Salt Snake and Other Bloody Cuts

  No. Instead, like a father with an undeserving but still loved son, he picked the creature up in its arms and carried it away, its white legs swinging limply from side to side.

  They left the house with Vic following unsteadily twenty paces behind. The shadow-man easily carried the unconscious creature up through the avenue of trees toward the quarry which showed like a pale scar on the mountainside. As Vic waded knee-deep through the grass, leaving a black farrow, he was aware that the figure in front left no trace of its passing, not so much as a broken grass stalk or bruised leaf.

  Vic felt he should know the identity of the tall figure in front but his head spun and sometimes he had difficulty in identifying up from down. He clutched his stomach as the poison burned a pathway through the countless veins, arteries and capillaries in his body.

  In the quarry, cliffs of naked rock sheared up on three sides. And Vic had the sensation that they and the ruined buildings, dead trees, rubble mounds, the whole world poured fluidly over him like a fast flowing stream. His legs failed, and he collapsed on his back, face upward. He retched, but hadn’t the strength to turn his head. The puke welled up, burning his throat, filling his mouth, blocking his nostrils; he could not move a millimetre: paralysis.

  In minutes he would be dead, drowned by the bile-rich contents of his stomach. His death-certificate unfolded before his eyes. Cause of death: inhalation of vomit

  The darkness… the deep whistling darkness which for twenty-five years had been held at bay by his beating heart, began to run into him. He was the empty bowl into which liquid dark would flow—and fill—completely. Consciousness, dissolved by fluid blackness, began to drain away…

  Take it from the top., one, two, three, hey!

  His family. I’m slipping moth—

  HOWL: howls from the screaming dead… dead… dead…

  Then he was being turned over, his face down to the soil. Vic’s throat and mouth emptied, and he was sucking in air that tasted as fresh and as sweet as chilled milk on his burning tongue.

  He climbed unsteadily to his feet to see the dark figure return to the structure it now built in the hollow of the quarry. With timber from derelict buildings, from tree trunks and branches the man was building a pyramid of wood.

  Vic still had an incomplete grasp of reality; sometimes he was conscious of helping build the huge wood stack, other times he came to lying on the ground, his mind following some mad helter-skelter path to the core of his being. But, all the time, he heard the sound of an electric guitar—roaring, howling, surging, sustained notes overlapping a hundred times to form a head bursting chorus, then the wild electric screams would become gently rippling notes playing the sweetest melody he had ever heard (Voodoo Chile, Third Stone From The Sun, Angel): the phrasing suggested the essence of Hendrix.

  At last, he raised his eyes to the pyramid of wood standing twice as high as himself. On top lay the white creature as if peacefully asleep. The mound of wood…

  It was a funeral pyre.

  The shadow-man raised the white Strat over his head, holding it by the neck. The guitar gleamed, the strings were rods of luminescence, the body looked as if it tried in vain to conceal a piece of sun within its fabric. It smouldered, glowed white hot, like metal in a furnace.

  The music swelled into a tremendous roar, and whether it rolled across the hills like thunder, or came from within Vic’s head he did not—could not—know.

  The figure held the guitar higher, arm outstretched, light streaming from it. As the light broke through, the guitar burst into flame; sparks flew.

  Vic stumbled backward until he fell onto a mound of rubble.

  Wielding the Strat like some incandescent sword, the figure plunged it deep into the body of the funeral pyre. Instantly, the wood flared up, lighting the rough-hewn walls of the quarry… consuming the white creature.

  So intense was the inferno that Vic had to look away. When, eventually, he could turn his face back to the crackling fire the shadow-man had gone. Vanished.

  Abruptly, the music stopped, leaving the thudding rhythm of blood in Vic’s ears. Then came a faint sound.

  It grew louder. The sound, a single vibrant note on the electric guitar — suggesting some deep and boundless yearning, some wonderful, yet intangible dream — filled the quarry. Then… in a sudden burst of amplification, the electric note ascended into pure feedback and rose across the face of the mountainside like a departing god.

  The flames leapt higher, the heat an almost physical pressure, closed Vic’s eyes. Silence.

