by Paul Haines
Rivulets of liquid oozed from the wall of the bar down to the floor, then snaked through the forest of legs towards me. Dark and thick, the stink of copper. When it hit my skin, matting in my hair, it was warm and sticky.
I wanted to scream, needed to scream, so I opened my mouth. The blood poured in, hot and rancid, choking me, suffocating ...
'What would you like to drink?' Marie asked.
I sat at the bar with her. There was no blood in my hair. I didn't ... what had ...?
'Shiraz okay with you?' She refilled her glass and looked at me, a slight smile on her lips. I nodded and she filled the clean, empty glass before me.
She put the bottle down and rubbed a finger over her lips. 'You've got some of my lipstick on the corner of your mouth.'
'Sorry? I don't ...'
She leant forward, her hand sliding along my thigh, applying a gentle, persistent pressure. 'Perhaps I'll even it up with another kiss.' Then her lips, soft and slightly parted, were upon mine.
Marie took another sip of her wine, her eyes sparkling. She placed her glass on the bar and stood up, smoothing her dress. It clung to her curves and cut deep to reveal her cleavage. 'Excuse me for a minute.' As she left, she leaned close and whispered, 'I loved last night.'
I sat there stunned. Last night?
My eyes were drawn to the massive mirror on the wall. My reflection sat alone in a decrepit bar, long since empty and now cobwebbed. Dust coated the bar and swollen, hairy things scurried in the dirt on the floor. Clumps of hair had been ripped from my scalp, my clothes torn and dirty, the flesh hanging from my face a mockery of life. In the mirror I held a long, discoloured blade, its tip wet and shining. I looked down at my real hand and saw only the wine glass. I turned my head slowly to my right, to where a young, professional couple sat flirting over martinis. No dust, no cobwebs. I stared back into the mirror. The place was deserted. Then slowly, as if the light played tricks in the warp at the edge of the mirror, shadows the colour of rotten fruit began to form, swirling and coalescing towards my reflection. They loomed over me, swelling and substantiating, until Hustlin' Hawkins's face leered from the mirror. Arms slipped from the shadows to rest on my shoulders.
'Good to ssseeee you, maaate.'
Blood rushed to my head as the wine in my stomach rushed to meet the bar. Someone pulled me by the arm. The smell of Chanel No. 5.
'I'm so sorry, Johnny.' Marie's voice.
I tried to lift my head and the muscles in my neck screamed in protest. Marie slipped an arm beneath mine and lifted. I staggered to my feet as the room spun around me. She's spiked my drink.
A long, black coat. 'Don't worry about it, babe. You're always welcome here.'
The voice, that sardonic drawl, smashed into me, the room suddenly turning into a blurred tunnel dropping down fast and away, twisting and turning until the light came crashing into his face. Hawkins grinned and winked at me.
'You ... I ...' My tongue turned traitor and my throat closed in the rebellion of my senses. It was him. He'd done it, slipped something into my drink so he could steal her from me.
Hawkins
(a blade in his stomach, his fingers shiny in blood clutching the handle)
leaned forward and kissed Marie on the cheek. He winked at me again as his hand ran down the small of her back to the curve of her arse.
'Thanks, Johnny. I'll fuck you later,' she said.
'See you later then,' he replied. And then to me, 'Good to see you again, Will. We must catch up.'
He clapped me on the shoulder. When he touched me, it felt as though I'd been pissing on an electric fence. I remembered screaming, then not much else.
I woke up in a bed feeling disoriented. It didn't think it was my apartment. The room was dark, except for a crack of light creeping in from where the curtains met.
Someone lay asleep next to me, an arm curled around my waist. I moved my hand down tentatively over the body, the feel of soft, warm, skin and the curve of a breast. She was naked and so was I. What the hell had just happened? I groped for a light switch at the bedside table but found none, so I waited as my eyes adjusted to the darkness.
A light in an adjacent bathroom flicked on, flooding the bedroom with enough to see by. Marie snuggled closer and murmured something soft. Had I slept with her and not remembered? My thoughts snapped back to the bathroom. I heard movement, the slap of bare feet on tiles. Someone else was in here with us. Then the sound of a hard stream of urine hitting water.
