The Kimota Anthology (18 page)

The two sides had gathered at dawn in a field below the town, the straggly crops had withered long ago, leaving a few threadbare palm trees as the only shade.

“Right then, boy!” the giant bellowed in his best mean voice, “I’m going to rip you apart bit by bit.”

The giant walked towards Stuart, his big feet stomping on the dry ground, stirring up dust and scattering donkey droppings. Stuart let him approach very closely then dodged aside, running behind and away from the man. He was very big but slow with it, disadvantaged by having to reach down at Stuart.

“Hold still and let me hit you,” roared the man.

Stuart didn’t reply, he was concentrating very hard. He wasn’t sure what this man represented but he was sure he would have to beat him somehow before he could emerge from whatever mental episode he had fallen into.

For several minutes pretty much the same thing happened. The giant stomping and roaring towards him, Stuart dodging and weaving out of the way.

The crowd were getting a little restless, he was sure they would soon tire of this and join in. He had to admit, the pressure was on. Then suddenly it came to him; pressure points!

Looking at the giant he realised he could only reach the lower parts of his body, what pressure points did he know down there. Besides the obvious, which he rejected as un-sportsman like, there seemed to be only legs.

The giant lunged forward again, this time missing Stuart by a fraction of an inch. But Stuart had already decided his next move. Letting the giant rush by him, Stuart suddenly stepped backwards and with a mighty yell kicked the giant in the side of the leg between the gnarled knee and the tree like thigh.

To Stuart this was around chest high, but he managed it without too much splitting.

The giant looked down at the spot with a look of complete pain on his face, then sobbed, “My leg, what’s he done to my leg? I can’t move it!”

Quickly, Stuart said in a loud voice, “Do you surrender, or shall I wither other parts of your body?” He had to be quick before the dead-leg, a trick he learned at school, wore off.

The giant, not a man used to being beaten, stood stunned for a few seconds then wailed, “Don’t do any more I give up!”

The home crowd, who minutes before had been trying to join the other lot, rallied magnificently. They clapped and shouted as loud as they could, stamped their feet and threw loose items of clothing into the air. Wedgil and Poleyela ran forwards and hugged him tightly, trying not to show the disbelief on their faces. Poleyela smiled at him, “Well done, I knew you wouldn’t let us down. The magic works in mysterious ways sometimes, but it usually works.”

Stuart looked hopefully at the pair, “Does this mean I can go now?” Mentally he had defeated whatever was causing this dream-like state so logically he should now return to consciousness back in his conservatory. Probably with his face in the pot-pourri basket.

Wedgil looked meaningfully at Pol, who looked meaningfully back, they both turned to him and simultaneously said “Yes, whenever you’re ready.”

“The only problem I see now,” said Wedg chewing on the end of his quill, “Is his name, I mean ‘Stuart’, it sounds like you’ve burnt yourself on your dinner, not a proper name really.

‘The story of how Stuart slew Goliath with a pebble’ doesn’t really scan does it?”

Poleyela looked up from the lizard she was skinning with a knowing look on her face, “You’ve made one or two other changes as well haven’t you!”

Wedg smirked, “Just one or two minor amendments to perk it up a bit. Nobody will know, specially Stuart, how’s he going to find out?”

Poleyela stopped work for a moment, looked out of the window, and said, “ ‘David’, that’s a nice name.”

“Hello dear, have a nice class?” Stuart said from the recliner, trying to sound casual.

“I don’t go because it’s nice, Stuart,” Melanie snapped. “I go to improve myself, you should know that by now.”

Stuart smiled sheepishly as she swished past him towards the conservatory.

“Lizzie! Where are you? Mummy’s home, got some nice foodies for you.” Melanie emerged a few moments later cradling a fat white cat in her well muscled arms. “Stuart,” she said rather worriedly, “Can you smell donkey manure in the conservatory?”

“No dear,” he replied firmly, and he meant it.

[Originally published in Kimota 8, Spring 1998]

VINCENT’S LAST PICTURE

By Martin Owton

He was shorter than I’d expected and there were flecks of grey in the short red hair. His eyes were bloodshot and to be honest he did not smell too good, but then I’m used to much better plumbing than he ever saw.

“A talentless dauber,” he ranted, his thick accent straining my understanding of the language. “That’s what those bastards in Paris call me. A bloody dauber.” He took a large mouthful of the wine I’d brought.

