Armitage, Simon Euripides' Mister Heracles

Simon Arm

Mister P

ar
after Euripides

also by Simon Armituge

SIMON ARMITAGE

ZOOM!
XANAUIJ
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Mister Heracles

BOOK O F MATCHES
T H E D L A D SEA I'OEMS
MOON COUhTRY

(with Glyn

Maxwell)

after Euripides

CLOUDCUCKOOLAND
KlLLlNG TlMF

pose
ALI. P O I N T S N O R T H

City of York
Libraries
0571203337 2 0 4 3
Askews

123.10-00

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- Q~),[D~WII

faber andfaber

First published in rooo
by Faber and Faber Limited
i Queen Square, London w c I N j ~ u

Contents

Photoset by W ~ l m a s e tLtd
Pr~ntedin England by M P G Books Ltd.
Victoria Square, Bodmin, Cornwall
All rights reserved
0 Simon Armitage, zoo0
Simon Armitage is hereby identified as author
of this work in accordance with Section 77
of the Copyright, Designs and Pacenrs Act 1988
This book is sold subject t o the condition that it shall not, by
way of trade o r otheru~ise,be lent, resold, hired out o r otherwise

circulated without the prrblisher's prior consent in any form of
binding o r cover other than that in which it is published a n d
without a similar cottditiott incltrding this cotldition being
imposed o n the subsequent purchaser
A C I P record for this book
is available from the British Library
I S B N *j71-rojjj-7

Introduction vii
Mister Heracles

I

Introduction

What d o we mean by hero? What is the greatest atrocity
a man can commit? W h o can apportion blame t o the
workings of the human mind, and who has the power t o
forgive? These are the questions that face any reworking
of the Heracles fable.

In the modern Western world we race towards the
future. Logical, economical, sophisticated, comfortable,
virtual sometimes, double-glazed, air-conditioned,
centrally heated . . . the real and the vital gets left behind,
and the greater the distance the bigger the calamity when
collision occurs. It's like the noise when lightning strikes,
when the thunder we hear is air rushing in t o fill the
burnt-out gash in the sky.
There are many reminders of ourselves: dreams,
intuition, appetite, lust, language, but violence is one of
the most potent, opening a direct channel between what
we have become and what we originally were. Heracles
is a master of violence, and also a slave t o it.
Euripides' Heracles, o r T h e Madness of Heracles, is
shocking and strange. It begins in defeat and despair,
soars into triumph, wavers o n a razor's edge of dramatic
uncertainty, then plunges into carnage and horror of the
darkest kind, before playing out in bewilderment. At
some midpoint in the story, a line is crossed o r a switch
is thrown; some short-circuit occurs in the mind of the

conquering hero, and after an episode of uncontrollable
fury, Heracles finds himself amid the bodies of his wife
and children with their blood on his hands. Stupefied, he
shuffles away in the arms of his friend, still carrying his
weapons of murder. As the play comes to an end, the
vii

audience is left in the same mood as Heracles himself,
puzzling over an extreme act of brutality against loved
ones, the cause and effect of which demand explanation
and resolution. T h e play's structure is typically classical,
but its contemporary relevance is not in doubt, its issues
no less pressing than they were four hundred years
before the birth of Christ. Euripides, last of the great
Athenian playwrights, seemed t o suspect that the gods
on Olympus were no more than metaphors for the urges
and impulses of a man's mind, and that Fate, if it
existed, was a minor deity compared with the supreme
beings of Choice and Chance. The messengers that break
into the original plot to plant the seed of madness might

be portrayed as supernatural henchmen acting out a
vendetta or employed on a mission of revenge. But
crucial t o the argument of the play are the implications
of Heracles' heroic past, the extent of his guilt and
blame, and his human response t o this most horrific
predicament. H o w can Heracles live with himself from
this moment o n ?
There are several translations of Heracles, all of them
important and more or less faithful in a literary, textual
sense. I have written the play again with a view to
production, as a piece for the modern theatre, although I
didn't simply want to contemporise this ancient drama
in the way that some translations of the classics have
made the golden fleece a pair of Nike trainers or the
Trojan horse a nuclear submarine. What has been
translated here is not s o much the language as the
sentiment and the setting, and the main research tool has
been an encyclopaedia rather than a dictionary o r
thesaurus. It is probably more useful t o think that the
play has not only been interpreted from Ancient Greek

into English, but that it has been inferred, across time. In
paying due respect to the original, it is equally worth
remembering that Heracles never actually existed, and if

that sounds like a sacrilegious statement when put so
bluntly, it has proved a useful notion when deciding how
much latitude might be taken without the accusation of
irreverence.
Although the original lineation has hardly been
altered, virtually all stage instructions have been omitted
in this version and there are no indications as to when a
character should enter or exit the stage; this seems to me
issue, and I didn't want to restrict the
t o be a
dramatic possibilities o r t o try to direct the play from
behind the typewriter. T h e one exception is the opening
up of the house following the slaying of Lycus and
Heracles' family. T h e implication is that the murders
must not be seen, only described, and this seems to me
to be imperative to the value of the drama. T h a t isn't to

say, though, that the killings couldn't be witnessed o r
represented through some other device.
As with most plays, each character's idiolect is a t least
as important t o the strategy of the drama as the storyline itself. In Mister Heracles, the old family are locked
into a rhetoric of blank verse and grand imagery, with
Amphitryon even quoting himself from a previous
translation a t one point. Imposters, intruders and visitors
seem able to express themselves more freely, crudely
even. And the chorus buzz around the place using a
variety of voices and means of expression, from cheap
one-llners to chants and songs. T h e role or function of
the chorus in the play is entirely a matter of discretion,
interpretation and, hopefully, possibility, but it is their
presence more than anything else which conveys the
atmosphere of original Creek tragedy, and their
contribution t o the tone of the play cannot be overemphasised.
In Mister Herucies, it is as if the whole of human
history has occurred within the lifespan of one family.
Atomic weapons and spears are spoken of in the same

