by P-P Hartnett
“You’ve got a nice pair of legs, Roger. Shame you’ve got two of them.”
Henry. God had a wild time making the mould for that one’s face. He had one of those big ugly heads that you get sitting right in front of you at the cinema. This head was mounted on the neck of an aging labrador. Nose hairs you could make tooth-brushes out of. He was breathless, seventy seven and smelly.
As he let me in his eyes savoured the fading love bite while his nose sniffed the ripe pineapple I handed him.
He’d lived a full life down in that basement. The kitchen area had something, somewhere that stank. It might have come from the towels, floorboards or drains. Perhaps a combination. Whatever, wherever, it needed sorting out.
Henry didn’t sit but fell backwards into the chair, looking like a fresh delivery to Casualty. He’d worked hard paying contributions towards the National Health Service and now it had let him down.
Punctuating the mantelpiece were postcards, many from Greece. They all featured remnants of human shapes in stone. I could imagine him circling long, cool halls, caressing the collections of Greek statuary, Kouroi artfully placed on pedestals, casting elegant shadows. I bet he’d kissed cool nipples, slid his hands over lovely pale buttocks, fingered the mutilated groins of stony youths.
I wanted the promised coffee but he’d started the tour of Olympia. We’d already visited the Doric temple of Zeus. The pages were marked and ready for staring eyes. He talked in snatches, presuming I knew who and what these sculptures represented.
“Kiadeos, east pediment, ah yes … the river-god, just look at that stretching forth, there’s an absolutely armless one for you! Oinomaos, Myrtilos, the kneeling youth, Lapith youth … Oh, that headless, armless, penisless Centaur is mine, if you don’t mind. Ha! Take your eyes off him, he’s mine! Oh, you’d adore Apollo from The Tiber in El Museo Nazionale delle Terme in Rome. Absolutely stumpy, Roger. I’ve travelled a bit. I know what I like,” he said clutching my right knee.
“There was a report, Roger, of three puritanical shits—English of course—who, when visiting a museum in Athens at the turn of the century, brandished hammers and chisels and chopped off two hundred and thirty one penises and God knows how many pairs of balls before the authorities, two attendants in their seventies in this case, got the situation in hand.”
“Ouch!” I said to humour him. While he put the kettle on I inspected torsos, cupids, angels and saints as recommended.
He particularly liked Hermes and the infant Dionysus by Praxiteles in the Olympia Museum. Giving them a once over quietened him down.
“Pass over the Michelangelo like a luv. Now, look at that bum. What do you think of that?”
“Cool, white, marvellously shadowed.”
He swallowed audibly.
“Yes. I can see we’re going to get on very nicely.”
Shutting all three sets of curtains he eyed me with nervous speculation: Is he from News International? The copulating rhythm of the universe began to pound as the slide projector shone the torso of Hermes upon the wall by the bed. He’d bought the slides from some museum: Torso of Hermes (many angles), Herakles (side view, front view and rear).
When the slide show had finished, not wanting to raise his considerable bulk from the chair, he simply unscrewed the projector’s bulb. The internal fan continued to buzz. Not much light came in from the small back window and no seepage from the curtains.
“I do hope you’re going to kill me,” I said, at a volume he didn’t quite hear.
“Thrill you? Is that what you said? Turn the kettle off dear, while I hunt out some photos my doctor friend popped round. He’s a keen photographer and has easy access to amputees. He’s got a friend at Guys who … No, turn it to the left. That’s right.”
Young boys, clinically documented before and after surgery, from many angles. (Side views, front views, lots of rear.) Previous BASA sports days featuring legless youths swimming, hopping the fifty yards, clearing moderate to great heights in the high jump. Male amputees in gleaming wheelchairs, with trophies and vulnerable smiles. Unaware pin-up boys, zoom-ins of crotches on crutches. One amputee had such a dignified face, freckled and alert. He was gorgeous. The missing leg seemed no hindrance to his being. He stood proud, holding himself a little to one side for balance.
“I can see you like that one. Have it. Go on, do. He’s yours. My doctor friend won’t mind, a bit too grown-up for his liking. Take him. Yours.”
