DARK CIRCUS

Things

 

 

Chapter One

 

The door to my flat is next to some garbage bins. Number seven. Not the door to heaven, but it's home.

The most important thing in the flat is the cupboard where I keep my tea bags and biscuits and things to refresh my body and revive my spirits. There's a hot-plate over there for cooking and boiling water for tea, but it needs a bit of a clean. That's the trouble with a sunny day, it shows up every speck of dirt. Maybe it'll rain tomorrow and then everything will look much cleaner. Ha, ha. You can tell I'm a lazy bugger.

In front of me is the window, but one of the window-panes is missing and there's a piece of cardboard stuck over it with sticky tape. That's alright because I put my toothbrush and things behind it on the windowsill and then no-one can see them from the outside. There's also a pot-plant, but that died ages ago because I forgot to water it. I should throw it away.

Underneath the window is the sink, which I don't use very much except to wee in because the loo doesn't work. I suppose you're pulling up your nose now. Well, you shouldn't judge me you know, you have no idea what it's like to ‘sink' so low. Ha, ha. Oh, and I have to go into town on a number five to do a number two, in case you were wondering.

Next to the sink there's a car engine. Not the whole engine with spark-plugs and things, just the cylinder block I'm told. I thought I'd be able to get rid of it when I moved in, but it's a lot heavier than it looks. You can actually see the room sloping down towards it. Oh well, as long as it doesn't fall through the floor. Anyway, it did come in handy after all, but that's a secret.

Behind me is my bed where I spend a lot of time staring at my stomach. It is a thing of wonder to me, my stomach. It's almost completely round, like a basket-ball, or the moon…with hairs on it, ha, ha. Can't say it's navel gazing because I can't see mine, but I can feel it. Anyway, if I had to add up all the hours I've spent contemplating my stomach, it would be millions. I also have an old green army blanket that I stole from a tramp, but that's not such a nice story.

So then, as you come in the door, there's a brand new wardrobe that I bought in a sale. I have to lock the doors though, otherwise they swing open and I keep walking into them. Inside there's a hanging rail for my coat, and a couple of drawers for T-shirts and things. Above that, there's a shelf where I keep my letters. I don't know who they're from, but I used to receive one every week when I was in the orphanage. I like to pretend they're from my mother, but she doesn't say. There's no address or anything, and she just signs them ‘from your very dear friend'. That doesn't really sound like a mother does it? But she does call me ‘my darling' quite often, so it's a bit of a mystery. She doesn't say much else, mostly just the same things, how she misses me and is always thinking of me. I read them if I'm feeling a bit low, or else I just sit and sniff them because they smell so nice. If I close my eyes, I can see her all made up and ready to go out, smoothing down her dress and smiling at the mirror - but the perfume's not so strong anymore. I suppose it escapes every time I open the box, and soon they'll just smell like…me. Oh well. They're up there on the shelf, safe and sound. That's the wardrobe then.

Then there's the kitchen table where I'm sitting, and this chair seems to squeak rather a lot – I've never noticed that before. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Now it's going to worry me all day. Never mind. The table has a shiny plastic table-cloth, which is very nice to touch when it's clean. It also has a handy cutlery drawer in the side here where I keep my other things. There's a tin opener, a spoon, some toothpicks, car keys (my pride and joy), birthday candles and a matchbox. In this corner here, I keep my toe-nail clippings. Ha, ha. No I don't. I'm just being silly now. I keep an exercise book and a pencil to do my accounts. Not very exciting but it helps me to keep track of things. The money goes on food and rent mostly - and petrol and movies - and a few magazines. Well, quite a lot of magazines actually. I forgot to mention them didn't I? They're under the bed over there. It's one of those glossy type magazines for…home-owners. You thought I was going to say something shocking, didn't you? No. it's alright, I'll protect you from the truth. It's got such a ring to it hasn't it? Home-owners. Ho! Moaners. Homo-ners.

Anyway, that's the drawer then. Oh, I forgot to mention the brooch. I found it behind the bins this morning. It took me ages to remember where I'd seen it before, but I think it belongs to the old lady down the road. She must've lost it. I should take it back to her I suppose, but…well, to tell you the truth I can't. You see, the other day she caught me spying on her. I wasn't spying really, it was so silly how it happened. She was walking past the window the other day when she looked up and saw me and I got such a fright I jumped back like an idiot. Then I had to hide on the floor until she'd gone away. I felt so stupid. I suppose I could put the brooch in her letterbox or something, but I'll think about that tomorrow. I'm going to go to bed now if you don't mind. I'm a bit tired, and talking about that has depressed me all over again.

 

*

 

The little chapel hung in the mists between the worlds, coming and going, neither here nor there, like my soul and sword, nowhere to go but onwards. I shifted in the saddle, shouldered my shield, and set off in search of sin and salvation.

My horse shied at the shadows, and broken branches loomed over us in the gloom. Crooked rows of rotting teeth tombstones closed in on me like the jaws of judgement, ugly grasping granite gargoylelesses on big damp buttresses breasted out of the fog, barring my way, begging me to stay awhile with a come-sweetly sad smile and a siren song from the deep pit of their passion and pain saying, never again a simple refrain.

Stained glass figures of immaculate moral stature peered down from high vaulted windows and gasped and gossiped in their Gothic arches as I went by, the briar bramble bride snaggling at my side and all the while her slimy sister mud trying to slip me up with dirty lips to suck me in – my soul for sex, beads for barter, bitches for the breeding dens of the devil-may-care wanderer.

The lure was strong, the smell of heat rising from her verdant loins set me trembling, but I doubled my resolve and set my face against the fanciful fog and the fecund furies and finally slid to a stop beside a sheltered oaken door, with the word inscribed above ‘Forevermore'. I pulled on the bell and crossed the threshold into a bright new world. Pink cherubs, disturbed by the chimes, fluttered up in rainbow colours around the walls while streaks of gilded sunshine peeped in and out amongst the gaily painted clouds on the ceiling. As I walked cautiously down the aisle, hushed carpets underfoot sealed off all earthly sounds from below and ribbons of incense from the thuribles trailed through the room, simulating the sickly sweet scent of saintliness.

Suddenly a terrible noise made me nearly jump out of my boots. There, perched on a plinth of crimson crushed-velvet, in front of the altar-anvil - where so many souls, plucked red hot from the fires, have been hammered into the hardened steel of righteousness - a demonic little man with dirty hair was banging a nail into a coffin-lid with enough noise to wake the dead. My displeasure swirled down the aisle towards him and he swivelled round in return, hammer held high, his hunch-back black gown flapping like a raven's wing in a storm, his mouth, a suggestive smile of six-inch silver nails. I was taken speechless at the sight for fright, and then the coffin-lid began to lift of its own accord and a pipe-organ started playing a sound like a slowly screaming spirit aspiring hopelessly heavenwards. The mad man slammed the lid shut and with a conspiratorial wink over his shoulder, took another nail from his mouth and resumed his labours with great gusto.

