Collected Stories (18 page)

‘Fetch it.’

She brought him a hammer, a heavy affair with a gleaming head. He examined it with some satisfaction.

‘Should do the trick. Right, back on his legs.’

The young mountain was reformed, the head grew big and Andrew replaced the knife point where the throat should have been. Then holding the knife steady, he brought the hammer down on to its handle. The effect was instantaneous. Twin fountains shot up from either side of the knife-blade and generously sprayed Andrew’s apron. The girl cried out for joy.

‘You are clever,’ she said. ‘Now slit downwards.’

It took him five minutes to enlarge the hole, and another half an hour before he had a sizeable incision. By now, what appeared to be water, was flowing out in a continuous stream and splashing down on to the floor. The girl handed him a bread-knife.

‘You can saw the rest of the way down. Then we can slip the skin over his head and the job will be finished.’

Gradually the skin parted and as it did so, the rest of the hideous cocoon was covered in a network of crisscrossing wrinkles, so that it resembled a length of crumpled leather. ‘I’ll take over now,’ the girl said quietly.

Andrew watched with horrified fascination as she plunged her hands into the slit and stretched it to its fullest extent He had a glimpse of a wet, pink body, then she said: ‘Catch hold of the loose head-skin,’ and together they eased the cocoon (what else could it be?) over a head, pulled it down and down, until it finally parted company from a pair of feet with a nasty squelching sound. The girl held up the ridged crumpled skin.

‘When it’s washed,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘it will make up nicely into a dress for wearing round the house.’

But Andrew Nesbitt was looking at the figure on the bed. A young man with a mop of black, curling hair, finely formed features and the body of a god. But he was wet and pink. Slimy wet and pink. The girl must have noticed his look of horror, for she laughed softly.

‘He won’t always be like that, silly. When I’ve washed him and given him his first feed, he’ll be beautiful. Simply beautiful.’

‘Then he ..

Janet’s eyes were bright and her voice was husky with loving pride. ‘Has just been reborn. We all have to go through this stage, sooner or later.’ She looked at Andrew with a certain, proprietary affection. ‘It will happen to you one day.’

‘Are you sure . . .?’ he began, but she smilingly interrupted him.

‘Absolutely certain. But don’t worry, when the time comes, we will know. After all, one good turn deserves another. Now . . She began to usher him towards the door. ‘You must go.’

‘But. . the apron was off and he was being eased into his overcoat, .. won’t I ever see you again? ’

‘Of course.’ The main door was open and the awful landing was waiting. ‘When you need us, we’ll be there. But tomorrow is moving day. We can never stay long in one place - can we? ’

‘No, I suppose not.’ He was out on the landing, the door was slowly closing. Her beautiful face smiled, her grey eyes glittered, and her soft voice mocked.

‘Thank you for everything. And - oh, yes - a merry Christmas.’

The door shut. Time snapped back into place.

***

The desk-receptionist looked up as a white-faced Andrew staggered in through the swing-doors. He grinned.

‘Been celebrating Christmas, sir? ’

Andrew grunted.

‘Never mind, sir. It only comes once a year.’

Andrew did not bother to answer, but staggered towards the lift.

Upstairs, he went into the bedroom and quickly stripped. Then, naked, he walked over to the wardrobe mirror and examined his body with lively interest. His legs were thin and hairy, his belly sagged, his shoulders bowed, and there were pronounced pouches under his eyes. He looked tired, old and ugly. Aloud, he asked the all important question,

‘What the bloody hell am I?’

(1975) 

 The doorbell rang. A nasty long shrill ring that suggested an impatient caller or a faulty bell-button. Mr Goldsmith did not receive many visitors. He muttered angrily, removed the saucepan of baked beans from the gas ring, then trudged slowly from the tiny kitchen across the even smaller hall and opened the front door. The bell continued to ring.

 A tall, lean man faced him. One rigid finger seemed glued to the bell-button. The gaunt face had an unwholesome greenish tinge. The black, strangely dull eyes stared into Mr Goldsmith's own and the mouth opened.

