Carnivore

by Jonathan Lyon

  ‘You should tell him you’re here.’

  ‘No, this is what I promised you. I want him to be abject when he should have been triumphant.’

  But I couldn’t sustain this level of rhetoric and vomited again. Iris dragged me towards the queue of taxis.

  ‘Aren’t you’re taking this too far?’ she asked. ‘I know he’s an arrogant cunt, but I feel sorry for him, you’re being too cruel.’

  ‘You helped,’ I spat. ‘And no – this is the essential part: I refuse to turn to him when I ought to need him most. And when he most needs me. That is how to make him wretched. And I care more about the other ambition of my evening: have I seduced you?’

  ‘Of course you’ve seduced me,’ she said. ‘Look at me, I’ve left my own exhibition, I’m giving you free money, and I’m begging you to be kinder to the only man I’m supposed to hate more than you. You’ve twisted this whole situation so that somehow you’re the most pitiable victim – when you’re the most to blame. But I’m not letting you win. Francis!’ she shouted.

  Francis turned and ran towards us. I fell into the taxi.

  ‘I’ve been ringing you!’ he shouted.

  ‘He’s lost his phone,’ Iris said.

  I vomited again out of the taxi door. The ketamine’s anaesthesia had stopped and so too had my astrological fantasies – my synaesthesia continued, now without an ordering metaphor. I had gone beyond the scattered discs of ice at the edge of the solar system, and was back in London, listening to my own sick drip from my lips into the colour of aquafaba.

  ‘What’s happened to him?’ Francis asked. ‘You throwing up blood?’

  ‘I don’t have any blood,’ I said. ‘I was never born.’

  ‘Where you going?’ he asked. ‘Let me in, move up.’

  His voice had none of its former anger. He’d shrunk into simple needs – to get away, avoid everything in his head, be with me.

  ‘You can’t come.’ I pulled shut the door and locked it. ‘I was never born!’

  My skirt had ridden up my thighs – and I was naked beneath it – and as I stared, my dick became a vagina – and an orange beak protruded from it – and the beak pushed and I pushed too – until a head emerged – and a long white neck – and a fat body with wings – and I was giving birth to a baby swan – called Winter, called Winter! – and I laughed as it waddled forth from me – and flapped to the window and out through it and out through Francis – until it was flying – and it flew away over the gallery – towards the loneliness that it couldn’t see and the ghosts that it could.

  ‘Where you going mate?’ the driver asked.

  ‘The Rockway bar in Brixton.’

  Francis beat on the window, his face almost ugly with worry, pleading to be let in. I leant back into the leather, soothed by his sobs, pleased by my plan’s success – and soon passed out in agony.

  5.

  The driver shook me awake. I gave him both £20 notes and crawled out without asking for change. A night bus leapt on me from nowhere, hissing – I jumped aside, more awake – and it leapt off, lynx-like, its yellow route number – N109 – branded into my eyes.

  I blinked it away as I walked to the Rockway. The bar had none of the usual smokers outside – instead, a steroidal man in a suit stood alone before the door.

  ‘Not tonight lad.’ He shook his head as I tried to walk past him.

  ‘Who are you? I come here all time.’

  ‘Not anymore lad.’

  ‘I’m friends with Pat,’ I said.

  I resisted the urge to vomit again.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Pat owns the bar.’

  ‘Not anymore lad.’

  ‘What? Who owns it now? What about Dawn?’

  ‘You know Dawn?’

  ‘Dawn is my mother.’

  His genial antagonism rose into malice. ‘You’re Leander?’ he asked. ‘Come with me.’

  He pulled me in by the collar. The Rockway was more popular than usual, though none of the faces along its bar or in its booths was familiar. This clientele was rowdier than the regulars I’d known for the last two years – and yet everyone here acted as though they themselves were regulars, shouting and laughing with the ease of long acquaintance. Perhaps they were transplants from another social world. The bouncer escorted me towards the back room – which had formerly been empty, and now had a curtain across it and a second bouncer outside. I could feel the holster of a gun under his suit jacket. My bouncer grinned at his colleague as he drew back the curtain.

