And The Street Screamed Blue Murder! Read online

  The day before yesterday, he had finally told her that they were going to visit his parents out at the country estate. She had been nagging him for weeks. So, the morning before she had packed her bags and he had pulled up to her flat in his elegant Aston Martin and, for a moment, he had whisked her away from the grey inner city and the council flats and the bullying despair. It had been the happiest drive in her life. The wolf had been on exceptional form even bringing a picnic hamper and making a detour so that the could eat salmon sandwiches and drink a small glass of bubbly overlooking the fields and disappearing woods of Middle England. She could see how excited he was and he had told her that he loved her. Those three little words had suddenly sent her into a spin as she suddenly remembered their difference in class that mattered so much. The wolf had calmed her down by saying that he knew his family would love her too.

  And so, it had been a bright winter's late afternoon by the time she had first glimpsed his country house through the trees of his family's seemingly never ending estate. There was acres and acres of parkland and she had spotted a peacock or two. She had told him at that very first view of the lair that it was “something out of Agatha Christie” and he had chuckled and stroked her thighs his hand working its way upwards. His thumb gently grazing her panties.

  As they had entered the grand old building she had seen a motto in Latin over the door (Errare humanum est: Perseverare diabolicum) , and she had asked what it had meant but he had just pushed her through the door insisting that she would find out later.

  The hall had a massive spiral staircase against the back wall and there were pictures of men in various poses, descendants she had thought, that covered the hallway entrance. An old man with, she noted, obvious dyed black hair was there to greet them and he had kissed her hand leaving a short trickle of saliva there. Commenting on her prettiness he somewhat forcefully took her elbow. The wolf had called him Uncle George and he asked her to do the same. She was escorted into a wide room with a pack of twenty or so well dressed and spicy smelling loups who passed her around as if she was a gift at a child's party. They fed her caviar and champagne with wide canine grins (Oh, what big mouths you have), touching her hands with their finely manicured paws.

  Something had begun to nibble at her thoughts.

  Where were the females?

  The pack guffawed hungrily at her wit.

  “Dear, dear, ...”, purred Uncle George at her ear, “you are a humourous young bitch”. He was stood on his hind legs behind her, his crotch gently pushing into her arse. She had begun to feel light-headed and squeezed her way towards the man who had told her that he loved her not two hours before. He did not even turn to her but downed his glass of single malt Scotch and told her that it was “just the champagne”.

  “Goes straight to the head, if you're not used to it.”, he spat, “ A girl like you isn't used to it, now, is she?”

  She had begun to rub her eyes and felt her knees start to buckle. The chuckles had turned to screeches as one of pack yelped “There she goes!” and everything had become colours and she had felt her clothes being torn from her body and she had writhed as she fell way down into deep hole seeing a light at the end of long tunnel and her body had ceased to exist and the thought “dead?” floated past her on a silver blossom and the rest of her thoughts had shown themselves to be bright white spheres and her emotions had transformed into red waves that bumped into each other in blue echoes and time had passed but moments were forever crystallising into each other then ...

  wwwwhhhhhhoooooooooosssssshhhhhh

  … she was still a disembodied mind with strands of thoughts weaving and circling around her head. She had, at that moment, known that she had been ravaged by the wolves, her orifices were red raw sore and her mouth had the saline aftertaste of man's seed. Her thighs and breasts had been cut and sliced but there was no connection to her meat-cage. She felt that her wrists had been bound behind her back and her legs and waist had been tied also with another taut bondage probably connected to the wall somewhere, preventing her standing up or moving away, if she had been able to.

  She wasn't.

  Not yet.

  The ground should have felt hard and merciless to her bruised knees but to her it felt soft almost pliant. All of a sudden she could hear again. There were electronic voices around her that sounded like a thousand robotic wasps. The soundwaves bounced and echoed off her despoiled body.

  “What news-ews-ews from Paris-is-is?”

  "He appears-ers-ers to have-ve disappeared-ed-ed.”

