“Nellie the Elephant Stopper.” his eyes ignited.
An Ogden’s coach overtook them at speed, flashing its head lights.
Carroll Maryland's eyes followed it almost hungrily.
“Maniacs.” Bill huffed, wriggling his revolver back into its hidey-hole.
He patted the place, “Let's go kick some ass.” he emoted as, dropping down gears, flipping on the right-hand indicator and braking hard simultaneously, they arrived at the King Billy.
The carpark was packed as usual for a Sunday night.
Last chance of leisurely drinking before the dreary routine of a working week preached its incapacitating sermon.
Bill parked up as near to the canopied entrance as he could. “Stay here.” he ordered Carroll Maryland, “This shouldn't take long.”
Less than a minute later, Bill exited the pub: embarrassingly alone. He sat down beside Carroll Maryland, “You sure it was tonight? Clive Idaho said it was 'going down' tonight. Ashurst Beacon..”
“Of course.”
Bill remembers something from his delinquent teens, clicks his thick fingers, “The Beacon.”
“The?”
“The Beacon. That'll be the place. Right pokey hole. It's down the road a bit further; actually right by Ashurst Beacon itself. Never even thought of that dump.” He started up the car. Reversed into the highway. Zipped on over the brow of the bill the forty or fifty yards or so to The Beacon public house stood beside the lonely road like a weary hitch-hiker with a broken thumb.
Cars had spilled out of this bulging car park onto the tight country road. Bill pulled in just past the glaring pub lights. Parked up tight to the trees; behind an Ogden’s coach. They both got out of the car.
Rita’s weak excuse for tagging along was that she could help by distracting their attention while Bill took the long route through the pub to where they were setting up the deal. it seemed to make sense at the time.
“Remember..” he held Carroll Maryland by the arm momentarily, “No heroics. Just be the distraction. Catch this Lily Veyne woman's eye. I'll do the rest, okay?” He pulled out his trusty silver revolver.
“Aye-aye, cap’n.” Carroll Maryland saluted glumly.
“On your way, then. Be careful.”
“Always.”
Inside The Beacon, Carroll Maryland recognised Lily Veyne instantly.
“There.” she pointed to a woman dressed all in black; oil-black sequin microdress; black patent-leather thigh-length boots; black biking leather and a glossy black Egyptian wig complete with black Egyptian eye make-up.
“That's her, Lily Veyne?” Bill asked, expecting to apprehend an albino.
“She's in disguise.” Carroll Maryland sneered.
“Okay, you go ahead. Move off through that way, cause a bit of a distraction.. I’ll pop round this way and we've got her.”
Carroll Maryland did as she was instructed.
Bill made his way round, exchanging pleasantries with customers as if he knew them and being careful not to attract the attention of the rowdy bunch of lager louts built like brick shit-houses hogging the TV corner.
Carroll Maryland played her part perfectly, accidentally nudging past one of the guests at Lily Veyne's table, causing him to spill his drink all over their table.
Bill approached from the blind side.
“Lily Veyne.” he waved the gun around, “Alaska. And your little friend, Rhisland is it? You'll be glad to hear, no doubt, that you're all under arrest.” he grinned like a proud father at his first birth. The trio of expressions flickered not one iota.
“You silly silly man.” Lily Veyne mocked as Carroll Maryland planted herself down on the drug baroness' knee; gave her mistress a kiss. One of the burly bastards, from the TV corner grabbed Bill's gunhand, easily disarmed him and got him in a tight stranglehold. The gun went off once, hitting only plaster. Bill’s face went bright pink.
“Break his arm.” someone shouted, unable to contain themselves any longer.
The rugby player took the firing arm and rammed it up Bill’s back, popping his shoulder out.
“That’s a fella, Oliver.” Lily Veyne pouted.
Luckily, at this very instant, WPC Arizona entered, in uniform. Panther poised.
“Arizona!” Bill gagged, “Shoot the maniac. Shoot him.”
WPC Arizona whipped out her standard-issue .38, strode through the throng of gawping punters, pointing her pistol. Put it to the side of Bill Parrish's head as his eye bulge grotesquely. And shot him dead.
“Everybody. Everybody.” Lily Veyne was on her feet, clapping her hands together for attention. She wiped a stray spot of Bill's blood from her whiter than white face.
