Salt Snake and Other Bloody Cuts Page 5

  Howls from a Blinding Curve

  HENDRIX IS GOD stated the sticker on the basement wall. It looked as if it had been stuck there when Jimi Hendrix still had air in his lungs, not vomit.

  “Shit,” said Vic Curtis softly and covered the ancient sticker with one of their own. Black letters on a fluorescent orange background. HOWLS FROM A BLINDING CURVE—SINGLE OUT NOW He rubbed it down hard with his thumb to stop it curling away from the wall. Underneath that he pressed another. NIGHTHOUSE, the name of their band.

  Disgusted, he looked round the damp basement. Salt forced through the pores in the brickwork, thickly crusting the walls like sugar crystals and it hung in white feathers from the arched ceiling. In the driest part they’d stacked the band’s equipment; next to that, a solitary box contained Vic Curtis’s child—still born.

  “Shit,” he said, louder. Howls From A Blinding Curve took five weeks to write; he’d personally financed pressing a thousand copies of the single. And after a four month tour the box contained the remainder. Seven hundred copies. He took his guitar from its case and glared at it as if it was personally responsible for their failure.

  There had been a time when he’d been like a teenager in love, he couldn’t bear to be parted from it. Night after night he’d cradled it in his arms, lavished the best part of himself on it, trying to coax out the sounds he wanted and write those half-conceived songs that haunted him like ghosts. As the chrome pick ups, steel strings and cherry red body gleamed under the naked bulb, he saw it as a monster which was devouring his money, time, energy… his life. Suddenly, he hated it with such a raw intensity he wanted to smash the damn thing against the wall… then do the same to himself.

  Vic “sore-thumb” Curtis, black, playing white music in a white band, loathed everything and everyone; the rest of the group for skiving off, leaving him to shift the band’s gear to this hell-hole (a waste of time, money and effort, he’d told them). He hated the rain which streamed like God’s piss from the sky, he hated Scotland, he hated Tufty, their drummer, who’d drawn the short straw to go with him… he hated himself. He hated failure. Everything that could go wrong; went wrong, the van had broken down and they’d reached Kissbryde Hall ten hours late. Arrived at by twisting country lanes, the big house was miles from anywhere, lost among the steep-sided hills and the forests of Scotland.

  Vic’s sense of foreboding had deepened as the van scraped under the low branches overgrowing the driveway. The house itself was covered with ivy, giving the impression of a huge green box. Ivy should have made the house picturesque; this made it look sick. The ivy’s growth spread uncontrolled up walls, chimneys, even covering windows.

  It got worse. The house was locked and looked deserted. Round the back, they found a stinking pool full of green slime which must have been the swimming pool ten years before.

  Vic hadn’t trusted the fibre-glass patched roof on the van and the rain poured continuously, so when Tufty found an open trapdoor leading directly into the basement they took what cover they could.

  Frustration, gloom, despair. Vic’s rage came up like milk to the boil. “Tufty! Where the hell are you?” His voice echoed on the basement wall and died. Silence. He replaced the guitar knowing that if Tufty had found a way upstairs he’d probably be ransacking the house. “Hey, Tufty!”

  “Vic…” The voice was distant. “Vic, get yourself up here… in the kitchen.”

  The stink of neglect thickened in the air as Vic ran up a flight of stone steps and into the kitchen.

  The first thing he saw was the back of Tufty’s head. At twenty-five, Tufty’s hair had already begun to thin so he’d razored it down to the scalp, giving him the brutish looks of a stormtrooper, and lately, he’d begun to act the part. The ugly head bobbed as Tufty examined a wall full of photographs. Some colour, some black and white, but Vic recognised the subject of them all: Jimi Hendrix. Vic crossed the kitchen to where there were more on the wall above a pine table.

  “Guess who’s the flavour of the month?” said Tufty, casually flicking over photographs as if expecting to find something on the reverse.

  Then the door opened as if it had been kicked from the other side, and the owner of the house entered.

  Vic had the impression of a creature that had been dead ten years only to be brought back to life by a lightning bolt. Eyes flashed, teeth flashed, hair stuck out in a white mane. It took him a moment to identify her as a white woman, aged about forty, long brown hair streaked finely with silver, and she wore a hippy-style dress.

