‘Hi.’
‘No kidding am I glad to see you. I mean what happened. You were there on top of me in the hay with that crazy helmet on. I mean you didn’t even have to put on the bathing suit. Holy God can you do it. I must have fallen asleep. I was exhausted. But I woke up looking for more. All over the castle. Why didn’t you tell me. I had to hire two taxis to get here. They had to go one behind the other. They kept breaking down.’
Clementine holding a door open into an oriental café. Climbing stairs in the bread and cake and coffee smells. Seated at a glass topped table overlooking the street. Black uniformed waitresses bringing white cups. Cream poured from little jugs into the black liquid and rising steam. Hold one’s horses for a moment. Slather on the butter balls and nip into a currant bun. Take stock. Sit down. Slap the knee caps back on. Open up the ears. And into the fray.
‘Clayton, she tried to shoot me. That Mrs L K L in the crazy chair. We’ve got to stick together. She’s following me up here to shoot me too she said. What did I do to her. Can you tell me. Those people are crazy. They’re nuts out of their minds. Do you really think she’s going to come up here after me.’
‘Yes.’
‘O my God. Tell me what I did to her. That’s all I’m asking. I never saw her before in my life. I’m only eight months out of college. I don’t want to die that way. Couldn’t we find a port. To go to together. I mean you’re so damn good in the hay. Who knows I might be satisfied. By the way are you rich.’
‘In appearances, yes. But in fact, no.’
‘Gee that’s too bad. But appearances count too. I could be your constant companion. I’m easy to have around. I really mean it. Could you stop her shooting me.’
‘No.’
‘You mean you wouldn’t.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Hey come on what kind of guy are you. I’d be shot down.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well pardon me for minding. What is this a conspiracy. I should have known. By the way you know your feet smell and your shirt was green under the armpits. And you should see a dentist too. And forget what I said. You’re no big lover.’
‘That wasn’t me who was on top of you.’
‘O come on now. What are you ashamed.’
‘No just avoiding false pretences.’
‘Now wait a minute. You mean it wasn’t you.’
‘No.’
‘O boy. You could be right. That’s the best yet. I thought you had got smaller suddenly. Hey wow. Who was it. I’m going to underline that one in my diary. Zang bang. That really explodes me. Here I am all the way back in taxi. Even when I’m helping them to put back on the wheels. Thinking of you like my lover. Hey why are we fighting. We’re friends.’
Down through the throng on the street Shopping and cruising. Faces whispering by. Gentlemen with red curly hair and poppy in the buttonhole poised with notebook noting each shoe flapping by untied. Rushing after the culprit with a summons. Sky brightening. Gloria pleased and smiling. Holds my swinging hand. Says we’re brothers. And got to stick together. As I head now towards the bank. Watching out for a bullet. That might part chums.
High dome. Long counters. Tiled cool floor. A gentleman says come this way. Gloria sits on a stone bench. Unfolds my newspaper and crosses her tan fleet legs. Lead Kindly Light gets the arse and gives me friends. Through this little door. Go with the note I didn’t open for a week.
Dear Clayton,
If you present this letter to Mr Oboe at the bank on the Green you will hear something to your advantage.
Your friend,
Gail
Mr Oboe sitting with a pencil pressed on its point on a pad of paper. Smilingly standing. Hair parted in the middle. Offering his hand. Collar glistening. Picture of a steam ship behind his head on the wall.
‘Lady Macfugger has told me about you your highness. A little short for the moment are you. We’ll fix that in a hurry. No trouble about that. Please be seated.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How do you like it over here. Bit quiet for you I suppose.’
‘No it’s been quite piquant.’
‘Is that so. Well can I on behalf of our bank extend to you our most convenient welcome. I’ll just have our Mr Bop fit you out with the necessary cheque books. Large or small size.’
‘Large please.’
‘Well do feel free to make full use now. Nothing as tiresome for a bank totalling up pittances. Making alterations and additions to your castle are you. Keep you busy. How are you for some ready cash at the moment.’
‘Not awfully good.’
