Scraps

foetal position...

ribs bruised stiff from cobbled bed

managed to pull eyelids open

Still in shadow, though the sky was bright with the nearby rattle of milkfloat. He rolled onto his knees, sitting back on heels.

Shaking.

Morning breeze, buzzed with summer flies, twinged with the acrid scent of vomit. He could not remember the meal. Tried to stand, staggered coughing frothy bile, against a wall.

Retching.

The World swayed and hissed. Light bit into his retina. Wiping his chin with an already stained tuxedo sleeve he made his unsteady squinting way onto the mainstreet. The pavement was just wide enough to contain his erratic meander. A car thunder echoed past, unfocused, followed by a bus that stopped a short way ahead. He began to trot, halted, stomach convulsing. Belching fumes the bus pulled away. The passers by gave him a wide berth of uninterest.

Dizzy directionless he wandered onto sidestreets. Back alley. Tripped, toppled. Black plastic bin liner cushions. His hand was cut and bleeding, trickling along his wrist onto grime stiffened cuff. Black clot stained. His gut knotted, bending him, forward. Eyes wincing shut. He fell sideways, hyperventilating. A cat fled along the top of the opposite wall. Bleached out against the sky.

The sound of busy streets as his eyes opened again. He felt weak and painful as he sat up on the trash pile, his blood had clotted. His tongue was pumice against fur clad teeth.

"Where the fuck am I?"

Not being his own, the voice startled him. He looked round. The world still rolled like it needed an adjustment to the vertical hold. On a rusting fire escape sat a girl. Long dark open coat, purple top, cut-away-at-the-knees tie-died jeans, black fishnet stockings, worn out trainers.

"You’ve been out about a quarter hour... scared the tom away. I only waited to see if you quit breathing." Long tangle of bleached hair, raggedly cut, pale streaks of faded reds. Dark roots. Dark eyes. Outlined with purple to match lips and shirt.

He shuddered. Tried to puke but only brought up enough to spit. Tried again. Spat. Down from the metal stairway she was at his side, hand on a shoulder as he trembled and coughed on his knees.

"Terrific party, huh?" Her voice was that of a child who had stayed up way past bed-time. "Let’s see if you can stand." She helped him to his feet and pulled his arm over her shoulders for support. He doubled over again, dribbling on his shoes.

"Shit. I haven’t been that sick on booze since I was fourteen!" She straitened him up and helped him to stagger along. Picked up a clear plastic bag from the escape stair as they passed. It contained bones and meat scraps.

"Had a friend once," the girl told him as they walked, "got so pissed at a party one winter, tried to walk home. They found her next morning frozen to a park bench. She was dead - hypothermia, y’know."

There was no response. She stopped him so that he stood swaying without her support. Feeling in his pockets with a lace gloved hand. She found a can of Sapporo Dry which she opened and began to drink. A few crumpled notes, which she pushed into her own pocket. No ID.

"C’mon," she guided him by the arm while draining the lager. Crushed the empty can before chucking it over a high wall they were passing.

"You need some coffee and something in that gut of yours... There’s a place on the next street. We’ll get a bite."

Eventually she managed to drag him the remaining short distance to a small run down cafe where she sat him at a table in the corner. The place was not doing a roaring trade. Two truckers in the window eating double fried breakfasts. A tramp at the back staring at the leaves in his tea cup. She ordered two toasts and black coffee.

She took the coffee to the table, returning to the counter to pay and collect the toast. She sat down and pushed one plate across the table.

"Hey, wake up."

He opened his eyes again, looked down at the toast and pushed it aside.

"Don’t want it?" taking a bite out of hers, "OK by me," she transferred it onto her plate. "Call me Lol," she said chewing. "You got a name?"

He eyed her for a moment, "Tom," shrugged.

She paused mid-bite, "My God! You aren’t a mute after all - Tom what?"

He dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee, "Just Tom," another lump - plop.

"Just Tom and no ‘thanks a lot’?"

"For what - stealing my money?" his throat felt like it would crack with each word.

"Well fuck you!" she pulled the remaining notes from her pocket, threw them onto his empty plate, "There, shithead." Tens and twenties.

He pushed it back at her. "Keep it - I’ve had enough."

Sitting back down, "I deserve to - you’re goddamn lucky you weren’t robbed on the night streets dressed like that in your state." She snatched it up into pocket. "Who are you anyhow?"

"Tom," he nodded.

