by V. C. Linde
CARRION MEN
Carrion Men tells the dual tale of dog fighting in the city and a young woman’s fight against mental illness over the space of a year in the heart of the city.
Scarlet works part time in a bookshop, is a successful freelance illustrator and has severe depression. As her condition worsens she starts to see a therapist and deal with her illness.
Thatch is a dogman, having spent years running dog fights and breeding grand champions he rents the building next to Scarlet’s apartment to stage fights and train his animals. His protégée, Jas, is the son of his right-hand man. In the process of stealing dogs back from the police pound after a raid, Jas’s father is arrested.
As Jas takes his father’s place at Thatch’s side, the law closes in on the gang and the police are tipped off about a dog fight. During the fight, police manage to break up Thatch’s gang and make arrests.
Scarlet’s friends support her and with their help she improves. However, the day to day pain of living with her illness makes her life unbearable. At the last, Scarlet wanders the city, no longer able to separate reality from the twisted illusion her illness has created.
V.C. LINDE writes poetry and prose in her Staffordshire home where she is surrounded by books and a rebellious garden. She has a degree in politics, which makes her especially good at making things up and writing them down. She won the 2012 New York Times Found Poetry competition and has been published in various print anthologies and online publications. Her poetry chapbook ‘And The Fox Crows’ will be published by Fox Spirit in 2014.
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Published by Salt Publishing Ltd
12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX
All rights reserved
Copyright © V.C. Linde, 2014
The right of V.C. Linde to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.
Salt Publishing 2014
Created by Salt Publishing Ltd
This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 978-1-78463-019-5 electronic
for my Mum
“Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.”
Julius Caesar, Act III: Scene I
CHAPTER ONE
September
Cries of voices shouting wordless threats rang across the street. Two dogs strained on thick leads. Snarling, spitting, snapping jaws, pulling hard to get to the throat and taste copper. Cars hurried past trying to get away from the vicious beasts.
“Hey! Jas!”
Thatch leaned on the horn as he yelled out of the car window, the BMW 3-Series angled between the dogs. Thatch’s trademark yellow hair ruffled in the late autumn wind.
“Get yer fucking dog under control!” Thatch said, grinning at the young boy and his Irish-bred pit bull. The other dog was quickly pulled away when it could no longer see its rival.
“Nah, Thatch, he’s just doing what he’s supposed to do. He’s watching my back.”
“Damn right he is Jas. Yer old man at home?”
“Think he’s in the Phoenix - can I come along with him next time you--”
“Shut yer fucking mouth, Jas. Yeah, you can come. As long as you learn to keep bloody quiet.” Thatch didn’t bother rolling the window back up as he sped off, easily twenty miles past the speed limit, bouncing over the traffic calming bumps in the road.
Jas carried on walking down towards the market. He’d won a bit of money betting on a roll in the park and was buying steak - not for him but for the dog, now trotting along at his heels. Its tongue lolled happily out and the sunshine seemed to cheer it. The fighter that had been beaten into it was long gone and canine simplicity had returned. Whiplash was just over a year old but had already been rolled by Jas’ dad in one of Thatch’s fights. He had been matched against one of Thatch’s own dogs and had the scars to prove it. Although he’d not taken much, Jas was in no doubt that Whiplash liked the taste of blood. Whether it came from steak, another dog or anyone who tried to hurt Jas. Well, blood’s blood.
Whiplash’s steak came wrapped in paper and a flimsy plastic bag which swung as the two of them walked down past the chip shop and the back way into the estate. Jas raised a hand to Sam B., sat in his usual spot, half in and half out of his car, waiting for someone. Always waiting for whoever was in need that particular morning. Jas swiped the key-fob up against the panel and pulled the heavy metal door open, letting out the smell of stale urine and not-so-stale lager. Two mis-matched shoes and a pile of old Karefully-Fried-Chicken boxes got Whiplash’s attention on the way to the lift. Jas waited a minute, then two, before giving up and pulling Whiplash over to the stairs. The dog bounded up ahead of his master, trailing the heavy leather lead and stopping at the second floor for the boy to catch up but Jas didn’t stop. Instead of heading off to his Mam’s flat he climbed two extra floors and knocked on the door right next to the still silent elevator.
The door was opened, after a lazy few minutes, by a fat woman, as broken-down as the building she lived in.
“He’s in his room,” she grunted “Make sure your mutt doesn’t piss on me floor.”
“He’s trained. Proper trained, like.” Jas said, grinning to her back as she huffed back to her sofa and the dull routine of doing absolutely nothing for as long as possible.
Yassin was propped up at the top of his bed, playing on an old laptop.
“Guess what!”