 "Oosed o love hore…"

 The shrill clatter of the doorbell mingled with the hoarse gibberish and Mr Goldsmith experienced a blend of fear and anger. He shouted at the unwelcome intruder.

 "Stop ringing the bell."

 "Oosed o love hore…" the stranger repeated.

 "Stop ringing the bloody bell." Mr Goldsmith reached round the door frame and pulled the dirt-grimed hand away. It fell limply down to its owner's side, where it swung slowly back and forth, four fingers clenched, the fifth - the index finger - rigid, as though still seeking a bell-button to push. In the silence that followed, Mr Goldsmith cleared his throat.

 "Now, what is it you want?"

 "Oosed o love hore." The stranger said again unintelligibly, then pushed by Mr Goldsmith and entered the flat.

 "Look here…" The little man ran after the intruder and tried to get in front of him, but the tall, lean figure advanced remorselessly towards the living room, where it flopped down in Mr Goldsmith's favourite armchair and sat looking blankly at a cheap Gauguin print that hung over the fireplace.

 "I don't know what your little game is," Mr Goldsmith was trying hard not to appear afraid, "but if you're not out of here in two minutes flat, I'll have the law around. Do you hear me?"

 The stranger had forgotten to close his mouth. The lower jaw hung down like a lid with a broken hinge. His threadbare, black overcoat was held in place by a solitary, chipped button. A frayed, filthy red scarf was wound tightly round his scrawny neck. He presented a horrible, loathsome appearance. He also smelt.

*** 

 The head came round slowly and Mr Goldsmith saw the eyes were now watery, almost as if they were about to spill over the puffy lids and go streaming down the green-tinted cheeks.

 "Oosed o love hore."

 The voice was a gurgle that began somewhere deep down in the constricted throat and the words seemed to bubble like stew seething in a saucepan.

 "What? What are you talking about?"

 The head twisted from side to side. The loose skin round the neck concertinaed and the hands beat a tattoo on the chair arms.

 "O-o-sed t-o-o l-o-v-e h-o-r-e."

 "Used to live here!" A blast of understanding lit Mr Goldsmith's brain and he felt quite pleased with his interpretative powers. "Well, you don't live here now, so you'll oblige me by getting out."

 The stranger stirred. The legs, clad in a pair of decrepit corduroy trousers, moved back. The hands pressed down on the chair arms, and the tall form rose. He shuffled towards Mr Goldsmith and the stomach-heaving stench came with him. Mr Goldsmith was too petrified to move and could only stare at the approaching horror with fear glazed eyes.

 "Keep away," he whispered. "Touch me and… I'll shout…"

 The face was only a few inches from his own. The hands came up and gripped the lapels of his jacket and with surprising strength, he was gently rocked back and forth. He heard the gurgling rumble; it gradually emerged into speech.

 "Oi… um… dud… Oi… um… dud…"

 Mr Goldsmith stared into the watery eyes and had there been a third person present he might have supposed they were exchanging some mutual confidence.

 "You're… what?"

 The bubbling words came again.

 "Oi… um… dud."

 "You're bloody mad," Mr Goldsmith whispered.

 "Oi… um… dud."

 Mr Goldsmith yelped like a startled puppy and pulling himself free, ran for the front door. He leapt down the stairs, his legs operating by reflex, for there was no room for thought in his fear misted brain.

 Shop fronts slid by; paving stones loomed up, their rectangular shapes painted yellow by lamplight; startled faces drifted into his blurred vision, then disappeared and all the while the bubbling, ill-formed words echoed along the dark corridors of his brain.

 "Oi… urn… dud."

 "Just a moment, sir."

 A powerful hand gripped his arm and he swung round as the impetus of his flight was checked. A burly policeman stared down at him, suspicion peeping out of the small, blue eyes.

 "Now, what's all this, sir. You'll do yourself an injury, running like that."

 Mr Goldsmith fought to regain his breath, eager to impart the vital knowledge. To share the burden.

 "He's… he's dead."

 The grip on his arm tightened.

 "Now, calm yourself. Start from the beginning. Who's dead?"