“The time has come.”
Outside there was a loud screeching of tyre rubber. The revving of a mad engine finally quietened. Into the Beacon strolled the red dwarf Penny Massachusetts, “Sorry I'm late.” she flipped up her misted visor.
“You're forgiven, Penny. Now. Well, we're all here. All my guests. The twenty-four. My mean machine. Penny Massachusetts. Peter Alaska. Mavis Arizona. Oliver Connecticut. And his five rough team-mates; sorry lads, I forget your fucking names.”
“Aaaaaaaah.” the dogs bellowed from their pit. “Hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo!!!!!!!”
“My sentiments exactly, boys.” Lily Veyne beamed. “Philip Maine, my lovely boss.”
Philip allowed a smug grin to roll lethargically across his fat face.
“And Jenifer Maryland.” Lily Veyne continued, “And Rita ... Carolina?”
“Colorado.” Rita corrected her, proudly.
“And Vincent Arkansas.”
“Yo!” Vini Arkansas shouted from his table.
“Back from near death, Stanley Washington..” sat alone by the bar.
She indicated a heavily built man, six foot seven in his stocking feet. The man was heavily bandaged.
“And, of course, Bedford...”
“DELAWARE!!!!!!!!” Bedford Delaware roared from behind the bar where he was busy playing at barmaids, “Drinks are still on the house.” he shouted.
Lily Veyne raises her hands before everyone rushed the bar. “Everyone! A moment!” she whispered to Oliver Connecticut as an aside, “Put the detective's body with the others in the gents’ will you?”
He dutifully obeyed dragging the head-shattered ex-cop to his penultimate resting place.
“Barry.” Lily Veyne gestured for the creepy little man to stand beside her, “This man is a fucking genius.” she took him in a neck lock and ruffled what remained of his hair.
Mister Rhisland blushed, boyishly.
Lily Veyne whispered in his hairy ear, the lips real close.
Mister Rhisland brought out from his grey raincoat a small thermos flask. Red tartan patterned. Lily Veyne unscrewed the cap and threw it away. She took a generous swig of the nectar: wiped the buttery residue from her chin, “This is wicked stuff, my friends. Better than fucking Ecstasy, better than smack, better than crack cocaine or any of those other over-priced ponsy narcotics. This is the original Big Hitter. Let's party. And that’s the Law.”
She handed it to Mister Rhisland who took a swift snifter then passed it on to Peter Alaska.
And so on until the flask was drained. Everyone got a taste, a shock to the system like a cold shower first thing in the morning, everyone got fucking really well blown away by the Big Hitter. It took less than fifteen minutes for total mayhem to ensue.
The duke box blasted out the kickin’ tunes from the late 80’s Goth scene. Party Time. Madness took hold. The air was filled with popper scented music and flying tables and stools as a space was cleared for the tribalities to proceed.
“Do it! Do it! Do it!” the mob was baying as they encircled a Lambadaing couple. Goading their erotic floorshow to new displays, new forms of gyration, new psycho-electric moves. Bravado pulsating.
Another couple joined the performance. Stripping the former pair of their clothing. Goading. Encouraging. Teasing. Masturbating the woman; Virginia. A
nd her dancing partner; the good Doctor Alexander Pennsylvania.
Others mimicked their unexpurgated Lambada: two by two they worked. Dancers and wankers - what a fucking crew. Some sweating turd shot his fat wad into his wanker's rasping palm. Carroll Maryland was in like Flynn, lapping up the steaming jism from the hot inside of the wankhand.
Penny Massachusetts accosted one of the old gets; Harry Ohio. His rolling eyes showed how well-gone he already was. Dilated to fuck. His dentures had slid from his slackened jaw some time ago. His dithering hands were on Penny's Massachusetts substantial hips as she wobbled to the left and wobbled to the right. Drooling like a manky old rabid dog, the old codger grabbed for the zipper at her throat as it swung back and forth under the hypnotic influence of Mister Rhisland’s perky concoction and the bouncing music ball on top of all the Gothy dark lyrics.
Penny Massachusetts giggled like Barbara Windsor on Helium.