“You finally shoved your cock into something other than your own limp fist?” Yassin said, half-heartedly.
“Nah, better mate! Thatch said I could go to the next show.”
“You’re fucking kidding, when?” Yassin said, sitting up straighter.
“Dunno, think Dad said they were hosting one next month.”
“Fuck off! You gonna get me in as well, right?”
“I’ll try, but I guess if we turn up they won’t stop us.” Jas said.
“Check with Thatch, will ya?”
“I’ll ask my Dad when he’s back from the Phoenix.”
“What did your Mam say?” Yassin asked.
“Hah, like I’ll tell her. I’ll just leave with Dad when he goes, ain’t like she can fucking stop me anyway.”
Jas and Yassin traded insults until Jas’ phone pinged.
“There’s a new video up of one of the shows from Spain. There�
��s an English guy over there whose dogs fucking wreck all of the European bitches,” Jas said, gleefully.
“Send me a link, I’ll pull it up.”
The video shook as the camera was nudged by the crowd pushing to get closer to the fights. Two heavy Tosa-Pit Bull mixes were fighting in a white arena. The carpet was already scuffed so badly you could barely see the scratch marks. The ref was just a Spanish accent in thick camo trousers and heavy boots. No one’s faces ever appeared in the videos. The picture got fuzzier as it focused in on the fight. Brutal teeth made multiple puncture wounds across the opposite jaws. Half of the action was missed as the camera jerked every time the dogs ran at each other. One of the dogs arched his back upwards, trying to loosen the jaws of the other, but they lurched together in a drunken dance. Rather than getting loose the weaker dog had only managed to stretch its wounds, flesh torn in twitching pain. Voices crackled into the cheap microphone, accents from all across Europe. Irish, Spanish, Russian, Dutch and English mingled together but couldn’t drown out the sound of chewing on bone. The pop as ears were punctured, teeth pulling out skin and cutting right through legs. The two boys cheered and howled, their excitement mixing with the noise of the fight and the background wash of repeated reality TV shows from the living room.
Thatch left The Phoenix and walked through the alley towards his latest mansion. Five thousand square feet of empty warehouse. An empty lot one side and a bunch of old flats on the other side. He walked Sterling on a short chain. It would be a year before the American Pit Bull would fight, but Thatch liked him: he had been the bully of the kennels from the day he was born. He liked to fight and he liked to bite. Thatch pulled a key out and let himself him, going straight to the run-down basement. He let Sterling off the lead and the two of them explored the space.
Sterling’s claws clattered against the bottom of the metal spiral staircase. One corner of the room was black with mould from the floor to six feet up the wall. The lights mostly worked: just a couple of the strips flickered on then off again. There were almost no windows and just one big air vent, fanning the smell of the outside world into the dank lower ground. The far wall had a rough patch of plaster and Thatch eased a few of the internal struts of wood out, forming a gap big enough for Sterling. The blonde man pulled an envelope out of his inner jacket pocket, wrapped it in a plastic bag and shoved it into the wall, pulling the wood back over it so that no one would look twice at it. He whistled to Sterling and pulled him back up the twisted stairs by the collar on his neck. Thatch clipped the lead back onto the fighting dog and they walked out into the day, the thick door locking behind them.
Rats? There was something in the wall, Scarlet could hear it scrabbling around on the far side. She got down and listened and jumped back when she heard a dog bark. Not a rat then. Scarlet pulled herself to her feet and dusted off her pyjamas. Her feet dragged on the thin rug as she shuffled towards the kitchen to make coffee. She had woken up early that morning and stared at the ceiling until she needed to use the toilet so badly she barely made it to the bathroom. She was supposed to be working a shift at the bookshop in an hour. She flicked the coffee machine on and left her clothes in a heap on the way to the bathroom. The shower steamed up the cubicle while she brushed her teeth, waiting for the water to get hot enough to sterilise her thoughts. She stepped under the stream.
Clean, and almost herself again, she poured a mug of coffee and headed to her mini studio, which was tucked below the only window in her flat. She put the full mug next to one that held her paintbrushes and flicked through the sketches she had done for a cupcake business in Indianapolis last night. While she absorbed her caffeine intake she coloured in the sketches and worked out what needed to be done for the rest of the day. She should have already sent her latest assignment back to her sole steady illustration commission, but the four hours spent staring blankly at white paint had put her way behind. Again.
