GOOD INTENTIONS
ALM No.93, September 2026
SHORT STORIES
Gordon sits at his desk in his apartment on the fourteenth floor, staring sightlessly out of the window. He doesn’t see the view of the Manhattan rooftops, or the white clouds scudding past. The desk is squeezed into a corner of the small studio, between the little kitchen area and the futon sofabed. There is a photograph on the desk of his son, Andrew, taken a couple of years ago at an amusement park in New Jersey. There is another photograph, taken fifteen years ago, of his brother Greg at his graduation ceremony from Loughborough University. Gordon took both of the pictures.
This is the room that he and his wife used to stay in when they came up to the city for the weekend. Before the divorce, of course. Now she only comes here to drop off his son for his biweekly visit, and even then she calls him from the street, and he goes down to get Andrew from the car. They rarely speak to each other directly, preferring to exchange messages via the boy.
In front of him his diary is open, and he holds a pen in his hand, but he has not written a word since taking out the small, leather bound book. Today is his brother’s birthday. Or, at least, it would be if Greg were still alive. He died six years ago, from cirrhosis of the liver caused by alcoholism. Gordon wants to write something about his brother, about what he had meant to him; but mostly he wants to get to the root of why he blames himself for his brother’s death. He can’t seem to find the words to start. All that comes to mind is a certain day in London, twenty years ago. A day that won’t let go of him, one that he’s gone over and over in his mind many times.
The reek of sour coffee, mingling with the more understated odor of stale pastries, filled the air in the overheated little snack bar. Mixed with this was the more pungent smell exuding from the old man in the corner, nursing his cup of tea as he huddled next to the space heater. His body exhaled a powerful funk that was composed of equal parts stale urine and doorway sleeping. Gordon felt nauseous. He looked around, poised for a speedy exit. The café was a run down hole in the wall, situated between the station proper and the street outside. It had a number of rickety looking tables, covered in red and white checked plastic cloths, on each of which was set a red plastic tomato ketchup bottle, a salt shaker, a bottle of malt vinegar, a container of sugar and a dispenser of paper napkins. Other than the tramp, the only customers were two elderly men, both of them radiating an intense loneliness. Each them sat at their own table, head bent over, eyes averted.
The only relief in this tableau of despair was the attractive young woman behind the counter, a vivacious spirit of ginger, the fringe of hair flopping across her forehead matching almost exactly the color of the fat, contented cat sprawling across the window ledge; in her black and white uniform she looked remarkably like the girl in Manet’s ‘A Bar at the Folies-Bergère.’
“What can I get for you, dear?”
“Umm, I’ll take a cup of coffee, please – not sure about anything else. Let me take a look and see what you have to eat.”
Gordon looked with distaste at the foodstuffs on display. There were white-bread sandwiches with hard lumps of butter, each garnished, rather than filled, with a single slice of cheese or cold meat. The cakes and buns gleamed - or perhaps more accurately sweated - in the harsh fluorescent light, fat bluebottles buzzing around them.
“Actually, I think just the coffee will be fine.”
“Milk and sugar?”
“Please, two sugars.”
“That’ll be fifty pence.”
Gordon was turning to leave when the woman surprised him.
“What’s that book you’re reading?”
He looked at the paperback in his hand. He’d brought it to kill the time while he waited for his brother’s train.
“Graham Greene – The Power and the Glory.”
“Haven’t heard of it - what’s it about then?” He looked at her to see if she was taking the mickey, but she looked genuinely interested.
“Well, it’s set in Mexico in the nineteen twenties. At that time there was something of a reign of terror going on – they were slaughtering the Catholic priests. It was the worst anti-Catholic violence since the time of Elizabeth the First of England.”
“But I thought Mexico was a Catholic country?”
“It was – and it still is. But at that time they had a president called Plutarco Elias Calles who was very anti-clerical. He felt that the church had helped to exploit the peons. That’s what they called the peasants in Mexico in those days. The funny thing is, that he was quite a good leader at first – he created a social security system, and he allowed the workers to unionize - but then later on he became very extreme, and sort of ended up being more or less a fascist. Quite a bit like Stalin, if you think about it. It seems that the history of the twentieth century is full of people who start out wanting to do good, but who end up doing all the wrong things. I mean, look at what happened in Cambodia.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” asked the woman.