  First, she saw Tufty. Vic instantly read the expression of sheer horror that distorted her face. Obviously, she hadn’t expected to find anyone there in the kitchen. She blinked, then mumbled something like, “Whistle, whistle… no. No, you’re not it.” She shut her eyes and rocked back. “You’re of it, you’re from it.” She muttered incoherently for a moment then opened her eyes. When she saw Vic the change in her expression was almost shocking. Only lasting a second, the transformation showed joy, rapture, like finding a lost love—it made her almost beautiful. Then as quickly, it turned to disappointment. She’d mistaken him for someone else.

  Her eyes cleared. “Who are you?”

  Vic decided it best to carry on as if nothing strange had happened. “I’m Vic Curtis. This is Tufty Reardon. We’re half of Nighthouse.”

  She looked at them in disbelief. “You’re real.”

  Tufty sniffed. “That’s a matter of opinion, missis.”

  “You!” she snapped at Tufty, her eyes flashing oddly. “Spit… go on. Spit!”

  Tufty shrugged then spat onto the table. Without hesitating, she put her finger into the blob of creamy white spittle, rubbing it between her finger and thumb. “Now you.”

  Vic, wondering what the hell was going on, walked round the table to spit into the sink.

  “Now… what do you two want?”

  “We’ve been eh, invited to the TPK recording studio,” began Vic cautiously, wondering if she’d recovered from her fit. Her eyes were clear and she scrutinized Vic and Tufty closely — particularly Vic.

  “There’s no studio here. TPK’s five miles away.”

  “Look, Mrs. whoever-you-are,” grunted Tuffy, “we’ve been given this address, Kissbryde Hall. We’re expected.”

  “Not here you’re not. Get out. You’re trespassing.” Quickly, Vic explained who they were (surprisingly she listened patiently, never taking her eyes from him), how they’d paid a small fortune for two day’s studio time at TPK, how they’d been slotted in between two house bands because one had finished an album ahead of schedule.

  She pushed back her hair with trembling fingers. “You’ve been ripped off. It doesn’t work like that.”

  Tufty sneered. “How the hell do you know?”

  Vic glared at him signalling, for Christsake, shut it.

  “I’m Sandy Kitson—one third of TPK. I have nothing to do with its running nowadays but I do know studios don’t run to such lax schedules.”

  Vic punched the table top. “Shit! I knew it. We’ve been had. That bloke robbed us.”

  Sandy Kitson looked at him with that intense expression again. With his dark skin she wouldn’t see him blush, but all the same, his face burnt hotly.

  “What are you going to do now Mr. Curtis, Mr. Reardon?”

  Vic rubbed his forehead. “You’ve got a phone?” She shook her head and Tufty made she’s-a-loony signs behind her back.

  Vic was too pissed off to bother about Tufty’s stupid antics. “As soon as we load the van we’ll head back from where we came from. Shit… I knew this guy was bent… And how the hell do we reach Geoff and Ian? They’re meeting this bastard somewhere in Liverpool to get the… well… get the dates when we’re supposed to get the studio.”

  Sandy Kitson inclined her head to one side, inviting him to say more.

  “We were going to re-record our single; maybe try and make it sound at least half good.”

  “All right,” she said suddenly, “you can stay.”


  Astonished by this abrupt turnaround Vic managed to say, “Thanks, that’s great, but—”

  “Okay, okay.” She held up her hand. “I’m promising nothing. But it’ll give you the chance to sort out the mess you’ve got yourselves into. There’s a flat over the garage, use that. I’ll sell you some food. But…” She looked at them both in turn. “You promise me this—don’t question it—just think of me like Mr. Reardon does, here. Crazy. But promise… promise you’ll not come into the house. If you want anything just knock at the back door… and wait. Don’t go to the front door; it’s locked anyway. Plus, never walk in that avenue of trees that runs up to the quarry on the mountain. And never ever whistle. Never! All right?”

  Tufty grinned. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  * * *

  By mid-morning they’d sorted out their accommodation in the flat. The rain had stopped, but the sky, resembling a heavy grey slab, suggested the break to be temporary.

