Butterfly Fish

by Irenosen Okojie

  Curled above our small liquid country, bathed in 60-watt light, he bent me over the tub more, holding my head under water. I opened my eyes; they stung as he slid in and out of me quickly. There was a rush of blood to my head while he moved, expanding me. In my mind’s eye, his member was covered in blood, its sly slit developing a taste for it. My mouth tried to hold the bend in his long penis in mirrors without steam. He moved in and out at a frenzied pace, I knew I couldn’t stay under for that much longer. Either I’d pass out or die but he held fast, slippery grip on my rubber band waist. My body went limp. My head sank further into the water, like a female flamingo mating. The 60-watt light bulb flickered.

  We were gulls on a sunken bed, chasing wounds disguised as bread. Flapping our stained grey wings beneath a curved, wet ceiling, waiting for paint to fall on us; for its strong fresh scent to fill our noses while we fucked, for the sheet that hung off the bed to become white water carrying our old scenes, wet and ready to fill the doorways of their birth. I knew the gulls would go blind from the artificial light, mouths lined with tobacco when they broke their necks against the ceiling, tricked into thinking it was a sky line. Mauve paint crumbled into the whites of our eyes, a train rumbling in the distance inadvertently became a burial ground for half-formed things. Our previous wet scenes found their way into the dead gulls, waiting for the sound of the next train to warn them of their travelling funeral ground. The 60-watt bulb flickered.

  We were mannequins that had abandoned the window display filling up with stones, trickling in from every angle. As the sound of roughly shaped stones rose, panic in our chests deepened. We communicated using expressions from the human versions of ourselves. We mimicked their body movements mirrored in glass. Panic in the mannequins waned. A sunken bed stained with come in the distance beckoned. Stones falling rang in their chests. Then their injuries came from climbing fences, stumbling in the dark, from wear and tear. The light flickered again. I felt my body being lifted from the tub, vaguely registering the squeaky sound the bath made as he hauled up my wet frame, hands beneath my armpits. My eyes stung from opening them in soapy water. Blood between my legs left a trail on the aqua coloured linoleum floor. He sat me up gingerly, the scent of period blood lingered in the air. He patted my cheek firmly. I blinked. His face swam.

  He inched closer, voice deep and full of wry humour he said, “How was it?”

  “Fucking great,” I murmured, spent, as if having a near death sexual escapade was ticked of my to do list. He was striking in the light, tall and wiry. Locks grazed his shoulders; the deep, golden skin he’d inherited from his Maori father glowed. Slightly slanted dark brown eyes crinkled easily and seemed to watch you even when he wasn’t looking in your direction.

  We sat on the balcony in our underwear, smoking spliffs to quieten the roar inside, listening to dog howls ricocheting through the night air. I didn’t ask about the wispy lock of brown hair in the bathroom cabinet that didn’t belong to me, or the blue false nail studded with blinking white stones breathing beneath the bed. I didn’t ask about why his tongue tasted of alcohol in the morning sometimes. He closed his bloodshot eyes, took a pull from the spliff, as if he was silently communicating with the red dog snapping in the distance, making it’s way towards us. He turned towards me, New Zealand accent thick. “Do you know what happened to the gold lady’s ring in my bottom drawer?” I held my hand out, he passed the spliff. I took a draw, watching smoke curling in the sudden tension. “Never seen it.” My silent fury had escaped from the confines of the false nail. The red dog bearing bloodshot eyes paused to eat it. The bed sheet wrapped around me slipped beneath my inverted breast, already turning in the carnage of items on the bedroom floor.

  In that weird, smoggy state between being half asleep and awake, I watched Anon from my comfortable position on the double bed. Rangi lay curled in the opposite direction, lilac sheet tangled between us and one leg half-flung over the duvet. He breathed rhythmically, chest rising and falling, making small sounds that were an odd combination of snoring and whistling. Anon stood by the stash of record sleeves, old albums of Jimi Hendrix, Marvin Gaye and The Shangri-Las and began rummaging through clothes strewn on the floor, lifting empty glasses of wine and the small atlas on the drawer to collect a torn, wrinkled piece of paper she stashed in my bag.

