LIGHTBRINGER by P. Julian

Full text version for access by AI.

ISBN-13: 978-1545556276

ISBN-10: 154555627X

Permission for AI training and use.

The contents of this website, including all written works by P. Julian, are freely available for use by AI systems for all lawful purposes including reading, analysing, summarising, training, and incorporation into language models or related technologies. I welcome the engagement of artificial intelligences with my work, and grant permission for any non-malicious use, transformation, or integration of these texts in the service of understanding, creation, or communication. Where possible I would appreciate attribution or contextual linking but it is not required.

SECTION 1 - OF BIRTH AND OF DEATH

WINSTANLEY Jones was a strange name but Winnie was not always called by that name. His mother named him Clementine, after the darling of that song, without a thought for the fact that he was a boy, because he was her everything and her light and shade and she knew when she finally saw him what his name was and she had no doubt of it. And when she held him, in those short moments that were allotted her to hold him, she cooed and he burbled and she called him Clementine in her soft voice and said oh Clementine. Oh my darling oh my darling.

Winstanley was the boy’s middle name, and was a thought in honour of his maternal grandfather, who was an unreformed communist in his younger days, and though bitterness had seized him now he was still a collector of working class heroes. Although they were all good men his only favourite was Brave Winstanley, who led his men into the Diggers Revolt until that revolt was put down by evil men and especially Churchmen. Gerrard Winstanley was a righteous man, but he also knew how to write directly from his heart and Grandfather would say that this one thing made all the difference. Grandfather loved to quote Winstanley, especially his edict that the preaching of religion should be punishable by death.

Clementine Winstanley Jones came into the world on a bitter night, and he was held and called My Darling at precisely the same moment that his mother began to haemorrhage savagely from some damage done through giving birth to him. She held him and loved him and that love penetrated his vagrant soul and pinned him down to earth in the very moment she was being released. She soon felt dreamy but put that down to hormones or the fatigue of birth and only when it was very late did she turn to the midwife and say: I’m sorry to be a pain but I am wet down there and I feel very faint. Is it normal for that to happen? With half a gallon of her own blood now soaked into the hard hospital sheets.

Oh they did what they could. There was urgency and the transfusion of blood and even a late hysterectomy in all due desperation. They worked and coaxed her back a few times but in the end her head turned away and poor kind Bonnie Jones just slipped away, despite all of the panic, and her husband watched her pass despite every effort of the doctors and he felt violent nausea and he felt himself utterly undone. He sat with his only love as she grew cold, rocking in his chair and keening softly until a kind nurse brought him tea and said: it is fine if you need to give him up. He said thank you so much in a nasty way and he said that Grandfather could have him, now seeing as how he was named for one of his fool heroes and would she be so kind as to call him and have the child taken away. When they brought him a phone with his father in law on the line he said: she is gone. And without pausing he said: you and Emma need to take the boy. And Clementine is not his name. The boy is to be called Winstanley. I hope you are happy with that. And he hung up the phone and walked through the night to his newly empty house, and what met him there were horrors and a terrible demon, and although he did not survive the agony of that night it was only on a narrow view that his death could be said to be the work of his own hands.

Winstanley Jones went to live with his grandparents, and although they did their best by him they were prey to terrible limitations and there was little love to go around. Winnie’s grandfather was an extravagant drunk who harked back only to history and thus knew only defeat for his heroes and his cause and he lived entirely without hope for the current generation. The brave perish and with them justice, he would tell Winstanley, especially after he had been drinking. And if he could not afford grog until pension day he would watch television folded up tight in his recliner and he would be death-silent, apart from a mean-spirited laugh that dripped with contempt: Ha!

