Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  “Isn’t that Martin?” she said, blinking, apprehensive.

  “Yes, it fucking is Martin,” hissed Susan.

  “Oh,” said Carol, grimacing and realising that things had taken a bit of a tricky turn, "Oh dear."

  “Fucking Martin fucking Dash with a pair of fucking bimbos having the time of his fucking life. The fucking cunt.”

  “Oh, fucking hell,” blurted out Carol and adjusted her glasses again.

  “I’m going to bloody see about this”, growled Susan, now determined (and fuelled by 27 units of alcohol). She made to get out of her seat.

  “Do you really think you should?” said Carol, nervously; placing a hand on Susan’s forearm.

  Before anything more could be said a deafening banging sound filled the room, as of a hundred mighty hammers crashing against the walls of a grit stone cave, and everywhere was plunged into the most complete blackest darkness.

  Despite her bleary state, Susan recognised what the noise was in an instant and the recognition gave her a jolt. It was the introduction to ‘Martin’, by Soft Cell; an awesome piece of gothic electro dance music that she loved dearly. Since meeting her Martin, she had often smiled wryly to herself at the consonance between the demonic character described in the song and the real-life enigma of her acquaintance.

  It was a piece clocking in at over 10 minutes that had been written and performed by the legendary synth pop duo of Marc Almond and Dave Ball and pressed onto a complimentary 12” disc packed in with their 1983 album, ‘The Art of Falling Apart’, that Susan had acquired – over 10 years later – when she was discovering a whole range of formative influences in her teens.

  The song was inspired by the classic cult film of the same name by George A. Romero about an American teenager who may or may not have been an actual vampire but certainly had a taste for blood. And, sure enough, as the mock-horror beginning of the record was disgorged out of the speakers (with a disembodied voice intoning “Martin is talking to you” over a sizzling synthesiser noise), a dazzling spotlight was suddenly flicked on to display the striking vision of a classic Christopher Lee Count Dracula – black cape and all – in a circle of blinding light, crouched back on his haunches; his hands held up before him trying to shield his face; flinching against the onslaught of the brilliant chalk-white column boring relentlessly down upon him, pinning him like a trapped butterfly to the floor of the stage.

  His face was white, of course, but it was split by the vile gash of his mouth, like a slice of black melon, studded with piss-yellow shark teeth, that dripped with vivid red blood and snarled and hissed like a cornered puma's. His eyes were nearly as frightening – wide and crazed with black irises and the whites more pink than white; flitting manically from side to side, like a fatally wounded animal shivering in its death throes.

  As the heavy dance beat rumbled in, the beast sprang into life and began to scurry to the side of the stage and back again, perhaps becoming bolder; not just seeking to avoid the burning light now but straining to see individual audience members; starting to wonder if he might actually be able to turn the tables and make them feel what it’s like to be attacked.

  The song’s lyrics kicked in with the whip crack of the synth drum beat:

  'Martin is a boy with problems.

  Martin has a family history.

  Martin has too many nightmares.

  He lives in a fantasy.

  There’s a danger that he’ll take too far his

  morbid curiosity.'

  . . . sung in Marc Almond’s seductive, corrupting contralto.

  Susan was open-mouthed at the congruence of all this and swung her head right, from the stage to where the present-day Martin was stationed. There was a bit more light on the audience now and she could see he was stood with Michael and the girls, apparently transfixed, as if the song was calling to him. His expression appeared first confused and then delighted at this paean to his name. It was obvious to Susan that this rendition in his presence was a complete surprise to Martin but the idea of grasping and exalting the moment was clearly now taking hold of him. He began to jig about with the girls, who were now dancing, laughing and mouthing to Martin: "It’s you !” and shrieking and throwing their heads back. Susan had never mentioned the song to Martin (she rather liked to keep it to herself as her own private motif) and had no idea whether he knew the song or not but it occurred to her that this whole situation would be rather more unsettling to Martin if this was the first time he’d heard it.