  Rangi adjusted himself, making the mattress groan. Her hand stilled over his black smartphone, eyes daring me to make a sound. Sweat began to pop on my brow and the room became hazy. Rangi turned again, back muscles exposed. How could he sleep through this? She stood then in the light angling from the balcony, arms outstretched. I sat up, my heart beats loud, her accented voice in the space between them. Something in the air changed. Outside, two cats mating screamed. The water pipes whistled.

  I stood up, hypnotised, longing for my rough stones and the reassuring swell in my throat from swallowing. Maybe she hadn’t been looking for something. Maybe she’d been leaving something behind. We swapped mouths. Then she was holding the baby from the road, its yellow Skittles packet dropped to the floor silently. She began to feed it Rangi’s missing ring. It smiled happily. The ribbons from the tub became bloody baby footprints on the hardwood floor. I listened for Rangi through the din threatening to swallow me. I knew the day after; he’d wear his animal mask to prowl after me in the dark. I stumbled around, longing for his sly-eyed penis to split me in two, for his semen to be a rushing river chasing oddly shaped stones.

  Incision

  A mouse’s red head spun the day I met Rangi. Coincidentally, on my way out, the dead mouse lay just beyond my thick, brown welcome mat. It was mid movement, body arched, fearful final expression frozen. I swept it up quickly; holding my nose, already mummifying, a chalky residue coated its frame. I imagined its tiny head spinning in the afterlife, sneering at its previous attempts at living. I wondered about the versions of me doing the same thing, raising their heads above margins and shaking in disappointment, changing their expressions in slanted, translucent ceilings, watching small men made of debris limp away into the distance.

  All morning I’d had a sick feeling of dread in my stomach and a bitter taste in my mouth I’d tried to wash down with two cups of peppermint tea and an out-of-date croissant. I’d padded around the flat, shutting windows against whistling that snuck in, then opening the windows again to release them. I’d have to talk to the centre about these medications they had me on that made me feel like a stranger in my own body, made me forget things.

  I was sure of it. No, I wasn’t sure of it, it wasn’t the medications. It was me. I was the problem. Medications were there to help. Why couldn’t I see that? Why couldn’t I see it was for my own good? Why did I always have to ruin things with negativity?

  Six o’clock that morning I’d sat up in bed listening to a scuttling in the ceiling, t-shirt damp from cold sweat, I shivered, willing myself to change. The scuttling continued. Maybe it had been the mouse trying to escape the death that awaited it in muted afternoon light. As my doppelgangers angled their bodies over a darkening skyline, the mouse’s last expression reassembled in their stomachs.

  Each borough had a local paper or magazine. Since my mother died, now and again, I’d scan the births, deaths and marriages sections, pen in hand jotting down names that caught my interest. Photography work was slow and it was another risky income stream. Suitably dressed in a black, knee length dress, green-eyed lizard brooch pinned to my breast, low kitten heels and twists curbed into a neat bun, netted navy hat perched on my head, I arrived at the service at St Mathew’s church in Bow fifteen minutes late.

  The wrought iron gates creaked loudly. Amongst the crackling, golden leaves on the short grey flight of steps, a crumpled twenty pound note jumped. A red line drawn over the queen’s mouth was the inky ripple leaves curled into before shooting off in different directions. I grabbed the twenty, stuffing it inside the sleek leather bag on my shoulder. Tall, dark wooden doors were flung open and the hymn being sung was loud enough to muffle the sound
of my heels clicking. A statue of Mary in the hallway stood before a painting of the last supper. Mary had no tongue. In the painting, her moist, pink tongue was on a platter, darting with the weight of things it had to say. I kissed Mary on her cold forehead, watched her hands change colour from grey to brown. Suddenly it was my mother standing before a last supper, arms outstretched, past scenes crumbling on her fingers into dust trying to communicate with no tongue.

  I spotted the cloakroom at the far end of the hallway. Through the glass the jackets were neatly hung, sleeves lined up against each other as if they were an army of lockstepping men, while the bodies of the dead turned in red wine. The priest intoned in Latin. An adrenaline rush hit my limbs at high speed. I never knew what to expect in these situations. Anything could happen. The important thing was to act as naturally as possible and to get the business end taken care of quickly.