What would they make of Jackson Pollock
? I thought as he glared glassy-eyed at me.

“Does that look like a daub to you?” He waved toward the field easel that stood beside the window. The canvas seemed to depict a wheat field beneath threatening dark skies but then I was used to his style.

‘“Wheatfield beneath storm clouds,” I said quietly. That surprised him and his expression changed as he addressed me.

“Hah! You can see it. Then why can’t those idiots in Paris.”

“It will not always be so. One day you will be appreciated as a great artist,” I said blandly but this served only to stoke the fires.

“Hah! When? When I am dead, yes,” he raged, bloodshot eyes glaring. “I might as well be dead. Now Theo tells me not to send him any more pictures. That no-one wants to buy them.”

“One day they will. One day they will pay unimaginable amounts of money for your pictures.”

“Now you are laughing at me. You are no better than them.”

“No, I assure you monsieur. I am not laughing at you. You are a great artist. Will you sell me that picture?”

He eyed me suspiciously apparently still convinced I was making fun of him. I pulled out the leather purse and showed him the coins. I’d been unable to locate sufficient French currency from the period so I’d had to bring sovereigns. He turned one of them over in his hand.

“English,” he said examining Victoria’s profile. “I thought so from the way you speak.”

I doubted that my accent was at fault, it is simply that after a hundred and fifty years the language itself has shifted. He stared silently at the coins frowning somewhat.

“So, you will sell me this picture?” I asked breaking his reverie.

“Pardon monsieur. I have not sold a picture for a while. I was deciding on the price.” He went back to his study of the coins, one in particular held his attention as he turned it over and over in his hand. I felt sad for this staring-eyed Dutchman then, knowing as I did that his life was very close to its end. But there was nothing I could do, no words I could say that would preserve the genius. History records that he died of a self-inflicted wound on July 29, 1890 and I would be more than a fool to try to change that.

“Very well,” he said, still looking at the coins. “I will sell it for what I hold in my hand. Ten sovereigns yes?”

“We have an agreement, monsieur.” I smiled in relief. I had imagined all kinds of difficulties over this bargaining process. “Have you signed it? And the date. That is most important,.”

He drew a brush from a jar and signed and dated it with a flourish. “I shall wrap it for you? I have only newspaper but you will need something.”

Even better
, I thought,
for authentication
.

A carriage took me from the house on the Place de la Mairie to the station where I caught a train back to Paris. He had tied the picture in its paper wrapping with twine and I clung to it like a child with its favourite doll throughout my journey back to the transit point. This was my payback for all the hard graft I’d been through.

It had cost a lot to set up. The distinguished professors who oversee the system are beyond my purse but fortunately their research students aren’t so well paid and are young enough to be persuadable. This was the big one, this picture will make it all worthwhile. I know tampering with timelines is illegal, UN convention and all that, but don’t tell me the governments and big multinationals don’t do it. Three UN time observers overseeing every expedition; I don’t think so.

I checked my watch to see how long I had left, not that it mattered greatly now I had the picture but it would create a scene if I dematerialised in the middle of a crowded second class railway carriage. A scene that someone might record for posterity. I had heard rumours of the existence of a small team who trawled through the anecdotes of centuries looking for just such a happening as a clue to a time-crime and I certainly did not want that kind of trouble.

The elegantly dressed and well spoken girl from the front desk showed me up to Gervase’s office. A nice touch I thought even though I knew the way. Gervase and I had done business before. Fine paintings hung in elegantly lit alcoves along the corridor, here a Manet, there a Gaugin. Our feet made not a sound on the Axminster as I followed the girl towards the highly polished oak door of Gervase’s office.

Gervase DeVere-Brown, art dealer to the rich and cultured, specialist in the late nineteenth century, liked his customers to believe that he was one of them, even though I knew his name was really Gerald and he had been born in Basildon.

“Tony, so good to see you again. Would you like a drink?” Gervase waved me to a leather armchair with an elegantly manicured hand. He opened the drinks cabinet whose walnut panelling matched the rest of the room. I accepted a Bombay Sapphire and tonic and we gossiped for a few minutes before we got down to business.

“So what have you brought me Tony?”

“Something that I think you’ll like,’ I smiled at him. “Just up your street actually.” I undid the string holding the newspaper wrapping and drew out the picture. He took the picture from me and walked over to the window to look at it in the light.