I crept from the bed, careful not to disturb Marie, and approached the open bathroom door. Inside a man with a muscular back stood pissing into the toilet. His arse muscles flexed with
(each rapid thrust)
the final squeeze of drops. Hawkins turned slowly to face me, and for an instant his cheek appeared sunken, the skin withered and decayed. Bone shone through under the fluorescent lighting. The room wavered and Hawkins looked normal again. Handsome, arrogant, strong. He grinned then shook his semi-hard cock. Drops flicked from its glistening end, the spatter on the tiles loud in the silence of the room.
'How's your bride, Will?'
'What?' Inside me, I felt something building, ready to erupt.
Hawkins swaggered towards me, still shaking his cock. 'Wonder if she wants some more of this? She loved it on her hen's night.'
'You're lying!'
Marie's voice behind me. 'Will, honey, what's wrong?' Her hand on my trembling shoulder had a gold ring on the wedding finger. Something was wrong here, really wrong. A drink.
(a needle, cold, as cold as death itself)
They spiked my drink.
I turned to face her, throwing her hand from my shoulder. 'What the hell's going on?'
Her face screwed up in confusion. She was good, I'll give her that. I almost bought the look of hurt innocence in her eyes.
'I don't know what you mean,' she said. Her voice trembled as much as my body. She stepped back into the shadows of the bedroom so I couldn't see the deceit plastered over that seductive face.
'You two drug me and bring me back here! Messing with my mind. What do you hope to achieve from this? I don't have any money. You fucking slut!'
Marie started to cry. 'Will, listen to yourself. Please, you're scaring me.'
'Did he put you up to it, you bitch?'
'Who?' Her sobs hitched the word into broken syllables.
I pointed back at Hawkins. 'Him! That evil bastard!'
'Who, Will? There's no one there.'
The bathroom was empty.
The edges of the world blurred and melted, rushing around my peripheral vision like a whirlpool. The light merged with the dark and the sudden silence howled static in my ears. The cold tiles under my feet provided a focus as I tried to bring myself back in. He'd been here, I'd seen him. Concentrate on the tiles. He was in here pissing into the toilet.
I staggered towards the toilet bowl. 'Fuck you both!'
The smell hit me first, so strong it almost clogged my nostrils. The water in the toilet was thick with congealing
(oysters, it's the oysters, they taste like)
sperm. I gagged and reached for the flush, pushing hard down on the button. The cistern gulped hungrily, then spat the contents of the bowl up and out into the room. Sperm and water coated my face, stringing through my hair, slapping against my sealed lips. I slipped as I jerked back and crashed onto the tiles. I tried to turn and crawl towards the doorway but what I saw froze my heart.
Marie stood naked in the doorway, her legs spread wide. Hawkins stood behind her, his hands pawing her breasts. Her nipples were large and erect, and his fingers pinched them cruelly. He looked at me over her shoulder as he thrust up beneath her, sliding into her. He laughed as she gasped, then gave me a wink.
'Nooooo!' I screamed, and as my mouth opened, Hawkins's sperm poured from between her thighs, filling the room. The last thing I remembered was the taste of thick, salty glue tinged with urine and the scent of Chanel.
Darkness.
&nb
sp; I awoke dry and shivering on the bathroom floor. My head hurt and there was a trickle of blood on the otherwise clean tiles. I turned on the lights and checked my apartment—it was my apartment—the one room, the kitchenette, the double-bed. The blankets were disturbed on one side only, the side I normally slept. I had been in it alone. This was something to do with my accident, I
(killed him)
was sure of it. I had had times like this before, though I couldn't clearly recall them. But I knew I had. I think my accident affects my memory when I get stressed or nervous. Like a benign brain tumour, every now and then it kicks in and I get a little haywire.
I sat down on the bed and as I did I noticed the photos on the bookshelf opposite. Wedding photos. Of me and Marie. Christ, I didn't even remember kissing her, let along making love to her! Married? Instead, burning in my brain, the only clear image we had of our relationship. Hawkins behind her, smiling and thrusting, filling her with his poison. And the sound of her soft moans. My head throbbed and the world sang darkness.
