by Dan Carver
The buildings themselves have been pretty choice, too, with lead pipes and exposed asbestos. If it couldn’t be removed, he plastered over it – wearing an old scarf for a particle mask. Gas fires belched fumes, light switch plates were wired up live. I recall tales of a bathroom floor rotted to nothing more than a thin skin. No defecatory act could be undertaken without fear of crashing, still seated, through the kitchen ceiling and landing on the cooker with a broken neck.
He spent a desperate year in a YMCA hostel, surrounded by schizos, alcoholics and speed freaks. The alcoholic schizophrenics were his favourite; especially when they banged on his door and threatened to stab him for breaking the toilet. He hadn’t broken the toilet. That had been the speed freak alcoholic with the mind-rotting syphilis.
When his plans to move into a house with an ex-squaddy fraudster and a wiry attempted murderer fall through, he leaps at the chance to move into a place that smells like a garbage dump, but whose residents hold no prior convictions. The house is robbed the day he moves in. He now shares with his sister.
To all intents and purposes, he appears normal. He doesn’t twitch; he’s never decorated his bedroom walls with pornographic collages; his relationship with his parents is healthy and he’s never shown even the slightest interest in his sister’s underwear.
You could cite his moustache as evidence of abnormality but, the truth is, it hides a scar. And not an attractive or mysterious scar, like my sabre wound or Calamine’s ferocious cheek-stripe, just a plain-ugly piece of wartime damage. His top lip was torn open by a shard of his best friend’s shoulder blade. Something to do with anti-personnel mines, I think. I stitched his face back together.
I restored enough of an appearance to make his life worth living again and he rewarded me with his eternal and deeply weird friendship.
We made a pretty good team, too. My regime was always pretty hot on recycling. Lucas’s Health Ministry widened the policy to include human organs. And the United Nations were wrong to call him a compulsive liar. I prefer to think of him as ‘pathologically unspecific’. People who deal in arms or, more accurately, arms, legs, lungs, kidneys and corneas often are. It goes with the trade, as they say.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Lucas’s execution is some thirty years in the future – and, at this point in the chronology, well, we’ve not even skinned the Prime Minister yet.
So we’re hidden in Lucas’s yard. It feels safe. We’re surrounded by high, red-bricked walls, topped with vicious spiked plant life. Horticulture’s his other hobby and there’s a green wooden glasshouse to my right. Laura’s inside. I don’t know what she’s doing but it seems to involve a lot of bending down and shaking her rump in an exaggerated manner. I like Laura. She’s got long black hair and pretends to find me attractive. At some point in the future, I figure I’ll… Hah! No! You don’t need to know that!
Anyway, I open the back of my new government-issue van and a stinking soup drains out. Bactrian lies wrapped in a black tarpaulin and the bouquet isn’t much better.
“Well, I mean, thanks and all that,” says Lucas embarrassed, “but he’s a bit... a bit, er, ripe for my purposes.”
“I wasn’t going to give him to you,” I say. And then I realise how odd that sounds.
Lucas seems hurt. He takes a deep breath.
“I see. [Sigh] I see. Some relative drops off the twig and you instantly think of old Lucas and his incinerator. Figure you can save the price of a coffin, eh? Because you don’t come round any other time, do you?”
But the discomfiture’s false. Lucas doesn’t get upset. Even after the landmine, with his face flapping open like a circus tent doorway, he was still jocularity itself.
“You’re welcome here any time you want,” he laughs. “But what do you want?” And he prods the tarpaulin distractedly. “He sure is leaky, isn’t he?”
“I burst him,” I say.
“Is that jive talk?”
“Popped him,” I clarify. “He was full of gas.”
“Uh huh,” says Laura, coming to join us. “That’s jive talk alright.” And I’m damned if they don’t talk rubbish my way for another five minutes. It’s the ADHD – Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, or whatever they call it nowadays. They both have it. So I grab them by the shoulders and...
“I love it when he puts his arm around me,” says Laura.