Harry Ohio leered grotesquely, smacking his chops and sucking his gums with anticipation, as he unzipped her fat tits. Folds and rolls of white blubber lolloped out. Spilling from the red leather slit like fish entrails. He rolled the bikesuit off over her big, round shoulders. Like an Eskimo skinning a seal, he unsheathed her as she danced.
Stepping out of the rolled-up legs one at a time in synch with the backbeat. Her long breasts swaying slackly. Pendulums of fat. The delicious rippled meat at the back of her thighs under the crease of her arse. Harry Ohio sucked a sweaty mouthful of the flab into his mouth.
On the jukebox, those amazing old codgers of Rock & Roll STATUS QUO were delivering more of the same chord and a half pop snooze dirge. Vini Arkansas, well oiled down and buck bollock naked, had organised the rest of the rugby blokes into a Conga. Each muscular member of the long line as it snaked round the available space buried up the back passage of the man in front. Move in short, shunting jerks.
Quiet in his own corner, Bedford Delaware had emptied the till of all its tens and fifties and pound coins and was pumping them into the slot machine, playing for a jackpot. His cock, slick with his own phlegm-bubbling spit, slid in and out of the winnings tray as the coins were thrust greedily into the slot; the start button banged.
And banged.
And banged.
The bonus lights escalated up the front of the machine.
“Yes.” he shouted. Pumping in more coins. Checking that he had enough left in his hand. Keeping the pumping rhythm going - fist and hips, change and charge.
Got nudges.
Got features.
Got the stack of light to the top.
Jack Pot!
The machine unloaded its charge. The shower of coins beating down on his erection. Some clever fuck kicked off the music. The debauchery ground to a breathless halt as the clattering coinage continued to batter Delaware’s swollen bell.
“Right!” Lily Veyne screamed, Oliver Connecticut by her side, arm round her waist.
The thuk-a-duk-a-duk-a-thuk of the slot machine dishing out its jackpot the only sound in the pin-drop silence. All eyes were on the quiver-legged Bedford, his hips still working against the flow.
“Oi! Bedford Delaware! Get your cock out of that machine..” Lily Veyne roared.
The rabble jeered and applauded Bedford's feeble attempt to extricate himself against the congestion of coins.
“Enough already!” Lily Veyne hailed for everyone's attention, “Oliver Connecticut here tells me there is a very beautiful spot nearby. Now it's a wonderful clear night. Why waste our jollity in this stuffy dump. Are you with me?”
“Yeah!” the crowd jeered.
Lily Veyne ripped off her glossy black wig, revealing her dried out white crop. She stripped down to her human skin and led her crew members at a sprint out of the pub; past Billy Parrish' Sierra; down by the Ogden’s coach that brought them here, awakening the driver who had been snoozing till it was time to drag the rowdy bunch home at closing time. He watched naked bottom after naked bottom bounce by. Clamber over the wooden style up the gravel track to the exposed hilltop of Ashurst Beacon. One lone, lanky bloke holding his privates followed on the heals of the main pack, wiggling his white arse as camp as Christmas, shouting, “Wait for me! Wait for me!”
“Gotta take a fuckin butchers on this.” the coach driver guffawed, “It’s a Witch’s Fuckin’ Sabbath.”
SESSION XIX
What the hell was that damned telephone number?
There I was in a totally alien part of a town stood on a deserted street corner by a mirrored payphone booth, thoroughly worn out; my body in flames; my right hand still throbbing, the split palm beating warmly. For some reason, I hadn’t been able to find Chinatown after escaping the demolition of the Fractal Fux motel anticipating a Pierrot-hot pursuit. Had I indeed actually been chased?
Just couldn't find Chinatown.
While I was fleeing the seedy establishment I thought once or twice that I recognised the odd street feature here, the alien street sign there. But so mercurial, the advertised façade of this part of town that after a breathless hour's fruitless search, I was lost. My new body's muscle-acid count was way into the red; as it had never been. Anaerobic overload.
And I couldn't for the life of me remember the number Jane Louxis had whispered to me. And what did the number mean, anyway? And what do I say to the voice on the other side? And what happens when I don't understand a word they're buzzing or clicking or squeaking or plinging down the line at me?
And do I even have any change for this wretched contraption? Do I need change? I checked the phone ... yep, there's the money slot and the four-denomination coin storage columns.
