Outsider (9 page)

She had renamed herself Joy and started
haunting new scenes. The musical underworld crawling with drugs and
misery.

She acquired new tastes and started to favour
indie rock. There was this one band she couldn’t help coming back
to. Two women with incredible charisma. Their name was Second Look.
She would have left after a few feedings. The band wasn’t as
underground as her usual territories, the trail of bloodless
corpses she so enjoyed leaving behind had attracted New Scotland
Yard’s attention and their D. I. Madison’s incompetent skills. She
would have left if, if only, some weirdo weirder than the usual
brand, hadn’t danced into her visual field. A lone writer with a
green mohican and Native American tattoos spilling down her
shirtsleeves and her trousers legs. An average-size and lean woman
competing for the band’s attention.

While Sid’s shortsightedness was an added
reason for obnoxious paparazzi habits, it was an unexpected
impediment for Joy’s hypnotic stare. The creature of the night had
grown to expect human beings to be boringly predictable and wear
spectacles or contact lenses when shortsighted or longsighted.
Blind people were mistakenly safe from her predatory activities.
Ah. The writer suddenly stood out in the crowd, unbelievably tall
and attractive. An obsessive beacon. An exciting prey. Sparkling
life and adding contrast of shades and lights to Joy’s decidedly
routine existence.

Bitter and cruel, angry and resentful, the
vampire wanted the writer’s blood more than anyone else’s. There
she was, a worthy prey. One who was not after Joy’s attention, one
who was not into buying her drinks or lighting her cigarettes. A
prey who seemed immune to her hypnotic stare…….

INTERLUDE
(By courtesy of the
author Sid Wasgo)

CONTROL

It was an accident. I swear: I never intended
to kill Sweet Jane.

She was always so quiet. With such sweetness
in her eyes. When her blonde hair was not covering them, that is.
She would have made my heart melt with just one of her smiles. I
guess that’s why I picked up my camera again: to collect her
smiles, some of the greatest smiles on Earth. Yeah, ok, I’d do
anything for a woman’s smile; it’s my greatest weakness.

With Red Reb, it was a whole different
kettle of fish. It didn’t mean I wanted Reb dead. No, I wanted her
friendship. You see, we were so alike. E.g.: we were both drummers.
But, she was the best. She was so wild on her drum kit, her red
hair flying all over the place. Ok, maybe I was jealous. Let’s face
it: they were part of a successful band.

Don’t blame me, or the hell with blame, it’s
too late now, I can’t undo what I’ve done. Listen or read, let me
explain. I’m not saying that life has been tougher on me. I’m
saying that it’s part of the package: I’m a genius with an IQ so
high that I can’t be bothered with Mensa. I’ve got the sensitivity
to match. You know, or if you don’t know, let me tell you: the
highest incidence of alcoholism in groups is among Mensa people.
What about drugs then, you ask? Call me a junkie. I’ve been on
prescribed drugs for a year. I begged the psychiatrist to give me
the antidepressants and she reluctantly agreed. I couldn’t keep the
beast within under control anymore. I was becoming dangerous, not
just to myself, but other people too. I told her only the basic
spiel: various childhood abuses, various suicide attempts, lifetime
depression. But the beast within, it’s my secret. So, I am
multi-talented, but in this world, talent is not enough. I haven’t
got the cunning of a businessperson. I can’t be bothered with
money.

I’ve seen their Cuban band so many times. I
know: ten musicians in the band and I had eyes only for Sweet Jane
and Red Reb. Call it obsession, I don’t mind. Without them, my life
would have been a bottomless void.

It all started six months ago with a
friend’s birthday. Karen was a great fan of Cuban music. She had
seen every possible band of the genre around London at least once.
Me, I can’t be bothered with remembering names. Except for Panama
Francis, a jazz drummer I saw once playing for Helen Humes back in
the mid-seventies. Yeah, I was still a bit of a kid, but that’s how
I got into my mind that one day I’d be a successful drummer. Of
course I’m a complete failure, and that’s beside the point anyway
because Sweet Jane and Red Reb played in a Cuban band.

Jane and Reb were best friends. Jane
generally followed Reb’s lead. That’s why I most of the times got
talking with Reb. She was cool. She was great. I had respect for
her. Yeah, we got a lot into mock arguments, but, hey, it was
fun!

