“Hey, look…” Oliver Connecticut seemed to be coming down, getting his second wind, “He was fucking asking for it, you know.”
“I know.” Philip Maine turned him to the bar, “Just drink your drink. Calm down. Okay?”
“Yeah, Right.” Oliver Connecticut looked around at the office junior who was just coming round. He took the glass of coke from the hand Lily Veyne and, as Philip Maine returned to the living quarters upstairs to whatever he was doing before the kafuffle, he locked the albino barmaid right in her pink bunny-eyes and said, “You cheap fucking slag.”
“Nobody’s perfect.” Lily Veyne replied as cold as ice.
“But with the whole front row of my rugby team?” Oliver Connecticut bawled incredulously.
“No, blame me. You blokes are all the same. It's always the girl’s fault if she gets a little careless!” and began to weep openly. A performance Oliver Connecticut had not yet witnessed, no one could guess how he would take it.
“Here she goes…” an old, bald guy tried to get the attention of his drinking partner.
“Eh?” asked the other bald guy as he thumbed his unlit pipe; he moved a double-three domino to the end of the snake; put a three-blank after that. “What?!” he grunted.
“Look. Our illustrious barmaid…”
“What about her?”
“Look, for God's sake!”
He took a gulp of his half of mild, studying his game. He looked up. “So, she’s giving some other dope the sob story. Who cares? Play, will yer. It's your move and I'm dying for the pint you’re gonna owe me when I thrash you to within an inch of your life.”
“Over my dead body, you will.”
“That can be arranged.” he showed his rotten old gums.
The mild-drinker laid down a double blank; looked at his mate’s white face. Sat back in his creaky, wooden chair; hands behind his head. Ha.
“Not so fast…”
“What? Where? There's nowhere you can go!”
“Wait…” the pipethumber looked up to the ceiling.
“Don’t you dare.”
The pipethumber's face was stretching, mouth open like a landed pike
“Don't you bloody well dare.”
The pipethumber jerked forward onto the table, hands scattering the dominoes as he let out the biggest, falsest sneeze of his cheating career. “Oh, Christ, sorry mate.” He lied.
“Bollocks you’re sorry.”
“No, really.” he bluffed shamelessly, “I remember where the pieces were..” feebly shuffling the dominoes about the table top huffing and tutting for a long number of blagardly seconds.
“No, forget it, Albert. You are a crook. You’re a cheating crook. Just do the decent thing and get us another half of mild, eh?”
Having thought about retaliating to this character assassination, Albert Nebraska nodded to himself, “Harry… he said strongly, You...”
Albert braces himself for an abusive spit-shower.
“..are absolutely right. Give us your bloody glass.”
“Ha.” Harry Ohio laughed the once, pushing his empty glass over to the rising star.
“You'd strip a man dry for the sake of a principal.” Albert Nebraska grumbled, picking up the glass.
“What else is there for a man of my years but victory over another senile old cunt?” he again showed his gums.
Ever attentive, Harry noticed a suspicious-looking Ronny Corbett look-alike shamble into the pub behind his domino-partner's back and whisper something to the barmaid, Lily Veyne, pointing to the 'snug' and going there.
“Refill these with mild, luv.” Albert Nebraska handed Lily Veyne the two froth-lined glasses.
“I'll change these glasses…” she smiled in her eternally seductive way, “They're filthy.”
“No bother.” said Albert Nebraska, watching her tits as she reached down for two cleaner half-pint glasses.
“I'll change them anyway.” she smiled.
“Whatever you say, luv.” Albert Nebraska was simply enjoying the view, his head to one side, his jaw hanging open. The halves of mild were promptly served.
“Give us a pack of those nuts as well, luv.”
“Dry Roast or normal?”
“Eh?” Albert Nebraska was in a dream world.
“Your nuts, would you like dry-roasted or just the normal salted peanuts?”
“What's the difference?” Albert fished in his pocket for change.
“I'll give you the normal ones.”
“No, come on, what's the difference? The taste, mind…”
“You won't like the others, Albert.”
“I am right intrigued. Come on, give me the ‘normal’ ones and a pack of those ‘posh’ ones as well, then.”
