AND IT CRASHES.
Victim pulled from car wreck…
The headlights from the vehicle behind bounced in the rear view mirror and were gaining fast on the car. Its four passengers became immediately and simultaneously tense. The jumping lights chased about the car in the dark until there appeared a blue light on the roof of the following car. Shit, it’s the fucking police said the driver, unmarked car said another, yea I can fucking see that, just pull over man said the other, just fucking pull over man, do it, shut the fuck up I’m driving, just pull over .. for fucks sake and he swerved quickly to the side of the road. The police man stepped out of the black Mercedes, fucking hell, how do they afford that thing, said one in the back seat, fucking tax money you know, were you speeding Cause their car’ll come out of speeding tickets, like commission but for them its better than … he cut short, could you step out for a minute sir, said the police to the driver as he shined his torch at each person in turn. The passenger seat man made to get out, no not you, he said, just you, pointing to the driver already getting out the car.
He took him back to his car, ushered him in, then it was silent after the door slammed shut. Shit, what now, nothing man, just chill…just relax and act chilled, one in the back seat –without lowering his head for fear of alerting the watching police behind – very carefully pulled a small bag from his pocket and jammed it under the car seat…then he lit a cigarette and opened the window, it was a fresh night, very cool air but he was sweating. Soon enough the other returned to the car and slowly turned the ignition and moved away. The police car sat with its lights on, watching, just breathalysed me, fine yea, oh yea, shit watch the car man, fuck man, they’re still fucking watching us, alright alright, just pass me a god dam cigarette please, ok. But you haven’t been drinking..? one in the back seat said as he reached back under the seat to retrieve the small bag he had hidden there, then thought better and left it… no man, I never drink when I smoke, and there’s no fucking breathalyser for the dragon huh..? they all laughed, better than a pint…yea fuck em… the mood lifted, and it was fresh air blowing through the open window as they cruised on through the night street. They took a detour to ensure they weren’t being followed then, parking the car near half a mile away, sent one out to pick up the supplies. As the three sat in the car they smoked, but said nothing, only the occasional thought spoken out loud with no reply. Always tense waiting on a pick up, always tense preparing for the worst. An hour later they were back in a flat, passing the tin foil wrap around the two sofas where the four sat, each sinking quietly or with a slight murmur, climbing the rope on fire, a life line to a subterranean dream land, smoky hazed out vision, eyes weakly sink into its pull, inwards, no back-up there, no screams, just somewhere in between…
It’s the last role of the dice boys, he said, his voice dry and distant as he held the lighter beneath the tin foil chalice, I’ve been catching a ride in a hearst and hey, whats worse, it felt like a garden of eden boys, he leant over the foil with the pipe tube and inhaled deeply, then half dropping it on the table fell back deeply into the sofa, I had a dream, a calling you might say, but its not here, its there boys, he looked up vaguely and realised he was alone, or at least the other three bodies were dead to the world, deep in their dream-sleep, but he was sick, sick morning sweat and shiver, weak limbs bones ache and movement’s like a bomb’s dropped…the slow drowning back to my senses he thought, even dead fingers talk, a soiled mouth and mind but not blind for all of that, black suit, nothing stains black except white, nothing and everything stain white, white, he winced, the light was pain…he closed his eyes and trailed off…
Later, he got up to go, picking the cigarettes off the table, see you later boys he said but no-one heard…
Back at the flat in the tenement block it was packing, he had to leave this night, he was wearied and half dumb but he filled the suitcase, throwing what wouldn’t fit out of the fourth floor window into the allotments below, papers scattered in the wind, an unseasonable fall of snow he said, again, to no-one in particular. The sky was heavy. He heard the Latvian moving in the kitchen where he slept on a mattress, the Latvian called out, is that you, are you back now, where have been he said as he walked into room wearing the faded blue dressing gown, you ok he said looking at him, yes, just gotta sleep now, talk later, you leaving today, no, tonight, oh, ok, I think the landlord will come tomorrow to check you are gone, good, tell her when she gets here I wont refund her petrol money, no she will take a taxi I think, right fine, forget it…and he lay down on the bed. The Latvian just stood for a moment looking at the open window, then at the room, are you going to clean this room before you go tonight, then without an answer went to leave.
