by Rhys Hughes
The Brothel Creeper
STORIES OF SEXUAL AND SPIRITUAL TENSION
by
Rhys Hughes
“Life is tension or the result of tension: without tension the creative impulse cannot exist. If human life be taken as the result of tension between the two polarities night and day, night, the negative pole, must share equal importance with the positive day.”
ANNA KAVAN, Sleep Has his House
Copyright © 2015 Rhys Hughes
All rights reserved. This book and any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Ebook Edition 2015
Gloomy Seahorse Press
Swansea, Wales, UK
http://gloomyseahorsepress.blogspot.com
A Gloomy Seahorse Production
This ebook is dedicated to
Sofia Rhei
Note: This book was originally published in 2011 in hardback and paperback editions by Gray Friar Press. The contents included a story entitled ‘Casimir the Converter’. The limited edition hardback edition issued at the same time by the same publisher featured a bonus story called ‘Cracking Nuts with Jan Hammer’. Because ‘Casimir the Converter’ can now be found in my Hippocampus Press collection Bone Idle in the Charnel House, it has been replaced in this ebook edition by the bonus story.
Contents:
The Ditching
One Man’s Meat
The Cuckoos of Bliss
One’s a Crowd
Southbound Satin
Pyramid and Thisbe
Is My Wife on Mars?
The Indigo Casbah
God in a Basement Flat
Fanny Fables
1: Fanny is Famished
2: The Furry Godmother
3: Petal Put the Kelly On
4: Fanny of the Apes
5: Knobheads and Dipsticks
6: Fanny of the Opera
7: Pussy in Boots
8: Flicking a Fleck of Freckled Flapper
Crash with Shopping Trolleys
Mah Jong Breath
The Flesh Stocking
Cracking Nuts with Jan Hammer
The Docking of Spaceship Earth
Cuntlock
The Sickness of Satan
The Gibbon in the Garret
The Small Miracle
The Quims of Itapetinga
The Ditching
The trouble began in the tail-mounted engine first. The fan disk shattered during a routine shallow turn and the shrapnel severed the hydraulic lines feeding the control systems. The pilot believed he heard the crack, and he compared it to an entire frozen lake snapping in half, but it is more likely that the resulting vibration cast down a stewardess or two and he mistook the sound of skull on floor for that of a catastrophic mechanical failure. It is a common enough misapprehension.
The engine nacelle had contained none of the exploding debris and the puncture in the hydraulic lines was generous enough for the fluid to leak away within minutes. Warning lights flashed insistently in the cabin and indicated that the autopilot had disengaged. When Bruce Heller, the pilot, moved the control column he was dismayed to discover that the plane did not respond in any way. Then he noticed they were drifting off course and were beginning a very gradual left turn.
Pressure gauges for the three hydraulic systems now registered zero. It was clear that every control surface was immovable; that ailerons, rudder and air brakes were jammed. As it was impossible to alter altitude or steer using the control column, and the DC-10 was far over the ocean, less than a third of the distance to its destination, the tendency of the damaged craft to turn left seemed to suggest that a series of pointless wide circles would be described before the fuel was used up.
Then the plane would simply stall and plummet into the ocean. Such a fall would leave no survivors; the forces were too excessive. The co-pilot, Jennings, and the flight engineer, Pastor, had no practical solutions to this dilemma, but Heller reasoned that a certain amount of basic control might be re-established by carefully adjusting the throttles of the remaining two engines. Running one faster than the other would turn the plane; so it was possible to counteract the pull to the left.
In order to gain or lose altitude, Heller discovered that accelerating or decelerating both engines simultaneously was a relatively safe method. It was also possible to mitigate the phugoid cycle that the aircraft had begun to assume, a deeply unpleasant rolling motion along all three axes that is typical of aerofoils without control surfaces, by pulsing the thrust. But it remained to choose a new destination for the stricken plane. To continue forward across open sea was unthinkable.
There were no islands with adequate runways anywhere in the vicinity of the accident and so the only appropriate response was to turn the plane around and head back the way they had come. As soon as this manoeuvre was completed, Air Traffic Control overheard Jennings say, “We’ll never make it home. Let’s ditch her in the water.” To which Heller replied, “The closer to the shore, the better.” And it was generally agreed on the ground that this observation could not be disputed.
Pastor wondered if lowering the landing gear in mid flight might force any remaining hydraulic fluid back into the lines, allowing movement of the control systems. Heller was willing to try this ruse, despite the hazard of increased drag, but it proved ineffective. The lines were utterly dry. In this regard they resembled the tear ducts of the valiant flight crew, for it must be remarked at this juncture that Air Traffic Control recorded not a single unmanly sob throughout the ordeal.
Heller never forgot his greater duty while piloting the injured craft; as he nursed the DC-10 in the direction of land, he recommended that future models be fitted with backup control systems. Although the three separate hydraulic systems were isolated from each other, so that a problem in one should not have affected the others, the lines converged at the tail to pass through a solitary duct; and this duct had been penetrated by the shrapnel of the fan disk; an awful chance in a million.