  A party of thirty or so middle-aged men and younger women was spread across three tables. They were dressed in white tie. The men were smoking cigars, the women cigarettes. The tables were loaded with tumblers of whisky and flutes of champagne and other more expensive multi-coloured alcohols that the Rockway had never stocked before.

  At the table closest to me there was an empty chair, with a stack of £50 notes in front of it – and the woman in the next chair was examining a tiny antique revolver with fascination, or envy – perhaps these were both gifts for the absent guest. Most of the women were high and miserable and scared. One girl had red marks around her wrist – like she’d recently struggled against restraints.

  ‘Sarge!’ the bouncer said. ‘I found him! He’s in a fucking dress!’

  The room laughed. He threw me onto the floor. The wounds in my side and around my eye flared into the juniper taste of gin. I retched.

  A pair of alligator shoes approached my head. They paused and then stepped over me. I heard a slap – and the bouncer who’d thrown me to the ground yelped in pain.

  ‘You chose to disrespect my guest,’ said a voice I associated instantly with sandalwood oil – it laboured each syllable into a slow irregular rhythm, its affected old-world accent enhanced by the rasp of burnt tobacco. ‘What right did you think you have to make that kind of choice?’ He hit the bouncer again. ‘You have no rights.’

  ‘The cunt put three of them in hospital.’

  ‘You shall leave. If this were your wedding I would not treat your bride’s wards in this way. I alone determine the manner in which I manage my affairs. And I do not need to be reminded of details that I have not forgotten. Leave.’

  I was lifted to my feet by the man with alligator shoes. His grip evoked the synesthetic scent of sandalwood oil as well – though his actual smell was a mixture of talcum and cocoa cologne. Through half-closed eyes, I saw the room had stilled. The men and women regarded us with reverence. I tried to slow my breathing to reduce the buzz in my bones.

  ‘I apologise for my employee’s rudeness,’ he said to me. ‘He shall be reprimanded. I wish to extend to you all of my hospitality. Please – sit with us, Leander.’

  I swayed backwards, trying to assess him as he held me up. He wore a white bow tie and a white starched collar and a white starched shirt and a cream marcella waistcoat – like the other men in the room – but instead of a tailcoat, he wore a green velvet smoking jacket. He was strong, and far younger-looking than he sounded; he could have been in his late thirties or early forties. The lines of his forehead seemed fixed in ironic disbelief – and his eyes had a shrewdness in them that seemed to see corruption in everything. He had Persian features but almost artificially pale skin, like he bleached it – and he had the hands of a field labourer.

  ‘You appear to be… sizing me up?’ he smiled. ‘Do you not think it might be polite to speak?’

  ‘Where’s Dawn?’ I asked.

  ‘No doubt your injuries have caused you to neglect your decorum.’

  ‘No doubt,’ I replied, parodying his tone.

  ‘Do you not think, then, that we ought to exchange some niceties before making demands?’

  ‘You know my name.’

  His smile twitched at this insubordination.

  ‘Then you must know that mine is Kimber. And at least you have had the courtesy to conform to my dress code. Although I note you have chosen from a woman’s wardrobe. I was wondering to myself�
�� why?’

  ‘Were you?’ I mimicked, trying to annoy him more. ‘Were you wondering to yourself? I wonder, do you ever wonder at yourself, rather than just to yourself? You sound like a man so repressed by pretence that he is incapable of self-reflection. So, wonder to yourself on my behalf, by all means, but I would be much more interested to watch you try to wonder at yourself.’

  ‘Ah!’ he smiled. ‘I hoped you could speak in sentences. I am delighted! But sadly, what a twenty-year-old is interested in watching is of no relevance to me. You are trying to anger me with your rudeness, my dear – but I am enjoying you. You are a surprise, Leander, and I rarely enjoy surprises.’

  ‘Where’s Dawn?’

  I tried to meet his gaze in defiance but instead fell backwards. He caught me.

  ‘Your wounds are getting the better of you’ he said. ‘That is unfortunate. But let me offer you something in the way of pain relief, as your mother requested I should.’

  He reached into a pocket and withdrew a small white ball wrapped in cling-film. Then he pressed it into my palm and closed my fingers over it.

  ‘Let this calm you,’ he said. ‘And then we can talk for longer. I want to make you an offer of employment. Because, despite our… unusual beginning, I think we could develop a fruitful relationship. I have been impressed by reports of your resourcefulness.’

