Salt Snake and Other Bloody Cuts Read online

  Coincidence be buggered! That matched the initials JL on the cassette inlay card. I had found him!

  * * *

  I OWN DEAD COW HANDS. I OWN A VEGETABLE SOUL

  My name is Joseph Lawton. This happens:

  I wake Sophie who sleeps by my side. I tell her about my dreams. I tell her I must save thousands of sad lives.

  “How?”

  I tell her she has to die.

  She looks at me as the sunshine pushes its way into our bedroom. Then she sits up, holds my armful of stigmata to her little bare breasts, and looks hard into my eyes and says, “All right.”

  I feel happy, I feel sad, I feel GHOST. No. I don’t know why I said that.

  I feel transforming.

  I make breakfast—a bowl each with one Weetabix and a handful of bran. Milk. There’s milk in the bowl for the cat. I have cat-shaped thoughts in my head. Black cat thoughts.

  We go shopping:

  In Poundstretcher I pick up a knife. It flashes like a solid sliver of light. Pure, pure light. Hygienic-looking.

  “Is that the one?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I put the knife in the basket. The time is 9:30.

  She admires a picture of a black cat in a yellow frame. I take it from her and put it in the basket. “I’ll put it on the wall for you,” I say, then I pick up the knife and study the way it flashes Morse under the fluorescent lights. What messages, I wonder. The blade is long and clean. I know I will need it soon.

  We go to the tills where she puts three packets of cherry sweets into the basket. Smiling, Sophie talks to the girl at the till. We pay £3.40. The time is 9:50.

  * * *

  Before I left the car I sat listening to the tape while looking up at the huge brick facade of the house; a moulded brick plaque bore the legend PARKVIEW 1875. Which one of those lighted windows held Joseph Lawton? What did he look like? I imagined a young man with Christ-like hair; aesthennic build; a pair of burning eyes. Reclusive. Like one of those Victorian poets who starved in garrets. I pictured him walking, shoulders hunched, down this tree-lined avenue, so completely absorbed by his blistering visions that on one level he saw nothing; yet on a deeper level he saw everything.

  This seemed so important to me now. Last week I found my old guitar in the loft, restrung it and was busy learning the songs from the tape by ear. They were an inspiration to me.

  * * *

  ORANGE, ORANGES, ORANGES IN YOUR HAIR

  I am Joseph Lawton. This happens:

  I sing to Sophie who sits on the wooden chair at the kitchen table. She looks at the picture on the wall. The cat within its yellow frame.

  Her hair looks orange in the afternoon light. She smiles and fiddles with her ring with the green stone as big as the eye of a ghost.

  I go drench the knife in boiling water and leave it on the drainer to dry. I know I will need the knife soon.

  It is 3:30pm.

  I begin my preparations. I take the blank cassette tape from the box under the bed. I blow the dust from the tape deck. The guitar has fresh strings. Microphones are checked and plugged the deck.

  The sheets of paper on which my songs are written are spread carefully on the table. There is a special order to this. Like a ceremony.

  Sophie glances at my arms covered with the ghost white tattoos; Sumerian symbols of life, death, hope, love, death, rebirth, bitterness, black cats, tactile feelings, love-dove-shove…4:15. Everything is ready.

  * * *

  Evening. Dark. Cold. Snow on the ground.

  I stood in the avenue with its huge Victorian town houses and trees long since stripped of their leaves.

  Loud voices argued nearby. That’s the kind of area it was.

  “He is!”

  “He’s not.”

  “He’s going to do it, I tell you. He is actually going to do it.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Look at him. He’s decided. He’s crossing the street.”

  Ignoring the voices I approached Park View. Most of the window frames looked rotten. The front door had been roughly painted purple. But there were enough scratches on it to show every colour it had been painted since 1875. A dozen door bells set in an illuminated plastic panel caught my eye. A few had cards bearing handwritten names. Joseph Lawton was not amongst them.

  * * *

  I FEEL UNREAL. I FEEL ALONE

  I am Joseph Lawton. This happens:

  On the rug, the black cat sits licking her paw. It is 5:30.

  “Sophie, are you frightened?”

  “No,” she replies with a little shake of her head and watches me with her clear eyes.

  “There is no hatred in this,” I explain. “I have read the messages. I must save lives. When I kill you I will be doing it for love.”

  She agrees.