So I followed its tune.
The bouncer in the Hugo Boss suit glared at me, his massive arms still folded over his chest.
'He's expecting you,' he said. 'When you go in, take the staircase on the left. His office is at the top, second door down.'
Ciccolina's buzzed, the bar five deep, the music loud and intoxicating. I ignored it all and strode up the stairs, my eyes focused on every step. I blocked everything and everyone, the roiling ball of nausea in my stomach growing as I neared the top. I approached his door, the urge to vomit increasingly strong, but this time I knew what was happening. It was Hawkins who made me feel sick. Every time we were near each other I'd feel this way. It had to be Hawkins, and I suspected he'd had something to do with my accident.
I stood outside his door, summoning the strength to turn that handle, to push
(the needle into the skin of the bag)
the door open and confront him. I had to do it. I'd been too weak before and he'd walked all over me all my life. Stolen my friends and lovers, turned me into this erratic animal. I had to do this. It had to stop.
But I didn't open the door.
Instead it swung slowly inwards and there, lounging in a large, leather recliner, his bare feet on the mahogany desk beneath a massive glass window overlooking the bar—my nemesis: Hustlin' Hawkins.
'Hi ya, Will. Come in and shut the door,' he said. 'You got here sooner this time.'
I walked into the room and the door shut silently behind. The room stank of stale cigarettes, but there was something else, some other smell, hidden beneath.
'Stay away from my wife.' I had meant to say Marie but it felt right anyway.
Hawkins raised his eyebrows, his blue eyes sparkling. 'Come in, old buddy. Take your weight off, have a drink. Good to see you.' He sat forward and placed the long letter-opener he'd been turning over in his hands on the desk. 'Don't you just love the way your memory fucks with you. You know the best thing about this, don't you?'
'I'm warning you.'
'I only feel the pleasure, Will. Not the pain.' He laughed and leant back. 'But not you, eh, Will? You don't get to experience the pleasure. She's a great fuck but you'll never know, will you, Will? Do you like that? 'Will you, Will'.' Hawkins laughed again.
It was no longer nausea I felt, but something dark and thunderous ripping from the embryo of hate I'd been nurturing.
'Stay away from us or I'll kill you.'
Hawkins stopped smiling. He stood and leaned over the desk. His cheeks suddenly looked dry and sunken, but his eyes burned. 'This is the moment I look forward to the most. I can see it there, I know you've almost grasped it, but you never do. Get it over with, arsehole. Let's do it again.' And he grinned a grin full of decayed, yellow teeth.
I realised the smell hidden beneath the cigarette smoke. Chanel No 5. He'd had her in here, probably on his desk while he looked down at me sitting at his bar. It all unravelled, the years of pain and hatred, pummelling out in the shape of my fist, smashing into his jaw. His head rocked back and he blinked, his eyes dazed, the young, arrogant Hawkins back in my view.
It felt like elation, the first orgasm, creation!
I punched him again and he collapsed into his chair. It rolled back on its wheels into the wall. He shook his head dazedly and laughed. I leapt over the desk, grabbing something from it to really hurt him, to wipe that stupid grin from his pin-up-boy face. Hawkins tried to stand and I punched him hard in the stomach, again and again. Something hot and wet gushed over my hand. The coppery stink of blood. The letter-opener dropped from my hand to the carpeted floor. Hawkins stood there, smiling and still. Blood oozed from the cuts in his stomach. The room grew hot.
'You can only kill me once, Will,' Hawkins said.
And I remembered, oh yes, I remembered it all. It came crashing back into my brain, all those fractured memories of my life. My real life, the life before my accident. Eating his oystery sperm from between her thighs. The blade in his gut held by my hand. His body in a pool of blood. The trial. Before the needle. An IV Tube leading from my arm to a bag where a man injects a lethal needle.
'Normally we go through a lot more before we get to this point,' Hawkins said. 'And frankly I'm glad you came earlier this time. I was sick of fucking this one.'