sentence, quantum physics and spinning wheels
considered in the same thought. It is probably the
cardinal sin of any treatment of Greek drama to include
within it a reference t o a Roman Caesar, but no cultural
or historical co-ordinates were beyond possibility using
this full-spectrum approach. Today Heracles travels at
the speed o f light - it seems only yesterday he was
hitching a team of horses to his chariot. Of further
relevance is the fact that Zeus is dead. When the gods
die, they leave man in control of his own moral identity,
and after experiencing his gravest tragedy, Heracles must
confront his greatest challenge. We observe the agonising
creation of the new kind of superman: one w h o takes
responsibility for his actions.
Mister Heracles was commissioned by the West
Yorkshire Playhouse for performance in the year zooo. I
am grateful for their support in this project, especially to
Natasha Betteridge, and t o the many actors who tried
and tested the play over t w o separate weeks of
workshopping and rehearsal. T h e development of the

text would not have been possible without their
involvement. Initially, it is an uncomfortable experience
t o hand over material written in private t o a group of
total strangers, who then set about it with their minds,
voices and bodies, pulling it, stretching it, and on
occasion tearing it to pieces. But through a process that
included small running repairs on the one hand, to a
complete re-threading of plot-lines on the other, I'm sure
a more cohesive and comprehensive piece of work has
been produced. It's a pity that the same kinds of external
quality-control mechanisms are not made available t o
more writers, poets and novelists included.
More specifically I am grateful to Simon Godwin, who
suggested the project in the first lace, and who
contributed a great deal t o the theory and thinking that
underpins this interpretation. Having been spooked by

the play for a number of years, it was his enthusiasm for
that haunting which lured me into the Heracles myth
Euripides' treatment of it. From that starting point,

the intention has been to re-present the play in the here
now, combining what we might think of as eternal,
universal issues with the undeniable changes that have
taken place in the last two and a half thousand years,
both materially and philosophically. Hopefully, there is
something of tomorrow in Mister Heracles as well,
reflecting not just the relative velocity of modern living the pace of life compared with that of Ancient Greece but its astonishing acceleration towards the future and
the unknown.

I-

MISTER HERACLES

Characters

Amphitryon
Megara
Lycus
Heracles
Iris
Madness
Theseus
Chorus

Amphitryon
Is there a man or woman here and now
who has not heard of me? I see. This man,
who shared the passenger seat of his bed
with the great Zeus? This man, a famous son
in his own right, the father of Heracles?
The city sleeps, and bloats out in its dreams:
a place where people seem to grow like seeds,
turn up like pillow-coins in place of teeth.
Footprints run one way, inland, up the beach,
increasing all night until by first light
new faces look for work and walk the streets.
Not like the old days, back in the old time.
O u t of our father's fathers descended
a good leader, born of good stock. Sweet man,
whose daughter is now my daughter-in-law,
her whose wedding bells were the talk of the town
as the limousine sped from the church door
through a snow of confetti, back to the house
with its high ceilings and halls. What white-out.
Then shadows fell. My son received the call,
left us for other regions, other worlds was it to put right some fault of my own?
Left, because our name, cast in solid gold,
was said to be losing its shine. Not so.
It was a game. They sent him well away,
deep down, far wide, mile high, inside and out . . .

H e has not come back. No, has not come back.
Now we are laid low by enemy force,
lashed t o the ground, brought down by the whip hand
who tightens his hold and laughs in our face
and makes himself at home. Him and his kind
bided their time in the outlands, then marched
while the city was turning about-face,
and murdered our sweet man, and took his place.
T h a t good man, whose name was welded to ours.
A smart fit - but now we catch hell for it.
And now with Heracles out of reach,
in another orbit, we wait for death
on Earth at the hands of this fraud, this fake,
who'd kill the wife and sons of ~ e r a c l e s
for fear of revenge at a later date,
and me also, for the nothing I'm worth.
When my son launched himself into the dark
he left me here, a n old soul, to keep guard
and to bottle-wash and t o baby-sit.
So I keep those boys away from the sword
and wait with their mother, send messages
for help by whatever contraption or kit
we can use, and just pray that they get through.
From above, we are fish in a barrel,
easy meat, soft targets, the soft option;
this far gone we must stink of misfortune,
we have small food, thin clothes and bad water;
the earth is our bed, our bedsprings are bones
and the sky our roof since they stole our home.
We have two types of friend: the powerless,
and those who turn their yellow backs at us.
Days like these test a bonding to full stretch;
cut off, all words have the ring of cheap talk,
but back to front, I say I would not break.

Megara
Does chance, fate, or choice make us what we are?
Father-in-law, you have won your battles
but now you idle here, losing the war.
The silver spoon has a metallic taste.
Didn't I have the whole world on a plate,
wasn't it all heaven sent? A father
with money behind him, weight to his name,
wealth that made the fingers of the greedy twitch,
power that made the weak suck on their guns.
And as if that wasn't enough, marriage
to your son, Heracles - a life of dreams.
Soon the pair of us will be dead, old man,
and with us these babes. They burst into tears
at the slightest jolt, pray for their father
t o come back. I keep them under my wing,
feed them stories and tales, string them along,
but whenever they hear a bolt or key
o r a latch turn in its keep, they start up,
all ready t o swing on their father's sleeve.
W e look in your face for the slightest hope
of escape, as if some ladder of rope
might fall at our feet. But the roads are blocked,
all transport is stopped and searched, and the phone
is a plastic frog on its lily pad,
asleep. We ache for the days of before,
we who are nothing more than what we were,
and your grandchildren hang on every word
you fail t o speak. So, then, what will you say?
Amphitryon
I say . . . because we are weak, we should wait.
Time changes the plot. Something might turn up.
Megara
You love life so much that you'd wait for worse?

