Marabou Stork Nightmares (26 page)

I couldn't run away from it in Manchester. The nightmares; oddly enough the Marabou Stork nightmares were the worst. Why should that have been? Who knows. Who the fuck knows. The Marabou Storks. I saw them at the Kruger Park in South Africa, the only place in the Republic where you can view them. When that one killed the flamingo, it was fucking horrible. It made me feel queasy. It was the way it held up the flamingo's head, severed at the neck. The flamingo is not a beautiful bird. It is a stupid, ugly-looking creature which happens to have beautiful plumage. Gaze at the flamingo's face, and what do you see?

You see a beautiful bi

You see

The flamingo's blood, her blood. The blood of her on me.

No. There was no blood.

Only my blood. My blood when he did that to me in the city of gol den words he will pour in your ear,

But his lies can't disguise what you fear,
For a golden girl knows when he's kissed her,
It's the kiss of death from mis-tah

Gold-fing-ah.

Pretty girl, beware of his heart of gold,
This heart is cold.

I'M NEARLY FUCKIN AWAKE HERE, I COULD OPEN MY EYES . . .

No.

No way. This is my home. My refuge. Like Manchester.

Manchester was my refuge. I stayed in my flat in Ancoats, keeping away from everyone, except to go to my work. I watched videos and started reading again. Not just books to do with my work, like information technology and software design; books on politics n that, and no nature books, no ornithology. Apart from that it was everything really; loads on Africa, imperialism and apartheid. I wanted to go back, no as it is now but as I imagined it was or as it could be. Once those fuckin white cunts had been kicked out. That's all I did in Manchester, I read, and I kept masel tae masel.

Then she came along.

I had seen her at work, even knew her name. She worked in the Pensions Section. Her name was Dorothy. She always had a smile for everyone, a smile that just made you smile back. It wisnae a bland, stupid indiscriminate smile though. It was a real engaging, searching smile; the smile of someone looking for the good they know is in everybody and invariably finding it.

It happened when I was coerced along to an office leaving do. Coerced along by a bossy, domineering middle-aged cow who liked to organise every cunt's life. There always seemed to be loads of them in the type of places I worked in. One of those people who thinks of themselves and is thought of by others as friendly, but who is anything but, who is another fuckin control freak. As I was new, or relatively new by that time, this person insisted that I came along. I would get to know people better. The last thing I wanted to do was to get to know any cunt. I don't know why, but I went. It was probably because I was so depressed I didn't have the willpower to say no, or to contemplate the excuses I'd have to make on Monday. Roy Strang. Top boy. Ha ha ha.

The whole thing was just another load of shite to get through. I took my Becks and sat making small-talk, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. People seemed to be comfortable talking to me for an obligatory couple of minutes, before deciding to find better company. It was as if I was wearing a baseball cap with flashing lights that spelt: FUCKED UP.

Then Dorothy came over and sat beside me. She smiled and I felt myself smiling back. I felt some tightness in my chest unlock. — It's about time I introduced myself. I've seen you around. I'm Dorothy from Pensions. Oh bloody hell, that makes me sound ancient. It's Dorothy from Warrington really. I hate it when people say what do you do, and people talk about their sodding jobs all the time. What do you do? I eat, sleep, shit, pee, make love, get out of it, go to clubs, that's what I flamin well do. Sorry, I'm rabbiting ere. What's your name?

— Eh, Roy.

Dorothy was pretty. She had a nice face and shortish blonde hair. Pretty enough to be thought of as plump rather than fat. Not from Fathell, Lancashire. She seemed not to be drunk, but somehow euphoric.

— Look Roy, I'm sorry about this, but I'm E'd out of my face. If I'm in a club an there's good sounds on, I don't bother nobody, I just dance. If I'm in this sort of environment though, I just want to talk to everyone. Life's too short to be all quiet n grumpy, init?

Life's too short. Her
enthusiasm was infectious. In spite of myself I was enjoying talking to her. — What dae these things dae for ye?

— Ain't you done any E before? I thought you were all big ravers up in Scotland.

— Naw, ah like the indie stuff mair, ken? No really intae dance n that.