  Michael was also grinning, but in a rather less childlike fashion; as much as Martin’s surprise seemed obvious to Susan, Michael’s artful manipulation of developments appeared equally clear. Michael looked to Susan like nothing so much as a villainous stage Svengali, his grin that of a sinister puppeteer, successfully cajoling his dolls through charming pageants contrived by himself, taking delight in his total control of the affairs of his human subjects.

  This was his club, of course – his acts; so what would have been easier than to line up the performance now unfolding before them, right on cue? Michael’s attention – and the others’ – was snapped back to the stage by a second bolt of light that now hit the stage to introduce to the crowd another figure: what looked like a medieval peasant girl (clothed in a bright white milkmaid’s bonnet, fitted lace bodice with a plunging neckline to reveal a heaving cleavage, and voluminous skirts that fell only to the knees), apparently tied to a thick post standing firmly upright and swooning and crying at the sight of the vile creature that is now gazing horribly at her, his tongue rolling over his dry lips and the record’s voice, hauntingly wails over and over: “Martin. Martin. Martin.”

  Susan felt a tug at her arm and turned to see Carol’s shining moon face bobbing along to the music, laughing manically: “I wonder what’s going to happen next?!” They both shrieked and threw their heads back. Not for the first time that evening, Susan congratulated herself on having brought the right person along to enjoy the show with her.

  And Carol was right: fairly predictably (but no less thrillingly !), the vampire was soon gliding menacingly towards his powerless prey, who wriggled gamely against her bindings and screamed her best Hammer horror lungfuls. Some of the crowd were noisily booing the stage villain but a disturbingly large proportion were lustily cheering him on . . .

  With a quick slashing movement, he had torn the bodice away to reveal where the heaving was emanating from. The girl’s full red nipples shuddered in unison with the heart-rending sobs wailing from her quivering lips, her head tilted back to the right to show the full expanse of her milky white neck.

  Her supporters in the crowd suddenly seemed to change sides and the whole audience was now literally baying for blood as Marc Almond’s voice, eerily in tandem, called: “Kill ! Kill ! Kill !"

  It struck Susan how well staged this affair was as she could have sworn she saw the demon’s sharp hard fangs pierce slowly into the pale flesh so that dark red blood gushed – not flowed, but gushed – from the girl’s neck, ran like a river over her left breast and splashed onto the floor. This was real Grand Guignol stuff – no fucking around – and it got the desired reaction as many genuine screams escaped from those in the crowd who’d really not been ready for that level of horror.

  However, the beast’s assault served to stop the girl’s wailing at least – her head fell back, her eyelids closed as if in a dream, and her body slumped into the arms of her attacker as another impressive piece of stagecraft unfolded. The girl’s bindings appeared to have magically dissolved and, as she lay on the left arm of the evil Count, his right arm discretely brought his black cape over the whole of her; dry ice swirled about the stage floor and a nauseous green light now shimmered over the scene as the music pounded away.

  'Martin has hallucinations,

  dreams that he’s dead.

  He finds the hunger’s at its worst

  when he’s in bed.'

  Then, with a flourish, the bloodsucker flicked the great cape back and ou
t bounded a total reincarnation of the peasant girl into a fully-fledged vampish Countess in a tight black leather catsuit and heels, her own vivid red cape and black hair framing cruel eyes and a wide-open, red-lipped mouth snarling with the same sharp teeth as her new beau.

  The crowd loudly cheered her stunning fall from grace.

  The newly betrothed pair stalked the stage, here and there singling out particular individuals or groups for special hissing treatment.

  The music had, by now, reached the song’s middle section, a rumbling undertow of synth bass and drum denuded of the melody and lyrics, and The World Famous *BOB* took this opportunity to make a return to the stage to join her supernatural co-workers, prompting more raucous cheers.

  She had now jettisoned the red two-piece outfit for a long white druid’s cloak, with the hood thrown back off her head to show the sparkling white band in her hair to its best effect.