  “I hear them shouting from the street. Sophie, they have voices like ghosts—all in pain and crunching out. I have to save them.”

  She sits on the settee, wearing a purple skirt and a white T-shirt. It bears the picture of a black cat playing with a ball of wool.

  I smile, hoping it will stop her worrying. Lightly, I run the knife, like a single-toothed comb, through her hair. No, don’t be frightened sweet Sophie, smile and smile and smile.

  Once those voices that crunch and crack from the pavement are gone I will be happy again. We can ride the golden cycles to the river once more.

  It all goes quickly. The knifing.

  She took it very well. That pleases me. She doesn’t cry out or wriggle.

  She just sits there as I press the knife into her neck. Three times there. Four times through the cat picture on her T-shirt.

  I pull the knife out of her, wash it, and put it in the drawer. When I return she still sits on the sofa, the hair about her white face looks very red.

  “Will it take long?” she asks. “My neck is sore.”

  “Not long, sweet Sophie.” I hold her hand and stroke her hair. “After you’ve left this place, will you still love me?”

  She makes a little smile; then her eyes go cloudy.

  At 6:15 p.m. she is dead. I prop her up with cushions so she can still see me. Then I switch on the tape deck. The voices in the street stop screaming at me; my arms are clean; and yet I feel as if all the magic that I once knew has gone. My world is lonely now.

  Now the guitar is in my hands. I sit on the chair by the table.

  “Yeah.” I nod to Sophie. “This is it.” Softly, I begin to play my guitar.

  * * *

  I pushed open the door of Park View and stepped inside. I stopped suddenly. It was as if I’d been there before. Incongruously the place smelt pleasantly of cooking odours, especially garlic.

  With no trace of hesitation I half-ran up the stairs to the second floor. No carpets made the sound of my feet echo up and down the stairwell.

  When I reached a door with 7b written large in black felt tip I stopped. For some reason I was holding my breath. Then it came. I don’t know why but for some reason the place I was in suddenly scared me. The squares of carpets outside doors looked too thick, the doors too big for their doorways; nail heads swelled from the skirting boards in a way that was somehow disgusting, grey metallic stumps forcing outwards. I closed my eyes to stop the images lodging like parasites inside my head.

  The sickening feeling went as quickly as it came. I felt calm. Somewhere in the distance came the sound of a girl singing. A ballad, slow, haunting. Outside, trees gently waved in the breeze. The sense of peace was beautiful.

  I knocked on the door. “Mr Lawton. I happened to come across a tape of your songs in a…”

  Maybe that was better. Mentally rehearsing the greeting I knocked again.

  “Hello?”

  The door remained closed. I realised the voice came from behind me. I turned to see a girl. In her twenties with ginger hair; she wore a vaguely hippy-style dress and plain white blouse. There was a black cat in her hands which she stroked nervously.

  “Hello,” I smiled. �
�I’m looking for the tenant.”

  She wrinkled her freckled nose. “Sorry?”

  I looked back at the door. “Does a man live there? A musician?”

  “No… no. That one’s empty. It’s been empty for months.”

  Gone. I was on the verge of swearing furiously, but the fury did not come. I felt a lightness oozing through my body; a pleasant sensation. And life looked different now. I looked, no, I felt different. Enlightened. I would become a different person. Something was happening to me. Something special.

  “Is there anything else you want?”

  Her voice pulled me back. I must have been staring.

  “Yes there is,” I said firmly. “I need a place to stay. The empty flat will be fine.”

  She stroked the cat in a shy but quietly pleased way. She liked me. “The landlord comes to collect the rent about now. You could ask him about the flat.” She looked up with the tiniest of shy smiles. “If you want… if you’re not in a hurry… you could wait for him in my flat. I’ve got some tea.” She rubbed the cat’s head. The green stone in her ring caught the light with an emerald flash.

  As I followed her through the door she paused and looked back up at me. “What’s your name, mister?”

  I smiled, feeling a liquid heat run through my body. “My name?” I reached out and ran my fingers through the cat’s coal-black fur. “My name’s Joseph Lawton.”

  I followed her inside and shut the door.

  * * *

  Martin!

  Thanks for the letter. From what you say the songs sound fascinating. But check your stereo for gremlins. The tape you sent me was blank!

  Good luck, Bob Finch.

