The Oeuvre

by Greg James

  “No,” he breathed.

  With a sharp movement, the child drew the knife across her throat in a long, sure stroke. John stood up, crying out. It couldn’t be real, yet there was no way it could not have been. At the sound, the child turned and stared at him, the eyes in its face such deep, bitter, empty, angry holes.

  All of the lights went out. Darkness and silence hurried over everything. A stillness hung in the air. John called her name. No-one answered. He could taste dust on his tongue. He felt small and lost. He wanted to get outside.

  The lights came back on without a sound.

  John blinked myopically in the brightness. The stage was empty. Daria and the child were gone. He pulled himself up onto the stage. The weight of the crowd was still at his back. John turned to face them and saw so many faces staring blankly at him, blind and unseeing, some with cracked, alabaster foreheads, and others with arms and hands missing. There were holes in their torsos, and holes where there should have been faces. They stood in clusters and sat at dusty, stained tables. The broken figures were everywhere, their eyes looking off emptily into a distance that John couldn’t see.

  I heard them, he thought. They whispered. They breathed. They talked. They moved around me. They had bad breath. They were all alive a few moments ago, before the lights went out.

  John touched a plaster face, pushed at it. It moved slightly, and he felt the dead weight of it as it swayed against him. He jerked his hand away. There were traces of moisture around its eyes. Could it have been from tears?

  No, he thought. That’s ridiculous. These things could weep no more than the dead were able to. It must be damp, or rot, or something.

  John looked up at the light fittings, saw bare blubs and fractured tubes spilling out their uneven fluorescence. He turned to the back of the small stage, which breathed out dust as he moved. The curtain hanging there was tattered and grey. He could smell mould clinging to abandoned fabric. He didn’t touch it, though he thought there was a gleam of colour, a trace of redness.

  He left it and made his way through the crowd of remnants to worn steps that had been polished wood when he’d entered earlier. His shoes scraped on rough-edged concrete as he climbed upwards. It took a push, a shove, and the breaking of wooden planks nailed across the sealed door for John to get out into the street. Once he was outside, wiping at the dirt on his clothes, John looked at Madame Jo’s . The sign was gone. Chipped boards and tarpaulin were in place. Rusted fingers of wire clung to the facade’s framework. There was nothing to see here.

  “You alright there?”

  A policewoman was coming towards him. He didn’t know what to say or do, so he let her carry on talking. “That place’s been closed for a good few years now, sir.”

  “A few years,” he repeated.

  “Yeah, Council revoked their licence. Shame, really. It’s been a part of the area for donkeys.”

  “Why’d they do it? Revoke the licence, I mean?”

  “One of the acts used a minor. Lost them their licence in a heartbeat because of it.”

  “No, they didn’t. They didn’t use him,” John said, without thinking. “He knew exactly what he was doing. He was using them.”

  Her face creased into deep lines. Her mouth became tight and small. John smiled at her weakly, not sure why he’d said what he’d said.

  “You’d best think and say things like that out of my hearing, mate. Move along, please. Like I said, it’s closed. Nothing to see here.”

  Chapter Five

  Daria arrived in London at Euston station a little after dark. Not long after the sun went down, she felt a jolt. Stop. Halt. Arrived. We’re here. Everybody out. Daria dragged her bags down from the overhead rack and bundled herself up in the tatty army surplus jacket she’d brought with her. The air was a whispering cold.

  She tried to open the carriage door, but it wouldn’t budge. She swore at it as her bags bunched up and got in the way. The space was becoming tight – too small – and she felt a scream in her throat, wanting to get out.

  “’Scuse me, help you there?”

  A voice from behind, a man’s body pressing against her as a hand came into view: sweaty, callused, and mildly scabbed. She pressed her elbows into her sides, trying to become smaller, further away from him. The hand reached out of the window, fumbled down for the handle, and opened the carriage door. The clothes he was wearing were too much of a thinness between his flesh and her own. She did not want to be touched – not after the dream about the man in the suit – but there was nowhere to go. She had to endure it.