  "Most inconvenient-enient-enient?”

  "Yes, Sir-Sir-Sir.”

  "Our soldiers-ers-ers?”

  "Already-y there-ere-ere.”

  "They will be-e-e pleazzzzzed.”

  Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

  The vague TV screen in front of her flickered.

  There was a soft noise behind her that swished with the movement of cloth and the pressing of buttons.

  Then her throat was cut from ear to ear, severing her oesophagus and her blood washed down onto her naked nipples as her head tilted back in her final smile (All the better to eat you with) and as her conscious returned to being white floating balls the last thing she saw through the dying haze and silk was the red light of a video camera.

  It was okay though.

  She liked the colour red.

  Chapter 11

  30th of January, 2011

  Belief in ghosts is far more prevalent than you would at first think. In Asia, for instance, almost everybody I talked to believed in them. A remnant from our animist past, perhaps? Some even went so far as to tell me their personal experiences with spirits. Protective, malign and even vulgar.

  In the West, deep down we're not so different. Even Britain, the home of rational materialism, is replete with stories of things that go bump in the night. Sprites and wee apparitions abound.

  Alfie Lime came to the conclusion that becoming a phantom would buy him a little time. Dead men are invisible. They have no being and so can go wherever they please. Shades can pass through walls and whisper the questions in your ear that others dare not to. So, Alfie Lime must die.

  He had written a suicide note that morning after his encounter with the dining room and the rat stating clearly that he was not to blame for the murder but that the horror of seeing her and the pain and guilt that he had suffered, blah, blah, blah …

  Not one mention of the investigation in there.

  Let them think they had won.

  Now to the suicide itself. How could he die without leaving a cooling corpse? Of course, he could force someone else to die in his place, but that would defeat the bleedin' object. Obviously. Hanging, jumping in front of a train (his personal favourite), pills OD, blowing one's head off (no gun), hara kiri (no sword), cutting one's wrists in a hot tub (vertically not horizontally), etc, etc, all required a patsy.

  How can I kill myself?!

  It can't be that bloody difficult.

  “Miss Jones.”

  A face from his childhood. Hang dog. A face that made him smile. Miss Jones. No. Not that character. Reggie! Leonard Rossiter. Reginald Perrin. Of course. Fake death by drowning. A river has to be dragged to find a body. If they ever do. It could be dragged around by a boat for days. Pecked at by fish. Caught in an undertow and taken out to wherever the river goes. It could disappear entirely.

  So, who says that you never useful things from TV?

  *

  Pont Neuf is a famous bridge in Paris. A film was made about it. Les Amants De Pont Neuf with Juliette Binoche. Thousands of people and cars and bicycles cross that bridge each day. Taxis carrying tourists, locals just out to stretch their legs, the drunken homeless stumbling around and avoiding the police, lovers hand in hand. What better place to kill yourself. There was a pile of clothes and a pair of black scuffed shoes left there. In one of the alcoves where you can sit and gaze at Notre Dame in the distance. I walked passed and found them and in the pocket was a fold
ed up piece of paper. It was a note that started with the lines “I'm sorry for running away from everything ...”. I leant down and placed a single rose on top of the pile.

  “Have a good death, Alfie Lime!”

  Alfie Lime Is Dead.

  Long Live Alfie Lime.

  ***

  Part Two - The Real Fuckin' Lowdown!

  ***

  Chapter 12

  And without warning a dead man is resurrected.

  *

  With his eyes fully opened, Alfie Lime's hand shot out from the bed and grabbed at his mobile phone. The dreamy summer's blue sky dotted with thought-like clouds was swiftly fading and his mind tried to keep that single pastoral image for just one moment more. He looked down at the time – 02:37a.m., four hours since he had snuffed it. The nightly chaos was still erupting and the dancing orange glow reflected on his wall seemed as if the street outside was on fire. Lime realised that there would be no more sleeping for him tonight. If you can't beat them, join them. The irony of a dead man drinking on Death Street had not escaped him. So, grabbing his coat and his cigarettes out, into the night, he leapt.

