She wasn't glowing. She looked…
Dead.
“Oh, no.”
Slowly, calmly, I got off the bed and went for my tequila.
“Oh, no.”
I took a slug.
“Oh, no.”
And another.
“Oh…”
Another.
“No.”
I'm not sure how long I stood there, drinking tequila and staring at a dead groupie handcuffed to my bed, but eventually I snapped out of my daze. Something had to be done, but I was fucked if I knew what. There was nothing for it. I had to tell Larry. I used the phone on the bedside cabinet to call my manager's room. As it rang, I looked at the bible lying under a smattering of condoms. I swallowed hard and averted my gaze.
“Come on, Larry. Pick up the fucking phone.”
“Fuck's this?”
“Larry! Man, I need to see you. Come up to my room, will you?”
“Fuck's this?”
“It's Joey D. Come on, man. I'm in room one-eighty-seven.”
“Fuck you want?”
“I'll tell you when you get here. It's important, okay?”
“Fuck's sake. Be there in a minute.” He hung up.
I dropped the handset back in its cradle and sat on the edge of the bed. Then I remembered the dead chick. I jumped up and crossed the room, back to the tequila. I raised the bottle to my lips then lowered it without taking a drink. Enough already. I had to stop before I passed out. I lit a cigarette instead, flicking the ash onto the carpet rather than returning to the bedside cabinet for the ashtray. Just as I was trying to figure out what to do with the butt, the doorknob rattled.
Larry's voice cut through the wood. “Let me in, Joey.”
I moved to the door, pausing at the bathroom to flick my cigarette butt into the sink. Larry bustled past me, bleary-eyed and wearing a white dressing gown. His thick, ginger chest hair looked even thicker against the white towelling. He scratched his fat ass as he squinted at me.
“Jesus, kid. Put something on, will you?”
Fuck! I was still naked. Mumbling an apology, I retrieved my shorts from the foot of the bed and pulled them on. With my modesty restored, I turned to Larry. He blinked rapidly as he tried to focus on the groupie.
“Is she…?” He trailed off.
“Yeah.”
“What the fuck happened?”
“I strangled her.”
“What for?”
“It was a sex thing, Larry.”
Larry blinked at me now. “You sick fuck.”
“It was her idea, man. I didn't mean to kill her.”
Larry scratched his stubbly head. “Fuck.”
“What are we going to do, Larry?”
“I don't know. Give me a smoke, will you?”
I fetched him the pack and lighter. His hands didn't shake as he pulled out the cancer-stick and lit it up. He slid the rest of the cigarettes into the pocket of his robe. I didn't complain.
“Fucking rockstars and their messes. I should have gone into hip hop. At least real gangsters know how to get rid of the bodies.”
It sounded like it wasn't the first time he'd encountered a disaster like this. But that wasn't something I wanted to pry into.
Larry glared at me.
“Were you fucking her when she died?”
“No. I mean… maybe. I'm not sure, man.”
“How can you not be sure?”
“I, uh… I had my eyes closed.”
Larry snorted, puffing smoke from his nostrils. “You fucking pussy.”
“How's this helping, Larry?”
“It just seems like the kind of thing you should know. Psychologically speaking. I mean, years from now, will you be able to put your hand on your heart and say that you've never humped a corpse?” He licked his chapped lips. “Though as far as they go, this is one fine-looking cadaver.”
Sour spit flooded my mouth. I fought hard against the urge to puke.
“Kid, you look like shit. Go freshen up while I think about this.”
He didn't need to tell me twice. I managed to keep down my tequila supper, but only just. My reflection squinted at me from the mirror over the sink, gaunt and sickly. I picked the cigarette butt out of the sink and filled the cool white porcelain with cold water. Then I took a deep breath and dunked my face in. My lungs burned in my chest before I pulled myself back out. I reached for a neatly folded towel and daubed at my face. Now I looked gaunt, sickly and wet.
I closed my eyes.
The sound of creaking springs from the bedroom froze me to the spot. What the fuck? Hoping to find a revived groupie sitting up on the bed, I forced myself out of paralysis and sprinted from the bathroom.