 "He…" Mr Goldsmith gasped… "he rang the bell, wouldn't take his finger off the button… used to live there… then he sat in my chair… then got up… and told me… he was dead…"

 A heavy silence followed, broken only by the purr of a passing car. The driver cast an interested glance at the spectacle of a little man being held firmly by a large policeman. The arm of the law finally gave utterance.

 "He told you he was dead?"

 "Yes." Mr Goldsmith nodded, relieved to have shared his terrible information with an agent of authority. "He pronounced it dud."

 "A northern corpse, no doubt," the policeman remarked with heavy irony.

 "I don't think so," Mr Goldsmith shook his head. "No, I think his vocal cords are decomposing. He sort of bubbles his words. They… well, ooze out."

 "Ooze out," the constable repeated drily.

 "Yes." Mr Goldsmith remembered another important point.

 "And he smells."

 "Booze?" enquired the policeman.

 "No, a sort of sweet, sour smell. Rather like bad milk and dead roses."

 The second silence lasted a little longer than the first, then the constable sighed deeply:

 "I guess we'd better go along to your place of residence and investigate."

 "Must we?" Mr Goldsmith shuddered and the officer nodded.

 "Yes, we must."

 The front door was still open. The hall light dared Mr Goldsmith to enter and fear lurked in dark corners.

 "Would you," Mr Goldsmith hesitated, for no coward likes to bare his face, "would you go in first?" 

 "Right." The constable nodded, squared his shoulders, and entered the flat. Mr Goldsmith found enough courage to advance as far as the doormat.

 "In the living room," he called out. "I left him in the living room. The door on the left."

 The police officer walked ponderously into the room indicated and after a few minutes came out again.

 "No one there," he stated simply.

 "The bedroom." Mr Goldsmith pointed to another door. "He must have gone in there."

 The policeman dutifully inspected the bedroom, the kitchen, then the bathroom before returning to the hall.

 "I think it's quite safe for you to come in," he remarked caustically. "There's no one here - living or dead."

 Mr Goldsmith reoccupied his domain, much like an exiled king remounting his shaky throne.

 "Now," the policeman produced a notebook and ball-point pen, "let's have a description."

 "Pardon?"

 "What did the fellow look like?" the officer asked with heavy patience.

 "Oh. Tall, thin - very thin, his eyes were sort of runny, looked as if they might melt at any time, his hair was black and matted and he was dressed in an overcoat with one button…"

 "Hold on," the officer admonished. "You're going too fast. Button…"

 "It was chipped," Mr Goldsmith added importantly. "And he wore an awful pair of corduroy trousers. And he looked dead. Now I come to think of it, I can't remember him breathing. Yes, I'm certain, he didn't breathe."

 The constable put his notebook away, and took up a stance on the hearthrug.

 "Now, look, Mr…"

 "Goldsmith. Edward. J. Goldsmith."

 "Well, Mr Goldsmith…"

 "The J is for Jeremiah but I never use it."

 "As I was about to say, Mr Goldsmith," the constable wore the expression of a man who was labouring under great strain, "I've seen a fair number of stiffs - I should say, dead bodies -in my time, and not one of them has ever talked. In fact, I'd say you can almost bank on it. They can burp, jerk, sit up, flop, bare their teeth, glare, even clutch when rigor mortis sets in, but never talk."

 "But he said he was." Mr Goldsmith was distressed that this nice, helpful policeman seemed unable to grasp the essential fact. "He said he was dud, and he looked and smelt dead."

 "Ah, well now, that's another matter entirely." The constable looked like Sherlock Holmes, about to astound a dim-witted Watson. "This character you've described sounds to me like old Charlie. A proper old lay-about, sleeps rough and cadges what he can get from hotel kitchens and suchlike. A meths drinker no doubt and long ago lost whatever wits he ever had. I think he came up here for a hand-out. Probably stewed to the gills and lumbered by you when the door was open, intending to doss down in your living room. I'll report this to the station sergeant and we'll get him picked up. No visible means of subsistence, you understand."