‘What would you like.’
‘Could I have ten.’
‘But of course, you can have a hundred if you like.’
‘Well a hundred would be fine.’
Bows and smiles out the door. One hates to leave that man. Something about him that makes one feel at ease. Says come back and call any time. Always like to see you. If you’re caught short at the races just give us a tinkle and we’ll organise a bundle for you in time for the next runners. And do please give Lady Macfugger my regards.
Stand in the sunlight. Hold my face up to the warmth under the sky and squeeze this roll of fresh new notes in the pocket We all give Lady Macfugger our regards. The clammy hands lift. That go clamping and grabbing on you. Need a barber, a hair wash and manicure. Superficials first and later the inessentials. Dear Gail I now know what Jeffrey means. How could anyone do without you.’
‘Gosh you’re cheered up.’
‘Yes. I am you know.’
‘It’s nice.’
‘Yes. I’m going to have my hair cut.’
‘Can I watch.’
‘Yes.’
Gloria at Clementine’s elbow. Making way down the steps of a likely place. Nice plate glass door with a curtain. An invitation please step in. Grey moustached barber twirling his white cape. Before tucking it around my neck. Standing back. Surveying the subject.
‘Now how would you like it sir. The tonsorial art is like conducting a symphony. In the hands of the maestro it’s but a few trumpet blasts there around the ears. A bit off the back with a few throbs of the cello. Not so as you’d ever miss it. A little virtuoso of the vibro scalp stimulator as a coda. It’ll have the blood forming whirlpools around your every follicle. Madam just find yourself a seat there and be comfortable while we get on with the symphonic variation on a theme that would clip every hair the right length once and for all.’
Clementine sitting wrapped in white. Your maestro commencing with the scissors. A molto adagio lopping off of a cascade of hair from the top. Gloria sucking in her breath with a smile. Her eyes closing. Elbows slowly flapping. Mouth opening. Gasping. Head wagging back against the wall. Magazines falling to the floor. The maestro turning from his podium to look. In the direction of this present prone percussionist.
‘Ah God I’ll get the hot towels to her. The lady’s having an attack of something.’
Maestro opening his cabinet. A bundle of towels falling out. Gloria sliding down, legs quivering akimbo on the floor. Maestro packing the cotton softness under her head.
‘It’s a fit she must be having. With the smile of death on her face. We’re too late for the doctor. The poor innocent creature. Never knew when her moment had come.’
Juicy
In
The
Groin
That
Was
Her
Fugue
16
Veronica wore her love bites like gems. When she wasn’t wearing anything else. Standing as I watched her scratch under her breasts and snuff out the candle as we went early to bed. Climbing in under the covers. On one more chill rainy evening. After she tried to level out the notches and gaps across my scalp.
‘I mean that’s simply outrageous to let a barber do that to your hair.’
‘He was upset.’
‘I don’t care what he was. You look institutionalised.’
; It was true the maestro had lopped here there and everywhere as his symphony went to pieces. And Gloria arose after her orgasm. Cutting loose with a stream of remarks. Passed to both barbers one just back from coffee. I winced At the words. You mannerless charmless fuckers. Then she slammed the door. The plate glass splintered on the floor. She said she felt the barber’s hand up between her thighs. While she was otherwise engaged.
I stood paying the bill. A round estimation for a nice big broken pane. And for the performance of trembling scissors and hands. Giving the latest and last word in a rough cut. Ten yards away I walked into the snug of a public house. To take stock. Of again being nearly penniless. Over a creamy topped pint of porter. And slab of red cheese. Quaffing a throatful of restoration. As a hand comes quietly down on my shoulder. And the liquid starts into and gets blasted out of. My lungs. In a fine spray of cheese and stout. All over the bar.
‘My God Bloodmourn, it’s you.’
‘I’ve been looking for you all over town. Now you must not get upset. At what I am going to tell you. There’s been a little fire.’
‘O God.’
‘There’s still a great deal standing.’
‘Standing.’
‘O yes. Remarkable walls. Although a bit charred still as sound as ever. Plenty of roof left.’
