Penny Dreadful

  What will we do, said Mingus.

  Nothing, said Theseus. You will do nothing.

  But Chrome is dangerous, isn’t he. This is real, it’s too real.

  Adore scowled. What do you propose, little one?

  I don’t know. The police?

  Theseus laughed richly. The police, he said. What an idea.

  He should be severed, said Adore.

  Yes, said Theseus. Amputated from the game like an infected limb.

  You’re going to kill him, said Dizzy.

  Don’t worry, pet. Chrome won’t be harmed. The dear boy. I will take care of it and none of you will be the wiser. Chrome will simply disappear for a time.

  Eve didn’t want to say anything but she couldn’t stop herself. Her voice was escaping whether she liked it or not, her voice was a desperate little air bubble.

  Excuse me, she said.

  They all looked at her and she tried to focus, to remember what she wanted to say but she couldn’t help noticing something different about Mingus. He was not so pale and amorphous. He didn’t look like you could just put your hand right through him. There was a touch of new metal in his eyes. Oh, well. This was obviously sex. He had finally fucked or been fucked by Dizzy and Eve wanted to give him a squeeze and say she was happy for him. It was about time.

  Adore was staring at her. What do you have to say, dear?

  His name was Christian, said Eve. He has parents somewhere, and a brother. He has a master’s degree in French lit and he works in a video store. Or he used to.

  Brief, unpleasant silence.

  He loves movies, she said.

  Theseus and Adore looked at each other, smoke trailing from their noses. Eve had hoped that Adore would be on her side but that was just silly.

  I don’t believe my fucking ears, Theseus said.

  Maybe she’s right, said Dizzy.

  But she took a half-step back and Mingus grabbed for her hand as Adore extended one bony fingernail and traced a slow, hypnotic figure eight in the air before tucking a loose strand of hair behind Dizzy’s ear. Mingus looked like he might faint but Dizzy never flinched.

  Adore licked her lips and said, I detest Breathers.

  Eve felt calm. Her blood was still furious beneath her skin but she was calm.

  Open hunting, said Theseus. He smiled. I will spread the word among the Mariners that the three of you are to be hunted like dogs if I hear another word about the police. And it will get very bloody if I hear any silly rumors about a fictional person named Christian with a master’s degree.

  Adore turned to Eve. Are you performing tonight?

  Eve stepped close to her and said softly, yes. I think so.

  Adore smiled, showing two jagged rows of bright yellow teeth and Eve wondered how much the sick bitch had paid to have her incisors sharpened. Or had she done it herself, with a file.

  I’m glad, said Adore. And what piece would you like to do?

  The Scavenger’s Daughter, said Eve.

  How yummy. Who will be the victim?

  They stared at each other for a perilously elastic moment and Eve wanted nothing more than to drop her eyes and look away but somehow she borrowed the guts from Goo to lazily grab Adore by the crotch and give her little make-believe cock a fierce, familiar squeeze. Theseus coughed, apparently embarrassed.

  I will, said Eve. I will be the victim.

  Hail of Frogs:

  The blades of the giant fan had begun to move. The blue haze fell away and Phineas gratefully reclined on a lemon-yellow couch in the darkest corner of the space. He sat close to Crumb, his head lowered like a thief. Crumb was talking philosophy, however.

  It’s all about obliteration of self, said Crumb. The utter loss of self. I have failed at the game personally. It amuses me to be Gulliver for a day or two but I’m still Crumb.

  And what about these others. Do they know their own names?

  I’m never sure, said Crumb. Everyone lies to me, which is peculiar. I’m a Redeemer, a confessor. And still they lie. But a lot of them have day jobs so they must be able to come in and out.

  Brief silence. Phineas thought about the fact that he would really have to find a job soon, or starve. It was a surreal notion.

  Who did you come here with? said Crumb.

  Friend of mine, a lawyer. He called himself Major Tom.

  He’s a Mariner?

  Yeah, said Phineas. I took a girl’s tongue with him this evening.

  Disturbing?

  A little.