“I’m not sure I care for it, myself,” remarks Lucas. “Darned impudence in my book! But what do you think, darling?” And he’s in the back of the van, soliciting opinions from Bactrian’s body.
“Look!” says I. “Now we can plough deeper into the realms of nonsense or…”
Laura’s got her hand inside my shirt.
“Tell me, Hugo, did you see me in the greenhouse? Were you entranced by my womanly charms?”
“Always am,” says I, sweeping her up and sitting her down. “But, ample as they are, it’s your professional talent I’m after today.”
“Do tell,” she says.
“I’m all ears,” he says. “Look! My pockets are full of them!”
I have no intention of looking at what Lucas may or may not have in his pocket – I’ve made that mistake before – and so I continue:
“As you’ll have no doubt noticed, I have a corpse in my car.”
“It’s a van,” says Lucas, “but I like the alliteration. Please proceed.”
“Thank you, I intend to.” And I pause because I know they enjoy the anticipation.
“This corpse,” Laura coaxes. “Come on!”
“Oh yes. I need it skinned.”
“And then what are you going to do with it?”
“Well, nothing really. You see, it’s only the leather I’m after. Preferably in one piece.”
“Why? Are you making a coat?” This is Laura’s lateral remark. Lucas, who’s read a great deal of pointless literature, has other ideas.
“He’s making a girdle. A girdle fashioned from dead man’s skin allows the wearer to transform into a wolf.”
“How likely’s that? Look, if we can concentrate on the matter in hand.”
Lucas unwraps the body. He squawks in horror. He’s seen the penis.
“Yeh, I recommend you don’t touch that. It may be contagious.”
He swears again. And then Laura’s in the van with him, and there’s some muttering I can’t quite make out and they return looking serious for once.
“Did you kill him, Jupiter?” It’s clear he doesn’t want to ask, but he fears he has to. “Only he’s taken a blow to the back of the head. His skull’s cracked like an egg.”
Laura turns to me.
“We can help you this time. If you did kill him, I mean. Because we know you and we’re sure there must’ve been a good reason for it. But we can’t go making a habit of this sort of thing. We’re one of those businesses that operate in a… in a grey area, legally speaking. We can’t risk drawing attention to ourselves.”
“Your loyalty’s touching,” I tell them. And it’s true. It is. “But you’ve nothing to worry about. This is all above board. A funny kind of above board, I admit, but all legit just the same.”
There’s much sighing of relief and I’m informed that giving a little more information might be the polite thing to do. So I tell them what I feel I can: I’ve been given a body of unknown provenance by an official organisation. They want me to strip the skin and use it as the covering on an animatronic figure. I don’t feel confident enough to remove it, so I thought of my good friends and their years of experience in a related field.
“Well, that’s okay then,” says Lucas.
“But we’ll have to do it out here,” adds Laura. “I’ve seen that cock. We can’t risk him contaminating the stock.”
“Thanks,” I say. “How much do I owe you?”
Lucas looks shocked.
“We wouldn’t dream of accepting your money. Your company, however, is a different matter altogether.”
“You will be expected to dine with us t
onight,” adds Laura, taking up the theme. “No ifs or buts!”
Well, there’s not a great deal I can say to that. She goes inside for aprons and plastic sheeting. Meanwhile, Lucas strops his hunting knife and starts to tell me about the many gases contained in the human body.
“They’re not all flammable,” he says, and I’m not sure whether this is scientific fact or entertaining fiction, “but you’re best off treating them with caution. You were right to burst that guy. Shifting the gas prevents ignition.”
“Ignition?”
“Accidental ignition, of course,” he states firmly. “I mean, I like to think my sense of humour has matured over the years. But sometimes the power tools, they throw out sparks – when they hit bone or a metal pin or a filling or something. You’ve not seen anything till you’ve seen a dead nun shooting fire from her sphincter!”
“Sure,” I say with a comical nod, “happens every day.”
“Check out Laura’s eyebrows if you don’t believe me! They’ve only just grown back!”