Larry kneeled between the dead girl's thighs. His gown hung open and he fumbled with a condom. I couldn't help but stare at his short, fat erection beneath the solid swell of his gut.
“Want a picture, faggot?”
“What are you doing, Larry?”
He laughed. The ugly, fucked-up sound of it raised gooseflesh on my arms and back.
“Larry, what the fuck?”
“Dead or not, this bitch is smoking hot. No sense in wasting an opportunity.”
“Stop it.”
“Or what?” He stroked her inner thigh. “She won't mind.”
He rolled the condom on and I wondered why he'd picked a ribbed one. For her pleasure. What kind of a fucked-up thought was that?
“Seriously, Larry. I mean it, man.”
“Fuck you. If you want my help, you'll give me and my new girlfriend some privacy.”
But that wasn't going to fly. Bad enough I'd killed the poor girl. No way was I going to let fat Larry have his way with her dead body. I leapt and shoulder-barged him off the bed. We hit the floor with an almighty thud. A tangle of limbs. Me on top. I straddled his chest and tried to take the advantage. It felt so wrong to be struggling on the floor with a pink-skinned, almost naked, fat man wearing a ribbed condom. But life throws shit like that at you sometimes.
He grappled with my arms as I tried to land a punch. I couldn't get a clean hit. Then he was holding each of my wrists in an iron grip. We stared at each other. Stalemate. He smiled, as if he was embarrassed by the situation. Then the fat fuck caught me with a headbutt. He let go of my wrists and I fell back.
I cupped my nose with my hands. Blood ran down my face and filled my throat. I coughed and spluttered gobs of crimson into the air. It rained down on my chest. Larry was on his feet. He kicked my ribs and stomped on my head. I curled up into a ball. Helpless. But he'd figured the job was done. The mattress springs creaked again as he climbed back onto the bed.
“You fucking prick.” Larry sounded amused. “I lost my erection. Talk about a fucking mood kill.”
I heard him roll off the bed and pad across the room. He snuffled and snorted. The bastard had his piggy snout in my coke.
“That's the business,” he said. “I'll be back in the saddle in no time.”
I got to my hands and knees then yakked on the carpet. Watery, bitter-tasting puke splattered my hands and forearms.
“Better out than in,” Larry said.
I groaned.
“You should have left me alone, kid. I just wanted to clear my head. Now look at you.”
My stomach lurched again. I breathed deep to wrestle back control of my innards and inhaled the pungent scent of tequila puke. Larry said something else, but I lost it in a fit of coughing.
When my coughing stopped I pushed myself onto my knees. Larry stood before me, the tequila bottle in his pudgy hands.
“Here, have a drink.”
“Fuck you, Larry.”
“Ah, don't be like that. We just had a little misunderstanding. No harm done, right?”
I spluttered a choked, sarcastic laugh. I held up my blood-coated palms.
“Yeah, Larry. Just a little misunderstanding.”
“Come on, kid.” His tone was kind. “Don't be a little bitch about it. Take a drink.
”
I took the bottle and drank deep, clearing the blood from the back of my throat. It felt good. Harsh. Cleansing. I wiped a forearm across my mouth and stood on Bambi legs. Larry smiled and nodded at me. Then he glanced at the dead chick.
“Okay, Joey. Give me ten minutes with her, while she's still fresh, and then we'll get to work. Okay? We can smuggle her out, and I know some people who'll take it from there. You listening?”
Still fresh.
I smiled back at him and he opened his arms as if to invite a hug. I hefted the almost drained tequila bottle. Grunting, I brought it down hard on top of Larry's head. His shaved scalp split neatly.
“Uhn!” he said, all surprised and wide-eyed.
“Okay, Larry.”
I smiled at him, then clunked the bottle off the side of his head. He wobbled.
“Okay, Larry.”
I hit the other side of his head. Blood sprayed this time.
“Okay, you fat fuck.”
His eyes rolled back in his skull and he toppled backwards. I looked down at the bottle in my hands. It surprised me that it was still intact. In the movies they always shattered into a million pieces.