  The street was awash with the continual sorrowful downpour, vomit and pillage. Lime had never felt so electrically charged wandering down the crooked pavement, stepping over bodies moving and bodies still. He heard a psssssssttt and turned his head in the direction of the quiet yet harsh sound. It had come from cross the road but he couldn't focus on where. Psssssssssssssssssssttttttt! There it was again and this he made out the glow off the end of a cigarette. He dived across the road narrowly avoiding being struck by a speeding scooter. Trading flying insults with the female rider as his foot struck the gutter at the other side of the road splashing contaminated rain water up his trouser leg.

  Lime cursed and brushed as much of the putrid H2O as he could off his leg. Then he saw the cigarette glow once more in the doorway of what appeared to be a shop of some kind. The window display seemed as vibrant as a serial killer's toyshop at Christmas. Fairy lights hung around the edges of the dark blue curtain and the shelf floor was strewn with lit half melted candles of black, white and all primary colour. Offerings of cigarettes and alcohol and wilting flowers and the odd doll's head nestled amongst the candles. Yet, it was the centrepiece that captivated the onlooker. A full-sized skeleton clothed like nun or The Holy Virgin loomed over Lime, in her hands she bore objects. A scales in her right hand, a globe in her left. In her mouth was a still fuming cigar. She was ghastly and magnificent and Lime winked at her while making a prayer gesture and she, he felt, winked back.

  An orange burning tinge from the cigarette lit up the obscure door frame and showed the smoker to be a small lady. Lime recognised her instantly. It was the old lady from the Hotel. The conductress of the invisible and inaudible symphony. Next to her stood what appeared to be a little Indian boy. The were almost the same height and she was stroking the boy's hair gently. The boy tenderly prized the smouldering cigarette from her fingers and took a big old drag while staring right at Lime. Breaking into a sing-song giggle, he then hurtled past the big man in a run, knocking his ear into Lime's elbow as he went.

  The old lady turned leaving the door open and vanished into the dingy corners of the abode. The big man lowered his head to avoid cracking his skull on the very low frame and crossed the threshold.

  “Well, c'mon in. Don't take all night! It's fucking freezing!” came an low pitched but definitely feminine voice. Lime found himself surprised that the speaker spoke English with one of the accents from the Southern Hemisphere. Not expected at all. He was expecting Old World not New World.

  "Drink?” the voice demanded as the lady appeared through a bead curtain with a tray, a respectable but inexpensive whisky and three shot glasses.

  "Please” called Lime politely and without thought.

  "Don't stand on ceremony, dear” the voice had begun to soften and he saw the lines of friendliness alight her face as she poured a decent measure into each tumbler. All of a sudden, Lime felt a presence behind him and turned around to come chest to face with a handlebar moustache. The wearer of this fine piece of facial hair was a gentleman of short stature, like his wife, yet a friendly hand outstretched itself and Lime took it and shook it, glad to be amongst new acquaintances.

  "What's your name?” the old dear softly cooed.

  "Harry.”

  "'Harry' eh? Okay, 'Harry' they call me Maria and this lovely man here next to me is Rocco. The best Roma violinist this side of Bucharest!”

  Lime raised his glass and the diminutive moustachioed gent timidly lowered his eyes into a squint as he stared into a spastic candle flame.

  “Is that Rocco I can hear at night into the wee hours?”

  "Indeed, it is.”

  "He is exceptional.”

  "And that's not all he's good at, I can tell you!”

  Maria's laughter was gruff with a thousand past smokes and its timbre stayed in the air wafting with the fumes. It was only then, in those moments of laughter, that Lime really began to take stock of his surroundings. The window display aside, all manner of shrunken heads and ouija boards and tarot cards and crushed powders and bird's feet adorned every spare nook and cranny. A visual and anthropological feast.