The street was a thick moving torrent and the rain came down in a sheet, his leather boots grew heavier, heavier and his feet were soaking wet, his legs weak as he sat on the brown box suitcase in the bus shelter. He looked down at the ferry baggage sticker on the side peeling in the down pour. He stood up and emptied his pockets to find change for the bus, holding the coins in his dripping hands, one pound and eight pence, he threw the eight pence into the gutter and waits on the bus. His wet shirt sticks to his skin as he boards the bus hauling the suitcase behind him. Someone tells him to get the fuck out the way but his head is still a fog and the warm dampness of the bus of people slows his reactions…the lights streak across the street as the bus moves off, and he watches the shifting beams of the white headlights and red tail lights interplay with the neon shop signs on the moving canvas…he is shaken out of the brush strokes by the phone ringing in his pocket, he leaves it unanswered and ignores the heads that turn to him hearing the sound. He gets off the bus a stop early for fear of being followed or reported to some authority for he looked like what he was – someone running from something.
He reached the flat thirty minutes later, and sat on his case in the cramp kitchen, lit a cigarette and opened a beer from the fridge. He looked down at the girl lying on her elbow on the mattress on the floor of the kitchen, she smiled.
The frenzied experiment was not yet over, the fantasy dance seemed unready to relinquish him and he braced himself for another round in the ring, curiosity dripping like an unhealed wound.
hello, this is a message concerning work – long pause – I got your message, and its fine, yea, fine, just calling, uh.., hoping you got over that bout of food poisoning (the words swallowed down his throat, slimy like a fly catching lizard’s tongue) – and also just wondering if you are going to make it up for Friday, well, if you could give me a call back when you get this…thanks…
*
Ignoring the phone message He fled north, its darker there, the sun is down for longer, and i need rest he thought, and, above all, sanctuary. A cheap northern hotel resort is the last place anyone would come looking…and it was time to leave the Stone City behind.
*
A week later He awoke, fucking rats he screamed, god awful fucking rats everywhere, but then his eyes focused onto the beady swollen pupil-ed and made-up eyes staring down at him, his hands groping and fondling at the belt, Rape! Rape! he shouted but no-one was listening, only his body behind him, his head between the thighs, jesus he shouted then pulling his knee back as far as it would go he extended his booted foot and caught the queer square on the nose at the angle of an uppercut, blood, his wailing, then the agony of realisation as he knew suddenly that he had no idea of where he was, then his wailing, the sounds of people moving in the house, he stood nearly falling back down again, his head was a swamp, unmoveable, unthinkable as he stepped over the body on the carpet, that curled up frame and him still wailing hopelessly, shut the fuck up you weasily shite he whispered as he gathered the rolled up notes and other substances from the table top, then stepping over him in a strange wave of calm he broke and was running to find the front door, all in a matter of seconds…
As he half ran half stumbled down the wintery street he decided again to lay low for a couple of days, just observe this place, look at the white mountains, maybe interview a couple of skiers at the bar but whatever else he thought I must get back to the hotel room, back to safety behind a double lock, regain my sense of being and get out of this god awful cold. But he knew god wasn’t gonna help now, not after those wise cracks about the virgin mary in the lobby, his lover, jesus he swore again, no sorry, Buddha, this is fucked…
he weaved through the snow for perhaps an hour, lost, wearing only a shirt – jacket long gone, probably in that house – so he kept a steady pace. He reached the room after a confused conversation with the concierge at the hotel lobby then locked the door after scrawling on the do not disturb sign under any circumstances; he turned the radiator and the shower and hot taps onto maximum temperature to build up some heat, then lay slumped against the bed near the radiator and quickly fell into a deep and unpredictably long sleep.
Waking up and looking down at the mud stained trousers and the spots of blood on his white shirt he wondered what he was doing in this place, he winced as the beady eyed face momentarily flashed back into his mind, this is god awful he thought, I need to slip the noose. But there were no trains running out of this place he calculated for at least two days, I may as well push my luck and see what I could find he thought as he realised happily that he had got over the bad fever he had reoccurringly had. Then he headed out again, that would be the last thing those insects would expect he smiled, perhaps I am safer than I thought…or perhaps not, for he still secretly feared being run out of town by angry highlander Scots…I have to lay low…
As he stepped back out into the snow of the resort he felt the ice on the back of his throat, the room had been thick with condensation cloud when he had left it due to the shower and hot taps running constantly for somewhere between 36 and 48 hours straight. The damp warmth of that room had eventually begun to sap his strength and he was glad to be out of it for a while at least. The mountains were beautiful wearing white and the sky was clear and fresh.
The central resort complex was a shopping centre, where the guests dutifully bought up the useless tact shamelessly on sale at vastly inflated prices, a coffee stand and a bar. He ordered a White Russian and watched the people’s blank faces going about the business of spending their hard earned money on things they didn’t want but somehow felt they needed for some higher purpose.
