The Onion Eaters
‘No.’
‘But only one of us must risk leaving the camp site. Trust me. I’ll be back.’
Stretch out on the damp grass. Turn the body over to toast this side and then the other. One bit gets dry while the other gets wet. Hard to look ahead into the future and see there any golden glorious days. When one first meets a girl. A tall lank smiling well built stranger. Who tiptoes to peek over the edge into your life. And you grab her under the armpits. Drag her down. To lie abed after a bang. Telling life stories. Up at the ceiling. And eating out of each other’s hand.
Hear the curses of Bloodmourn making his way over the rough country. Till the eyes close. To sleep. And dream of a board meeting. Grand aunt presiding. Directors trembling. As she goes stepping on their toes. Her big company cranking out the profit. While she sits the rest of the year under an awning. Out of the heat and sun. And I kneel begging her. On the grey boards of the porch. For hot water bottles and thick woollies. To suddenly awake choking in horror. Both hands fighting to get into my mouth. To pull and spit out a toad struggling there. Ghosts and scurrying things everywhere at an elbow. A crack of a branch. Be an irate farmer approaching. To urge me at hay fork point. To get the other side of a ten foot high hedgerow. Fast. Or get punctured.
‘It’s you Bloodmourn.’
‘Yes. And I have with me a most charming young lady. Naomi. We met at the fair. I have a chocolate bar. Six eggs and a piece of cheese. I also won a paper hat. And a little badge. Which says Samson. I must leave you now. To take Naomi home. Her father beats the living shit out of her when she’s late. I go with her to explain. Do excuse me once more Clementine.’
‘Don’t leave me alone.’
‘Be brave. I must. Besides Naomi and I are being pursued by the fair owner. I won a prize on his strength machine. A meter operates to say how strong you are. You bang a big button with a great big hammer and if you ring the bell you win a prize. The bell rang. And I was just putting out my hand to take the Samson badge when the entire machine collapsed. Cogs, springs and other yokes and semblances rolled in many directions. The contraption lay in a melted heap before my very eyes. Out of nowhere charged the fair owner. Told him to pop off into top hole. Since he did not do so I availed myself of Naomi’s immediate leadership to get me safely across the fields. Now I must look to her good keeping. I wanted so much to see a Mr Sudden Suck at the fair, the human vacuum cleaner before I was so inhospitably driven away.’
Bloodmourn said soon the remnants of the moon would pass on the horizon. And keep me company. I watched the two shadows cross into the darkness over the field. I eased the raw unboiled contents of two eggs down the throat. Followed by chunks of cheese. I wore the paper hat. And pinned on the strength badge won by Bloodmourn. Gets one’s courage up again to face the dark. And keep the mouth shut to leaping toads.
Shivering at dawn. Over the grey warm embers of the fire. Bloodmourn’s jacket across my shoulders. But no Bloodmourn. Birds singing. In the sky’s cold grey emptiness. Joints stiff. Rise up. Look for water. To drink and splash over the face.
Clementine moving high footed across the wet grass. Wearing the cabbage green crêpe paper hat. Bloodmourn’s footprints. Go this way. Down rather deeply into this ditch. And gouges over there where the struggle must have commenced to drag Naomi up the other side. Bloodmourn a good faithful friend. Came in the night to cover me with his coat. Sort of man who forges on when remarks of ridicule resound around. While people are easily thrilled these days. He takes his light relief from heavy drinking. Makes no rush back to civilisation. Quite happy to be slogging cold, wet and hungry across the endless fields.
A grove of willow trees. Sound of flowing water. A stream. Babbling over boulders. Pools surrounded by rushes. Stop here to take a pee. Help a plant along. To rear up green out of this dark soft soil. And my god, what’s that. A pair of knees and legs in the air. Stilled. Where a slayer may have struck. Some poor creature. Down.
Clementine, heart pounding. Approaching. With penis wagging pee. To see. Good lord. Bloodmourn. Where the death vapours enrapture him. Upon her pale and prone. Taking perhaps what she may have refused easily to give in life. The constant hazard of this land journey warping him into the sort who would get up on his grandmother in her coffin. Knocking the gas out of her. With feverish prodding. Unmindful and vicious in his lust.