“Van Gogh. Sometime pal of Gaugin’s. Bit of a dauber really. Died in 1899 in a nuthouse, penniless except for an 1892 sovereign that he wore on a chain around his neck. Spent the last nine years of his life painting nothing but sunflowers. This one’s OK though, I’ll give you fifteen thousand for it.”

[Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000]

AGAINST THE SKIN

by Mark Morris

The rabbit jerked once more, but Lee knew there was no way it could escape, not with its leg almost chopped through. He wrestled the great iron jaws of the trap apart, then picked up the rabbit and deftly broke its neck. Hooking the carcass to his belt, he continued on his way.

Of  course, fox was what he was really after. He could get a lot more for fox fur than he could for rabbit meat, but he was lucky if he caught more than one or two foxes a week. Sometimes it was hard enough just catching the rabbits. Quite often he would come around and find his traps clogged with weasels, stoats, birds, stuff like that. Once he had caught a rat as big as an alley cat, and which had hissed and snarled and bared its teeth like one too. That had shaken Lee so much that he hadn’t dared to get too close, had had to go fetch his air rifle to shoot the damn thing.

Today, though, had been a good day. He had got three rabbits in his traps and a pigeon in one of his snares - they were always good for a few bob. Now he was tramping through the woods to check on his final trap, the corpses swinging at his waist like war trophies.

It was a warm September morning, fresh dew on the grass, the leaves just about on the turn. Flies congregated in clouds, buzzing lazily; birds twittered in the trees. The stream, due to the heavy rainfall over the last few weeks, was rushing along as though late for an appointment.

Lee’s final trap had been sprung, but whatever had been in there had got away. From the tuft of bloodied fur the creature had left behind, it had obviously been something of a struggle. Lee wondered whether he ought to cast about a bit, see if the animal was still around. The fur suggested another rabbit, and from the looks of things it was badly wounded. It had probably crawled off to die in a bush somewhere.

He picked up a stick and thrashed half-heartedly at the surrounding undergrowth, but after a few minutes he gave up. Flies droning round his head and he was desperate for a pint. Besides, today’s was a good haul as it stood. Might as well let the poor little bugger die in peace.

He took a sack from his jacket and stuffed his catch inside, then carefully reset the trap. That done, he heaved the sack onto his shoulder. Next stop the market to earn himself a little money, and then it was off to the pub for his lunch.

As he entered the main bar of The Vine he was met by a chorus of greetings. He raised a hand, then went to the bar and ordered sausage, beans, chips and a pint of bitter. At this hour the pub was a sociable place: sunshine slanted in through the windows, gleaming on the horse brasses that adorned the walls; the greasy smell of food and the scraping of cutlery on plates made him hungry; the click of pool balls and the bleeps from the fruit machine provided a soothing backdrop to the buzz of conversation. Lee moved from the bar to where his mates were seated, already sucking at the froth in his glass. When he got to the table, the beer was half-gone.

“Thirsty work, killing things,” Reg Trenshaw said. His words were greeted with laughter.

“Aye, it is that,” Lee replied. He sat down. “Better than sitting on your arse all day, though.”

Reg stuck his nose in the air. “I’ll have you know, I’m what is known as a casual labourer.”

“Aye, very casual,” said Lee. Laughter exploded around him once more. Reg grinned too, and companionably punched his arm.

“How many d’ you get today, then?” Peter Raven asked. He was the youngest of the group, only twenty-two. The others were in their late twenties or early thirties; Lee himself was twenty-eight.

“Three rabbits and a pigeon,” Lee replied. “I’ve already flogged ‘em down the market.”

Darren Buckle, hunched over his pint, said solemnly, “Not much meat on a pigeon.”

Lee looked at him, unsure whether he was joking or not. You could never tell with Darren. In the end he shook his head. “No, not much,” he agreed.

“Sausage, beans and chips,” a voice said shyly beside him. Lee turned to see a dark-haired girl in her late teens holding a plate of steaming food.

“Aye, that’s me, love. Just put it down there.” She did so and Lee tucked in.

As he ate, the conversation ebbed and flowed around him. Football, pigeon racing, women, cars and work were discussed. Occasionally, when he felt the tide of conversation flowing his way, Lee would toss in the odd comment, but on the whole he was content just to sit and eat and listen.