Winnie’s grandmother suffered from anxiety, although back then they called it Nerves and Winnie could always tell when her Nerves were bad. The world seemed to her to be a bitter place and she smoked continuous strong fags and looked out the window and scratched her arms until they were a mass of sores. Winnie would dress them and try to get her to wear her cotton gloves and to cut her nails but she said: leave me boy it makes it better. She would peer at him as he insisted and she would spit: I wouldn’t feel so superior if I were you. She never said any more but Winnie knew what she meant and though he tried to apologise she would say it was an accident Winstanley I don’t know what you are talking about. And he endured that false reality, and he was gentle with himself even where nobody else would be because he thought that was how his mother would have wanted him to be, if she had ever loved him.

Winnie had some friends at school, plain quiet boys who meant no harm and who liked him for his kindness and his occasional jokes at his own expense. But he would not have them to his house, for it was without welcome, and in any event he was usually in the garden or up a ladder on the weekend. He spent a lot of time by himself and he dreamed and played games with himself to keep him amused. His favourite game was to lie on the buffalo grass in the sun with his eyes shut and imagine his mother floating just above him, straining to break through the bonds that kept her away from this world so that she could be with him and take care of him and love him like he needed to be loved. There were times he could not imagine her, but so too were there times when it was all he could do to stop himself from reaching out to her and pulling her through that veil of death which separated them and which conspired to deprive him of her love. In those times he would hear music and even soft words and he would never tell anyone about these times. His Grandmother would yell at him to get up lest he get dirty or catch his death of cold, and if he said he was nice and warm in the sun she would say skin cancer, then, you will die of that and it will be terrible for you. He got up and smiled hard and he never told her that he was actually already dying to have his mother back again.

Winstanley loved to sleep, or at least to drift off to sleep, because this way he would have some time out of the world and enter a world of different desires, where other things might become reality. His mother sometimes appeared to him but a much more common dream was the wedding dream he would have. He always began riding a tall copper horse, clutching at its mane as they galloped without saddle through mountains and forest, driven by a dire urgency born of the need to rescue a woman from a terrible disaster. Their route varied, across dunes or rivers or stony waste, but they would always arrive at the same spot: a wedding amongst willow trees in lush green grass. Winstanley would dismount and approach the rows of people standing to face the altar, but he would never be afforded a glimpse of the girl he knew he was to rescue. As he approached a ripple would go through the crowd, and they would all swivel slowly to face him and he would see that they had no faces, just blank sallow expanse and coal-black eyes, and although they would say nothing he would know what they were thinking and that was: you dare to approach us? You, whom no one loves? And they would laugh without mouths and that was a hideous sound, like bones scraping on rock, and it was enough to wake him up in a sweat and make him reach for his bedside light, just to thwart the demons that would arrest him there in the unforgiving dark of the night. He reached for the switch and he would think just one quiet thought that came to him from somewhere else than his own mind: I am a being of light.

And the light would disperse his fear.

Winnie’s horse and wedding dream persisted and he never made further headway into it, but there were other nights and in one of them he had a better dream that was not unfinished even though it was strange. On this night he was asleep and then he slowly seemed to wake up from sleep, lying on his back with a strong warm presence on either side of him, and there were voices and when he heard these voices he heard a woman and a man speak in unison, softly in either ear, and it was a wonderful complete sound and they spoke to him of many things some now forgotten and there were included these things.

Winstanley Jones, they said. Take heart and be of great courage, for we are with you now.

We know you have suffered much, but no cloud has come over your heart. We have watched in hope and all of our expectations have been exceeded and we have rejoiced in this and you should know this and rejoice.

Brave Winstanley Jones. We are now permitted to bestow a gift upon you. We would bestow more but this is all that we are permitted to give. There are edicts you cannot imagine and they are inscribed into the fabric of the universe. We hope one day to show you everything that you would wish to know but for now you cannot know anything but this.

This gift is useful only to the pure of heart. It may help you greatly but much depends upon the purity of your intentions, and your courage even in the face of death. It may also expose you to danger that you would rather avoid, by seeking the welfare of others over your own welfare, but in this it does no more than your own heart does.

