These Demented Lands

by Alan Warner

  The raincoat was slapping about his legs as he lurched, madly measuring out distances halfway up the runway; looking into sky then with a lone, still-headed stare out to the Sound waters where his unattainable aircraft lay all-sunken, he made a note in a wee book.

  It was getting dark when I saw the Aircrash Investigator turn against the last slick of light upon the wide waters; he seemed to take a long look in my direction. It was then I spotted the figure between us, head slumped down and moving at a walking pace, though I couldn’t see the feet, just he/she making its way forth where banking of the ground beyond the runway dips down to stony shore. As you watched you guessed the new figure was three hundred yards-ish distant, legs hidden by sheaves of moor grass. It came closer, in the half-light, harder to distinguish it from darkshadow where the jetty began. The Aircraft Investigator in his blackcoat began to point, I could see him show his erect arm to the first stars: it wasn’t at me he was pointing but the walking figure. The Aircrash Investigator shook both hands in the air so you recognised he had started running. Then I turned my head, but as my eyes adjusted, as close as I would ever see, the ghost’s head still bowed, movements stiff and face so pale it seemed blue-coloured: no feet, spookily floating along the stones.

  I heard a sound; at first I thought it was a seagull then I recognised the humanness of a shout: The Coated One Who Walked the Skylines was waving me, calling me. I frowned, sudden, in coldness offof what I’d seen. I walked towards him across the runway but he veered down the shore banking out of sight. By the time I’d crossed, Aircrash Investigator was along under the seaweed covered jetty-supports (the tide was right out); the other figure was nowhere to be seen. I squinted shore darkness and open runway space but the ghost was gone.

  ‘I hear a kangaroo has escaped from the zoo now,’ gasped out the coated guy, arms chucked out to balance, one leg so bended at the knee; the slope so steep his face almost touched the grass. He chuckled, hard.

  ‘Aye. So I heard. They took the grizzly away slung under the helicopter,’ I says.

  He nodded, looked both ways then leaned his palms on his knees. The belt of the overcoat had come loose of its loops, the grass had saturated it so wet it was glisteny as it dragged and suddenly gave me such powerful (what I call privately) Human-Frailty feelings for the leaned-over man. I almost blurted out everything. Tears came bubbling out and I wanted to dish a big hug on him. Human Frailty, never to be confused with the thing called pity; I was only saved by his excited blethers.

  ‘You were so close and you saw it, eh?’

  I nodded, my eyes bright below the tripping skies that were starting to shuffle in plains of stars.

  ‘Like you’ve seen a ghost. Hey, help me out. I’ve got to get dressed, there’s no woman among all these wives I can ask . . .’

  As we walked up to the hotel, away from the ghost-sighting, in darkness now, One Who Walks the Skylines of Dusk says of how days had passed ‘as they do’. He mentioned Chef Macbeth’s buzzing remote-control aircraft ‘circling through these unbearable afternoons’ and, the phrase I like best, ‘the couples who linger like graveyard statues in the pine plantation.’

  In his room he says to me, ‘I may as well be Robinson Crusoe.’

  ‘Tonight I’ll be your Man Friday,’ I smiled. He roared in the hystericals, returned the long-forgotten-about raincoat to the empty wardrobe. From the suitcase (behind it an almost empty bottle of Spar whisky) he took the suit. I held the jacket with my fingers then swung it on, pulling it tight onto my sides by pushing arms straight into the bottoms of pockets. He had covered the mirrors of his room with towels long ago so I moved to the bathroom shouting, ‘Do you have a shirt?’ realising that never before would he have heard a voice calling from there.

  So in a once-elegant suit gathered around my feet he saw my socks still on, my fingernails with titchy remains of coloured Miss Selfridge’s nail varnish. It was then he began to realise.

  He said, ‘You won’t show me your feet, cause of new nail varnish. I smashed your window; you must’ve been afraid, if only I’d realised before,’ he laughed, ‘you’re amazing, just amazing. You didn’t come to me to lay those two dresses on the bed and try to win the Belle of the Ball, you didn’t come to show me the few bits of make-up and lipstick you filched from the youngest-looking two of all the wives, or to show me how to measure my foundation shade against the blue veins of my wrist,’ he says, ‘you want to show me you and I are the same, you’ve come to reveal the truth. At first I thought it was . . .’