 

*

 

Bang, bang, bang, rattle, bang.

You'd think the end of the world had come. Who is that? No one ever knocks here. They must have the wrong address. ‘Go away, whoever you are. I'm still sleeping'.

Silence.

Bang, bang, bang.

It shouldn't be allowed you know, that anyone can come to your door and just knock like that. Well I'm not going to open up. You can bang away until kingdom come and…oh no, they're going to look in the window next and there's no curtains. Up, up, ow, ow, ow…I must have slept funny.

Bang, bang, bang. Oh, bugger.

“I'm coming, I'm coming.” Jesus. Why am I so sore? And look at this bruise. I wonder where…oh, oh, this floor is soooooo cold. Shuffle on the sides of my feet over to the window. Shuffle along, shuffle along, shh, shh, shh, shit a policeman! Oh no. He's come to arrest me, I'm sure of it. I don't want to go back to jail. I haven't told you about that, have I? But I haven't done anything since then, not really, so I don't know why he's here. Maybe he's selling tickets to his policeman's ball? Ha, ha. Oh god he's going to arrest me I know he is. I don't know why, but I just know it. Calm down. I have to calm down or else I'll look suspicious. Or else I'll have a heart attack more likely. Breathe deeply. In…out…in…out….relax…ok. There now.

I open the door and the sunshine's booming down. There's the policeman…and there's me, in my pyjama pants. I hope nothing's sticking out, but I resist the temptation to feel if it's closed. God, he must see some sights.

“Good morning sir,” he says pleasantly. “How are you today?”

“Hmph,” says the frog in my throat.

He has a friendly face, with a big prickly moustache that I can't stop staring at. How does he eat through that? It's a bush. It makes me want to stick my finger in there and see where it goes…and now I'm embarrassed because he probably thinks I'm staring at his lips, you know…like that. Why else do you look at somebody's lips? And now I don't know where to look. I can feel my eyes swivelling all over the place like a lunatic. Oh, I'm going to get into so much trouble here, I can just feel it.

“I'm sorry to bother you but I won't keep you long. We're making enquiries in the neighbourhood, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?” He waits patiently while I gather my scattered wits. I pull my brows together and try to compose a look of serious concern. I must look a proper twot.

“It's about…” he looks down at his notebook, “the lady who lives at number thirteen.” He gestures down the road.

That's where she lives, the lady I was telling you about. I know that because I often pretend to take the rubbish out so I can watch her walk down the street. I have actually gone down there to get a closer look but she lives on the first floor. I know that sounds creepy, but it isn't really. Well, I suppose it is, but I don't mean anything.

“I…I've s...seen the lady…” I start to stammer, and then I realize what this is all about. Oh my god, she's gone and reported me to the police for being a Peeping Tom.

“I think she lives at number thirteen…but I don't know her…I…I've n...never met her,” I rub my hand nervously against the side of my nose and thousands of skin flakes come floating down and settle all over his uniform. He is very kind though and pretends not to notice. I have terrible eczema.

“I'm afraid there's been an incident. The lady's dead. Her husband found her on the floor yesterday morning when he came home from work. Night duty.”

It takes a few seconds before this information sinks in because I'm still worrying about the bits of dead skin on his jacket.

“Oh?” I say. Dead? And then I have a terrible thought. Maybe it's my fault. Maybe I frightened her with my peeping and she got so scared she fainted and died. Well, I know that's not very likely, but it can happen. Some people are very sensitive, and she was quite old; not thin and shaky old, but old.

“It seems she was murdered.”

And then one of those funny things happen where everything becomes very calm and still and peaceful, and all my troubles seem a million miles away. The sun feels lovely and warm on my tummy and the street has a wonderful golden glow. I feel like I'm drifting on a cloud.

I must have drifted off quite far because I jump a little when he speaks again.

“Did you happen to notice anything unusual, the night before last, say between about five thirty pm and eight am?”

I notice that a button on his uniform pocket is missing. There's a piece of thread hanging there where it used to be. It makes me want to pick at it and pull it off. ‘Come on; pay attention,' I say to myself, 'this is serious. The old lady's been murdered'. But I can't seem to get it into my head, as if it's a story in a book and I can't see the words very well.

“Why?” I say the only thing that comes to mind.

“We don't know yet. That's why we're asking people if they saw or heard anything suspicious…any strangers been hanging about?”

“Mmm.” I have the feeling he wants me to say something more but for the life of me I can't think what. He waits for a while, then nods his head.

“Always a bit shocking, isn't it? Something like that; so close to home.” We both look down the road towards her flat, and for a while we stand there in the warm sunshine, thinking about her.

“Anyway,” he shakes himself up and the wind whistles through his moustache as he takes a deep breath. “I'll be off now. You will get in touch if you remember anything won't you?”

I'm about to say “Hmph” when I remember the brooch in my kitchen-table drawer and suddenly everything's not so warm and wonderful anymore.

“Sir? Anything wrong?” he enquires, looking concerned.

“Oh, no. No, n…nothing.” I squeak. “Just a cold,” I cough to cover my tracks, and for good measure I start to shiver and wipe my nose on the back of my hand, and now I'm really not feeling very well at all because my ears are blocking up too, so I yawn to try and open them but they won't.

“Well, if you're sure” he says, looking at me a bit strangely, “I won't keep you any longer,” but he's in a silent bubble and all I see is his hairy lips chomping like the chug-a-chug of a speeding train getting bigger and bigger and bounding down the line at me and hooting like the hounds of Hades howling for my blood.

“Thank you very much for your time, and I'm sorry to bother you with such bad news...” But the train is so loud now that I'm nearly blind from the noise and I know I've got to get away.

I somehow manage to stumble inside the flat and slam the door just in time.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

Her lips were snow white and broken, dried blood in the cracks and bits of vomit on her chin. I'd never been so close to a woman before. I could smell the sick as I leaned forward and kissed her in her mouth. I must have made some sort of impression because she tried to focus on me, but the effort was too much and her eyes sank back into half-closed aimlessness again.

I couldn't believe my luck when I had found her leaning against the wall of the men's toilet on Second Street, one thin leg crooked up with a high heel hooked into the waste-bin rim behind her. I stood for ages washing my hands and watching her in the mirror as she swayed from side to side, singing some silly love song. She was very drunk, and I was very excited. Here was my chance. I dried my hands on some paper towels and went a bit closer to her.

"Are you alright?" I asked, trying to sound like a concerned citizen and not a sex mad pervert rapist who was just about to pounce on her. No response. This didn't necessarily mean anything because girls often ignore me as if I'm not there. I'm not much of a threat really, just a nuisance.