“Well, I read a lot, I suppose. Anyway, nice chatting with you, I have to go and meet a train.”
There was a girl, too. She can’t be left out, she’s part of the story, the story of those events of that long ago day. She must have been doing something while Gordon waited for the train, something that would bring them together later that night. Gordon doesn’t know what that something was, but over the years he has imagined her, he has fleshed her out, created her back story. He knows that his version of events is melodramatic, and probably bears little resemblance to reality – in fact he has a feeling that he stole at least part of it from some movie that he saw long ago -- but it helps him to pull the events of the day together. It is good to have a plot, something to explain what happened, why that particular girl at that particular time should intersect with their lives.
In his imagination she is a skinny, dark-haired girl, all sharp angles and corundum edges, a bundle of nervous energy in her leopard skin leggings, pinballing through the Brixton streets. She passes the Underground station, pauses, and sidles into Electric Avenue. Looking around fretfully, she dodges quickly into a side street, barely more than an alley. A black cat, disturbed, arches and hisses. Ignoring it, she hurries to a graffiti-covered door. She knocks three times quickly, and twice more slowly. The door opens, and she goes in. The bass-heavy thud of Reggae music seeps out into the alleyway, cut off abruptly as the door slams shut.
Gordon observed Greg walking towards him, a backpack slung over his left shoulder, a small navy blue holdall in his right hand. As usual he could not get over the sheer size of the boy. Gordon was twenty-three, two years out of University. He had graduated in History and Politics from Goldsmiths, and was now working as a junior research analyst for a large financial organization in the City. Greg was sixteen, still living with their parents in the small town in South Yorkshire where Gordon had been born and raised, but from which he now felt entirely disconnected. In some respects he hardly knew his brother. He had escaped from the mind-numbing boredom of his home town when Greg was only a child, and they had spent very little time together since then.
Despite the age difference, Greg towered over Gordon. He was already six foot three and weighed close to sixteen stone.
“Is that all the luggage you brought with you?”
“What else do I need? I like to travel light, you know.”
“As if you’d ever traveled before. Alright then, we might as well get the tube. I’d been thinking we should take a taxi, but you can probably manage to carry that bag without too much trouble.”
“Aye, I’m a strong lad.”
“I should hope so, with those tree trunks that you call arms.”
They climbed up the steps and walked along the filthy, garbage strewn hallway. Gordon unlocked the door of the flat and stood aside to let Greg enter first. He followed him in, and locked the door behind them.
“So this is it, then.”
“Yeah, this is my flat. What do you think?”
“Well, the area is a dump, you have to admit that. The flat is not at all bad, though, is it? It’s bigger than I expected from the outside. But why is everything green?”
“The green paint was the cheapest.”
“Yeah, right,” said Greg. He walked around the little flat, looking at the framed pictures mounted all around the living room. “I do like the photos, though – did you take those?”
“Yes, most of them are from the Shoreditch Parade. Actually, all the best ones are still on exhibition at the community center. I managed to wangle myself a job as the official photographer this year, and took hundreds of pictures.”
“All in black and white?”
“Yeah, I like that artistic look. If you look closely you can tell that they were taken on two different days. On the Saturday there was a fair on Hoxton Street, which is just around the corner from here, and it was raining then - you can clearly see that from the gleam on the cobblestones. See the pictures of the jugglers and the clowns on stilts? Those are all from the fair. The next day was the actual parade, and it was beautiful and sunny.”
“Where does the parade go?”
“All over Shoreditch. You can see that we have a lot of interesting buildings around here – big old Dickensian looking piles, some of which used to be factories, some are schools – I’m not sure that there’s much different in how they work. And of course there are a lot of churches, not that I tend to take advantage.
“Anyway, you must be hungry, let me get something started.”
“That would be great, my stomach is growling. What are you making?”
“Vegetarian curry.”
“Sounds good. I like a nice curry. Are we having chips with it?”
“Rice, you pillock. This isn’t bloody Yorkshire.”
“Don’t be slagging Yorkshire, or I’m off home. It’s where you’re from too, remember.”