“Something for my kitchen wall.”
“I’d love to see you fuck him right under my nose,” the man said, as he stood to draw back the curtains. “I usually like a leg clean off but sometimes a foot can be very exciting. Cut above the knee is preferable to below. The higher up the more I like it. The stump, I love to rub it where the leg used to be. There’s nothing like rubbing a stumpy femur.”
The Cadbury’s chocolate cake didn’t resemble the picture on the box. Like the Elgin Marbles it was cracked and chipped, but still intact here and there. It was served rather like confetti.
“I do like legged men too, only secondary though. Take a look in those drawers,” he said, before slurping down his coffee through teeth the colour of a rising full moon.
Years and years of yellowing lovelies he’d dedicated many a wank to, divine pornography awaiting the life-giving inspection. Q International, Hunk, Colt, Binky, Blueboy. He had the Vulcan I’d seen at Mr Mok’s house that featured Ray in various stages of undress long before I’d met him in the Radiotherapy Department of Barts Hospital. Randy Ray.
“Nice dick on that one,” he said.
“Not any more.”
This card is made of wood pulp from managed forests.
For every tree cut down at least one more is replanted,
this replenishes Earth’s atmosphere.
Price code F.
Made in England.
Writing your own personal message makes this card more special.
I opened the envelope beside the toilet.
The graphic was a tasteful mountain view at sunset, captured inspiringly in golds and reds, carefully costed in terms of ink. Hazy geese flying lazily, free from acid rain. A narrow grey road zigzagged the rock face.
Printed in elaborate italics below the graphic:
I’ve searched high and low for a friend like you …
Inside, in capital letters, Dai had written:
Gotcha!
D
Both card and envelope were neatly torn into precise squares, then, with one quick flick of the wrist, flushed away in an instant.
* * *
Stoke Mandeville hovered in the diary. I babysat the idea with the occasional phone call.
Alfred, an amputee cut high at the left, struck me as a very cool sort of chap. At his stage in life he had an objective view, the storyline of his life was clear. There’d be no happy ending, just his part-time job, sleep, pornography and paid boys trying to remember their fake names.
The road to Aylesbury was smooth. Alfred drove the blue Ford Escort at a sedate pace. Urinals and lock-ups containing the bowls of Twyfords, Civic and Armitage Shanks figured large in the conversation on the way.
“Used to get these awful sore throats,” Henry said, “such a pity all those pissoirs are now closed down.”
“Sauna’s the thing now if you want a bit of fun, unless you’re prepared to part with fifty quid should a cutie come your way,” said Alfred, making smiling eye contact in the rear-view mirror. “Brownies, 309 and Starsteam are all pretty good, but you can’t beat York Hall. You’ll have to go there some time. Make the most of your genitals while you’re young!” he said with a wink.
Small queer world.
“We met in Greenwich Baths way back after the war,” Alfred continued.
“Best shilling a man could spend,” said Henry. “I saw Alfred hopping about in there and tossed him off.”
“Place was a bit slippy,” said Alfred.
“York Hall is every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. I’m
not sure if it’s women on a Friday. I think it’s changed since they painted the place yellow,” Henry said.
“It’s behind the old town hall, next to the toy museum or whatever it is. Two-minute walk from Bethnal Green tube. Best wank in London.” Alfred laughed, dragging a tongue over lips which had done mileage.
I lost count of legs off in car crashes, motor-bike accidents, misadventures on the factory floor. Limbs crushed, ripped, torn away, pulled clean off for ever. Born without, born deformed, some like curly pasta. God knows best. God moves in some pretty mysterious ways. God placed the doctor friend beside me to give medical histories and prick lengths.
“There are a lot of fresh little ones about. Just look at the bottom on that one! Oh, I do love to see them hop!”
Prosthetics squeaked in the one hundred metres towards a finishing line grey with salivating men behind cameras. Crutches versus wheel-chairs, legless versus armless. I was introduced all day long to people into humps, bumps, lumps and stumps. A cheerful man named Simon Wright handled last year’s snaps with the formality of a magistrate perusing evidence seized at the scene of the crime. He winked, passing an A5 price list promising a same day service.