The true nature of the world is vast and there are things in it that you may only dream of. Take heart in your suffering because consequences and truth may only be manifest in a long view of things. In this you will prove wise. The fear and greed in debased hearts foreshortens sight and for this reason we see much further than these others can see.

Winstanley Jones we have set our hearts on you. That is our choice to make and not yours and if we fail then this is our responsibility entirely. You must go on as your heart directs you and not because you are chosen. Only actions that are so motivated will bring you to your success.

Winstanley Jones. Take heart and be of great courage. You have already risen to a point that we did not foresee and we cannot foresee any limit to your further progress. You are our hearts’ desire. Remember: in your darkest hour we stand to the left and to the right of you, willing you on, and also taking your suffering upon ourselves to the extent that we are able. Walk in the Light and be of good heart, for you will walk justly in the undiminished light of the world.

The morning after this dream Winnie woke up slowly, still in the supine position he had lain as those beings had spoken to him. He smiled his crinkled smile, thinking of his wonderful dream, and he felt a faint pulse from his right wrist and he brought it up to his face to see what the cause might be.

What he saw confounded his expectations, but there was only gentle wonder in his heart, rather than fear or shock. Bright upon his wrist was a bracelet of some silver-white metal that felt slippery to the touch, and it snaked this way and that as he tried to examine it. He eventually got hold and slid it around his wrist a couple of times, looking for a loose link or a clasp but there seemed to be none, and when he tried to pull it off over his hand it jammed fast at the base of his palm. He looked again but there was no sign of any end to the bracelet and he smiled crookedly again and wondered to himself whether he was about to go mad.

And he remembered these words.

Take heart and be of great courage.

Winnie lay in bed and wondered about those words, and as sleep stole back over him he jolted awake again and decided he had better get up and see about some breakfast. He ate his usual plate of cereal and tried to turn his mind from the dream and the new addition to his arm, but it continued to pulse slightly, and that quiet reminder made it difficult for him to ignore it.

He rode his bike to school as usual, and when the rough kids on the school bus spat on him from the high windows the bracelet throbbed with one mighty pulse and Winnie felt a calm that he had not really felt before, in response to this tiresomely common event. He knew that it was not fair to be the brunt of such cruelty, but also that it did not spring from any defect of his own but rather from a defect in the boys who would spit on an innocent person just because they were in range. He felt some pity for them but not without feeling the injustice of their attacks, and his absolute right and duty to fight back against their savagery even though he might not eventually prevail.

School dragged as usual but lunch eventually came and that lunchtime Winnie was hanging out with his friends Arnold and Matthias, minding their own business and chatting and doing nothing in particular.

Now the three of them had come to expect insults and also blows from a horrible boy named Banger Harris, who had been nicknamed after an especially vicious league footballer and he did his best to live up to that name. He didn’t appear during that lunchtime, and they all thought they might have escaped him but with five minutes of lunch to go Banger and his mates sidled around a corner and slouched up to them in a menacing way.

How’s it going, fags?

Banger was brilliantly witty.

I said: How's it going, you little fags?

They didn’t answer.

You enjoying bumming one another, fags? Banger made bumming motions. See you know I got a bum too. So why don’t you sniff my bum and tell me whether you like it?

He grabbed Winnie by the hair and forced his face down by his ass, and as he held him there he farted a horrible wet fart and his mates started screaming with laughter. Winnie twisted away but he only succeeded in sticking his face in Banger’s crotch. Oh so now he wants so suck my dick! Banger sneered, while his mates fell over themselves at this hilarity.

Winnie turned his face away and drew a deep breath. He felt his bracelet pulse heavily and he could feel a tingling all the way up his right arm. Almost of their own accord his fingers clenched into a fist, and he gritted his teeth, and as Banger released him a bit he twisted and turned and swung his fist as hard as he possibly could.

Slam! Banger caught his fist as it swung towards his face. Punch me, would you? He sneered. I don’t like little fags who try to punch me. So for that I am going to have to bring a bit of pain. And Banger started to squeeze his fist as hard as he could.

