Army of Skeletons

by W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh

  Adult size actually, folded in a cardboard box that had seen better days. We carried the thing up to her bedroom, across the landing from mine and lowered it carefully onto the black carpet.

  “I got it reduced price,” Taylor was saying while slashing open the flabby container. “They say it is slightly damaged. I’m quoting. Broken pelvic bone. I guess I’m happy to have super glue somewhere in a drawer.”

  She pulled out huge handfuls of packing, padded-bubble plastic sheets and shredded lengths of paper, unveiling ‘the’ skeleton. Holly shit! The kind of skeleton gracing science classrooms and medical schools!

  ARMY OF SKELETONS IV

  And day by day I would carry on entertaining my delusional madness, spying on every womon, stalking each one with the short, dark hair. The thought crossed my mind that she might have bleached and dyed her hair since the Tulse Hill benefit. And what about her being straight or a nun on the run for that matter. A month had passed, without any gig but a few rehearsals with distracted guitar leads. Distracted. but innovative. Will and Pete generally silent spoke in unison: “Is it a new riff?” Whatever. Segur liked it.

  The Tulse Hill squat got evicted and we waited for the next one. Spring put on a sunny face and pretended to be summer. One day I felt mad enough to suggest Segur the integration of one of Joan Armatrading’s tunes into our repertoire.

  “She is faraway from being political,” he replied with a grimace.

  “You can rewrite the lyrics. My point is: COOL BLUE STOLE MY HEART’s got a fabulous guitar lead. It’s just great music wise.”

  “......,” doubtful. “I’ve got time to think about it later. We’re on next month for the Cannabis Festival. I’m going away next week and I want a few things sorted first.”

  Chapter closed. Where was he off to? The guy knew bucketfuls about french culture but never mentioned going there. He must have had. I wouldn’t have passed him a few french loves on the side, but I have to say, at the time I couldn’t care less and didn’t even bother asking. Now, think about it. He had always avoided the subject. He was a clever one with words.

  So, Segur went away and I kept on haunting possible bumping places. Beer had lost its appeal and Tequila had gained some potential, preferably pure. I wasn’t impartial with coconut rum either. That’s how on a Saturday evening I found myself in a club, one that used to be the legendary Bell, ─strange, in my memory it was bigger─, to meet up with some friends and enjoy music with more rhythm and more meaning than the average dance noise in clubs. The place had once again changed ownership and camels had started to graze the walls. 10 pm was still quiet and I found familiar faces in a corner.

  “We just arrived,” declared Billie with the blonde curls. “Want a drink?”

  “Yep, a shot of tequila will do.”

  “Here is my friend Sam,” motioning to the dark-short-haired womon sitting next to her. (Gosh, how many dark-short-haired wimin in London?!). “Get acquainted!” She got up quickly and rushed to the bar. Sam looked like one of the usual featherheads Billie seemed to forever fancy. They were a few more wimin gathered around the table, chatting above the music decibels. I knew most of them by sight, used to see them hanging around Billie. Most of them squatters. I decided to be polite and make my mother proud once again, not that she’d care, mind you, but, it’s difficult to get rid of some upbringing.

  “You live in Hackney too?”

  “Yeah. I’m in Billie’s squat.”

  Ah, let me guess, “New to London?”

  “Yeah.”

  Then Billie was back with the promised drinks. “Did she tell you?” Billie started after giving Sam a lager and sitting down with hers. She interrupted herself to light a cigarette. Ah, Billie in clubs, she gotta smoke and she gotta drink.

  “What?” I prompted.

  “She is an artist. She paints extraordinary stuff. You should see it!”

  “She is exaggerating,” the artist cut in before gulping a long swig of lager, blushing scarlet tomatoes.

  “No, no! It’s so brilliant! Sam’s gonna have an exhibit soon!”

  Sam shrugged her shoulders. Billie had a reputation for enthusiasm. She could even find something in what she called Taylor’s skeleton extravaganza. Taylor had a tendency to ignore her. You never knew if Billie totally meant it or was speaking out of general insecurity around people.

  Sam suddenly got up. “It’s my favourite tune,” she explained without looking at me or Billie, and walked to the dance area at the other end of the bar. Only a few people had started shaking their shimmy. It was somehow too early. I recognized a gay guy swinging his hips and flashing a toothy smile all around the place. Rufus. The tune was going back to the early 90’s. It had been a hit and for once I had agreed. The voice of Black Box was powerful, expressive and felt real. Billie and I looked at each other. I smiled, amused.