  When he’d got me to take off the woolly, itchy socks from the Chandlers we stared at each other. I put down the Ladyshave, says, ‘I’ll call for you at quarter-to; get your legs shaved!’ and headed out wearing his suit.

  An hour later I’m walking with him, arm-in-arm up the corridor; a honeymoon couple were in front: the man’s muscled thighs beneath a short skirt, the woman’s hair brylcreemed back, a lit cigarette in her hand that she wasn’t smoking.

  More of the bizarre drag couples were gathered in the dining room, laughing and admiring each other’s clothes. DJ Cormorant, looking glum behind his mixing desk, droning out Dylan, a whelk-picker’s halogen lamp bouncing up and down as he perused Brotherhood’s circled tracks on The Permitted Albums.

  Chef Macbeth, dressed as a nurse, was serving draught beer from behind the white-clothed buffet table far across the dining room. Everywhere the men-figures were lifting half pints or soft drinks to their mouths; the women-figures were guzzling pints and staining whisky glasses with bright red lipstick. A man-figure in a sailor suit holding a life-belt came in with a woman figure shoving out a massive bosom that parted the doors; the woman was Shan the Ferryman, the man was his wife.

  A woman-figure in seventeenth-century high white wig with tumbles of sparkling earrings stepped in, looked around. Through the viciously applied foundation I recognised Brotherhood; the velvet of his dress shifted as he crossed and spoke sharply to Macbeth, lifted a clutched pint to his pale face.

  Mrs Heapie entered with her husband. She’d really gone to town with an orange boilersuit buffed up with oil stains, a construction worker’s hard-hat and a menacing big monkey-wrench that she placed, carefully, down on the tablecloth, her steel-toed boots sparkled gaily in the disco lights.

  And I, One Who Walked the Skylines on my arm, I’d gone and drawn a man-moustache, bigote, above my lips with curly ends; the baggy suit and my titchy canvas shoes. The One Who Walked had one of the wives’ (from 12 I think) short dresses showing his long, now smooth, legs but we hadn’t been able to get him fitting shoes, so’s at the end of those great legs were just the clodhopper boots but we waltzeyd straight off to that Father of Night Dylan track (1:29) (How mysterious, containing all things that are hidden.)

  When we’d done our little dance, saying, ‘Time for medicine,’ Aircrash Investigator moved towards Macbeth, far across the dance floor.

  I knew the way people’s eyes jumped a little looking at it, my moustache moved funny when I did the talking. ‘What’s with the music?’ I says to Cormorant who we’d all known of once, on account of his always playing in bands.

  ‘It’s Brotherhood’s.’

  I kneeled and flicked through the every one of Dylan’s albums.

  ‘Fancy some hash?’ Cormorant says.

  ‘Nah,’ I went.

  ‘You’re cute, even as a guy; how about it?’

  ‘Get lost.’

  ‘Is that your husband?’

  ‘Nut.’

  Cormorant nodded, the light swishing on his forehead. Then, saddest of everything, he played Sign on the Window; we looked a long time then, ever so gingerly, smiled at the beautiful sadness.

  Brotherhood strode up with more drag couples. He was chortling but I saw through the smile how he was spying on me and the Investigator for as to what was up. Brotherhood walked to me and tapped his breasts upwards with the palms of his hands, ‘I’m unpacking’.

  The Aircrash Investigator stepped over as I rose from the box
of records with Permitted Tracks on them.

  ‘I wish you were a man. I’d ask you to dance,’ says Aircrash Investigator to Brotherhood.

  ‘Oh we can double up: I’m very open-minded.’

  ‘You look lovely,’ I says, so they two wouldn’t maybe fight.

  ‘How about a kiss, Mister?’ asked Brotherhood.

  ‘I don’t want lipstick on my collar,’ I goes.

  Both men, in their women-clothes, laughed. I leaned to Brotherhood’s earring and whispered, ‘I’m not afraid of you.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he went, thoughtfully.

  DJ Cormorant shouted, ‘Hey Mister Bro’hood, Mr Bro’hood Dude, this stuff is sharp, lyrically I’m talking about, but I could really fuck everyone up if I mixed in a few breakbeats. I mean, these fiddles, they’re depressing man – the fiddle’s unsexy, like the trombone.’