  ‘You mean from the men you sent to beat me up?’ I asked.

  He laughed. ‘Well, from your mother most importantly, and from others who used to frequent this bar, before they chose to take their custom elsewhere. You were said to possess a unique charisma and a unique… appreciation for violence. These skills can be transferred to aspects of the work I engage in.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Logistical work. But I would not have known the extent of your skills had you not… undergone a certain canal-side initiation. So I do not feel as much remorse for your wounds as perhaps I should. They show your worth. And it is indecent that a man with your worth should not be well employed.’

  ‘Where’s Dawn?’

  ‘She is spending some time alone. In the ladies’ bathroom. Join her there if you wish, my dear – and you’re welcome to consume the gift I gave you. But I request that you do not share that gift with your mother – she’s had enough for now…’

  He released me.

  I staggered out through the curtain and turned towards the toilets. The bouncer stepped away from me with an alarmed respect. My body was splintering. I felt like I was walking out of an entire movie – leaving behind the pulp mannerisms of Kimber’s underworld – for a more familiar squalor of spilt ale and urine.

  The ladies’ bathroom door was locked. I knocked.

  ‘It’s Leander,’ I said. ‘I’m alone.’

  6.

  There was a lengthy rustling before the door opened. Dawn stared, gurning, through tangled hair. She was wearing a wedding dress.

  ‘What’ve they done to you? Fuck, sweetheart, what happened to your eye? Your beautiful face! Fuck.’

  She pulled me inside, itching, and locked us into darkness.

  ‘Were the lights unflattering?’ I asked.

  I patted my palms up the wall-tiles to find the cord to the bulb above the sink. I tugged on it, and in its flickering light, Dawn’s eyes were pure umber, with nearly no pupils. The cut from our car crash had bled more down her forehead.

  ‘What the fuck you doing here?’ she asked. ‘They’re going to kill you. I’ve been ringing all fucking night – and Francis’ been ringing you. I spoke to him but he said you’re coming here. What the fuck?’

  I groaned. ‘You spoke to Francis? Did you tell him where I was?’

  She began crying, stroking her hands across my face’s bruises. ‘I’m scared, Leander, what’ve I done to you? Why’d you come here?’

  ‘You didn’t do this.’

  ‘Yeah I did, this was me, this was me. He’s mad, Kimber’s actually mad… I never seen someone so angry. When he found out what you done… Fuck. We’re not getting out of here. We’re fucking cornered, sweetheart, we’re fucked.’

  ‘He wouldn’t hurt you,’ I said, hugging her to calm her down. ‘He wants to employ me, not kill me.’

  ‘He’s a liar. I can’t... Fuck. I didn’t know they would beat you like that… I didn’t know, I didn’t fucking know. How we going to get out of here? We’re never getting out are we?’

  ‘I know how to get out of here.’

  ‘Do you? Sweetheart, please, we got to get out of here and we got to get out of that apartment and get rid of that fucking car. I fucked up, didn’t I? I fucked up.’

  Her words were running together. She sat beneath the hand-dryer and, trembling, tugged me down to join her.

  ‘I been taken advantage of,’ she said. ‘And I let you get taken advantage of. Your hard-earned money! Sweetheart, he’s bad, you’re right, I was in denial, he’s bad, he’s fucking insane, he thinks we’re in a wedding. Look at this!’

  She held out her hand – a new larger ring was on her ring finger – a bulbous diamond in a band of white gold, framed by four smaller diamonds – and all together, somehow, they provoked a peculiar revulsion in me – like I was watching a toad hatch eggs from the holes in its back.

  ‘I actually like him,’ I said. ‘He’s like the demon in the tower in Browning’s “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came” – although in the poem we never find out who’s in the tower, but —’

  ‘No – shut up. I can’t deal with your poem bullshit right now. We can’t be like that any more. I’ve ruined it. He’s not what I thought he was. I wish he was trapped in a fucking tower. He don’t just sell drugs, Leander, listen – he sells women, he fucking sells them and he sells men too. He gets refugees across borders, but then steals some of them, and sometimes a whole ship drowns… He bought the Rockway, he’s kicked everyone out, Pat’s disappeared. We got to get away from him. But we can’t. I didn’t realise he was this bad, sweetheart. I’m sorry I fell in love with him, you’re right, it was too quick to be true, you’re fucking right… He’s jealous of you and I dragged you into it and I can’t fix it.’

