Harold wondered just how many nasty Asian ladies had this ‘woman’ run across in the course of her short life. Just as the thought rattled across his brain, the dialogue between the two women shifted course, treading that well defined path of bland, celebrity gossip. Trapped between inane discussions about plastic surgery and the stretch marks of the rich and famous, tiredness caught up with Harold and he drifted silently into the gossamer arms of waking dream...
***
... And he catapults over the edge of a bathtub filled with ice. If not for the sheer look of terror scratched upon his face, the scene would look comical. A chalk white man with cold pastry skin, despite the repeated blows from red hot Mexican sun, slip sliding his way out of a cold, wet tub to crawl across the bathroom floor. Cramming air deep into his lungs, Harold uses the sink for leverage; he pulls himself towards a dusty, cracked mirror. Seven years bad luck and was that his blood obscuring the reflective surface?
Laughing mechanically, his thought process muddled, a synaptic misfire spools out across his mind-screen, a talking head trailer babbling out words and phrases that review this luxury hotel in a less than favourable light. Pulling and stretching skin that looks like gelatine encrusted clay under piss-stained low watt light, Harold nervously checks for signs of organ removal. The tell tale X marks the spot of rough stitches administered by hands wearing oven mitts or something far worse.
“Shitshitshitshitshit.”
Not one for swearing, Harold repeats this trance like mantra and despite the cooling effect of ice against skin, droplets of sweat roll down his forehead from a receding hairline, stinging hollowed out eyes.
“Shitshitshitshitshit.”
There, a tiny hole just above his hip. Left side torso. No larger than the pointy end of a syringe or quill. Wiping moisture from his face, and exhaling relief, it would seem that his luck had held after all. Mirror be damned. Without hesitation Harold leaves the bathroom.
Order must be formed out of chaos, and he had a flight to catch. Gathering a washcloth and a few other essentials, he returns to the bathroom to wipe away all trace of the incident, to regain civility. The mundane nature of making himself presentable has a calming effect as he exits the room, carefully closing the door behind him before making his way towards reception with a bold, decisive stride and purpose in his step. Harold whips out a fan of dollar notes, barely tickling the heat molecules laying siege to his face.
“Hold the lift, senorita.”
Attempting a light, friendly tone, despite the circumstances of his departure, the maid disturbed, looks away from her task, and begins to rapidly press buttons, desperate to close the doors. Harold stumbles across from the space he previously occupied to the elevator shaft. He mutters to the empty corridor and eavesdropping doors as he slams the heel of his palm on the arrow indicating DOWN. It would seem Harold’s lucky streak had no plans to ditch him for the foreseeable. Silver doors bifurcate, producing a hot metal distortion of Harold’s doppelganger as he steps on through to the other side, falling deep into the black.
***
The cold, beige carpet of the waiting room floor waits patiently to catch him in with silent, outstretched fibres like a long forgotten, mythical beast.
Harold struggles to gain consciousness moments after hitting the floor, he would have sworn blind that he’d seen swastikas woven into the fabric of the carpet. His brain registered the sounds he was hearing as a kind of guttural bark, which in his disoriented state he quite naturally thought was of German origin.
“Ewe aw’right, mate?”
Propping himself up on one knee, Harold thought he recognised the heavily pregnant girl from earlier, unless the rutting season was in full swing.
“Ewe hear what I sayd mista?”
“Yes, I’m yes...I’ll be fine...in a moment. Need to catch my breath.”
Suddenly it dawns on Harold that he’s in the middle of some kind of bizarre marriage proposal scene. Silently, he prays to whatever gods are watching over him that the Neanderthal, who had ‘knocked up’ this bored Samaritan, had better things to occupy his time with. Fingers crossed, he’s out fertilizing more of the women folk and not duty bound. The drama comes to a sudden end with an electronic ‘belch’ and Harold’s name appears in lights above the cast, requesting that he, Mr. Perkins please visit Room Four. Impeccable timing. Harold made a mental note to thank the doctor for his rescue.