  As she sashayed to the centre of the stage, it immediately became clear that this new found modesty in her choice of attire was purely notional as the movement rhythmically swung open and closed the neck to toe fold at the front to slow tantalising glimpses of her complete nudity underneath.

  She flashed the dazzling Marilyn smile and waved to her fans, eyes twinkling like deep sapphires. She had in her left hand a microphone which she now raised to speak:

  “All hail, bloodsuckers !” she cried to the congregation and the delighted roar in response temporarily drowned out the pulsing backbeat. “I think I can safely say that we know what you want, you vile degenerates !” – music to the ears of the happy crowd.

  “Well I hope you do love creatures of the night as much as we think you do because . . . ladies and gentlemen” – showbiz pause – “we have in the house tonight our very own Martin.”

  Susan froze.

  A frisson of excitement rippled through the mob. No-one had expected this and there was a sudden anticipation as to what she might mean.

  “Yes, thrill-seekers: an earth-bound angel with baby blond hair and a corrupted mind – let us draw into the fold the divine Martin Dash !”

  Susan felt weightless, as if she had awoken in a dream. The whole evening had been a rollercoaster of shock, elation and dread but, suddenly, things seemed to be careering out of control to another frightening level. She spun round, saw Carol’s awe-struck face on the way, utterly agog, and there stood Martin, with a new spotlight bathing him in a pool of white light for all the crowd to see.

  Again, this new development had clearly taken him off guard as he simply stood stock-still for a moment, blinking in the light, obviously unsure of what was now happening. He turned to Michael, who was simply beside himself with glee, grinning and laughing manically, clapping his hands like a demented child on Christmas morning and nodding vigorously to Martin: “yes ! – Yes ! – YES !”

  The two girls were whooping and dancing, with their arms draped over the boy, delighted to be, suddenly, at the centre of attention and determinedly making the most of it. Martin turned to look at the crowd and – Boom ! – there was, once again, one of those moments caught forever in the mind’s eye of those who saw the sudden identification of the crowd with the golden sun god that looked down upon them, like a staged Versace fashion set. Martin looked magnificent – the twin veils of shadow hanging from his cheek bones, the full red lips parted in the formation of a sneer or a kiss (it was tantalisingly hard to tell which), the cloud of blond hair now turned stormy and streaked by the heat and sweat of the night’s exertions, and everything else below all in black over his tall, lean physique.

  The throng surrendered to him in a heartbeat, not knowing who or what Martin Dash was but, somehow, knowing intuitively, in an instant.

  The harsh crack of the synth snare kicked in with immaculate timing and Marc Almond’s voice swooped in once more crooning, “Maaaaaaartin, Ma-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-aaartin,” in a way that evoked the call to prayer from a lofty minaret in some faraway sheikdom. Martin looked to the stage in an heroic pose to see *BOB* beckoning him to her, siren-like, and calling to him seductively and in tandem with the disembodied chanteur and, indeed, many in the audience: “Martin – Maaartin.”

  He looked again to Michael who was now holding up his right arm, pointing the way to the stage and nodding once more. Martin’s body suddenly snapped into life and he began to gyrate with the pounding music. Something in him had clearly decided to get into it and he was now moving, panther-like, along a raised rail that ran from their table and against the flank wall all the way to the stage, the spotlight tracking him as he went and the mob now almost totally delirious. He was swaying to the beat as he went and clapping his hands at shoulder height like a twisted flamenco dancer, nostrils flaring and head snapped back.

  He looked superb. Susan felt a spasm between her legs, like a twitch of electricity, and her knickers were suddenly wet. This was Martin Dash – her Martin; former android, now all at once alive, sensationally alive – what might that mean?

  As Martin arrived on the stage he was drawn to The World Famous *BOB*, her arms outstretched and open, serving to reveal the full glory of her magnificent naked breasts. Martin dropped slowly onto her left arm and she held him there, surprisingly strong, his face upturned to hers as their lips began to move towards each other as if impelled by some invisible magnet.