"Hello?" I said, stepping a little bit closer. She had obviously looked very pretty this morning when she'd done her make up because her eyelids were sort of smoky blue and exotic, but it was all smudged now, with a great smear of lipstick and snot up her cheek. She was beyond caring about her looks. She was beyond caring about anything really and the next thing I knew I was kissing her and fumbling under her coat for her skin and bone breasts as we slipped and slid around on the sticky floor, nearly falling into the urinal on several occasions. It was sheer heaven on earth. I got to touch her nipple and she didn't seem to mind too much, except when I kissed her too long because then she couldn't breathe and had to turn her head away to get some air. Otherwise she seemed to enjoy it, and actually kissed me back a little bit. She didn't get irritable or push me away or anything. It was very nice.

"Tired now..." she mumbled finally, carefully lying down on the floor and going to sleep. I left her there.

I often go back, but I never saw her again. Sometimes I see someone, a nice girl, but not like her, no one I can actually touch in the flesh. No one in their right mind would want me to touch them, so I have to touch myself…and that's the long and the short of it. Ha, ha. Didn't intend the pun. But it's not the same doing it to yourself. It's nice, but... So I ‘do' things, which no one sees, in public…privately. This next bit's horrible, so close your ears if you don't want to hear.

I like to do it on the bus, because there's always a woman there. Sometimes I sit in the back so I can look at her legs, but if she's sitting then I stand just behind her with my hand in my pocket so that I can look down her bra and rub myself until I come. It doesn't always work, sometimes I take too long and she gets off prematurely. Ha, ha. God I think I'm sick. Well, not sick…it's…I don't like being like this you know. It just takes me over, and there's nothing I can do about it. Once a lady even turned round and asked me what I was doing. I could hardly get off the bus my legs were shaking so much from shock.

Anyhoo, I did it again today. I didn't want to, but that policeman made me so nervous I just had to do something. And here I am, afterwards. There's always an afterwards. Lying in the dark feeling dirty. I think I'm rubbish you know. Sigh. Well, just forget about it, go to sleep. It's all over now...till the next time. Getting a bit cold. Yawn. I wish I could sleep all the time…till it's dinner time…suppertime…rise and shine…stand in line…fine feathers make a friend fly away, floating up the stairs one finger at a time, fingers on the floor, the door…the door won't open, do not disturb…deep doing doo…dozing off here I can tell…what's that smell…don't disturb the daisies….dirty bugger dear, wait for the green light….wait for me, up the stairs, fingers on the bell, don't go away… …shhh…shhh…close the door and go back to sleep my darling, my dear…my dream, girl of my dreams, my beautiful pink lady, standing with her arms outstretched and I'm running towards her but I can't move and she smiles and smiles across the pink miles of her bedroom. It's her. I'm sure it's her. I remember the little pink bed with moonlight sheets and plumpy pillows, and the pretty pink hairbrush pouting on the little glass table with her hairpins, and the pink armchair that looks so soothing and soft I feel myself sink into my toes twining in the carpet, cosy, and content. A womb of a room. A womb with a view of eternity. We stand like sleepwalkers on the shore of her foamy white rug lapping gently at our feet, our eyes caressing each other until all distinction disappears, and we are………pink.

Then she climbs into bed and holds the blankets up for me and I walk towards her across the carpet now growing like grass, grabbing my ankles and getting deeper and darker until I'm swimming through a jelly jungle lying on the floor all tangled up in my blanket and trying to climb back into bed while the pink lady fades away and no, no, no, no, no, no! Up, up into the bed and roll myself into a ball. Sleep Sleeeeeep, softly sleep now…I've done it before, go back to sleep, go back into the dream again, sleeeep. Concentrate and think of her...yes...yes, that's it, relax, there she is, let your eyes roll back, pink, there, there's the bed. I'm back in her room again……..…no I'm not.

"I'M JUST NOT SLEEPY NOW! I'm…try to relax…sleep, try to sleep. I got too excited you see. Lie down. Don't think about it. Close your eyes, there, there. Look for the door. Relax. Hmmmmm. It's no good. I'm wide awake. Maybe if I masturbate again. Ok, relax. Thumb in mouth and twirl it around in the soft fleshy bit under my tongue. That's nice, there we go. Suck it very slowly, in and out, in and out…well that isn't working! Dead as a dormouse. What if I look at some pictures? That'll help. Candle…where is the candle? Up…cupboard…Ok. Ok Slow down, don't want to get too excited. There, matches…there we go, that's nice and romantic. Magazines…here. Ok. Creak. Bloody chair, why does it DO that? Now, which one do I want… let's see… creak...this one? No, I've used her too many times. This one? Oh, I don't know, they all look so…ugly. No, not ugly. I'm sorry I said that. It's not true. They're very pretty and I do love them all…my girls. Look, this one's nice….she's got such a nice happy smile…yes…hello my darling…oh I love it when you smile for me… oh and you have such beautiful breasts, such bigggg beautiful breasts, o god I just want to suck on those nipples…oh boy… oh ye e es, yes, yee ee es I lo o o o ove youuuuu uu uu uu yes…yes that's right, that's nice…just there…creak,o o o o o o o o o yes that's VERY nice oo oo oo oo oo OH and you have the nicest arse in the wo oo oo o orldd…creak, oh god…OH GOD YES and LOOK at that CUNT OOOOOH YE E E E E ESSSS, CREAK, OH MY GOD I LOO OO OVE YOU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU OH YES CREAK YESSSSS S S S S S MORE MYBABYYYYFUCKYOUUU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU CRE E E E AK FF UU UU UU UU UU UUCK YOU UU UU UU UU UU UU uuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuCREEAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHH - - HHHHNNNNNnnn!

 

 

Oh. Oh that was good.

 

Sniff.

 

Creak.

 

I still don't feel sleepy though. Getting a chilly willy now, and I'm all sticky. Yuchh. Candle's gone out too. Darkness shimmering over my hands, nibbling at the edges…nibble, nibble fingers going, going, nibble thumbs, eating up my arms…going, going…and there she is….standing by the sink, my pink lady in the moonlight, white, my worries slip away like sludge on the tide and she takes me sailing through the ceiling wide into the night-time sky she winds me like a wisp of smoke and trails me through her starry cloak, with gleam and glitter blinds me to the brute beast crawling coarsely down below, her refined mind flowing like a silver river cleansing me until I am glorious and gold given god child, my mother, me, in ribbons of pink, see, how pretty she...she holds and folds me in her several sighs and contentedly we sink and lie, she and I, soothingly amidst the silken sheets of her soft love and downy bed. She pulls the covers over us and pours into me like a warm cloud, her breath brushing my skin with blossoms bubbling up inside. I am so happy that I cry.

I put my head on her shoulder, and then get a terrible shock as the air suddenly hisses out of her like a plastic doll with a leak and she starts to shrink and shrivel like an autumn leaf sinking slowly back into the fading pink pillowslip, her mottled skin growing cold and clammy as the spring fever turns to mould and the damp air draws her vapours out until there's no mistaking who she is.

And there we lie, the old lady and I, skin to skin, eye to eye. Like lovers and strangers, about to die.

I can't move, and there's a hole in her chest, swelling soft and spongy pink, like marshmallow. I want to put my finger in and as I think I tumble down the hole and she enfolds me gently in her barely breathing bosom.