  The intimacy is fantastic, said Crumb. Obviously. But the transaction is strangely antisexual in the end.

  It’s fucking creepy. And I don’t quite understand it.

  What? said Crumb.

  The tongue. The temptation.

  Crumb smiled. It’s not so complicated, he said.

  You obviously have a theory.

  Have you ever had a good look at hieroglyphs, said Crumb.

  The sideways people? said Phineas.

  The sideways people, said Crumb. They have very large mouths.

  Okay.

  Think about it, said Crumb. In religious art and literature, the mouth and tongue are always big symbols. They carry serious voodoo. The tongue is the spoken word, the tongue is Creation. Then you have the chaos of Babylon, the scattering of tongues.

  Crumb paused, grinning. Phineas lit a cigarette because he knew Crumb didn’t want his opinion, not yet. Crumb was only warming up.

  But that’s not really what this is about, said Crumb. The mouth is often fearsome, a source of destruction. The mouth devours, after all. And the most hideous beasts in medieval literature always breathe fire, right. The tongue of fire.

  Phineas regarded the stoned kids around him.

  The powers of fire and speech, said Crumb. The two skills that set us apart from the lower animals. Creativity and destruction are thereby intertwined in man.

  No shit.

  Have you read the Upanishads?

  What do you think? said Phineas.

  I suppose not, he said. But if you had, you might know that the mouth is said to represent an integral consciousness in the context of sleep. The mouth is the door between real and unreal worlds, between reason and madness. And if one is unlucky and sleeps too long without waking, then the soul must escape through the mouth.

  But look at these people, said Phineas. They don’t have a clue about that shit.

  That’s irrelevant, said Crumb.

  And he was right. A child may not be able to explain how or why he is affected by the symbolism of a dream, but he knows he is affected. He can feel it in his skin. He is instinctively afraid of spiders, rats. He is charmed by beauty. He is moved to do things he doesn’t understand. Phineas sipped his port and watched Crumb, who was now smoking a leisurely cigarette.

  Do you know a guy named Jimmy Sky? said Phineas.

  Crumb shrugged. He’s a player, I believe. A Fred of some kind but I don’t know him.

  He’s an undercover cop, said Phineas.

  That’s beautiful, said Crumb. Does he know what he’s gotten himself into?

  No, said Phineas. I don’t think so.

  And you want to save him?

  Phineas laughed. I’m not sure, really. I think I’m looking to kill him.

  Theseus stood by the bar, immaculate and white.

  His lips were wet as he surveyed the crowd, his jaw clicking. A young Mariner named Peter Quince appeared at his elbow, whispering that there was a telephone call for him. Theseus frowned. He did not like to use the telephone at the Unbecoming Club. It intruded upon his dreams. But Peter Quince was a fine fellow, very discreet. He never touched the Pale and Theseus often used him for difficult errands. The call must be important.

  Theseus turned and walked into the dark and through a doorway and into a sparse, box-shaped room with office furniture. He sat down at the desk, picked up the telephone and looked at it with distaste. Hello, he said. Hello.

  Silence on the line. Theseus lit a cigarette
and put one white shoe on the desk with dull thud of rubber against wood.

  I can hear you breathing, he said. You fool. You sound like a dying bloody horse. Come on, then. Who am I speaking to?

  He blew smoke and waited.

  Theseus flared his nostrils and was about to hang up when a man cleared his voice on the line and said, this is Jimmy Sky.

  Jimmy, he said. It’s good to hear your voice.

  Did you hear about Moon? said Jimmy.

  Yes, yes. Such a shame. How kind of you to hold onto his cell phone, though. In case he needs it on a rainy day.

  Fuck you, said Jimmy.

  No, don’t hang up. Long pause. I’m sorry, said Theseus.

  Oh, yeah. I bet you are, said Jimmy. Please make a donation to the Negro College Fund in lieu of flowers.

  Ha. That’s very funny. What do you want, Jimmy?

  Pause.

  I want self-awareness.

  Theseus smiled. Is that all?

  The dead cops, said Jimmy. Are they Freds?

  Of course.