***
“Your blood pressure is a little high, but apart from that you seem to be as fit as a fiddle.” The doctor glances away from his notes, and shines a torch into Harold’s pupils.
“Have you have fainted before today, Mr. Perkins?”
“No, I can’t recall anything of that nature doctor, but I’m the first to admit that I’m no fitness addict. I do get to exercise through work occasionally.”
Harold shuffled in his seat to alleviate the tension building in his legs. The briefest moment of time is stretched to an impossible distance while the doctor consults Harold’s neatly stored medical history. Zeros and ones.
“I think we need to take blood just to rule out certain possibilities. I don’t want you to worry at this stage. It’s just a precaution and you’re in luck, Nurse Probert is in today. I’ll get her to squeeze you in, just take seat in reception while I make the necessary arrangements.”
***
“If you’ll just make a fist Mr. Perkins, a little scratch and... this won’t hurt a bit.” Nurse Probert expertly locates a vein on Harold’s left arm. The tip of the needle dents skin, but fails to penetrate flesh. Applying a little more elbow grease than usual, the needle snaps and the syringe remains empty.
“Oh my...I’m terribly sorry Mr. Perkins. That’s never happened before...are you alright?”
“Didn’t feel a thing.” Harold replies lazily, watching the nurse hastily cover up her embarrassment by preparing a second needle.
“It must have been faulty, this one should work fine, all you have to do is relax Mr. Perkins and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Once again the procedure failed. Harold’s flesh rebelled. No blood shall be spilled today.
“I’m so sorry Mr. Perkins; do you mind waiting while I speak with your Doctor?”
***
Harold did mind. He left without acknowledging the receptionist with whom he almost collided with in the narrow corridor between the waiting room and treatment areas. Whilst not reaching the dizzy highs of outright panic, the incident had left a sour note in the back of Harold’s throat. Without design, chance had led him into the welcoming bosom of ‘The Third Grave’, a morbidly named public house of ill repute, off the beaten path and a haunt that Harold would, under normal circumstances not be seen dead in.
“Just what the doctor ordered” whispered Harold, as he swung open the door like some long forgotten cowboy in search of vengeance and whiskey, women and wine.
“Make it a double.”
Turning away from the captivating conversation of his host, Harold took stock of his surroundings. Truth told, the interior of ‘The Third Grave’ reminded him of so many of the libraries he’d spent time in over the years. The only real difference being the throat searing stench of weak beer, low priced spirits and even cheaper perfume.
Despair did indeed thicken the gloomy atmosphere; the same could be argued regarding the aforementioned libraries, where the stacks were filled with old books instead of musty men, both of which remain largely ignored by the human race. Harold felt he could fit in quite well with the mood of this establishment.
“Same again?”
The barman had noticed Harold’s empty glass before it made contact with the surface of the bar, practically replacing the contents without waiting for a reply. Harold asked for a bottle he could nurse. He’d noticed the semi-privacy if not comfort of a corner booth. Away from the cursed stares of the regulars, who now seemed to take on the characteristics and form of a matte painting, a still life? Eyes shielded by infinite loops, masks made from the v
ery fabric of darkness itself.
Testing the tactile strength of a table that termites would give a wide berth, he sat on a sponge-like red velvet seat trying to ignore the silent audience that surrounded him. Closer inspection revealed clues that led him to believe he’d gate crashed a private party, although no signs excluded him from these festivities. Not exactly the crowd he expected to find on arrival.
A silver bucket contained champagne on ice. Yet he could not discern liquid in any of the many glasses, which adorned almost every visible table. The only sign of movement came from the middle aged lady with the bottled blonde fright wig and a spider tattoo, as she delicately stifled a runny nose. Cliché dictates she should be using the back of a well wrinkled and worn hand.
Harold blinks away this observation and all movement within the dry rot interior pauses.