  * * *

  Two days later, under a sun blazing from a clear blue sky onto the green Scottish hills, the other half of Nighthouse arrived in a borrowed Skoda Estelle. They brought good news. The studio sessions were on and they had to get the band’s gear to TPK by noon.

  Not that the good news would have a noticeable effect on Vic, Tufty and the woman, Sandy Kitson.

  Even though all three bore the scratches and bruises of a fierce tooth and claw fight, they were already cheerful—almost absurdly cheerful. They were cleaning out the swimming pool and laughing and joking as if they’d just been sprung from a death sentence.

  “What happened?” asked Geoff as he tried to keep up with Vic bounding down the basement steps.

  Vic laughed. His body was rid of the toadstool poison and he felt great, a thousand ways to transform Howls From A Blinding Curve into a rock classic were bubbling up inside of him; inspiration burnt like a fire; and he was itching to get started.

  Geoff couldn’t restrain his curiosity. “Hey, Vic. How the hell did you get in that state? You look as if you’ve been had by a tiger.”

  Vic laughed again and briefly told Geoff about a whistling poacher who tried his luck at robbing the house.

  “He put up a fight then… when you caught him?”

  “Yeah,” said Vic brightly, “but we kicked his arse right up that mountainside. He’ll not be back here again in a hurry.”

  Just then, the trapdoors were thrown open, and an incandescent slab of sunlight slanted down into the basement. As Vic’s dazzled eyes adjusted to the glare, the first thing he saw was the sticker he had put on the wall had fallen off, revealing the old one beneath.

  And still, the message remained bright and clear:

  HENDRIX IS GOD.

  The Bike Ride Home

  “What’s the grossest thing you’ve ever heard?”

  “The Rat Man case.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s one of Freud’s cases—you know, the trick cyclist.”

  “What’s gross about it then?”

  “If you’ll slow down a bit, speed freak, I’ll tell you.”

  Paul Grace is twenty-one, short blonde hair with this massive gypsy ring in his ear. When his old man offered to buy him a car he chose a mind-blowingly expensive mountain-bike instead. Work he avoids like a pussy with the pox. Social security payments he calls his pocket money, which is enough to keep him in the place he loves the best: Butt on a knife-sharp seat and pumping them shiny pedals.

  I’m twenty-two. Like anyone my age from Highfields, I aspire after money and the hottest car I can afford. I’ve a career in merchant banking and cycle in my free time, although I’m no fitness freak. I like nothing better than gorging on pizzas and beer.

  We’re riding home along this country lane after seeing our girlfriends. It’s dark but there’s streetlights, around which bats orbit like leathery satellites. We’ve been swapping gross stories. Paul described his uncle’s funeral. Everyone’s waiting in church, right? The pall-bearers carry in the coffin, everything’s solemn, dignified, the organ’s playing something melancholy, then—BANG.

  The pall-bearers drop the coffin; smash onto the stone floor and, you’ve guessed it, the coffin lid pops off and out pops dead uncle Jack all over the church floor. Cue pandemonium, throwing up, fainting, the vicar pisses into his vestments.

  We have a good laugh as we pedal along, tyres swishing across the tarmac. We
look back because we’ve been laughing so long and so loud. Anyone hearing us’d think we’ve been evicted from a home for terminal sad-mad-wankers. But there’s just an old guy pumping along behind us on one of those old baker’s bikes, titchy wheel at the front and a big basket where they stick the loaves.

  “What’s this about then? The Rat Man.”

  I grin wickedly as I pump and push iron. “Nah, you haven’t got the stomach for it.”

  “Go on, tell us.”

  “All right, you asked for it. Hey… Slow down a bit. Right, like I said, it’s one of Freud’s psychiatric cases. This chap goes along to the clinic and tells Freud he’s suicidal because he’s obsessed with a story he’s heard about a method of torture in China.”

  “Watch out for the puddle… Go on then, what’s so gross about this torture? They chop some poor bloke’s bollocks off?”

  “Nope. Worse than that… Listen to this. They fill a pot with live rats; then it’s tied upside-down on the victim’s butt. The rats then eat their way up through the poor sod’s arsehole, then out through the stomach.”

  “Now that’s so sick it’s beautiful. Did you make it up?”