  The first glass dripped into his tiredness and brought with it the welcome rise of wooziness. As Maria began to tell him of her life, of her youthful immigration from Queensland to Hollywood as an sitcom actress, of her moments of true tenderness and humour, of her tragic move to Paris; his focus on her words bled into his eyes and the effigy in the window caught his attention once more. He nodded towards her, through the cigarette smoke that hung around with nowhere else to go.

  “What is this place?”

  "This is my medicine cabinet for fallen souls.”

  "Who's the bony lady over there?”

  Maria beamed and sat up proudly.

  “Like her, do you?”

  "She's very … sweet.”

  "That is Santa Muetre. Saint Death. Our Lady Of Last Resorts” the small lady's hands opened in a gesture of openness and submission. Lime nodded at the alter, lowering his head and closing his eyes out of politeness.

  “I first met her on a voyage to Mexico. In the poorest parts of Mexico city. Y'know, the interesting quarter. I'd made friends with a local dope dealer and he'd granted me safe passage and a stay. It was there I saw the skinny one. There was this shrine to her, see, and Don, the dealer, took me there and left a huge joint and a bottle of whisky for her as he prayed for the death of his enemies. As he piously laid the gifts down, he said to me that she was the only one who took care of people like him. The people of the night. The poor people. The outcasts. The assassins and dealers and hookers.”

  Her eyes glazed over, as if hypnotised with love, as she spoke, lost in her memories.

  “I was smitten” she chuckled as her companion stroked her hand. She then shook her head and her gaze pierced Lime.

  "So Harry, what has befallen you to bring you to this state, eh?”

  State. Not place. It made sense. It was as if he was stuck in a lucid dream. One that would eventually open the doors to a flood of insanity.

  “What do you mean?”

  Lime took a final drag on his fag and put it out on a half-filled bone ashtray.

  “Please yourself”

  Maria smiled.

  “You'll come around. In time.”

  Lime tilted his head quizzically.

  “You either won't want to or be unable to leave soon. Trust me. So, whatever that needs to done, make sure you do it damn quickly. We'll be seeing a helluva lot of each other, Harry.”

  Lime instinctively pushed himself away from the table, awkwardly stood up and stumbled his way towards the flamboyantly macabre idol. She was rather stunning and he bowed his head once more. A strange feeling, as he had always considered himself an irreligious being. Images of Christ's crucifixion did resonate on some level but Christ, to him, had always been a god of suffering with
no resurrection. No hope. No joy. The churches of the world were institutions of control, nothing more. No truth hidden inside their repressed walls. Yet there, in front of that blasphemous graven image, he felt the need to give something and shuffled through pockets to find a cigarette which he sparked up and left it lit at her feet, looking deep into her sockets. He dropped down on his knees and prayed for revenge for poor Véronique until the salty tears came and Maria touched his shoulder cooing and another glass was filled.

  Death Street. Saint Death. Dead Alfie Lime.

  Chapter 13

  Alfie Lime was feeling down.

  His mind was a vicious whirlwind of thought.

  The ignorance, brutality and what the so-called believers and righteous term as the “evil” of this world at its worst, at times, seemed to Alfie Lime to be nothing more than the solid mind of a mad god that he did not believe in. A deranged deity that forced sparrows to eat butterflies. The architect of Blake’s “Tyger”. A real shit for brains. When that hanging man myth Christ had asked why his old man had forsaken him, he should have added, “YOU BASTARD!”.

  Authority is a single-minded illusion enforced by nothing more than annihilation.

  “This is why they all want us to live long and suffer until it all ends in peace. Live long solid lives in servitude and slavery” he thought to himself, clearly feeling that he was losing the fucking plot. It had been hard and was getting harder with every passing second. However, Lime thought, there were signs. Beautiful, almost perfect symbols permeating our lives. These fluid archetypes, equations and coincidences, flower when one noticed them. In recognition, budded the mystery of that unknown divinity (not “god”) of the hologram of wild nature. Savage windswept desolate moors and a tiger’s tensed up spring were illusions in beauty. A turbulent and dynamic power that created nothing but is a flow.