Thank god. Her legs are moving. She’s alive. Under Bloodmourn. Two bodies enamoured. That smart operator screwing among the cat-tails. On this morning. When you stand scratching your head. Asking. In one’s own orgasm of discomfort. As you see so many others busily enjoying themselves.
Where were
You
When the brains
Were passed
Out
I was
Taking
A pee
All over
Me foot
19
At a point on the side of a rocky outcrop of mountain. The sun mid high in the early afternoon. Bloodmourn with his Samson badge on the lapel smiled and pointed. To the blue sea. Trembling whitely along the crooked shore.
On this road. Not now many miles away from the castle. Four days from where we commenced. To creep stumble and run. As the crow flies in a hundred different directions. Almost trampled sleeping by a stallion in the dark. And nearly gored by a bull. Bloodmourn invited to fight fairly in a field. And the bloody beast unfairly barely missed killing us both.
Naomi fed us in a shed behind her cottage. While her father screamed murder searching miles of countryside. Platefuls of umber rashers stretched beneath a heap of sunny fried eggs. Swimming in a sweet jelly of fat. Mounds of bread and yellow butter. Mugs of steamy milky tea. Served with a smile and delighted signals back and forth. Between Naomi and Bloodmourn. Who could speak fluently to the deaf and dumb.
A great black car humming round the mountain side. Bloodmourn flattening his lapels checking his flies and sticking up his thumb. A uniformed chauffeur in the front compartment. And something white seated in the back. Which lets out a scream of recognition.
‘Holy cow I’ve been looking for you guys all over.’
A face last seen rolling on the floor of a barber shop. Way way back to town. Now ensconced on fuzzy white upholstery. And wrapped in white woolly tweeds. Over a powder blue dress. As she reaches two handed to grab us. Hugging and squeezing. A hand in each of our laps. Held as she sits between us like a queen. And says Cuthbert drive on.
The train puffing by twelve hours late. Or twelve hours early. High up across the trellis bridge. Swaying over a silver stream spilling down the mountain side. The sky ablaze in sunset. The fields darkening. The motor car humming by low walls and past a pub. In the distance down the sloping green hills the faint sandy crescent of the beach. And beyond the grey massive roof of the boathouse. And above. Charnel Castle. Still standing ghostly on the hillside.
The great front iron gates ajar. A face pulling back from a window. Gloria dancing doorwards over the pebbles. Charred mattresses and bedsprings, tables, chests and chairs stacked against the castle walls. Withered and scorched ivy on a stone turret. Big black nosed Elmer jumping up barking and wagging tail. Percival paintbrush in hand smiling and saluting on the front steps. Nods his head.
‘Welcome home sir. I do be replacing this bit of varnish on the front door. Scratched off by a rowdy group of interlopers attempting to gain entry. The bunch of them down from the capital. Telling me there was rumoured a party raging here. One of them with a roulette wheel under the arm. Said he would lay on a bit of gambling for the guests. I told him I’d lay a latch key on his skull and it wouldn’t be to improve his good health.’
The Baron in his cutaway coat and striped trousers bowing and clicking heels at the library door. One averted eyes passing the excavation. Could not miss the scaffolding. And a door marked danger keep out. Thing to do is keep moving. Fast. The mind on things far in the future. When the soot smell would fade. And all the guests will go away. Somewhere else for satisf
action. Ask each of them. What kind of rapture are you looking for. That keeps you here. Searching.
Up the grand staircase. Along the familiar corridors. Feel one is being watched. From doorways and apertures. Lower and clang shut the iron barrier of the Octagonal room. Still intact. Neat and clean. Smoking jacket laid out. A piece of soap on the washstand. Letters on the bedside table. Sit down to open one.
2 Culpability Buildings
Inns of Tort
Dear Sir,
Certain particulars have come to our attention and we are, the four of us related by marriage at this office, bewildered by the damaging quality of the scurrilous contempt and cavalier ridicule to which our client has been subjected by the brazen publication in charcoal scrawled on the interior walls of your casde. Referring to our client as follows.