  The two black-clad fiends started to circle the pair in the middle and, for the first time, Susan noticed that the Count held down low in his right hand, almost as if he was trying to conceal it, a sharp wooden stake, and – with a flush of horror – she saw that the Countess was, similarly, bearing a heavy wooden mallet. Things were getting completely out of kilter now. What the hell was happening? Her vision seemed to be juddering and she felt dizzy and sick. She’d taken numerous drugs at different times when she was younger and this recalled those nights when she’d been out of her mind on ecstasy and cocaine but was starting to come down and feeling ever so paranoid and edgy. Had someone spiked her drink? The whole thing seemed to be getting darker and more menacing. She was struggling to focus and squinted determinedly at the stage. Martin was prolapsed into *BOB*s yielding arms, looking up beautifully into her eyes, mesmerised like a baby in its mother’s wrap, totally unaware that the stake was, at that moment, being positioned by the Count with the sharp end touching his left ribcage, the shaft standing jauntily upright. The Countess sidled up next to him, her long bony fingers, with the sharp red nails, nervously gripping and ungripping the handle of the mallet.

  Susan couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She frantically looked around in panic, desperate for some reassurance but all around her were hideous faces straight out of Goya’s nightmarish paintings, leering and shrieking, apparently baying for the blood of her man. A tight ball of pure fear was rising up from the pit of her stomach, through her oesophagus, and another wave of nausea swept over her.

  Could no-one else see what was happening? Martin himself appeared totally oblivious. She looked to her side and Carol’s eyes met hers and said, silently: “What the fuck?!” Susan’s head was now pounding, she could feel the music building to a crescendo but all sound was muffled as if she was under water; her arms and legs were heavy, she couldn’t move.

  She fixed her gaze back upon the stage just in time to see a grimacing Countess raising the mallet with both of her hands in front of her – up past her waist, past her chest, past her shoulders and, as she brought it high above her head, she turned to look to the table from whence Martin had come, her eyebrows raised as if in a question. The Count and *BOB* both did the same. Susan swivelled fast along their line of sight which ran to the agitated figure of Michael Green, gripping the rail before his table, leaning forward excitedly, and Susan saw his head dip forward emphatically: “YES !!”

  “NO !!” she heard the scream somewhere close to her but couldn’t pinpoint where exactly. But all was total confusion now. Shapes grew before her, changed instantly in line and colour, dark and light. She didn’t know where she was but felt th
ings against her, sometimes soft, sometimes hard, sometimes sharp. She felt centres of pain arise – on her forearm, in the centre of her knee, her cheek.

  It was as though she was in a washing machine going through a colour cycle on acid. Then she felt weightless again but, worse, she was actually flying now. And all the time there was a high-pitched scream of “No ! NO ! NO !!” piercing through the druggy miasma, echoing between her ears.

  Then an almighty bang, a flash of bright white light, and the last image her eyes recorded before she lost consciousness was the face of Martin Dash looking down at her with a strange, confused look on his face, as though he had put his money in the chocolate bar machine and a firm, pungent turd had dropped into the tray.

  22.

  When Susan had telephoned to ask if she wanted to go out, Carol had been rather taken by surprise. Sure, she knew Susan well enough at work and they’d done some socialising together but always as part of a wider group – this was the first time she’d suggested just the two of them go out.

  However, Carol wasn’t daft and had worked out that Susan’s regular options – the great Charlotte, for example – had probably not come through so that she was, in reality, the rescue pick. But she just mentally shrugged and gladly accepted; to Carol it was perfectly understandable that, with her famous parents, striking good looks, and the rest, Susan would move in more rarefied circles and, in any event, Susan had never been anything less than friendly and kind to Carol. So why shouldn’t she grab the odd crumb when it fell from the table?

  Carol’s life so far – with her parents, schooling, church and work – spoke of nothing so much as conformity and docility and, yes, that was the dominant tendency in Carol’s psyche but it wasn’t the only one because, now and then, a mischievous imp would seize her imagination and lead her to wonder what it might be like to not conform, to cross her parents, to deviate . . ?