"Doesn’t tell me a thing. What do you do?"

"Hell, I don’t know. Nothing much... some kind of ‘gentleman’s rogue’." It looked like the words tasted bad. He rinsed them away with a gulp of coffee, "Rich kid with nothing to do..."

"Secretive sort, eh?"

He shook his head, "No: I honestly don’t know. It’ll all come back to me in time, no doubt."

"Well, well... it was a groovy party wasn’t it." She wriggled her seat.

Tom: "How come you took pity on me anyway?"

Lol: "I take care of the neighbourhood strays - you’re just another one. I thought, ‘Wow - this cat needs help’!"

"And what were you doing out on the streets?" he was rubbing his left forearm.

"The usual - caring for the alley cats, working the night shift," she picked up the bag of offal and displayed it, "Give ’em a banquet."

"Isn’t it a bit dodgy - being out all night in the city?" he felt a little queasy again, seeing the bag of offal.

She shook her head, chewing toast, rubbed the butter from her fingers on lapels and reached into a coat pocket. "I can take care of myself too." Mother-of-pearl and chrome gleam. Tshcheck! Strait back flick blade locked open. In her fingers the knife looked as big as a machete. Twice as evil in black lace.

Tom frowned, "Isn’t there some kind of law against carrying things like that?" Eyeing the tarnished blade with tarnished sight.

"Law!" A child laughed in her throat, "Either way someone gets you - huh? Screw the law - it’s OK, after the crime, but I’d sooner be a criminal than a victim... and the law can rape you, good as any psycho sex freak." Leaning across the formica she held the blade to his throat, hissed: "Finish your coffee..."she scraped the cutting edge along his jaw, "You need a shave." Sat back folding the steel away. He finished his coffee, crushing a fine gritty sediment betwixt his teeth. Something was beating heavy wings against his diaphragm and blowing bubbles.

Lol stood to leave, "OK? Home time, Tom. If you can walk all by yourself."

He was shaking his head, looked up, "I can’t remember where I live - or what I do, did - or even what city I’m in..."

"You’re shitting me?" she eyed him, "OK. All right... I’ll play along for now - could be fun... What is it? Scared to go home to mummy at your age?"

He frowned a comic knot, "Do you know any place I can freshen up? This jacket smells like..."

"A sewer. So does your breath."

"No doubt - my head feels like one."

"You can come round to Dick’s place; just across town." She picked up the bag of meaty remains, turned to leave.

"Where do you live?"

"Dick’s place."

He was swaying. She bought a can of coke from the counter on the way out. Tom followed, walking further than necessary. The stout grease ball chef gave him a nod and twitched, or was it a friendly wink? He’d never know, the door clattered behind them.

"Keep drinking." She tossed him the coke can.

He failed to catch it. Stopped it rolling with his foot and picked it up. A foam fountain between his fingers fizzed from the bloated canister. He discarded the ring-pull. Offered it to her saying:

"Lol - what kind of name’s that?"

She waved the offer aside, "Short for Lolita. My mother was reading Nabokov while she was pregnant."

He swilled down some coke, belched. She laughed through her nostrils while his tingled.

"I really need a change of clothes," he told her, eyes screwed up against the daylight.

Nodding, "Here," she handed him a pair of scratched mirror shades from pocket.

The street became noisy and crowded. They passed shop fronts and dodged pushchairs. Lolita took him to a rather squalid indoor market where she knew someone who ran a cheap clothes stall.

In the dim alcove, piled high with tagged clothes and coat rails, lurked a girl who looked anorexic and pallid. Short cropped dark thatch gripping her skull. Large striking eyes beaming through the murk. Happy to see Lolita. They hugged. Lol told her tale about Tom and chose a grey sweat shirt and a pair of heavy duty black canvas jeans without consulting him. Then picked herself something that looked like a torn pillow case with black and red ink blotches running into each other. Paid with his money and helped the stall girl to stuff them into a carrier that resembled a bin bag.

As they were leaving, Tom held up a pair of ripped bondage strapped pants, "I fancied these, what do you reckon?" He held then against himself. Peering over mirrored lenses. Not quite smiling.

"Special offer," jested the stall girl.

Lol tossed them back on the pile from whence they came and handed Tom the bag of clothes, keeping the bag of offal herself. She prodded him in the back and followed him out of the dark market maze into the sunny side of the street. His eyes still ached, his brain did not feel like it was quite in place. It hurt when a newspaper vendor shouted in his ear as he passed. He did not think to buy one, he was not in a reading mood.