Around twenty past one the gathering began to break up. Darren Buckle and Peter Raven, who both worked at a nearby garage, got up to go. Peter drained the last of his pint.

“Well, I’ll see you all tonight then,” he said.

“Tonight?” Lee asked, confused.

“Aye. Bloody hell, Lee, you’ve got a mind like a sieve. It’s Michelle Patterson’s party at the Bar Bados. Don’t tell us you’ve forgotten already.”

Lee had forgotten, but he shook his head. “Course not,” he said, “I’ll be there.”

The Bar Bados was sleazy and run down. Somehow it looked even more depressing now than it had done as a carpet showroom. Lee knew it was a favourite haunt of drug pushers, prostitutes and pickpockets, but that didn’t bother him. If  the price was right, he was not averse to anything that the first two had to offer, and as for the latter, well, his trousers were so tight that even he had trouble getting his hands into the pockets.

Outside the door were two gorillas in dinner suits. As Lee walked up, one of them stepped forward and planted a large hairy hand in the middle of his chest.

“I’ve come for the party,” Lee said, showing his invitation, “Michelle Patterson’s”

Grudgingly the bouncers let him through, and he made his way to the bar through an almost tangible cloud of sweat and marijuana smoke. The barmaid was a large-breasted bottle-blond with an expression that hovered somewhere between stupid hostility and boredom. Lee asked her for a pint of bitter. She gave him a lager in a glass with lipstick smears on the rim, then moved on before he could complain.

He sighed and looked around for his mates. The dance floor was a smoke-wreathed arena of writhing, sweaty bodies trapped by coloured light. The music that throbbed from the speakers was muffled and distorted. Lee spotted his mates sitting at a table to the right of the stage and skirted towards them round the edge of the dance floor. He held his beer above his head to avoid being jogged. his feet slid on crushed cigarette buts and patches of wet. As he got near the table, Peter Raven spotted him and raised a hand in greeting.

“Lee, over here,” he shouted unnecessarily. Lee acknowledged the gesture and struggled his way through.

“We were beginning to think you weren’t gonna come,” Peter said, pulling out a chair with a slashed seat for him.

“I never like to get to these dos too early,” Lee replied, sitting down, “otherwise I’m always blind drunk by the time the birds start to arrive.”

“Aye, and there’s some nice ones here tonight,” Peter said. “Look at that lot.” He pointed at a group of four girls who were dancing around a pile of shoes and handbags. One of them was Michelle Patterson. Their intent expressions and heavy make-up made the scene appear somehow primitive, like a rain dance or a mating ritual.

“Yeah, they’re all right,” Lee said, nodding, though the prospect of breaking into the hallowed circle was a daunting one. He looked around, trying to pick out a girl who looked as though she might be on her own. “Mind you, she’s more my type,” he said, pointing across at a petite, darkly attractive girl with short black hair, who was sitting alone on the other side of the room.

“Why don’t you go and chat her up then?” Peter said. “Quick, before someone else does.”

Lee nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I think I will. See you in a bit.” He stood up, still clutching his pint, and manoeuvred his way through the forest of flailing limbs on the dance floor. As he approached her table, Lee saw the girl look up and smile as though she’d been expecting him.

“Hello,” she said. She hadn’t raised her voice, but Lee could hear her clearly over the music. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Lee, Lee Mitchell. I saw you sitting on your own and thought you might like some company.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said, and smiled at him again. She was wan and frail looking, she wore no make-up, and her clothes were drab, but in that instant Lee decided she was beautiful. He leaned forward, staring into her eyes, which were large and, in this light, seemed black as ebony. “W-Would you like to dance?” he asked.

The girl glanced at the dance floor, then gave the tiniest shake of her head. “No, thank you. I’d rather just sit here and talk.”

Lee nodded, trying to look enthusiastic, though conversation was not one of his strong points. Most of the girls he had known had shared his bed in exchange for a few drinks and a dancing partner for the evening. Looking down at his empty glass, he said, “Can I buy a drink then?”

The girl gave a little half-smile as though she had a secret joke she was unwilling to share. “That would be nice,” she said. “I’ll just have a Perrier water please.”

“A what?” Lee said. The girl repeated her order. “Do they do that here?” Lee wanted to know. The girl assured him they did, and Lee went to the bar, clutching his empty pint glass in one hand and a crumpled five pound note in the other.

