by Nigel Bird
Plan made sense, pretty much.
Send the photo on to Johnny, make sure he knew it was real. Ask for a bag of cash to keep it from the press and give him the phone in return.
Didn’t want to be greedy, neither. Not so much to make him think too hard, not so little to leave us short.
$20 thousand we decided, a fart in a warehouse to a star like Cake.
Enough for us to set up a little concern of our own. A hunting and fishing shop to go alongside the ‘Birds Of Prey Experience’.
I dropped Paul off just down from the pond where they was to meet.
Pulled off nice and smooth and never looked back.
‘Cake might be rich, but he was also careful. Didn’t want no-one getting wind of any of it.
Smoked near a half pack of tobacco waiting for that brother of mine to show.
Rosy closed the diner and came and sat for a while. Told me how she was going to change the menu soon as the film came out. Name the burgers after the stars. Was even thinking of changing the name of the establishment.
I said she should hold her horses. Wait till the film was really a film before she did any such thing. Besides, ‘Skin and Bone’ didn’t seem the right kind of handle for a place you go and eat, but what the fuck did I know?
We changed the subject and climbed into the back seat for a little hot-loving. Sure does know how to please a man does Rosy Ford.
After we was done, I drove her home and circled back.
Still no sign of Paul.
Got it into my head that he’d run off on me, him holding all the cards like he did.
Did my best to find the bastard. Fumed over it for days. Practically had a heart attack just thinking about it.
By the time they found him the film crew were long gone, leaving nothing behind but a couple of broken hearts and a whole load of dreams for folk to cling to.
Paul didn’t even look human after two weeks in the water. Only knew it was him on account of what was left of the tattoos he wore on his arms.
Something had been taking bites out of him. Nibbled away his privates. Had to bury him that way, like he weren’t even a man no more, just a sexless slab of fish-food.
How the hell was I going to let the scum get away with that?
I followed the news of Johnny Cupcake for months. Weren’t difficult. What with him being a star and his wife giving birth to a baby girl and all. They were in every magazine on the stand.
Spent my time training the birds. Put them through their paces.
Mostly I worked Philly. Getting her to do a few new tricks to keep her mind off losing her favourite owner.
When it was time, I packed everything I needed and headed over to California to get me some of that revenge I was owed.
Cupcake, Betty and baby Oregon lived on a huge chunk of land, in a house bigger than my school.
Found myself a vantage point. Weren’t difficult on account of the land being in a valley. Trees on the slopes made hiding easy.
Philly was glad to get out the back of the van. I gave her a little fly when the sun went down then tethered her up for the night.
Me, I didn’t sleep much. Too many things rattling in my head. I’d tried to work a way to keep the bird safe, but I guessed that was something I had to leave in the hands of the gods.
Guess Betty hadn’t slept too well either. Her and Oregon were up at the crack of dawn and out on the lawn by mid-morning.
Cupcake wasn’t quite so eager. Didn’t see him till past noon. Idle sloth was still in his dressing gown. Way he looked I didn’t reckon there was even enough going on to get Mamma Creek excited.
I watched it all through my binoculars.
Soon as they set the baby in the carriage, I took Philly from her stump.
Felt the strength of her claws on the back of my hand through the leather of the glove.
Gave her back a stroke, the feathers soft and smooth. Like I was saying goodbye.
She wasn’t going to budge an inch till I took off her hood, like she was royalty perched there on my arm.
I thought about it. Considered putting her back in the cage and heading home.
Didn’t though. Instead I pulled off the hood and threw her into the air.
She was straight up there feeling for currents, waiting to ride the air so’s she could save on her energy. A thing of beauty, she was, circling above me like she expected me to get out a chunk of meat and the lure.
When she ran out of patience, she headed out over the valley.
I watched her all the way.
That span of hers, bigger than a man, threw a shadow onto the ground like she was a bomber plane ready to drop.
Over the fence she went, right by the security hut and the man at the gate. I watched her shadow pass over the roof and saw her closing in.
By the time she swooped, there was nothing anyone could do.
She was going straight for the baby just like she’d been trained.
Cost me plenty replacing them plastic dolls we’d practiced on, but I didn’t mind.
Only thing I didn’t know was how good a grip she was going to get. Could take her real high with a good connect, might not even get her off the ground if her claws didn’t stick.
I held my breath as Philly closed in. Right between the parents she went and hit the target. Bull’s eye.
I could see them throwing their arms about and screaming, running about like headless chickens, but Philly was too high to notice.
Must have been a hundred feet in the air when the grip gave.
Oregon accelerated downwards like she was in a hurry to get back to her folks.
Philly took off with the blanket dangling like a flag, not that it was going to be much use to her out in the wilds.
I’d seen enough. Didn’t even wait for the kid to hit the ground.
Got behind the wheel and drove off with my eyes pointing straight ahead.
Sure, I didn’t feel good about what I’d done. No mother should have to grieve the way she was going to and no kid taken before their time. But there was nothing I could do. I needed paying back. My ma and pa and Paul needed paying back.