“Your money.” Lily Veyne smiled, turning to pluck a pack of each kind from their page-three picture dispenser.
“Lower.” Albert Nebraska chirped nonchalantly.
“Eh?”
“The lower pack, luv.”
Lily Veyne pouted knowingly and removed the pack that was sheltering the topless model's sun-bathed breasts. “You are a dirty old fart, Albert.” she handed over the nuts, asking for, “Two-forty, then…” with her regulation toothy grin.
“Here you go. Keep the change for yourself, luv.”
“Last of the big spenders.” Lily Veyne quipped about her ten pence windfall as Albert Nebraska hobbled away. She wiped her hands on her pinafore and said to her glass-collector idly sat beneath the TV watching the Le Mans Twenty Four Hour yawn on Sky Sports, “Watch the bar for us a sec, honey.” taking off her pinnie and popping it behind the bar.
“Right.” he droned in his plasticine toad way.
“What the hell is it now, Barry? Can't I leave you alone to do one simple thing?” Lily Veyne confronted Mister Rhisland, her mystery visitor. “Plus, I told you never to come here, you stupid bugger.”
“I know. I know. I'm sorry. I’ll never do it again.” Mister Rhisland was visibly shaking, sweating like a bulls knackers in season, the globes of perspiration cascading over his thick eyebrows, depending precariously from his nose.
“Alright, what’s happened?”
“It was Stanley.” Mister Rhisland shuddered, reliving the escape, “The formula. The girl escaped. It's all gone so bloody wrong.” He took off his thick-lensed specs revealing the tender indentations either side of his thick nose. Lily could see that his eyes were bloodshot. He wiped the specs on a corner of his shirt.
Lily Veyne was losing her cool, the rage in her voice was barely under control, “What has all gone wrong, Barry?” she hissed through clenched teeth.
“Stanley. His wife and kids.” he replaces his specs, “The girl…”
“What ‘girl’?”
“Stanley caught her in his shop. Like a fly in the spider web.” he mumbled to himself. “We used her child in our formula. The brain, you know. Occipital lobe. Thought it might be a good idea to do her as well. I was all against giving her the serum. But it all went wrong. The girl escaped. Stanley's had it. He’s all mixed up. Him and his family of sickness. It was too warped. You know?”
“Sh!” Lily Veyne held up a white hand. Her eyes were REMing. Sweat formed on her upper lip as she put her fingers through her hair trying to calm herself.
Mister Rhisland watched her intently, eyes expectant; awaiting her callous retribution.
“Did you just hear something.” she asked him.
“Walls have ears, eh?” Mister Rhisland smiled.
Lily Veyne’s eyes intensified their scanning action, her head tilted to one side.
“Too right they do, lady.” Clive Idaho whispered to himself as he surveyed the lounge. Apart from these two sinister characters and the lovey-dovey couple hogging the far corner, oblivious to anyone else's existence but each other, this side was empty tonight. Clive Idaho slithered up inside the wall and across the ceiling several feet to get closer; hear what the Ronnie Corbett look-alike and Lily Veyne were whispering about. He'd got quite used to t
his existence, closeted in the solid, the intransient, since his cemetery visit.
Occupying the same physical space as the decaying remains of his aunt had been very therapeutic. Very enlightening; as if a connection had somehow been fused between him and the dead. These things just happen… had been the insane conclusion he had come to, Gotta live within the restrictions, that’s all there is to it.
And so, here he was, haunting the work place of the last person he saw before slipping into his bedroom wallpaper a surveillance of the heart, a search for answers; a fresh obsession.
“I suppose you are right.” Mister Rhisland nodded his head solemnly.
“Leave it with me for now. I’ll figure out the best thing to do. I have one or two contacts outside of our little circle.” Lily Veyne gradually relaxed.
“Contacts? Outside of our little circle?” Clive Idaho muttered to himself.
Again Lily Veyne looked about anxiously. She ushered Mister Rhisland back to the crowded bar area.
Clive Idaho watched the wretched figure make his farewells and leave the pub. Then, concentrating all his energies, he listened in on the telephone conversation Lily Veyne immediately made. The love-lorn Oliver Connecticut constantly hounding her for attention.