Everybody knows she blows
The gas meter reader
And says between sucks
I don’t normally do this
With my dentures removed
The above legend has been duly photographed and our client refutes such statement utterly and we call upon you to reveal the name of the meter reader as well as the number of cubic feet recorded of gas consumed at the time of the above alleged act. Further may we make quite clear to you sir, that not one of us is standing here wondering what to do next. We close reminding you of our previous grievances and the satisfaction we require without delay.
Yours faithfully
Bottomless Diddle Blameworthy
and Dawn.
Clementine sitting on the side of the bed. Nice greeting to be waiting when you get home. Rush back a rebuttal of such moral magnitude as to make them quake feverishly and sustain injury jumping towards tomes containing the appropriate precedents. Upon which to muster an unwieldly defence.
Dear Sirs,
A cameraman long stationed unseen in the window across the road from your office will be pleased to acquaint you with last tuesday’s tasty sequence. To wit. One medium closeup of three of you, obviously senior partners attempting to strum a banjo with your client’s engorged nipple while you held her engripped. I am of the bald opinion that your fourth partner although pretending otherwise was making gestures at your client’s rear quarters while balanced on a bundle of letters where he most certainly was wondering what to do next. Socially none of you stand a chance.
Clementine
Of The Three Glands
Clayton Claw stretching back on the bed to rest. In shoes and clothes. The habit of discomfort. Not a toilet seat seen across the countryside. Nor a mirror to record a glimpse of one’s appearance. Bloodmourn said he had the god granted right to steal. If no one was looking. But there were heads behind twitching curtains and figures nipping in and out of doorways as we passed through a town. Lined with dying dreams in each shop window. Of how to make a pound hand over fist. Before enrolling with the institute of destitution. Could go on sleeping now. Till the last hour of dying. Where I’ve been before. Praying it hurts less than living. While you live. And it always pains more. In that big hollow silence. Waiting lonely. A glowing fear in the eyes. As the soul seeps away. When my father was knocked out for the count. He was sitting in his club. An old drab big windowed house behind a little lawn and an iron picket fence on the wide main street the middle of town. He reared up lunch time out of his leather chair. Other members thought he was about to sock someone and got scarce. And came tip toeing back to find him face down dead. Spread out on the morning newspaper his nose pressing against the prices of grain. That was my pop. Who only consummated the most urgent of dirty deals. Those with the biggest and fastest profit. Told me standing on the carpet. Clayton look everyone straight in the eye. Try to scare the shit out of him. And if it doesn’t work, smile and firmly shake hands. Then kick the shit out of him. That was my pop. So strong he could twist the neck of a bull or tear a fire escape off the side of a house. One upon which I was trying to retreat. I was momentarily saved by a ball of lightning. Came crackling out of the sky exploding just above pop’s head. I said back at him. There. Let’s see you knock god around the place. But he was up again. Breaking a plank over his knee. As I looked desperately for my usual small aperture through which to disappear. And I thought I was imagining things. The luck of a bolt of current out of the sky. To incinerate dad. But when the punches were raining down on my ribs. I smelled his scorched hair. That was my pop. Who gave my mother me.
And that evening the middle of spring. The first night of my return. Came a clang at the door. A voice. Erconwald. Asking to enter. Tell him about my father. And perhaps he would tell me about his. Might be a story so sad. Could make a whole nation break down in tears. He stands eyes shining. White collar of a summer shirt out over his lapels.
‘Ah good evening good person. It is so nice to see you once again. I trust your trip to the capital was calm and wonderful. And that your return is not too troubled by the scars of the conflagration. For which I extend my most melancholy condolences. It was entirely my fault. I was administering a hot foot to L K L and measuring the pain when he ran out of control into the tower. We have patched up and cleared away where possible. I come now to say goodbye. Reluctantly I must leave.’
‘Are the mambas going.’
‘They are packed. Our motor is full with petrol. Tyres at their proper pressure.’
‘Erconwald. I’m sorry to see you go.’
‘Putlog has tuned your organ. Franz has his mineral samples. Of which we hope to send you good news. Should any collapse occur in the mine shaft you have but to let us know.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The Baron with your permission should like to stay a short while longer. He has found a gramophone and collection of records to which he would like to listen.’