'No,' I said, the sound low and hollow, an empty whisper.
'Who'd have thought? Sartre was right.'
'No ... no ...'
'This is the part I love!' Hawkins spun on his feet, clapping his hands. 'You know! You remember!'
'No ...'
Hawkins winked at me. 'One man's heaven ...'
#
I haven't had much luck with women. Not since the accident anyway. Her name's Irene—tall and slim with legs to her neck; long, black hair; and large, blue eyes. Works in marketing and sings jazz on the weekends. Best of all, though, she laughs at all my jokes ...
***
Afterword: They Say It's Other People
After reading Stephen King's excellent short "That feeling, the one you can only say in French", I felt compelled to attempt something similar. Needless to say, my story bears no resemblance to the King's. Jean-Paul Satre was right. Hell is other people. (More than a few readers never made the connection between the title of this story and what was going on within it).
Sexual jealousy again rears its ugly head, though this time, not with one's partner, but with one's competition: the guy—even better, a not quite friend—who always has your girl, before, during, and after. I'm not that guy, but I know them and never like having them in my circle of acquaintances.
I was also known as an author who would always include a lot of bodily fluids in his stories, whether that be blood, semen, snot, sputum, whatever. I thought this unduly harsh and painted me in a rather gratuitous light, and this story was meant to expel the need to write bodily fluids again. Or to prove a point that they weren't gratuitous. Looking back now, the amount of semen is comical, not horrific, although my original intention with the enormous amount of ejaculate was to disgust, not scare or shock.
"They Say It's Other People" earned the best acceptance letter I have ever received. The ever-present, multi-award winning author/editor/artist/mover/shaker Cat Sparks wrote me with, "I hate this story. It makes me sick. I want it." It also received an Honourable Mention for the 2004 Aurealis Award for Best Horror Short Story.
***
Yum Cha
They say it comes in threes.
The first is my marriage—'You don't listen to me, you don't understand me, you don't love me'—and that's not true. I love my wife so bad I'd do anything for her. Maybe I don't understand her. I thought that would be the worst. It's not.
I've given up smoking. Haven't had one for six weeks and still counting. It's making me irritable and miserable to be around. I now have to pop a pill the size of a football with every meal; this one's supposed to be side-effect free. And I'm doing it for her!
The third is the worst; I
thought I was going mad, but I'm not. I'm just hearing voices.
Mr Wong ushers me to a table in a tiny, crowded room hidden at the back of his restaurant.
Back again so soon? He leans forward and asks discreetly 'The same as Wednesday's, sir?'
'No. It must be a woman this time.'
'Certainly, sir.' Mr Wong bows as he accepts the money I slip him.
I ignore the gluttonous thoughts of the men and the hungry faces of the women around me as I wait for him to return. I place the pill carefully next to my cutlery and begin to read Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. I'm here for different reasons. Men and women are different species, after all.
#
This all started when the stray cat that adopted our house alerted me to the voices about three weeks ago. The wife and I were retreating to another cold bed so I asked him if he wanted to join us. You know, stupid cat talk. He shot me a yellow-eyed glare and flicked his tail once.
Not fucking likely, pal. As soon as you leave I'm on the bench for those leftovers.
'What?' I stared at the cat and then at the bench scattered with Chinese takeaway and then back at the cat.
He just sat there, scowling and swishing his tail. I put the takeaway into the fridge.
You fucking bastard.
I heard the cat-flap bang shut before I reached the bedroom.
The following morning I heard voices from every cat in the neighbourhood. Not dogs, not birds, just cats. They didn't like me much and I didn't say anything about it to anyone. I put it down to stress; the strife with the wife and the nicotine withdrawal.
I spent most of that night shitting out the Vietnamese the wife brought home for tea. She was pissed off I'd kept her awake—'It's not the food, I ate the same as you'—and stormed off to work in the morning. I called in sick, got up late, had breakfast and went outside to throw out the leftovers.
The Doberman next door leapt up onto the fence, all slavering tongue and dripping froth.