  Who’s killing them?

  You are, Jimmy. You are.

  Motherfucker.

  I’m joking of course. But then you did kill Moon.

  Who is it?

  A talented young Mariner, said Theseus. He’s known as Chrome but his given name is Christian Wells.

  Where can I find him? said Jimmy.

  He’s a houseguest of Dizzy Bloom.

  The address, you fucker.

  Look in the telephone book. It’s her real name.

  If I kill him, will Moon be self-aware?

  It’s possible, said Theseus. But not likely.

  I hate you, said Jimmy.

  Oh, by the way. It might interest you to know that Captain Honey suspects someone else entirely. I think you know him.

  Who?

  Theseus shrugged. An unstable person by the name of Ray Fine.

  One face bleeding into the next and Tom had what he might best describe as an ice-cream headache. The slow rush of dirty skin. Twisting hair and scar tissue and pockmarks. Terrible eyes sleepless and drugged, bright and searching. A handful of men and women before him on a ratty Oriental rug in various postures of despair, some of them nodding in junk stupors while others twitched and vibrated and muttered about the intricacies of the rug’s design. One girl of about seventeen lay with her cheek pressed hard to the floor as if she were listening to the earth. A single strand of oily brown hair fell over her visible eye and every five seconds or so she laboriously moved her bruised right hand to brush it away and not more than two feet from her, Kink was violently kissing a barefoot peasant girl with blond hair who could have been the first girl’s twin. And at the center of the rug, where the design came to an angry climax of flowers and geometry, Major Tom soon found exactly what he was looking for. A beautiful man with black dreadlocks and dark chocolate eyes. The unspoiled face of a new Fred. Tom sighed. He contemplated the tongue.

  Dizzy was loath to admit it, but she was happy. Mingus sat beside her on a slick black sofa, holding her hand. Their faces were pushed together, not kissing but close enough to share the same air.

  Tell me about your parents, said Mingus.

  I don’t remember them.

  What do you remember?

  I grew up with my grandmother, Millicent Bloom Devine.

  Tell me about her, said Mingus.

  Why, though?

  Because I have no memories of my own. None that I can trust. I see a man in the suburbs cutting grass. A thin man in bad clothes. A father. I see a sister, a little girl in a red bathing suit. But they aren’t mine.

  What else?

  I remember walking through a silent green jungle armed with two 9-millimeter pistols and a box of flares. Terrible and beautiful at once. The foliage is so thick it’s as if the sky is green. A tiger jumps at me and I shoot it five, six times. The chatter of unseen monkeys. I climb over a stone wall and jump across a pit filled with cobras. Then avoid the quicksand and enter a catacomb of ruins. And I’m a woman. I have tremendous breasts and a British accent.

  That’s not real, then.

  I think it’s a computer game called Tomb Raider.

  Okay, said Dizzy. It’s okay.

  Tell me about your grandmother, said Mingus.

  Dizzy smiled. I called her Grandma Milly. She was the firstborn daughter of Molly and Leopold Bloom.

  And who were they?

  They lived in Dublin, long ago. Leopold was a pervert, a Christ figure. And he was a kind of grifter, a complicated man. But very well-educated. Molly was crazy, I think. And she was a little slutty, or so they say. A prolific adulteress. I prefer to think that she was looking for true love.

  What happened to her?

  Chrome entered, bloody.

  One arm cradled and useless. The other held out sideways for balance. His face white as death. Whispers from the slippery crowd. Oohs and aahhs. One kid with the furry hands and feet of a hobbit floated by on a skateboard and insolently patted Chrome on the back and murmured very real, brother. Very real. Chrome took one step. Then another. He was going to fall over any minute and there was nothing he could do about it. Mingus appeared, seemingly from nowhere.

  Run away, said Mingus. You aren’t safe here.

  Mingus, Mingus. I’m hurt.

  I can see that. What happened?

  Shot, apparently.

  Chrome fell forward and Mingus caught him.

  You haven’t heard me.

  What? What…so tired.

  Theseus knows. He knows about the kill.