  “No, it’s true… Bloody hell, that old bastard’s shifting.”

  “What?”

  “The old bloke behind us on the bike. He’s catching us up.”

  Paul looks back across his shoulder and I see his eyes widen in surprise. I grab a look, too. The guy is powering after us on his knackered old bike like an Olympic champion, zipping along the road, appearing and disappearing as he passes through puddles of light thrown by the streetlight.

  We laugh. “He must have a motor stuck on the back.” Paul shakes his head. “We’re not even going downhill, if anything there’s an uphill gradient.”

  “Well, I can’t hear nothing.”

  We pedal on, listening. No motor sound. Only the clunk, clunk as the old guy drives the pedals round.

  He’s getting closer now and I keep looking back, fascinated that this bandy-legged pensioner can make his machine fly like that. We’re on new mountain bikes, twenty gears, carbon frame, the whole sausage—and he’s bloody-well gaining on us.

  Now I see him clearer. He’s maybe fifty yards away. He’s one of these dried-up, old working class blokes, probably spent forty years in a coal mine and his lungs are eaten away by bronchitis and crackle with green gilberts at every breath. But, Christ, is he shifting! His neck is crooked so his head thrusts forward as if trying to point at us with his chin; the eyes have no expression and look like chips of glass wedged into the sockets. They reflect the streetlights as he passes beneath them.

  Paul chuckles. “Let’s give the old bugger a run for his money.”

  We pedal harder, lifting our backsides off the seats so we can drive the pedals downward. Soon we’re buzzing across the tarmac, wind ruffling our hair, moths and night-time bugs pinging off our faces. We pass a road sign. Highfields I Mile. Nearly home. I see the blaze of lights from the housing estate; I even catch the barbecue aromas on this pleasant summer night; there are the cultured sounds of BMW’s, Mercs as folk head off to fifty quid a head restaurants.

  “Have we left the bugger behind yet?” asks Paul.

  “Have we shit. Christ. He’s closer than ever. Come on. Faster.”

  We pedal like mad. And we’re bloody good at it. We’ve both won cups in races. But still the old guy comes thundering along behind. Closing the gap.

  We stop talking now, concentrating on pedaling, sometimes glancing back at the old bloke. We say nothing, but I know we’re thinking the same. This guy doesn’t just happen to be traveling along the same route as Paul and me. Those glass chip eyes that gleam in the streetlights are fixed on us. Like a cat hunting a mouse. No bloody doubt about it, the old sod’s actually in hot pursuit.

  Some nutter, I think, yeah some nutter. Coal dust has clogged his cerebral arteries, turning whole chunks of his brain to black mush. He sees two middle class kids on grand a-piece bikes and he decides to take us on. Barmy old shit. What’s he going to do? Slap us with his fiat cap? Hawk up green gilberts and pebble dash our faces? Let him try.

  Shit… He’s closer now. Twenty yards. His head doesn’t even bob up and down as he pedals. He sits up straight, all apart from the head which is held chin poked forward.

  We’re panting. He doesn’t seem exerted any more than if he’d been sat in his shitty armchair watching snooker on the box.

  “Have you thought of something?” Paul pants.

  “What?”

  “Have you thought the old sod’s got his braces caught in our back mudguards and we’re towing him along?”

  I laugh out in a sudden barking kind of way. It shocks me. It’s manic sounding and I know it’s because I’m uneasy now. No. I’ll be honest—I’m scared.

  Maybe he has a knife. Comes up behind, slash, slash. Next stop casualty. I remember news reports of innocent people stabbed to death by strangers on trains, in cars, even in their beds. Shit. This’s nasty, this’s bad.

  Closer. The old guy’s ten yards behind us, pedaling away like billy-oh, his face expressionless, I can’t hear him pant; his chin’s thrust forward so far it must crucify his neck. He’s coming closer—and we can’t out run him.

  Then it happens.

  Paul says, “Bollocks. I’ve had enough of this. He can’t do this to us.” He brakes hard, skidding his bike to a stop, long black rubber mark chalking out on the road behind him.

  His bike’s still facing my way but he turns his head as if to tell the old bloke off.