 

*

 

The sunlight was shining on my nose when I woke up, and I had to peel my face off the plastic tablecloth. It was so hot you could see the heat haze coming off the table. I closed my eyes again and lazed in the warm orange glow. I was fantasizing about a nice cold ice-cream when everything went dark and the garbage truck pulled up like a black cloud outside the window. It always stops there when it empties the bins. Oh well, might as well have a wee. I got up and filled the kettle at the same time, listening to the shouting and the hydraulic hisses and kisses and creaks and crunks of the truck while I waited for the water to boil.

My flat feet stuck to the floor as I took my tea over to the table and sat down. The driver revved up the engine and the fumes rattled in through the gaps in the cardboard window like a gale. God, what a stink. I took a huge mouthful of tea and held my breath. Nothing to do but wait for them to go. My eyes were stinging from the smoke, so I closed them and tried to recall my beautiful lady in her pink bedroom, but I couldn't concentrate so I opened my eyes and there pressed up against the window was the filthy face of the dust-man, a ring of grime around his red rimmed mouth, his baggy bloodshot eyes staring at me as if I was the next piece of garbage to be taken out. I screamed and dropped my tea all over the table and had to scramble around like a mad thing trying to rescue my magazines. There's nothing more awful than a wrinkled pinup girl.

When I looked up again he was gone. Horrible man. I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one who murdered the old lady. Just the type. Probably killed her for her brooch and then hid it behind the bins meaning to pick it up later and sell it but now he can't find it and he suspects me because the bins are outside my door and he's going to come back in the dead of night and cut my throat in my sleep. You can see I have a vivid imagination can't you. Anyway, finally one of them shouted and banged on the side of the truck with his fist and the whole caboodle moved off down the road. The sunshine came back and made it all feel much better, except for the mess on the table, which I wiped up with my T shirt. I felt a bit nauseous from fumes, so I opened the window to let in some fresh air and lay down on the bed for a snooze.

 

When I woke, it was dark and cold. I wrapped the blanket around my goose bumps and went to close the window. A feverish full-moon rose above the tree at the end of the block and the fallen leaves looked like patches of dried blood on the ground. Funny thing about that tree, the leaves usually turn yellow in autumn. I always wait for that, makes everything look bright and cheerful. But this year they just turned a soggy brown. Even nature seems depressed. Maybe I should go out, try to take my mind off things. Go for a drive, a walk in the park...its dark…men out there…lurking in the bushes and…oh my god there's someone standing behind the tree. I can see him…no, yes, I'm sure I can see someone. There! There, he moved. There's someone standing behind my tree. What if it's him? What if it's me?

I stared into the darkness so intently that I started seeing all sorts of monsters and things, so I went and lay on my bed and counted to keep the horrors at bay. One, two, three, four, who's outside the bedroom door?

I must've fallen asleep because the next thing I was shaking like I had put my finger into an electric socket, my body jerking and jumping up and down, and then the bed began to slip and slide slowly sideways into a darkly spreading stain of suppurating oil seeping thickly from under the engine block, sucking me inexorably into an inky-black and bottomless well.

Demons, looking for a hero to kill, came crawling out of my forgotten wounds, opening their moist mouths on all sides. But I brushed them aside in my headlong rush. Nothing could stop me now. I was in full flight. I was in righteous power. I was looking for Death himself, the man behind the mask of flesh and bone - the real murderer. And as I ran, ranks of policemen rose from their graves, hungry for justice, and began to run pantingly by my side, thousands upon thousands cutting a bloody blue swathe through the steely moonlight.

A sabre jet screamed overhead, guided missile hanging from its fat underbelly and the rising crescendo of its red and over-heating engine howling to God and clawing its way up into the close and turbulent sky. It levelled off and leaped forward at an even more prodigious pace, hurling itself like a suicidal banshee at the black night. There came a tearing scream and a deep deafening thump as the plane struck and seemed to fracture the very fabric of the hallowed heavens themselves. It turned, wounded, broken by its own madness, and the twisted plane plunged to earth. I waited for the shock wave to hit me, but it never did. I looked down, and there on the pavement lay the broken remains of a child's cot, a teddy bear still attached to one of the bars with a blue ribbon. I looked up and the light had changed. It was dawn. I floated quietly down the street.

I saw a man throw some meat to his dog, just a few scrag-ends, but the dog ate it up right there on the pavement. Then he put some tobacco in his pipe and lit it with a silver cigarette lighter. With every puff, the smoke curled like a halo around his head and rose up to greet the early dawn.

“Tja!” He said to the dog and they sauntered off down the road. I tagged along behind them through the silent streets. We stopped on a bridge over the railway line to look at the tracks tapering off into the distance. Soon the ground began to rumble and shake and I saw the smoke of the steam train coming round the bend. The man snapped his fingers, “Come on,” and we strolled off down the road, the dog sniffing along the pavement, and finally stopped in front of a semi-detached house at the end of a cul-de-sac. I waited while he unlocked the door and then followed him in.

 

I got the fright of my life when I saw her, half hidden in the hallway, lips like menstrual blood, and a tattoo of a snake coiling up her arm into her blouse. She was leaning drunkenly against the wall, holding half a bottle of gin by the neck and a cigarette by the lip, squinting at the man as he took off his coat and hung it up.

“Come boy,” he called to his dog and headed for the kitchen, trying not to notice her. In one hand, he carried the bag of bones, in the other a little bottle of red paint. As he passed her, she slapped the bag out of his hand and laughed as the bones and bits of meat scattered across the floor. As an afterthought, she tried to slap the paint bottle too but he jerked it away in time.

“Godda bone for the dog then?” She cocked her hips at him. “A nice big juicy bone for the doggie?” Without a change of expression on his face he got down on his knees and started picking them up.

“Here, doggie, doggie. Your master's godda bone for you. How about a bone for me? How about a bone for this bitch hey? How about it, Mr Heart-throb big-knob. I love sucking the marrow from a good juicy bone. Woof, woof, come on baby, give us one.” She jabbed the crawling man in his ribs with her toes and they both nearly fell over.

“Hmmmm. You got some nice bones there….nice big ones. Ha, ha, ha, ha. Gotta a specially nice big one for that blonde bitch with the big titties next door don't you, you bastard? I've seen you talking to her, trying to get your little thing in there, sniffing up her dress. Sniff, sniff, sniff.”

She put her hand holding the gin bottle on her hip and posed for him. “Well how about taking a little sniff of me for a change. Come on.” She sauntered round in front of him, pulling up her slip and pushing her pelvis in his face. She had nothing on underneath. “Here you go, all for free. Come on then, have a sniff. Maybe that'll get you stiff, ha, ha.” He calmly turned and carried on picking up the bones, keeping his eyes on the floor. “No? Not interested? Well your dog is always sticking his nose in my crotch, why don't you?” She kicked him in the ribs with her painted toes again, harder and meaner this time. “Well, let me tell you something you bastard, you're not fucking welcome in here anymore,” she said, pointing at her naked pudenda with the neck of the gin bottle. Then she lost her balance and swung the sloshing bottle around wildly to stop herself from falling over.