Amphitryon
I find some comfort in its twists and turns.
Megara
This life requires a miracle. At least.
Amphitryon
If we can just tread water, hold our breath.
Megara
H o t air and eyewash. N o good to those boys.
Amphitryon
Even science can't predict the weather.
Be patient with yourself, something better
will blow in from the south and blast this cloud.
Heracles might still walk in through the door
like the dead calm at the eye of the storm,
and for now, if words are the only drink
that send those children into peace o r sleep,
then cry them a story, weep them a lie.
H o w many flips of the coin can turn tail
before coming up heads? H o w many times
can the ball in the wheel find the wrong bed.
Whatever comfort I get is only wordplay
at most, but t o say it gives me faith.
Whatever alters, what remains is change,
and change is otherwise, and therefore hope.
Chorus
Brings tears to the eyes.
Even now with his neck on the line
he can still talk, and his words have a charge
that stirs our butterfly hearts.
We could sing him the song
of the swan, but our voices are cracked
and dry. Look at them: everything gone

t o the wall. It's a pity all right,
but what can you do? Sod all.
Don't throw in the towel so fast.
You've got t o pull together, dig in your heels.
It's a tug of war:
you keep your footing until the last
o r you're flat on your arse. Let the young
join arms with the old
and the other way round, so the total force
is more than the sum of its parts.
O r something of that sort.
Look a t those boys:
they have their father's eyes see him staring out through the portholes?
Even a ball-bearing heart would crack
if they were t o fall now,
at the first hurdle.
What a pit and a pothole.
But watch out, here comes trouble.
Lycus
All right, listen up, you sad creatures.
O h , I beg your pardon, if it pleases,
if a savage might trade words with a gent?
Roughly speaking, how long d o you have left,
would you say, t o the nearest minute?
Going off my clock, there's not much in it.
It tickles me, watching you spin things out
like those Russian dolls doing themselves down.
Pathetic, spinning your yarns t o those boys,
twisting the knife, saying how Heracles
will kick down the door and turn the tables.
Sorry, boys, but papa has turned turtle.
I f I took a Polaroid this second
you wouldn't believe how you look, how low,

but that's the price you pay for mouthirlg off
about birthrights, bed-mates and bosonl pals,
how you're hand in glove with the world's best man.
And when it comes to it, what did he do?
Charm a few snakes, tame a lion o r two
with his stick with its 'orse's 'ead 'andle?
Is that the reason you say that these boys
shou!d live - because of a few party tricks?
T h e world's moved on, old-timer, it won't fall
for a big-cycd Jesus, playing it dumb,
a hoaxcr, good a t taking people in.
We'vc all seen the holster clipped t o his belt
just in case, we've heard of the sniper
sat in a safe place making the coast clear,
then sonny Jim strolling out from the wings,
stealing the show, making his curtain calls.
As for you lot, his dingleberries; cruel
I am, but not stupid. What sort of fool
makes the kill then pardons the hangers-on
t o lick on the wounds and drink from the blood?
You'll all die - it's what's coming to you.
Amphitryon
There are forces watching over my son.
For my own part, I have nothing but words
t o make you scc the shame in who you are
and what you do. You call him a coward well that's priceless. As truth is my witness,
didn't hc free-fall from twenty miles high
into enemy business to send word
by wireless, while the land-mines boomed, and gas
blossomed and bloomed with red and yellow heads,
and sat down that night and drank champagne
from bullet shells and enemy helmets
while the air-strikes burst like party balloons
and fireworks? Don't they sing songs about him?

And the night-huntsmen and the eventers
know a horseman when they see one - ask t
His namc has currency in every house
the world ovcr. And you, you might as well
whisper your name into a feather pillow
seven miles down in a flooded sewer
for all the effect it causes. A rat
might turn its ear, hearing its ow11 signal.
As for his methods, he plays thc devil
at his own game to cancel out evil.
You hand out your weapons like a dentist
giving sugar sticks to greedy children.
Heracles seeks out the moments of truth,
not glory, and only clashes with those
who cross his path, and those who cross him once
cross themselves against doing so again.
And his strength is his strength, not Dutch courage,
his spced is not sorrle chemical sulphate,
his dreams are not dreams of cheap acid,
his rage is more than a tin-foil dragon,
his tears aren't squeezed from an empty bottle.
And every action, every victory,
has one meaning and one meaning only:
his love for his childrcn and family.
You fear these boys becausc of who they are
and what they signify, maybc that's wise;
it's also the first form of cowardice.
to stamp down heavy on a sleeping nest,
and cowardice is fear. But here's your chance
to stand as proud as him - let us go, out
from under your feet; send us down river,
stow us away in a paddle steamer,
throw us in the hold of an aeroplane.
Look the other way while the weather turns?
Give what you would have hack when your t!
comes.

There'll be a new star in the sky tonight
made of a dying breed, burning alive.

As for the so-callcd countrymen of ours,
this is how they repay their great hero
and his three sons, by sitting on their thumbs.
This is how they give Heracles their thanks,
who put this place and people on the map.
Those ticker-tape welcomes are as long gone
as the big snow of 'eighty-one. This key,
the key to the city, what does it mean
when the doors are locked with a laser beam
and remote control? You children, you boys,
neither citizen or state will take turn
in keeping you on, and you look to me
t o be saved. To me, u strengthless friend,
Y e look, who am not but a voice's sound.
This is a flyweight of a former self.
But if all my time could come again,
blood would paint the earth blood-red where this crime
paid its price, and that blood would not be mine.