I guess after what happened we was just about even.
Ma only cries if she’s peeling onions. Didn’t so much as sniffle even when we discovered those McGregor kids all blown to pieces, but that night, when Paul appeared on the screen, I could feel her body sobbing like she was a car doing kangaroos.
Her hand looked like a glove of bones shaking at the end of her arm.
I tried to take hold.
She slapped me hard.
Didn’t hurt none, at least not on the outside, but it was enough to let me know that she was ashamed of herself.
All those days of filming and he was only in a couple of scenes.
Give him his due though. He served those customers like he’d been doing it all his life.
He stood tall. Like he might just walk out of the screen at any moment. Was worth all the dressing up and fancy talk we had to sit through before the movie.
Johnny Cupcake sat on the front row. Didn’t move a muscle the entire show. Not even when Paul stared right into the fucker’s eyes.
When the lights came up and we were waiting on the speeches, he passed a note over to one of them Creek twins. Reckon it were Mary, but couldn’t be sure.
Eve stood up on stage and called Johnny up.
The whole crowd stood and whooped and clapped like they was dying seals. Couldn’t blame them neither. Folk from the mountain don’t get out much, not like that.
He thanked everyone and said a few things about how we’d changed his life forever. Then he winked down at someone near the front.
To see him, aged twenty years in only two, you had to wonder what had been going on in the man’s life. I confess I was glowing inside.
One thing for sure, he weren’t going to be getting any of those action parts no more.
Soon as it was over I got myself ready to leave.
Ma though, she weren’t having any. She was off down those steps waving her stick, making sure she got to him first.
Couldn’t remember the last time she’d moved so quick.
Mounted the stage like an athlete.
Straight over to him she went, pointing and shouting.
Might have been easier to understand if she’d been wearing her teeth.
She jabbed her arm out suddenly, real impolite.
Johnny Cupcake didn’t even flinch.
Took the pen she waved and signed everything she put in front of him.
The Blue Danube Waltz
Christmas Eve. Early morning.
Monica and Anna Dubinska amble along the cinder track, the gravel crunching under the worn soles of their boots.
They hold their wicker baskets tightly in a grip that’s turned their knuckles white. Inside the baskets are home-made cakes, fine pastries that show off the poppy seed at its very best.
It’s not easy to see the beauty of these women underneath their woollen shawls, not in the half-light, but it’s there. Green eyes and long, red hair. When the sun comes out they will shine like beacons. But for now, they are all greys and browns.
They arrive at the gate and read the sign as they always do.
‘Work makes you free.’
It had been funny the first time. Maybe the second, too.
Anna turns to Monica. “It keeps our bellies full is all. And don’t you forget it.”
Monica purses her lips together and nods. These days it’s better if they don’t talk.
The helmet of the soldier on the gate covers his face in shadow. He looks spectral until he sees them walking over.
Soon as he catches sight of them, he’s up on his feet and stretching his back. Doesn’t let go of his rifle all the while.
He says something to them in German. They understand only a little. They smile back. It’s a warm smile. This guy is one of the gentlemen. Never lays a hand.
The tip of his rifle lifts the cloth that covers the cakes. He bends down and takes a sniff and makes the international noise of contentment.
His gloved hand reaches in and when it emerges, there’s a custard cone inside it. He puts it down in the sentry- box. Thanks them and opens the gate.
At the fork they stop for a moment and watch the train pull in.
It’s long and black. The windows are misted and covered in dirt from the engine’s smoke. The scene’s almost peaceful, like the night train arriving in Warsaw.
“The end of the line,” Anna says. The girls hug. Anna takes the left path, Monica the right.
A huge hiss escapes from the engine as it stops. Like an animal exhaling before falling asleep. The sound is the only thing that will be escaping.
For a moment all is quiet.
The silence is smashed by the opening of the carriage doors.
Dogs bark and people scream and shout. Both of the Dubinska girls put their fingers in their ears.
Anna sits at a long wooden table, watching.
She’s always surprised at how resigned they look. How thin and wasted. Like there’s nothing left inside.
The room is as crowded as the bakery on the days the shelves are full.
On the table-top the arrivals place watches and jewellery, money and Stars of David.
It’s hard watching them part with their precious things, but better this than her sister’s job. Monica will be sorting through bodies. Taking gold from teeth. Removing wooden arms and legs and throwing them onto the pile.
In front of Anna a man places a watch and a ring. His fingers are long and thin and, in spite of the dirt, she can see how soft they must be. The nails are perfectly manicured. A doctor, she thinks. Or a banker.
The man’s other arm is around a girl.
The girl has something that she hasn’t seen here in months – fire in her eyes. Spirit. Life. Her skin is like porcelain. Her features sharp. Hair dark and long.
Anna notices the shape of the girl’s hand. A loose fist. Can’t blame her for trying.
Anna bangs the table.
A soldier looks over. Follows Anna’s gaze and pushes the young girl over.
The fist remains closed.