“Damn!” I slammed the phone back down onto its corrugated silver housing. Gotta find another phone, then. Which way? North? South? East? West? Which way did I come from? The street, as if by some mystery choreographer’s signal, switched again and nothing looked familiar. I headed on in the same direction; towards the distant shimmering lights of those towerblocks. Gotta chance the inevitable. Got nothing more to lose.
I took the zvektas out of my breast pocket and though it's gonna make negotiating these infamously ill-lit streets a living nightmare at least I'll look so cool it won't really matter what I might stumble across. I slipped the canary-yellow Polaroids on; caught my reflection in the mirrored walls of the booth.
Well cool.
There was definitely a five in it. I was striding confidently down a place called Acton, diligently up a steep sidewalk incline arguing with myself aloud. No, hang on, hang on, I remember: the way she told it me I cut it into four compound parts right away. Thirteen, six, five and ten. I punched the air with delight.
The deserted city street tossed the echo of the whoop back at me like a baseball and I suddenly feel very self conscious. I reach the summit of the brow and from this vantage point my line of sight, even shaded by zvektas, I could follow the highway all the way down the hill to a wide river black as oil brightly illuminated with the reflections of the millions of shimmering multi-coloured lights describing the bustling Chinatown skyline across the water.
A bridge.
A glittering metal sculpture fine as spider thread spanning the septic waterway. A beautiful sight indeed. With no apparent thought for how I might have found myself on the wrong side of the river, I made my cool way down to the bridge.
Now, that number. It's gotta be Jane's number, right? Don't know, though; Stephanie had already dialled before she asked me to say a name, any name, male or female, into the phone. Ha, it's an agency number. Well, that's easy then; just remember the number and call her down by default.
I laughed aloud, causing the dead, night air to rattle like marbles in a rusty old tin can.
“It definitely began with an eight.” a voice that was composed of many voices from the darkness to my left suddenly said.
“Ended in a seven.” it added.
“Did it have a one or a two in the middle?” it jested.
“Who's there?” I addressed the dark.
&nb
sp; “Who's there?” echoed a million voices like my own; the accent wavering from mine just a little.
“Eight, something, one, something, seven. It's like a numerical IQ problem, isn't it?” the dark asked.
“Who is that?” I demanded. I think I might have even stamped my foot like a distempered poodle.
“You can’t help but admire those shades. They are legendary.” the voices commented.
I took an arrogant step towards the dark, “They're not for sale.” I heard the sound of many scurrying feet. “Oi! You there!” I hailed the receding gloom, “You got any change for the phone?” and chuckled to myself at my flippancy in the face of whatever unknown danger might have existed down that dark passage.
Undaunted by my little episode, I recommenced my descent of the hill, a forest of blinding eyes voyeured from the stagnant surface of the open treacle sewer that separated me from my destination, Chinatown.
Eight, something, one, something, seven? Now, how did I cut it? There is a formula. 13, 6, 5, 10. What makes 13? Eight and one and seven is sixteen ... can't be that. Thirteen, six, five, ten. How does that make sixteen?
I slapped my numb skull, ..eight and something is thirteen. Something and one is six. One and something is five. Something and seven is ten, eh? No. That doesn't work. Eight something one something seven from 13, 6, 5, 10? Something was wrong.
The bridge.
The filigree bronze monster loomed larger with each step, revealing its truly enormous proportions; its immense span. An evening breeze strummed a clanging cantata as I passed under the first of the three huge support towers, my footsteps echoing through the structure a tentative compliment to the suspension wires theme. A conspiracy of metal under motion. The sound of dull splashes as rotten metalwork fell to the roiling, gurgling depths below. The rasp of my constricted breathing as the fog began to roll in from downstream.
This was a big mistake, I suddenly realised. The oxtail broth below bubbled and gurgled richly again, the fog seemed to close intentionally about me, thickening to a pea-soup presence. Tangible. Ill. A coalescing gastric pox. A scattering of panic signals. Metal objects clattered to the rusty bridge floor. I am barely half way across. Dead this time. I just know it. Dead from the drop. Dead from fear before my teeth hit the concrete.
Twilight's Last Gleaming Page 24