Chorus
His head might be light, but he flies his tongue
on kite strings, anchored down by a big heart.

Chorus
It's tragic, b11t what can a person d o ?
It's even hard for our kind to down tools
let alone walk up to this new fellow
and fix his skull with a ballpoint hammer,
and him no better than one of our own.
H o w would it sound, I wonder, if we said
,' we won't work for this cuckoo in the nest,
i won't be poaching his fish, frying his eggs
'.>onboth sides, darning and pairing his socks?
qike a mute swan with a sore throat, I guess.

, .

Ly cus
Old man, you can build your tower of talk
as high as you like. They say that actions
speak louder; myself, I've found that petrol
and matches bring an end to rnost squabbles
by stealing the air - it's called fighting fire
with fire - which might sound loopy, but it works.
Men, bring dry tinder from the log-shed
and stack it here a r o ~ l n dthis shanty hut.
Get the lot of them inside, and tied up.
Let them smell the smoking fuse of dead wood
to remind them of their own, stinking rot,
let thcm feel the fireburst of 3 fresh start.
You bystanders are witnesses to this.

!

There's a place in our hearts for Heracles;
as far away as he certainly is
he's a close distance within us, alive,
and that makes us loyal to his spirit.
It also makes us inane, pathetic.
We should raise arms against the imposter
but we don't, don't even lift a finger.
That forehead of his is a landing-pad
for a head butt, but what kind of nutcase
goes to the shark's mouth for a haircut?
The working classes, eh? Moan bloody moan,
then with the old lot just a gnat's knacker
from being overthrown, it's bedtime tears
and a pillow crusted with salt by dawn.
Power to the people - that's what we say,
but we'd rather the Heraclcs we know
than the devil we know too well. Come back,
Heracles, save the family first, of course,
then stand above us, let our faces glow
in the silver fly-buttons of your suits,
in the polished leather of your great boots.

Megara
I hear the mumbling support of those
whose protests have the mouth-shape of a yawn.
Father-in-law, I love these sons of mine
who shouldered past me into a bright world.
It's the length and breadth and depth of that love
that holds the same capacity of fear.
I care. Truly care. And if we must die
we must, but there is a rush of pride
that says this: to be made into a fire
to warm the toes and hands of those we hate,
and light their hearth - that is a second death.
W e should die proud, according to our birth.
Think of Heracles: his father disgraced
and burnt, his wife ignited by her hair,
his children bedded down as kindling sticks.
There isn't a fight to be won, your son
will no more materialise now
than will the earth open a hatch for us.
O u r prayers will climb the chimney with our flesh.
O u r killer pulls his hat over his ears
in case a well-chosen word splits his mind;
our friends are otherwise engaged,
away on business, ill, or occupied;
fear could make a begging bowl of our crown.
Let's welcome death with what pride we have left.
Shout into the storm, old man, if you wish,
and watch your words fly sideways like dry leaves.
O r stand upright, tree-heavy and tree-high,
as deep and sound below with roots, and crash
mightily down, next to the spiteful axe.
Chorus
Back when I thought something of myself
I might have had the nerve to lend some weight

to a good cause like this, but now I think
only those with a good chance should fight.
Amphitryon
I don't cling to my life for its own sake
but for these grandchildren left in my keep.
Kill me however you like, but kill me
first. Don't make my last vision on this earth
be these three innocent boys reaching out
for their lives. Would you spare me that at least?
Otherwise d o it now. D o it now, fast.
Megara
Wait; if you will not bring yourself to ask
then it falls to me. One final request:
let me dress the children in their outfits
and hats, let them think either play-acting
o r dressing-up is what this is about.
Lycus
Fine. Better for the photograph.
Less odds and sods to clear out afterwards.
Be quick about it. Open the house.
And when you're quite finished dolling them up,
get yourselves back here, ready for the off.
Megara
Come on, my pretty ones. Follow my steps
back t o our home. Carry your father's name
like a candle. Cup your hands to the flame.
Amphitryon
So much for friends, so much for friends of friends,
friends in high places, wheels within big wheels,
cogs within cogs. So much for so-called gods,
for Zeus, who I shared more with than I should.
Did I really give him the lace pillow
next to my wife for a night, as a guest?

So I did, and he left more than his shape
in the sheets, and his teeth in a glass jar
next to the bed. God-like Zeus, who is dead.
Immortal Zeus, who was involved by blood,
who died in his sleep in a nursing home,
propped on a throne of incontinence pads.
Those gods of old were nothing more than man.
Chorus - Songs
1

Heracles was a boxer with bare hands.
Heracles was a match for any man.
H e pgnched his weight, knew how to duck and dive.
Won many a bout, many a prize-fight.
He'd strip any prize-fighter of his crown.
Make every belt, purse and title his own.
Never a gumshield o r headguard for him.
It was hand-to-hand combat, skin to skin.
11

When the oilfields went crazy - down in the south
When every well - had a burning mouth
When the methane clouds - in the northern marsh
Could have blown a hole - in the planet's crust
When the nodding donkeys - east and west
Could have lost their heads - o r something worse
Who did they call - to put out the blaze?
Heracles - with his nous and skill
H e capped the wells - made all things lie still.