  The old bloke doesn’t stop. He goes right through Paul. I don’t mean he goes through him like a ghost. He’s solid all right.

  I’m glancing back so I see this in fragments. But all the pieces fit together in my brain like this:

  The old man hits Paul from behind. It can’t happen, but this is the impression. Somehow the old guy and his bike ride straight into Paul as if he’s been opened up wide at the rear end. For a second the old guy is actually pedaling inside Paul, like some kind of freak stunt where someone pedals through a big sheet of rubber. What I saw was this: Paul stretched tight like a big hand being forced into a surgeon’s latex glove; inside I saw the outline of a pedaling figure. Paul’s body balloons, only his head is normal size; it looks like an action man’s head stuck to a beachball. And he’s trying to scream in agony and shock but nothing comes from his mouth then—BANG.

  He explodes. Shreds of skin flap away like pieces of rubber from a burst balloon.

  And the old cyclist keeps on coming.

  I pedal harder. He’s ten yards behind me. I push the pedals down, my brain reels as if it’s been dunked in ice.

  Nine yards behind me.

  I can’t think straight. What can I do?

  Eight yards.

  I hear the tyres of the old bike louder now. The tread making kissing noises on the road.

  Seven yards.

  I glance back. Chin thrust forward, glass chip eyes gleaming: he knows he can get me.

  Six yards.

  I stare forward. Once I’m in Highfields I’ll be safe. People will be walking from pubs, teenagers’ll still be hanging round the benches at the pond. Only it doesn’t look right. Highfields seems further away, the lights are dimmer. I no longer smell the barbecues. The place looks as if you’re watching a video when someone hits the pause button.

  Five yards.

  Soon he’ll be alongside me, maybe reaching out with a knobbly old hand. One thing I know. I can’t stop. No way. I’m not going the way Paul went.

  Four yards.

  Gotcha! I cut off to the left, winging downhill onto the industrial estate. I’ll loose him there among the warehouses. He’s following me but I’ve gained twenty yards on him. The daft old git didn’t anticipate this. I whoop, suddenly elated. Can’t catch me! Can’t catch me!

  Ahead, are the open doors of a massive warehouse. It’s brightly lit inside. There’s a night shift working, I guess. I’ll ride in there. When th
e old guy sees twenty blokes loading pallets and driving forklifts he’ll clear off like a pack of dogs want to chew on his wrinkly old butt.

  I ride straight into the warehouse without even slowing down. It’s massive. It’s brilliantly lit. It’s empty.

  No workers. Just an expanse of floor stretching away like concrete tundra. He follows me. I hear the doors shut.

  I keep peddling. Now all I can do is cycle round and round the warehouse in vast circles. He pedals after me, his chin pointing forward, glass chip eyes coldly shining, the chain and cog of his old baker’s bike going clunk, clunk, clunk.

  In this brilliant light I see better now. The bread basket on the front of his bike isn’t empty. In it is a big black pot; attached to it are leather straps with buckles. And every now and again I see the pointed snouts of rats popping up as if they’re keen to see how the chase is going.

  I know they are hungry rats. And I think about the story of the Rat Man and I wish to God I’d never heard it.

  I pedal harder. Whatever happens he must not catch me. But I’m panting. My legs ache. I push down harder for speed. I stand on the pedals, lift my butt off the seat… and that is a big mistake.

  The Burning Doorway

  “I told you I saw them moving.”

  The night-time attendant at the crematorium had almost shouted the words into the phone. This thing had frightened him, his hands were shaking and he wanted to blast loose a mouthful at his supervisor who obviously didn’t give a toss. The lazy bastard was probably sitting at home, can of beer in his greasy hand, watching television. What did he care that his tuppenny ha’penny assistant was alone in the crematorium with them moving about in there, making those noises that made him sick in his stomach.

  “I’ve looked in there, Mr Winters, I can see them moving about.”

  He heard his boss over the phone give a tired sigh. “Danny. When you were offered this post, you were told it wouldn’t be very pleasant. To be bloody blunt, our job is to burn dead people to ash. Specifically, your duties are to watch over the equipment at night. If it malfunctions, if someone tries to break into the place then phone me. Otherwise, just leave me to a bit of peace and quiet, okay?”