London by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, Short Stories

London. It`s a city of dreams. Whether those dreams are those of luxury or poverty depend on your circumstance. Patrick certainly thought dreams were meant for waking up from, not looking forward to.

Patrick lived in a hollow flat situated at the end of the Clapham Junction Railway Station, in a sodomised world of contempt. His lover, Michael, was the type of Irish bugger who made the Fianna Fáiller`s quiver and the Vatican churn. It was 1966. The age of The Beatles, Warhol and anal sex. Their time was coming.

Dominic Greene arrived at the door carrying nothing but a small case of things. He packed his toothbrush, toothpaste and pyjama`s in the case. Finishing off the final norsel of his banana, Dominic composed himself for the interview.

Patrick opened the door. “You must be the new tenant” he said knowingly. Dominic stared him down. Patrick was ordinarily handsome, his dark hair and brown eyes made him a plausible target. Dominic smiled. “That I am” he replied. “I am here to pay the first month`s rent”.

Patrick nodded to the sandy haired bloke. “Welsh, are we?” “Aye. Hollywell.” Patrick frowned to the man. “I was hoping you`d be Irish”. Despite a three year stay in England`s capital, Patrick`s fondness for his native country never left him. He always had a special place in his heart for his beloved Cork. Welsh simply could not compare.

Dominic wistfully shied away from the door. “I`m sorry” he said. “My mother has Irish in her”. Patrick smiled. “That`ll do me. Come in”.

Michael rocked from the edge of his chair. The air of semen was palpable. Dominic`s nose turned at the sensous dicothomy. Bloody queers. Always the bloody queers.

Patrick turned to Michael. “Don`t bloody stand up, while you`re at it”. Michael scoffed. “No fucking intention of it.”

“This is our new flatmate”. “Great. As long as he washes himself, I`m happy.” Patrick laughed at the thought. Michael was the dirtiest, sleaziest vehement he had ever met. Still he paid on time. Patrick didn`t.

Patrick turned to the tiny ceramic stove that protruded his kitchen. “Tea, Dominic?” Dominic took off his Ray-Ban`s to answer. “Yes, please”.

Patrick smiled to Dominic. “You an Audrey fan?” “What?” “You a fan of Audrey?”

Dominic`s perplexed look gave Patrick another opportunity to laugh at the Welshman`s ambivalence. “Audrey. Audrey Hepburn. Those are the Tiffany glasses. Breakfast at Tiffany`s”. Dominic re-examined the glasses. “I thought these were the Goldfinger glasses. You know. Bond. James Bond”. Patrick smirked. “You`re more of a tea cup than Sean Connery. But no matter. Here`s your tae.”

Turning to the ominous picture of the Virgin Mary, Patrick chanted “Go méirimid beo ag am seo arís!” Dominic sipped his tea. The fields of Wales and all its glory were there in his thoughts. The sheep. The dragon. The mines. But as he thought about the gaelic uttered, he considered how little Welsh he actually knew. Not that this mattered in London. Patrick spoke.

“I`m not going to lie to you, muffin. We are a pair of homosexuals. If that`s not good enough for you, frankly, you can fuck off. But I`m sure you`ll get around to the idea”.

Dominic could. Patrick was satisfied.

“Now, Dominic. Tell me about yourself?”


Patrick walked to the nearest shop, his feet steady,his mind solemn. Why did he tell everyone he was a homosexual? There`s no harm in admitting you`re giving sexual favours to your masotistic housemate to avoid embarrassing debts. The truth was, Patrick was far and away from a homosexual. And he knew it.

What about Genevieve? Where was Genevieve in this gregarious city? Had it been a year already? Genevieve. Genevieve.

Eoghan Lyng