  Without looking over at the DJ, Brotherhood says, ‘Just you play what I told you – and whatever, save I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight until last; here . . .’

  Brotherhood grabbed the microphone.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen – or should I say Gentlemen and Ladies – I, and all of us here at Drome Hotel, thank you for joining in so spiritedly. Chilli and rice is being served by Nurse Macbeth, with beer to keep everything from getting too steamy. A contest for the beau and belle of the ball will be held later but meanwhile will you all please take the floor for a waltz.’

  ‘Get it on, man,’ Brotherhood hissed.

  DJ Cormorant started spinning the song: a lolloping, weird waltz with fiddles and harmonicas called Isis.

  The couples started grabbing each other’s drag-dressed wives and husbands. Suddenly, Brotherhood lifted my hands then waltzed me out into the middle of the floor. He waltzed dead well, while he mouthed the lyrics of Isis at my face as if he was trying to communicate something. As I listened to the words I learned I could make Brotherhood my victim.

  The One Who . . . etc . . . The Debris Man, looked toward us. Watching him over Brotherhood’s velvet shoulder I saw him hitch up the bosom then begin to cross towards Macbeth who saw his advance and looked down, worried, at the beer he was pouring. Straight away The Debris Man was round and dragging Macbeth onto the dance-floor. In his nurse uniform, Chef Macbeth tried to laugh it off but yous could tell the amount furiousness he had, all pent up in him. Yous could tell the Aircrasher was getting his own back as he squeezed their big breasts to each other and made Macbeth circle much faster than normal in an over-the-top waltz. The Aircrasher stopped and spun Macbeth round with his legs rising off the ground helplessly. The nurse’s skirt rumpled up, giving the sickening sight of the chef’s splotchy legs gripped in fishnet stockings.

  Other drag-couples waltzed, cheered and showed the gumption enough to stand aside as Macbeth turned all the faster then was suddenly flung aside, hit the wood tiles and rolled the once. Macbeth straight-away shot up on his feet but one of his high heels buckled under him and he sat down.

  Brotherhood had to stop the dancing with me cause of his hysterics, he was rubbing his make-up into a complete soup. Another waltz called Winterlude started, so I crossed to Aircrasher who was at the tap himself, serving beer under frowns from Mrs Heapie, her monkey wrench at hand as she served out dollops of ferocious chilli con came with rice.

  Brotherhood helped Macbeth to his feet, shouted at him and tottered over, his wig knocked to one side.

  Houlihan, Man Who Walked the Skylines – whatever – with his Irishish name, passed a paper plate of chilli speared with plastic fork. ‘Get that down the middle of your neck,’ he goes.

  I took one taste and got pins and needles in my face. ‘Jesus,’ I says, reached out and took a hold of his big pint for a wolfing of a few gulps.

  We waltzed again, hand on his smooth shiny shoulder, his bare arms around the material of his own suit.

  ‘The ghost,’ he whispered.

  ‘We saw it,’ I nodded.

  ‘Together,’ he goes.

  DJ Cormorant put a boogie-ish number on: Down Along the Cove. Crazy Brotherhood, owner of the whole sheboogle, led in a hokey-kokey; a lot of chests and asses got put in, taken out and shaken all about: more than some busts could be expected to endure, and there was a rash of collapsications and shifting bra adjustings. Then Brotherhood was organising and led a conga line – even us and DJ Cormorant having to do the joining in as we wove out the dining-room doors and off up and down the corridor, lighting the rooflights first-time-ever all the ways down. The length of the line came, twisting a bit clumsy-like, out of rhythm up the spiral staircase, round the Observation Lounge: some of the rear-line figures holding beer bottles they’d swiped, passing the bar, those tanning the bottles and eventually dropping them on the dining-room floor where feet went on kicking and spinning them round on the shiny dancing tiles.

  Brotherhood, me and the man stood beside the DJ Cormorant’s desk, Brotherhood’s fake jewels sparkling.

  ‘You’re really getting into your parts, guys,’ DJ Cormorant nodded.

  The Aircrash Investigator goes, ‘Hey, son, your baseball cap’s on the wrong way round.’

  ‘Ho ho. Bro’hood, Sir. What we were talking about: the mainer. Big one after Christmas to bring in all the piller kiddies. Perfect pitch down on the airfield.’