  ‘You can fix it a bit,’ I said, unimpressed. ‘If you give me some heroin. I’ve got some white but I don’t want to inject. Do you have any brown?’

  ‘Course I do sweetheart.’

  She retrieved her handbag from beside the toilet. ‘It’s in here somewhere. Give that to me, let’s do a swap.’

  ‘Haven’t you had enough?’ I asked.

  ‘Fucking look at me – I’ve not had nearly enough, I’m a fucking mess. Smoking isn’t good enough. I need it full on. Just give me it.’

  ‘Fine.’ I handed her the white cling-wrapped ball.

  Trembling, she took a bottle of water and a syringe from her bag, and passed the bag to me.

  I rummaged, struggling against the nausea in my muscles, until I found a pouch of brown Afghan heroin. There was at least half a gram left. I sought the cleanest fold of tinfoil, among the many in her pockets – and a crinkled foil pipe, and a cigarette lighter.

  Unsealing the pouch, I sprinkled its powder into the groove of foil. I put the pipe in my mouth and heated beneath the groove with the lighter until the trail evaporated – and I chased its furling fumes, inhaling deeply to hold them at the base of my lungs. The vapour scurried around inside me until it solidified into a mouse – a mouse immune to the plague that it was carrying – a mouse that spread its plague across the city in order to laugh at those who suffered from it – because this mouse will never die and it will never suffer – and its laugh is a laugh of regret not of joy – because it cannot live, because it cannot suffer. I leant my head against the tiles, my eyes closed, and counted to thirty without exhaling to allow a full transfusion.

  Dawn was fumbling beside me at her dress. I opened my eyes. She was trying to rip her wedding dress into a tourniquet.

  ‘Do you want help?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes please sweetheart —’

 
I ripped off the strip of silk and tightened it about her left bicep – constricting its veins into prominence – and tied it in a double-knot.

  ‘This could be the oldest human-only ritual,’ I slurred. ‘Neanderthals painted rocks, elephants buried their dead. But perhaps humans were the first to medicate each other’s suffering. Parrots in Peru learned to soothe their stomachs by eating clay – nullifying the quinine and strychnine of their diets – but they didn’t feed the clay to each other – whereas the humans copying the parrots did. All civilisations make ceremonies out of painkilling. Perhaps a Sumerian boy, this day six thousand years ago, gave poppy-milk to his mother the same way that I am now. That was the first opiate – heroin’s ancestor – and they called it “hul gil” – joy flower – but it wasn’t really joy they were looking for. And it wasn’t really joy that the priests of the Egyptian poppy fields wanted either. It was painlessness. The longing for analgesia is as old as the longing for company. Sex and death are just subcategories.’

  ‘What you rabbiting on about? You trying to tell me you’re a priest? God’s not talking to you.’

  I smiled. ‘I don’t want to be a priest – though my body is like a temple in that it’s ruined and has an entrance fee – I want to be a wizard. Heroin lost its mystery in the First World War. But now global production is five times lower, and the clichés of cinema and counter-cultures have given it new, meaningless meanings, so it’s regained some magic.’

  ‘It’s not magic. It’s a waste. It’s a… who did you used to say you was? The whore of Babylon – with the hanging gardens. That’s all heroin is – it’s a hanging garden.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘It’s a hanging garden you can look down from at your own time and at time itself.’

  I reheated the tar that remained on my foil and breathed in its vapour until my throat was lined with the taste of burnt caramel. And as I breathed out, I breathed out also the pangs in my side and the throbbing in my head. My body was becoming disinterested in itself – remoter and pacific – away from pain’s euphoria into a blanker ease. This was the opposite of an epiphany – it was the loss of insight, the loss of interest in stimuli or self. My heart relaxed, my brain was cocooned. The ultramarine at my centre began to dim. Unlike ketamine’s swooning dislocation, in which pain is side-stepped and the body becomes discontinuous, heroin is much less elaborate – my body merely dimmed; pain was not avoided, it was hushed. I associated no colour with its sensation.