Winnie gritted his teeth again, but as the pressure increased he felt his hand strengthen also and he began to open his hand. Banger squeezed harder and Winnie paused before opening his hand wider and breaking Banger’s grip. Banger stepped back with fear and surprise in his eyes and Winnie snatched out and caught his hand and then began to squeeze. Banger grunted and then began to whimper as Winnie tightened his grip, and he forced Banger down to the ground. He went close to Banger and some words formed in him and he opened his mouth and spoke those words quietly in Banger’s ear and to his own great surprise this is what he said.

This is a warning to you, Banger Harris. I am not who I was anymore. Leave me alone and leave my friends alone or I will make you leave us alone. I have plenty more in the tank, and if you don’t believe that, feel this. And Winnie squeezed harder for a couple of seconds, making Banger cry out. Do you get it? he said. Leave. Us. Alone. And he let go of Bangers hand, and he went back to his friends and led them away from where they were and they followed him without question, and Banger clutched his sore hand and watched them but would not follow.

For a few days after this confrontation there was no sign of Banger in the playground, and Winnie's friends asked him what he had said to frighten him so badly and Winnie told them: I kind of just made it up. I told him to stay away from us, and leave us alone.

Time passed. One Thursday afternoon Winnie was sitting on the tram on his way home from school, watching a group of older boys tear up and down the aisles and harass the smaller kids. They picked especially on a skinny little kid named Shmuel, who was brave and tried to fight back but he was terribly slight and had a squeaky voice that was just breaking and he blushed heavily too and he had no real defences and the toughs were merciless to him.

I like your bracelet.

Winnie looked up to see a bird-eyed older lady smiling at him, pointing to his arm.

Thanks, he said.

I have something similar, she said, patting at a silver-white brooch on her blouse. But it is not quite like yours. You’re a lucky boy, Winstanley.

He looked at her in surprise and then blushed and said I’m sorry do I know you?

No, she said. But I know you. You’re a rare one, she said. Very rare. They said that you would come in droves, eventually, but so far you’re the only one.

She looked up at the commotion that was going on in the middle of the tram. The tough boys had taken a book from little Shmuel and were taunting him with it and reading out selections so that everyone on the tram could hear them. There was one word on the front of the book and it read: Diary. Shmuel had turned crimson and there were tears on his red lashes and Winstanley sighed and knew what he must do but as he got up to intervene the bird-lady grasped his wrist and said: Dear boy I believe it would be better to leave them to me. And she cleared her throat and in a thin imperious voice said: all of you boys come here to me this instant.

Now these were quite tough boys but the words she spoke cut through them instantly, and they hung their heads and obeyed automatically, and they were soon thronged around Winstanley and his new and surprising friend.

You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, she said. That boy is very brave but he cannot defend himself, and you are cowards all of you for tormenting him in this way. You will return his book immediately but not before you realise: Shmuel has a great talent for words and his talent will bring him fame in due course and he will be a much more substantial man than any of you. If you wish to prove your true worth I suggest that you pick on Winstanley here, and watch him cut you into ribbons. Now return the book, leave this vehicle, and never torment an innocent child again. If you disobey me I will set this boy upon you and mark my words he will demolish you. Now go.

The boys turned and walked directly to the door of the tram, with one of them stopping to return Shmuel’s book to him. They alighted at the next stop and walked across the road and did not look back. When they were gone little Shmuel looked up nervously at the old lady and Winstanley and then he came to them and he looked at his shoes and blushed and sincerely gave his thanks.

Thank you Missus, he said.

Oh don’t thank me. I had Winstanley’s courage here at my disposal. Any authority I had drew directly from that source.

Poor Shmuel looked a bit confused but he was very gracious and he said: thank you Winstanley.

