Jigs & Reels

by Joanne Harris

  The others sense it too; grabbing weapons left and right they join me, fighting back-to-back as in the old days – Litso flinging spears into the enemy ranks; Spider with a sword in each hand and blood running down his arm. Philbert is cut down, but we will avenge him; I catch sight of Titania’s contorted face, screaming some incantation, before I plunge once more into the enemy horde.

  Veldarron falls; all around me the monsters are screaming and striking – with clubs, swords, axes. I catch sight of Matt, with blood on his face, but I know him now; I know them all. They are the enemy which cannot be defeated; the sneering armies of Youth, many-headed, indestructible.

  Beltane falls; Snorri is surrounded. Left and right we hew our way, unmoved by the pleas and cries of the monsters. Blows rain against my back, but I can barely feel them. Jupitus falls; then Titania, my Titania. My heart, pounding like a hammer, feels close to breaking.

  Now only Spider and I are left. Our eyes meet across the battlefield, and I see an expression on his face that I have never seen before, not in thirty years of fighting together: an expression of pure and abandoned joy. For a second he holds my gaze. In that moment I feel it too; the joy, the ecstasy. Our comrades are down. The enemy is strong. But we are warriors, Spider and I. And today is a good day to die.

  ‘No mercy!’ I roar at the top of my voice, and at last I am elated to see the enemy fleeing before me – the ones who still can. Only the restless newbie stands his ground. I can see him mouthing something at me, but my ears have stopped working. His face is twisted with indecision and disbelief, and there is something at his feet, something soft that whimpers and writhes.

  Spider and I take him both at once. Our swords strike in a dozen places. And it is now, as our last enemy falls and the mist drops from my eyes, that I see the blood on Spider’s discarded sword, black in the moonlight, and I remember the weapons he carries for show, just for show and for the special occasions, alongside the ones so carefully built and designed for safety.

  The battleground is littered with bodies; ours and theirs. Only one is not accounted for. But I knew that already. A small sound in the underbrush is the only indication of his passing; I know from experience that he will leave no trail. I find Titania lying to the side; she is dazed, but unhurt, and I help her up with a little thrill of illicit enjoyment. Beltane, too, is unhurt but for a scratch across his face; a moment or two later Litso emerges from the bushes, looking scared and relieved. Only Philbert hasn’t made it, we discover later; his old heart just wasn’t up to all the excitement. Still, he died in battle, as Veldarron says; and that’s what matters.

  ‘What about these monsters?’ says Titania, looking down at the corpses. ‘What a mess. Couldn’t Spider have saved a few for next time?’

  ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I tell her. ‘It was a good fight. And we can always get a batch of fresh monsters from the Poly. In fact, there’s a fantasy club just started that looks likely. Give me a week, and we’ll have numbers back up to normal. Now look at me, Titania,’ – I wipe a smear of blood tenderly from her cheek – ‘have I ever let you down? Well, have I?’

  She hesitates. ‘Of course you haven’t, Smithy,’ she said. ‘It’s just—’ once again she looks down at the dead monsters, and her brow furrows. ‘It’s just that sometimes I wonder what other people – you know, regular people – Mundanes – would think of all this.’

  I look at her in surprise. ‘Mundanes? What does it matter what they think?’

  Reluctantly she smiles. ‘Perhaps I’m getting sensitive in my old age,’ she says.

  ‘You’re not old, Titania,’ I tell her shyly. ‘You’re beautiful.’

  This time her smile is more assured. She gives me a small, soft kiss on the side of the mouth. ‘You’re so sweet, Smithy.’

  To the victor, the spoils. Her hair is slightly smoky from her time in the pub, and there is a salty taste on her lips. I kiss her, while behind me, Veldarron and the others look on with wide-open eyes and identical expressions of envy and astonishment.

  ‘So what happens next?’ That’s Snorri, looking slightly troubled, his eye on the fallen monsters.

  ‘I guess I’ll clear up.’ It’s my job, after all, as referee.