“Yeah. Right.”
“It’s her own fault,” he continues. “I said, ‘Don’t go poking around that thing, Laura Larkin, you don’t know what’s up there!’ And what happens? The old girl goes off like a flamethrower! ‘That’s God’s revenge,’ I tell her, ‘for messing around with one of His own.’”
“You have to be careful with the clergy,” says Laura, returning with another tarpaulin.
“Glad you told me,” I say, “please, don’t ever tell me again.”
There’s talk of using a pressure washer on the body and how “it’s so powerful, you stick it up the nose, it blows chunks of brain out the ears”.
“I don’t want him all saggy and soggy,” I say. I put on an apron and step back. I intend spending the majority of the procedure looking the other way. Lucas hands me a knife. I hand it back. He laughs.
“For an army surgeon, you’re a big girl’s blouse!”
Laura’s poking Bactrian with a stick.
“You could club seals with that!” she says.
“He probably did,” I reply. “Looks like a bestiality-related condition.”
And we set to work. If you’ve ever skinned anything, you’ll know the deal. So let’s fast forward to dinner. I decline a drink, but Lucas is having none of my protestations.
“Ring home. We’ve got a phone. Call up your estranged harpy and tell her you’re staying over. She’ll be glad to get rid of you for a while. We however, would be glad of the company. At least till morning... when the novelty wears off and we kick you out.” He has such a charming way with words.
My mind wanders back to my last visit. When they balanced body parts on my sleeping form and took photographs. Producing the pictures over breakfast was of equally questionable taste. Well, I’m making my excuses, but they’re not taking no for an answer. Soon I’m standing with a glass in my hand and it’s too late to leave.
“I’ll stay on one condition,” I say, “no practical jokes.” But it’s a vain hope. I know I’ve no choice in the matter.
Laura flashes those mischievous eyes of hers and Lucas starts to laugh – two lunatics lost in their own world of internal organs and sick humour.
The night goes as you’d expect. It’s fun to start with and the rest is a blur. I wake up in the spare room. My head feels like it’s been nailed on and I don’t need Laura greeting me at the breakfast table with Bactrian’s skin folded over a chair. I don’t need her making it dance for me.
“We did a good job,” she says. “But I’m not sure how long he’ll last. He’s starting to go mouldy. You might need to polish him or something.”
Lucas walks in clutching his forehead.
“You need to tan him. That’s what you do with leather. You tan it.”
“What with?” I ask.
“There's a couple of options. You can either use mashed brains and oatmeal rubbed in or soak it in tree bark and urine,” he answers cheerily. “Take your pick.”
Can my life get any worse, I ask myself. It can. Laura passes me a computer print. I see my own sleeping face. But what’s that on my head? Lucas disappears beneath the table. He returns waving a large intestine.
* * *
I’m outside my secret workshop; my secret workshop in the shittiest part of the city. And I’m nervous. The door’s open and I left it locked. I’m wondering who’s in there. I’ve got a rolled up bundle of human skin under one arm and I know for a fact that the floor’s still covered in human matter. Please don’t be the police, I pray. It doesn’t matter that I’m working for the government. They see me, they see the blood and they’ll shoot on sight. I’m hoping it’s thieves. I’ll wave Bactrian and they’ll run like scared mink.
But it’s not cops and it’s not criminals. It’s worse. I can’t speak. My face drops. My stomach cramps. Is that an ulcer I can feel? I turn to leave. Too late, he’s seen me. There’s a pause, a mere split second, and then it starts:
“Yer know, I can’t get ‘er out me mind, yer know. It’s like... It’s like...”
Elton. Sodding Elton. Well, this is a kick in the balls. When you’ve hauled yourself out the cesspit, it’s always a disappointment when the shit follows you home. Or to your not-so-fucking-secret-anymore workshop. I let out some inhuman cry, like a whale getting harpooned, and the unholy idiot joins in with me.