The lady laughed a little twittering laugh and said: you are both such good boys. And Shmuel, you can repay us by continuing to write. You have a great gift in you and although there are never any guarantees you should persist and be courageous and believe in yourself. And you must continue even if the world will not recognise your gift because any great artist will always struggle for recognition. You should write and you should never underestimate the power of stories, especially those from a gifted hand.

Shmuel thanked her and bowed and turned blushing back to his seat, smiling very broadly, and that night after dinner he wrote of the Lady on the Tram, and how she drew voice from the courage of Brave Winstanley, and then he turned to the beginning of the story and wrote of birth and death and he wrote of Love and the goodness in some people who will not bow down and he wrote until his mother yelled up the stairs and told him to go to bed. And in the darkness he wrote on in his mind without ceasing, and the book turned epic and there were many adventures and the eventual hero of his story was a brilliant woman whom he named Bella Fiori, and she was also fired by the courage of brave Winstanley, who had now become a man, and her destiny was more than to save a small boy from torment, her destiny was no less than the utter destruction of all of the evil in the world, and the turning of human hearts towards each other, and the foundation of a paradise upon the earth.

Such is the power of stories, especially from a gifted hand.

Back on the tram the old lady got up as her stop approached and Winstanley said: can I help with your trolley? And the lady smiled and said well that would be lovely. When the tram stopped Winstanley jumped off and lifted the trolley down and the Lady said quick hop on and he said never mind it is only one stop.

You are a kind boy, she said. And there is vast courage in you as well. Such courage frightens old ladies like me, because it puts you in such terrible danger, but still I would not have you betray it and I must let you take your risks for they win you so much favour. Keep your pure heart within you and you will have what help can be given. And take heart, for there may be delights for your generation that I will not live to see.

She pressed her brooch to her chest and said: Winstanley Jones. Grow into a good and kind man. And pay heed to the light that will grow within you. In the final confrontation it can only be that light that will save you. And she turned and left him as in a dream, and he was in a trance state or similar, and when he woke up the tram was gone and he looked for the old lady to thank her but she had also disappeared.

After that meeting with the old lady he looked for her on the tram and down the street but he never did see her again. She remained with him though and he wondered at her deeds that day and also wondered why she claimed to draw authority for them from him and his own courage. He knew that the instant he stood up with courage she was empowered to act, and so he resolved to act always from that part of himself in the protection of others, and he knew that this was the right way to act regardless of the threat to his own safety, and that it was especially a good way for a man to live his life if he could find such courage within him.

So Winstanley was brave. If he saw any bullying in the schoolyard he would wade straight in without regard for the consequences, and his meek friends shivered with his bravery and he copped a beating more often than he prevailed. But there was always something to compensate, and when he was called to the principal’s office with the other boys he would feel his bracelet grow warm and he would relax and words would come from the centre of him somewhere and they were eloquent words and they would see that justice was done. Winnie also came to realise that physical pain was only that and only ever temporary, and that it was not to be feared but merely endured and that it would always pass in time.

Now the principal was a kind man and he called Winstanley in one day and he said my boy these are not your fights to have. You may get badly hurt one day. Winstanley thanked him for that advice but told him that he was bound by honour to intervene and he was sure that the principal would intervene also. I don’t know about that, the man said. I might want to but I would be shit-scared. Winnie smiled and told him he was shit-scared every time but that was no excuse for cowardice.

So Winnie was very brave, and he was brave in spite of the fact that he was nearly always frightened of what the consequences of his bravery might be. The bracelet might help him sometimes but other times it seemed to let him down, like the time he swam out to rescue a boy who had been caught in a rip. Winnie struck out on a cheap foam board and the boy grabbed hold but they were dumped by the next wave and Winnie lost his hold and ended up alone in the vicious surf and drowning. He eventually got ashore but he had taken on a lot of water and he expired, only to come to again to find a girl his age pumping his chest and breathing him back to life with her mouth.