So, how did I get into Jane’s house? I can’t
remember. It’s a complete blackout. Not the first one. How many
mornings did I wake up in unknown parks, with dried blood under my
fingernails, gasping for oxygen? It’s not alcohol. It has nothing
to do with PMT. And the drugs, well, despite my hopes, they don’t
help. I’m back to square one, or worse: a square before square one.
The time before I learned to control myself.

As a child or a teenager, I’d lose control
and get into a mad rage just like that, at the snap of two fingers.
I think I scared many people, broke some noses and killed a few
cats. I’m not sure. I’d get into a rage, would see so red, that
when I’d come back to normal, I had no memory of it.

Nothing to do with the moon either. Like a
wild beast inside, clawing at my ribcage to get loose.

At first, I didn’t know.

By my early twenties I’d learned to control
it.

But a lifetime looking out for 100% control
with no hope of redemption is a bloody long time. It got bad again
when I got involved with this young anarchist last year. She didn’t
want to commit herself, fine, the sex was great. Too great. My
moods went on the rampage again. I had almost forgotten that I
could hurt myself. That I could do worse than that. The young
anarchist was a sweet and sensitive woman, too sensitive to see new
scars on someone’s body. We stopped seeing each other.

One ill-chosen word from a stranger could
trigger the rage. The beast within.

I turned to doctors for drugs. They have no
clue.

I guess I’ve killed a few more cats lately.
Or dogs. I’m not sure. I never remember. But sometimes I wake up in
the morning with brown stains on my jeans. I know it’s dried blood.
I know the colour. I know the smell. And I know what it means when
I wake up still wearing rumpled clothes.

I wake up that morning with a weird taste on
my tongue. I keep my eyes closed for a little while longer, feeling
the heaviness of my brain. Drat. Another drunken night. Bright
light creeping through my eyelids. Then I know I am not at home
because my bedroom is as dark as a tomb. I’m laying on something as
springy as a sofa. Not comfy.

The smell suddenly hits my nostrils, and my
brain translates. The tantalizing blood. Ripped flesh. A whiff of
decay, like rotten cherries in a too hot summer. Sweet and sour
Death. The buzzing of flies. My eyes swing open, meeting the
intense glare of the sun rushing through the French windows. I
blink. There is a garden outside. A fine garden. I can hear birds
joyfully chirping. I gyrate my neck to the left. Wow, bad kink
there. And I see. The tale-tell splashes on the white walls. I gasp
for oxygen. I am the only one who could have done that.

I crunch my abdominal muscles and sit up. I
look again. It is no hallucination. It is real. Harsh reality. I
get up and my stiff legs take me to her corpse. The flies fly away
in sudden panic.

I kneel down in the puddle of blood. I have
made quite a mess out of Sweet Jane’s body. I have broken a few
ribs, ripped the chest open, punctured the lungs, and stolen the
heart. Her clothes are in rags. I look around. So much blood and
pieces of bones thrown about. Shit. I am probably still digesting
the symbolic morsel. Her left leg is bent at an impossible angle
below the knee.

I look at her face. Her blonde hair matted
and brown-looking now, spread in every possible direction. I can
see some clumps are missing. I guess the glistening skull where big
shreds of skin are gone. And her eyes, her gorgeous gray eyes. One
is still there, staring at me, not even accusing me, just staring
and wondering. The right socket is empty and blank. Great. I eat
eyes now. Deep cuts across both cheekbones, red and sticky. I
decide not to bet, but I know the nose is in pieces. Dry blood like
frozen rivers down both nostrils. Split lower lip.

My dirty fingers slide gently down her neck.
There are purple marks across the still-skin-covered ropy tendons
and strong muscles. I feel for her Adam’s apple. It is crushed. I
let my fingers fall down by my knees, into the gooey puddle of
blood. How many pints of blood in a human body…….

I feel tears pricking my eyes and fight them
back. I never wanted to kill her. What did I want then?

I have no memory of what happened. I look
around. She has tried to defend herself. A glass coffee table is in
shards. Music magazines marred with blood lay in disorderly heaps.
A big flowerpot on its side, still spewing black soil and a
gigantic rubber plant. She was strong, with all the working-out she
used to do when she wasn’t bending over some plants in her green
garden or…….

Sweet Jane’s warm and pulsating skin. A
golden shade of suntan. The life animating her muscles. The
determination and concentration in her fingers sliding along the
fretless bass, blonde hair falling over her face, hiding her
beautiful eyes. Sweet Jane, my shy muse…….