On that sad evening I raised my head from the pillow. Casting an eye across bed tapestries and the mouldering mahoganies. My satin pantaloons and silk hose over the back of a chair. To watch the gentle retreat of this man. Who said, that though the pestilences devastate and the earth quake, the stately ruins of Castle Charnel would astonish those who came after. Despite the stains of bespattered gore. Left by Bligh. Who enfeebled the L K Ls. With injuries inflicted in your absence. The three locked an hour in combat in the chapel breaking the pews. Bligh leaving Two Backsides Contorted Who now lay prostrate abed together reciting a litany of legal steps. One prays they will proceed softly. So that the morrows come with hues anew bursting with gladness upon the eyes. And good person you are of splendid mercy. Of kindness never failed. As a young child of three I could multiply two factors and take the cube root of the result in a micro second. Now I go to attend to the death mask of my recently deceased mother during the repose of her remains. I will always answer, good person should you ever cry out. Comfort me.
At dawn from an upper window in the hall I looked down upon the departure. Franz locking a great strap over the bonnet of the motor. Putlog stacking cases on the roof. Hands waved from windows. And down the hill they go. And up over the little stone bridge. And out of sight in the trees of the demesne.
I took suppers before my bedroom fire. Cabbage soup, boiled nettles and potatoes. Credit getting squeezed up at the shop. Voices of discontent heard. About the large amounts owed. But no bill was sent to avoid giving offence. Percival said he was a happy enough shop keeper up there on the hillside behind his counter. Sleeves rolled up over the ledger. His bald head with a big pair of rosy cheeks that used to smile as he rushed in with the latest order. Now they paled and he was very slow to stack up the bacon. Nearly weeping as Percival staggered away under the load. Pausing in the shop doorway to whisper about the latest signs of zinc lead and radium down the mine shaft.
Bloodmourn stood by in the present nervousness. Taking time off from his chess battles with the Baron to nip out of doorways along the corridor bowing and smiling. Said Clementine keep the engines of the good ship Charnel churning. Only a matter of time before the shore of plenty turned up. Meanwhile he was always available on dec
k to heap new complications when necessary on any misunderstanding. Which came quite soon. With the sound of a motor throbbing up the hill as it did all those months ago. To disgorge again onion eaters. Who had got only as far as the pub. Where an unholy bash raged for three days. While Erconwald went further to the capital on the train to take a death mask of his mother.
Castle inmates short cutted back and forth across the fields to stick out their necks awhile. In the dark throbbing public house interior. Called the Loop Hole. Pushing Mr and Mrs Utah in wheel chairs. So that they too could get toasted in the furnace of blasphemy. And lose a few grey hairs in the maws of discontent. The exprisoners now guarding Gloria. About whom L K L screamed that she was a fuck laid on like hot water in the pipes for anyone able to turn a tap. And that he had already taken a bath.
And the pair of Lead Kindly Lights gave me unfriendly looks as both were perambulated for afternoon outings along the upper hall by Ena and Imelda in white lacy caps to whom they had given large boxes of cream chocolates. Everyone now migrated southerly away from the charred northern rooms. And early one morning Erconwald stood silently in the sunshine streaming through the great hall dome. Binoculars to his eyes as he watched birds nesting in the plaster flamboyancies above the ceiling cornices. Said there were three rare species. Anyone of whom could bomb one with bird shit. And one did just as Erconwald announced that Gloria and he were engaged to be married.
Charlene mornings when I reached for her pulled away. And huffed and said what did I take her for. Since I could hardly take anybody for anything I waited till tea time. When one was more robust. As she backed in with her tray. After a pleasantly solemn afternoon planning my suicide. To take place at dawn on an ocean liner. The moment least objectionable to one’s fellow passengers. When most are busy up each other and too exhausted to mind a little sadness over breakfast. If they have the energy to eat at all. Must not be too early in the voyage to depress everyone for the rest of the trip. At four a.m. plunge over the rails at the stern. On the night of the fancy dress ball. Just when everyone got to know each other. Well enough for a little discord to set in. But before the deep dislike began. With the blossom of friendship.