ALL ABOUT CREATIVITY

There are four at the table. Abigail, whose flat this is, Sara, Adam and Maurice. Sara is Abigail’s best friend; Adam a work colleague with whom Abigail once had a thing and now hopes Sara will (she worries Sara is becoming rather set in her ways); Maurice her flat mate, who goes nowhere, seems to know no-one, and, as it seems unfriendly to keep him confined to his room, is invited at the last moment as a gesture.

            During introductions Sara wants to know what everyone does, but Abigail shuts this down saying, We’re not here to discuss work, asks, What are you doing for Christmas? and guides the small talk to the holidays.

 When the pasta is gone, plates tidied and stacked by the men, another bottle of Chianti opened, Abigail suggests, Shall we play a game?

Oh, why not, says Sara. I haven’t played for ages.

As long as it’s not complicated, murmurs Adam.

Complicated, Abigail exclaims. Whatever do you mean?

I mean if there too many rules.

Rules! Oh come on Adam. That’s what games are for. What do you think Sara?

I love rules. 

Maurice?

            Maurice considers, removes his glasses, polishes them on a paper serviette, then, I’ve never really thought about it.

What’s there to think about? asks Sara. Rules are rules. You need rules otherwise it’s anarchy.

That’s right, says Abigail. Anarchy. Don’t you agree Adam?

            Adam is at this moment sniffing his wine glass.

Is there something the matter? asks Abigail. 

Oh no, he mutters.

What do you think Sara? she asks, inviting compliment.

Lots of hints, says her friend.

About anarchy, interrupts Maurice. Doesn’t that have rules too?

Why Maurice, you are quite the philosopher, Abigail teases. 

            She’s sensed a change in mood, that Maurice, for all his oddness, might be worth getting to know if you forget some of his idiosyncrasies. What might be, will be, she surmises.

Have you ever met an anarchist Sara? she asks.

I once had a boyfriend…

            (Boyfriend, thinks Abigail. This is exciting.)

…who wanted to blow up the Palace.

What! Abigail exclaims. Are you joking? 

No. He said he was going to blow up Buckingham Palace.

Did you inform the police? asks Adam.

Of course not! He was off his head. Stevie was his name, a child at heart but into whatever drugs he could get his hands on. He didn’t understand people. Didn’t understand himself to be honest. He killed himself. I went to his wake. It turned into a mad party. He had lots of friends. Lots were girls. Upset girls. Gushing girls weeping. They looked at me as if to say, Why aren’t you crying? I said, He wouldn’t want us to cry. He’s not of this time. Not of any time really. You misunderstand him.  They thought I was being insensitive when all I was doing was telling the truth. Some got really angry. Spat at me. I left, otherwise I don’t know what might have happened.

That’s so sad, says Abigail.

Not really. Life’s that way. He wasn’t really an anarchist but he wanted change. He thought the monarchy were money grabbers, parasites. He wanted a republic. He was a dreamer. You know the sort. Lived in the clouds most of the time. Should have been born in the 18^th century. Should have stood at the barricades. That sort of thing. 

You should have gone to the authorities, insists Adam. 

Don’t be silly.

No. He has a point, says Maurice, alert, rocking back and forth in his seat. There’s a moral issue here and has to do with rules of engagement.

Maurice! What are you saying? says Abigail.

This man. Steve isn’t it? 

Stevie…

…he’s made a threat to kill, to be, what’s it called? Regicide?

Just so, says Adam, looking directly at Abigail. 

He didn’t mean it, Sara exclaims. It was a joke among friends. We all knew he wasn’t going to follow through. It was idiotic. He was a stupid romantic. 

He might have though, says Adam. You never know with zealots.

Zealots! says Sara. How’d you jump to that? You never knew him, never met him.

I’ve known people like him.

Have you? demands Sara. Who exactly?

It doesn’t matter, says Adam, who searches Maurice’s face for support.

May I ask, why did he take his life? says the other man. 

            Sara draws breath.

Isn’t this all getting a bit too serious folks? Abigail interrupts. How about that game?

Yes, says Sara. Let’s play.