iv
Heracles was a dead-eye dick,
killed ten flies with a single swat,
took out planes with a single shot,
flew through flack, didn't break sweat,
every jet was a sitting duck,
every missile, sweet as a nut,
as a cockpit man he was shit-hot stuff.
v
Wasn't he always in search of the gold?
H e was.
Why did he pan that particular watercourse?
Because.
And sieved for a year and caught nothing more
than a cold.
Then fished out a lump as big as a horn
or hoof.
And held it up like a kill or proof of the sun.
And it shone.
vi
H e was the chosen man
to blow up the High Dam.
Dropped in on a hang-glider.
Swung down like a house-spider.
Rode out on a black stallion.
Where there were guards - carrion.
Where there were enemy forces nothing but white horses.

~~~

111

Iron-hearted, asbestos-fisted,
level-headed, Heracles lifted
uranium pips from the nuclear core,
saved the world from its next world war,
held them tight, safe in his keep,
buried them deep in a landfill site.

vii
Six months in a lunar module
crossing the Sea of Tranquillity.
Splash-down in a rusty capsule
bearing a cure for insanity.

Six months in an underground silo
being 'de-briefed' by Security.

...

Vlll

No doubt about it the man was a genuine genius.
After the deadly outbreak in the downtown barrios
he put his mind to the flesh-eating virus,
modelled some kind of cannibalistic anti-virus
one Sunday morning on the back of an envelope
before breakfast. 'Ridiculous', said the men in white
coats,
bur the disease had pigged itself by next Christmas.

ix
They say he owns a t least a thousand garters
given as lovers' tokens in a former life.
Where a married man keeps a thousand garters
given as lovers' tokens . . . ask his wife.
X

H e had stomach and guts,
a hunger that wouldn't be quashed,
the appetite of a small army.
H e galloped a whole bullock once without fuss,
used its horns for cutlery,
its tail for dental floss.

xi
It's said that one of the Caesars of Rome
could mangle a stone in his bare hands,
o r crush a baby's head.
Heracles was the same with a cricket ball,
or from behind his ear - hey presto produced apples instead.

xii
But bravest and most famous,
most touching and courageous,

with Theseus astray
beyond logic and reason,
Heracles thrust out an arm
into walls of knowledge,
punched a hole in science,
reached through a sun's flames
and a cosmos of pressure
and hooked back Theseus
finger to finger,
as if they were one twin,
welded together.
Chorus
Here comes the mother in her Sunday best,
and the three children of Heracles, dressed
like boys all set for a birthday party,
and the old man done up pretty smartly.
They scrub up well for an old family.
So, death can d o up a tie properly,
and run a hook through an eye steadily,
and pull a shoestring tight, surprisingly.
Megara
Where is he? Show me our murderer's eyes.
Bring out the butcher t o look a t his kill,
life to life. Here's five notches for his belt.
We stand in line, run us through with one shot,
you'll never kill with as much ease, or guilt.
Boys, I can promise you nothing more now
than sleep, and I wish you dreams like the dreams
that ran between us all those mother-months
we were tied. So, I wish you back inside.
T w o arms between the three of you won't go;
two arms won't hold, the circle is outgrown.
You, my eldest, with your father's head,
your eyes would have looked from the framed portraits

in the great halls, you would have been our badge
and our flag, you would have worn the thick fleece
of fame, walked tall wearing your father's coat.
You would have been our reason and our thought.
And you, my stepping stone, my in-between,
with your father's hands, what might you have been?
Who holds his mother's finger with a grip
so tight a dead white blood runs into it.
You would have been our firmness and our fist.
And you, my little toy, my domino,
my shell, my mite, my dot. Some mother love
was what I had in mind for you, whether
that fitted his great scheme of things o r not.

All three of you, you would have kept us proud.
Fortune swerves around. Brides I would have found
for your beds, t o build your houses about,
but the best match I can make now is life
and death to be a quick and even fit.
Here's salt, cried as a gift from your father
who gives you away for good, and is late.
So which of my flesh and blood shall I kiss
the first, and who shall have the final word?
Oh, if I could just be calm and stay fixed,
but such grief will not be sucked from its sea
and resolved to a single pearl, and grief
will not be gathered by the bee and dropped
as honey into the neat, portioned comb.
Heracles, if the airwaves span the world
then hear me now; we are t o be cut down your wife, your father and three sons - slaughtered.
Come t o us any way you can, a ghost,
a raindrop, a gunshot, a shooting star.
Come for us, my love, come for us, my man.

Amphitryon
Call out to the last, what is there to lose.
We are owed. We have favours t o call in,
debts to be paid from stocks and bonds of old.
All you that have borrowed a pinch of this,
a palm of that, a finger or fathom
o r pace o r span o r taste of the other,
you who were loaned the double-sided coins
of my son's head struck with his godfather club together, pay now, and not with notes
or half-promises, not with lip-service pay with a gun-ship, with force, with justice.

I see no walls break, hear no sonic boom
prize the sky open with welcome menace.
Time cranks its handle and the planets spin.
We move through space at a rate I forget,
thousands of miles a minute I dare say,
but relative t o our death we stay put.
Face it, it ends here; this is the last plot.
Megara
God in heaven. Here is a vision - look.
Amphitryon
Speechlessness of sight. I dare not say what.
Megara
My husband who was given up for dead,
unless I daydream o r hallucinate
o r in this state fall for tricks of the light.
Children, run t o him and swing on his arms
and ride on his shoulders and tear his clothes
and bring me a piece of him back to feel,
fast before he disappears, make him real.
Heracles
T h e conqueror returns!

Hell's teeth, runways and roads
stretch out in front of me
and my passport glows hot.
Look there, feel a t that.