It looked like Larry was dead, but those same movies taught me never to wait for a fallen enemy to leap up for the final scare. I knelt by his side and pounded his face with the bottle. It was therapeutic. And when I realised that, I forced myself to stop. I didn't want to become some sort of psycho. I picked my leather jacket up off the floor and covered the pulpy mess that used to be Larry's face.
I stood up and looked around the room. Cocaine on the table. Dead girl cuffed to the bed. Dead fat man laid out on the floor. Blood-covered rockstar, stinking of puke and clutching the murder weapon, swaying on his feet.
It crossed my mind that jumping out my window might be my best option. But that was the coward's way. Besides, my room was on the first floor. I'd probably break a leg at worst. Better to face the music. The music. Fucking music.
Our album sales would go through the roof when this got out. When would I ever get a chance to enjoy that? Probably never. It would go to my family though, wouldn't it? See my parents, right? I thought about calling my lawyer.
I picked up the phone and dialled down to the reception.
“Hi. I'm going to need you to put me through to the police.”
Fuck.
Nothing But Time
(first published in Pulp Pusher, 2011)
This is it, then.
Prison.
Stripped of my right to freedom. At the mercy of screws and rules and timetables. I'm a grown man, can't even decide when to flick my own light out. Wish they could switch off my mind when the darkness comes. Maybe tomorrow I'll ask somebody where I can get some pills. Control that much, at least. Or maybe I should be looking for something else. A shiv or a shank or a blade. Whatever the name; something to put holes in any bastard that comes near me.
It's been four days. I haven't fought to maintain my anal virtue. Struck lucky. No cellmate, you see. The guy I was meant to bunk up with died of an overdose the night before I arrived. Bad news for him, but it's made life easier for me. I'm not going to be anybody's bitch. I've seen the TV shows and the movies. Even read a few books. None of them were set in Northern Ireland, but you could bet the same thing happened in HMP Maghaberry. I saw some of those body-built freaks eyeing me up in the shower yesterday. Fucking fruits. I'll stick my thumb in their eyes before any of them stick their steroid-shrivelled dicks in me.
My heart thuds like a jungle beat.
Lights out. I put down a book I've been trying to read. My mind keeps drifting. None of the words have stuck. I'll need to start it again tomorrow night. Before I came in here, I heard the cells all had TVs and Playstations… sounded like a hotel. I've fuck all in mine. Sink, desk, chair, bunks and the dark. Don't even have a toilet. You can shout to be let out for a piss in the middle of the night, but I just make sure I've emptied my bladder before they lock the cells. I need my sleep.
Food's shite. That's another myth. I heard that it cost more to feed a prisoner than a child at school. I don't believe that anymore. Frozen chips and a microwave pie has been the best on offer since I got here. Stinking.
I half-doze for hours. Maybe all night. It can be hard to tell. I'm sitting up, legs swinging off the top bunk, when they unlock the doors. It's been years since I quit, but suddenly I'm craving a smoke. I make a decision: First chance I get, I'm starting up again. And I'll find drugs. Anything I can get, at all. Dope, E, coke, speed, meds — fuck it, I'll take heroin if I can get it. The shiv can wait. I'll take care of the inner conflicts before worrying about the external.
I need drugs.
A quick piss-stop, then breakfast. A step up from gruel. A joyless refuelling. There's laughter in one corner of the hall. A screw wanders over to investigate. I feel cold. The screw has his back to me. He's laughing with the prisoners. Is that allowed? Another screw joins them. I scratch at my scalp. Dry flakes ball up under my nails. An urge grips me. I should look over my shoulder. Be alert. Senses tingle. But I'm safe here, right? Just being paranoid.
A heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder. Hot morning-breath on my ear.
“We remember you, you touting bastard.”
I try to shrug the hand off my shoulder. The grip tightens. Hot breath gets hotter. Heats my whole head. I'm almost choking on the sour smell.
“One of my cousins died in this shithole because of your loose lips. You're fucked, son. I'm going to kill you myself.”
And that's it. My real sentence.
The morning-breath retreats. Blood flows once again in my shoulder, but ghostly fingers remain. I shudder. The screws have stopped laughing. They're on watch again. Not good enough. I've seen it now. They can be distracted. Long enough for a knife in the back to follow the blast of hot, sour breath in my ear. I'm so fucked.