  Blood for Sex Bites

  Right. You listen to this:

  FUCK THEM SO THEY BLEED.

  This is what I do. Pick her off the street, pick her off the bus, pick her from any damn where. Then it’s back to her place. Her eyes grow big as she sees the tattooed snakes coiling across my body from my fingernails all the way down to the dog’s bollocks. She breathes in sharp as I rip her clothes. Then I fuck her, fuck-fuck-fuck her till she bleeds. BECAUSE MY HEART IS SET ON DOING THIS. I’m going to drive her into a Iip-biting-toe-clenching-blood-fizzing-back-arching-passion-ripping-ball-breaking-back-breaktng-butt-breaking-heartpounding- frenzy…

  I don’t want her to love me; I don’t want her to be afraid of me:

  NO, I WANT HER TO BE BLOODY TERRIFIED.

  I WANT HER TO BE SO TERRIFIED OF ME SHE SHITS HERSELF.

  Tonight was different though. Rain came down like angels pissed on me. A donner kebab boiled in my belly. Someone kicked the beggar dwarf down the street. I’d been to the off license, lost a quid on a scratch card. I needed money. There was a bloke in The Flash that night selling leather jackets cheap, and Christ, they were so good, the leather smell was so strong you could taste it. I wanted one of those jackets. They were fucking amm-mazing. But I needed the money. I needed the money tonight. Where could I get it?

  Oh, ff-fukkitt… before I hack on with this shit… yeah, yeah this poncey story you’ve settled down to read in your cumfybum armchair… before you read anymore, Sunshine, do you want to know some secrets?

  Yeah? Okay, stick around Sunshine, you might learn something.

  What like?

  Like do you know how to pick up a woman and nail her to the mattress in one hour flat? Got the guts to stay around and find out?

  If not, you might as well toss-off to fuck your hand right now.

  But you’re different aren’t you, Sunshine? Greedy little fucker, aren’t you?

  Want some tips right now? Okay, just a few crumbs for starters, the meat comes later—you know, the blood, the thing in the graveyard … yeah, yeah, the horror. Patience, Sunshine, patience.

  TRY THIS.

  Wear your finest thrash and fuck rags. Go to a high-class hotel bar. Buy one small beer. Don’t drink it. Sit alone. Be seen. Look bored.

  A woman will come. She will have looks, a career, cash. Now, Sunshine, don’t try too hard—in fact do sod-all.

  She’ll give you some old chat.

  Don’t listen; it’s not important.

  She’s interested in you and she’ll soon get frustrated because now she wants—WANTS—you to reply and show you’re interested in her.

  So give her a one second flash of your hey-you’re-not-bad smile.

  She’ll decide you’re skint; she’ll buy you a drink.

  PROBLEM:

  She’s with a straggle of nobodies who she’ll describe as “colleagues.”

  So: she can’t pitch in with you right now. Okay, play it cool, look as if you’re leaving but…

  But you’ve got her hooked now. “Look, I can’t join you for a drink at the moment.” she’ll say, but her eyes are saying a barrel load more than those rose red lips. “Stay and have a drink on me.” From her fat purse fucked full of money she’ll hand you a note. “Here, for a few drinks. I’ll come back in an hour.”

  LISTEN, SUNSHINE. ARE YOU GETTING THE PICTURE? YOU’VE HOOKED YOUR BUSINESS WOMAN. IN A COUPLE OF HOURS YOU CAN NAIL HER ARSE TO THE HOTEL SLUMBERLAND. BUT YOU’LL NOT BE THINKING ABOUT THAT WILL YOU, SUNSHINE? OH, NO, NO.

  THOUGH YOU’LL SCREW AND GRUNT AND SPIT LOVE WORDS INTO THIS WOMAN’S FACE (HER BHS BUSINESS SUIT, BARELY BLACK TIGHTS AND GO-FASTER UNDERWEAR CHUCKED ON THE CARPET) YOU, SUNSHINE, WILL BE THINKING OF SOMETHING ELSE. YOU’LL BE THINKING ABOUT THE CASH IN HER PURSE. IT’S ALL YOURS. MAYBE A PIECE OF PLASTIC AND PIN NUMBER, TOO. YOU’RE A LUCKY BOY, SUNSHINE, YOU’VE GOT ME AS TEACHER.

  NOW BACK TO TONIGHT::

  The bloke’s in The Flash, he’s selling these amazing Jackets that even Gawd-allmighty Jesus Christ would crucify for. You need that cash quick.