  Snorri is still looking troubled. ‘Bloody Spider went a bit OTT, didn’t he? I mean, the newbies are expendable, but good regulars are getting hard to come by.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll have a word.’

  There is a small, uncomfortable pause. ‘I suppose you’ll want to start a new character now,’ says Titania at last. ‘With Philbert gone we’ll need a fighter, and you’ve been practising, haven’t you? Some of those sword moves of yours were pretty good.’

  It’s a touching – and a flattering – offer. There is a perceptible tension amongst my friends as I consider it, consider what it would mean. I feel a sudden affectionate burst of warmth towards them all – their familiar faces, their homemade costumes, their split-washer armour, their lines and wrinkles, their faith. But what would they do without Smithy to keep things running? It may not always be fun being a monster, but it takes commitment to do it well; commitment and a level head. Spider couldn’t do it; neither could any of the others. Titania awaits my decision with a set, white face. I know how much it has cost her to suggest this; but I know my duty, too.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I tell them, shaking my head. ‘I think I’d rather stick to what I’m best at.’

  Within the party, the tension lessens. ‘Good old Smithy,’ says Veldarron, slapping my back.

  ‘Yeah. Good old Smithy.’

  I look round the circle. ‘Are we on for next Saturday?’

  Nods all round. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Same time, same place?’

  ‘Might as well.’

  Like I said, it has its moments. As I watch my friends walk back down the moonlit path towards the trees, I feel a complete, almost magical, sense of peace. The enemy has been defeated, this time at least. Who knows what next week will bring? Even with my fastidious methods of waste disposal, it is unlikely that the disappearance of nine students will remain unnoticed for long. It is possible that by next Saturday – or the next – we may have to move on to new hunting grounds. Of course, it’s partly the uncertainty that makes it such fun. But I do know that whatever we may face in some as-yet-unimagined future, we will face it together, Veldarron, Spider, Titania and I. The regular people – with their drab, mundane, imaginary lives – can never understand, I realize in sudden pity; and to my surprise, I find myself beginning to whistle softly as I get out my shovel and start to dig.

  Any Girl Can Be a CandyKiss Girl!

  HER FULL NAME is Dolores Candykiss. Dolly for short; or Lolly; or Lo. It helps to put a name to your typical consumer; it gives you the impression that you’re designing for a real person rather than some market-generated product with no dreams and no personality. Because CandyKiss (that’s our fashion house) is all about personality. That’s what makes my own range so popular (I design for Dolly, the youngest of our CandyKiss girls); it makes the consumers identify with her, love her – maybe even envy her a little. Of course, I’m just one of her designers, one of many in Dolly’s Summer Scandals range; but even so I feel I know her – love her – intimately.

  Her features are unclear. She could be blonde. On the other hand, she might be a brunette or a redhead. We try not to project too much visually; as we always say, there’s a CandyKiss outfit for every girl, whatever her shape, size or colouring. Instead, we concentrate on Lifestyle and Personality, the two strands that have made CandyKiss the leading youth designer of the decade.

  Dolly’s an independent, feisty, modern miss. She knows what she wants, and isn’t afraid to ask for it; and the new summer fashions reflect this. Cropped tops, sexy slogans and audacious contrasts (leather and lace, rubber and chiffon) are worn over pelmet skirts and hot pants in a sexy take on urban retro.

  She isn’t afraid of her feelings; one moment a siren, the next a naughty li
ttle girl, she uses her clothes to express her innermost self. Plunging necklines get a modern twist in burgundy leather or gold chain mail; and this season’s new-look silver bondage boots provide a witty throwback to the glorious days of sci-fi glamour. But Dolly has a sense of humour, too. She enjoys original pairings (white topless minidress with fur trim, matched with green booties with ‘Lips’ detail), ironic post-feminist slogans (I’m proud to say that my very own design, the screw me, you ugly son of a bitch T-shirt sold out in a single day), and for parties, she likes the all-out, no-holds-barred glamour-puss look, with its cinched waists, embroidered crotchless denims and figure-hugging Neoprene sheaths in flesh-pink, black or tangerine.