  “What!” She exclaimed, always a tiny bit sensitive.

  “Nothing! I think you made her run away!”

  “You sure it’s me?” Catching up on the joke. “Could be you; it wouldn’t be new!”

  We shared a light laugh and she started one of her swirly tales about squats and anarchists in Hackney. The Dalston one was still going and wimin there were as active as ever. Sam came back a few songs later, probably a few more of her favourite songs. And Billie, as restless as ever, got up to disappear again. “I need the loo! Shaddock, tell Sam about your music!”

  After the whirlwind’s departure, a silence settled promisingly at the table. Oh, shit.

  “You really a musician?”

  I nodded the affirmative.

  “What do you play?”

  “Guitar. I’m in a band. I’m the lead guitar.”

  “Wow!”

  Wow? Wait until I show you my tattoos. They’re the ones getting the “wows” in summertime.

  “What’s the name of your band?”

  “The Parques. It’s run by a mad guy with more make-up than Lady Di used to wear.”

  “Wow! The Parques!”

  OK. Sounds like tough competition for my body art. Shall I take my sweatshirt off? After all, I’m bound to dance later and sweat off all the Tequila.

  “I hadn’t realized....... Gosh!”

  “Hey! Hey! Please, land! You’re embarrassing me now!”

  “Really?” Surprised. “Sorry.” Silent now.

  And me scratching the nape of my neck, precisely the flaming hair of a fierce Mexican skeleton dancing all over my back. Well, who said Taylor was the only one fancying skeletons, eh?

  Here was Billie again, darting her green eyes from me to Sam and back. She gestured towards the dancing area. “Look at the growing crowd.” Half a dozen unconvinced dancers, unconvincing except for the aforementioned guy happily shimmying his narrow behind. Billie was right. We knew the score. The music was always good, real crowd would be there soon. We signaled and waved madly to our table group. Some got up, some couldn’t be bothered.

  On the dance floor I could just forget about Billie’s new friend (she always wanted to introduce them to me. Maybe she fancied herself a matchmaker. She had never been bothered about sharing her girlfriends or staying with them too long). Rufus, thin as a stick and not into growing bulging muscles, greeted me with his flashy, toothy smile, and later got me another Tequila. I was sure he and Segur would be quite a pair. I’d have to introduce them.

  Around midnight, Taylor arrived with Gobo and her new girlfriend in tow. I knew Taz in her capacity of library assistant. By that time, I was enjoying the subtle effect of Tequila on my brain, but thought some water over my face would wipe away a bit of sweat. You see, Taylor and I are pogo mad.

  By the way, have you noticed how peculiar meeting points toilets can be? So, there I was, contemplating my mirror reflection with water dripping like rivers down my face when this womon came out of a loo and stopped, like frozen, staring at my mirror reflection, too. I stared back, by mirror channel, taking in the details of her features, the brown eyes so deep, the
skin smooth and slightly tan, the dark, short hair (yes, another one), the light, nervous tick of the lips (do I make her feel nervous?), the white, thin scar down her chin, and eventually turned to her. By that time, we were the only ones in the washroom. Was she from my table? Yeah. But. I enquired with mild interest and alcohol flowing warm in my blood, “Have we met before? You look familiar.” Always use the word familiar. It immediately gives a personal touch to your conversation. Even if it’s not really true. Besides, as a performing musician going out as often as I can afford it, I meet a lot of people.

  “As a matter of fact, we have.” She smiled shyly.

  “Care to refresh my memory? I’m very bad at remembering faces.”

  Her left eyebrow rose up, circumspect. And then she made her move. I felt her lips on mine and her hand around my neck. It was more than a kiss, it was a snog and it tasted sweet and definitely familiar. I wanted it to last forever. But she withdrew as suddenly as she had started. We contemplated each other. I felt tongue-tied, her taste on the tip of my tongue. There she was, the womon I had tracked down all over South London, the womon who had eluded me for the last two months. And I was just standing there silent? A cat had got my tongue and was intending to save it for breakfast. I wrestled to get it back, too stunned to extract anything intelligent out of my relaxed brain. I was the one frozen in the eternity of the instant. The door of the washroom slammed open for a giggling womon with wild hair falling down before her eyes. My beautiful snogger used the opportunity to exit out into the dance floor. I didn’t know what to feel: stupid or standing on sunshine? I rushed out in hot pursuit but the dancing crowd had thickened, reaching the end of the bar. By the time I reached our table, she was nowhere to be seen and Taylor called out to me with another Tequila.