He blinks again, and this time he’d swear on ten bibles he witnessed the sight of a dead stoat, tremble and kiss the wine-dark lips of a woman dressed to kill, or at the very least spend eternity haunting a long forgotten theatre of the damned. Her slender arms are sheathed in three quarter silk. Her slender body much the same, the form fitting dress rests on the swell of her ample bosom, her shoulders bare, a final resting place for her raven black hair, that matches the colour of her attire and the fur of the scarf that hangs loosely over one shoulder, its lifeless head forever resting on the soft pillow of her right breast. Harold lost in the dreamscape imagines his hand resting on the flesh of this mysterious creature standing before him.
“Would you care to buy a lady a drink?”
“If you don’t mind this sobering excuse labelled whiskey, feel free to join me.”
Harold can’t help but notice the slight, sensual curve of her lips as she produces a glass from out of thin air. Not quite a smile, more a promise of delights still unknown, he fills her glass with a generous amount of the sepia-toned liquor. The lady smiles, her teeth snow white against the gloomy, ill lit room. Another cliché shattered by the stunning example of female beauty sitting next to Harold. She should be a misshapen, a toothless old hag.
“Harold and you are?”
“Sshhh...” a warm, wet hiss slithered deep into his ear “...no names.”
The crowd within ‘The Third Grave’ suddenly seem satisfied with the proceedings; having returned en mass to ruckus celebration and noisy inebriation, as Harold’s new found lady friend joyfully nips his earlobe, whilst her arm slithers beneath the table towards the aroused lump straining at the centre of his trousers. Slowly, with surgical skill the zip is opened and her gloved hand reaches in, squeezing him softly for a brief moment before relinquishing the pressure and sliding her soft, velvet fingers along Harold’s erection.
Anticipating a sudden climax, her hand slows to a whisper. Harold hides his arousal and shame by tucking his chin into her left shoulder blade. Her gloved hand feels damp, yet no cries have been stifled. Drawing her hand towards the tip of Harold’s penis, her flesh is penetrated.
She pictures a fish, caught by the barbed hook at the end of a rod. They scream together, a cry of sheer ecstasy, and a cry of intense pain. Harold’s climax releases her hand, slick with blood and semen, her black velvet glove and flesh in ruin. She stands before him. Quaking. Her rage a driving force that shuts down rational thought. She slaps Harold across the face with her damaged hand, before making a dramatic exit from the dank interior into deep red glow of a late summer sun.
Silence.
Even the dust motes seem frozen in mid air. Harold attempts to quickly hide the evidence of his erotic encounter. His brain has simply not had the time to process the events leading up to this moment. Did she catch her hand on his zip? Was she just crazy? After all, the people in the pub had to be the strangest looking group of people he’d ever encountered. And now that group had focused all of their attention directly towards Harold, and every nerve in his body screamed for escape. Yet he stood, frozen to the spot like a frightened animal, caught in the laser beam stare of car headlights.
“What did you do to Eve?”
The question felt far too civilised for the situation and the surroundings. A short, yet powerful looking man in an immaculate, double breasted suit, awaited the answer to his question by smoothing his perfectly manicured moustache between index finger and thumb. Harold was still trying to process these events when the question was repeated, this time a warning was added to the dialogue, which was still delivered in a voice so charming, it chilled the very marrow of Harold’s bones.
“I’m afraid I will not ask again; please tell me what could possibly provoke Eve into inflicting violence upon your person?”
Harold simply does not possess the ability to answer the question. So the man punches him, a text book right hook that lands squarely on the jaw, shattering not Harold’s face but the man’s hand. With a push, and a shove what little resistance left in Mr. Prim’n’proper’s manner is no longer a matter of opinion. From the waist up and the neck down, his body is now limp, his ribcage shattered, and his spine had been snapped too.
Harold almost trips over the quivering mass on the floor, as his fight or flight survival instinct overrides intellect, allowing him to escape the ever increasing confines of the public house into the sweet freedom of the world at large and the sparkling promise of twilights descent.