  Of course, we have had our share of critics. But there has always been an element of revolt in the fashion world, and today’s avant-garde is the vintage classic of tomorrow. The popularity of the Dolly range speaks for itself; already last year’s pink rubber minidress (that was one of mine, you know) is being hailed as a collector’s piece, and the witty range of accessories – bags, boots, scarves and panties all sporting the CandyKiss logo (pink lips sucking on a red lollipop) – has appeared to rave reviews in Rogue, Huzzah and Girlz4Us!

  But I do find the criticism of our design ethos particularly, personally hurtful. The grotesque caricature of Dolly, the CandyKiss mascot (said the Guardian in September) is especially vile. A plastified, cynical little madam in her designer wear and crippling shoes, she represents everything that is loathsome about today’s youth: the loss of innocence, the loss of beauty, and most of all, the loss of dignity.

  Now that hurts. It really does. Because I love my Dolly. I love all our CandyKiss girls, and my great pleasure is to imagine new and delightful things in which to allow them to express themselves. The adult world will always be contemptuous of the tastes of the younger generation; it feels threatened, both sexually and emotionally, and this fever of hate and resentment towards my poor Dolly and her siblings shows to what extent this threat has been perceived. Of course they think she’s too young. The voice of adulthood, seeing a lovely young thing clad in our striking designs, yawps in alarm: You can’t go out in that! The voice of envy, repeated over generations.

  At CandyKiss, however, we listen to the consumer, not her parents. We know her frustrations, her desire for revolt. That’s why the Summer Scandals range – my own baby, and one I’m very proud of – will revolutionize the youth market around the world. Logo’d G-strings in lime or fuchsia, T-shirts with our new sexy but shy slogan, trendy matching boots and clever one-pieces in the classic CandyKiss print will form the firm basis for a collection that will, I hope, at last propel me into the big league. Because Dolly, much as I love her, is only the beginning. Her siblings (Lolly and Lo, from our sister range) have far fewer restrictions in terms of size and design, and if I can manage to get myself promoted into Lolly – or even Lo – then I can really spread my wings. Dolly’s such fun, you know, and such a challenge; but I really think a man like me is wasted on Babywear. Just give me a chance at Pre-Teen or Eleven-Plus, and I’ll show you what I can really come up with.

  This nasty little tale came to me as I was shopping with my daughter. In one clothes shop, we came across a girl who was wearing a cropped top with the printed slogan CANDY KISSES FOR LITTLE MISSES – SEXY BUT SHY. She couldn’t have been more than five years old.

  The Little Mermaid

  I came up with this story at the gym. Not my favourite place.

  EVERY TUESDAY’S FREAK day at the body in question. I guess the management doesn’t want to upset the regular customers; people come to gyms to exercise and to look at beautiful bodies, not to be faced with a cartload of crips and mongs and uglies flopping round the pool. So we have a special day – every Tuesday, like I said – our special, personal spa and fitness day at B-in-Q, when (between the hours of eleven and two) we can flop and dribble to our hearts’ content without causing unnecessary distress to the able-bodied.

  Don’t think I’m bitter about it. Hell, I wouldn’t like to look at me, either. Big barrel-organ chest, little dangly legs, and scars you don’t want to imagine; all courtesy of a high-sided delivery van just outside Greater Manchester, a driver on a mobile phone, and my little Kawasaki with the hairdryer engine, from which I had to be separated with a pair of industrial pliers, if you can dig that. Even so, I left a part of myself – well, two parts, really, though I shan’t go into any more detail in case there are ladies present. Suffice it to say that on that day I became a bona fide freak, though I can still swim with my arms, which is more than some of the Tuesday crowd at B-in-Q can manage, thanks a lot.