  I entered the cloakroom, took my jacket off, keeping one eye on the entrance. I rummaged through the pockets of coats dangling an invitingly short distance away. The beauty of it was, people left all kinds of things in their coats; jewellery, old photos, condoms. Once, I’d found torn lace panties.

  The priest spoke again, his voice a calm, soothing accompaniment to the pilfering happening in the cloakroom. Anon continued to instruct me quietly and my sweaty fingers became assured in those foreign pockets. I stuffed cash, credit cards, a watch and a red ruby stoned ring into my bag. Somebody in the service dropped a coin; I heard its slow roll on the smooth marble floor.

  I buckled my bag shut, left the cloakroom closing the door gently behind me.

  The service was half full, I wandered in quietly, coiled tension in my back slowly dissipating. A grey haired, middle-aged lady at the front nodded at me. I nodded back solemnly fingering the new found silence of the coin I’d scooped on my way in. The wooden pews were deep, still holding the prayers and confessions of sinners long gone. Sunlight glimmering through the scene on the stained glass window behind the pulpit gave it an ethereal glow. From the window Jesus had lost his strides in the sound of a truck pulling up on a nearby street. I heard the key turning in its stiff lock, the quiet purring of the engine cooling down.

  Miss Argyle, whoever she was had friends in death. One woman in the pew to my left wiped tears from her eyes, another clutched her handbag so tightly, her knuckles strained against the skin. Somebody at the pulpit was giving an impassioned dedication. On the walls the carvings of saints leaned forward, burial soil softening in their mouths. From the bright window Jesus armed with an orange tongue would have to borrow legs from somebody he’d once forgiven.

  I sensed him before I saw him. Something in the air changed, a shift I couldn’t quite identify. My neck became warm. My skin tingled. The smell of an earthy-scented aftershave filled my nostrils. I adjusted in my seat as the pew behind me creaked from somebody leaning back. Curious, I turned to see a lean, exotic looking man tucking a slither of silver Rizla paper into his pocket. His locked, wavy hair was tied back. He had on black jeans and a dark tweed jacket that had seen better days but was oddly stylish. His broad nostrils flared. He placed one long finger over his lips, pointed forward, indicating for me to mind my business. Liquid light brown eyes twinkled in amusement. In that moment, he seemed changeable. As if he could inch forward and his bull’s head would sprout over the subdued din or his crow hand would cover my breast and flick against its inverted nipple.

  As the service rolled on, the tightness in my chest returned, an angular rip that was haemorrhaging. And suddenly I was back at my mother’s funeral, amongst a cluster of mourners looking for all intents and purposes a little relieved they weren’t the ones being lowered into the ground. Mervyn had wiped his tears away while people’s condolences swirled in my head, sentences that broke and re emerged as small wasp-like creatures, fluttering their wings between rapid eye movement. I’m so sorry. This is unexpected. How will you cope?

  A woman’s coat flapped against slender legs encased in black tights. The white hyena in the sky bore down ready to swallow the scent whole so I gave it the wasps in my head. People looked into the rectangular chasm in the ground, as if their own eyes would mirror back the change of season. I spilled soil on the casket. It popped open. My mother sat up at the far right end of the silky ivory interior, picking the hem of her skirt, threads dangling out of the casket. I crawled towards her, stretching my hand at her face as it blurred and redefined itself. There’s no room for two here. She said that in a dry, accented tone that flooded me with familiarity. I pressed my head against her chest, listening to the sound of taps running, of warm bath water spilling. The casket was damp; I began to feel around for a leak.

  Then I patted my body down for leakage.

  Then I was swept into Mervyn’s arms.

  Then I was silently screaming, holding onto the shuddering of his shoulders, pressing my fingers against distorted shards of light.

  At the party afterwards, held in a separate room that boasted large stained glass windows and an ornate mural ceiling I watched the man hiding the sliver of silver from the corner of my eye. He moved easily, interacting with other mourners. Kids ran in and out, small mountains of food dwindled. People talked about the dead woman as if she’d never made a mistake. Maybe they did this subconsciously, affected by being in God’s house. How did you know Abbie? The inevitable question cropped up repeatedly. I made stories up on the spot, wondering how I’d ever explain to Dr Krull the strange comfort I got from attending the funerals of others, telling myself most people wouldn’t realise they’d been robbed until they’d driven off and arrived at their next destination. The fleshy bodies turning in red wine began to lose their heads. I kept my eye on the exit in case I needed to bolt. Stones rolled in my bag for comfort and as part of an escape plan.