Lily Veyne was pleading with him, “No, love, please, let me make this call and then we can... Oh, hello. Could I speak to PC Peter Alaska?” She smiled at Oliver Connecticut, tickling his chin like you would a flea-infested cat, careful not to catch anything. “What? Oh, could you get him to ring Lily Veyne when he's back. He'll know what it's about. Thanks.” She replaced the handset.
“What was that about?” Oliver Connecticut badgered her.
Before she could make something up, the whole front row of Oliver Connecticut’s rugby team bustled rowdily into the pub, barking orders.
“So this is the amazing fuck crew!” Oliver Connecticut approached them; determination in his step, anger in his voice.
“Told you did she?” John Montana, the hardest of the lads, gloated to his mates, “Did you tell him, Lil?” he asked over Oliver Connecticut’s shoulder.
Lily Veyne shook her head furtively.
John Montana continued the baiting, “You know what she let us do with her? All five of us. All at once. We took her in there...” pointing to the Gents, “Last night, after hours. And we fucked all sorts of unnatural holes in her. She is fucking amazing. Even the five of us couldn't satisfy her. She was just crazy for it. Covered in this fucking blood and shit and spunk and fanny juice and still begging for more. Tell him…” he stabbed the air at Lily Veyne who was looking very alarmed.
Oliver Connecticut, the romantic sap, came to the defence of her honour, lashing out at the braggart, then attacking the other four. Like deploying a charmed berserker into the stalemate of a New Year’s Day game of footie. Oliver Connecticut took no prisoners, as was his general rule.
The telephone suddenly rang. The slothlike glass collector answered it. “Lily Veyne?” he shouted as she struggled to split the madmen. Philip Maine again descended the staircase, tucking his shirt into his trousers, Not this tucking jerk again. The glass collector shouted Lily’s name once more. She looked around. He showed her the telephone handset, “For you. Some PC Bloke.”
“Right.” she took the phone, “Yes. Hello. What? The row? Nothing. Listen, honey, we are in big trouble. You know the underground garage system down by the train station? Get down there. Pick something up for us…” There was a pause as Peter Alaska asked the obvious. “You'll know when you see it. Take a big van…” Another pause. “Just keep it safe until I get there…” She put the handset back on its cradle.
Intrigued by the obscure nature of the replies, Clive Idaho neglected his position by Lily Veyne's side and slinked silently away.
SESSION X
An arctic chill had fallen upon the ruthless streets of New York. Coated in a fine powder of grey night snow I awoke by the side of a construction depot - the road layers and cranes of this alien world chuntered into existence with an unnerving whisper; a most polite alarm call. Not the hydraulic slam-slam associated with Earthly construction machinery, just the almost contented purring of a set of absolutely massive mechanisms whose proud function it was to do their job quietly and efficiently. No tea-break work shirkers these. Just conscientious contractors. Living builders. Maintenance junkies. A self-induced drug that is by nature infinitely more addictive with each successfully completed project. A sad, anonymous autonomy.
I yawned long and wide as I brushed off the fine dusting of snow from my clothing. Don't ask me how, but I was wearing a red latex body suit; all in one. Not very flattering for so knotted a body shape as mine. I noticed that all my fingertips had finally grown back. Little comfort in the freezing, early morning crisp. The red latex bodysuit offered minimal protection from the elements. I'm sure any sane thermometer would register minus ten degrees. Body aching from the previous day's exertions, I clambered to my feet. The ground underfoot uncertain about whether to support my under-balanced body or not. It decided not to and I fell flat on my face, sending up a comical plume of ice splinters.
“Nig dwa-btha!” someone blurted (the hyphen representing a glockenstop - the thoracic click associated with Somalian and Nigerian dialects).
“Mr Whysilage?” the resurrectionist, nothing out of the ordinary for Mr Whysilage. As it turned out, I could not have been more wrong.
“Qig dbi-glaa.” the glockenstopped nonsense came again and from below the layer of snow beneath my own two hands a flat shape filled with gut-turning life. I scrambled back from the sprouting thing.