Bloodmourn walked close by my shoulder as I made for the quays. Drawing my attention to comforting bits of architecture. Till we reached the river. Crossed over the bridge. And pounded quickly up the stairs of this dark damp shadowy building. To enter this room once more. Stacked a little higher with papers. The stuffed owl still wide eyed at the window.
‘Ah do come in Mr Clementine, Clayton Cleaver Claw, is it not.’
‘Claw Cleaver.’
‘Ah forgive me. But of course. And your friend. I do not believe I have had the honour.’
‘Mr Bloodmourn.’
‘I am Mr Thorn. Now. Please. Be seated. Just push the briefs to one side. Now can I be of assistance.’
‘The castle has burned down.’
‘Good grief.’
‘And I want to know if I’m insured.’
‘Ah. But of course you would like to know if you are insured. I quite understand. Well let me see now. Insured. That would be a policy wouldn’t it. I mean you would be paying premiums and that kind of thing. Monthly, quarterly, biannually. Let me see now. Here in the file. Ah. It’s lapsed. You’re ruined.’
‘Thank you.’
Bloodmourn said the lead melted on a turret top and fell down like rain. Percival and Tim emptied bottles of wine over the conflagration. Confining it to the northwest and holding it back from the great hall where the excavation was still intact. And minerals might yet be found. Bloodmourn was sorry to see me take it the way I did. Because it brought the guests closer together. Running for their lives into each other’s arms. And there was much in the way of bravery. Bligh bare chested heaved smouldering mattresses down from the battlements. L K L tippling constantly peed endlessly upon the flames. Helped by Elmer. And Putlog made music with a song.
Put your nozzle
Over the portcullis
Let the urine rain free
Down on the emerald
Green the colour chosen
When god made this land
For part time sinners
And full time damned
And I put a hand up to feel my shorn scalp as I lie here safely under Veronica. After a nomadic day. Battered and shattered with tears in the eyes. A house no matter how monstrous barren and insane. Is better unburnt. And Bloodmourn steered me by the elbow. From one dark cave of refreshment to another. Down twisting narrow back steets. Standing shoulder to shoulder. Pint to pint. Looking into the future. Somewhere behind the bottles the other side of the bar. Bloodmourn said he wished people would leave him to his prejudices and stop interfering with his hatreds. That folk were divided into classes. Of cunts, shits, fuckers and dirty bastards. Only the fuckers had any saving graces. And that brotherly understanding was ruining the sense of purpose in the world. Which my hand was nudging up under Veronica’s cool breast. Press a nipple against the eye. Wind blows shaking the window. Wait for tomorrow. Head west. On foot. Bloodmourn says a little walk would do us both good. Tramping along beside the road. Looking out over the fields. The weather getting warmer the grass greener. Arrive and see a hillside of smoking remains. Sticking up. As I am into Veronica. While she puts her tongue deeply squirming in my ear. Practising for some little part time proclivity. She later performs. Asked me to wear an apron. So I could make a little tent. Before we went to bed. And she could lift it up and step in. I said another time because some of my castle had burned down.
‘You poor boy. How tiresome for you. Just lie there and let me do the work on top.’
Veronica makes strange faces. Rears up backwards with grimaces and grins. Thought any moment she would get out the castanets. Until she did. Clicking them while breasts were wagging. Winding round and round showing a nice bit of rib cage in her more extraordinary gyrations. Trying to frighten me. Into some strange submission. Leaning down again close to my ear. And shouting.
‘Glorious.’
‘Wow, my ear drums.’
‘Sorry dear boy.’
Collapsing sweatily Veronica snoring. Her head on my shoulder as one listens to a sleeping city. Voices below. From the back windows of the gambling den. And floor boards creaking. Somewhere in the next room. Heard a door open and shut. Just after the shout of Veronica’s glorious. Concussion made my ears ring. Like the blast at the Charnel. Stayed pounding in my head for days. Veronica gave me a buttered crust before bed. I chewed as she undressed. Food tastes better when two people have an appetite for each other. Just count my balls. Make sure one didn’t get bounced up between my lungs. Envy rubbery people who can twist and squirm. Her tongue stuck out as she snorted and sported. Crouching smothering with an abundant tuft of pubic hair. Authority has always been out to stop ecstasy. In case it spreads around. If people get a taste. Then everyone wants it. I hear a sound. A grunt. Another. And the smell of an unholy stink.