“Right. ‘From’ being the operative word. You’ll notice that you don’t see me there very often.”
“What you want?” asks the boy.
It’s the pint-sized Rasta, Winston’s brother. She ignores him and heads up the stairs.
“Hey, where you t’ink you going? Winston no be happy see you here again.”
She opens the door and goes in. Through the clouds of smoke she sees Winston and another colorfully dressed Jamaican man with heavy dreadlocks. The room is heady with the perfume of best Jamaican grass.
“What you doing here? I tell you no come back without money.”
“I have money.”
“Good, because I no giving free samples again. You pay, or you no stay.”
The other Jamaican snickers.
Images whirl through the girl’s head: she on her back, Winston above her, pounding away, oblivious to any pleasure she might herself hope to extract from the sordid exchange. He uses her to relieve himself, like a dog uses a lamppost, her body a clutch of tissue to mop up his jism.
“You call that free?” she says. “I gave you what you wanted.”
“Baby, I be doing you a favor. I got beautiful black girls lining up for me, why you think I be wanting your scrawny white arse?”
“So where is this Bermondsey place?” asked Greg as they locked the door behind them.
“Across the river, on the south bank – it’s the old docklands. It’s mostly abandoned now, at least the sections closest to the water. You know, one thing that has struck me from the traveling I’ve done, is that in most major cities you can tell the character of the country from what is done with the waterfront of their rivers. In London, all we have is factories and warehouses; in New York, there is a highway on the waterfront; but in Paris they have cafes and bars, and boat rides on the water. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“It’s bloody amazing.”
“Shut up, you little wanker!”
The girl is sweating and shivering at the same time. She scratches her legs where they are itching violently. She needs to find somewhere quickly where she can shoot up. She has her works with her, she never goes anywhere without them. The only choice is to duck into a pub and use the toilets. If they catch her she will get kicked out and blacklisted, but it’s worth it. It is always worth it, that’s the problem.
They took a bus to Tower Hill and walked over the bridge to Bermondsey. They were meeting the others at the Anchor Tap, just around the corner from Shad Thames where the party was to be. At the pub, they saw Ralph, Mike and Tony at the bar already. Samantha and a group of her friends were sitting at a table nearby.
“What do you want to drink, Greg?” asked Gordon.
“I’ll have a pint.”
“OK, just don’t tell mum that I’m buying drinks for you. You are underage, you know.”
Greg grabbed a table while Gordon bought the drinks. Ralph and his friends came and joined them.
“So, Ralph, tell me about this party,” said Gordon.
“It’s some friends of mine, they’re social workers, and one of them is a DJ. I don’t know how they got this place, or even if it’s legal. It’s a deserted warehouse, and there are going to be hundreds of people there, from what I’ve heard.”
“Sounds groovy,” said Gordon. He glanced over at Greg. His brother’s glass was empty. “Another?”
“Why not.”
At the warehouse the music was throbbing, and people were dancing in the almost total darkness. There were lights by the stage where the DJs were sitting, and a few weak red bulbs in various corners, but that was all that there was for illumination. As Gordon listened, the music segued from James Brown to the Gang of Four, from some roots Reggae song to Grandmaster Flash, and on to something West African, perhaps Franco. Everyone seemed to be dancing as if their lives depended on it – there was a sense of grim necessity, an almost competitive urge to get deeper and harder into the rhythm. After a while the music faded into Cabaret Voltaire’s Western Mantra. Gordon swayed from side to side; he felt his mind emptying until all that mattered was the music. ‘This must be what religion is like for some people,’ he thought.
Gordon needed to piss. He asked someone where the toilets were. They laughed, and told him “outside.” He went out. A few dancers were there, cooling down. He asked again and they pointed down the street, over by the river. There was a gap in the fence and he walked through, then stopped short in surprise. A girl was there, crouching on the ground. As he stood there, she leaped to her feet, quickly pulling up her leopard skin tights.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, you surprised me,” said Gordon.
“Fuck off, tosser,” said the girl, and vanished back into the street.