Air Traffic Control promised to pass on his recommendation, and any others he might later have, to the relevant authorities. Although the strain of flying in such an unorthodox, almost experimental, manner was severe, Heller exhibited his unquenchable optimism and resilience by announcing that the longer he flew this way, the easier it became, as he grew familiar with the precise adjustments needed to maintain control over altitude and direction. This may not even have been a lie.
He seemed driven by more than the usual desire to land his passengers and crew in good health; there was a calm determination about his actions and tone that stood out in vivid contrast to the behaviour of Jennings and Pastor, both of whom were more self-consciously courageous. Nobody at any stage really believed that a landing in one piece was feasible, but they continued to talk as if they did. And yet in Heller’s case, there was an odd lack of self-delusion. He knew what he wanted.
So he continued to fly, following the sun as it dipped towards the west, not quite catching up with it, allowing the wings and body of the crippled plane to be bathed in deep vermilion sunset juice, while the intact engines rumbled and sputtered as if the heavy ruby beams of the sinking sun were sticking in their rotary throats. Then it was twilight and the first pale stars came out to watch, smugly twinkling in the agitated air like the eyes of an unintelligent audience of a bathetic soap opera.
Time went past painfully slowly but Heller made good use of it with a series of manoeuvres designed to reveal how feasible a soft
landing might be if they had the good fortune to actually reach a runway. He discovered it was impossible to control airspeed independently of sink rate. When the velocity was reduced to 240 knots, the craft dropped almost 1850 feet per minute, six times the accepted sink rate; but to hazard a landing at a faster speed would require a runway of absurd length.
He shared his observations with Jennings and Pastor and also with Air Traffic Control and a consensus was quickly arrived at, namely that they stood no chance of surviving a landing on hard terrain. And yet, as they approached the coast, another problem arose. Heller said, “Though we are unable to land at any airport, to ditch in the water here is equally suicidal, because of the reefs. If we turn around again and ditch in the open ocean, we will be too far for rescue teams to reach us.”
There was an extended silence in response to his dismal prognosis, but Heller had clearly already made secret provisions for this outcome, for he took a deep breath and added, “There is only one thing left to do.” And he went on to outline his scheme; but he admitted to feeling uncomfortable if he had to shoulder the responsibility of this measure all by himself, for it could hardly be defined as a true remedy. His democratic spirit would not permit him to make the decision unilaterally.
Jennings and Pastor conversed with each other for a few minutes, then they declared their full endorsement of Heller’s plan; Air Traffic Control was consulted in a similar capacity and also responded, after a somewhat lengthier debate, positively. But Heller was even more devolved than this in his innermost soul and insisted on giving the passengers a vote on the issue. This was done, with considerable reluctance and scepticism on the part of the weary co-pilot and flight engineer.
It took twenty minutes for the process of this minor but vital plebiscite to be completed. As it happened, the vote went in Heller’s favour but only by a modest margin. Of the 285 paying passengers, 174 voted for Heller’s proposal and 111 voted against. Heller immediately began preparing for a very difficult period of crew resource management, in which all available resources might be utilised in order to achieve his goal. He needed praise, encouragement, justification, reassurance, data.
Making numerous adjustments to the throttles, he managed to steer the DC-10 towards the city of his youth. He took care to skirt the suburbs, for he had no desire to plummet into innocent urban areas. A shallow circular lake glimmered on the far side of the city, but this formed no part of his plan and its existence must be regarded as incidental or even coincidental. The area of the city he was headed for was a moderately rich village that had been subsumed into the greater greyness.
At last he was directly over the sector he sought. Circling high above, he descended a thousand feet. There were no clouds to obscure his view. With assistance from Air Traffic Control, he was able to visually identify the abode of his ex-wife. He required one final item of information. “Will you do me a favour? Will you find out if she is at home?” he asked. They promised to have an answer as soon as possible. In the meantime, he kept the plane turning around that emotive fulcrum.
Five minutes later, Air Traffic Control was pleased to report that yes, she was; and in fact Heller saw her throw open her bedroom window and lean out, craning her sultry neck to discern what all the fuss was about, up there, directly above. The perfect position. Unable to manipulate ailerons or elevators to tip the aeroplane, Heller was forced to spiral down in the tightest possible helix by reducing the thrust of one engine to a minimum and increasing the thrust of the other to maximum.
It was a manoeuvre requiring extreme precision. A slight discrepancy in the formula of the spiral would result in a near miss. But Heller’s nerve never wavered for an instant. Frozen in her dream posture, half out of the window like a fairytale character who has forgotten her hair, his ex-wife opened her mouth wide. The tip of the nose of the DC-10 entered it. And the rest followed, all of it, the flight cabin, the passengers, the tail with its treacherous General Electric CF6-6 engine.
Radio contact with the aircraft was cut off at that moment. The house was utterly destroyed. Heller had refused to dump fuel before the impact; he needed as much accelerant as possible to ensure a furious blaze. Walls collapsed, sparks were flung high in vast showers, black smoke spiralled skywards as if attempting to trace in reverse, and in filthy ephemerality, the series of decreasing circles that had defined the final trajectory of the doomed airliner. No other house was ruined.