Anna reaches over and grabs the girl’s arm. Holds it tight.
The girl tries to pull away. Leans back and pushes from the floor. She’s a feisty one alright.
With her free hand, Anna pulls at the girl’s fingers. Takes them one by one until the contents spill onto the table.
It’s a hand-cranked music box. Anna hasn’t seen one for years. Perfect for melting and re-shaping.
Her father reaches down to pull his daughter away. She fights him all the way, crying and screaming.
The soldier moves in. Slaps the girl hard.
Amidst the commotion, Anna slips the music box into her pocket instead of into the tray of metal behind.
The girl keeps screaming. Until the soldier clamps his hand around her mouth and carries her off.
Monica finishes her shift. Brushes herself down to get rid of the clippings. In a matter of hours she has shaved the heads of 100 women. Collected the hair in a small hill of blond and silver and mouse-brown.
She wraps herself back up in her shawl, picks up her empty basket and takes the first steps towards home.
Through the wire fence she can see the children staring. They huddle together in groups to keep warm.
One girl stands out from the others.
She’s reaching through, pleading. Dried blood is crusted at her nostrils. Her eyes seem to plead.
Without thinking, Monica steps off the path and goes over. Takes the hand of the girl and strokes it. Feels the softness of the skin and the strength of the bones.
The girl says something over and over. Monica can’t be sure, but she thinks she can translate the words as “Father. My father.”
Monica looks over her shoulder.
Smoke bellows from the chimney stack. It fills the air with a stench to which she has become accustomed. The girl’s pleas remind her that it is the stink of burning flesh.
There’s nothing to be done.
Monica reaches into her basket. Pulls out a handful sweets from the bag she traded with a German officer in between shavings. The officer took off his wedding ring before they completed the transaction, as if it made a difference.
She puts it into the hands of the girl. “Happy Christmas.”
The girl holds on to the sweets and Monica hurries on her way.
At the fork, where the paths meet, the sisters come together. Without speaking, they head for home to make the best of the celebrations for their own.
The two families sit by the fire.
Rose opens the bag and sees four sweets in the bottom. She knows she’s luckier than many. Hugs her mum and settles back to watch her cousin.
George opens his package in front of the burning fire.
The sight of the music box takes his mind from missing his father.
He turns the handle. Nothing happens.
He thinks again of his father and tears spill onto his cheeks.
Anna reaches over. Takes the box from his hand. Puts it down on the table.
“Now try,” she tells him.
As he turns the handle the air fills with music. ‘The Blue Danube Waltz’. High pitched notes come faster as he speeds up his winding. Louder and louder. Almost cover the whistling of the train arriving at the camp along the road.
Fisher Of Men
Dee. Four days in Paris and still a virgin. Tried the trick with Victor Noir at Pere Lachaise. Judging by the shine of his crotch am definitely not the first. Hope it worked for the others. Left a kiss for Oscar and a cigarette for Jim. Fingers crossed. Love you lots, Lisa xxx
I’d been looking forward to the holiday since January when Dee and I made the pact as our New Year’s resolution. No matter how delicious the blokes we dated, ignoring whatever itches we got, we’d save ourselves for a couple of dishy Frenchmen, let them take us all the way and
all the way back again.
Almost blew it with Robert after the prom. Even when I told him Aunt Flo was visiting he didn’t stop. Only took his hand from under my dress when I mentioned getting blood on the car’s upholstery. After that he didn’t even want to kiss.
Dee stopped dating altogether.
Sitting on the café terrace writing postcards, I missed her terribly. If she hadn’t broken her femur while schooling one of her horses, she’d have been sitting right next to me soaking up the atmosphere and helping me keep an eye on every man who stepped into range.
She’d have loved watching the passers-by as they were caught unawares by the over-watered window-box on the other side of the Rue Beaurepaire.
I really owed it to her to get my knickers off as soon as I could, and at Chez Prune I could practically smell the testosterone mingling with the heat and the aromas of coffee and tobacco.
The nicest looking customer wouldn’t have been out of place on display at the Louvre. Only problem was that he was busy. Kept stroking his girlfriend as if leaving her alone for more than a few seconds would cause her to spontaneously combust.
Behind me a group of students were setting the world to rights. Words poured from their mouths like they were in competition, their voices lyrical as the water of a fountain. As for the things they said, it was more like someone pissing into the gutter.
“Course I wouldn’t kick her out of bed,” one of them said of me. “But look at those calves. If my dad shaved his legs they’d look better than that.”
“And those shoulders. Perhaps she works in the fields.”
“Or milking cows.”
“Still, she’s not bad for an American.
“We’ll see. If nothing better comes along...”
Dee would have sorted them out right away. Me, I was going to take my time. Wrote another card instead.
Mom. You were right about French men. All the charm’s on the surface, like frogs turned into princes. There are some nice English girls at the hotel. Tomorrow they’re taking me to the Orangerie and for lunch. Jet lag gone. Eating the vitamins you packed. Next week Rome. How exciting. L xxx