“Nig nig-dba.” it blathered, “Nib! Eeeh!” It uncovered itself with a mad shake and a long, low guttural rumble. “Nya Dvi-Ashava. Nig. Nag-dok-ok.” It ‘inflated’ before my eyes like one of those ancient love dolls middle-aged men used to find cold comfort in. The inflating shape grew an arm. Then a face formed on the front surface of the head shape. More arms grew as I counted them, on two three, it had four more arms. Three red fingers per hand grew before my eyes; white nails on the two lower hands; black on the upper pair; purple nails on the hand of the central arm.
The resurrected life form held out this central arm as its face transmogrified into a not-half-bad-looking feminine likeness. It was at least of female derivation.
“Nig A-byik.” it said. Her low-slung bulbously fleshy end inflated customarily on the second to last syllable of the greeting.
I pulled myself up the metal mesh fence awestricken by the continued body reshaping taking place there, mere feet away. What a one-night stand. Her single leg, unfurling hydraulically, long and powerful raising her above my head height. She hopped up to me in one kangaroo leap.
“Nig Nag-dok.” the central arm was laid over my mouth; the palm giving off a floral resonance of greeting. She fondled her translucent lower region with her lower arms as they continued to writhe and squirm with new life. Her newborn face billows as if in a gust of wind, a spinnaker becoming a smile. Surreally broad on her beaming orange countenance. A maternal expression; I shuddered at the consequences of my observation
“Ti Gya-Pip.” she explained. Then hiccoughed. The absurdity of such a human action as an innocent hiccough had me inadvertently bursting into nervous laughter. She joined me in my shocked merriments, the orange of her mothers face twisted and cavorted to a blazing sun yellow and bellowed out a deafeningly amplified roar of laughter.
Know what a lion is? Well, stick your ear down its wildebeest-reeking throat as it's roaring and you'll know what I mean; fearfully deafening.
She stopped laughing abruptly, all five arms clutch at her writhing midriff where some living thing is visible, twitching awake inside the translucent sacs. She hiccoughed again and smiled once more. Something down there suddenly split, ruptured, sending a hot jet of green sewage splurging out, turning the crisp white snow to a pea-soup slush. She hopped back unsteadily on her monolimb shrugging off the smell of freshly-cut grass. And the morning song of starlin
gs.
Child Birth. As wondrous and mesmerising a process here on Randal as on any other planet. Naked progeny brought forth into this alien world of street violence and wintry weather; a beautiful girl.
“My daughter?” I asked the bearer as she returned to her unnatural blue hue. What a stupidly optimistic question, I mean where is the kit, the, you know, the bits that could pass on such genedata in liquid form, if you get my drift? The tatters of her ripped abdomen were gradually refusing, rebuilding, re-inflating their balloon sheaths. My daughter? I could at least dream for a short while until I knew the painful truth. My baby? Well, not exactly baby; I mean, she is a good two feet tall. Six years old I'd say. But pure and perfectly human looking.
“Come here, my baby girl.” I held open my arms to her.
“Gni-Viddo?” the little naked girl asked her mother in a language I will never dream of understanding.
Ah well, can't have everything.
“Jynnya…” her mother took her up in her arms and brought her over to me, for my inspection. Did her one effortless bound.
“She's very beautiful.” I was exceptionally proud of my little creation, with her long black hair and deep blue eyes.
“How?” I asked the bearer of my(?) child, indicating that, as you already know, I really don’t cut it when it comes to playing Doctor. You know, you show me yours and I'll forfeit a go on a physical technicality.
Of course the woman has no idea what I was trying to convey. She didn't seem to comprehend the implication of my genital deficiency. But then a connection was made. For she stood the child off to her right and slowly started to symbolically undulate that whole right side. I still didn't get it.
Then it happened.
Some things have to be believed even as they're seen. And you'd think with the things I'd recently seen would have taught me temperance by now but, shit, from the quivering undulations down the right of the life form, her colour slipping from a morose ochre to a cheery peach, a male shape floated effortlessly to her surface. He had the face of someone I've seen somewhere before. Hair, thick, raven hair. And lean of build. There's a knowledgeable air about him.
Twilight's Last Gleaming Page 10