But here are my four walls
and my home in its house.
Cook u p a hero's feast I could eat a horse!

Heracles
Death sent by what?
Megara
Not what but who. By him, your enemy
who waited until the house lights grew dim.
Heracles
Then thank all ten planets you are safe.

Megara
Heracles, 0 my husband.

Megara
Not safe. We are next to be put to dcath.

Amphitryon
M y son. T h e clouds open up.
It is a judgement.

Heracles
Not my wife and father and my three boys.

Megara
W e have been praying for you to come.
0 my living husband, here t o save us.
Heracles
What does all this mean? What now, what this time?
Megara
This time? This time? D o I speak out of turn,
blurting it out with almost my last breath
while your father stands dumbstruck with good luck?
What clock brings you stridirlg home at the death?
Heracles
Slow down. Talk t o me straight.
Megara
But my father and brothers are all dead.
Heracles
Dead. H o w ? What kind of accident?
Megara
No, not death by chance, death that was sent.

Megara
H e wanted all feeling knotted and tied off,
he wanted all nerves stripped back t o the root.
Heracles
But these are party hats and party clothes.
Megara
Should I have drawn a target on their hearts,
written a price and pinned it t o their heads?
Heracles
T o be murdered softly behind my back?
Megara
N o news was bad news. Heracles was dead.
Heracles
H a d you no trust, no patience o r no faith?
Megara
What we had was silence. Not a word.
Heracles
You should have kept indoors and locked our home.

When light draws me away from my own kind,
darkness, a wolf, steals in on the blind side.
Draw the line across,
call that enough.

Megara
We are turned out, turned over, overthrown.
Heracles
Of all the shame and all the shamelessness.

Chorus
Hard to be a hero out in the world
and the same hero back in your own home.

Megara
Your enemies wait for your back to turn?
Heracles
Didn't our friends save us?
Megara
There are friends and friends, and then there are friends.
Heracles
All the good turns and lendings and favours

.. .

Megara
As I said, there are friends and friends, and friends.
Heracles
Strip off those weird rags.
Lift up those sad heads.
Today is put back.
This brain that was numb
fury now excites.
His fear will ignite.
These hands that were blunt
find a leading edge.
His neck will cut clean.
All those that buried their thoughts in the sand
shall be planted further still, upside down.
Call that enough of following orders
and swallowing swords and jumping through hoops,
here is my own blood
close to coming loose.
Call that enough of swearing allegiances,
doing the right thing, saluting the flag.

Amphitryon
Heracles, my son. Think before you act speed of thought is what will see us most safe.
Heracles
Already I'm late.
Amphitryon
Your enemy has friends. There is a chain
of command, arms linked by power and greed,
a system of handshakes, whispers and codes.
While you were deep in or far out of things
the world span about at a wilder pace
and this same city is not the same place
as it was. Money is higher than good.
Think best how the tight fist can be disarmed.
Heracles
I should have guessed. As I was passing through
there were months of rubbish piled in the streets,
power lines hanging free, birds without rest
that were unkeen to come down to the trees.
Amphitryon
Make use of the upper hand, my Heracles.
First breach the threshold of your own home
and let it take you in through all its rooms,
and when your enemy returns, lash out
from within the armoured shell of the house.

Let those in the city go, let news
of this hard act leaflet its streets and roads.
Heracles
I'll see my house first.
In my days away
it gave my dreams shape,
kept life square and safe.
Amphitryon
Son, is it true what they say, that you outpaced
the speed of the eye? Is that who you are,
the first man to move at the speed of light?
Heracles
It was a mission, like any other.
Amphitryon
T h e powers that be must be elated.
Heracles
Yes, in high heaven, I shouldn't wonder.
Amphitryon
My son, they know where you are, d o they not?
Don't say you came without reporting back?
Heracles
A man's home has the first call o n his soul.
Amphitryon
Absent without leave, as it were. M y son . . .
Heracles
I am Heracles, I a m my own man.
And maybe I sensed something here was wrong.
Amphitryon
One rumour put you at your cousin's house.

Heracles
Theseus is my brother in these trials,
my double almost, my brother in arms.
They had plans for him, he had to be warned.
Amphitryon
And where is your cousin now in these events?
Heracles
Throwing stones in the sea if he has sense.
Follow my footsteps,
my sons, my lady,
link my arm. Today
might throw up a saint
but not with your name;
the angels can wait,
n o wings shall be made
for these three, not yet.
All climb into me,
life will not give out,
will not splinter me.
Sail in my slipstream,
my candle afloat
and my paper boats.
Here is all mankind,
whole and unbroken,
a man and woman,
born t o their children.
Chorus
T o be so much and so young.
These anti-ageing creams don't work.
Emollients and balms
of special properties:
extract of children's dreams,
essence of youth, guaranteed gravity-free!

They test them on bloodhounds and ancient trees.
But not one can smooth the folds
from the skin, halve the double chin,
ease the pleats and crumples from the brow
or creases from the cheeks. Not one
can draw the coal dust from the eyes.
Lies all lies all lies.
If there were just one thing
that could be had above all others;
just that - to be young for ever.
So good a t heart and such confidence.
It was only ~ e s t e r d aI ~said to my wife,
'Suppose we were promised a second chance,
suppose we were guaranteed a second life
based on good conduct and clean living.
Think how decent we'd be,
how courteous, kind and moral;
think of the sharing and giving.
Think also how the corrupt and evil
would be singled out,
how those who could only be cruel
or make trouble would stick out like sore thumbs.
And then something proper could be done
because a thick line could be drawn
with wrong on one side
and right on the other
and n o grey area or fuzzy middle ground.'
And my wife said, 'Fine, but what would you be like