“But maybe that's not the problem. You wanna know what I think is the problem here? I think you're a queer. Tha's wa's the matter here. YOU'RE A FUCKING FAGGOT, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”

He got up off his knees and put the bag of bones into the fridge.

"Why else don't you want to fuck me?" she said. The man sat down at the table and opened the little bottle of paint. She lit another cigarette and one-eyed him through the smoke.

“Here I thought it was my fault. That I wasn't pretty enough for you. Ha, ha, ha. What a joke. Look at you, fucking He-Man, painting little dollies."

"They're toy soldiers..."

"Dolls. You're a fucking girlie. You never do anything; just suck on your pipe…fucking penis substitute. Should've fucking known it was too good to be true.” She stabbed her cigarette out in disgust and plonked the bottle on the table.

“I'm sick of the sight of you. I going out.” she said, and as an afterthought she added, “And don't let that little bastard piss in our bed again tonight. He can sleep in his own fucking bed. He's four years old already, Christ.” The man picked up a soldier and dabbed his paintbrush into the red paint.

I followed her down the hall and into her bedroom. I was scared of her but I was curious about the snake. I watched her as she sat down at her dressing table and crossed her legs. She lit a cigarette and left it to burn in the ashtray while she put on her lipstick. She did it quickly with two red swipes, and was just about to powder her nose when she stopped and squinted closely at the mirror as if she'd found a spot. Then she spun around and looked me straight in the eye.

 

She's here. I can feel her watching me…Oh lord just keep very still…quiet now. Sshhh……………shh……….….try not to think of her…try not to think...things drifting away in the dark…come back…where's the bed…feel the bed…it's still there…she's still there…she knows…she saw me… in my dream, oh please lord don't make me go back there…just this once…and…there…there…things moving again…I can't hold on…please help me…I'm getting very scared now. I can feel she's...oh, oh, oh. How do you know if…how do I know where I am? I'm here, I'm here….where is she…breathe…breathe in...in – out - I wish it would hold still…bed...blanket…table…up, up, touch the table...yes, that's good…smooth table…..sink yes, steel sink, nice and cold…please stay still stainless steel sink she's still there, I can feel her waiting oh god please help me and I'll never masturbate again…..touch the window…no…no don't look outside, too many things out there…look at the wardrobe…look at your lovely new wardrobe….oh my god she's coming to get me…KUMBAYA MA LORD, KUMBAYAAAAAA…sing……sing to God…oh please save me it's moving too…oh no please don't go away wardrobe….touch the wardrobe…touch the bed…the bed's here……touch the floor….the floor…smell the floor….there, that's real…the floors real…1234567 all the good boys go to heaven oh I'm so sorry……what's that! What's that! oh no, ohno this is not good….she's coming…she's coming…

 

 

* *

 

 

She came into the kitchen and dropped her purse on the table with a clunk. Then she leant on the back of the chair with one hand so that she could lift her foot and take off her high-heel shoe. She didn't wear stockings…or panties. Most of her clients didn't have time for niceties like that.

“Had another fucking weirdo tonight. Wanted to talk. Didn't want to do anything, just talk.” She poked at the blister on her heel and squeezed some water out of it.

“Well, I thought, what the hell. Probably wants to tell me about his wife. A lot of them do. What do I care?” She put her bare foot on the floor and lifted the other one. “So I took him round the corner, next to the Chinese take-away….very romantic little alley. Anyway...” She stopped and looked up as if remembering. “He didn't want to talk about her," she said. "He wanted to know….” But then she thought better of it and waved the thought away. “Never mind.” She took off the other shoe and let it clonk to the floor. She took a cigarette out of her purse and lit it.

“He was interested in me, he says, as if I'm some kind of specimen.” She took another drag and spat out a piece of something. “Wanted to know why I do it. Told him some crap. Still had to pay though.” She reached into her bra and took out a wad of dirty notes.

“I told him…” she started saying. He paused resignedly in his painting and waited for her to finish.

“I told him that my husband was dead.”

He looked at her and waited.

“I told him I had a boyfriend, but his penis was shot off in the war and now he sits around all day and paints little toy soldiers.” She looked up to see if her bullets were hitting home. “And anyway, why don't you paint them properly. You're just painting them red. What's the point of that? Looks like blood. Who wants to look at bloody soldiers? Christ you're a sick fuck.”

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do except to keep his mouth closed, his hands busy, and his heart holding the things he loved steady as a rock. He was sorry for her story, but there was not much he could do about it. He did what little he could, even if it was only for her to bite on when the pain got too bad. He didn't mind. He didn't know if he loved her. It didn't matter. He was as caring of her and her child as he was of the dog or any other animal in distress.

“You don't care, do you? Other men fucking me? You don't give a shit do you? What kind of a man are you?” He kept his head bowed over his painting. She looked around for something to hurt him with. Then she noticed it. "And here,” she took off her brooch and threw it at him. He flinched slightly as it bounced off his arm and onto the table. “You can take that piece of shit and shove it up your arse.” She waved a red fingernail at it.

“Is that supposed to show how much you love me? Piece of fucking tin…crap. Fucking glass. That all I'm worth to you is it?” It was her most cherished possession. She liked it because he had bought it for her when they first met, to cheer her up. She was miserably pregnant at the time and needed something nice. She didn't often get that anymore because her brusque and abrasive manner only drove him to diminish his meagre efforts even further. The dog too would only half wag its tail at her, because she could coo over it as the cutest little thing and within the space of the same sentence kick it skidding across the room for getting under her feet.

“Dirty thing,” she would say, hearing the echo of her father's voice, stern, holding her at arm's length with his frown and never with his hands, and as a result, the many, many men's hands she sought since that have left her looking like a well-fingered book. She could've been clean. She had tried so hard, little heart full of hope and helpfulness, until one day she found herself standing on the pavement outside their home, just waiting for any old mongrel to come by and give her a friendly lick. That's how he found her fifteen years later, standing on the corner while he waited for his dog to finish pissing up against her lamppost. She had broken her shoe or something, and though he was too shy to offer any help, he hung around in case she needed to ask.

 

“Cheap rubbish.”

It had become a talisman for her, the brooch, something that helped protect her from the awfulness of what she had to do, and reminded her that she wasn't just something that other men left their semen in. It made her feel special, loved, and now she was throwing it away. She knew how to hurt herself alright. He carried on painting.

“And stop playing with those fucking toys!” She slapped at his hands in frustration, showering the kitchen with red paint and burning embers from her cigarette. She laughed spitefully at the mess while he dabbed at a few smouldering sparks on the table and then picked up the brooch. “It's okay,” he said. “No harm done.”