Inside the Air Traffic Control building, the applause was muted and sporadic. Clearly the controllers and other staff were troubled by the idea that to express appreciation of what had happened might be misogynistic; that what they had seen was the enactment of a male revenge fantasy, the drama of a man with an old grudge who, because he was facing inevitable death and thus had nothing to lose, had resolved to take others with him, one particular other, his former other half.
But then one of the controllers announced loudly that no, this incident was not necessarily a generality, that it was less a parable of maladjusted masculine bitterness than a simple isolated incident; that the gender of the participants was inconsequential; that if the pilot had been a woman and the victim in the house her former husband, the action would be no less deserving of applause; that to turn it into a political point was pretentious. So they clapped. Until their palms were sore.
Later they went home and fucked their own wives or husbands. They were highly aroused by what had happened. It was the most outstanding example of flying they had ever witnessed.
One Man’s Meat
For Raymond it had been one of those abstract evenings; formless desires, a quick splash of reckless paint on what had been a blank canvas, and then out into the city. He could hardly colour the town red; a blue-green fugue was clanking its counterpoint on his aching ribs. Too much tobacco, too little sleep, and Clarisse gone barely a week. So he hunched deeper into his overcoat while rain warmer than curdled milk lashed face and hands. A city, and a life, without straight lines.
He found the brothel down a cobbled backstreet, a low building with heavy curtains. At the entrance, he was greeted by a doorman who politely inquired whether he had made a reservation. Raymond shook his head. Was he supposed to feel inferior to those patrons who had previously arranged to displace a volume of the establishment’s air? He was unsure. Nothing in the doorman’s demeanour provided a clue. He allowed himself to be ushered into a waiting area, where he took a comfortable seat and accepted a drink. Filthy muzak whispered from concealed speakers.
“Sir?” Almost immediately, a waiter came to take his order. Raymond relaxed. They were not going to punish him for his minor transgression of etiquette. He adjusted his tie and smoothed back his damp hair.
“I’m a vegetarian,” he said. He pulled down his lower lip to expose gums as healthy as the release of tension. The waiter nodded and led him past rows of rooms, the air bristling with soft moans and the strains of sweet melodies, or else with harsh screams and atonal cacophony. His pulse began to race, his nostrils flared. He caught the mingled odour of myriad scents, exotic flavours on the tip of his tongue. A thousand combinations to sample, innumerable moods.
“Rhona is a root vegetable,” the waiter remarked casually, as he stopped in front of a narrow door. Raymond proffered a small tip, acknowledged the resulting wink with a curt nod and stepped into the room. His eyes adjusted slowly to the light, he blinked the sweat from tired lashes and regarded his new surroundings. She stood lovely and demure in an earthen pot in the centre of the room. Her tendrils beckoned to him, impossibly alluring in the steamy atmosphere.
But he lingered awhile near the threshold. “Why don’t you take your coat off?” she asked seductively and he obliged, hanging it up on a hook on the back of the door. “Now don’t be shy. Take your time. Real nice and slow. You look a little nervous. First time, eh? Well nothing to be worried about. Come a little closer. That’s it, darling, I don’t bite. Just talk to me, tell me what you like.”
“My name is Raymond.” Raymon
d felt an absurd shame at being here, bedraggled, unsure of himself or his real intentions. He dripped over the short-pile carpet and wrung his hands. “I’m a vegetarian,” he repeated. He managed a nervous grin.
“I hope so! One man’s meat…” Rhona winked and reached out to stroke his cheek. He winced but did not pull away. “Why don’t you choose some music? It may help you to relax.”
Raymond nodded and moved to one of the walls, his knuckles rapping quickly on the oak veneer. Instantly one of the panels slid back, exposing a beaming violinist who struck up a jaunty air. Raymond shook his head and the panel slid shut. He rapped at further points along the wall, exposing musicians of varying calibre. Eventually he settled for a combination of flute, guitar and cello.
“That’s better!” Rhona giggled coquettishly and reached out to touch him again. “Why don’t you loosen some of your clothing? You must be steaming under all those layers. Why don’t I help you?”
Conscious of the grins on the faces of the musicians, Raymond scowled. “I’m not some pink-cheeked virgin! I do have a wife, you know. She’s gone away for a while. That’s all. A man gets hungry, his tongue rolls around inside his mouth. I’m just not used to places like this!”
“Of course not.” Rhona’s eyes flashed with a secret mirth. “But I can be your wife tonight. I can be anything you want. I can love you heart and soil. I’ll be your slave, your mother, your mistress. A real turnip for the books!”
Raymond swallowed the bile that had been building up in his throat and pulled off his tie with savage jerks. As he undressed, he wondered about Clarisse, alone in a big city for the first time. How would she be filling her own formless evenings? Perhaps she was betraying him at this very moment, glutting her own maw with forbidden delights. He shuddered. She had always accused him of being uncouth; this despicable thought proved the truth of her words.