second time around?'
Where's the coin for the jukebox?
Where's the tune for a jig?
Roll back the carpet, landlord,
watch me cut some rug.
Strike oil with a corkscrew.
Mark time with a drum.

I'll kiss anyone's arse, bar steward,
for a song or a wee dram.
Heracles or Ebenezer,
M r Sheen or Miss Demeanour,
garnophone, ghetto blaster or brass band,
as long as I'm giving it loads by half-nine
you can be my man.
Draught, bottled, ice and a slice o r neat,
as long as I'm arse over tit by closing time
you've got the job.
Don't mind if I do, my Jehovah God.
T o the lord of the hosing down of the streets praise be.
T o the lord of the six o'clock news - praise be.
T o the lord of birds back in their rightful trees praise be.
T o the lord of funding for public art - praise be.
T o the lord of air-conditioning - praise be.
To the lord of freedom of speech up t o a point praise be.
To the lord of the software support helpline praise be.
To the lord of holding hands in the park - praise be.
T o the lord of Universal Coordinated Time praise be.
T o the lord of an integrated transport policy praise be.
T o the lord of the card index and microfiche praise be.
T o the lord of the people's voice - praise be the same.
Heracles in his house, the sky in its heaven again.
Lycus
Still splitting hairs with yourself? Composing
an epitaph perhaps? Checking the date
on your death certificate? Corresponds,

does it? Come on. Mush! Get the woman
and the kids out of the walk-in wardrobe.
That's immediately - if not sooner.
Amphitryon
You overstep the mark, take your power
too far. Like the creature drawn to the heat,
who couldn't resist a mouthful of fire.
You can scarcely believe yourself, can you,
t o be this close, to be standing so near?
Lycus
Where is she, the mother and her tindersticks?
Amphitryon
Oh, warming their hands for it, I should think.
Ly cus
Cold feet more like. Maybe they're on their knees.
Amphitryon
O n their knees. Warming their hands. Giving thanks.
Lycus
Thanks for what, an end to their misery?
Amphitryon
Thanks for their life and for their Heracles.
Lycus
For Milk Tray Man? That's pissing in the wind.
Amphitryon
And all his great and unexpected deeds.
Lycus
The great, late, unexpected Heracles.
Amphitry on
Late, yes. And yet, as though he never left.

Lycus
Get into the house now and bring them out,
Amphitryon
You'll make me an usher at my own death?
Lycus
Thoughtful to the last, and image-conscious.
That's the difference between my kind and yours it's the outcome that counts, not how it looks.
1'11 fetch them myself. Come on, 'raus, 'raus!
Amphitryon
Walk headlong into it then, face to face.
A heartfelt welcome awaits you within.
I could save his neck with the yo-yo trick,
that boomerang stunt, where the thing cast out
comes wuthering back to hand, but the knack
has quite deserted me for an instant.
1'11 follow instead, like the measurer
who paces it out to where the javelin lands.
Chorus
What a turnaround. T o the winning side
justice washes back in with the tide.
It's hell and high water for that bastard,
let high waves leave him snapped and sand-blasted,
let the whirlpool catch him and drag him down,
let him breathe water, let the bastard drown.
What sense of timing and speed.
T o be so far distant at the bell,
then make up ground on the final lap
and breast the tape by a hair's breadth,
at the last.
Find a cat-flap or a fanlight to look through,
see what takes place, see history coming to.

Lycus
Wait, wait. Don't . . .
Chorus
Listen, a song comes from inside.
What perfect pitch, rich notes cried
from way down in the very deep.
Those cries are meant. I could weep.
Lycus
No, Heracles. Heracles, listen, wait . . .
Chorus
O h , bloody revenge is better than drugs
or money o r food o r drink or sex.
Feel it physically, right t o the nerve ends.
The good come strong and the strong come good.
Rip life from his body. There is a God.
Friends, come to the keyhole and listen.
Nothing. Silence means the job is finished.
Within those walls the old order is re-christened.
This is one gold medal of a minute.
Shake the bottle and pop the corks.
Women, lift up your skirts.
Let's have a knees-up of a wake,
cancel the priest and the long black hearse,
swing on the bell ropes down in the church,
make them loop the loop. Shake bats
out of the belfry, spreading the news.
It's an age-old lesson:
at first a man's happy to travel,
goes cheap rate by bus or rail,
looks out of the window and watches the world.
Then he fancies a car of his own,
then trades it in for a better model,
and spruces it up with spoilers, fog lights,

sun-strips, alloy wheels.
It's a case of the means outweighing the actual end:
next news, he comes off on the first bend.
From the loading bays to the seven fountains,
from the playgrounds and malls,
from the zoo to the multi-storey car-park,
from the barracks and mills,
from the monuments in bronze and marble,
from the church halls and docks,
from the trading estate t o the private gardens,
from the prisons and stocks,
from department stores to the green-field campus,
from the town-hall clock,
from the bottle banks to the public toilets,
from lock-ups and shops,
from the weather vane o n the railway station,
from the steeples and domes,
give thanks for Heracles, back in his rightful home.
They say there isn't just one father, but two:
the man of the house and a sleeping partner.
O n e was a husband through and through,
one was a 'godfather'.
N o w that story proves to be true:
goodness has come with years of nurture,
but willpower and killer instinct too
are in his nature.
N o w he raises himself to his full height,
now all his courage is drawn to a point.
T o d o what is asked,
when required or requested
is one thing, a duty
which Heracles perfected.
Now, with kith and kin
to be protected,

the true Heracles steps forward.
N o w he must kill for himself, not just to order.

there's no telling what a man like that might do.
G a Ga - if you're ready, please, give him the works.

Although,
here is another twist.
Here are visitors that strike terror.
Look busy,
don't catch their eye.
This smacks of official disaster.
Iris
People, please, don't stand up - we're not stopping.