Then she hit him hard across the side of his face. The smack echoed sharply around the bare room.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

 

I'm feeling a bit better now, thank you. A bit cold, but I'll start the engine in a little while and warm up the car again. It's a real haven this car. I feel safe from her anyway, because it's too small for anyone else in here ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Sorry, I'm still a bit hysterical. She's a witch that woman, even talking about her makes me nervous so I'll just stop. No, it's those other she-devils I'm watching out for...the traffic wardens. They're tough on crime in this town. I've got so many tickets. And I'm hungry too. And all the shops are closed. I've eaten my entire secret store in here, and I can't go back to the flat for a snack...not yet...not while it's still dark. Anyway, it'll take more than a tin of beans to calm me down, and the street sweepers are giving me the evil eye now because I'm in their way, so I better move on. Brrrr. Ok here we go. Good car, starts every time. Don't want to drive around too much though, it'll look very suspicious. Wonder if the railway-station kiosk will be open. That's one of my usual haunts, plenty of food and coffee and pretty females standing around looking sleepy-eyed...God I'm getting horny again. That's what happens if I don't eat. Mind you, it's what happens when I do eat. I'm sorry for bringing up the subject but there's nothing I can do about it. It just happens...all the time. I can't think of anything else. I want so badly to fuck someone I'll do anything. Usually something stupid and dangerous like…well...I dunno. At school, the boys used to pull my pants down in front of the girls and everyone would laugh. Don't know why I told you that. Oh yeah, showing my willy to girls. Well, I don't know how I've only been caught once. That's a miracle to me. Anyway. I'm sure the trains must be running by now…I think I'll take a look. Dum dee dum dee dum oops, never mind. Here we are then, Station Road. Looks very empty.

‘Why don't I just go to a prostitute?' you may ask. Well, they don't like me very much. They're always telling me to fuck off, so I don't like hanging around there. They're a bit rough, those girls.

I did try one of those fancy red light ladies sitting in their windows once. I walked up and down the street so I could look them all over first before I decided which one I wanted, but all the curtains were closed and busy except for one, and she didn't look very friendly but I was just about coming in my pants by then so I went up to her door and knocked. At first she pretended not to see me and stuck her nose up the other way but I kept knocking until she opened.

“Go away.” she hissed, and tried to close the door again.

“I'll scream.” I had no idea why I said that. I would never have screamed, but she didn't know that I suppose.

“Alright then,” she said and I tried to push past her.

“Uh uh. Money first!” she said, jabbing her hand into my stomach and keeping her eyes on the wall so that she didn't have to see the state of my money.

“Take off your pants.” She said, putting the money in a drawer, and pointed to the basin. “I'll wash it first.”

Well, she didn't do it very nicely, you know, not sexy. More like she was washing a dog – scrubbing away at it with her elbows flying. My willy was actually a bit sore afterwards.

Then she couldn't get the condom on because I was too soft and she started to get a bit irritable with the whole business. She just sat on the bed, looking at the ceiling as bored as you please, plucking at my penis with her finger and thumb until I got a little bit hard and then took off her gown and sat on top of me smelling of baby powder and said ‘oh, oh, oh' without even trying.

She wouldn't let me kiss her, or touch her breasts or anything. And I didn't even come. I don't think I even got inside her. I couldn't feel very much at all. In the end she just told me to get dressed and bugger off.

It's getting very hot in here now you know. Sweating like a pig...tied up like a hog, ha, ha, about to be consumed by hell's fires fat fry frazzle and sizzle like a pork chop piggy pie any moment now the clock tick tock ticking away in my ear telling me it's nearly time.......to pay for my crime...and there's the devil with his three pronged fork...live, earth and death, waiting to plug me into that great power point in the sky. The warden, my only friend, fusses with my feet...wiping them with his cloth...just like Jesus. Well maybe not, but one of us is going to die...

Anyhoo, back to my story. I parked the car at the railway station and wandered off to the men's loo. I'm not queer, but sometimes anyone will do. And as always, just when you need one, there's not a fruit-vendor in sight. I went and stood on the platform and pretended to wait for a train for a while. There were a few guys there but I didn't want to stare, so I looked at the time table for a while and then sat down on a bench. Some of the men looked a bit funny but that was just wishful thinking I think. But who knows. Maybe one of them was also pretending to wait for a train, hoping to pick someone up. Let's see who doesn't get on the next one. Right. That would be me then.

I shuffled off down to the toilet again and hung out around the urinal and had a long pretend-wee, but no one came, least of all me, so I left the station and went downtown and bought a ticket for a movie and some salty popcorn.

The seats were a bit of a squash, but not too bad, and because there was hardly anyone there I could put my elbows up on the armrests and spread out for a change. There was that harpy kind of music playing, so I put my knees up on the seat in front and watched the advertisements.

I liked this one, the ‘American Dream Pizza Parlour', with a waitress in a mini-skirt holding up a thick crust pizza with all the toppings. Hmmm. Next was ‘Pete's Luxury Car Emporium' with a girl in a bikini lying seductively on the hood of a Cadillac. I've got a Mini actually, and she would never have fitted on the hood of my car. Ha, ha. Then came ‘Bernie's Beds and Mattresses' with a girl in a very shortie nightie…..I'm sure it was all the same girl you know. Even the usherette at the door looked a bit like her, except she wasn't smiling. This one couldn't have cared less actually. She was chewing gum with her mouth wide open which looked so ugly. I watched her for a bit, flashing her torch willy nilly, making circles on the ceiling and then shining it in people eyes for a joke. I noticed that the exit sign above her head was flickering. The bulb was on its last legs. I watched to see how long it would take to conk out altogether. Flicker, flicker – flicker, flicker. I hope it wasn't a short circuit. Maybe it'll catch fire. Be a bit ironic. Ha, ha. But, it was getting a bit warm in here now. Maybe the air-conditioning had broken too.

The lights went down and the movie started but I still couldn't take my eyes off the exit sign. Flicker, flicker – flashing brighter now because it was dark. On - off, flash – off, I wondered why no one else noticed, and that stupid usherette was just standing there chewing the cud like a cow in a field. Chew - chew – on – off – on - then wisps of smoke began to seep in under the door like little silver serpents swirling about her shoes and I blinked my eyes to make sure I wasn't seeing things. This was crazy. Why did no one else see it? Because they were all looking at the screen like a bunch of zombies. What do I do? I can't just stand up and shout ‘fire'? What if it's not? What if it's…but I can smell the smoke now, such an awful smell, surely someone else must smell it too? Why doesn't the Usherette smell anything? She's the closest to it…she's…she…

She was standing stone high, a statue stark naked in a sea of fire and smoke like some primal priestess at a pagan sacrifice, flaming torch held high, bare body gleaming in the firelight, and the devil dancing in her eye.

 

It was all over. The firemen were rolling up their hoses and splashing through the red reflected pools of water in the road. People who had come out of their houses to watch the fire were crowding ever closer, eager to see more, emergency lights flashing on their spectacles.

“What are you looking at? Fun's over so why don't you all fuck off home.” The house was a charred, empty shell. The burst windows looking like the sockets of a giant death mask, smoke still steaming from the beams of its black and broken mouth.