  “Just a knack to it, is all,” he said.

  Daria felt him smile and smelled his breath: old eggs and rotting sardines. She didn’t want to see his face. Muttering a quiet thank you, which caught her throat, she stepped down onto the platform and let her bags clump to the ground. Her shoulders ached already from their weight.

  Might as well get a brew in.

  “Help you with those bags there?”

  A voice from behind again; the same voice from the train?

  Daria turned, feeling the station carousel around her, its people and its shadows playing with each other. A mousey-haired young man with acne and an awkward look in his eyes was standing in front of her. His chin was worn raw by the beginnings of stubble. He tried to smile, and she watched him fail.

  “H-help you with those bags?” he stumbled over the words a second time. His eyes were glistening as he licked at dry, split lips.

  “Yeah, ta,” Daria said.

  The lad showed her to the station food court, where you could get a cup of lukewarm tea served by a woman with a rusted tangle of vinegary hair and a lined face the same colour as congealed fish-paste. The odour of grease hung in the air, rising from old burger wrappers and chip-papers wedged between the cracked, plastic seats. The tea tasted normal enough, after the journey here. The lad seemed normal enough as well, now that he was here in the light of the station, with other people passing back and forth, going to and from their destinations.

  London Euston station was starkly lit, with façades of white plastic and painted metal contrasting with the rusted scaffolding, and exposed patches of concrete showing where it was being slowly renovated.

  The lad said his name was Gavin, and he looked like a Gavin to her. There was something oddly safe about him, but a bit unhappy too. She didn’t ask about that, though. “So, you from around here, then?”

  “Nah, I’m from London. Down Finchley way. Bit further down the road from here.”

  “You going back there tonight?”

  He stared at her. “Yeah. I’m going all the way.” He paused. “You here for something?”

  “Yeah. I’m a performer, and I’m going to be part of something in Soho, just for a night.”

  “Right. You sound like you’re from up north.”

  “That’s ’cause I am.”

  “Right, yeah, sorry. You wouldn’t be here otherwise, would you?”

  She could see him taking in the black rims of her glasses, the frayed seams of her army surplus jacket, the scuff-marks on her boots.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. No, I’m good,” he said, nodding, not quite meeting her eyes.

  Daria sipped her tea, her eyes catching movement at the counter. The woman behind it seemed to be leaning into the conversation, reaching out to the table somehow. Daria stared directly at the woman, and she retreated, no longer leaning over the counter, instead swatting dust from a sagging display of unwrapped cookies and flaking pastries. Daria kind of liked Gavin, this lad who couldn’t look her in the eye. He finished his tea, brushed his hands on his knees, and made to get up. She reached out and touched his hand, making him stay. He glanced up at her, his eyes those of someone waiting to say goodbye.

  “You don’t have to go,” she said.

  “Yes, I do,” he replied sadly. “I’ve been here too long. Gotta go. Mum’ll be worrying, y’know.”

  “Are you sure?”
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  He nodded, tried to smile, failed again, and got up. Daria watched him weave his unsteady way around the Formica tables and chairs. He was turning the corner towards the station toilets when she decided to go after him. Her bags would be all right for a moment. She followed, catching a glimpse of him where he seemed unclear, like a photograph fading under sunlight. She pushed her way through an uncomfortable surge of people coming off Platform Seven, craning her neck as best she could so she didn’t lose sight of him. She saw him, here and there, moving through the crowd, almost lost in it. He looked fragile, as if he might fall apart when people barged into him.

  Daria came out the other side of the crush, feeling grubby and dishevelled, and saw the door of the Gents toilet gently swinging to-and-fro. She pushed it open and went inside. He must’ve ducked in here. She passed the line of urinals and went from one cubicle to the other. As she pushed at the door of the last one, she felt it catch.

  “Gavin? You in there? You okay?”

  No reply, but a wet, languid sound came from inside.