It's a flying visit - we were just passing.
Anyway, it isn't you we're interested in, obviously,
but you-know-who, everyone's favourite dreamboat,
w h o I see from the way you're carrying on
is back in the neighbourhood, making himself at home.
More lives than a basket of kittens, that one.
Nice, when a lost soul returns t o his turf,
and I don't want t o shit o n the welcome mat,
but we were expecting him a t our reception first.
Guest of honour t o be exact, and t o be snubbed
by such a super-luminary as him really hurts.
You see, we had money riding o n his head,
money that sent him winging through the universe,
and when we invest, we look for certain returns.
We can't have him strolling the countryside
without . . . what's that phrase . . . without touching
base.
So we've come t o teach M r Heracles a lesson.
M y little friend here has a strange device
that locks on to the frequency of a person,
winds a person up t o the top, pushes his button,
gives him a sort of electronic adrenalin shot
that multiplies his sense of being human.
Which is fine if he's as meek as a lamb and so on,
but poor Heracles - a born killer through and through-

Madness
Don't think I enjoy this - it's only a job.
I come from a good family, went t o private school,
I could have been something big in the city
o r the church, but it didn't work out.
I seem to have fallen between stools.
It's not so much the paperwork or the pay
o r even the travel, which actually I enjoy.
It's the very thanklessness of the task
gets a person in the end; there's n o gratitude
from upstairs, and obviously n o slap on the back
from those on the receiving end.
Just t o see someone smiling for once,
maybe a t night I'd fall asleep easier.
Iris
Thank you. Your comments are taken into account.
Madness
Peace talks - they're the way to sort problems out.
Iris
I'm sure some outpost with the Diplomatic Corps
could be arranged. Now, if you don't mind?

I

Madness
All right, I know a n instruction when I hear one.
You there, just put a cross o n this witness form.
Anyway, it only takes a minute o r so, if, that,
and it will hurt me more than it hurts him of course,
the problem being the subject feels a flash
of blinding light, leading t o temporary memory loss
and sometimes a funny turn o r possible blackout
before sense returns. I need t o get within range,
it's best if everyone else stands back.

The first sign is a nerve twitching, just here
in the neck. Then the head lolls and the eyes roll,
then all hell breaks loose. Muscles move like eels
under the skin, limbs act independently of thought,
as if spell-bound, radio-controlled, o r on strings.
All the past comes spooling through the mind,
which for some must be a terrifying thing.
1'11 go inside and make sure. Open the door.
Chorus
Don't let the noise into the ear,
don't let the frequency
enter the brain's core;
don't let sound's index finger
worm into the mind's honeycomb
truffling for sweet secrets,
rooting out privacy.
Madness is in the air
making the atoms ring
like alarm bells on red alcrt.
Overloaded, the senses sing the brain's simmering kettle
boils up and whistles.
A terrible noise is heard,
a system at full speed ahead
abruptly reversing its gears.
Amphitryon
Oh, terror, terror

.. .

Chorus
The noise still goes on
wailing its nauseous song.
Amphitryon
Heracles, hold, hold . .
Chorus
Flesh is torn like bread,
red wine spills from the dead.
Amphitryon
Children, save yourselves, hide . . .
Chorus
Not the children, the little ones.
O h God, one by one
he rips them apart. No, Heracles,
throw the little ones back.
Amphi.tryon
Oh, worst ever, worst of all . .
Chorus
Some whirlwind of the mind
whips up a version of his life
which he acts out on his own kind.
Feel the house shake,
foundations disturbed and shocked.
So much for a solid base and protection overhead.
One bolt from the blue, one tremor of earth
and heaven's keystone crashes through the roof,
hell's fire comes bursting up through the hearth.

Chorus
Such power out of control,
such raw strength let loose,
hopeless for those who stand close.

Messenger
So d o you know, or d o I have to say?

Amphitryon
Oh, such sickening blows . . .

Chorus
Tell us it isn't true. Say otherwise.

Messenger
Think of a nightmare, but in broad daylight.
Chorus
N o ...
Messenger
Think slaughter, carnage . . .
Chorus
Not children butchered by their father?
Messenger
Think bloodshed of the first order.
Chorus
If you were witness t o murder
then have presence, come forward,
say what you saw, speak t o us all
in plain language. Testify:
be clear and recorded.
Messenger
It was just happenchance I was present,
the way that a person walking the beach
o r harbour might be asked t o photograph
a sweet family grouping with their camera,
o r the way a person walking the street
might be called in t o witness a marriage
by lending himself and his signature.
I was the complete and utter stranger,
invited in as a good-luck gesture,
first footer, bringing in the new era.
T h e old enemy lay dead in one corner,
killed like the wolf in range of the cradle.
T h e family closed rank, held hands in the round,
Heracles, his father, wife and three sons,
with their arms crossed over. Purifying water
in a bowl was set down centre-circle.

Heracles moved forward, then seemed t o stall,
and a nerve pumped in the wall of his neck,
just here, as if the man couldn't swallow,
and his eyes swelled in their sockets. His veins
were hot, overloaded, and he mumbled,
'Father, this isn't the time t o clean the house,
I have breakthroughs t o make, barriers t o crash,
more dirty work t o d o before I stop.
N o rest for the wicked indeed. N o peace.'
Then he sat down on the arm of the chair
as if it were the saddle of a horse
o r the captain's seat, and lashed with the reins
and play-acted with levers and controls.
And everyone smiled nervously, not sure
whether to meet his eye with laughter o r fear.
And he bucked and galloped and kangarooed
around the room, t o and fro, side t o side,
still riding his imaginary ride.
The next thing, he threw himself t o the ground,
saying the earth was a feast on a plate,
and licked the floor and ate coal from the gra