“No one's dead you know. There's nothing more to see.”

It was her! The lady with the snake tattoo. And it was her house that had burned down. I recognized the bridge and the railway line. She threw away a half-smoked cigarette and tightened her dirty dressing gown around her legs. The she took another cigarette from a nearly empty packet. “Fucking ghouls,” she said, patting her pockets for her lighter. “Nothing better to do than stick their noses up other peoples arses.” She sucked in a great lungful of smoke and blew it out slowly to mingle in the midnight air just as the crowd parted and the dog man from my dream came pushing through.

“What happened?” His head swung between her and the house as if he didn't know which one to look at first. “Are you alright?” He put a worried hand on her arm and she shook him off. He looked anxiously at the burned out.

“Where's the boy?” When he couldn't see him he turned around frantically, eyes searching the crowd, then his face relaxed and he ran over and picked me up. The world disappeared down below as I whirled high up and over his shoulder.

“Look at him! Jesus, what happened? He's burnt…look at his feet. Why didn't you call the ambulance?”

She stared at him deadpan. He shrugged off his coat, one sleeve at a time, holding me in the other arm, and then wrapped it around me and hugged me tight to him. I could smell his tobacco smell. It was much nicer than that awful burning smell.

“What about the dog?” he asked her. I felt his chest vibrate against me as he spoke. “Where's the dog?” I turned in his arms to look at her answer. After an interminable time, without moving her eyes from his face, she pointed a lazy cigarette at the burnt out house and flicked it with her thumb.

I followed the ash down into the pool and sizzled out, dissolving into the cool water.

 

I woke up soaking wet. I had spilled my Coke all over my leg and it had run down into my shoe. I had one warm foot and one cold one. The lights had come on and the few people there were getting up and pushing their arms into their coats. I pretended to look for my popcorn under my seat and waited until they'd all gone, except for the usherette who stood staring daggers at me for not hurrying and squelched and squirted my way to the toilet, leaving a one-legged wet footprint trail behind me.

I rang my sock out in a toilet and dabbed my shoe and pants with toilet paper. They're going to be closing soon and everything's wet and sticky. It's just a bloody mess that's what it is. Why do I always end up in the toilet? Because I'm a fat useless turd that's why. Because this is where I belong. A pile of crap, just look at me. Fat piggy face and little piggy eyes and pimples and look he's going to start crying now. Shut up shut up shut up. Stop that. Stop that. Snivelling baby. No one likes a sniveller. Look at you.

I never look nice you know. I never smell nice. Who's ever going to want this…this thing? No one wants me. I don't even want me. Jesus, that's a horrible thing to say. It's just….I mean, I'm always nice to people. I'm not a bad person. I'm never mean to anyone, but everyone's always mean to me. It's very hard you know.

It's one of those things that's quite nice when you're feeling sorry for yourself, crying a bit and all the feelings start coming up, and crying a bit more, and feeling better, and crying some more, but then you can't stop crying and everything starts coming out all at the same time and soon I have to sit down and I'm boo-hooing on the loo and howling so loud that I can't feel my legs or my arms and I don't care anymore and sliding to the floor onto my knees and dear god this is where I always end up. On my knees, in the piss and the shit, always on my knees, my whole life I've been on my knees and I can't do it anymore and someone's screaming in my ears and my nose explodes with lights and pain and I can't see anything flat on my face on the floor flopping around like a fish, retching and choking and jerking so hard in a fat fit that I can't breathe anymore and I know I'm going to die. And I don't care. I want to die. I don't want to live anymore.

 

*

 

“Hello there. How are you feeling?” He put a blanket over me and tucked it in. “There, that'll warm you up. You're in an ambulance, and we're taking a look at you to see that everything's ok.” He sounded nice but I couldn't see much of him. I was lying on my back and he was upside down and there were a lot of clicks and hisses and hums and things going on.

“Got yourself into a bit of a state there, didn't you? They found you unconscious in the toilet. Do you remember anything about it?” He was pasting some sticky pads to my ankles and wrists and carefully attaching little red wires to them. I shook my head. I didn't think I'd be able to talk. But it felt nice…being fussed over, and touched. Then a frantic bleeping noise started and I nearly had a heart attack.

“Don't worry about that,” he said. “Your pulse is a little bit high that's all. There's nothing to worry about,” he said, patting my tummy reassuringly. “You lie back and take a few deep breaths on this.” Well after that, I was willing to do anything for him. “It's oxygen and it'll probably dry your mouth out a little.” He put the mask against my face and I breathed in the warm, strange tasting air. The beeping sound gradually slowed down and settled into a regular rhythm.

“There you go. Oxygen levels are up so your heart doesn't have to work so hard. Good boy.” He picked up his clipboard. “Now I just need to take a few details and we'll be on our way.”

 

The corridors of the emergency ward were lined choc-a-bloc with people. Some of them looked so old and lay so still, frail faces with pale thin lips - taking in the merest sips of air, you wondered if it would've been better to take them straight to the cemetery and wait for the angel there.

There were a lot of drunks as well. Some of them were singing and bleeding, some of them throwing up and moaning, groaning and shouting and calling for a nurse with the dong, dong, dong of the call button going all the time.

One man in particular was making a terrible noise, gurgling in his juices and grasping for life.

“Sounds bad, doesn't he?” said an old black man sitting in a wheelchair opposite me. He seemed to be all bones and big eyes, hugging his knees and rocking himself backwards and forwards.

“Why doesn't someone help him?” I asked.

He tilted his head and eyed me for a long time.

“Why don't you help him?” He said.

“I don't know what to do. It's not my job.”

“And if he dies?”

“Then it's not my fault.”

He looked away so as not to accuse me with his eyes.

“But of course you already know…” he started. “…that he's not going to die. Making too much noise for a start…” he giggled throatily like an old smoker. “It's the quiet ones you gotta watch out for.”

He looked at me for a meaningful moment, but I didn't know what to say so I looked away.

“Like you,” he said, and things started to creep up my spine.

“I know why you're here,” he said. Oh god. My mind felt like it was trying to escape from my skull. ‘Please don't talk,' I tried to say, but my lips were stapled together. ‘Please don't say anymore'.

“You been playin' with dead people.” He said.

 

I sat there for ages, listening to the nurses ever-cheerfully cajoling people into beds and out of clothes and constantly cleaning up after patients who had no control of their bowels or their manners. The nurses never got cross and were always kind and caring, no matter what the provocation, hour after hour after hour. Finally, one of them ushered me into a small curtained cubicle and told me to take off my clothes and put on a hospital gown which was far too small. I felt a bit breezy about the buttocks, but it was quite nice in a naughty way.

“A doctor will be around to see you in a minute.”

At midnight, a doctor walked in looking at his clipboard. “How are you feeling?” he asked. By this stage, I was feeling fine and ready to go home.

“Nothing wrong as far as we can see. Says you're not sleeping very well. Are you on any medication?”