  ‘What’s this?’ I goes.

  ‘Repetitive beats from amplified systems. That’s where the money is at the end of this century. You guys make the misery, you guys may as well muscle in on the escapism from it.’

  ‘I’m thinking of expanding. Drugs.’ Brotherhood nodded firmly.

  ‘Not just drugs, Mr Bro’hood, the entire holistic escapist theme park right here at Drome Hotel and its environs. I can engineer it for you.’

  ‘How does that sound to you, children?’ Brotherhood smiled and placed a hand on our shoulders. He added, ‘I’ll handle security.’

  A lump chilli con came flew through the air, splattered on some man’s hairy, bare back, just below the effulgence of his imitation diamond clasp.

  DJ leaned forward to try protect the decks as more blobs of chilli came slowly arcing, sailing across close to the ceiling. A stray lump, thrown by some man in an imitation fur coat, soared over and hit a stumbling girl wearing a false beard that seemed of cotton wool.

  Crouched by the DJ’s desks I saw it all: the young wife who’d lent me Aircrasher’s dress – and the Rimmel stuff – marched forward, cradling a huge kitchen pot, her brand new husband in the blue dress (darkened on the thigh by direct hits) at her side. She clawed fists into the pot and flung bracelets of chilli ahead. Men? women? roared and men screamed as blood-red gashes of chilli opened up, glossy on the lacy clothes and pale faces – surely both those men felt at home in this feast of wet wounds? A spatter caught the Aircrash Investigator on his smooth bare chest just above cleavage. He stepped forward and heaved the pot away from the dressed-as-a-golfer-girl, plunged his hand and ground a load into the girl’s face who screamed. The husband slammed a gateau into the Aircrasher’s face. That halted him for a tick as his eyes opened up through synthetic cream then Aircrasher lifted the pot and tipped the full load over the husband who tried to dodge but, in his high heels, couldn’t move sharply enough – a huge glut of chilli sauce slid down his bare back and brushed the sticking-out-arse as it plopped to the floor, a high heel jerked out to one side leaving a clear strip of wood flooring: the guy was down as Aircrash Investigator stepped over him dropping the pot with a clang.

  Chilli and gateau were flying everywhere. ‘Follow me, stick by my side,’ called the Investigator. A handful of chilli hit my face and my eye began to sting like fury but with the other I saw enough to weed my way through all – towards Brotherhood who leaned, tossing out plates of chilli, wig awry, like some terrible aircrash victim, blood-thick sauce strewn down him like mutilation. Aircrash Investigator punched with all his weight and caught Brotherhood below the eye. I winced as the wig flew off, pale powdered face highlighted under still-sandy hair. Brotherhood landed on his arse, legs
out, wet hairs twisted and compressed under the revolting stockings. The Aircrasher’s face slapped aside by a hit of chilli.

  The room had divided into two camps: one sheltering behind the buffet tables, the other salvaging and returning dollops of chilli from the wailing DJ’s desk. I was caught in the crossfire of No Man’s Land.

  ‘Follow me,’ the Aircrash Investigator says.

  We both dropped to our knees. Casualties, drunk – and a couple not officially man and wife, together snogging, lay among the red puddles of sauce.

  As the Aircrasher, Warmer, One Who Walked Skylines . . . Monsieur Debris . . . all the names he used on me then . . . as he took my hand and we crawled together out of that dining room, DJ Cormorant jumped up and down, clapping gallantly: the sound system began blasting I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight.

  SECOND MANUSCRIPT

  Part Two

  WHAT MUST HAVE happened back in my room is: I said to her, ‘If you take off your shoes and socks, I’ll be able to see you’re the same as me.’

  She stood in my ruined last suit, reached up to remove a kidney-bean skin from her neck. I looked at the speckles of nail varnish on the ends of the fingers. I said, ‘At first I thought it was because you had lost everything when the wee ferry sunk, then I realised you wouldn’t put up with Brotherhood’s humiliations, the clothes he bought you, unless, well unless you were broke. I lay awake trying to imagine why you put up with it till I realised you had no choice. This is why, if you take off your shoes and socks I think we’ll see you’ve put nail varnish on your toes; you haven’t put it on your fingers because that would be too obvious, the nail varnish of these young wives is the first make-up you could get hold off since you got here.