The coffee inside her stomach rolled as she thought of having to explain why she was running late. She started doing calculations - when she could get it finished, how long it would take to get to the bookshop, what she could do during her shift there, how much work she had left to do, whether an excuse would be better or just to say nothing about it and hope no one noticed. She tried to calm her guts and jotted a quick, friendly email explaining that she had a new concept and would send them the latest menu as quickly as she could. It was early on the West Coast and the chic downtown restaurant wouldn’t be open for hours, so she would still be at work when they replied. It was early on the West Coast and the chic downtown restaurant wouldn’t be open for hours, so she would still be at her day job when they replied. She wanted to hear the reply straight away, to know what to do, but she felt sick at the thought of hearing what they had to say. She didn’t want to see what she would read between the lines, what her inner thoughts would conjure, how much criticism she would read in politeness.
Her strong fingers twisted at her curly red hair. She selected a single hair from near her hairline, because it was easier to grip and pulled it out. By the time she had managed to push the send button on her email there a whole pile of hair was heaped next to her clenched fist. She ran her hands through the rest of it (it was still slightly damp) and smoothed over the small bald patch she had just created.
12.05pm. Five minutes to pack her bag for work. Five minutes to make sure all the appliances in her little apartment were switched off. A ten minute walk. A fifteen minute bus ride. Five minutes to go into a shop and buy something to stop her stomach rumbling when she was working in the quiet store. That would take almost an hour altogether. She was going to be late.
Scarlet rushed through the flat trying to gain a few minutes. She had to go back into the bedroom four times for something she had forgotten, each time seizing some additional item that she thought she might need during the day. She left almost ten minutes later, her bag so full that she could barely carry it. The work that she was planning on finishing was still on the table next to the last of her cold coffee.
The city was light. Buildings crowded around her. People stepped into her path, pushed her out of the way and cast shadows on her feet. Walking past office buildings made her feel shorter than she already was. She cringed away from the concrete and glass that housed the normality that she hadn’t ever managed to be a part of. Her city wasn’t here, it lived and breathed and changed and grew inside her head. She was not a citizen of one but of two places. The one where her feet touched the ground and the other, the city with taller buildings, open bridges and deeper rivers. One more dangerous than the other. She kept on walking through the false metropolis and visited the true one while she waited for her bus.
Her shoulder was dragged down by her rucksack. She slammed into the pole on the bus, which had the effect of holding her up. Her hands clenched around the pole, nails digging deep into her skin as she made it into fists, remembering her work sitting at home. The place where the two cities collided. Biting her lip, she watched as everyone else came and went, stepping without having to look at which world they were really in.
A young girl not at work in the middle of the day. Must be unemployed. Waster. Useless. Princess. Spoilt. Why does she have to be here. Shouldn’t she have a job?
Scarlet could hear the thoughts of everyone else on the bus. She was used to it but it cut into her biceps and thighs as they pushed past her. A young boy watched her curves as she shifted the weight of her bag, his dog panting at his feet. Her face burnt under the heat of all of the accusations that flooded around her while she waited for her stop. The panting boy and his dog got off at the stop before hers and when the doors closed she saw the scars on the beast.
Two bottles of Diet Coke, two packs of mints and she was twenty minutes early still. A Piece of String was the only real bookshop in the area. All of the others had 3 for 2 offers on every day and staff who had to wear uniforms so that they all looked identical and you couldn’t tell who
would be able to offer you advice on what you liked. They had clean leather chairs and neat racks. The books couldn’t breathe in there. A Piece of String had notices taped up inside the windows by the door and Scarlet’s eyes flicked over them, looking to see if there was anything new. Bell-ringing above her she slipped inside and waved to the Boss before heading to the back room. The Boss was used to her being early, almost used to her calling and saying she couldn’t make it, not used to the circles under her eyes and gashes on her lower arms.
Nick wasn’t there yet. She settled down, arranging books into alphabetical order. She went steadily through the boxes of books that had already been approved, leaving the others for the Boss to look through. All of the books on the main shelves at A Piece of String were cheap, all worth about the same price. Customers paid according to the quantity they bought. Books were brought to the desk and stacked up so that whoever was by the till could use a tape measure to gauge how much they would cost. Anything they acquired that was worth more was sold online and anything not worth selling went to the cancer research charity shop down the road. The gimmick brought new customers in and the cheap books kept regulars coming back. The Boss didn’t call it a second-hand bookshop. He called it re-homing lost stories. You could order books, trade books, and ask for recommendations.
Scarlet moved quickly, fitting new books onto the shelves before her shift started, cringing every time the door opened onto the world outside, dreading the people coming inside. The books walled her inside her own life and let her escape to safety. She laid hands on a city built of language out in the stars. She re-shelved a world where Spanish words echoed through her mind. She picked up old places and found new ones. She was buried deep in the T section when Nick came up and threw an arm around her shoulder. He was right on time.