  So, this is how we get it, Sunshine: WATCH AND LEARN:

  Put this picture inside your skull: She’s sat alone in a wine bar on North Street. Poncey place with plants, dotty paintings of Suerat’s granny and puffs in long woolly coats.

  The time’s squeezing nine. So I’ve got to work fast. The bloke with the leather Jackets will leave The Flash at eleven.

  So: there she is. A business woman: Grey skirt and jacket, grey tights, short dark hair; on the skinny side with her skin stretched tight over high cheek bones. Her eyes look too big for her head and she stares at the wall opposite as if she can see through the brick into Bengal Bertie’s next door. My guess is, she’s some kind of rep, she’s in a strange town, she’s lonely as a, oh fukkitt…

  She is mine.

  With my last bit of snot (that’s small change, Sunshine) I buy a glass of water, sit near her, not looking at her; and even though she can see my purple cobra tattoos coiling wickedly across my biceps I act the part: I’m a lost boy without a hope in the world.

  After five minutes I hear her chair scrape across the floor; hear footsteps. They are determined; she’s made up her mind to ask me if I’d like a drink and maybe chat about the rain that’s dribbling white like Yahweh’s spunk down the window. So she sits down opposite me. I’m surprised how shy she seems, smiling, blushing; starting to talk then stopping and blushing again, and I’m thinking—

  OH SHIT, YOU DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHAT I’M THINKING, DO YOU SUNSHINE? You don’t want nice little descriptions of us leaving the wine bar, water cascading like the fountains of blah, blah paradise from kicked in fall pipes, the way a rainbow forms in the lights of Netto supermarket, blah, blah, the lost shoe floating like a little, little boat in the gutter, or the smell of korma floating all heavenly and warm from the doorway of Bengal Bertie’s blah, blah, fucking blah. I know you by now, Sunshine. You want to get to the bit where we walk into her motel room. Brace yourself for some rough stuff. Here it comes:

  So, we’re at the motel. She sticks her umbrella in the bath; I rub my head with a towel. It’s still pissing out there. In here it’s all warm and bright and expensive, and she’s talking in that shy hesitant way. Her big brown eyes don’t meet mine, like she’s so fucking scared by all this.r />
  Why, by my Aunt Jillikers, Sunshine, I do believe she’s not done this before. Not picked up a lost boy, all tattoos and denim and a gob full of spit that tastes of tabasco and cigarettes.

  “You must wear a condom,” she tells me.

  “Course I will,” I lie.

  “And please don’t rush to… you know… if I’m not ready.”

  “Trust me. I’ll be gentle.” HA, HA. SPOT THE LIE, SUNSHINE? GOOD YOU’RE LEARNING FAST. I tell her, “You’ve got lovely wrists. Really slender. This gold chain suits you. Thick bracelets would make you look like a slag.”

  She smiles, flattered. “Thank you. I’ll just have a bath before-”

  “No, need …”

  “Rebecca.”

  “No need, Rebecca. You’re great the way you are.”

  “Thank you. My hair needs brushing. I look—”

  “Rebecca. Nice name, but I’ll get carpet burn on my tongue saying that all night. I’ll call you Bex.”

  “Bex?” She smiles nervously. “If you like… Bex.” She repeats the nick-name pleased that someone’s gone to the trouble to invent something like that just for little old her (NICE TRICK, SUNSHINE, USE IT YOURSELF).

  “Now, Bex,” I say unlacing my shitfriendly boots. “We’re going to play a game.”

  Big brown eyes shoot full of worry. “What kind of game?”

  “Nothing too racy, Bex. Just a question and answer game. Look, I like you, Bex. I want this to be more than just wham-bam. You know what I’m driving at.” (You TAKING NOTES, SUNSHINE? YOU’VE GOT TO SOFTEN THEM UP BEFORE YOU CAN TRY AND TAKE CONTROL).

  I fire questions at her as I go for a piss in the bathroom. Most hits the floor, but what the hell, Sunshine, will you or me be mopping the lino in the morning?

  “Favorite food?” I ask.

  “Red mullet.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a kind of fish.”

  “Bet it’s not battered,” I say walking out of the bathroom.

  “No, it’s not battered.”

  No, but you soon will be, I think as I look at her smiling face.