Was he Irish by any chance? asks Adam.

Why do you think he’s Irish? 

Well. You know.

No I don’t. 

Oh come on, says Maurice. We all know about the Irish.

Do we? accuses Sara. They go about bombing innocent citizens, murdering, chopping people to bits as they sit having a drink in their local? That’s the Irish for you is it?

Come on Sara, demands Adam. It’s not the whole race we’re talking about.

Oh, piss off.

Guys! insists Abigail. Let’s not get drawn into an argument. It’s nearly Christmas. Remember?

That’s rich, says Sara. It’s Christmas so we can’t argue. That’s it? 

No. But…

But what? He’s (Sara points at Adam) insinuating my friend was an Irish anarchist who blew up, murdered, people indiscriminately. Did it for fun, eh? 

No, I’m not, says Adam.

No?

Well, no. It was a question. That’s all. 

Fucking loaded question.

Hang on a moment, says Maurice. If I can put some perspective on this.

Go try, says Sara, filling her glass quickly so some splashes on the table.

Well, we started talking about your friend Steve…

…Stevie.

Yes, whatever, saying he was planning to blow up the Palace.

Correct.

Then you said he was a stupid romantic and never intended to do that.

Correct.

Then Adam jumps in with the Irish question.

Again, correct, says Sara, the glass at her lips, her eyes anywhere but Adam’s.

That’s where we are now.

Sure.

So to my question: who was Stevie? Tell us about him.

What do you mean?

Who was he Sara?

Does it matter?

It seems to.

            Sara senses being trapped – Maurice fiddling with his glasses; Abigail smiling as she always does; Adam focused on the floor between his feet. What does she know of any of them?

He was Caribbean if that’s of any interest.

            The most virile man I knew, she reflects. Lean and strong. My fingers dance across his smooth chest. I lust for him. It’s animal. I’ve never been with a dark man before. His tongue’s the same colour as mine and I lick a whiteness the size of a thumb print on the instep of his right foot. 

And when did you know? asks Maurice.

She loops a stray curl of dark hair around a finger like she did as a teenager when her mother asked her something she didn’t want to answer. 

Know he was it? she asks.

            Life is tense, Sara knows, though it wasn’t that way with Stevie. He barely skims the surface. He’s a bird who soars, swoops, teases, has no scruples. Often he’s as light as a feather caught in currents of air that sweep him distant for days on end. Where? He never tells. I like to think he goes inland, sleeps in the open (he talks about how he was raised in the wilderness), catches fish with bare hands, cups spring water to his lips, dances with bears. That’s fancy of course. There are no bears in the Caribbean nor in this country. I believe he could though. When he returns he promises to take me there, to his homeland. I smile, wrap my arms around him, take his weight as we crumble to the floor. I want him. He senses my longing says, Wait. For what? It’s too soon, he says. It doesn’t matter, I say. He gently lifts me, frames me in his gaze. I know he will go away again and not return.

            The others talk among themselves. Abigail laughs at something Maurice says, while Adam stands, asks the way to the bathroom. Abigail points, grabs Maurice’s forearm, pulls him close, whispers. They leave the room. 

            I’m alone. No more questions except those I ask myself, the ones with no answers. For instance, I have no pictures. He won’t allow anyone to take his photograph, says he wants to pass through life like a shadow. Once someone does take his photo. He’s in a background group, doesn’t realise. When the film is developed the negatives are ghost white. He has no more shape than ink on water.

Oh hi, says Adam returning. Where are the others?

No idea. Don’t care actually. 

You’re still mad at me? 

Why would I? I don’t know you. You’re no one.

That’s not fair.

Where does fair come into it? I’ve never seen you before and after today will never see you again. I hope. You’re not important and I’ll forget you as instantly as if you were a ghost.

A ghost. Why would you say that?

I don’t know. Something I was thinking about. 

It’s an odd thing to say.

Is it?

            I’m talking too much, she concedes. I should leave.

I’m going now.

Why?

Why stay? My friend has disappeared with her flatmate who, by the way, she thinks might be crazy, and I really don’t want to be left here with you. 