***
“Harry?” Maude counts towards zero, before adding “I’ve been worried sick, a woman called from the surgery, asking you get in touch. It sounded urgent.”
Harold drowns out the worried drone of his sister’s voice as he washes away all evidence of the afternoon’s activities. Looking back at his reflection in the mirror, he takes an old cutthroat razor from the medicine cabinet, and cautiously nicks his left cheek. It takes far more effort than usually required, even factoring in the dull blade. Yet the wound heals, leaving almost no trace of its existence.
“I need to show you... Maude.”
Harold strides confidently into the kitchen, where she is busy distracting herself by fixing a pot of tea, his use of her name sets all kinds of alarm bells ringing.
“Harry, where have you been all afternoon, I was...”
“Never mind all that, I have something to show you...something I can’t explain.”
And with these words, Harold takes a stainless steel tenderising hammer to the back of his left hand.
One. The first blow barely makes its mark on the skin.
Two. A second blow with increased force results in a single crack as Harold’s index finger snaps like a twig.
Three. Four. Bone crunches and Harold gets into the swing of things.
Five. The sound of crushed glass.
Six. Who’s laughing now?
Seven. Eight and Nine. Harold’s hand is a pulped between the steel of the hammer and the table top.
Ten. One more for luck.
***
Maude guides Harold over to the sink, where she careful rinses his hand under refreshing water ran from the cold tap.
“It will help to bring out any bruising Harry.”
“You don’t understand...look at my hand...” which he raises to eye level, “it looks a mess now, but just you wait and see.”
Describing his hand as a mess was pretty much an understatement on Harold’s part. Under the harsh lights of the kitchen, you could see in stunning clarity the shards of broken bone piercing the flesh of his hand. The index finger was so badly damaged that it hung like a wet sock blown astray by a strong gust of wind. The tell tale swirl of his fingerprint could be seen against the back of his hand. Maude was about to protest. Harold could read her thoughts simply by judging her facial expressions.
“Watch...closely” he said.
The finger begins to take on a more natural shape, like that of a sausage skin being filled with minced meat; Harold’s index rises for the occasion. Watching the hand heal itself was like viewing time lapsed photography of an explosion in reverse. Gradually, the flesh absorbed the shrapnel-like shards, k
nitting bone to bone and reforming the natural bonds between the broken, skeletal jigsaw pieces.
The human hand consists of twenty-seven bones, and watching metacarpal bones fuse with the phalanges beneath the sheath of skin was strangely hypnotic, even beautiful. It was almost too much for Maude to take in. She loved her brother passionately; who by now was obviously feeling tired due to the physical and mental strain on mind and body. Slowly, Harold turned his hand towards Maude so that the palm was directly in front of her childlike face.
There were tears of joy in her eyes as she took the healed hand into her own and silently, without the need for further words, she gently led Harold by the hand, upstairs and to her room, where she closed the door on the world at large, so its harsh rules and social niceties could be ignored.
***
Exercise seemed to be doing Harold the world of good. The slightly damp grass below well worn work boots glimmered in the light of the rising sun. Red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning, an old phrase full of sorrow and deathly pallor, skin the colour of drained blood. The lazy scent of an early breakfast on the breeze flip flops Harold’s stomach. Flip and Harold craves the succulent flesh of dear, departed livestock. Flop and he wants nothing more than to regurgitate a stomach full of twisted bile and searing acid.
Time to knuckle down and concentrate. Time to mark out the area for today’s excavation, even the most dedicated students are easily distracted when fine weather is combined with the exertion required for trench work. The results equal the appearance of bare flesh. Stray thoughts rattle around Harold’s mind as he trudges across the field, with the frequent desire to urinate sloshing around at the seams of his bladder.
“No flesh will be spared”
“I beg your pardon, son?” Farmer Crumley lights his pipe by striking a match against his thumb.
The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM) Page 5