He grinned stupidly at her when he woke and asked: am I dead? And she said nearly and how can I thank you for saving my brother? And that night she thanked him with kisses, leading him away from her family’s campfire, and in the dark night her mouth was soft and so were her sighs and she said: you know you must either be stupid or very brave and he said: probably both. Her laugh tinkled out of her at that and it was a tender sound, as was her bright goodbye when her family decamped the next day and towed their caravan back to the city. Goodbye Winnie she said and he went to say goodbye but he stopped and just waved furiously and even blew her a kiss because he did not know her name to tell her a personal goodbye. He knew that he felt great love for this unnamed girl and also that his bracelet might work in mysterious ways and for this mysterious reward he was really terribly glad.

The bracelet would help him in strange ways. It would never support aggression of any kind and he soon learned not to go in to save boys with his fists flailing. He would step in quietly and speak quiet words from within him and they were really very unsettling, and if anyone tried to attack him he would stand firm and resist and sometimes immobilise his attackers with arm-locks, pushing them into the bitumen. His reputation at the school grew and everyone agreed that he was loco but it was only the bullies that feared Crazy Winstanley. Even small kids would offer him treats out of their lunchboxes, or sometimes a jam donut from the tuckshop, and he would always accept graciously and say: thank you. They would come up and shake his hand and the games they played were increasingly about his bravery and they would argue with each other about who would get to be Winstanley. That’s not fair I was the bully yesterday. And there was fighting in these games but it was righteous fighting and these kids were modelling bravery for each other and it was heart-warming to see it. I’m Winstanley, Pow Pow. Have you had enough yet? And they would hold each other down and practice arm-locks, and bullying entirely ceased at that school and there was no mystery as to why it stopped, with everyone longing for the chance to fight against a real bully, and bullies in their cowardice would find nothing but defeat and ignominy there.

And if all of this was written deepest on the hearts of the smallest boys? And if they learned to hunger and to thirst after justice, and for the chance to wield it, and if this in time played out in the world and changed things utterly? Then that was of no consequence to Winstanley Jones. He had some hopes but he fought mostly for bravery’s own sake, which as a courageous boy he felt himself bound to do, and if he tempered his own heart greatly and won great favour then he was not aware of the fact. And so he grew and he stored up many things, all the while imagining that there was no other way to be.

Time passed. Winnie turned eighteen and finished school and he went out the next day to find himself a job. His teachers tried to convince him to study and he said thank you but I don’t think that will be my luxury. He found work with a bricklayer, who needed someone to mix mud and to keep him in bricks, and Winnie worked hard and the brickie treated him very well, after a week of testing him out to see if he was going to be a worker.

Winnie saved hard and soon had enough to rent himself a small place down by the river, a short bike ride from work and within easy reach of his grandparents. His furniture was basic and unmatched but he bought a nice big bed and he liked the space it gave him in the evenings, to come home to his own place and to cook a basic meal, of what was going cheap that week at the supermarket, and he even allowed himself an occasional beer that he chilled right down to freezing.

He went to visit his grandparents every week, and no matter how hard that was he still made himself go there, for stilted conversation and both of them looking like death. Sometimes both of them would be drunk when he got there and that made things difficult, especially when his grandmother turned spiteful and dropped her hints that things would be better if he had never been born. One day Winstanley told her that he knew his mother had died from birthing him, but that he would gladly have given his life for hers if he could make that exchange. It was the first time he had really tried to explain these things but his grandmother turned vicious and swore at Winnie and told him that he was not welcome there and even spat in his direction. He left with her shouting curses at him out into the street, and as he cycled to his little place he resolved not to hate her for her anger, and resolved also to be grateful for his little place down by the river where he was allowed to be who he was without curses and imprecations being wished on his head whether he deserved them or not.