  Daria rattled the door again. “Gavin?”

  The door was snatched inwards, out of her hand. Two faces stared at her, angry: a young, lipsticked man on his knees, and an older man on the toilet with his fly undone, his pierced penis hanging out. It was slick with spit and pre-cum, and starting to grow flaccid. Daria watched the dull fluids pearl and drip from the seated man’s Prince Albert ring. Neither was Gavin, and their unblinking eyes were perfectly white.

  “Fuck off, cunt. Your boyfriend ain’t here.” The older man spat, slamming the cubicle shut.

  She went back to the table they’d shared. Her bags were gone. Stolen.

  “Fucking fucksticks. Fuck ... shit.”

  Daria looked around. No sign. Nothing familiar nearby. Long gone. Whoever had taken them was well away. She went to the station staff; they were useless. She wanted to cry but didn’t. It was getting cold in the station, and Daria missed being in the cafe with a hot brew warming her hands and a bloke across the table from her. Things hadn’t been so bad a few minutes ago. Life changed every moment, she thought, and so much was lost in each of those moments.

  She had some cash and her phone, and that was it. The show wasn’t until tomorrow night. She felt very alone listening to the echoes of the tannoy system, chasing one another throughout the station. People were milling all around her, yet this place felt sterile, empty, and hollow.

  A voice crackled through the air. “Welcome to London Euston...”

  “Yeah,” she said, in bitter reply. “It can go suck a fuck.”

  Chapter Six

  John sat on the platform of Green Park tube station, staring at the far wall, waiting for his train home. He’d gone to Madame Jo’s in an attempt to understand what had happened when he’d met Daria the first time, but now he was further away from solving the puzzle than before. He’d lost her again, if she’d been there at all. The club was closed, had been for ages, and he’d sat there in the dark, surrounded by those still figures, those remnants of humanity, watching an empty stage. She couldn’t have been there and neither could the child, yet he had seen them with his own eyes. It was a fair walk from Soho to Green Park, down Oxford Street, with the night’s revellers hovering at bus stops and calling out drunken abuse to passers-by they didn’t know, but he’d felt like he needed it. A good walk usually helped him clear his head; not this time, though. He let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes until they ached. Maybe sleep would make things better. He just needed to catch up on some sleep. Everything would be fine in the morning.

  Rise and shine, up with the sunshine, time to get up in the morning.

  Memories of Mum were the last thing he needed.

  The train arrived, with the usual gust of air, and John got on and sat down. There weren’t many people in the carriage, and it was quiet, which was how he’d hoped it would be. He wasn’t in the mood for dealing with London’s mentals tonight. John felt bad for thinking of them in such a way, but there was no other way he could really think of them. A tramp once sat next to him and proceeded to shit himself, a loose-toothed grin on his face. Another lost soul, who looked like he had severe, untreated psoriasis hidden beneath his overgrown facial hair, and a hood reeking of urine, once sat down opposite John and stared at him, unblinking, for three stops before John had enough and decided to get off and wait for the next train. He never forgot that man’s eyes, how untouched they were by disease or homelessness, so clear and so blue. Maybe it was something of London that seeped into your bones after a number of years, burning away sympathy and empathy. They were the wax, you were the candle, and London was the insistent fire eating the wick’s blackened end.

  It was fairly quiet in the carriage, and as the train pulled away with its familiar whine, he hummed along with it for a moment and took in his fellow travellers. He wasn’t much of a people-watcher. He usually preferred his own inner world when he was in transit, sparse though it might be, but the memory of the remnants in the club made him want to look at human faces tonight. He wanted to forget dead eyes, plaster skin, and the smell of rotting dust.

