It drifted up to me where I lay on my back, in the frozen black onyx of nowhere.
And I knew.
‘Pan,’ I whispered.
Surely there is no more inevitable perversion;
Than that of youth to cynical aged conversion.
The Bard of Barrellgloom
C.Thackeray
CHAPTER 7
Nathaniel was strong, quiet, compliant and used to male attention; Vedett was enjoying his company.
‘It’s important to capture the inner you,’ Vedett said. ‘A portrait can be so,’ he bent down to slide open a mirrored cabinet, ‘you know, personal.’ He took out a plastic toolbox containing paints, brushes and a small variety of artist’s equipment. Some of the paint tubes were already squeezed, rolled up at their crimped edges, every last drop of pigment wrung from within, some were new. There were two small opaque bottles of distilled water and brushes of varying sizes and breadths, small jars rattled for equilibrium as he brushed them aside looking for a particularly thin piece of charcoal. ‘And I know what you are thinking, but this will not culminate in a homosexual act, despite your profession. Just think of it as a kind of an educational activity, from someone who knows. You’ll see.’
Vedett lived in an expansive loft that occupied the top two floors of a broad, sprawling warehouse. The main floors below had once been used for the assembly of orthotic equipment. Wooden artificial limbs, braces, joints and body part substitutes littered the stores downstairs. The loading bays and staff rooms now stood empty, dusty conveyor belts and discarded machinery had long stopped turning over and even when the economy had started its slow, inevitable recovery, the Lowlands recession had crippled the small business fatally. Ironically, it would never walk again.
It was no struggle to acquire the whole unit, purchased as seen, from a Lowlands broker who was more interested in his own commission and appeasing the liquidators than any dubious tenant or potential misuse. The agent, a slimy man in both manner and appearance, had said most people had been put off by the eerie scattering of fake limbs and hinges and that it was refreshing to sell to someone who had vision, someone who could see the opportunity it represented, someone with credits.
He was full of shit.
Vedett already knew he possessed a talent for detecting opportunity and that his vision was impeccable.
And more importantly, that he was not most people.
Discretion and privacy were of primary importance to him, especially when he had male guests, like Nathaniel. They had met at one of Lowland’s ubiquitous brothels and though he felt that Nathaniel had at first only tolerated him, as the night had progressed they had got closer, the barriers dissolved, the troubles and frustrations had been worked out. Vedett had told him it wasn’t about sex and Nathaniel had believed him, eventually, and though Nathaniel was the strong silent type who would never be effusive about anything, he was on the sofa and smiling.
Vedett knew his request was bizarre, for a man to paint another man, a stranger, was not a usual occurrence, but he had used his considerable persuasion and power to get Nathaniel to agree, just like the others. He had listened to Nathaniel’s doubts, amused with his sincerity and concern that the image would be inappropriate, despite having been willing to engage in an act of sodomy, with much less of a fuss and dither.
‘It’s more personal.’ Nathaniel had said.
And he was right.
Vedett knew he had found the right subject.
First he had asked Nathaniel if he could gently bathe his face. Clutching a warm flannel he had moved it gently over Nathaniel’s skin, taking care around the eyes and soft underside of his jaw. Most men did not know how to take care of their skin adequately, and Nathaniel was no exception. His countenance was young though not without flaws. There was still enough youth in Nathaniel’s looks to intrinsically contain beauty and yet enough experience and hard knocks to render personality and character. It was why Vedett had picked him as a subject.
He had lived.
Like all the others.
Letting a man touch another man’s face is an alien sensation most men do not warm to, despite their sexual proclivity and whatever the reason or pay, so Vedett recited a roll of amusing anecdotes to alleviate any potential embarrassment his tactility may have created. He touched Nathaniel’s face with his fingers and thumbs to determine shapes and angles for his portrait. Throughout, Nathaniel was a professional, he did not flinch. He remained still, silent and smiling.
He had a wonderful smile.
Vedett wanted to represent that smile perfectly; the slight upturn, the deep runnel of his cupid’s bow, juxtaposed by his stubborn jaw, the perpetual contradictory frown on his brow and the self-deprecating downturn of his eyes. These were all naturally beatific things, things of the soul that belonged to the world. Things he wanted to capture in both dimension and essence on his canvas.
He selected a fine stick of Lowlands Mangrove charcoal and held it horizontally, closing one eye so his depth of field did not interfere with his perspective of ratio, shape and orientation.
This was his favourite time.
The blank page promised everything, unblemished and full of potential.
Like a child waiting for life to happen, or the perfect rapturous white oblivion of death.
Vedett applied two broad strokes of charcoal and then smudged them with a small round cotton pad. He disliked using his fingers, he found it could result in accidental smudges and blemishes, and neither would do. He covered every inch of the canvas in this way, moving the pad in small, efficient circles and working outwards to the canvas’ stapled edge where the hairline and the jaw would end. Mottled greys of varying degrees and intensity dominated the image and would be the foundation for the tones and textures of the flesh.
