Fiction writing, just to see if I can

I don't know if I can do fiction. You tell me?

Don't play with dolls!

“Y’know, if it wasn’t for the romance of the job, I think I’d quit!”

Gaz Turner had to yell over the noise of the petrol-powered pressure-washer. Karl, his workmate, turned and grinned. They were both dressed in green waterproof jackets and trousers. Karl had, in addition, goggles and a face mask, whilst Gaz had long neoprene gloves and was reaching in to a communal waste bin with a hoe, scraping the congealed mess of fats, old food stuff and god-knows what else from the bottom of the bin, ready to pressure wash.

“I mean, how can it get any better than this?” he asked. As if on queue the rain started. Heavy, horizontal driving rain, whipped by the artificially accelerated winds around the 19 storey block of flats they were currently servicing. Gaz threw the hoe down, turned off the washer and headed for the bin-room, where there was a modicum of shelter. Karl was close behind.

“The worst thing about this,” Gaz hazarded, “is that you can never get the smell of the Jeyes Fluid off your clothes or your skin. For days afterwards wherever you go you can see in people’s eyes.’ He smells like he’s fallen in a chemical toilet’ as they try and get away from you in the shopping queue”
Karl shrugged, and said “Whm fuff timbibbre”

“Yeah. Take your mask off and say that again!”

“I said, ‘It pays the rent. Just!’” Karl grinned. Nearly thirty years younger than Gaz, Karl was still filled with the optimism, the hope of youth, seeing his whole life available, the chance to do great things. The chance to leave his mark on the world. That, or he was permanently stoned, Gaz though, smiling to himself. He turned as a rumbling noise announced more rubbish.

To his left were four large steel bins. Five feet high, three feet wide, on four large caster wheels, the bins were each positioned under a rusty metal pipe, about 18 inches across, which ran the entire height of the building. On each floor an access chute allowed residents to dispose of their rubbish merely by dropping it into the pipe. A nice clean and clinical solution to the problem of household rubbish. Put it in plastic bags and drop it down the chute. Of course, on occasion this was too complicated, and the plastic bag was left out. Or was simply not able to cope with the quantity of rubbish, and exploded on impact. Either way, as a result the bins needed regular deep-cleaning to remove the fat, grease, papers, condoms, vomit, paint, nappies…the smell could be quite overpowering. Gaz sighed. Yeah, it paid the rent, but there had to be an easier way to earn a living!

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move. “I think we got a rat!” he nodded towards the end bin. Something moved again. He grabbed at the pan-shovel left in the binroom and advanced upon the offending bin, Karl taking up a rear-guard position, broom held aloft, so he appeared to be armed with a cocktail hedgehog. Another brief movement, as if something was trying not to move, and all was still. The pair approached carefully. Rats had a nasty habit of leaping at you in their fear, trying to get past. Almost always they were not dangerous, just trying to get away, but this had the unfortunate side-effect of making you scream like a girl and hitting your colleague, or worse, yourself, with whatever you had in your hand at the time…

On this occasion, in spite of optimistic prodding with the shovel, no rat revealed itself. They had to check, however. Part of the job required that they report rodent infestation to the housing office, who would then send a *pest control agent* to deal with the problem. Pest control agent. A rat-catcher. By that way of thinging, Gaz reckoned, Karl and he were ground-level chemical and physical hydro pneumatic infection-control operatives, and should be on about ten grand more. He grimaced, and noticed what appeared to be an arm sticking out of a Sainsbury bag in the bin. Curiously he looked, and smiled. In the bag was a cloth doll on a wooden swing. Clearly based on a stereotypical dutch child the androgynous character had a porcelain head, a blue and white striped shirt and corduroy dungarees and cap. It was sat astride a rope swing, and looked jolly happy. “That is just too cute to bin!”, Gaz thought, and removed it from the bin, and freed it from the bag. “Karl! Truck mascot!” he yelled over the noise of the rain and wind.

“Sod off! That isn’t going in the van. It’s tat!” Karl yelled back. Sod you too you then, it’s staying in the van whether you like it or not, just to be awkward, Gaz thought. He looked again at the…toy…ornament…whatever, and smirked. So that’s what a Dutch Cap looks like. Oh, dear, come on, that was childish. Yeah, and he was a 50 year old child, playing with dolls.

As if turned off by a tap the rain, but not the wind, stopped. Once again the workmen returned to their thankless task, scrape, spray, brush, wash, drain…the monotony and discomfort alleviated only by the occasional escaping piece of paper, whipped by the winds and launched with surgical precision onto balconies, where some hapless hubby may find himself having to explain why the centrefold of *Gals with Jugs* seemed to be stuck to the wall with something that wasn’t glue…

Friday meant finishing half an hour early, which was not soon enough. Through the front door, at least the smell of the Jeyes meant that Barney, his Jack Russel Terrier didn’t bounce all over him this time. He threw down his bag and headed straight for the shower. Fifteen minutes of steaming hot water and Adidas shower gel made him feel a little more human. He looked in the mirror. Grey hair, still quite muscular, no, be honest, Gaz, that’s less muscle and more middle aged fat. You should try and get to a gym, you’re becoming your own dad!

Clean clothes, then dinner. The advantage of having a Barney was that it was like owning a spring-loaded pedal-bin. Potato peelings were thrown carelessly into the air, and with a *snap* they were no longer there, and Barney was sat at his feet, industriously chewing. Who needs a waste disposal?

Once the food was in the steamer he opened his bag to wash out his flask and sandwich box. The marionette grinned at him with its too-red lips. “Sod you Karl! I never even saw you put it in my bag, you *******!” Gaz grinned. He took the figure from his bag. The doll itself was about 18 inches tall, and when suspended from the swing maybe two feet tall. Now that he looked closely at it the workmanship on the face was quite remarkable. The lips were overly red, which made him suspect the androgyne was female, but it was hard to tell. “Internets! I can has a Google! I really should get out of the habit of thinking in lolcat when I think of the internet.” He turned to his laptop, and started link-surfing, smiling happily with the vague idea the doll may turn out to be a valuable artefact.

An hour later, he was less happy. He had followed links from Google and Wikipedia, having searched for the makers name, and happened across a Snopes entry. Curious, he’d clicked the link. Snopes avowed that although there were, certainly, documented cases of people finding these dolls, and yes, on some of these occasions some people had subsequently been found comatose, never to recover, there was no actual evidence of cause and effect. No actual evidence.

Gaz looked over to the doll. Which was no longer there. The swing, still on the wall hook, was empty.

I lurve reading your writings!!!!!! I need to know where the doll went to though!!

Oh, good
The above is kind of *Part one of a two part story*, so you may well find out. In actual fact, the doll is in reality stuck on my wall, looking at me...spooooooky! Yes, it does exist.

oooh well get writing then, hurry along now

Yep i enjoyed that! Nothing better than a good story!
But I want part two as well!!

I would say you can