The area in front of the bar was crammed with people and hot as an oven. As Lee queued, he glanced back at the gill to make sure she was still there. She was - a tiny dark-haired figure who from this distance looked no more than twelve or thirteen years old. Looking at her, Lee felt nervous. He had never actually sat down and talked to a girl before, not properly anyway. What could they talk about? She was obviously much brainier than most of the slags he went off with. Did that mean she would be harder to coax into bed? Lee hoped not, because he wanted her badly; his hard-on was almost embarrassing.

As he watched the girl, his heart suddenly jumped. A blond-haired, bearded man had approached her and was asking her something. Lee held his breath, and was relieved when he saw the girl shake her head. The bearded man walked away, looking disappointed.

“Yes?” The barmaid’s harsh voice jolted him out of his reverie. Without realising it he had shuffled to the front of the queue.

“Er... a pint of bitter and a... a Perry water, please.” Had he got that right? Obviously he had, for the barmaid went straight to a bottle with a green label and poured the contents into a glass. Drinks in hand, Lee swayed back to the table.

“Here we are,” he said, setting the glasses down. “Sorry I was so long. It’s packed up there.”

The girl flashed her little half-smile again. “Thank you.”

Lee took a long swig of beer, then hastily wiped away the moustache it made. “Do you know,” he said suddenly, “you haven’t told me your name.”

The girl hesitated, and Lee frowned. Why was she so nervous about giving her name? Then she said decisively, “Joanna. My name’s Joanna.”

Lee nodded. “That’s a nice name. Tell me, Joanna, what do you do?”

This time the reply was more confident. “I’m a secretary at Smith’s in town. Why, what do you do?”

Surely it was Lee’s imagination that the question had sounded like a challenge? “I’m the one in eight,” he said. When the girl looked puzzled, he added, “Unemployed.”

“Oh, I see.” Joanna sipped her Perrier water, then abruptly leaned forward and gazed at him intently. “But what would you really
like
to do?” she asked.

Lee thought this over. In truth he had been on the dole so long that
any
job would seem a godsend. With his poaching and his supplementary and his rent money from the council, he reckoned he earned about the same as many of his mates, but that wasn’t the point. A proper job was much more than just a wage packet - it was self-respect; it was an end to breaking the law in order to survive; it was a chance to
do
something with his life. Poaching kept him above the breadline, but all the same Lee didn’t particularly enjoy killing animals, and he enjoyed the human reactions to it even less: the way people looked at him as though he was a child-murderer, the way they assumed he was a sicko who liked inflicting pain on innocent creatures. After his trial, when his picture had appeared in the paper, the animal rights lot had broken his windows and daubed his walls. They didn’t seem to care that he had bills to pay, food to buy. And they even seemed to have overlooked the fact that he had a dog - Sabre - who he could ill afford, but who was always sleek and well cared for. Lee was certainly no saint, and had never claimed to be, but by the same token he was no ogre either.

All these thoughts passed through his head in just a few seconds. When he looked up, Joanna was still staring at him.

“What would I really like to do? Oh, I dunno - brain surgery or something. Only I don’t think they’d accept me. I couldn’t even get biology CSE at school.”

Joanna smiled stiffly, though Lee could see that his joke hadn’t gone down too well. Maybe she thought he was a layabout, maybe she thought if he was on the dole he wouldn’t be able to afford to keep buying her drinks. He couldn’t give her that impression, could he? Draining his glass for the second time, and trying to hold down a burp, he said, “Another drink?”

“I’ve hardly started this one,” Joanna replied, “Though you go ahead. Would you like me to...?” She reached for a small black handbag at her side. Lee, recognising her intention, stood up hastily, holding up his hand like a traffic policeman halting a line of cars.

“No, no, that’s all right, love, you put your money away. I’ve got plenty, don’t you worry about that.” Hell, that sounded awful, as though he were trying to buy her. Lee knew you had to be careful what you said to birds; they took offence so easily. He turned and stumbled towards the bar, the flashing lights and the speed with which he had consumed his two pints making him feel a little unsteady on his feet.

Ah hour and four pints later Lee was confident he had won Joanna over. The beer had given him the confidence to maintain a steady and, in his opinion, interesting flood of chatter. Joanna had smiled a great deal, but she had not said too much herself. Well, that was okay by Lee; most women talked too much anyway. On his seventh trip to the bar he encountered Peter Raven.