“I’m screaming because you’re here,” I tell him. “You’re not allowed to join in. You can’t scream at yourself!” Then again, he probably can. And then I start wondering how he found me.
“You've had a delivery,” he says. “Spare parts”.
He flicks a switch. I look. I listen. I swear.
“Mew, mew, we are kittens,
Kittens one, two, three,
We mew and mew,
That’s what we do,
And then we eat muesli…”
This is the sound of my situation getting stupider. Elton’s ‘spare parts’ come in the form of three automated cats, promoting some long-gone brand of breakfast cereal.
“We are The Crueslie Kittens!” they announce in their deeply creepy way. Then they damn well sing again:
“Mew, mew, we want muesli,
Crueslie’s Muesli, mew, mew, mew,
Mew, mew, we want muesli,
No other muesli’ll do,
Try our competitors,
There’s nothing betterer,
Take up our test and you,
Will find that your dumps,
Come in easy to wipe lumps,
There’s never been a better way to poo!”
“Great, ain’t it?” says Elton, grinning like an imbecile.
“‘Betterer’ isn’t a proper word,” I answer. But he’s not listening.
“There’s more! The ‘It’s Tough Without Roughage’ poem!” And, God rot him, he’ll be right. I know he'll be right because he'll have sat there for hours on end listening for backwards messages from Satan.
“‘That’s a mighty fine log’, said the Captain to the owl,
‘I’ll admit were all agog. It’s a whopper!’ he did howl
‘Well, it’s Crueslie takes the credit, Skip’, replied the gracious fowl
‘It’s a belter in your bowl and even better in your bowel!’”
I can’t take it. It’s like being back in the playground again. Only, this time, regaled by some blasphemous simulacrum of a morally ambiguous mammal.
“Let’s play the Turning Off Game,” I suggest.
“What’s the Turnin’ Off game?” Elton asks.
“This!” And I yank the kitten’s plug from the electricity socket. “Now the key to the Turning Off game is not turning it on again until you’ve taken a hammer and smashed up all the little drives with songs about cereal on them.”
He looks at me blankly.
“I ain’t a child,” he says.
“Not physically,” I answer.
“And what's yer problem with cats?”
“Well, a cat was responsi
ble for my mother's death,” I say, using dialogue as a plot device,”but I wouldn't say I have a problem with them. I just, sort of... disapprove of them.”
Elton looks at me blankly.
“Eh?”
“Well, they're elegant. You've got to give them that. But, at best, they're substitute children. At worst, they're parasites. I mean, you can kid yourself that it actually feels some kind of affection for you. But it doesn’t, really. You’re a source of food and warmth. Your cat looks at you and all it sees is a massive tit. In every sense of the word.” Elton just launches into some ramble about how cats and women deserve each other.
“Both the same,” is his insight. “Ignore ya; eat all yer food. An’ then, when they want somefin’, they stick their arse in yer face.”
“Yes, yes, the similarities are endless. You’re a genius,” I say.
“And then they leave. And you miss them.”
“Okay. Fine. That's just fine, Mr Misogynist.”
“We always want what we can’t ‘ave!” he moans and here we go again. Lost loves and lah, lah, lah!
* * *
It’s cold outside. Climate Change has taken the weather beyond screwy. Last week we had a heatwave, this week it’s ankle deep snow. We’re lucky enough to have a gas burner. It keeps us a few degrees above frostbite. The warmth rises, hits the workshop’s icy aluminium roof and drips condensation on our heads. There are worse things in life.
I'm building a mechanised body for Bactrian’s newly preserved skin. Elton carried out the tanning process. You can't count on his silence. You can count on nobody in their right mind believing him.
You see, Elton is notorious for his Lindberg-style meltdown. Formerly a celebrity ventriloquist, his primetime career came to end after appearing on live children’s television with his hand up a dead swan and triggering an epidemic of night terrors and bed-wetting. Not entirely stupid, he now earns a crust as the face of a waterproof mattress cover company and the 'Easy-On Elton' is now the nation's favourite rubber sheet.