“No.”

“Any recent illnesses or operations?”

“No.”

“Any allergies?”

“No.”

“Fine. I'll give you some sleeping pills. Should set you right. Any stress at the moment?”

“A little.” I lied.

“That's probably the cause. You need to relax, take a holiday.”

 

*

 

Well, here I am. Relaxing at the laundrette. Ha, ha, that's a joke. She watches me now. The laundrette lady. The first time I came here, I jammed the machine and now she makes me empty all the pockets first, watching me as if I was a criminal. She always makes my clothes seem so dirty. She has these big wooden tongs that she picks them up with to put them into the machine….waving them around so everyone can see. Other people's washing looks clean before they put it into the machine. Mine isn't clean even after it comes out. Ha, ha. Anyway, I'm getting depressed again, so I think I'll go out for a walk.

 

*

 

The sun was warming up nicely and you could feel spring was in the air. I was getting a bit peckish too, so I headed for my favourite snack-shop down the road. Along the way, I browsed a bit in the second-hand bookshop just to wet my appetite, but I like to eat more than I like to read so I moved on.

A sign in the very next shop caught my eye. ‘All plumbing jobs taken on, no matter how big or small.' Without thinking, I went in and walked up to the counter, feeling like a grown up. I looked around at the buckets and brooms and nails and pipes and screwdrivers and sandpaper while I waited for the shopkeeper to serve me.

“Can I help you, Sir?”

“My toilet's broken.”

“I'm sure we can help you with that. Do you know what's wrong with it?”

“It won't flush.”

“Ah. Is there any water in the cistern?”

“I don't know.”

“Never mind. Shouldn't be a problem,” he said, peering into a brown covered appointment book. “When would suit you Sir?”

 

Well that was easy. I walked along the pavement with a spring in my step. Well, not so much a spring, more just a little wobble of well-being. Can't imagine why I've been so afraid of getting the loo fixed before. He was such a nice man.

Then I happened to glance into a passing window and stopped dead in my tracks. You see what happens when you get over cocky. God slaps you down. There it was. My brooch. The dead woman's brooch behind the bins in the back of my drawer. Something was happening that I couldn't see. Who would do that? And there's that noise again. Damn trains going to run me over one day. I looked to the heavens for help and saw ‘Pink Paradise' painted above the window. Although it looked very faded, it was still quite pink, and I could feel it soothing me and the noise in my brain started fading away.

I must say though that it didn't look so much a paradise as a second hand junk shop. Mostly old clothes and stainless steel toast-holders and heart shaped picture frames and stuff. LP records. And it was all closed up. ‘Too Let.' Don't know who'd want to rent this. It was very dilapidated, and the wall under the window was filthy and stained with dog pee. But I must say it all brought me back to the hum drum. I'm sure the brooch must just be a coincidence. There must be hundreds of them like that. More than likely there's a whole drawer full of them behind the counter. The thought comforted me and helped to dampen down the dark doubts that were still surging just beneath the skin of things. I thought the best thing was to go and have something to eat.

 

*

 

For the next few days, things went along fine and the toilet even got repaired. It needed a new ball-cock apparently. Whoever thought of that name was taking the piss. Ha, ha. Anyway, then the pills ran out.

So hush-a-bye baby, I now have a story to tell. I was woken at midnight by the rain hammering on the windows, and badly needing a wee, I hopped over to the sink and joined in the noise of the downpour. Blissfully lost in thought, I happened to glance out the window and gave an involuntary squirt when I saw her turning the corner under the tree. I blinked but there was no mistaking the pink umbrella walking through the rain towards me. It was the old lady. I knew I wasn't dreaming because I could feel the steel sink under my willy as she went by, brooch pinned to her chest as if it was mocking me. I remembered the one in the shop and for a moment I didn't know what to believe. I hesitated for a second, then lurched round the table and nearly ripped my fingernails off in my hurry to get the drawer open. The brooch was gone.

 

The relentless rattle of rain on the windowpane rakes at my nerves. Every time I nod off it knows and rushes at the house, keeping me awake and pinned to the problem, like the brooch on her breast, never letting me rest. There's another rumble of thunder and the rain starts to beat like a stick on a drum as the storm picks up the pace. I go back to bed and lie down but it's impossible to sleep or to think with all the noise, millions of tiny bullets thrashing at the window in waves and the thunder of the big guns behind getting louder and stronger until it feels as if the room is going to collapse. Then the cardboard comes loose and the devil slips in through the gap, howling and whistling a shrieking tune on the edge of the taut sticky tape that sets my teeth jangling. I rush across the room and try to push the cardboard closed but it's soggy and bends in the wind whipped water frothing frenzy of foam and I rush back to the other side of the room, sliding on the slippery floor and grabbing onto the table as the room begins to creak and crack under the strain of the attack. The darkness thickens about me like blood and an awful thrill of anticipation creeps over my scalp as the room judders and bends and begins to beat like a bowstring. This is it. The noise is overwhelming. The cardboard plucks loose and slaps across the room and the whole dark storm pours in unopposed, a grand airborne waterspout dancing a devilish victory celebration, swirling and gyring around me faster and faster, higher and higher, trying to suck me off the face of the earth. I fall to my knees and hold on to the floor with all my might.

 

It seems to take hours for the whirlwind to recede and to be quiet again. I wait in the pitch darkness, drenched and clenched from teeth to toenail. I stretch out my hand and there's carpet under my fingers instead of linoleum. This isn't my room. Goosebumps begin crawling over my skin. I have no idea where I am but it isn't raining anymore and I can smell vomit. Suddenly an electric light goes on and I squeeze my eyelids shut against the painful brightness.

”What the hell have you been doing?” The voice makes me jump and I catch a glimpse of a huge man as he walks over and stands above me, blocking out the light. I cringe, not daring to move. All I can see are his big boots, standing in a puddle of puke.

“Jesus Christ! You've been sick again. What a mess.” He steps back and I tense up, expecting a blow. “Well, you see that you bloody clean it up? Do you understand?” I look up as he bends over me.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” he shouts in my face. I close my eyes and nod my head and somewhere in my brain I hear the jangle of keys and the slamming of a door and I'm holding onto the floor as the room starts spinning again. Faster and sickeningly faster we go. Just hold on. Stay conscious. Breathe deep. In, out. Hold on. Focus on something nice, something beautiful. Think of the pink lady…her soft white feet in the moonlight on the white rug…on the cold floor…storm...outside the door in the rain on my hands and knees beside the garbage bins gleaming wetly through my tears, watching myself from a distance as my last hope gropes about in the muck below those blubbering lips, swearing that it's going to be alright and crying because I know it's not, and feeling blindly for the brooch under the bins as if I'm reaching into my soul for a jewel beyond price…but there's nothing there, except despair.

I watch myself and wait, feeling strangely distant from my troubles. As if it isn't me. Just some fool I have to live with. And I know I'm mad, because I can see it in his eyes.

 

 

 

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