  Oh yes, on Tuesdays we’re out in force. The shambling army of the unsightly, the unmentionable, the undead. I’ve got my wheels, and a trainee nurse to push them; most of the others have carers, too – some family members (they’re the worst, because they do care, and it hurts), but mostly just professionals, with wide, professional smiles, aching backs and ample wheelchair experience. They’re not bad people; but I can see the way they look at us – unlike some of the feebs that come on Tuesdays, I’m quite compos mentis, or compost mentis, as my old granddad used to say, though whether that’s a blessing or a curse I wouldn’t know. Him Up There has a pretty damn funny way of distributing his blessings, it seems, and as far as I’m concerned – no disrespect – I’d rather He gave it a miss.

  Ironic, isn’t it? I used to have quite an eye for the girls, in the days when my appreciation was valued and sought; and though in those days I would never have been seen dead at a gym, I’d have given my eye teeth to be around all those hot sweaty bodies, all flexing and treading and doing the splits against a glass wall with a view on the pool. Of course now all I get to see is the other crips, though I do have my own parking space if I care to use it, and a special entrance (at the back) for their convenience and mine.

  I’ve got to know some of them. It’s inevitable, coming here week in, week out, sitting together in the hydrotherapy pool, swimming in the regular pool. You get to know them by sight, though few ever give you their names; you learn which ones not to swim with (take it from me, the yellow trail’s a giveaway); you learn which ones will talk to you and which ones just sit by the poolside and cry.

  Some of them are legless like me: accident victims, freaks, amputees. The amputees are the lucky ones; some of them have prosthetics to walk about with and most of them are pretty decent swimmers, too. One man has three legs, all of them boneless and vestigial, which dangle from his pelvis like a kind of flesh skirt. I call him Squiddy, and it’s a riot to watch him swimming with his little legs wibble-wobbling behind him.

  Then there are the old people from the Meadowbank retirement place. Some bureau-cret somewhere decided that water therapy would be good for them, so here they are: old ladies with curved backs and tell-tale bulges in their baggy old one-piece swimsuits; old men with hairy noses and blurred, bleary eyes. Alzheimer’s cases, most of them; some cry as they are lowered into the water, others take the opportunity to fumble at their nurses with what looks to me like real compost-mentis lust, or growl rude slogans at the hospital cases as they limp by. I don’t like them much. They don’t talk to me, and they look like exhibits you might find in that Damien Hurst gallery – hopeless, joyless hunks of grey flesh, like something in formaldehyde.

  Then there’s the Slipperman. Don’t ask why. He’s able-bodied, but too unsightly for the regular crowd, who complained so much about his presence in the pool that he got relegated to Tuesdays, on a substantial discount. As far as I can tell he’s the bitterest one among us – though his infirmity is only skin-deep and totally non-contagious – and he refuses to acknowledge the rest of us when he’s in the pool, diving in with a mighty splash and showing off with a variety of special (and mostly useless) leg strokes, as if to prove that he isn’t one of us and really shouldn’t be there.

  Then there’s Jessie. I’ve got a soft spot for her (’scuse the pun; nowadays of course I don’t have any other kind), maybe because
she’s so young. I guess she’s a Down’s kid – what we used to call a mong – and for sure she’s a little slow in the head, but she’s sweet and she’s pretty, and she talks to me as long as I keep it simple and smile a lot.

  Lastly, there’s Flipper. That’s not my name for her, you understand; but she’s been called Flipper ever since she was born, and I guess it stuck. She’s young – twenty-five, maybe thirty – with the red hair and fleshy, flawless pallor that might have been called Pre-Raphaelite if she’d had all her bits. Of course she doesn’t – that’s why she comes on a Tuesday – but all the same she’s different from the rest of us. Or was, anyway.

  For a start, she could swim. Oh boy, could she ever. Most of us try; I’m pretty good, too – faster than Slipperman, in spite of his fancy moves – but Flipper was a natural. She had no arms or legs, you see; only webby paddles, with fingernails coming out of them, and horny, yellow soles. They were no use to her on dry land – she was so big that there’s no way they would take her weight – but in water that didn’t matter. In water she would come into her own, and the paddles, which had a peculiar, jointless look on dry land, would start to move in a circular motion rather like a bird’s wing, and she would roll from her chair, all fifteen stone of her, into the water without a splash, and then she’d be gone.