I have to go, leave the “scene of the crime”
before anyone else turns up. I notice blood passing for messy brown
stains on my black jeans and T-shirt, but really blood-looking on
my skin. Where is the bathroom? I feel dizzy. Last night was the
first time ever Sweet Jane invited me in. I gently close the eyelid
over the remaining eye.

I look around, spot a set of wooden stairs
and decide to climb up. It would make sense.

A huge mirror confirms how matching I am to
the scene in the living room, just in case I don’t know yet. I sigh
and start to undress for a shower, thinking that her style of
clothes will never suit me. See, I wear men’s clothes, or unisex
clothes, the baggier the better. Sweet Jane, even without going for
the 100% feminine look had a very different approach to
fashion.

After the Cuban gig as excellent as usual,
we decided to go for a drink in the next street’s pub. I liked this
pub. Loads of punks hanging out there. I especially loved the huge
metal spider hovering over the door, inside. And all the fancy
skulls and heavy metal posters. Everyone went there so Sweet Jane
was like everyone else. She was wearing a tight fitting T-shirt
contrasting with her baggy blue jeans. Red Reb had on a black
waistcoat over a white T-shirt and nice chinos. I had my usual punk
ripped black trousers, sleeveless leather jacket, and a few chains
where I could fit them. I guessed we were gonna have a few drinks
too many as usual. We’d talk to some wasted people from various
genders, and we’d argue among us, especially Reb and me. It was a
game.

I am ready to face the blazing of the sun,
wishing happy naps to Jane’s neighbours. I don my dark shades and
pull the door open. Push it back immediately and run for a closet.
Shit. Here comes Red Reb, walking up the pathway, blissful and wide
awake, oblivious.

Oh no. Even better: in my hurry I have left
the door ajar. I hear the hinges screaming for DW40. A step in. She
calls out:

“Jane! Are you in?”

Silence, as heavy as tons of tanker boats
rushed over the shore by a tidal wave of angry ocean.

After another step, louder:

“Jane! Where the hell are you? Your front
door is open!”

She walks in. I can hear the metal clicking
of her cowboy boots. She passes by my closet. Then silence again. I
open my door a tiny crack. I see her tense back. She is studying
the mess I have left. She breathes in deeply and breathes out. Like
a long sigh. Oxygen must be good. Out of a pocket she slowly gets
her mobile phone. She dials an emergency number. I am feeling sad.
Her voice is close to breaking, but you can always trust Red Reb to
keep any situation under control. She asks for the cops. After a
silence, she uses the word “dead”, in the middle of a carefully
constructed sentence. Suggests an ambulance, even so Jane looks
dead. And is dead. Repockets the communication tool.

I open my closet door more widely. I want to
get away before the cops get the echo of their sirens into the
neighborough. The door creaks. Reb swiftly turns around and faces
me.

“Kay, you’re ok? What happened?” Stepping one
step closer to me, then stopping, taking in the cleanliness of my
skin. One of the things I like about Reb is that she’s got a brain
and knows how to use it.

I keep utterly silent, utterly frozen on my
spot. I feel the fog rounding in my brain. I hear Reb’s voice,
soft:

“Kay, what’s the matter with you?”

Whatever happens next, I can’t remember.

Five vodkas each and we were still arguing.
Sweet Jane was unusually bright and sparkly. She was the loudest of
our lot. Vodka drowning cranberry juice. Five was our minimum. That
was, Red Reb’s and mine. Five was more likely to be Jane’s extreme
maximum. She was rather bubbly and was not gonna be able to walk
straight. But wasn’t it her favorite joke: even sober, she couldn’t
walk straight.

The dizziness fades. I rub my eyes and
quietly feel the evening light washing over me. Then I see the
blood under my nails, down my fingers, eating at my hands, shiny
and barely sticky. Again……. I look ahead of me and stare
soundlessly.

The previous tenant of my flat was probably
into s/m fun. The chains solidly fitted in the wall are mementoes
of this time before my time. I had decided not to bother with
getting them off and opted for a pair of heavy black drapes. The
drapes are open. Red Reb is kneeling with the wall watching her
back, her hair hanging from her bent head. Her arms up, not by
choice but held up by the chains. I walk slowly towards her,
feeling empty and doomed. There is blood on her jeans outfit,
criss-crossing her white shirt.