  They began work on the van. Spit and string held the knackered old Ford together so when they got a chance they applied more spit, more string, to keep the thing running just a few hundred more miles. Tufty’s shaven head disappeared into the engine while Vic began to wire the rusted exhaust to the chassis to stop the damn thing wagging like a pup’s tail. He couldn’t get the Kitson woman out of his head, that nervous hunted expression, and God knows why she chose to live alone in the middle of nowhere.

  Five minutes later Vic heard the whistling. He knew Tufty was trying to provoke him. Low, flat, tuneless, the whistling droned on and on. At last Vic snapped, “Stop that flaming whistling.”

  Tufty jerked his head out. “What are you on about, man? It’s not me!”

  “Who is it then? The ghost of Christmas bloody past?”

  “Vic… I swear; it’s not me whistling.”

  Vic stood up, brushing the red flakes of shale from his knees. “Who the hell is it then?”

  Tufty scanned the house and encircling wood. Cocking his head to one side, he squinted into the avenue of trees which ran uphill to the quarry scooped out of the mountainside. “There,” he pointed. “There’s your whistler.”

  * * *

  Vic slopped chicken soup into a pan, stuck it on the flaring gas ring, then he stared out of the window, waiting for the soup to heat. Dusk merged hills, trees and mountain into one. Nothing moved.

  They’d heard the whistling again. It had been a poacher or some vagrant—they’d agreed on that. But Vic sensed trouble. He stirred the soup. Why had Sandy Kitson made them promise not to whistle? Then they’d seen the man in the forbidden avenue of trees, whistling. Coincidence? He’d been whistling a monotonous dirge, never varying; absent in melody, a random series of notes which Vic could only describe as… unnatural. He shivered.

  It was a poacher, he told himself. Some local out to snare a couple of rabbits for his supper. Obviously a trick of perspective, but Vic had formed the impression of a big man, almost a giant, unnaturally pale. He’d watched Vic and Tufty before casually strolling away. A trick of the light, thought Vic; yes, like just now as he looked out the window to see a tall figure on the lawn—approaching.

  He looked again. There was no one there.

  * * *

  Just after midnight, the sound of music coming from the house woke Vic. God knows what it was, but it sounded like thunder. He pulled back the curtains expecting to see a wild party. No party; nothing.

  Abruptly, the music stopped and Vic eventually returned to bed to dream. Scared Sandy Kitson, wealthy, reclusive; Kissbryde Hall, its ivy-blinded face turned like a raw wound. Stirred into this cocktail was a blend of his own ever-present feelings of hopelessness, frustration, gloom; and in the distance, a gigantic white figure—whistling. Slowly—ever so slowly—Vic watched with mounting horror as the figure approached. He turned to run but a swimming pool of bubbling green slime blocked his path. Then the huge white hand was on his shoulder, spinning him round; it wasn’t the poacher, it was—

  Vic awoke, hair wet and matted. The whistling continued somewhere far away. Then equally distant, a voice shouting hysterically, “Get out, get out… out, out, out!”

  The following morning Vic walked into the kitchen feeling as if he’d had two hours sleep. Tufty was on his way out.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m checking on that dotty bird. She was yelling and screaming at someone last night. God knows who, unless she’s got an equally dotty brother locked away in the attic.”

  Vic wondered if Tufty’s motive was genuine. “I’ll come with you,” said Vic, keeping suspicion from his voice; “nothing else to do.”

  The back door of the house was open, the kitchen deserted. “Best check the rest of the house,” Tufty said eagerly.

  Silently, Vic followed into a large hallway where a wide carpeted stairway curved gracefully to the upper storey. All the curtains were drawn, making the house gloomy. Vic could even taste the dust hanging on the sluggish air. The place hadn’t been cleaned in years.

  A vague impulse guided them upstairs to a pair of large, varnished doors; these Tufty pushed. Smoothly, they swung open on oiled hinges.

  “Jesus,” whispered Tufty as they entered, “will you look at that?”

  Vic was conscious of the absurd way his mouth hung open, but all he could do was stand and stare.