But Sara doesn’t move. Nothing’s stopping me from going, she thinks, except my infuriating politeness. It comes from my upbringing, polite, correct, middle-crass. As does my need to please others. Stevie sees that. He tells me many times I’ll amount to nothing. People say that and you take offence. Rightly so. But with Stevie it’s like an electric shot. He’s right and I know it and I’ll go and do unconventional things. Except I don’t. Nor does anyone. We all smile. Politely. Then he chooses who’ll go with him. It isn’t me. I’m not upset. Not a bit. I know it was coming. It has to.

She told me she’d arranged all this, Sara says, breaking the silence.

What?

She thought we’d be a match. 

No!

Not kidding. Abigail’s got agendas.

Like games?

I was thinking of matchmaking. It’s one of her things. Yet she’s never had a relationship that lasted more than a week as far as I can remember.

I’m scarred of her actually.

You’re soft. She doesn’t do soft. 

You think?

You wouldn’t hurt a fly.

            She doesn’t know, thinks Adam. 

You are mad at me, aren’t you? he says.

Not really. What’s mad anyhow? Have you met someone who was mad? 

Probably. There are plenty at work.
            He thinks he’s made a joke but Sara doesn’t pick up. 

Am I mad? she asks, fixing him with a stare enough to humiliate. 

We all have madness, he says looking at the floor between his feet.

            It’s Sara’s time to reflect. She considers what Adam’s revealed – a prejudice against the Irish maybe, a familiarity with zealots perhaps. After Stevie dies I think of becoming some sort of activist, though I’ve no idea what for. Or a social worker ‘cause I think that’s what they do. I go to the community centre at the end of the street and say I want to volunteer. They give me a desk with a telephone and a list of names to call, say they are rich people. They say my job is to raise money to keep the place open and I’m to read from a script they’ve typed and pasted to a piece of flimsy card, the back of Kellogg’s cornflakes packet. I’m hopeless. I stutter and stammer like a kid, hang up, pretend in the end, talking to the dial tone. I leave at the lunch break. Don’t return. 

Who are you Adam? she asks. 

            He always thought his feet too large, none more so at this moment.

You remember the wine, he starts, raising his eyes but avoiding hers. Awful but I didn’t say a word. 

It’s rubbish. Have another glass. You might pick up the hint.

            Sara wonders, as she has before, What if the person sitting next to me isn’t who I think they are but someone other. Like Stevie. 

Tell me about zealots, Adam. 

            Adam draws into himself. Like watching a balloon deflate, Sara reflects. He pulls out the chair by her side, sits, hunches across the table. She places a hand lightly on his arm, encouraging him to tell. Finding the wet patch on the table Adam starts to drag it with a finger, round and round. 

 I was one once, he says.

            He is full of surprises, thinks Sara.

            Adam sits upright, stares at the ceiling, knits the fingers of his hands together. 

            Like the balloon’s inflating.

I haven’t told this to anyone.

You can tell me.

            Daylight fades. Lights from neighbouring flats extinguish as curtains are drawn. Stillness settles. Outside.

            Inside Adam reflects. Which is not often. Not for Adam. 

            He was like her, he thinks. Questioning, confiding, alluring. When I’m with him it’s as a shadow, connected but not. 

You’re smiling, says Sara. Why are you smiling? 

Remembering.

Someone? You are, aren’t you?

He was going to change the world, Adam begins. 

Don’t they all? 

He was like your man…

…he wasn’t my man…

…He had this single-mindedness. It was alluring. 

Isn’t it.

It grips you.

Exactly.

Rendering you powerless. 

That nothing matters? asks Sara, searching his eyes.

Chaos.

Anarchy.

            A siren wails, the room floods blue and red, settles back to tones of grey.

What are you two conspiring about? Abigail asks entering alone.

Where’s Maurice?

Taking a nap. What have you two been up to while I’ve been gone? 

I might ask the same, says Sara.

            Adam stands, shuffles, looks around as if in an unfamiliar setting. 

Did she wink at me, Sara reflects.They leave soon after, not close but together avoiding stepping on each other’s shadow under the streetlights.

copyright John Pitt 2025 ©