I consider my juice. Leave it. I better forget the drugs for now. There's no real escape here. They know. They all know. May as well tattoo TOUT on my forehead. And there's no fight in me now. I'm at the bottom of this heap of scum. Lower than the thieves, dealers and murderers. I thought I had nothing but time for the next six years. But the promise of death twangs on my nerves now. I'll be lucky to see six days.
Unless…
There are steps down from my place on the prison food chain. Some are worse than touts. Rapists and paedophiles. The lowest of the low. I'm just a little better than that. But just a little might be enough. Is this hope?
I scan the canteen. One of these dodgy-looking fucks can help me out. They'll stick out like a sore thumb.
Ah, there you are.
In a corner of the canteen, a thin man sits. His eyes are puffed and ringed in purple, fading to light blue to yellow. His nose is kinked and crimped. His face is scarred. This man has been through the wars. Worse. He's in Hell's waiting room. Those forced to sit at his table are angled away from him. He's invisible for now. Insubstantial. Until the opportunity once again arises to punish him. Then, I imagine, he'll be the most visible bastard in this place. For now, he picks at his food, snags the odd nibble and makes eye contact with no man.
I've found my new friend.
A bustle of activity and we've cleared our plates. I spend the morning in a head-spin. Screws tell me what's what. Rules, rules, rules. Then a load of shite about rehabilitation. I have to choose a National Vocational Qualification. Horticulture sounds good to me. Might give me some tips for growing weed.
I say very little throughout the morning. One screw jokes:
“You're very quiet. Didn't you used to be a ten-pound-tout? Must have been quality over quantity, what?”
Fucking prick.
Lunchtime rolls around about thirty seconds before I crack up for good.
I try to eat, but I can't. My mind races. I glance over my shoulder every two seconds. Then I notice the thin man with the battered face. The pervert. I keep an eye on him, and when we're given permission to go to the recreation
area, I shadow him. He takes a seat. Another corner. Nearby, a couple of big lads play pool. The pervert glances at them occasionally, but his eyes never linger. He's on guard. Looking out for himself. Alone.
Like me.
I take a deep breath. Time to introduce myself.
The eightball is smooth and cool in my grip. One of the big lads complain. I ignore him. He reaches out to take the pool ball back. I slap his hairy-knuckled hand away. He's surprised. Steps back. I breeze past. The blinkers are on now. All I can see is the lonely perv. And he sees me. Instinct stiffens him. There's no doubt in his eyes. I'm here to do him harm.
It's how it works in the movies. Show everybody how hard you are. Mash up some poor fucker and gain some respect. I get that, maybe somebody who matters will watch my back.
I grab a handful of the perv's shirt. It's a nice material. We don't do prison uniforms here. I yank him from his seat. Some buttons ping away and skitter across the cold linoleum. I pull back my eightball-weighted hand. The way is clear. If I land it on his temple in the first shot, the rest of the beating won't hurt him too bad. I'll make a show of it. Make it look more vicious than it really is.
I stare into his eyes just as I'm about to pound him, expecting fear. What? He glares at me. His swollen lids frame mere slits of eyes. He's not resigned to this beating. I pause. Worst thing I can do. The blinkers evaporate. Panoramic view. Dolby surround sound. Excitement. Shouting. Are they cheering for me or the perv? Why would they cheer for him? Isn't he the bottom of the heap?
My knees buckle. I'm wrestled to the ground. The screws. They're folding my arms like they're shirtsleeves. Pain shoots from wrist to elbow. Burning electricity. I want to wipe the tears from my eyes. The snot from my nose. Can't.
“You're breaking my fucking arms!”
Laughter.
The eightball rolls across the floor. One of the big lads stops it with his foot. As he bends to retrieve the black orb, he stares me in the face. Makes kissy lips at me. Then he plonks the ball on the table and goes back to his game. I'm hauled to my feet and the commotion fades. Some of the inmates make a point of grinning in my face.
Then the hotter than hot, sour breath blasts in my ear again. Same voice from breakfast; “Stupid fucking tout. Couldn't even fuck up wee Ronnie no-mates.”
Other Stories And Nothing But Time Page 2