  ARMY OF SKELETONS V

  I had her there, in my grasp (correction, she had me in her grasp) and I had let her go? Again?! What was wrong with this womon anyway? Now, this was no mistake of mine. She wouldn’t have come back for second helping if she hadn’t liked the first time. Then what kind of game was she playing at? Ok, Watson, what’s next?

  Next time, if there was a next time, and I hoped there would be one, I really wanted to get an understanding of her behaviour. That was the minimum I needed.

  So, she was probably not on her way to Africa then. And she was not a nun on the run, well, at least not a nun, but on the run from me somehow every time. What about the ‘straight’ theory? Bother. Go figure.

  As a matter of fact, a week or so later, I was walking back from the swimming pool after my usual 33 lanes (a mixture of boredom, meditation and physical exercise), a plastic bag of wet items dangling from my idle fingers, my skin perfumed with chlorine, when I suddenly felt the urge to look back and check who was walking just a few feet behind because the presence felt so strong. I did. Suddenly. And the dark, short-haired womon who was walking with her eyes staring at the tar, unavoidably bumped into me, jumped, started mumbling sorry and stumbled silent after only half the word. Her deep brown eyes took me in. I found my tongue functional and spoke, with a smile, “You’re not gonna do a runner on me again, do you? Or do I have to beg you on my knees?”

  She rubbed the nape of her neck, eyes squinting like victim of the strong sunlight, embarrassed. Her eyelids stopped dancing up and down. “Er.......”

  “Would you go for a drink with me? Please?”

  “Er.......”

  “Ok. It’s optional. I just wanna know....... But talking is optional, too.”

  She looked tongue-tied. Was she wrestling with a cat to get her tongue back? Ah, cats. You can never ignore them, they won’t let you. I shrugged. Decided to walk away. I just couldn’t deal with it. I felt a fool. I turned my back on her.

  “Wait!” Her hand on my arm.

  “What?” Without smile this time, with a stony expression on my face, hiding the faster beat of my heart.

  “Yeah, let’s go for a drink.”

  “You sure? You’re not gonna bolt away from me again, just like that, with no warning?”

  “Hey! You were the one about to do a runner this time.”

  “Well, I’m not the kind just standing there and waiting, you know.”

  “Maybe not.” Her smile broadened. “But you were about to beg me on your knees.”

  My face let go of the stone. I tried to suppress a smile from blossoming all over. But her smile was not one whose power I could resist. Beside, I just wanted to get lost in the depth of her eyes.

  “What’s up now,” she said. “The cat got your tongue?”

  She had me there, beaming and defenseless, fascinated and....... Oh, stop! I cleared my throat, shook my head slightly like ok, ok, you’ve won, and sighed with delight in my heart soon to creep across my face. “Let’s go for this drink then!”

  Conveniently enough there was a coffee shop just there, one of these new-fangled shops that had sprouted during the last few years on Railton road. I had never been inside, even so a friend of mine used to have breakfast there every Saturday with her girlfriend. I was not really in favour of all the gentrification masterminded by the Lambeth council. I was more likely to haunt older places with character fathomed by years of local life. But, at that moment in time, I couldn’t think about politics, I could just think that ‘She’ was there and in agreement with a drink in my delightful company. Delightful? Hopefully delightful enough!

  I got a cappuccino and she got the same. We sat by the computers forever exhibiting flying screensavers. I vaguely noticed some paintings on the walls. I hardly noticed the quietness of the room; we had it just for us. No, I just wanted her to talk, I just wanted her to sit with me, I just wanted to drink her smile, I.......

  “Do you live around here?”

  “.......yeah.”

  “I’m on Morval, the Effra end. What about you?”

  “I’m on Barnwell, the Railton side. Wow! That’s close! But I’ve never seen you around. That is, before today.”

  “Well....... I’ve moved recently. Only a few months ago. “

  “I’ve been there for a while. Do you live alone?”