  A young woman in a pinstripe trouser-suit was changing her shoes from tarmac-black stilettos to a pair of beige ballet pumps. John watched the businesswoman’s posture change, the straightness and hardness vanishing, leaving behind a creature who sagged backwards into the worn seating. She closed her eyes and let the crown of her head rest against scratched window glass. In moments, she was asleep, as the train rocked consciousness away. John imagined she lived in a flat of austere pastel shades, all smooth surfaces, highly-polished, with glass-topped tables and chic leather chairs. Everything about her life would be modern, high-functioning, in order, and under control – except for these evening journeys home on the tube, where she put on a pair of battered, comfortable shoes and was cradled on her way by the motion of the train. Perhaps she was dreaming of childhood and simpler times; perhaps not. Further down the carriage three teenagers were sitting together – a hooded cabal. John wasn’t sure whether they were all boys, all girls, or a mixture. He caught glimpses of sour, frowning faces. Their eyes flicked in his direction and then back to the posters that underscored the peeling tube maps. One of them stood, shoulders slumped, and idly picked at the corner of the nearest map until the corner came free and a strip of map tore off, leaving a jagged length of emptiness reaching into the heart of London. The teenager rolled it into a ball between his, or her, fingers and wedged it between his, or her, lips. John watched, knowing what was coming next.

  The teenager spat the spitball at his, or her, friends. They swore and aimed a few half-hearted kicks in retaliation. The brief laughter was halting and humourless. Their eyes flicked back to John. He looked away, glancing at the businesswoman and smiling a little at the sound of her light snores. Her mouth had fallen open, making her look rather undignified, and she was snoring in rhythm with the train.

  At Bond Street, a young woman got on alone. She wore a short black dress, which made her stride stiff, and she carried her shoes in one hand. Her chestnut hair glimmered with whatever it’d been doused with earlier in the evening, and her make-up was plaster-thick on her face. When she sat down heavily a few seats away from John, he noticed her manicure and pedicure were French, her mascara was running, and her eyes were bloodshot. The wet sound of her breathing made him keep his eyes averted. She pulled something from her finger – a ring? – and tossed it across the carriage before uttering a bitter sob.

  John’s thoughts went on without him, into a dream where he comforted the woman, said the right things, and they went home together – a dream that made him utter a short laugh.

  The teenagers got off at Baker Street, as did the young, tearful woman, sparing John a look he did not return. But he did look after her before the train travelled on, and he saw an incongruity. She knelt before one of the teenagers – that couldn’t be right! – and undoing the hooded adolescent’s fly. She took something white, worm-like, and limp in her over
ly manicured hands.

  The sliding doors closed with a chime, and the train was off again, heading out of the city centre from Baker Street to St John’s Wood, Swiss Cottage, and finally Finchley Road, where it would come above ground. She was lost to him now. During the long stretch between Baker Street and St John’s Wood, his attention wandered up and down the carriage, trying to forget the scene he’d just witnessed, anything would do. He read some of the posters five times over. Sleeping pills. Stress-relieving herbal infusions. Bad puns to sell insurance and payday loans. They were tedious, but they knew their audience well. The lights dimmed, which happened sometimes on the tube. Like London, it seemed composed of numerous faulty connections trying to stay together.

  John jumped as a jolt coursed through him, and the air pressure changed. He sat back in his seat, catching his breath. The sensation from the sudden jolt was spreading out to his fingertips and down to his toes. The yellow lights of the carriage were winking out one by one, in order, following a sequence. He grabbed at the seating and found it to be tacky, soiled, and peeling off like old skin. There was a gluey feel to the texture. The train was still in the tunnel, deep inside, a long way in. How much longer until the other side?

  His hands fell back onto the seat as he leaned forward to peer out of the window. The seat was growing warm, unpleasantly so – a heat the same as those lost lights outside, those alluring lights. The seating was becoming soft and moist. In his periphery, he saw a piece of darkness separate from the shadows: an unlit shape that began moving down the carriage towards him. John let out a slow breath, looked at his hands, got to his feet, and decided to sit back down again. The carriage rolled underneath him, and a harsh cry of metal scraping against metal came from outside. The lights flickered on and off, or he blinked – he wasn’t sure which.