“what should we buy to remember this place by honey?” “dunno, how about that..?” and her arm raises mechanically and picks up a small set of unworkable imitation bag pipes…
on closer inspection he discovered that the small set of imitation bag pipes did actually play some unrecognisable tune, when squeezed, in a metallic screechy tone, a near by shopper inclines their head to hear the sound better…
“yea honey, its uh…nice…isn’t it…uh…?..” and she looks back at him “uh, yea…I guess it is…” and it drops soundlessly into the shopping basket and they walk on without saying another word about it…
I am the hated honesty here he thought, the cruel, crippling lash of truth, the knees go weak, the mind swamps, and the vision blurs in shifting patterns, hands reach forward as if in darkness, feet are unsteady as if the floor were not flat tiles and the hands grip the shopping baskets; he sits watching the unravelling like a ball of wool in the hands of a wide-eyed kitten…
The gods sell all things at a fair price. Proverb….
Finally, two days later, the countryside is flashing by, the carriage is warm and he is done…with the empty sky as my witness I fled that noose before I hung, he smiled again and swigged the bottle of wine, heading south once more away from the dark north towards safety or at least a measure of it…leaving the useless dark cold of that place, strangling itself with that great American dream type thing, yearning for fat Americans and fat American dollars to save their souls from themselves, Americans wearing the kilts of clans they’ve never heard of safe in their holiday compounds just the way they like it with CNN and all the home channels in the hotel rooms, eating burgers and chips and tomato sauce, a home from home in the highlands…and well what of the highlands..?..the clans now happy to play their pipes for a couple quid an hour as the dollar has done what the conquering English armies could never do by reducing the Proud clans to ‘yes’ men and for what..?.. Just for a piece of a toxic waste pie…for as Kerouac knew “Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion…”…
*
Back in the Stone city he went straight to see Dr. Zimbadean, a medicator, part time seer part believer. He sat in his basement office; the back room was stacked to the ceiling with boxes of pills, bottles, flasks, amulets, pendants and all around the walls of the whole place various species of plants, roots and animal matter were nailed – each in their own bag. The specimens hung there like the memories of a man possessed; this was Dr. Zimbadean and the insane old witchdoctor’s labeled and ordered chaos.
What’ll it be then? He asked. Well doctor, I was hoping you could tell me that, that’s why I come to you after all, the doctor smiled saying yes, I thought so, yours is quite a serious case so I think a few doses of this will be right as he passes several dark brown bottles with black lids across the wooden table. He picked up the bottles and examining them saw that inside each was a dark creature, lurking in a stasis, hanging in a spiral type pose, lizards ready to unwrap and boa constrict a man and hold him enveloped for long slow hours. Good he said, thanks doctor.
*
Stumbling half running but limping heavily on his left leg the silhouette became a shadow on the slope, then a solid form as it bound on downwards. Its maniac gait was accentuated by the torn coat that flayed behind him in the winds, an inky black smeared grey torn coat, falling loosely off one of his shoulders. His face loomed forwards as he fled the ridge where the first rays of morning were marking a frosty skyline, inviting, but the figure still fled, his hair wet in thick tassels and his eyes showing the delirium as the landscape shattered into glass-like shards, oozing bright light and colour – it was dawn, and the dawn raid was over.
*
There was only one window in the office, and it faced out onto a disused garden, over-grown and unseen. It was warm in the near unventilated basement rooms, three partitioned sections of the floor. Zimbadean had his feet on the desk and was flicking through the t.v. channels while he looked on silently while inhaling cartridge after cartridge of nitric oxide, the voice on the t.v. blared about an artist, Wolfgang Flatz, an action artist, who dropped a bull filled with fireworks from out of a helicopter…flicking channels…17 dead, 4 wounded and another 23 still missing…and the auto-mutilating appearance of the t.v. world continued unabated, unashamed; Zimbadean switched it off and threw a quick look at his patient.
He went on to say that he had ordered an old African mask on the internet, dating back to the 19th Century, at least, which was originally used as a ritual object by a certain unnamable tribe who had since been wiped out by T.B. and Small Pox, which later, once stolen, was on display in a World Fare in 1905, and was gawped at by European visitors and tourists, and later yet went on to inspire the paintings of Picasso. What will you do with it now then..? he asked, genuinely curious, Zimbadean smiled and said, Burn It, Why? What did you think..?
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