  “No, I share with two dykes. What about you?”

  “I share with a mate.”

  Silence. I heard a pop song, recognized the tune, named it as ‘I put a spell on you’ by Sonique, realized the radio was on, but didn’t wonder about the radio station. The singer went on: “coz you’re mine’. Was she mine? But the song was just one more song about unrequited love. I refocused on the deep brown eyes, on the smile so sweet, the voice so captivating. Every sentence was like another spell spun with her personal brand of magic.

  “I’m a student,” she said, answering my question on her activities. “Psychology. I used to be a nurse, but I didn’t like it. You? Apart from music.”

  “Bits and pieces. Dole scrounging.”

  And on and on, cappuccino after cappuccino, while the sky stretched itself as blue as blue can be. She used to live in Putney but she didn’t like it there. She found it boring and depressing. She felt so lucky to be able to move. She liked the life around here, the colourful characters who made Brixton so special. We swapped stories: squats, rioting demos, gay prides gone by, summer festivals, street parties. Oh sure, been there, done that, loved it up and will be back!

  “I’m getting restless. Fancy a walk?”

  “Yeah, let’s go to Brockwell Park. They won’t close the gates before sundown.” Whatever time it is, who cares. If I could only dare....... We kept chatting. I couldn’t say how ‘Hellraiser’ got into the conversation but we both preferred the second one for the architecture of the cenobites’ world. That was grand.

  Ah, Brockwell Park. Its hills, its trees, its runners, its dogs, its footballers, its green grass. Its expanse.

  We talked non-stop, exchanging reactions, threads of discontent and roaring laughter. The foot and mouth disease, Buffy the vampire slayer (in comparison with Xena the warrior princess), the TV-license people, the Harry Potter website, Tomb
Raider II, the three nail bombs (April-May 1999), vodka versus tequila, gentrification, riot grrrrls, and of course, The Parques. Why the name, the choice of songs, my musical frustration.

  Trees were beautiful in Brockwell Park. I loved them like sisters. I loved caressing their rough bark. And I just wanted to gently push her against a large trunk and....... Well, with such a silence suddenly between us and such fire in her eyes, I wanted to let go and follow my impulse especially if our lips were so close....... But I pulled away and whispered, “Are you gonna run away again?”

  “No, I won’t,” she whispered back.

  “Are you sure? Can I really trust?” I smiled. “I think I’m gonna make sure you stay this time.”

  She let me push her gently against a gigantic oak, circling her with my arms. And then we kissed and kissed, again and again.

  ARMY OF SKELETONS VI

  “Imogen, my name is Imogen,” said the womon sensually wrapped around my body, saving me from exposed embarrassing ignorance.

  “Would you like some coke, Imogen?”

  “Yeah, sure, thanx!”

  Taylor handed her the can of cold caffeine. I thought maybe it would be good to add a word there and then.

  “Taylor, why don’t you leave us for now. We’ll have our drinks and get up and can see you later in the kitchen.”

  “Sure, Shad.” Shad short for Shaddock, of course. She got up with the same smile sparkling across her face and walked out. I sighed. So, my mysterious womon was named Imogen. Imogen like this photographer whose surname I’d forgotten, like Iggie in Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.

  “shad?”

  “that’s the short version of my name.”

  “?”

  “Shaddock.”

  “Where did you get it from?”

  “Oh,” I sighed. “It’s just one of Segur’s weird ideas. More exactly part of his obsession for French culture. A TV cartoon from the 70’s. Something to do with pumping.”

  She sat up and I started to wonder again about the whereabouts of our respective T-shirts. Maybe somewhere buried under the zebra quilt. It was amazing the things I could dig out from there sometimes. Not that I was in a hurry to get out of bed. As a matter of fact it felt quite cozy. It was just that I felt concerned for Taylor. But, at the same time, every nerve ending of my naked body felt very aware of Imogen’s physical presence. I guessed Taylor would be alright for one hour or two. I put down my can near the futon, by the wooden chair I used as a bed table, spotted the T-shirts negligently rolled into balls under the chair. Good, we were not gonna need the bloodhounds after all. And looked into Imogen’s eyes, as brown, deep, clear and open as the ocean was blue. She put her can down, too. What we did next happened under the zebra quilt.