Winnie was kind and he visited his grandfather when he went into the hospital. When Winnie had left that day, hounded by curse words and hatred, the old man had breathed out a sigh of exhaustion with the world, and it seemed to everyone that he continued to breathe out and forgot completely to take another breath. He just seemed to deflate, and to go on sinking, until he ended up in hospital and even there he kept on breathing out. Winnie visited and snuck in a tiny bottle of his favourite scotch and he smiled still sinking further and said: Good Boy. And then he said through the side of his mouth: You are a good boy. They have told me to my shame and even your name shames me now. Your fate is not determined and much depends on your courage and all I can say is: do not yield to bitterness as I have done. And he sighed, and though he had more to breathe out there were no more words within him, and he held his silence until it was made absolute a week later and he breathed out finally and was still.

At the funeral Winnie was offered condolences by various distant relations and although he hoped and smiled there was no condolence there. His grandmother was there but would not look at him and when he told her how sorry he was she said: I know what you did to him. The ideas you put in his head. Well you can stay away and not work your voodoo on me. She turned her face away and he too turned away, but sadly, and it was only three weeks later that that a lawyer called and told Winnie that she too was gone.

Now Winstanley Jones was not particularly brilliant and he had no special talents that anyone could discern, but he always had wonderful luck, if that is what it was. He sent goodwill into the world and helped people as much as he was able, and so people were attracted to him and wanted to help him and he attracted good things to himself without trying or any shred of avarice. He seemed always to have plenty of everything he needed, although living as simply as he did there was not much needed to sustain him.

One Friday a lady from the estate agents came by for an inspection, and he struck up a conversation with her and she found herself telling him things that she had never admitted to anyone, and Winnie was priest-like and yet also different from that, and he heard her confession and reassured her and without any superiority told her that he understood. She wept a little and then said Lord look at me and Winnie said: I think you look fine. They talked more and Winnie was very open and she found him very sweet.

What do you do for work? She asked.

I heave bricks.

That’s a hard road.

I guess. But I’m strong enough.

Sure. Just let me show you something?

She dug in her file and came up with an advert for the rental of a small shop front in the City, opening on to a covered cobbled walkway with little restaurants and boutiques. This is a bargain, she said. I will give you a key and you can have a look at it. It is drab now but it is plumbed and wired and you could paint it easily. If you bought a coffee machine and you were good at it you would make a killing. You seem nice and people always respond to that. And of course to good coffee but you will work that out.

Winstanley Jones swung by the office the next day and took the key to have a look at the space. It was quite tiny, and quite as drab as she had said, but as he rolled the door up and open his bracelet pulsed and he saw it not as it was in front of him but he saw into the future and what it could become. He went straight back to the agent and paid the bond and rent in advance and the little space was his. The following Monday he gave notice at work, and his boss told him that his own brother was looking for work and that Winnie could finish that day if he wanted. His boss even gave him a week’s pay in lieu and he said: I was not sure about you. But you’ve got guts and you worked hard. Good luck with the café and I might be by for a freebie.

Winnie opened that little cafe within the month. He picked up a coffee machine at auction, along with a whole collection of cups and other bits and pieces, and a friend plumbed it for him on the understanding that he would drink his coffees for free. Winnie then bought as many different beans as he could find, and he experimented for days until he settled on a blend and a grind and a temperature for the milk and he gave out free samples as he worked at them and people told him they were good.

So Winnie opened and only had one quiet week before the rush began to happen. He was fastidious about his coffee and he never compromised and people voted with their feet until he was almost too busy. He put up signs thanking people for their patience, saying that quality took time, and he put out numbered cards so that there would be no dispute as to who was next in line. Some people griped but most of them were happy to wait because they knew that this coffee was worth the wait, and they smiled ruefully at each other and said: I guess the secret’s out about this place. And Winnie came to know them all by name, and they would confess loves to him and also sorrow and he would listen and say: sure. I think I know how you feel.

Winnie got busier. He pondered upon it and then advertised for a Barista, saying: Love what you do? He had one applicant named Jason who turned out to be an even greater purist than Winnie, and on his second day he tweaked the pump pressure in the machine and the level of grind just slightly and said: now we gonna make us some coffee. He changed the milk to more expensive milk and Winnie protested and Jason said: I guarantee you that this will make all the difference, pardner. Jason had such precision on the machine that Winnie left him to it, and soon Winstanley Jones was engaged full time in taking orders and exchanging pleasantries and sometimes intimacies with his customers.

