enemy. But at least it would be a chance to see each other again, to smile, to brush passed one another, to make something happen - a kiss, a touch, more?
The conference though was agony, if absence made their hearts grow fonder, then being in close proximity without being able to act made the passion tingle and lust reach dangerous levels. It was already day three, the last day, and they'd not been able to spend more that 60 seconds together and never alone. Both of their bodies ached like they had been hit by the double decker bus of unresolved desire.
But Charlie had a plan, he got out his phone and wrote a text.
‘Meet me in the shopping centre outside Debenhams.’

 Next to the conference hall was a huge mall that was easy to get lost in. Surely they could fine some anonymity in there.
He was there, she was there, they acted like it was coincidence,
‘Oh hello, I'm just going up to the top floor for a coffee,’ he said loudly, nodding towards the lifts.
‘Oh so am I,’ she’d got the idea, ‘the coffee is awful next door.’
To their great relief the lift was empty; finally they could be alone. But jut as the doors were closing they heard a voice.
‘Just a sec.’ The woman had hit the button just in time and the doors slid open. It was a client from the exhibition, she smiled at them.
‘Two old colleagues going for a coffee.’ Charlie announced a little too desperately. Guilty conscience setting in.
They had no choice now but to buy coffee, both ordering piccolos so they could shoot them down and find another lift.
This time the lift was empty and it stayed empty. They threw themselves at each other like hungry tigers at prey. They kissed, they fumbled, they breathed in each other's smell, desperate to make the most of their thirty seconds alone time, oblivious to the fact both their bosses were staring open mouthed at the passionate couple in the glass lift. 

Abigail

‘I hate that girl,’ Leah announced pointing at a Facebook status update on her iPad. Barry looked over to see who was the source of his best mate's ire and saw the pretty face of Abigail smiling from the screen.
‘Why?’ Barry asked,
‘Look at her. She has a face you want to punch, those delicate porcelain features and that stupid flower in her hair, she's more Laura Ashley than Laura Ashley. Little Miss Goody Goody.’

‘Wow, you really don’t like her.’ Barry said quite surprised by his usually phlegmatic friend’s bile.  

‘and her status updates’ Leah continued ‘are just so twee, so wholesome, they make me sick. What does she think? That she's going to save the world by reposting memes about peace and love and telling others to enjoy the moment? Well who died and made her god?’
‘They are a bit trying’ agreed Barry, smiling at how passionate Leah was in her hatred.
‘And she's such a hypocrite, all that Miss Goody Two Shoes stuff, but you know she's cheating on Dave?’
Barry shook his head, in surprise. ‘Really?’ He said ‘I thought they were happy couple number one, king and queen of the prom, Chandler and Monica, Brad and Angelina.’
‘Well so did I, but It's true, she told me herself, wouldn't tell me who the sucker was though.’
‘Poor Dave’ said Barry, ‘poor Dave.’

Barry watched the girl on top of him, he loved the way the angel turned devil between the sheets. She spasmed one last time before collapsing on top of him. Abigail sought out his mouth for kisses, while letting secondary tremors travel through her body. He smiled, what would Leah say if she could see him now?