I was a freak. Legs too short. Gimpy, thanks tae fuckin Winston Two. Rest in peace you canine cunt. I'd always wanted tae dance, I mean really dance, tae really go for it, but naw. I never bothered, eh.

— This gear's brilliant. I never drink now, can't stand the stuff and I've never had such a good time in my life, she smiled. She was certainly having a better time than me. I'd had just two Becks, the rest of the night I'd been on cokes. I didn't want to get drunk and lose control. I was looking at the others; their morose, belligerent beery faces. They didn't seem to be having a good time either.

But she was.

A lot of the boys in the cashies took Es, a lot of them didnae. I never saw the point. I'd always liked the Becks, and couldnae get intae that fucking music. It was shite, that techno, nae lyrics tae it, that same fuckin drum machine, throbbin away aw the time. I hated dancing. It was like playing fitba. It put me up there on exhibition; my savaged, stumpy legs, my large body and my long, swinging ape airms. Swedgin had always been ma dancing.

I suppose I'd built up an aversion to any kind of drugs because of the wey my Ma and Dad got through the drink and how it made the cunts behave. That didnae seem to matter now though. I took one from her; fifteen quid, a wee capsule.

— R&Bs, she said.

I was talking away to her, but getting fuck all from the E. I was still enjoying myself, though, until I realised that I was really rushing, really riding the crest of a wave. Then I felt myself rise and the music seemed to be inside me. It was like the music was coming from me. I felt dizzy and queasy, but I'd never known such an exhilarating high. I wanted to shite for a bit, but it passed. The swedgin was fuck all compared to this; I felt I had all the power in the world but it was positive. I felt a bond with Dorothy, or Dorie as she liked to be called. Her face looked so clear and fresh and beautiful, her eyes were so alive. Her hair was a 2 Unlimited number came on the juke-box and I felt the drums thrash through me and the synth slabs lift me out of my seat. It had done fuck all for me before. — Whoaahhh . . . , I gasped.

— You alright? she asked.

— Ah'm sortay startin tae see what aw the fuss is aboot . . .

— Paula, she shouted over at her friend, — Roy ere's just lost his virginity. C'mon, let's get out of here. We need a more memorable setting to do this experience justice.

All I wanted was that music. House, it had to be house. When Dorie told me I would get more of it at a club called the Hacienda, but only far, far, better and blasted through a PA, with brain-frying lights and surrounded by people who felt the same, I was instantly sold.

The club was fuckin awesome. I was lost in the music and the movement. It was an incredible experience, beyond anything I'd known. I could never dance, but all self-consciousness left me as the drug and music put me in touch with an undiscovered part of myself, one that I had always somehow suppressed. The muscles in my body seemed in harmony with each other. My body's internal rhythms were pounding, I could hear them for the first time: they were singing to me. They were singing: You're alright, Roy Strang. You're alright, we're all alright. People, strangers, were coming up to me and hugging me. Birds, nice-looking lassies n that. Guys n aw; some ay them cunts that looked wide and whom I would have just panelled in the past. I just wanted to hug them all, to shake them by the hand. Something special was happening and we were all in this together. I felt closer to these strangers than I did to anyone. Dorie and Paula I loved; I just loved them. I couldn't stop hugging them, like I'd always wanted to hug pals, but it was too sappy, too poofy. I knew that after I came down I'd still love them. Something fundamental happened that night; something opened up in me.

I was the Silver Surfer, I looked into the laser lights and zapped across the universe a few times, surging and cruising with the music. It built up into a crescendo and Dorie, Paula and I, it was like we were the world, us and the people around us. I was one with them and myself and I never wanted to lose it. Even when the music stopped — it was hours later but it felt like minutes — I was still right up.

I was overwhelmed. All the shite Bri had spraffed, him and some of the boys in the cashies who we used to say had gone aw soft wi the ravin, it was all fuckin true and so much more. It was euphoria . . . it was something that everyone should experience before they die if they can truly have said not to have wasted their life on this planet. I saw them all in our offices, the poor sad fools, I saw them in their suburbs, their schemes, their dole queues and their careers, their bookies shops and their yacht clubs . . . it didn't matter a fuck. I saw their limitations, the sheer vacuity of what they had on offer against this alternative. There would, I knew, be risks. Nothing this good came without risk. I couldn't go back though. No way. There was nothing to go back to . . .