Gordon relieved himself against the fence and walked back towards the party. The leopard girl was at the corner of the next street, apparently arguing with two men. As he watched, they seemed to grab her, and pull her with them up Curlew Street. Gordon walked to the corner, where he was just in time to see them vanish through a gap in a broken down fence, into a building site in the shadow of a large crane.
When Gordon went back into the warehouse he saw Greg standing by the door.
“I’m getting a bit fed up, can we go home soon?”
“Yes, but there is something funny going on.” He told Greg about the girl.
“We’d better go and take a look, then.”
They walked up to the gap in the fence. As they came closer they heard noises that sounded like screams. They crept into the building site. It was dark there, but they could just make out what was going on. The girl was stretched out on her back, her leggings and underwear around her ankles. She was writhing from side to side and yelling. One man was kneeling on her shoulders and holding her hands tightly, the other man, who was in-between her legs, was unzipping his fly.
“All right, I think you’d better stop now,” said Greg in a loud voice. The men looked over in surprise. The one with the unfastened zipper stood up and walked towards them.
“And what are you going to do about it? I think you kids need to bugger off before you get hurt.”
He put his hand into his pocket. Greg grabbed him with both hands, lifted him up, and threw him into the fence. The man slumped down, a dazed look on his face. The other one rushed at Greg, who punched him once in the side of the head. The man reeled away and staggered off into the street. The first man picked himself up from the ground and ran after his companion.
Gordon and Greg turned to the girl. She had raised herself up onto her elbows, and was staring at them with a look of pure malevolence.
“What in God’s name are you pair of morons doing, chasing away my customers? How on earth is a working girl supposed to make a living, with the Lone Ranger and fucking Tonto interfering?”
“We thought you were being raped,” mumbled Gordon.
“Well you fucking thought wrong, didn’t you? Some people like to play games, and if they want to pretend to rape me, well, that’s no skin off of my nose, so long as they are paying. So why don’t you two pathetic losers just fuck off out of my life, and maybe I can make a few quid tonight.”
Gordon and Greg walked slowly back down to Shad Thames, where they could see the outline of Tower Bridge silhouetted against the full moon. They would cross the bridge, and walk up through the dark and empty City, on their way back to Hoxton. Gordon glanced over at Greg. Maybe they had made fools of themselves, but he was proud of his little brother. He was growing up, and Gordon wanted to be a part of his life again. He didn’t know exactly what that would entail, but tonight was a new beginning, he could feel it in his bones. Whatever it was going to mean, well, he could think about it more tomorrow. There was plenty of time for the details.
“Gordy,” said Greg.
“Yeah?”
“I meant to ask you earlier. How come you don’t have a telly? I’m going to miss Eastenders.”
Gordon picks up his pen. He wants to write something about what happened, and why he never lived up the good intentions that he had that night, the only time that Greg ever visited him in London. He feels an urgency to explain himself. He had made a promise, at least to himself, that he would be closer to his brother, would watch over him and help him, but he failed miserably. He is consumed by guilt every time he thinks about Greg. The problem, of course, was that he couldn’t stand to go back home again. That would have meant confronting his parents, and he never had the guts to do that. Now his father is dead, and his mother is dying, so there’s no one to confront anymore. But Greg has been dead for years now, dead at the age of thirty.
He asks himself, yet again, if he could have done anything differently. Twenty years ago he sat in the pub and watched Greg drink two pints of beer in ten minutes, at the age of sixteen. Could he have known, should he have had a clue, that ten years later his brother would be an alcoholic, would be hiding bottles of vodka all over his flat? Would things have turned out differently if he’d been more involved - helped him get a good job, just been there for him when he need someone? And most of all, perhaps, why, after all this time, does this still matter so much to him? This is the crux of it, the real issue. The question that he needs to answer is whether this is truly about Greg, or is it about himself? He puts the pen down again, and goes back to staring out of the window. The faint reflection in the glass shocks him briefly – it looks so much like his son.
Paul Ilechko is the author of “Post Moby” (Sheila-Na-Gig, 2026) and “Fragmentation and Volta” (Gnashing Teeth, 2025). His work has appeared in many journals, including The Bennington Review, Bear Review, Atlanta Review, Permafrost, and Laurel Review. He reads for Marrow Magazine.
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