‘Veronica wake up.’
‘What is it.’
‘I don’t know. But there’s a noise. And a terrible smell.’
Veronica crawling over the twinging springs gathering her kimono. Sticking her feet into slippers. Stands sweeping back her hair. Stepping to the door and slowly pulling it open. Switching on the light. To a deep groan and straining grunt.
‘O no. Horrid.’
‘Will you turn off that fucking light.’
‘O horrid.’
‘That’s only half but it will do you now for decoration.’
‘You are abominable. Get out. How did you get in. Get out. You would dare to do such a thing again.’
‘The call of nature is periodic madam.’
‘Right where you did it before.’
‘I am a creature of habit if not comfort.’
‘Clayton come and strike him.’
Both hands go down. To pull up the sheets. In this land of ice cold sun. Called upon for courage. When all I want is calm. Back at the Charnel could summon my aide de camp to crust him one on the snout. While Percival delivers an upward shaft to the rear and Elmer takes a taste of his dangling testes.
‘Clean that dastardly mess up.’
‘Fuck off.’
Veronica must have lunged. On that last note of umbrage. Grunts now between the growls screams and shouts. Toppling items trembling the floor. And one monstrous turbulence shaking the entire house. Her muscles all over her. Sleek and lean. Streaks of grey in her hair. Feet coming up the stairs. Pounding on the door. Now heaving open.
Clementine staring from the bedcovers. As a gentleman wrapped in a thick red dressing gown peers in. Consternation convulsed on his face. Wiping eye glasses in his sleeve. Plaster down over his hair and ears. His finger pointing at me.
‘Who are you.’
‘Who are you.’
‘I’m the owner of
this house. That’s who I am. And the ceiling underneath has just come down on top of me and my wife in bed. Where is she.’
Clementine shifting a fraction lower in the sheets. Best not to volunteer information. Already being broadcast in cataclysms. Have him come down to my castle for a few days. If you think an avalanche of plaster is tough. And get knocked out by lead raindrops. Smashing on your head in a cauldron of flame.
Landlord trembling in his tracks. Just behind his head is a portrait of an army officer in full regalia. Matching the colour of this enraged gent’s garb. Who wonders what to do next. Which better be in a hurry. As he steps through into the adjoining room. Just in time for another floor quivering crash.
Clementine leaping from the bed. Grabbing clothes and sticking limbs into the openings. Pulling on the socks. At the dressing table mirror. Slip on tie. The last of the candle light guttering away. Plunge into shoes. As the shouting commences. Voices raised and raging.
‘Get out of my house you filth.’
‘Shut up. In a second you won’t have a house.’
Peek in before I go. Cruising out into the night. With arse without sleep. In there all gone quiet. Just grunting and groans. Push back the door. Hold my nose. There my God. The three of them. Veronica her hands dug in the landlord’s plaster flecked hair. Giving him a woolling as they rolled. Closer to the man of the belt across the belly. Crouched. Taking his shit. With a face so wreathed in concentration.
No one
Could ever
Say
He was
Whimsical
17
Bloodmourn waiting. Without crutches. In the early afternoon. At the mahogany bar. In this high ceilinged public house. Named Cosmos after the universe.
Last night I stumbled down the stairs. Tugging my gladstone bag out the front door. Through a gate in railings. And down some more. Mini Monk or Monk Minor bowed me into his gambling den. Join the skill and repartee he said. Among the famed figures wandering to and fro. And a ballet dancer came on with his big pudenda for the floor show. Each flying leap sending out billows of choking dust. While I plonked down my last chips. Bought with my last cheque. And lost them all.
The Onion Eaters Page 23