The city faces washed by and two-strokes put-putted between ticking over taxis. Children stared at the couple. Everyone else made a point not to. Tom did not really notice, hanging onto Lolita’s cavalry coat. Following like a doped dog. Dust in his hair. Stains on his clothes.

The streets were still pedestrian populated, not crowded, when they reached an area of derelict industrial warehouses. A few had unlit neon scrawl above colourful doors and painted boards in window sockets: TRICKSTERS, FRITZ’S, FREAKS, FANNY’S...

A trio of BLJ boys sprawled on the steps of FRITZ’S comparing quiffs. Smoking hash. As Tom and Lol passed they said something like "Heyyy..." and one offered a joint, "HowgoesitLol?" Flicking coarse ash off 501 copies.

She took the roll, puffed twice. Held it a few seconds, handed it back: "Saw you coming this time Fil."

He frowned at the pale glow, dragged, "It aint cheap too!" he said after her as she led Tom down a broad alley between two buildings. Round the back was a clogged canal. The building was long and low, two stories. Door and winch on second floor overhanging the canal. Stairway leading up to one side and a second door. A large black cat came trotting down to meet her half way up. She scooped it up in one arm.

"What’ve you been up to? Getting fat on the canal rats? Eh?" She put it down to open the door at the top of the stairs. It sniffed at Tom’s shoes and brushed flank against his leg. He bent to stroke it...

"What’s its name?"

"Don’t know - he never told me."

It dashed in after Lolita followed by a second, tabby. Tom pulled shut the paint peeling door behind him. The room was large, lit through skylights. Bare brick walls, some areas daubed with thick dull paint, posters covering most of it, spreading onto ceiling. The floor covered by sheets and a few rugs. A selection of battered armchairs, a couple of mattresses, old TV, turntable, ghetto blaster, piles of records, tapes and magazines, a scattering of dirty plates and mugs. The compulsory tailor’s dummy stood in one corner amid a mountain of jeans, T-shirts and underwear.

Lolita had gone into another room followed by mewing cats. A rustle of polythene and then contented silence. Tom was sat on a large tea crate, near the door, when she came back in saying:

"Dick’s in ‘Fanny’s’. He’ll be helping set up - there’s a band on tonight: BrainDeath - they’re shit hot too."

"Sounds a bit nihilistic."

She nodded peering round the floor, "Dick’s got a tape." Found it, picked it up and went over to the cassette deck.

"Ah - I’d rather just have a wash and grab some extra sleep if that’s possible." He waved a hand palm out.

Not pressing ‘play’ she said, "Still hung over?"

"Well hung," he assured her, "A little more real sleep and then something to eat - I’ll be a lot better."

"Why am I being so fucking good to you?"

"I’m a cute curiosity?" Eyebrows raised.

"Could be... Sure, you go ahead and crash."

She showed him where the bathroom was, opposite a tiny kitchen and then introduced him to a small room stacked with boxes, blanket roll on the floor, well worn ruck sack and a few large boards propped against one wall. Semi-figurative acrylic designs swirling across their surfaces. Gaudy whorls erupting from dark smudge clouds.

"Dick’s an art lover?" asked Tom.

"They’re mine, I’ve got some on show in ‘Tricksters’ down the road. That’s why I’ve been living here."

"Sold any?"

"No. But some of them still haven’t been defaced yet - and that counts as a good response." She handed him his change of clothes, "Like them?"

Removing his shades, he scrutinised them. Nodded with pursed lips.

"Flake out there a while." she said and left him.

Surprised the water was warm, he ran a shallow tub full. Took off his evening suit. It said ‘Dry Clean Only’ on the label. He pushed it under the water to soak. His left arm still ached and felt sore when he massaged it, there were a few small bruises around raised blood spots along the prominent veins. He stood bewildered for a second, then filled the wash basin and stuck his head in it. Put on the sweat shirt without drying off and carried the canvas pants into the small room and rolled onto the blanket roll and sleeping bag. Somewhere in another room, the wall of noise thrash of BrainDeath blared out over belting electronic percussion.

He huddled himself as the room drifted like a raft. The paintings around him stretched out colour veined arms toward him. Dark eyes bored into his burning chest, forcing fingers down his oesophagus, wrapping him up and carrying him off. He phased out in a timpanic buzz.

Penetration

Stalls

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