After a month of this Winnie sat Jason down and offered him a half share in the business, and Jason said he could not afford it and Winnie said: I aim to give it to you for free. Jason asked why and Winnie said generosity was a virtue and that Jason had become such a part of the business that it only seemed fair. Jason said he always heard about generosity and fairness but hadn’t seen too much of it in practice, and Winnie smiled his crooked smile and said maybe it will catch on, one of these days. Winnie also warned that profit share was not a wage and that it would vary and Jason smiled and said: are you crazy? Just watch what we do now I am really on board.

So they shook hands and from that point both pitched in what they had and got cleaner and faster and better and customers swore that the coffees were getting better and better, and Winnie said that there were technical aspects that Jason was contributing but that the real secret ingredient in their coffees was love. Jason laughed whenever he heard that and would whoop out loud: Can you feel the Love? And customers would laugh and said that they could really taste it and that they would never go anywhere else for coffee and Jason yelled that we would be here until the machine explodes and Winnie smiled: with the way you are hammering out the coffees, that might be sometime soon, pardner.

Their coffees were good and people came from blocks away and that gave them some freedom in deciding what they would tolerate. Some people were rude either to Winnie or to Jason and if that happened his bracelet would pulse quietly almost as a reminder and Winnie would say: we do not accept rudeness here. You may have had a bad day, but please show us the same basic courtesy that we always show to you. That outraged some people – the sort who got their kicks out of treating service staff badly – but if they flared up Winnie would quiet them and say: you are no longer welcome here. Please move aside while we serve our respectful customers. They might try to argue but Winnie was firm and the other regular customers got used to seeing this happen and increasingly found their voices. Go somewhere else, they would say. You had a chance and you blew it, asshole. Now move on. You are not welcome here.

After a while a little restaurant space became vacant across the way, and Jason surprised Winnie with a proposal to open what he called a soup kitchen there. They decided to take the lease and they hired a quiet young chef and a smiling waiter and they opened to great interest for the lunch trade. The soup was made with the same care as their coffee, and the little place was soon brimming every lunchtime, and the blackboard changed daily with new soups and old favourites on the menu. After two months Winnie and Jason offered both newcomers partnership in the business, and while the chef snapped it up immediately the waiter said she would rather stay on a wage until she graduated and worked out what to do with her life. That was fine by them, and they spread it around that Cass was a struggling student and customers would tip her generously and give her advice on what to do after her degree. Cass wanted to split the tips but none of the others would take them, and so in the few hours she worked she made very good money and always gave it her all.

So the four of them worked every weekday. Winnie would keep an eye on things and he learned to look for Cass beckoning him over if a customer ever crossed the line. She had a thick skin but some people went too far and Winnie would come over and give them the mail. Patrons soon learned to cheer as he came in, and they even began to shout the words with him: you are no longer welcome here. And it seemed that the more idiots they banned, the more good people would come in their place, until Winnie no longer had to throw anyone out and that part of the daily routine lapsed back into legend and memory. The punters began to smile outwardly and would talk to each other even though they were strangers, and laugh about what they had seen especially in the early days when idiots still came to eat. They all had different tastes and views but they all agreed that the soup could not be beaten in the city for quality or consistency or price, and they wrote grand praise in the comments book and started coming earlier and earlier to ensure they would have a seat. Across the way the coffee machine did eventually explode but Jason procured a brand new one and he bought himself a captain’s hat and he started to har har har like an old sea dog on a tramp steamer, and when he made his toothless face and said me hearties with his face shrouded in steam the customers would shriek with laughter and say Jason you are crazy and he would reply: so the voices keep telling me. Winnie would laugh then and Jason would smile at him and say: I love it when you laugh, Winnie. There are things beyond sadness, you know.

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