. . . like now there's nothing to come up for your eyes only

Can see me in the night.
For your eyes only
I never have to hide.

You can see so much in me,
So much in me that's new
I never felt until I looked at you . . .

Oh fuck, go for it Roy you crapping cunt, go deeper, go forward, go back to the Stork or stay with this reminiscing because it doesnae matter, it's the same sad fuckin story, it's always gaunny be the same sad fuckin story so go DEEPER

DEEPER

DEEPER– – – and now Sandy's back, and I'm thinking to myself, fuck them, fuck them all.

— Let's hold on a bit, Sandy, I say.

— What? he replies, a little bewildered.

— I'm thinking, why should we be in a hurry to do battle with Johnny Stork? Why should we run to the lodge to try and sort this out? It's between Dawson and the terrorists and the Storks . . . I mean, what's old Johnny Stork ever done to us? Let's enjoy our picnic! It's nothing to do with us. We've got jam here, and honey and butter, and plenty of that
absolutely
wonderful homemade bread. We. . .

— Cut the bullshit, Roy. It's got everything to do with us, Sandy snaps, his face harsh.

— Can't we have just a small picnic here first? Can't it be just like the old times?

— No it can't be, Roy. It can never be like the old times, Sandy says coldly.

— Never like the old times, I repeat wearily, — . . . never like old times. I felt beaten. I just couldn't be bothered. — Okay, let's go.

We start up towards the lodge, but Sandy turns to me and says, —I'm sorry Roy, I've been a little abrupt. I think you've realised what the score is now. I think we can spare the time to stop off for a little picnic before we go. For old time's sake, he grinned.

— Thanks Sandy, I appreciate it. For old time's sake, I smiled. Sandy was alright, no doubt about that.

he was a proper Diamond s are forever . . .

Sparkling round my little finger,
Unlike men the diamonds linger.
Men are mere mortals who
Are not worth going to
Your grave for . . .

No. Give me the old times . . .

It can never be like the old times– – – –never like it was back in Manchester– – – –after the club that night– – – –because outside the streetlights were brilliant. I suppose I was slightly shiting myself about taking E because of the bad freak-out on acid once, but this was different. I felt totally in control. I'd never felt so much in control.

I had got dead sad when the music ended. My eyes were watering and it didn't matter. I wasn't embarrassed about being sappy. I saw what a silly, sad pathetic cowardly cunt I was, ever to be embarrassed about expressing emotion. But I wasn't even hard on myself; it didn't matter.

Back at Doric's gaff, we drank tea, and I told them about myself; more than I've ever told anyone. I talked of my fears and insecurities, my hang-ups. They talked about theirs. It was supportive, empa-thetic; it was good. Not in a smarmy, false-intimacy, middle-class counselling way, or in a big, weird, spaced-out, hippy bullshit trip. This was just punters saying how they felt about life. I could talk about anything, almost anything, the rape and my family were taboo, but that was my choice.

It was no problem. Nothing was a problem.

Every weekend after that I was E'd out my face and clubbing. I had more pals in Manchester in a few months than I ever had back home.

The problem was that it was so good that it made everything else seem shite. No, that's not quite right: it showed that everything else
was
shite. Work was shite; just something to get through.

Eventually Dorie and I started sleeping together. We felt good about each other and there was nobody else involved. It had just been a matter of time. I was worried about sex, because I hadn't been with anyone since the incident. When we first shagged, I was E'd up and it made no difference, so we always made love when I was eckied. One day she said: — You don't have to be E'd up to make love to me you know.

We went to bed. I was trembling, scared of exposing myself without the chemicals. We kissed for a bit and I stopped shaking. We played with each other for a long time, and after we had joined, my cock and her fanny just became the one thing, then it seemed to vanish as we took off on a big psychic trip together. It was our souls and our minds that were doing it all; our genitals, our bodies, they were just the launch pads and were soon superfluous as we went around the universe together on our shared trip, moving in and out of each other's heads and finding nothing in them but good things, nothing in them but love. The intensity increased until it became almost unbearable and we exploded together in an orgasmic crash-landing onto the shipwreck of a bed, from a long way out in some form of space. We held each other tightly, drenched in sweat and shaking with emotion.