  You, said Chrome. You betrayed me?

  Helpless. Mingus shook his head.

  Not possible.

  Yes. I told Goo, and Dizzy.

  Why?

  You have to get out of here.

  But I should be safe here, I live here.

  No. They want to remove you, to cut you off.

  Help me. Je suis malade, s’il vous plait.

  Mingus smiled as if he might weep. Chrome was leaking blood like a hatful of water and he wanted to tell the Breather not to worry but his strength was gone.

  Je suis malade.

  Dizzy came out of the throng and took Chrome’s good arm. She threw it over her small shoulders like a wrap. Mingus held the bloody arm and together they led him away, his feet dragging between them.

  Chrome relaxed. He would not die alone, at least.

  Eyes dry and staring. Too much sugar in his system. Phineas watched as a very young girl sat down at the piano and began to hit random, discordant keys. Electric lights came up and a low hum and cry ran like a current through the crowd. Crumb nudged him and pointed to the main stage. The small spotlight was abruptly killed and now the only lights came up from the floor.

  White fingers.

  Eve walked onto the stage and Phineas opened his mouth, then closed it.

  I should have warned you, said Crumb.

  Another woman took the stage. Motorcycle boots, hot green pants and leather straps across her torso. Eyes hidden behind black mask. In one careless hand she held a long slender metal rod that most resembled a car’s radio antenna.

  Who is that? said Phineas.

  Lady Adore, said Crumb. The Exquisitor.

  Eve wore only white underpants and a black sweater with the sleeves hacked off. Her pale arms extending yellow and thin from ragged, gaping holes and now she pulled the sweater over her head in an abrupt, nonsexual motion. She walked to center stage and crouched to pick up the joined metal hoops, which she examined briefly before handing over to Adore without comment.

  The hoops were approximately fourteen inches in diameter and held together by a steel clasp. Phineas didn’t feel well, looking at them. Lady Adore separated them and dropped one to the floor, where it spun briefly like a coin.

  Eve fell to her knees, as if to pray. Expressionless, staring. She sat with back straight and buttocks resting on heels. Thighs pressed together. Arms loose, palms upright. Lady Adore circled her with the
single detached hoop in one fist. Now she whipped at the air with the antenna and Phineas looked away, to the crowd.

  They were hushed, gathered close.

  Phineas stood up, stricken. One hand touching his mouth.

  What is this? he said. What is this?

  Performance torture, said Crumb.

  Phineas watched as Lady Adore crouched beside Eve and pulled the first hoop over her bended knees, then worked it slowly and with much effort up over Eve’s thighs so that the metal rim circled her hips at one edge and the tops of her feet at the other.

  Eve’s face was sickening. Colorless, beaded with sweat.

  Adore now placed one hand on Eve’s head and forced her to bow until her nose was nearly touching the floor. Eve’s arms remained at her sides as the second hoop was pushed down over her head, then forced over her shoulders and down to the small of her back. Now the two hoops were touching and Adore clasped them together.

  Eve was fetal. Dark red streaks, a web of blood extending beneath her skin.

  The hoops formed a terrible figure eight around her body.

  Adore took a step back and turned a slow circle, slicing at the air with the antenna and grinding her hips suggestively. Then turned and uncocked her long left leg, touched the toe of her boot to Eve’s trembling shoulder and gave just a tiny push. Eve flopped onto her side, she was a fish and she was bleeding from the mouth and nose. Adore raised the antenna above her head and when the crowd groaned, she hesitated, smiled. Adore dropped to one knee and kissed Eve on the mouth, then rolled away and bouncing to her feet lashed her twice across the back with the antenna.

  Phineas pushed through the crowd. Sick and feverish.

  He threw his elbows against unseen flesh and vaulted onto the stage. It was four or five feet off the ground and he shrugged, as if surprised at his own agility.

  Adore turned to face him, visibly disgusted.

  You, she said. You are the victim.

  He was speechless, dreaming. And she whipped him across the face with the antenna, opening a long cut that extended from the corner of his mouth to just below the ear.

  Fuck, he said.