“Broke his leg in eight places in some sort of pile up a few years back and, so the story goes,” Alfred whispered, “became very interested in legs and things. Got initiated by the chap in the next bed one night, an amputee. He’ll bore you for hours about four-point knee braces, myoelectric cosmetic gloves, electric elbows, all things to do with orthopaedics and prosthetics. He’s not averse to a couple o’ slices of fish on his plate either. Loves women in silicone skin coverings, on the legs, so word has it. Really into being jerked off with switch-controlled prosthetic hands. I’d be scared myself, don’t know what the voltage could do and the grip on those things can be erratic. Just imagine!”
As the shot-put got under way, a creature from Crawley arrived hot and bothered at being late, carrying one very long telephoto lens and a pair of binoculars. He cruised the toilets all day long: toilets by the playing fields, cafe, canteen, badminton courts, bar and dormitories. Prolonged haunting of the table-tennis area, where the juniors skulked waiting for the swimming to start, got the attention of some parents. I later heard he actually ran a pet shop.
He was very pleased to meet me, but would have preferred me mutilated. Said he’d do me a discount for a budgie with cage and accessories if I continued to miss wee Hamish. Had he been on my shoulder, Hamish would have told the creep to piss off.
It was humid and evaporating chlorine stung my eyes. More and more numb as the day went on, I kept noticing a pretty girl hugging and encouraging her limbless lover who came second to last in every event. I envied their closeness. It made me feel so inadequate.
There was a tremendous surge of animation by the pool-side:
“Had a raging hard-on during the weight-lifting,” Henry shouted across to Alfred who blinked his dyed lashes and looked away.
“With me it was the high jump. That boy with the arm off was pretty good, but the one who came second was a little smasher. A very high amputation.”
“Yes,” said Henry, “worth fifteen minutes of anybody’s time!”
“Good job you had your mac on,” Alfred said quietly, still looking away.
“A mac with such deep pockets!” someone said too loudly.
Beside the group of amputee enthusiasts plus one voyeur, a family sat waiting for the swimming to start. Their fifteen-year-old son’s first sporting day since the op’ two years back. Henry was unaware of his volume, or didn’t care. The family glared, then moved away.
“See that one there, with the blue towel? Leg off in the Falklands my doctor friend tells me. Mar-vellous! Hung like a donkey by all accounts.” Henry smiled like a madman.
There, waiting his turn in the next race, stood the guy I had the picture of. Henry had forgotten that. Close up he was much taller than I’d have thought. He smiled at me, nervous at the prospect of competition.
“Good luck,” I said.
Most of the competitors didn’t dive but fell into the water. The starter knew how to handle the situation, shouting a quick ‘Starting position, swimmers’, then bang! Gunshot. Before anyone could lose balance or wobble.
There was front crawl with one arm. Armless backstroke. Breaststroke with no legs—no chance of being disqualified for a screw kick there. One armed butterfly. It was a well organised event. A joy for participants, interesting for parents, fascinating for a chosen few.
A1 Double above knee
A2 Single above knee
A3 Double below knee
A4 Single below knee
A5 Double above elbow
A6 Single above elbow
A7 Double below elbow
A8 Single below elbow
A9 Combined lower limb plus upper limb amputation
Those zoom lenses got busy. They had to be frequently wiped down, with the steam coming off so many warm, wet bodies. The copulating rhythm of the universe began to pound in the spectators’ section. Chlorine camouflaged a variety of unpleasant body odours. Henry’s doctor friend was busy at the pool-side with a video camera of broadcast quality and a number of still cameras set on AUTO.
The doctor waved to Henry, flashing me his vile, delicate, pederast’s smile. I gave him a vile, delicate smile back. His face changed. If anyone got the feeling that there was an outsider on the inside, it was that doctor who sniffed me out.
ABSOLUTELY
Once a week a body is found in The Thames, fifty one last year. Most are down and outs no longer able to cope with care in the community. I was sure Dai had an impressive heap of psychiatric problems tucked away in a file somewhere. I was beginning to wish he’d become a Thames statistic.