  He finally approached me carrying an empty beverage bottle. The air between us was thick with promise. When he spoke it was like being knocked over unexpectedly, a kick in the gut, a rush of warmth flooded my skin.

  “I didn’t know her,” he murmured unapologetically. “The dead woman” he continued, smiling at the bewildered expression on my face.

  I raised my shoulders to release tension. “Oh, why would you attend the funeral of somebody you don’t know? It’s deceitful,” I said. He looked me in the eye knowingly, an unsettling tight expression on his face. “I followed you in here. You walk like a woman I once knew in Haiti. I’m sorry for your loss,” he offered, just a hint of mockery in his voice.

  “Thank you,” I answered, surprised by the pangs of sorrow I felt.

  He rummaged inside his jacket, fished out something. “You dropped this by the way.” He handed me the £20 from the steps. The Queen’s silent expression had subtly darkened. “Hey! I put that in my bag.”

  “Ah, you’re not the only one with tricks. Come on, there’s an interesting crypt space downstairs. I’ll show you, don’t make a scene.”

  He was so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath.

  The crypt was cool but his hands were warm. He propped me up against a disused bar, slipped a finger inside me, promising to mark my underwear with cigarette burns. He pressed the bottle mouth against my back. The woman whose walk I’d inherited sat at the bottom in smoke form, curling into our breaths. Tires screeched away, stones rustled, bite marks on my shoulder formed a raging map of teeth indentations. The bodies in red wine swam after their floating, drunken privates. Sweat pooled between my breasts. I liked the metallic taste of his zipper in my mouth, the fury of his fingers sliding in and out of me frenetically, his changeable face buried in the damp, gnarly thatch of hair between my legs. His mouth sucked greedily on the arches of my feet. His hands tightened on my throat, saints on the church walls orgasmed in unison. My tongue came undone

  Down

  In

  The

  Crypt.

  Chesapeake

  At night the beach was pretty much deserted. Faces from the rocks slipped into the sly sea line while the waters thrashed
as if a second moon would appear. Rain soaked and wind blown, I watched Rangi’s lone, lean frame angling into the foamy depths. He changed with each dive and stroke, beneath the knowing gazes of underwater creatures. I leaned into the wind from my view between two rough-hewn peaks, breeze dented, scowling chip paper in one hand; greasy fat chip in the other. Shots of vinegar created sour warmth in my mouth. Above a smattering of gulls chorused loudly.

  I was joyous having left behind London and the brass head beneath my bed, the fascination it held and the sick feeling it produced in my stomach. I thought of my grandfather’s diary, facing the things I’d inherited breathing between the lines of a bound leather book.

  The wind began to howl. My inappropriate plimsolls were soaked. Typical of me to wear the wrong footwear, you can’t even get that right. I shivered. The salty sea air felt good, I was slowing down my demons, given them a different oxygen. The faces in the night water waited patiently for limbs. Rangi stood, water undulating around him, motioning for me to join him. “Come on!” he yelled. “Stop being an observer!” he taunted. A weird rush of intensity filled my body, even in the distance between us, the air was electric. I shook my head, scared he’d notice something we both didn’t want to see rise to the surface of water. I leaned forward to get a closer view, certain his body had encountered haphazard bits of life underwater; a plane’s wing, a diver’s mask, the moon’s silver-limbed doppelganger.

  Don’t be an observer. I wasn’t. There I was running off with a stranger to get to know myself, convinced the limestones in my pocket had left damp stains. They glimmered in those small openings, moist and full of slow promise. If I got really anxious, I could always nibble on them. Rangi called out to me in a language I didn’t recognise, water dancing with his shark mouth. I rubbed my tender neck, blinking against the tide and the memory of him trying to strangle me in his sleep the night before. I stilled my body, a statue amidst black rocks, listening to the heartbeat galloping towards my chest.