‘It’s important that every last microbe of dirt has been removed from your skin.’ Vedett did not look up as he spoke. ‘One tiny speck of erroneous grit can seem like the artist has erred on the portrait, like he may have slipped with the brush or the oil, and there will be no accidents here. I need to see perfection to paint perfection.’
Nathaniel did not move and Vedett concerned himself only with matters of form and shade. They worked in perfect silence.
The sound of Vedett’s telephone pierced the quiet loft space. It was shrill but neither of them had jumped.
‘I apologise Nathaniel, one of the hazards of my work I’m afraid. Please excuse me.’
He left Nathaniel on his sofa and walked into the hall where he snatched the telephone from its cradle, like the object itself was responsible for the interruption and he could take out his frustration at being disturbed on the curved plastic mouth and earpiece.
‘It’s us.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s done.’
‘Good.’
‘We’re on our way.’
‘With the cargo?’
‘Yes.’
‘As discussed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, but not here.’
‘But we agreed…’
‘Fuck what we agreed, now listen.’
Silence.
Vedett continued, ‘Primary House.’
‘Primary House?’
‘Primary House. Back stores.’
Silence.
‘Two hours.’
Silence.
‘And don’t be late.’ He placed the telephone back onto its cradle gently.
Smiling he went through to his lounge and lit two candles.
It had been a good evening and promised even greater things to come.
He checked himself in the mirror, flattened a stubborn spike of his hair with his palms and ran his tongue across his teeth.
‘Perfect,’ he said.
His apartment was austere to the extreme. Only functional items designed for comfort or necessity could be found there. No pictures hung on the wall, only mirrors, nearly fifty of them. Gilded and varnished frames, flat and bevelled edges, oval an
d rectangular and square, huge and obscurely tiny, coloured and crystal clear; they covered nearly every available space with frame or reflection. Light flickered and bounced shadows around the room, illuminating and shading opposite images of everything that swam along with Vedett as he walked back into the bedroom.
‘Sorry to have kept you,’ he said, ‘but business, you know how things are. Thank you for your patience.’
When the last dabs of paint had been softly applied over the charcoal underlay, and the portrait was complete, he pushed his fingers into the palette and brought them up covered in paint of the various hues, colours and tones of Nathaniel’s picture. He rubbed them together to mix the colours, stood, walked over to the sofa and then began to spread them lightly onto Nathaniel’s skin.
‘You feel cold,’ he said.
He stood back to admire his work.
‘Perfect.’
He smiled, took Nathaniel by one of his earlobes and dropped his head carefully into a clear, ziplock bag.
Nathaniel’s smile was narrowed, pressed flat against the plastic.
Vedett held the bag up like it was a lantern, angled his head in a similar way and tried to replicate Nathaniel’s smile, like he was looking into a mirror.
His first attempt was little more than a grimace, but after twenty, thirty tries, the mimicry started to look accurate.
Vedett’s arms grew tired before his face did.
Fluid was coagulating in one of the corners at the bottom of the bag, lividity starting to spread, blossoming purple tendrils of darkness along the edges of Nathaniel’s detached and tattered neck.
‘It always surprises me how much the head weighs even when it is devoid of thoughts or woes,’ he said.
He dropped the bag containing Nathaniel’s paint spattered head into a waste paper basket and went back through to blow out the candles in his lounge.
He would need to be at Primary House soon.
He went to clean up.
Trust, but in whom take care.
Inscription on statue of Nimbus' first Governor.
(Assassinated)
CHAPTER 8
‘Ignorant, plan-changing homo freak.’ Spat Croel as it took him great effort to place and not smash the handset back onto its cradle.
Mckeever ignored him and zipped up the plastic hang bag, taking care that no more damage was done to Newton inside; that no other organs, skin or limbs were at risk from the reinforced double zip’s teeth.
‘We’re off to Primary House instead,’ said Croel
Mckeever looked up from the bag, shrugged and then continued checking the fastenings. ‘Fine. It’s nearer.’
‘Is that all that concerns you, in spite of knowing we are going there? Distance and deference?’
‘A drop’s a drop, and worrying about it is not going to get us our credits or me some rest.’
Croel wanted to argue but decided instead to kick at Newton’s bulk, trussed up in Mckeever’s carrybag, ‘You sure you can manage him by yourself?’
‘Yeah. I lost an eye, not my backbone,’ said Mckeever.
‘Good. I’ll bring the harpoon gun along, should save us some time returning it to the Zeppelin boys after we have collected our pay and finished with Vedett. That’s if he pays us at all after your creativity with a blade.’
‘Yeah, well, he knows shit happens. It’s the way of the world.’
‘No, it’s the way of your world. Not mine. Yours. And let’s hope that the people at Primary House know that too.’
Mckeever hung his head as Croel continued, his sharp tongue darted over his jagged, crooked teeth as he spoke; ‘You really think we are working for that weirdo directly? That sick fuck is just the go between, the mouthpiece for the Governor or some megalomaniac Government aide who wanted Newton and his three friends gone. For whatever reason. Now we have got to deliver him this incomplete pile of nubbed shit, and, as we both know, shit has a way of rolling downhill.’