Attached to the pretty little floral display of creams, yellows and pinks against a background of fern leaves, a box contained three hand-made chocolates.
The envelope, unopened, sailed down the chute. I didn’t want to see the solitary D.
An admirable economy of words was waiting for me among the late-night, long distance static, crackle and grit, breathing, pips, faint background noise, exhalations, more pips and slammed-down receivers, raspberries, and well mannered voices repeating their number twice.
“You’ll have your little shaved balls cut off and force fed down that lovely throat of yours one of these fine days, after they’ve been fried in dog’s piss first, of course.”
What it is to have admirers. What it is to have an answerphone. Good job I didn’t have a fax.
* * *
Bad thoughts approached stealthily like fog invading fields. Unhurried and regular, to the beat of my pulse.
To avoid that dreaded morning feeling I rose at two. Even that took some self-coaxing. I was sick and tired of how big the bed was still without Ray, of the sadness like a virus I couldn’t quite shake off.
With a sighing effort I plugged in the tv, switching on trash starring Cary Grant. I sat, wrapped in the duvet. It was cold for July. The film was ‘The Bishop’s Wife’. There was a hot, sore feeling at the pit of my stomach, the focal point of my depression. Thought was difficult. I’d withdrawn into myself so much that I couldn’t follow the dialogue.
After the day at Stoke Mandeville, I called a halt on my project. I didn’t want to meet kooky characters any more. Both telephone and answerphone took a rest. Having no desire to go out, I stayed in, wondering what I could do—where I could go.
* * *
Somewhere in the UK there’s a paint factory, opened circa 1953, producing colours exclusively for prisons, bingo halls and municipal leisure facilities. Dull greens, sighing blues, insipid creams and greys. A good proportion of that factory’s sorry output has ended up on the walls of York Hall in Bethnal Green. It’s a thick smell down there: distilled stale sweat, infected hawked phlegm, anti-dandruff shampoo, farts from unsavoury buttocks, urine and stale popcorn; which suits the colour scheme of yellow and white. A rank, ruttish stench of spermatozoa
uselessly flagellating tails as they die down the drains of a subterranean kingdom.
Since 1929 it’s been home to many a fungal infection and sexual compulsive in search of a bit of fun. It’s a place of lazy camaraderie: substandard off-the-rack bodies, their purple veins swelled to bursting, exchange weary smalltalk within sub-ecclesiastical architecture designed to encourage hush. The Krays used to go there. Michael Cashman, too.
Eyes in half-familiar faces seemed especially alert to a newcomer; with the grey institutional towel wrapped around my waist, I became my cock, the curve of my arse, pecs, waist, weight. Through interconnecting catacombs and chambers floored in chequerboard stone and walled in the glazed white tiling common to corrective and sanitary institutions of that era, I was followed by a handsome Asian youth. Hot room, steam room, showers, tiled bath the size and depth of a cattle dip, sauna.
“Kuldip.”
A simple answer to a simple question.
“Kuldip,” he repeated, probably out of surprise at being asked his name. The mutual fumbling in the toilet took only a couple of minutes. He’d started playing with his dick the minute we were alone in the sauna, only stopping briefly when a fat old queen with a sulky cock came in, continuing until another entered, brazen enough to try and get involved. It took no more than a wink for me to follow him to the cold, slippery-floored toilets.
“We gotta be quick,” he said, closing the cubicle door.
On rolling back his foreskin, Stilton came to mind, but I still thrust my tongue deep into his mouth. I don’t think he wanted to be kissed (he’d probably got a little lady and two kids tucked away somewhere) but it was while I snogged him so forcibly that a minigalaxy of sperm shot from his long, thin dick.
Back in the steam room, mutual discarding achieved over a shared can of Tango, I had the feeling I was on the wrong train and it was time to get off. There was still time to jump, I thought, take a holiday, rustle up a couple of travel features. Maybe I could sweet talk Chat. After a while I realised my ears were stinging.