  It wasn’t the size of the room, illuminated by wavering green lights, or how scrupulously clean it was, or the psychedelic sixties’ furniture, or the dozen polished guitars standing against one wall (Vic recognised Gibsons, flying V’s, and there was a beautiful ivory-white Fender Stratocaster which he would have killed for); it wasn’t the stack of immaculate Marshall amps which at full belt would have blown the side of the house out. No, it was the ceiling.

  Vic, his face turned incredulously upward, said in a low, awed voice, “Jesus Christ.”

  A huge face, painted there on the full length of the ceiling, gazed down with deep brown eyes like some Buddhist deity.

  “It… it’s Hendrix.” Vic hated his voice; small—respectful.

  “Wow, that Kitson bird must be right out of her tree. Fancy painting that on your ceiling.”

  Vic glanced around the room. Glass from ceiling to floor ran the length of one wall. He realised that the green light which illuminated the place with an undulating dappled effect was caused by daylight filtering through the ivy covering the window. Nodding, Vic said, “You know what this is… it’s a shrine. To Hendrix.”

  “Absolutely crazy,” murmured Tufty, almost hypnotized by the green light rippling across the huge face above him, “but now we know why she let us stay.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you, Vic old son, remind Sandy Kitson of him.”

  Before Vic could reply a voice snapped the calm.

  “You! What the hell are you doing? You promised! Out!”

  Vic didn’t get a chance to explain before she dragged them bodily from the room, her holy of holy’s.

  An hour later Vic still felt ashamed enough to return to the house to apologise. He found her outside the doors of the… shrine, trying to fit a padlock, but her hands shook so much she kept dropping the screws.

  Vic knew they had abused her, dirtied her. Without a word he took the screwdriver from her thin, pale hands and fitted the lock himself, snapped it shut, then handed her the key.

  He’d reached the kitchen before she caught him up. “Wait …. please. Have some coffee.”

  He turned and studied her anxious face. Now’s the time, thought Vic. “All right,” he said, sitting down at the table, “I will—if you’ll tell me what the hell’s happening in this place.”

  She looked at him as if expecting he would say more, he didn’t know what; some great secret? To reveal his true identity?

  Then, relaxing, she nodded. “If you really want to know… all right.”

  * * *

  Vic almost ran into the flat, bursting to tell Tufty what he’d heard. Tufty leant agai
nst the fridge casually forking mackerel chunks straight from the can into his mouth.

  “Guess what?”

  Tufty grinned. “You’ve done the business with her.” And he pumped his hips suggestively.

  “No, listen. That woman knew Hendrix, she’s obsessed with him. He was going to rest here, take a break from touring during the winter of 1970.”

  “So?”

  “So, on the 18th of September 1970, Hendrix died. Barbiturate intoxication, inhalation of vomit.”

  “Ah… so she turned the place into the first temple of Jimi Hendrix. Weird, but it adds up. Now what? She wants us to be altar boys?”

  “Be serious, Tufty. She needs help. Look… she decided to keep this place as if Hendrix was due any moment, as if he’d never died, and was still coming here to, well, recuperate. She filled the place with his pictures, played his music; she actually believed he would return.”

  “Craa-zee!”

  “But something changed her mind.” Vic ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s stupid, but she tried to bring him back… but something went wrong… I couldn’t follow half of what she said about spirits, avatars, reconstitution but instead of getting an incarnation of Hendrix, she brought down the flip-side.”

  Tufty looked puzzled.

  “You know, like hot is opposite to cold; night, day; light and dark. In her mind she’s summoned the antithesis, like Christians believe opposite but equal to Christ is the anti-Christ.”

  “So…” Tufty rubbed his stubbled head thoughtfully. “Instead of getting Hendrix, she’s getting the opposite. But what the hell is the opposite to Hendrix? The anti-Hendrix?” he laughed and forked more fish into his mouth. “Weird. Well, what will the anti-Hendrix do? Not play the guitar, not sing?”

  “Look, Tufty, it’s real to her. She says she sees it each day in that avenue of trees near the quarry – whistling. And every day it gets worse. She’s terrified it will reach the house.”

  “What if it does?”

  Vic shrugged. “All hell breaks loose… literally.”