Mckeever slung the bag around his middle, nestling it in the small of his back and watched as Croel secured the clunky weaponry in much the same way.
‘Do you think he’ll tell us what he wants doing with the wings tonight?’ He nodded his head towards the bag that contained them behind the reception desk.
‘If he knows, probably, yes, though I am not prepared to go on any more errands this side of morning, Primary House or not. I am tired, my shot arm is seizing up and the cover of night is fast slipping away. That can wait for another day.’
‘It already is another day.’
They both checked each other’s gear was slung tightly and secured around their midriffs.
‘Let’s get a move on then.’
Croel was the first to unfold his black wings at his back. He immediately stretched them, splaying the secondary feathers out to check they had not been damaged and to warm the muscles and tendons running along them. He locked his hands behind his neck and shrugged his wings up and down, moving the powerful shoulder muscles together and apart, like a weightlifter hefting heavy weights, wincing at his injury, he hissed disapproval. He fanned his wings wide and flapped down quickly causing dust to stir across the library floor and the ‘Quiet Please’ sign to swing noisily on its rusting chains.
‘That’s better, I hate them being bound for so long, feels like they’re turning to paper sometimes,’ said Croel.
‘Well, less of your flapping, my other eye’s streaming at the moment and it wasn’t helped by the wave of dust and tumbleweeds you just wafted in there,’ said Mckeever.
Croel rested his arms by his side, ran out of the library and jumped from the access ramp into the night sky, beating his wings as he left the floor. The downdraft caused the dense, unkempt grass to stir either side of the walkway as he became airborne, the wood of the harpoon gun clacked inside its case and Croel adjusted his angle of ascent to take him onto the rotting library roof to watch his partner’s exit.
Mckeever exited the building in much the same way but took more wing-beats than usual to leave the floor behind. He looked clumsy and stuttered into the air like a fledgling adolescent, not used to the sensation or change in perception flying evoked. Croel saw this and knew that Mckeever’s disabled vision would make a huge difference to how he flew, as much, he supposed, from a lack of confidence as any real physical handicapping or disadvantage. He left the roof, flew around the Four Point church to swoop alongside Mckeever and said ‘Follow me, if you can?’
Their black wings beat in unison as he encouraged Mckeever into a flying rhythm then turned to talk to him, as they flew side by side. They had to shout to be heard above the onrushing wind.
‘Has your other eye narrowed to filter out the wind and dust, as usual?’
‘Yeah, that’s fine. It’s just my peripheral lines have all moved. I couldn’t see you coming until you were nearly by my side.’
They both felt a change in the air current and instinctively rocked into it, lifting their heads and necks, the subtle movement adding a hundred feet to their altitude in seconds of synchronicity. The land below sped by in sweeping black blurs as Nimbus City’s low rise buildings and affluent districts blended into smudged blacks and greys of speed and distortion.
‘It’s still beautiful though, flying I mean. I hate ground work, always have. It’s so…’
‘Beneath us,’ said Croel, smiling. He watched as Mckeever’s confidence and agility seemed to return with every hefty wing-beat. Humour had its uses.
They continued to climb and the Edgelands of Nimbus fell further away, into the black indiscernible mass of everything else below. The breeze was helping their journey and the moon, now sinking to hide from the approaching day, lit their way like a dipped headlight, illuminated solely for their guidance. Since Earth’s great war of the skies there had been a decree stating houses on the Edgelands could be no higher than two storeys. This had been a Foundation Law of settlement in the aftermath and helped shape what was left of this part of the Earth into Nimbus. Mckeever and Croel
did not have to worry about the invisible glass walls of skyscrapers or as many dangerously high peaked rooftops as they did when flying the Lowlands. The chance of them bumping into any other flyers at this time of the day was also negligible, but nevertheless, they scrutinised the skies ahead with purpose and professionalism. Croel shouted “Mckeever! This way.” Flinching from the injured arm movement as he gestured off to the right.
As people claimed their last hours of sleep from the dwindling night, they subtly changed their direction and headed into the breeze, away from the distant lights of Nimbus City.
Towards the illuminated Edgelands and whoever waited for them at Primary House.
Corps and corpse: if you aint in one, you’ll be the other.
Vanguard Training: We Were There
Hargreaves and Hargreaves
CHAPTER 9
‘Drake?’ said Pan.
Her voice was thick and full of the world of sleep, it echoed off the stone walls and sounded loud coming as it had from the perfect stillness and hours of silent incarceration.
‘You okay?’ I said.
‘I…I don’t know.’
I could hear the rustle of her clothes as she shifted position.
‘Where…?’
‘I don’t know. In a cell. Be careful what you say.’
‘Who did this? Last thing I remember we were at the fight.’
‘I don’t know. Probably the same guys who attempted the smash and grab. They could be watching and listening right now.’
‘Thirsty.’
‘That will be the drugs, probably stuck you with the same thing they did me.’
Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller Page 4